#like a vocal slope

[see-arcane]

@re-dracula I am thanking/cursing you and Alasdair Stuart for the way the captain’s log was stitched together in this episode. It sounds the way a flip book cartoon feels, one piece overlapping onto the next into a sinking and miserable progression. 11/10, would cry again

[theloveinc]

hi caitie love im sorry people are being mean to u like ur literally the sweetest loveliest person with such wonderful vibes they must be grasping at straws to hate on you 😭

i love what u said in the tags <3 you’re so lovely and i love how u word things and speak your mind clearly in such a genuinely nice way too <33

i heard that you can block anons who send nasty hate by pressing the three dots on their ask, i hope this might help :)

i hope you have a wonderful day/night and remember to stay hydrated dearie! <3

no no no, don't worry! no one is being mean to caitie!! i just know anon hate has been a big topic of discussion lately and it makes me kinda upset seeing the different ways people unpack it on the dash.

i'm such a... idk if the right word is bleeding heart or snake or WHAT lol but thinking about the way anon hate hurts EVERYONE involved just gets me kinda emo because. absolutely no one deserves to receive such awful treatment, but i truly feel bad for the people out there who are so hurt themselves that they need to take those emotions out on others through abusing the anon-ask system. i've grown so much since feeling this way but i can def relate to the anger that those kinds of feelings (self hatred, jealousy, loneliness) create.

all honestly, i'm really lucky because i've never had anyone on here consistently bully/harass me, and i think that's why i have such a hard time talking about anon hate in the first place, because i don't think my opinions are really relevant to what a lot of fellow bloggers go through. but i'm absolutely a supporter of blocking hate on sight!

it's true that i have a lot of empathy for my haters out there, but at the same time, that doesn't mean it needs to be rewarded with an answer, either! ;)

anyway anon, thank you so, so much for this! i will never be able to thoroughly express how much your kindness and positivity means to me other than by saying have a good every day too!!🥺🥺🥺go kiss yourself in the mirror and pretend it's me kissing you because I LOVE U !!

[vaugarde]

watching japanese pokemon openings again and sorta ranking them in my head, and its kinda insane to me that i think the dub openings for bw are consistently better than the originals

[screampied]

Wait…

Using a vibrator on Choso??? Need this… so bad… 😫

Listened to an audio like this and it gave me the idea

Need a vibrator on his 🍆 asap 🙏 🙏

May vegas, goddess of smut, answer my prayers 🙏

using a vibrator on choso ★

warnings. fem! reader, praise, toy usage, ōrgasm control, whiney choso, mdni.

“y- you wanna use that?” choso gulps with an almost chagrined grin. he didn’t exactly mind, especially whenever you wanted to try new things with him underneath the sheets. you’d just gotten done from riding him and he’s catching a few breaths whilst in the midst of speaking to you. with sable irises pooling into you, he then sighs, “how would you even do it? aren’t you supposed to um rub it against there?”

as he says that, his eyes avert right between your legs before he sits against your lap. his head lowers itself back while he gets comfortable, a low huff withdrawing from his rosé-colored lips.

“like how you use it on me,” you hum, picking up the wireless wand. slender finds of yours wrap around it before swiping a thumb against the button to power it on. he stares in awe, gazing at how it’s on the lowest level. choso inhales shortly afterwards, hearing the tumultuous bzzzzing of the toy, pulses of his heart steadily racing. “i’ll just rub it against your tip. can i do that, baby?”

“y-yes,” he nods immediately, sprawling out his legs a bit. the way he instantly responds was so cute—practically cutting you off, barely giving you a chance to finish your words. if it’s with you, he’d never mind. your touch, choso’s ultimate weakness. out of the countless enemies he’s been in combat with, the simplicity of your touch was his far worst enemy he’d never win a match with. with hitched breaths, strands of his ponytails tickling against your skin, he whines. “use it on me, baby. please, just- just hold my hand, ‘kay?”

you hum in response, intertwining your fingers with his as he relaxes against your chest.

“okay, cho,” and your voice was so smooth. he could listen to it all day, the sweetness underneath it had his heart swooning every time you spoke. he’s breathing softly, awaiting for you to do what you spoke. you’re slow, delicately hovering the vibrator before making it graze gently against his tip. immediately, he lets off a whimper.

the vibrations, it’s enough to make his teeth shatter. his whines, even something as simple as his whines was so mellifluous. a tune you’d never want to stop listening to. “how’s it feel baby?”

“f-fuck, ‘m gonna cum already,” he swallows, you’re barely placing the toy over his cockhead and he’s already a mess. the best way to describe it was that it tickled. he couldn’t help but wonder, whenever you used these things on yourself, did you feel like this too? choso swallows an imaginary creeping lump that’s stuck against the roof of his mouth before he starts to quaver. he’s so cute—within seconds, he was already so vocal. he bites down on his lip before another free hand of his squeezes your inner thigh. “hah, i-it feels good. feels really good, princess.”

you simper to yourself, pressing a kiss near the crown of his head. in a gingerly circular motion, you start to move the vibrator all around his cock. he’s a mess, you’re doing nothing but sending choso into straight convulsions.

“so whiny,” you tease, and he’s always been one to be dramatic with his whines and whimpers but he couldn’t help it. this entire new feeling, it was euphoric. you start to tease a bit further, leaning in to kiss the long slope of choso’s neck. he was gonna melt into your hands. you had him right where you wanted him. “you’re doing so good, baby. hold my hand. i got you.”

“t- turn it up a level please.” he mewls out, darkened brows compressing into a firm furrow. his pouty expression only grows, glancing down at his leaky tip that was smothered with pre-cum.

you inch the toy away from his shaft, kissing more down his neck to hear him moan. his entire body, it was frigid and cold— yet the moment your lips paint against his skin like an empty canvas, he’s suddenly hot everywhere.

“another level, choso? you can handle that?” and oh, your words were so sly and salacious. the particular tone that you spoke, you were gonna be the death of him entirely,

“y-yes, i can take another notch. please just, f-fuck me, feels good. make me feel so good,” and his babbles were adorable. continuously, choso swallows, strained breaths pulling out of his full lungs before he bites his lip—this time, harder. “god, i need it so bad. n-need you, only you c-can make me feel this good, baby.”

“mmm that’s right, ‘cho,” you pepper a plethora of more chaste kisses down his neck. he moans from more of your touch.

he had highly sensitive skin, he craves your lips more than anything. especially whenever you’d be an even bigger tease, nipping a few bites towards his precious collarbone. with a thumb, you press the button to go up a higher level and he starts whining louder. you run the front part of the hitachi all around his throbbing head, near the peeling part of his frenulum and he’s losing it. choso’s mouth dangles opens, only the sounds of sweet whimpers leaving . . nothing else. “you’re such a good boy, my good boy right?”

once he hears those words— his heart flutters, with shaky lips, he moans out a sweet, “all yours, ‘m your g-good boy, fuuuck,” and the grip he has against your hand squeezes much tighter. a thumb of his brushes against your palm before he’s almost going limp against your chest. “not gonna l-last. ‘m gonna cum, can— may i cum? don’t wanna make a mess unless y-you say it’s okay, princess. ‘m not a messy boy.”

“but you are a messy boy, silly,” you tease, starting to suck near the center crevices of his neck. he was so weak for you.

the friction—it was merely worthy enough to make his teeth shatter.

choso’s panting accelerates and his legs start to jitter at a rapid speed. “you wanna cum, baby? wanna make a mess for me ‘n let me clean it up for you?”

his eyelids grew heavy. your lovely voice,

your voice alone was enough to make him shoot out such ropes of white. everything was a blur, his entire body overtook itself with a feverish fervor feeling. he’s so hot, clouds of breath remain to slip past his lips before he nods.

“yeah, yeah y-yeah,” and his voice is cracking. the toy’s right near the side of his dick now, then it travels its way down to his base— then back up towards his beloved head.

“oh, oh my,” he hiccups, and he really loses it once you let go of his hand to stroke him off. “baby, f-fuck, ‘m hard. so hard, gonna c-cum ‘n get your hand all dirty.”

“give it to me baby, ‘s okay.” you purr against the shell of his ear.

one hand of yours gives his cock a few solid pumps whilst another is smearing the vibrating wand against his cum-glossed tip repeatedly.

choso kisses his teeth at your words of encouragement and he feels like he’s floating. in fact, he feels like he’s soaring— it’s in a way he can’t really explain, it scratches such a good itch in his brains that the neurons stored inside couldn’t even fathom his incoming release either.

he loves whenever you stroke him, why— mainly because you always do it better than himself.

the way your hands wrap around his fat length, fisting his cock gently around your fingers. choso’s eyes start to roll back before he cums.

“f-fuck fuuuuck.” he stammers, feeling the spurts shoot out in such creamy volume. it’s so thick, some of it dribbles down from his tip and lands on your hand. still heaving heavily, he’s still slumped back against your chest before he hears you turn off the toy, tossing it aside. he’s trying to catch his breath, eyelids still droopy before he turns around to pull you into a deep, sultry kiss.

you giggle—a smile stretching against your lips as you throw an arm around him, embracing in his savory, sweet taste. he’s still all exposed, tip all sticky and leaky with seed. choso tastes sweet, sweet as in he’s been dying to taste you all day.

a tongue of his rummages through your mouth, briefly sucking on yours before he whines once he feels your hands roam. you go back to stroking him and he melts into your touch, pulling away from your lips and burying his face into your neck.

“awww,” you whisper, bringing both arms to hug him tightly. as big as he was, it was as if you were the big spoon.

he’s vigorously trembling, still sensitive from his recent release. it felt so good he didn’t know just what words to get out. as you play with the cute bows he allowed you to tie on his two ponytails, you move your head to give him a kiss on his cheek. “you did so good, baby. such a good boy.”

“i . . i want more,” he mutters, cupping both sides of your face suddenly. you stare into his eyes, almost giggling again before he presses a wet kiss on your mouth. again, and again, and again until your lips are all plump and swollen.

alas, he was serious though. whenever choso gets that instant feral look in his eyes, that’s it.

“what do you want, choso?” you hum, a thumb stroking against the minuscule bristles that reside against his structured jawline.

“you,” he whimpers, licking underneath your neck. you gnaw your bottom lip, feeling a hand of his pry its way between your legs before his head lowers. you watch, and he gets a face full view of your panties. choso pouts, sliding your underwear to the side before glancing up at you— a single soft kiss goes against your now exposed cunt before he sighs. “i’m s-so thirsty. let me make you feel good too, baby. please.”

[suguann]

There comes a point where Simon finally admits that he hates your new boyfriend—not that he’s liked any of your past relationships over the years, but this one he’s more vocal about—with a name not worth remembering. Matt? Martin?

He’d stopped trying after his first week back from work.

“I don’t fucking trust him,” he says one night while at the pub right under your apartment; it’s become a weekly ritual of sorts when he’s on leave ever since meeting you there on Soap’s birthday several years back. 

“You say that about every guy I have you meet,” you tell him in that know-it-all voice that you always use with him. “You hardly even know him, and his name’s Marcus, by the way. It wouldn’t kill you to use it.”

He snorts. “Love, the bloke would put his cock in anyone with tits and a warm cunt.”

“He wouldn’t,” your voice is soft because maybe you already know.

He would.

You’re so fucking oblivious that you don’t even realize this, but there’s nothing except stars in your eyes whenever you look at (or even talk about) the Naval officer who thinks he’s some bigshot because he can fly a plane. 

Even now, at your boyfriend’s promotion after-party in some back alley nightclub, he’s hardly talked to you or offered to get you a drink. You’re always too nervous to order one by yourself, and only Simon—tall and imposing standing beside you—could have the grumpiest bartender reach for the blender to make a blended cocktail. 

When he comes back with your drink—too big fingers unfolding the tiny umbrella for you—he watches your boyfriend (Marcus) flirt with a girl in a tight leather dress on the other side of the room. It’s that moment that he decides he’s tired of you giving your attention to someone who doesn’t deserve it, tired of you lying belly up for men who only want to sink their teeth into you and leave once they’ve had their fill. 

He likes to think he’s a pretty good friend—opening your eyes to something better is a job he takes rather seriously.

“It’s just a bit of fun,” he says after coming back with your third margarita, a small amount of frothy liquid sloshing over the side when he sets it down in front of you. “It’s okay to want it.”

You bite your lip, eyes dropping down to where he’s patting his thigh. “Just fun?”

“Yes, love.” He smiles. “Just fun.”

Let me.

Whether you’re tipsier than he thought or he’s just really persuasive, it’s easy to get you crawling into his lap in the corner of the cracked leather booth. His hands wander the span of your smooth thighs where your short skirt doesn’t reach, and he muffles a groan in your shoulder when you start squirming against the tent in his jeans.

You say his name like a warning when his hands find their way under your skirt, yet you’re biting back a moan and don’t tell him to stop.

Simon undoes his jeans and shifts them down before pushing up the back of your skirt and adjusting your hips to watch the tip of his dick slide between the covered cleft of your ass. Nobody in the room can see what the both of you are doing with your skirt fanning around his lap, but someone could if they were truly looking, and that has him tugging your panties to the side so he can feel you.

"Your boyfriend is too stupid to realize you're sitting here riding my lap. What do you think he'd say if he saw you like this?"

 “W-wait, Simon!” you squeak. “What if he sees—”

He’s almost tempted to roll his eyes at your blind devotion—I’ll deal with it—dealing with it would be him making sure the prick never tries talking to you again.

Then, his fingers, like iron at your hips, jerk you back to impale you on his cock. "Fuck," he says, voice trembling around the edges.

“O-oh! It’s too—ah—too big!”

He wraps a hand around the slender slope of your throat, fingers digging into vulnerable flesh as he pulls you back until his lips are at your ear, nose pressing into the soft skin of your cheek. “Come on, love. I know you can take the whole thing. Right inside this tight cunt.”

Simon thrusts into you shallowly, just the tip going in and out, and you whine, little fingers scrabbling at his wrist—gasping and shivering and bucking in the trap of his arms.

A smirk curls at the edges of his mouth when he finally bottoms out in your hot-wet cunt for your boyfriend to see from the other side of the room. He'd laugh at how his jaw drops, but he can only manage little choked intakes of air at the feel of you wrapped so tightly around him.

“Squeeze my cock for me—fuck, there you go.” He presses a kiss below your ear and reaches down to pet your soaked clit with his thumb. Feels the moment you realize that your boyfriend is watching when you tense up.

“I’ll deal with it,” he says again and again until you’re melting into him, thighs trembling around his. “Promise. I promise…”

I apologize if you see this again! I was trying to edit it, and it wouldn't format right with the gif. You can find part two here.

masterlist

[juuuulez]

it takes a while for carmy to warm up to the idea of positions besides missionary.

he just loves to see you. it’s intimate, and allows him to kiss you, hold your face, lick your neck. sure, maybe it’s a strain on his back sometimes, but he loves knowing that you’re all comfortable laying there, not needing to do anything but focus on the sensation of pleasure.

one night you decide to switch it up. you tell him, gently, that you’d love for him to hit it from behind. and carmy goes all red and blushing, stammering at the idea of taking you like that, of not being able to see your face.

“what if it’s uncomfortable?” he’ll ask “n i can’t see you, i won’t know.”

and you reassure him for being so silly. “i’ll say something, obviously. don’t be a baby ‘bout it, i’m a big girl.”

his hands shake when they finally clasp your hips, big palms rubbing nervously over the globes of your ass. your back is arched in a smooth slope, face pressed into the pillow, leaving you presented for him like a cat in heat.

now carmy understands. he’s able to get deeper than before in this position, drilling straight down into your sticky cunt, the gravity helping punctuate each of his harsh thrusts.

you moan and writhe beneath him, gasping between each breath that is punched from your lungs. “o-ooh, jesus, fuck—” you practically squeak. “so good, carmy. thank you, thank you.”

the way you appraise him is incessant, causing carmen to drive into you with a newfound burst of energy. one hand holds your hip in a bruising grip, the other finding leverage on the back of your neck, which prompts another drawn-out moan.

he’s more vocal in this position, too.

“yeah? like that?”

“you needed this, huh?”

“s’okay, you can take it, just a bit more. ‘m gonna cum, okay? good fuckin’ girl, lettin’ me fill ya up.”

by the end of it, your ass is red and bruised. it usually doesn’t get this bad because carmy can’t find himself to be rough when he’s staring at your wet little eyes. he kisses it all better, promising to get some sort of cream for next time, a promise that makes you grin.

“thank you, baby.” you’ll coo after he’s done fussing, pressing kisses into his cheek. “trying new things is fun, right?”

and usually, carmen doesn’t like admitting that he’s wrong, but this was worth it. his cheeks are hot as he dips his head down, evading your kisses to instead bite at your shoulder.

“yeah, yeah.” he grumbles. “don’t get a big head ‘bout it.”

[ervotica]

Oh! I've got one! Liam with a super cuddly reader, who's quiet and doesn't speak often, but at random times, she decides she needs a hug and they just cuddle, even if there are other people around.

pairing; liam mairi x fem!reader

warnings; none, just fluff. established relationship, fem!reader.

a/n; apologies this took so long to get out, my dear anon. i’ve been slacking on creative juices recently, and i’m not overly happy with this, but it’s better than nothing (and i adore liam. he’s my no.1 fictional bf <3)

You're late to breakfast this morning. You'd procrastinated the journey to the cafeteria, weighed down by a fatigue that filled your limbs with treacle and siphoned your motivation to move at all. Your bed had practically begged you to stay put, at least for another half an hour, and you’d obliged, heavy eyes falling closed for another few minutes of dreamless sleep.

There are some perks to second year, you decide. Free weekends are awesome.

When you finally trudge your way through the heavy doors, Liam's there to greet you with a grin that has dimples cratering at the centre of his cheeks and crows feet crinkling at his eyes. It's almost enough to dissipate the abounding lethargy that clings to your every muscle, mouth pulled down into a pouting frown that Liam desperately wants to kiss away. He refrains, only for the fact that you’re so shy you’d simply melt on the spot if he kissed you the way he wants to.

“Good morning, my sleepy girl. How are you?”

You forgo words, instead opting for nudging forward into his arms and squishing your cheek against the slope of his shoulder.

“Ah,” he murmurs, smearing a kiss to the very top of your head. “It’s like that, is it?”

“Mm,” you hum noncommittally, dead weight against his chest. His laugh rumbles through you, arms coming up and over your shoulders to settle you into the crease of his armpit; the tension from your body dissipates and you nearly vocalize your urge to drag him back to bed with you.

“Saved you some breakfast,” he says, one broad hand delving into his pocket and coming back armed with a chocolate crossiant— your favourite.

“Pocket pastries!” you giggle. “Every woman’s dream.”

��See, I know you so well,” he laughs right back. “Come and sit. There’s more where this came from.” He accentuates the statement with a cheeky wink and a kiss to the shell of your ear, delighting in the way you flush white-hot beneath him.

You snort, tipping your head up to press a kiss to his jaw. One, then two. He keeps an arm hooked securely over your shoulders when you move towards the table.

“I love you,” you say, muffled around a bite full of pastry. He kisses the crumbs from your lips happily.

“I love you, my girl. Want some more food?”

[stylesloveclub]

Prose (part 4)

In which Harry and y/n like going to used bookstores together and kissing (in secret).

+++

Harry’s coat is soaked, his curls matted to his forehead and his eyes squinting from how rainy it is. He barely had time to pack up his stuff, let alone grab his umbrella, before darting out of the Literature building. His boots splash loudly in the puddles, wetting the hems of his trousers as  he runs across the street.

“Y/n!” he calls out, his his chest rising and falling heavily. After two weeks of ditching his office hours and running away from him after lecture, he’s finally caught up with her, “come on, we need to talk.”

A quiet rumble of thunder shakes the air around them, and y/n reluctantly turns around. She’d been avoiding this conversation – didn’t want to be lectured by Harry about how bad of a decision it was and that it never should’ve happened. She knows that already, and she doesn’t need to hear it again from him. It would hurt even more, coming from the same lips that she’d been so excited to kiss. 

“What’s there to talk about,” she mumbles, her eyes downcast to the floor, watching the rain splatter against the pavement. Her hair is wet, drops of water dripping down her forehead, over the slope of her nose, and landing on her pretty lips. They get caught in the dip of her cupid's bow, and Harry watches painfully as she licks it away. 

It’s a painful experience, to have to remain so composed and put together, when he wants nothing more than to lean forward and kiss her again. His eyebrows are pinched, and his lips part as if he’s imagining what it’d be like to feel her lips between his again. He can’t help himself from staring down at her lips like a puppy yearning for a treat.

“We– we can’t just… ignore what happened,” he says, pushing his wet hair out of his face. He licks his lips nervously, and his fingers twitch at his side. 

“Yes we can,” she responds quickly. “Listen– I know it was a bad idea. You don’t have to like… lecture me about it. We can just move on."

“But– wait, no. I don’t want to just move on.” Harry blinks quickly, half because of the rain and half because he’s confused. 

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” she says quietly, toeing at the ground and wishing it would open up and swallow her whole. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” She looks like she’s about to cry, and he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t lean forward and hug her the way he wants to, he can’t even rest a hand on her arm. He watches sadly as she just wraps her arms around herself, a pathetic cardigan wrapped around her frame – as if that would do anything to protect her from the rain. How could this girl be so smart when it comes to school, he thinks to himself, but so utterly stupid when it comes to rainy days. “Let me drive you home, and we can talk about it.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t think that’s a good idea–”

“Come on,” he pleads. “It’s pouring, and we’re both getting soaked. Just let me drive you. Please.” His eyes are wide, and his hands are lifted up halfway, resisting the urge to reach out to her.

Thunder crashes loudly again, and y/n gives a silent nod. She follows him quietly to his car.

+++

“Did you regret it?” Harry asks at a stoplight. 

Y/n shrugs quietly. Not really an answer, but she doesn’t have the heart to vocalize her feelings. Of course she doesn’t regret it– she’d had a crush on him since the very beginning of the semester. But she knows that he probably wishes it never happened. So a shrug suffices. 

He sighs heavily. Her reluctance to talk to him is eating away at him, and he doesn’t know how to handle the situation. “Well I don’t,” he announces loudly. “I think you’re pretty, and kind, and sweet – and I enjoyed kissing you.” He peaks over at her through the corner of his eye, but she shows no outright reaction to his declaration. She just stares down at her fingers, tangled in her lap.

Okay, well now he feels silly for saying all that. 

He turns back to face the road, and the two of them are suffocated in the silence. The rain patters against the roof of his car and the windshield wipers rhythmically clear the glass. Y/n watches a single raindrop’s path down her window, following as it slides down and collects all the other drops of water on its way. 

Then she asks quietly, “You aren’t worried about getting in trouble?”

His eyes flicker to her. “S’not as big of a deal as you think it is, bunny. S’not like I’m actually your professor. We’re both still students.”

She’s silent again. Harry pulls up in front of her apartment, but she hesitates to unbuckle her seatbelt. He looks at her quizzically.

“So it’s not against the rules?” she asks once more, nervously.

Harry shakes his head. “No school policies against it.”

Her voice is quiet. “...and you don’t regret it?”

“Not at all.”

Silence again. She sits in his passenger's seat thoughtfully. They are both still very much wet from the rain. 

“I’d invite you up–” she suddenly says. “But, I have a roommate. And, um… if anything else were to happen… I still wouldn’t want anyone to find out. Even if it’s not against the rules.” She turns, her eyes wide and glimmering hopefully. She’s suddenly filled with excitement and confidence.

Harry nods understandingly. “Nobody has to know.” 

She still doesn’t leave his car, staring at him. “So… if we were to do anything else, it’d have to be off campus. And not at my apartment.” 

Harry’s lips part, and he nods again, slower, “I see… so, if we wanted to do something else… we should probably go to my apartment instead…” 

Y/n only realizes how much she missed the dimple in Harry’s cheek when he smiles at her for the first time since that day in his office.

His tone is teasing, “And… if I wanted to kiss you… then I should probably wait until we get to my place?”

Her eyes sparkle, “exactly.”

+++

On the way to his apartment, he warns her that it may be messy, and he also warns her about his precious little cat (a pretty white haired kitty with piercing blue eyes named Princess, because that’s the name the shelter gave her and he didn’t have the heart to change it) who would probably be meowing at their feet as soon as they walk through the door. 

Y/n doesn’t have much time to look around his apartment and assess the messiness though. As soon as they get out of his car and into the elevator, she finds herself unable to stand more than three steps away from Harry. She follows closely behind him, grabs onto his firm bicep as he types in the code to his apartment. He turns to her with a smirk – it’s endearing how eager and affectionate she is, looking up at him with stars in her eyes. She’s got a look on her face, like a kid on her way to Disneyland for the first time – except Disneyland is actually just Harry’s bed, and the rides involve a lot less clothes than Splash Mountain. 

He tests the waters. He spends a few seconds staring in her eyes, reveling in the palpable tension between them, and then he flickers his gaze down to her pretty lips. He dances between her eyes and her lips for a bit, his hand still on the doorknob but too distracted by her to turn it all the way. Instead, he leans forward, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips pressing against hers. It’s so nice to kiss her again, it’s everything he could have ever wanted.

She’s ready for it this time, eager for his kiss and not caught off guard on the floor of his office. She leans up on her tippy toes immediately, puckering her lips against his and kissing that boyish smirk right off his face. Her hands hold onto his biceps, and slide up to his shoulders, and she tilts her chin upwards to kiss him properly. 

Harry lets his tongue slip out, sliding it between her soft lips and grazing it against hers, warm and slick in her mouth. It makes her breath catch in her throat – he’s just so hot, and his tongue is in her mouth right now, and it’s all just so perfect. Harry actually lets go of the doorknob, forgetting that they’re still in the middle of his hall, and turns his entire body towards her instead of just his head turned towards her. The hand that had been on the door makes its way to her hip, and he towers over her, leaning forward and backing her up against the wall right next to his door. It feels like he’s a foot taller than her when he’s kissing her like this, pressing her against the wall and sliding his fingers into her hair to manually tilt her head back. 

He bares her throat to himself and tilts her chin upwards, all so that he has easier access to her pretty little mouth. Sliding his tongue against hers erotically, nipping at her lip and squeezing her hip tightly. He’s so soft and gentle and romantic – but he’s also taken full control, leaving her at his mercy. He tilts her head whichever way he wants with his grip in her hair, scratching at her scalp so she’s weak in the knees. It makes her whimper and keel, her heart racing in her chest like an overexcited little bunny. 

Harry smiles into their kiss when she feels him pawing at her, her frigid fingers pressing against his firm abdomen and gripping the fabric of his shirt, still partially wet from the rain. If she’s getting handsy, he better open the door and get her into his bed. But he can’t bring himself to break their kiss – so with his eyes still shut and his lips still tangled with hers, he uses a hand to blindly twist the doorknob and push the door open. They stumble in uncoordinatedly, and y/n doesn’t even have the chance to see if Harry was lying about having a messy apartment. She’s just trying to kiss him as much as she can, get as close to him as physically possible. She’s forgotten about how uncomfortable her wet jeans are, or how cold her fingers are after spending so long in the pouring rain. All she wants is to get into Harry’s bed. 

He guides her towards his bedroom, and peeks a nervous eye open to make sure that his room isn’t a horrible, gross mess, a sigh of relief leaving him when he confirms that it’s in an acceptable state to show this pretty girl. He’s tugging off his coat and letting it plop wetly onto the floor and undoing the buttons of y/n’s cardigan, when his sweet little kitty finally makes an appearance. 

A simple quiet meow is all they hear, followed by the gentle scratch of her claws tugging and pulling on Harry’s trousers. Harry giggles, and pulls away from y/n to stare down at his cat, who’s sitting ever so politely at his feet with one paw raised to rest on his trouser. She’s the cutest little cock blocker and she’s also his little baby. “Hi princess,” he coos. 

Y/n, with swollen lips and bated breath, is honestly a little jealous of how this cat must get so much attention from Harry, and how sweetly he just bent down to pick her up. She wants Harry to do that with her – to coo at her and lift her up and press a kiss on her forehead. She then scolds herself for being jealous of a cat.

The kitty, all fluffy with hair as white as snow, gives a big yawn and a sudden shake of her head that makes her collar jingle prettily. Harry smiles. “Let me just go get her some food n’then she won’t bother us,” Harry says to y/n. The implications of not wanting to be bothered makes y/n’s heart flutter, and she nods eagerly with wide eyes. 

He runs back quickly, and shuts the door behind himself, so that even if Princess finishes her food, she won’t be able to wander in randomly. Then he’s pulling the cardigan off of her, throwing it on the floor, and unbuttoning her jeans, all while re-initiating their kiss. He walks them backwards slowly, until the backs of her legs meet his bed and she’s falling backwards with a soft laugh. He smiles into their kiss as he tugs her jeans off – a slight struggle considering that the denim is all wet and sticking to her thighs, but he just laughs with her at the awkwardness of having to peel off each other’s wet clothes. With her jeans also on the floor, she’s left in a basic and plain pair of light gray underwear, and the white baby tee that had been underneath her cardigan. Her shirt has ridden up, revealing her ribs and her soft stomach, and he wants to just lean down and kiss all over her body. Her thighs, her belly, her neck. He can see her pulse racing in her neck, and wants to rest his lips over her chest and feel her heart pounding right against his lips.

She pushes herself up on her elbows, her legs spread at the edge of the bed with Harry standing between them. He’s smirking down at her, taking his time as he undresses himself, making her ache. His hair that had been soaked in the rain has dried up a bit, his curls fluffier and messier than usual. It’s his natural hair, the curls that form when he’s straight out of the shower and hasn’t had the chance to style them with his curl cream. It’s endearing. His fingers, so thick and long and manly, are insanely slow as he finds the buckle of his belt and undoes it. The sound of the buckle clanking makes y/n swallow thickly, and the sight of him standing at the foot of the bed, towering over her with a belt in his hand is so arousing for some reason. Her eyes flutter, but she forces herself to keep her eyes open as he buttons his trousers and steps out of them smoothly. Neither of them are saying anything, despite there being so much they want to say to each other. They just take in the moment, take in each other. There’s a tattoo on Harry’s thigh that y/n never would have expected, a tiger that looks so intimidating and regal on him. His thighs are thick and strong – it’s head spinning to finally see him undressing in front of her when she’d accidentally done it in her head so many times in his office hours. It was never an intentional decision to sit in his office hours and imagine what it’d be like to see him undressed – to imagine what he’d look like if she ever got the chance to suck him off, or how he’d sound. But it always ended up happening… he was just too hot. 

His fingers now undo the buttons of his shirt, another white button up (his work uniform, apparently) that he slowly opens to reveal a broad chest, filled with tattoos. Y/n’s mouth drops open. Never in a million years did she expect her sweet, smart, and flirty TA to be covered in ink, a sleeve of black drawings lining his left arm and decorating his abs. It’s insane. He is so hot. Harry just smirks.

Her eyes are wide and she looks dumbstruck, mouth open as she just stares at him, her chest rising and falling heavily. She feels herself clenching, her eyes roaming all over his body… his chest and the swallows on his collarbones… the butterfly on top of his defined abdomen… the ferns on the hard lines that lead down into his briefs. Her eyes flicker up, and she flushes knowing that Harry’s been watching her drool over him for the past minute. She can’t be embarrassed about it though, and finds herself staring at the hem of his briefs… and then just a little lower at the bulge. Her mouth waters without her consent. His big hand cups the bulge and he squeezes himself. She nearly passes out. 

She sits up fully so that she’s no longer half lying on the couch, and instead she’s face to face with his cotton covered cock. Not even trying to be hot or sexy or minx-like, she looks up at him through her lashes, silently asking for permission. She’d never admit just how often the thought of sucking Harry off had crossed her mind. Sometimes when she was in his office hours, she’d zone out while he was talking to her and just stare at his big hands – dreaming about feeling them at the back of her head, pushing her down to get his cock further down her throat. And other times, in class, when Dr. Richmond was lecturing on and on about god knows what, she’d find herself staring at Harry, sitting politely in the corner of the room, his legs spread naturally. She’d feel so dirty in class, imagining what it’d be like to sit between those thighs, rest her cheek on his leg while pumping his cock, when he was doing nothing to prompt such sexual thoughts. All he’d do was sit there, and she’d be thinking about laving her tongue around his cock-head, tasting him as he’d cum down her throat. 

“Go on then,” Harry grunts, tucking a piece of y/n’s wet hair behind her ear. She’s eager, licking her lips like she’s about to have some dessert, her eyes glittering and darting all over his face. She tucks her fingers into the hem of his briefs and pulls them down, revealing the bottom half of the ferns and a dark tuft of hair. She pulls down further and further, exposing his shaft, and pulls some more until she frees the head and his cock comes bouncing out of its confines. It’s large and nearly smacks her in her face, and she’s like a confused little bunny staring at it swinging in front of her. He can’t help but smile down at her fondly, his hand cupping her jaw. “You want t’suck me off, bunny?”

She nods, hypnotized but unable to make a first move. She’s too intimidated by his size, and how he’s towering over her, speaking down to her with his low, raspy voice. She just stares up at him with wide eyes. 

He grabs a hold of himself, wrapping his fist around the base of his cock, and just the feeling of his own hand gets him twitching and leaking precum already. She’s the sweetest thing, looking up at him with those big eyes, nibbling at her lips nervously. He pumps himself a few times, spreading his slickness down his shaft and all over his head. She’ll be able to taste him all the way down, feel him coating her tongue and spurting down her throat. 

He guides the tip to her lips, muttering a soft, “open up.” She’s so eager and obedient, parting her lips without hesitation and even going so far as to stick her tongue out for him, the precious little thing. He’s grinning like the joker, dimple in his cheek at the erotic sight in front of him. Gripping himself, he taps his head against her tongue softly, and traces a circle with the tip of his cock around the flat of her tongue. He does this a few times, his own fist sliding his cockhead over her tongue, the rough texture of her tastebuds heavenly on his sensitive tip. He feels smooth and slick on her tongue, and she sits there like an angel, tongue out and staring up at him sweetly as he does whatever he pleases. His cockhead is ruddy and red, so incredibly sensitive to the touch, and he groans through his smirk. Do you know how attractive it is to see a man moaning with a smile on his face? Y/n feels her panties soaking, and worries that it might be seeping onto his bedsheets. 

It’s honestly been a while for Harry, since he’s hooked up with anyone. He hasn’t dated anyone in a while, and it’s hard to find someone that he trusts enough to be himself with. He wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to trace his cock on any random person’s tongue, wouldn’t be calling a stranger “bunny” or whispering for them to open wider so he can push himself further in. 

“Come on bunny, show me what you can do,” he murmurs, encouraging her to grab a hold of his cock herself. That little taste of him from when he traced himself over her tongue has made her insane – she’s addicted to how he tastes and wants him further in her mouth. With his encouragement, she circles her tongue around his head. Tentatively at first, but when he groans out and bucks closer to her, she starts swirling more and more eagerly. She’s drooling for him, her mouth filled with saliva and just watering for his taste. She’s breathing heavily and small little whines are leaving her chest as her tongue slides from his head down his shaft. God. It’s addictive. She wants to lick up and down his cock for ages, just feel him on her tastebuds, but she also wants to wrap her lips around him and feel his cock fill up her mouth, but then she also wants to just jerk him off with her hand while she sucks his pretty balls into her mouth and roams her tongue around each other – oh the options are all so enticing, she’s overwhelming herself. 

Spit is dripping down the side of her mouth from how drooly she is over him, and she stops licking up and down his shaft and all over his head for just a second to swallow thickly. And then she’s immediately back on his dick, this time closing her lips around his head and sliding herself down his length, feeling the underside of his shaft against her tongue and his head tickling the back part of her throat. She wants to take him further so badly, wants to feel him fill up her throat, make her throat bulge with his thickness, just suffocate on his length – but when she pushes herself forward she has a teensy little gag, and has to pull off to catch her breath. “Oh, bunny,” he groans, biting his lip, “fuck.” She looks up at him teary eyed, her lips slicked and her chin covered in her spit and the copious amount of cum he’s already leaked into her mouth. It’s a sight that he’ll be dreaming about for days, every single night with his fist wrapped around his cock before he goes to sleep or when he’s jerking off in the shower before going to class. She wraps her lips around his cock again and bobs up and down eagerly, pushing herself forward so that his cockhead reaches the back of her throat, and then pulling back quickly so that his cock almost falls out of her mouth. She does this over and over again, her  tongue still lick at him as much as she can, flickering her tongue at his pretty tip and trying to lap up as much cum as she can, steadily leaking out of his slit. He’s so yummy and hot and she just wants to taste him and swallow him and feel him filling her throat – she tries to deepthroat him again, but disappointingly fails again. He’s just too big for her. 

She pulls off with a cough, huffing upset. She looks up at him sadly and he hushes her, delicately tracing a finger on her face, “S’okay bunny,” ((her heart races and does a few backflips every time he calls her bunny)), “we’ll work on it.” And oh, she can’t wait for that. Can’t wait for him to train her throat, get her adjusted to his size so that he can push himself down, fuck her face and stuff himself down her throat until he’s spurting long streaks of white cum into her mouth. Or maybe she’d tell him to pull out just in time so that he could coat her face. Or maybe she’d make him wait until she got his cock inside of her hole and he could fuck into her and cum right inside of her, pressing his balls up to her ass so that he could get it as deep as humanly possible. 

If she can’t get him down her throat today though, then she makes up for it by wrapping her lips around his balls and stuffing her mouth full of them. Her tongue circles around them, tonguing at the spot right between the two, and she makes sure to give each one a bit of their own separate love as well – sucking their roundness into her mouth, feeling how full they are. All while tugging at his cock and looking up at his red face, his flushed neck and the veins bulging in them. 

“Sweetheart,” he cries out with a loud moan. His fingers ball up into fists at his sides and his abdomen is clenching and fluttering erratically, “gonna make me cum. Where d’you want it, hm?”

She pulls off of his balls with a loud pop. “In my mouth,” she whines, as if it’s obvious. She’s been lapping at his slit, suckling out the yummy precum so desperately – she wants it all now. 

Fondling his balls and sucking harshly at his tip, she pulls the final trigger. His hips thrust forward and he groans out, his hands tightening in her hair as long spurts of white cum shoot out of him, coating her tongue and trickling down her throat. Her mouth overflows, stuffed full of his cock without enough room for all the cum that he’s spurting out to fit – so it trickles down her chin instead. She takes it so well, swallowing it all and suckling at him gently until there’s nothing more for her to suck out, and his cock sits limply against her tongue, worn out and sucked dry. 

His chest is red and heaving, and he’s weak in the knees. His sweet little bunny, so quiet and gentle in class, was the dirtiest little minx he’s ever had. He saw stars when he came, his ears ringing and his vision going white. It was a trip to heaven. 

He’s gonna have fun with her, for sure. 

+++

The used bookstore that Harry and y/n walk into is a thirty minute drive from campus. The store is dimly lit, fairy lights lining the shelves and small tables filled with books from local authors between the rows of books. There’s a cafe next door where Harry and y/n each get a hot chocolate to warm their numb fingers (it’s raining outside, again), and the smell of roasted coffee beans lingers on their clothes and follows them into the book shop. 

It’s warm in the book store. Not as warm as the cafe, but still warm enough for y/n to shed her raincoat and for Harry to unwrap the big, fuzzy scarf that he’d tied around his neck. His oversized gray sweatshirt is lightly stained with raindrops, y/n having convinced him that they didn’t need an umbrella, that they could just race out of the car and into the bookstore and only get a little wet. Either that, or he’d have to carry around a wet umbrella all around the bookstore, which meant that he wouldn’t be able to hold her hand while they shopped. And that simply wouldn’t do. 

With her fingers laced with his, they walk around in the fiction aisle, saying nothing. Y/n’s eyes trail over the multitude of used books, the ones with the colorful covers and bubbly fonts standing out to her the most (it’s hard to not judge a book by its cover!). Harry sips quietly from his hot chocolate and stares at y/n every few seconds, before averting his eyes to the floor. Or to their joint hands. He suppresses a smile to himself. 

It’s hard for him to contain his excitement. Since they started their relationship, it’s all been very hush hush. The only time he ever gets to touch her is when they’re at his apartment. He’s not allowed to hold her hand when they’re walking around campus, not allowed to stare at her for too long in class, even though he wants nothing more than to just watch her read and write her notes. Sometimes on Friday nights, when campus is empty and everyone has gone home, she’ll close his windows and lock his office door and let him give her a few kisses in the privacy of his office – but other than that, no PDA. It’s too risky, too scary, she whispered to him the night that they made it official, under the shield of his comforter. She didn’t want to have any rumors or whispers circling around, even if their relationship wasn’t explicitly against the rules. He, of course, would do anything for her. 

He was good about it. Kept his eyes off of her, didn’t praise her too much in class, kept his hood up whenever he went to pick her up in the middle of the night. But he’s an affectionate kind of guy – he’s the kind of boyfriend who wants to wrap his arms around her when they’re standing in line at the coffee shop. He wants to put his hand on her thigh when he’s driving her home from school, send her off with a kiss everytime she leaves his office hours. So being able to come to a bookstore in another city, where they wouldn’t see any of her classmates, and hold her hand while she looks for books… it’s such a special thing for him.

Her hand is warm and soft, and she wears these delicate little rings that clank against his bigger, clunky rings. Her nails are painted a dark burgundy color (courtesy of him, who whipped out his stash of nail polish and painted her nails after she whined about her hands being too shaky to paint her nails herself), and he rubs his thumb over her painted fingers lovingly. 

She untangles their fingers to reach for a book, and Harry’s hand feels cold and lonely. He tries not to visibly pout, and stuffs his hand into his pocket to maybe recreate the feeling of being held by her hand … but it’s not the same. He takes a step forward so that his chest is pressed against her back, and rests his chin on her shoulder, looking over at the book in her hand. Y/n smiles to herself – her boyfriend is like a puppy that can’t go three seconds without being pet or loved on. She tilts her head towards him and gives him a little kiss on the cheek, right on the spot where a dimple forms three seconds after she kisses him. His nose wiggles as he slowly says, “I actually have that book, if you want to borrow it.”

“Oh, really?” she hums, putting the book back. “Was it any good?”

He nuzzles his face closer to hers so that their cheeks are touching, and he can feel the chub of her cheek as she smiles. “4.5 stars.” 

His hand not holding his hot chocolate finds her hip as she spins around to face him, and he stares down at her with stars in his eyes. His dimple softly pinches his cheek and his lips quirk up to one side in a lopsided smile. She looks soft and sweet and cozy, in a white long sleeved top, a lacy trim at her collar, and a bow pinning her hair back. A heart shaped pendant rests in the center of her chest, a gift from him, and her eyes are bright and wide as she stares back up at him. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and her fingers tangle in the back of his hair.

She giggles as Harry just stares down at her and says nothing. “What?” she laughs, not understanding why he’s looking at her like one of the stars in the sky.

“Just so pretty, bunny,” he murmurs quietly. He leans forward, his nose nudging against hers for a kiss. She struggles to kiss him back through her own smile, but her painted nails scratch at his scalp while his fingers dimple her hips. His lips are sweet like the hot chocolate he’d been drinking, and she wonders if she tastes just as yummy and chocolatey – or if he’s just licking into her mouth because of how lovey and affectionate he’s feeling today. Her back presses against the bookshelf and his hips press into her front subtly, but it’s not in an insanely horny way, and more of a desperate attempt to press his body as close to hers as possible. To feel her chest against her chest, and feel her stomach against his. 

He loves kissing her, loves her pretty lips and her pretty face, her warm cheeks and her soft eyes. He sucks and licks and nibbles on her lips with quiet hums, and pulls off only when her giggles get too strong and she’s not kissing him back anymore. “Stop laughing,” he huffs, skimming his lips against her jaw. 

She giggles some more. How can he just casually call her pretty and kiss her in between bookshelves and not expect her to burst into a fit of shy, love-struck giggles? It’s too much for her, and the only way she can rationally react when she’s so happy and giddy is to giggle it out! “Sorry,” she smiles bashfully, her giggles still prominent, though, as the stubble on his upper lip tickles her cheek. “More kisses, please.”

He can’t help but smile at how sweet and polite she is, asking for more kisses. He puckers her lips against hers again for a quick kiss and starts a path up her cheek and all over her face too, which just sends her into a fit of even more laughter. He huffs out a chuckle of his own, and shakes his head, checking around them to make sure that they’re still alone in this aisle of books. 

“Wanna go to the sci-fi section?” he whispers to her. (He’s a bit of a sci-fi nerd himself and has turned y/n onto a few of his favorites, so now they’re both sci-fi fans). 

“M’kay,” she hums, her fingers untangling from his hair and sliding down so that her hand hooks into his arms. “Maybe we can see if they have that Andy Weir book you were telling me about, and go read it together in the cafe? M’hot chocolate is almost done and I want a cheese danish.”

And nothing sounds better to Harry than that. 

+++

hope u guys looveddd it !!! such a fun story to write and i really loved this couple. thank u for reading and dont forget to send me an ask or rb so that i know u guys liked it and if u want blurbs and stuff!!!!

Prose Masterlist

[the-shsl-ultimate-procrastinator]

John Doe Headcannons

A/N: I wrote this out of boredom so don't ask Warnings: Yandere, Some NSFW headcannons, and John Doe Game Spoilers I guess?? Tag list: @simping-little-fae @fluffytimearts

SFW

This mans is clingier than shit he ain't do shit without you in the room and you can't escape him even in the shower

He will randomly stop you and just start giving you kisses and rambling about how you changed his life at just the first glance and other such lovely things

He is jealousy incarnate if you so much as make eye contact with another living thing he'll get pissy and possessive

He cannot cook mans will set water on fire so he begs you to cook and if neither of you can cook he makes sure that he has the money (he won't explain how he gets it either) to buy you super nice meals or at minimum your favorite foods

He wants kids as many as you're comfortable with he will beg and beg and beg

Mans be in a hurry he proposed within a month

He has an extremely hard time with his own hygiene but will help you with yours (p.s. if you want to make him a melted mess of goo for you toy with wash his hair for him he will be a melted mess of a man)

Trying to get him to do anything but stare at you without a reminder is pointless you have to tell him to eat and drink

NSFW

He is whatever you want him to be top bottom doesn't matter he's into it

He does have some preferences though like he loves it when you're rough with him especially if you pull his hair

He loves praise hearing you the person he adores say good things about him makes him go nuts

He loves cockwarming he will just sit there with his dick inside you enjoying being close to you

He is super vocal you can't make him shut up unless you push his face into a pillow or gag him and even then he'll keep making some kind of noise

If you're chubby he will grab onto your love handles like his life depends on it he will tell you how much he loves your softness and the round gentle slopes of your body how it makes it so much more comfortable for him to lean into you while fucking you

If you're skinny he'll wrap himself around you telling you how you're just so perfectly sized for him to hold while fucking you senseless

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you'd known that Simon wasn't okay since it had been announced that they'd found blood in the boiler room. his pain, his hurt, his loss had spilled out from him and into you and you'd had no clue how to handle it. and then suddenly, you'd been soothed, and all you'd been able to think of had been getting to the source of that comfort and giving thanks.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.8

Wally couldn't stop thinking about earlier. How the slopes and arches of your body fit against him like a puzzle piece. How malleable you'd been under his touch. The intense liquid heat that had thrummed between you both as he'd leaned in to kiss you; heartbeats synchronized, eyes fluttering closed, utterly surrendered to the sensation.

He'd kissed a few girls when he'd been alive. Hell, he'd made out with Dawn a handful of times when adrenaline and hormones had needed an outlet. None of those experiences held a candle to what he'd felt when he'd just barely brushed his lips to yours.

There was something underneath it all. Not just his attraction to you, which he'd harbored for going on two years now. Something else. Something mystical and big and unleashed. Maybe you already knew what it was. After all, you could reach through the veil, hear and see and feel Wally...maybe you had an explanation.

If only the connection between you and Wally hadn't made it practically impossible to finish a conversation.

"Where'd you go, superstar?"

Wally nearly jumped in surprise, having forgotten he wasn't alone. He glanced around, saw Katelynn—the courtyard fatality—and Ajay studying him as intently as Rhonda. They were in the kitchen piling a late lunch of leftovers onto their plates while, around them, the staff muddled through their end-of-day breakdown.

"Uh," Wally supplied, intelligently. He was a miserable liar, something Rhonda had teased him for mirthlessly in the past. Told him he was as easy to read as 3rd grade English (ouch). But he didn't take his promises lightly and knew he had to come up with something or Rhonda would grill him until he broke. Deflection it was, "Do you think Maddie had a good time?"

Rhonda, perched primly on a counter, rolled her eyes and plucked a bread roll from the bin one of the staff was about to seal. "Jesus, you really are ditzy for her, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that," Wally said. He really wouldn't, "I just want her to—"

"Confess her undying love? Make you the center of her universe and forget all about her dreamy, badboy ex?" Rhonda scoffed, "Hate to break it to you, hot stuff, but you'd just be a rebound and we all know how those end."

"Badly?" Katelynn guessed. Having been fourteen when she'd kicked the bucket, she'd likely never had the chance to explore the intricacies of romance. Or of all its thorns.

Rhonda's hands clamped and then bloomed in front of her as she vocalized a bomb exploding.

"No, Rhonda, that's not it," Wally spoke in long strokes, as if to a child, willing away a flash of irritation. "What I was gonna say was that I want her to know there's more to being dead than trying to solve your own murder." Since, after all was said and done, there'd be nothing left to do besides passively haunt Split River High.

And that shit got dull after a semester or two.

Unexpectedly, "I spoke to her today." Rhonda admitted, somewhat reluctant, as the group paraded from the kitchen into the cafeteria. Wally encouraged her to continue with a smile, "About how I died. She thought it could help, so..." She slid into her regular seat next to Wally, eyes fixed on her plate, "I guess it did because she took off after."

It was obvious that relinquishing even that morsel of information made her uncomfortable, shoulders curled to her ears and lips pursed, those metaphorical walls re-erecting.

Wally clapped her on the back, "You did good, Deadly." A fond nickname he used sparingly as it often earned him an elbow to the ribs.

This time, Rhonda simply glared a warning at him before tearing a piece off her bread roll and smearing it through the gravy on Wally's plate. Progress, he supposed.

To move the conversation away from Rhonda, Wally engaged Katelynn, "I saw you with the extinguisher today."

Katelynn grinned through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"You know what we should do next time? We get those chairs with the wheels, a couple of fire extinguishers..." He mimed the scene with fervor, grinning conspiratorially between the others, "We could do it in the gym. Take bets. See who goes farthest. It would be awesome!"

Rhonda patted his knee twice—thank you—under the table. How she displayed gratitude without being obvious. As discreetly as possible, Wally returned the gesture, tapping three times to indicate I've got you.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Somehow, you'd done it: graduated to the end of the school day without incident. Sure, Mathilda had given you a funny look when you'd made your excuses to stay behind, but she'd been too distracted by what pieces to include in her portfolio to cross-examine you about it.

"Text me later, sillybean!" She called over her shoulder as she, Hana, and Lucas exited the school.

The siblings waved in unison, Hana pirouetting and blowing you a kaleidoscope of exaggerated kisses before falling back into step with her brother.

You turned back to your locker, shoving in your backpack and your uncle's hoodie. You'd accepted that the connection between you and Wally quashed any attempt you made to hide from him; berated yourself for not realizing it sooner.

After you'd closed the door and slipped the lock back into place, you mustered your courage and turned toward the direction of the theater. You could do this. Without getting sidetracked.

Yeah, you believed that about as much as you believed the lunchroom bread rolls were 'made fresh' everyday.

A metallic clamor caught your attention before you'd even stepped a foot forward, causing you to hesitate. Down several lockers along the row, Simon shook his lock against the hasp furiously. He was unmistakably upset, jaw tight, vibrating with unfettered anger.

You approached him just as he kicked the locker below his.

"Here," You said, inserting yourself between Simon and his locker, "What's the combo?"

Without pause, "8-37-15," he recited through gritted teeth.

You dialed the combination, unhooked the lock and held it out for Simon to take.

"You okay?" You asked, already aware of the answer.

"Yes." Simon lied then abruptly changed his mind, "No. I don't know." He dumped his bag at his feet and rummaged through the contents of his locker only to give up and spin around. Propped against the closed bottom level, Simon ran his hands through his hair roughly, reminding you of someone with responsibility that outweighed their experience.

"What's going on, Si?"

He lifted his head, brow creased with despair, "Aren't friends supposed to trust each other?"

The question knocked you for six. Unsure if it was rhetorical, you chose to stay quiet and, sure enough, Simon expounded. "Aren't friends supposed to tell each other things, even if it's hard? Even if they think it might hurt? Because, at the end of the day, you chose that person to be there for you no matter what. And that person chose you right back."

No questions asked. Your voice overlapped with Xavier's, years worth of emotional petitions for comfort and unbiased support echoing in your head.

Thinking of your friend, you wondered, "Is this about Nicole leaving with Xavier after lunch?"

Simon seemed surprised by the news, yet, after a second, confirmed, "Yeah. Uh, yeah, it's about that."

He stared at his feet, arms folded tightly across his middle, chewed his lip as he pondered what he wanted to disclose. Finally, "I just want to be there for her, but it's like she won't let me. And it sucks." His voice was damp with pain. "And now she's pissed and she's shut me out and...I don't know what to do."

When he raised his head again, you almost choked on the sorrow in his eyes. You wanted to hug him, hold him, cry. Here was a boy whose best friend had, for all intents and purposes, left him behind, and now he was scared he'd lost someone else.

The mounting sadness radiating from Simon made your eyes sting. You had no clue how to comfort him, not like you did Xavier or Mathilda, the two people you'd chosen and who'd chosen you back.

The strength of secondhand emotion chipped away at you, threatened to shatter you into a thousand anguished pieces, but just as you thought you would break, a familiar warmth sunk into the cracks. The sensation blossomed upward and concentrated behind your ribs, loosening a deep breath of relief.

Absently, you shifted your hand the slightest bit away from where it rested against your thigh, the movement undetectable unless one was looking for it. The warmth grew, contented and safe, and then—a whisper of fingertips across the back of your hand, there and gone.

You didn't move, kept your gaze on Simon; simply waited for Wally to enter your periphery. His back was to you, his hand returning to his jacket pocket as he, Rhonda, and a couple of others walked toward the end of the hall. You vaguely saw him split from the rest of the group, Wally going left while the other three went right.

Simon swallowed, mournful, and he rasped, "What do I do?"

Invigorated by Wally's touch, you planted yourself in front of Simon, placed your hands on his shoulders, and urged him to, "Talk to her. People knock communication like it's some cringe cliché, but it's the best way to resolve things." He nodded, weak but resolute, and you dragged him into a hug. "Trust me," You said, "Just be honest and listen. You don't have to understand everything, you just have to accept it."

Simon chuckled wetly, squeezed you tighter for an instant before releasing you.

"Thanks."

"Any time." And you meant it in your bones. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Simon said, scrubbing the back of his wrist over his eyes, "I'll be fine." He cleared his throat, "Listen, um, I forgot something in the cafeteria, but if you want to wait I could give you a ride home."

Something in his tone suggested the offer was halfhearted, though you appreciated it all the same.

"Nah, it's cool. I have to study." You replied, already positioning yourself to leave. Simon didn't mention that the library was in the other direction, merely flashed you a small, grateful smile.

"See you tomorrow." He saluted.

Free to excuse yourself, you found you had to fight the desire to go go go, hurry, go, that warm sensation purring louder the closer you got to the theater. Fuck making sure the coast was clear, you were supposed to be in there right now; swung the door open with probably a lot more force than necessary.

Wally, who had been sitting on the edge of the stage awaiting your arrival, hopped down as soon as you entered the darkened space, his gaze instantly locking with yours.

One dubious step, two, three, and the warmth fizzled and licked inside you, encouraging your pace to quicken, faster, nearer. You broke into a run, closing the distance, Wally's stare never wavering. With less than a foot remaining, you sprung up, body colliding into his. He caught you easily, held you in his arms with one hand under your thigh and the other around your waist.

No thoughts, no words, no inhibitions; fever-hot and eager; Wally's jaw in your palms, you surged forward and pressed your lips to his.

💀___________________________

PART SEVEN - PART NINE

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[pinkanonwrites]

@tadpoledancer​ made a throwaway post about someone writing Vash getting fingered until he cries, and somehow I’ve transformed that little thought bunny into 3,500 words of gratuitous Vash The Stampede smut. Also please keep in mind that there’s only three episodes of Trigun Stampede out so far, so even though this is Stampede!Vash it’s more of a hodge-podge between his ‘98 and ‘23 personalities as I know them to be.

Tadpole, and others, I hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3 here!

Stampede!Vash, G!N Reader but sharing a room with Meryl is mentioned, fingering, sub!Vash, dacryphilia, gratuitous use of the word “fuck” (if y’all notice anything else i should add to this top bit here lmk)

"Shh! Shh!"

"I'm not saying anything! You're the one giggling!"

"You're giggling too! Don't try and pin it all on me!" You hissed back, though it held no bite past your eager smile. The sun had set a few hours prior, desert air cooling just enough to no longer sting as you snuck down the motel hallway to Vash's room. Your socked feet slid silently along the old wooden floor as you crept past your companions' rooms to your target, the door cracked just enough to see Vash peering out waiting for you with a red flushed cheek and an eager eye shining behind his tinted lenses.

As you slipped through the gap and let the door slide quietly shut behind you, you found yourself bracketed in by Vash's arms. He stooped a bit to reach you more easily, cheeks rosy and eyes love-drunk as he hovered near you, bubbling with eager, nervous energy. Not that you didn't feel the exact same.

"Hi." He murmured.

"Hi." You responded. He squirmed a bit under your gaze, shifting from foot to foot. You leaned in to press a fluttering kiss to his cheek. Just a brush against his sun-kissed skin was enough to make him shiver, both flesh and metal hands resting on the sides of your shoulders, rubbing slowly up and down. He was beaming when you pulled away, red enough that you were surprised his glasses weren't fogging up.

This had been pretty routine for the two of you since joining up with Meryl, Roberto, and Wolfwood. Though you did your best to keep things low-key around the others, Nicholas had been the most vocal about pointing out Vash's favoritism for you. His teasing only served to make things more obvious to the others, and, well… You and Vash didn't want to give them any more ammunition to fluster the two of you than they already had.

Doubling up into hotel rooms was the best way to save some cash on the road, usually with you and Meryl in one, Roberto and Nick in another, and Vash in the third. But you always found yourself slipping out the door once Meryl dozed off, scampering and giggling down the hall to warm Vash's bed instead. And really, if you weren't keeping an eye out on your Humanoid Typhoon, who knows what could happen to him?

"Just one?" Vash nuzzled your cheek with his nose, letting out a delighted little hum when you gave another kiss on the cheek, then a third before meeting his lips.

"You look like you could fry an egg on your face right now. I don't need you overheating or anything."

He chuckled and leaned in for another kiss, lips brushing against yours as he spoke. "What can I say? Maybe you're worth frying for."

His lips were warm, ever so slightly chapped, and it wasn't long before they were parting to meet your sly tongue with his own. You tangled your fingers in his shower-damp hair as he pressed you up against the door, molding his body perfectly to yours. His hands slid down the length of your arms, down to cup each of your hips and hold you right up against him, leaving nowhere for you to go between his broad body and the door.

"Did you-mmh…" He struggled to keep his train of thought on track in between wet, lazy kisses. "Did you still wanna…?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" You responded, pulling away both to let Vash continue to ramble and to pepper teasing kisses down the slope of his neck.

"I dunno, I just, hah… Wanted you to know you could change your mind if you want. I wouldn't-ohh…w-wouldn't mind."

You knew Vash could feel you smiling against his neck right before you trailed your teeth down the tight, corded muscle. "You ask me if I wanna finger-fuck you and you honestly think I'm gonna say no?"

He let out a quiet little eep! at your choice of words, tipping his head up and away so you couldn't see his wobbly, flustered expression. "I mean, you don't gotta say it just like that!" Lucky for you, trying to hide his face like that only served to give you more room to kiss and nibble on his sun-warmed skin. "Just letting you know you have the option, is all."

"Vash." You cooed against his neck, and you could swear you felt his length stiffen against you through his old, worn-out pajama pants when you did. "I just wanna make you feel good, that's all. If you're not sure we don't have to do anything, but I promise I'd tell you if I wasn't comfortable."

"Yeah?" He hummed. Finally he tipped his head back down to meet your gaze, and you could see it in his eyes. As far as he was willing to go to make sure you felt okay and comfortable, Vash really wanted this. He wanted it bad.

"Yes. Let me fuck you, baby boy. I'll make you feel so good."

He whimpered, and you knew you'd gotten him hooked. It was a clumsy backwards stumble to reach the bed, neither of you willing to part from the other for more than a breath. When the backs of Vash's knees hit the mattress edge he tumbled back, taking you with him in a clumsy heap and a painfully loud squeaking of old bedsprings that you probably should have been a bit more worried about than you actually were in the moment. You tugged at the bottom of his nightshirt as you straddled his hips, shoving it upwards to reveal more of his broad, scarred chest.

"Take it off." You mumbled, dipping your head to kiss around the edge of one of the deep pink wounds before he could reply. As he struggled to get the fabric around and over the shoulder joint of his prosthetic you lathed your tongue over the hypersensitive skin, smiling to yourself when you felt him shiver down to the tips of his toes.

"Th-That's cheating, you know? Getting me while I'm distracted?" He huffed. You just blew softly over the place you'd just licked and made him shiver a second time. "Maybe you're the real dangerous one around here, Mayfly."

Down the broad slope of his chest you continued to kiss, over faded slash marks and old bullet holes, lavishing each inch of him with the love and attention you knew he deserved, no matter how often he tried to rebuff it. You felt one of his hands cup the back of your head, fingers warm and rough in your hair so you immediately knew which one. At the waistband of his pants you peered up again through your eyelashes, over his heaving chest to his face where he had his lower lip worried between his teeth.

"Having fun?" You cooed. He bit out a short laugh and cracked a wobbly grin in response.

"Could be having more." He responded.

"Are you gonna keep being cheeky or are you gonna help me get your pants off first?"

"Little bit of both. Gotta keep things entertaining, after all.~" You both laughed as he lifted up his hips, letting you wrestle his sleep pants and underwear off in one fell swoop to be tossed somewhere on the floor to find later. This was an unfamiliar position for the two of you to be in, Vash naked with you still basically fully-clothed. He was always a giver, never wanting to take the pleasure you offered without offering it tenfold in return. But tonight you were the one in control, not Vash. So you cozied yourself right up between his legs and ran the pad of your thumb up his length, slow and steady, from the base all the way to the tip. His hips jumped in response, a short, stuttered thrust chasing the fleeting touch of your fingers even as you trailed them away and Vash let out a punched-out whine.

"You've still got lube, right?" You asked. It took a second for Vash to process, eyes lidded and expression trained on your hands, but once it sunk in he snapped back up to attention.

"Yeah! Little pocket of my bag, lemme just…" He rolled over onto his stomach to reach over the edge of the bed for his bag. As he strained outwards for the handle, unwilling to actually stand up and walk over to it, he presented you with an accidental view of his pert, toned backside. You slid both hands up the backs of his thighs to his ass and squeezed, digging your fingers into his firm cheeks. The scandalized little yelp you got in response made it absolutely worth it.

"Taking advantage of me when my guard is down, even! Who's the real dangerous outlaw around here?"

"Big talk from the guy who's about to get railed." You purred, stretching over Vash's body to pluck the mostly-full bottle of lube from his grasp. You spread him open with one thumb, the other popping the cap on the bottle with an audible click that sent a shiver down Vash's spine. "This is gonna be cold, m'kay?"

"'m ready. Hit me with your best shot!" His voice was partially muffled by the pillow, but there was a waver of unabashed desire behind the playful taunt. You tipped the bottle over and squeezed, letting a generous amount of lube dribble down Vash's ass and pool at his hole.

"Cold!" He yelped. You simply shushed him, rubbing your thumb back and forth over his slick, pink entrance.

"Shhh, don't worry baby. It's gonna feel real good, I promise."

You spent far too long simply teasing at the edges of pleasure, thumbs spreading Vash open and drawing slick trails of lube as you slowly worked him up. You massaged your fingertip over his entrance, rocking slowly back and forth and letting his body open up to you. Every time you got a stifled little sound of pleasure out of Vash you made sure to reward it with a praise of your own; knowing him he'd probably think his little sounds were annoying but you just couldn't get enough of them.

"You can-" He gasped, back arching and pressing towards you with the next swipe of your thumb over his twitching hole. "-Can try putting one in now. Please?"

"Of course, baby. Stay just like that for me, okay?"

You were almost surprised how quickly Vash's body yielded to you, your index finger sinking up to the second knuckle in his wet, pliant heat. You pulled back slow before pressing forward again, a gentle rhythmic rock that already had Vash keening. His cock was pushed down between his legs and pressed against the mattress, and on the next slow thrust you rubbed your wet thumb across the underside of his head. The response was instant, a muffled wail, a gush of pre-cum drizzling across the bedsheets, it damn near gave you a headrush yourself with how much it aroused you.

"Vash." You groaned, thrusting your finger forward and watching his entire body jolt again. "Fuck, you look so good. You should see yourself right now, baby. So fuckin' eager for me. You think you can do two?"

He nodded frantically, voice muffled by the pillow and garbled with pleasure but you were still able to make out something that sounded mostly like "Yes!" So you carefully pulled out, pressing your index and middle finger in this time, slow and steady. It was tighter this time, obviously, but Vash's walls gave away as you gently worked him open, his pink hole stretching around your fingers as you scissored them. You tried to crook your fingers down, towards his stomach. There was supposed to be a spot there, small, kind of spongy, if you could just get your fingers to curl the right way then…

"AAAH!?~"

Vash seemed as surprised by the noise he made as you were to hear it, clapping both hands over his mouth and wincing as his metal fingers clanged sharply against his teeth. The two of you fell perfectly still as your ears strained to hear if any of your room neighbors had awoken. From the opposite wall you could just barely make out Roberto's thunderous snoring, blissfully asleep and oblivious to you and Vash's night time activities.

"Holy shit, Vash."

"Sorry!" He hissed, the back of his neck and ears burning bright red. "I didn't know it was gonna feel like that!"

"No, no, it's okay! It was just… Fuck, that was really hot. You still good?"

He nodded, face still hidden mostly by the pillow. You crooked your fingers again to hit that same soft spot, and though the sound was much more muffled this time the effect it had on him was still obvious. He shuddered, a deep, desperate groan muffled into his pillow case as you thrust forward again, and again, grazing that soft spot half the time but hitting it dead on every other. Now that you'd found that spot, you didn't want to give it up so easily, especially with the noises it kept drilling out of Vash. The wet shlick of your fingers pounding his asshole joined the sound of each of your huffed breaths and his pleasured whimpers.

"You're so good for me, baby." You murmured, feeling woozy and delirious with power over how easily you were able to make the world's greatest gunman fall to his knees before you. Pleasure coiled low in your gut, hot and wanting, but you were more than willing to wait for it just for the chance to watch Vash fall apart. "So pretty, taking my fingers so well. I'd do this for you every night if you wanted it Vash, you sound so fucking wrecked."

You couldn't really hear him all that much anymore, but you could see the way his shoulders were shivering with each ragged breath and pulse of white-hot pleasure. You crooked both fingers hard, finding his prostate and pressing down, not letting up. His entire body quivered like he'd grabbed a live wire, and somewhere through the din of your own desire and his muffled noises you heard something concerning. A single soft, wet sniffle.

Immediately you pulled back, easing up on the pressure and watching his entire shivering body drop back into the mattress like he'd gone limp. His glasses had been pushed up into his bangs, his face fully hidden by the pillow. But without the continuous slick sound of your fingers you were able to hear another near-silent sniff.

"Vash, baby?" You carefully pulled your fingers out, resting your clean hand on the small of his back. "Are you okay?"

He nodded frantically in response, but otherwise stayed perfectly silent.

"Can you roll over for me?"

He jolted, falling perfectly still. You rubbed a slow, careful circle into his lower back with your palm.

"Please? I wanna see your face, Vash. For me?"

After a long, silent moment, Vash finally shifted, pulling his face away from where he'd hidden in the pillow and turning around to face you. He looked thoroughly fucked, face red with an indent of a fabric crease in his cheek where he'd pressed the pillow too close for too long. But he was also sniffling, snotty and wet as fresh, hot tears rolled over his cheeks. It made your heart clench, twisting painfully behind your ribcage as you reached up to cradle his face.

"Oh, baby. Baby. Hold on." You shifted up his body, straddling his waist so you could cradle his head to your chest. He let out an embarrassed little hum, but made no move to push you away. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"...It's embarrassing." He mumbled. "Didn't want you to see me all wrecked like this, it's seriously uncool."

"But I didn't hurt you?"

"Whuh-? No!" He jerked back, finally meeting your gaze with wide, red-rimmed eyes. He grabbed your wrists with each hand and held you close to him. "No, never you, Mayfly."

"So you're crying cause it feels good?"

He shifted anxiously at the question, gaze flitting around the dark room. "I, uh, I mean- Yeah? I kinda thought that was obvious, and you keep saying all that stuff that's like- like wow. Wow."

You didn't hurt him, not in the slightest. You'd brought him so much pleasure with your touch and your words that you were able to bring him to tears? That… That was…

"Vash, that's so fucking sexy."

"Bwuh?"

You shoved against his chest, pushing him back into the mattress as you shifted back down his hips. The low, pooling desire that had been purring in the pit of your belly erupted into a bonfire of pleasure as you situated yourself again, crooking two fingers into Vash's open hole while your other hand fisted his cock. He keened, hips jumping up into your grasp as his hands flew to cover his mouth.

"I wanna hear you. I wanna see you." You groaned, straddling one of Vash's legs so you could roll your hips down against his knee. It sent little white sparks of pleasure dancing up your spine and behind your eyelids, but they were nothing compared to the picture painted before you. "Lemme make you cry, baby boy. Let me see it."

"Oh, oh, oh fuck." He gasped, ragged and wet. Another wave of big, shimmery tears rolled over his cheeks, and he accidentally knocked his glasses all the way up and over the top of his head while trying to scrub them away. They clattered somewhere down in between the bedframe and the wall and you knew you'd have to get down on your hands and knees and feel around for them for him later but right now you just didn't care.

Now you had Vash, Vash the Stampede, the Humanoid Typhoon, whimpering and begging at your mercy.

Both his face and his cock were shimmery-wet and flushed red, punctured gasps and dribbles of pre-cum escaping with each harsh thrust of your fingers. You could feel his thigh strain and twitch desperately beneath your crotch, each jolt and shiver making your own pleasure burn all the hotter. Finally you could hear him, each ragged gasp, each wet sniffle and whine, each punched out, desperate wheeze of your name interspersed with little 'fuck!'s and 'please!'s and 'I love you!'s.

"Fff-uhhh, fuck please. Oh, oh, please if you don't let me cum I'm gonna break, please Mayfly!"

"Yes, yes Vash. Do it. Cum for me. That's my good boy!"

Twice, thrice more you thrust your fingers up hard against his prostate before his back arched off the bed and a shivering desperate groan escaped his lips as Vash unloaded himself all across his scar-marked chest. You slowed your hand but kept your fingers pressing, massaging, pulse after pulse of thick cum splattering up and across his chest as you wrung him dry. His hole twitched pathetically around your fingers as you worked, and you heard the sharp, metal creak of his lost-technology hand permanently denting a grip mark into the metal bed frame as he sobbed.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Finally, when you'd wrung him dry and he had absolutely nothing left to give, you released his cock from your grip and let it fall to his tummy with a wet smack. Carefully you removed your fingers, trailing a final thumb over his red, stretched hole before turning your attention back to Vash's face. It was impossible to tell where tears ended and sweat began, his eyelashes clumped and shimmering and his bangs plastered to his damp forehead. He moaned softly as you scooted towards him, giving him another soft, fluttering kiss on the lips.

"You're gonna… You're gonna get a lot more than you bargained for if you kiss me now, Mayfly." He teased. "But that's your problem, snot mine."

"You're so gross." You hummed, all the love and affection you could fit into three words swimming in your tone. You snuggled yourself up next to him, cradling your head in his arms. "I'll get a washcloth in a minute, okay? Get you all cleaned up."

"Mmh, okay." He let his head thunk into the valley of your chest, eyes fluttering shut. "Gimme… gimme fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Then it's your turn."

"You are way too fucked out to do anything for me, Vash. Just rest, I'll be fine, I know you'll make it up to me."

He whined, kicking one foot like a petulant child. "Aww, c'mon! It doesn't have to be much. What about my fingers?"

You could feel him smile slyly against your chest as he continued.

"...My mouth?"

A pulse of heat made itself known once more between your legs, and you hummed softly.

"Let's see if you can stay awake that long, wonderboy."

"What happened to 'baby boy'?"

"I'll call you baby boy when you're being good. Do you wanna be good for me?"

Despite how wrung out he was you could feel Vash shiver against you and oh, oh, the two of you would certainly be exploring that dynamic more in the future, so long as you had anything to say about it.

"Mhmm…" He hummed, barely awake.

"Alright. Then let's get you cleaned up, baby boy."

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Sorry to beat the gaylor dead horse but like most of these theories really read like those fucking illuminati confirmed posts that you used to see on here. Like you could apply these arguments to anything- it took me like two seconds to come up with a convincing (by gaylor standards) argument that Lana del rey is secretly gay and I dont even know shit about lana del rey

On a more serious note this level of conspiracy thinking does not seem healthy. I get that theorizing and analyzing thinngs can be fun but there's way healthier outlets for that- you can get into anything from like video game lore communities to high level math, the possibilities are endless

re: your second point like I hate being a killjoy but the entire reason I am so vocally against Gaylor specifically has nothing to do with Taylor Swift and everything to do with my opposition to the normalization of conspiracy thought as fun quirky little hobby for young gay people. obsessing over lore and theories and trying to make connections between seemingly disparate pieces of information is all fun and good - like you said, a lot of outlets for that in all kinds of different fandoms! - but applying that to real people to the extent that you think it's significant that two famous women have used the same emojis in instagram posts made YEARS apart is like. it's very easy to make fun of that kind of behavior and be dismissive of it but making a habit of that kind of paranoia is an extremely slippery slope and does really prime people to get taken in by much more insidious conspiracy theories - and the affiliated bigotries, such as the anti-semitism I've pointed out before.

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   you could use me

summary. you're afraid that two weeks in a box is all that it takes to undo all of the progress you've made. series. a night of dark trees. bonus scene ! pairing. gojo satoru x gn!reader. warnings. none. word count. 1930.

Gojo’s different.

Ever since he emerged from the Prison Realm, he has been taciturn, morose, subdued. It’s disconcerting. He’s one of the liveliest people you know. It’s one of the things you love about him.

You’re still not sure how he says those little words so easily. Gojo Satoru’s world was torn asunder years ago, and he’d been dealt the same debilitating, staggering blow that still causes you to panic every time you hear the three syllables ‘I love you.’ Yet, somehow, some way, Gojo finds it in himself to voice that simple declaration to you. And he means it every time, with every fiber of his being.

It’s harder for you to speak it, your vocal cords uncooperative to an almost petulant degree, your subconscious locking the action away even in spite of your visceral protestations. You’re still searching on your hands and knees in the murky depths for the key. Only alcohol makes the search a little easier. But in your heart of hearts, you know it—it is a certainty that you love Gojo Satoru. A fact, as immutable as gravity (unless you were Kenjaku. Then you’d have to come up with another simile).

To that end, his absence hurt you. The moment you allowed yourself to fall for someone else, to finally move on from that one great loss, he was torn away from you. But it’s not his fault.

It must've been infinitely worse to be Gojo himself, stuck in what was essentially a cursed deprivation chamber for any duration of time from eternity to an instant. Not sure if eons had passed or but a second. Not knowing if the world burned his absence and those who remained rued his name, or if it had survived and everyone moved on without him. If anyone even bothered looking for a way to free him. You tried to put yourself in his place, imagining if he had gone and found a third love while you were trapped. You would’ve been happy for him, but you couldn’t deny that the simple idea of it broke your heart.

After he emerged, you stood by his side, your hand in his as he was informed of everything that had happened—everyone that had died—during his imprisonment. With every word, his shoulders sloped more and more, crushed by the weight of the world in each consonant and each vowel.

He won’t talk about it with you. When you kissed his temple and stroked his hair, uncaring of your audience in Shoko and Ino, he’d sighed and leaned a little closer. But he was silent as stone.

You wish you knew what to say to him. The way he and Geto bantered was so instinctual, an easy back-and-forth like a tennis match. You can hold your own with him, no doubt. But you’ve also got a history of deepthroating your foot where he’s concerned, so you can understand why Gojo’s a little hesitant to confide in you. He’s never had to before, why should he start now?

Oh, maybe because you love each other and that’s what supportive partners do—lean on each other? If only he’d stick around long enough for you to just tell him that.

Naturally, he refuses to make anything easy for you. Satoru’s hardly alone these days. You can’t even fault him for spending every waking moment training. If he’s going up against the King of Curses, he’ll need every advantage he can get, no matter how confident he is. You support him where you can in that regard, but you have no choice but to ambush him in between sparring with Okkotsu and sparring with Maki to actually get a word in.

“Hey, dumbass,” you call as you approach. Where it might’ve elicited an equally dry ‘What’s up, shitlips?’ once upon a time, it now earns a tired smile. Not the ideal reaction.

“I didn’t do anything,” protests Satoru, allowing you to soften the insult with a quick kiss. He’s sitting on a bench with his legs wide enough for you to step in the space between, and he wraps his arms loosely around your waist. “Why’re you being such a meanie?”

“Why are you overcompensating?” The verbal suckerpunch gets him in the solar plexus, causing Gojo to stare up at you wide-eyed with his mouth falling open defensively. You press a finger to his lips. Satoru goes a little cross-eyed trying to focus on it, and so you flick him on the nose to retrieve his attention. “I get it, if it’s for the kids. You’re their teacher. You’re everything they want to be when they grow up, they see you as a protector, blah, blah. But you don’t have to be strong with me. I know you. I know you. You don’t have to pretend, okay?”

“Don’t I?”

That stings, probably more than he meant it to. You don’t imagine Satoru ever intends to be cruel, because even at his worst, his sadism is meant for curses. But you’d thought he considered you an equal. Or as close as one could be without being a special grade, at least. It was foolish of you to think that the wall between you had crumbled any, at least as far as your skill level was concerned. It’s been years since anyone ever talked about how you could’ve become the fourth special grade if you ever managed to get a tighter rein on your technique. Okkotsu’s taken your place since then.

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you move closer to tuck his head into your sternum. “No, you don’t. We’re partners, aren’t we?” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. Something warm stirs in your chest as his eyes flutter shut and he hums a quiet, pleased purr. You’re a haven to him. “You love me and I—I love you. That means you don’t have to do this alone.”

He says nothing at first, simply nuzzling closer. There’s no sound but your shared breath, steady and even. His arms tighten around you. It’s a little uncomfortable having to crane your neck down to kiss the top of Satoru’s head, but the little sigh he gives is worth it. It’s the little things with Gojo. With such a bombastic person, large and grandiose efforts are commonplace, attention-grabbing gestures all Satoru knows. The strongest must be larger than life. So you end up treasuring the opposite—the way his long, spindly fingers fit in the slits between yours, the way his long lashes tickle your cheek when you kiss, how he loves to rest his elbow on your shoulder when you stand next to each other, the perfect roost. These tiny bits combine to make everything feel grounded, real.

After a moment, he pulls away, and light starts to creep back into his eyes. They look more like the sky again, rather than an iceberg field in the Arctic Circle. Good. “Does that mean I can tap you in during the fight?” Satoru asks cheekily.

You toss your head and give an exaggerated tsk. “I haven’t decayed from my Grade One rank, I’ll have you know! I may not be a spring chicken, but I can still pack a punch!” For emphasis, you smash your fist into your other palm.

“Not a spring chicken?” Satoru repeats incredulously. “We’re the same age! What does that make me?!”

You tug lightly on a few strands of his snowy hair. “A geriatric old man, duh.”

He raises a brow. “Oh yeah? Could an old man do this?”

Satoru’s up on his feet in an instant, one hand sliding up your back and the other wrapping just below your shoulders as he dips you in a kiss. He savors it, plying gently past your lips with his tongue. Satoru moans as you slip your fingers through his locks, a sound that makes your lips and extremities tingle. He steals the breath from your lungs, and you don’t hate it.

“Well.” Your voice is but a rasp when he finally pulls away. The man radiates smugness. Somehow, you find it endearing. “I’m sure Harrison Ford could.”

Satoru’s face breaks open with a full, hearty, genuine laugh. Pulling you upright to use as an anchor, he buries his face into your neck. His entire body vibrates in tandem with his giggles, the warmth of his breath a pleasant sensation on your skin compared to the wintry frost around you. Satoru blinks as you use your index finger to tip his face upwards. “What is it?” he asks, a little breathless.

“I love your smile,” you tell him honestly. “I love you.”

His cheeks grow pink. You doubt it’s because of the cold, your heart fluttering at the thought. You’ve managed to make Gojo shy. In lieu of a verbal response, he gently rests his forehead against yours. You’re aware you’re probably obstructing the walkway, and that if any of the students happened upon you, they would violently gag, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Satoru is here, in the flesh. You thought you’d lost him when he got sealed away, and then again when he emerged sweeping the broken pieces of himself under the rug. That even if you could hold him, it wouldn’t be the Satoru you loved, nor the Satoru who loved you. Who saw something broken in you that was worth cherishing, worth putting back together piece by painstaking piece. Who never faulted you for giving up but encouraged you to try again, whose heartbreak echoed yours and stood as proof that there was a brighter tomorrow. The Satoru who taught you it was okay to be okay again. You’re sick and tired of lost chances, of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Maybe that’s why the words finally, finally slip so easily from your mouth—so you wouldn’t ever miss the opportunity to tell him again.

Gojo rubs his cheek gently against yours, sharing his heat. He’s always run a little warm. “I promise that I’ll share my burdens with you from now on. Even if I can’t promise you won’t hate me by the end of it.” A solemn vow, the seriousness of his tone unfamiliar to you. But not unpleasant.

“I already knew loving you was going to be rotten work,” you tease. “That’s never bothered me. What you can promise me is that you’ll come back to me. Otherwise, I’ll bring you back as a curse when you die. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Satoru chuckles. “Will you at least make sure I look prettier than Rika?”

“She heard that.” You have no idea how long Okkotsu’s been standing there—what he heard or saw, whether he’s going to blab to any of the other kids. There’s a small bemused grin on his face, but it’s eclipsed by the overall chagrin of his furrowed brows. He’s embarrassed for you. PDA at your old age? His generation probably thinks you look like two skeletons mashing their teeth together.

Breaking out of your frozen shock, you and Satoru share a glance. Then, after a moment, you break the silence with simultaneous cackling. It’s hard to tell whether it’s the situation or the looks on your faces that sparks such an interminable fit. You fall against each other in your laughter, using one another as a column. He’s sturdy and solid and he’s there for you. And that’s what you’ll be for Satoru too. Steady and strong and unmovable. Unbreakable. Everything he’s been for the world, you’ll be for him.

Whatever it takes.

[rotworld]

18: Heart of Steel

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you are a relic of a bygone era, a being created to interface with both man and machines when a tenuous peace still existed between the two. after millennia of stasis, you awaken to a horrific future of endless war. the ones who found you are convinced that you're a living avatar of their machine god and their worship is relentless, invasive curiosity.

->warhammer 40k. original skitarii characters/reader. explicit; contains non-con, gangbang, depression, mentions of self-harm via personal neglect/refusing to eat, surreal robot sex, power imbalance.

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Explorator Fleet Spira Mirabilis is unshakably certain that they found God on a failed world smoldering in the glare of twin suns. Whatever lived there once was driven underground by a catastrophic atmospheric generator failure, solar radiation and blistering heat scouring a surface pockmarked by ancient wars. Nothing but rust and ruin remained above ground but the Hephaesian detected persistent electrical currents and the steady thrum of advanced processors—the heartbeat of ancient machinery somewhere beneath the blowing dust.

What they found was a subterranean city-complex dating back to the Dark Age of Technology, magnificent and treacherous with its scan-scramblers and buzzing swarms of malicious code injector-nanites, defenses that confirmed the pricelessness of this discovery. What they found was a single operational stasis pod of unknown make or model, a relic in its own right with a sloping white frame of synthesized organo-mechnical compounds operating in perfect, self-repairing harmony. What they found was God in the machine, a symbiosis of human-born and human-forged perfection. An avatar of the Omnissiah, divine and dreaming.

What they found was you, and you have suffered ever since. 

“Query: Are you well?” 

Your ears hear a heavy clanking-clicking metallic gait and garbled mechanical vocalizations like the grind of printer components. Could be anyone. But your neural nodes identify Laurintius and deny a probing attempt at wireless connection. It doesn’t matter that speechless, direct communication would be more expedient. You don’t want him in your head because he always starts poking and prodding, and then there’s no hiding from the constant stream of unsettling worship. “Most holy host-vessel god machine anointed one syncretic masterpiece-being,” on and on and on. You curl up on your side in bed and roll over to stare at the candles slowly melting into white, waxy puddles in their alcove. If you look the other way, there are steel pews. A polished floor. A red carpet rolled down the aisle.

Where there was once an altar, there is now a bed. Enormous and rounded rather than rectangular, the metal frame sits directly on the ground with purely decorative protrusions jutting from the exterior. The mattress is stiff and the sheets are all the same stark white, the entire thing meant to mirror the eerie skull inside a cog crest mounted on the wall. 

Where there was once an altar, there is now you. They come in droves seeking guidance you don’t have and wisdom you can’t fathom.

“I’m not god,” you’ve said more times than you can count. “Please listen to me. Please. I’m not.” 

“A riddle,” they say, and begin debating mathematical logic. “Determine: set of all deities that excludes Omnissiah? An empty set.”

Laurintius clatters closer. “Requesting access to your nodal pathways.” 

“Denied,” you mutter. 

He tries anyway. You roll over and glare at him when he runs up against your firewall. If he has a face under his hood and behind a mass of respirator apparatuses, glowing ocular sensors and coolant tubes, you suspect it doesn’t look apologetic. His faith requires the asking of questions and his personal proclivities permit the pushing of boundaries. God is a mystery to unravel and it’s his moral imperative to investigate. “Objective: medical scan,” he says innocently. His mechadendrites squirm in the air like metal serpents, each tipped with some grasping limb or vicious equipment meant for dismantling.

“You don’t need access to my nodes to run a medical scan,” you say.

“Improved efficiency, data yield.”

You run the scan yourself and send the results. Laurintius’ oculars, a spider-like arrangement of six cyan lights set in the metal mask of his face, flicker briefly as he checks the data. “Sleep deprivation. Stress hormones. Malnutrition,” he reads, the vox projector hooked directly into his throat crackling with outrage. “Hypothesis: faulty hibernation protocols impacted self-preservation instinct. Body systems interconnected. Disregard for flesh-components negatively impacts neural node function. Level of concern increasing.” He pauses when you roll over again, ignoring him. He says, only very slightly softer, “You are harming yourself.” 

You don’t move and you don’t speak. Laurintius stands there for a long time in silence. You can hear his internal cooling systems whirring loudly as his processors heat up in frantic contemplation. The slow, slithering approach of a mechadendrite makes no sound but your nodes detect movement behind you. The warning is the only reason you have time to react. Laurintius’ reflexes are faster. By the time you’ve turned around and scrambled upright, he’s already at the edge of the bed, metal tendril raised like a stinger and curled all the way around you, a direct interfacing knob poised at the nape of your neck. The port there, a silver aperture meant for maintenance set into your skin, just barely slams shut before he tries to force entry. You feel metal strike metal, a hiss of sparks. The knob bounces off your port’s shutter and scrapes uselessly across your skin.

Laurintius’ oculars dim and he steps back quickly. You don’t like to encourage his assertions of godhood, but you can’t help a petty jab. “That seemed like sacrilege,” you say. His mechadendrites flinch, retreating behind him like scolded dogs.

“Statement false,” he insists. “Intention: render aid.” 

“Please leave me alone.” 

Laurintius stares at you for an unsettlingly long moment in silence, and then he bows stiffly. You watch him walk back down the aisle, vanishing into the cavernous halls beyond the chapel. Too easy, you think. He never leaves without more of a fight. Just as he vanishes from range, a cluster of new familiar signatures register. 

A truly incomprehensible number of crew populate the Hephaesian, a ship so gargantuan it generates its own gravitational forces, but only a handful are permitted to interact with you directly. Most are exalted tech-priests but there are exceptions, and those very exceptions approach the chapel now. Their footsteps are lighter than Laurintius but louder when they move in perfect lockstep. There are ten of them. They file into the chapel single-file and fan out in two rows of five once they stand before you. Each kneels in unison. Each bows their head. Quiet prayers and shrill conversions of hymnal data into crunching, staticy audio fill the air. 

These are the skitarii—soldiers devoted to the Adeptus Mechanicus until death, red cloaks draped over patchwork bodies of flesh and steel. This was the team dispatched into the buried city where you slept for millennia. They were the ones who stumbled upon your stasis pod and, on Laurintius’ orders, activated the waking cycle. Their faces were the first ones you saw and their voices were the first ones you heard. It confounds the tech-priests of the Spira Mirabilis that it isn’t the most devout and enlightened of their order that you willingly invite into your presence but rather their lowly servants. Some have taken it as a test of faith while a less frustrating subset have begun to ruminate on what your behavior might mean. 

Laurintius is far more astute and pragmatic than the rest. He understands it’s a matter of simple preference: you like the skitarii. He’s more than willing to use that to his advantage. 

The first to lift his head is Unit AM/TZ-3B-Rubedo, Vanguard and squad leader. The sight of him without his helmet—the sight of flesh, however little—still startles you. He has a sickly, pallid complexion, green eyes framed by brown curls. His veins are prominent and discolored from combat stimulant use, blackish-indigo straining under the skin. His lower jaw and neck are a black synthetic material, segmented and flexible. It stifles his smile, limits it to his remaining upper lip, but you’re no less charmed than the first time you saw it.

“It is the greatest honor to stand before you,” Rubedo says, his voice only slightly modulated.

“It’s good to see you again, too,” you tell him.

The skitarii worship you, but they’re less stubborn than the tech-priests. They listen when you ask them to address you without honorifics and staggering, minute-long warbling binharic titles. They acquiesce when you beg them not to prostrate themselves on the floor whenever you make a request. You try not to think too much about the fact that this is by design. They were made this way, raised in the cult of the Mechanicus and forged for absolute obedience to their superiors. They are willing to humor you, at least. To pretend you’re not too sacred to touch. When you gesture for them to approach, they crowd around you like children gathered to hear a bedtime story. “Are you bored today? Can we bring you anything?” Rubedo asks, eyeing the stack of thick, yellowed tomes piled beside the bed. Historical texts, mostly. Ancient relics Laurintius provided to keep your mind off your misery. You haven’t opened even one of them yet.

“Not bored,” you admit. “Just sad.” 

The skitarii puzzle over your words. “Sad. Sad? Chemical response to distress. No danger detected.” 

“Like…” You try to come up with something comparable. They’ve all had emotional dampeners installed. “Like when you’re in battle, and your leg is injured. Something hits you hard enough to knock you down and a wire snaps, or your hydraulics are damaged.” 

“That triggers retaliation protocols,” Rubedo says.

“After that,” you insist. “After the battle’s over and you get back to the ship, and you realize you need repairs. It might be a while before you’ll see combat again.” They let out a collective trill of solemn understanding. 

“You were damaged?” a ranger asks, clutching the bed frame so hard that his metal fingers leave a dent. “What is responsible? We will hunt it.” 

You shake your head. “No damage. There are other things that can make someone sad.” 

Rubedo seats himself on the edge of the bed, offering his hand. His sleeve slides back to his elbow, revealing a sturdy limb of rigid armor plating atop digits with inhuman flexibility and articulation. It’s not flesh—it’s not even warm—but it’s a familiar shape. A palm to slot yours against, fingers to lace with yours. Slowly, he guides you into his lap. It doesn’t matter that it’s awkward to straddle his stiff codpiece and firm, metal thighs through the thick material of his fatigues. He holds you and no one else will. You rest your head against the skull crest emblazoned on his breastplate and listen to the chugging rhythm of life support systems and synthetic organs while his hand smooths over your head in soft, soothing motions. The other skitarii press in as close as they can, masks and respirators nuzzling against your legs.

“The Archmagos forwarded a concerning report,” he says gently. You take a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “I understand his methods may have caused additional distress, but he is trying to help.” 

You frown against his chest. “I don’t want his help.”

“If you tell him what is making you sad—”

“It’s everything, Rubedo,” you insist. “Everything makes me sad. I hate being stuck on this ship. I hate being treated like a specimen, or a reliquary. I hate the whole galaxy and what’s happened to it. Why are you always fighting something? Why is there war everywhere, all the time?”

“TACHYCARDIA DETECTED.” Your jaw is grasped, firmly but carefully, by knife-like fingers. Unit K-LW-105-Argyros crouches on your other side, his knee threatening to rip a hole in the mattress. He’s a Ruststalker, more machine than the rest of them, head enclosed in a gas mask and legs replaced with powerful digitigrade structures that make him loom over you. 

“Gently,” Rubedo reminds him. “Flesh bruises.” 

Argyros makes an unpleasant sound like a bad vox connection. “UNIT REQUESTING COMMAND.”

You smile sadly. Argyros strokes your cheek with the utmost caution, a careful caress with the dull back edge of his curved dagger-fingers. “I don’t have any commands for you, Argyros. I’m just having a bad day. I appreciate that you’re here.”

“Would you like it if we brought you meals instead of Laurintius?” Rubedo suggests. “Perhaps we could stay with you while you eat. Keep you company.”

“Aren’t you too busy for that?” 

He gives you that ghost of a half-smile, a sweet expression that makes your heart beat faster. “We have been retasked.”

“To me?” you ask, incredulous. “Isn’t that boring?” 

The skitarii make a simultaneous sound, incessant beeps and grating noises. Disagreement, you’re guessing. “No. Not boring. Never boring,” they all chatter at once, eager to have your attention. “Combat prowess will remain unaffected with regular sparring. New training regimen focused on defensive formations.” They’re probably getting rewired, you realize, converted into bodyguards who get a rush of reward chemicals for maintaining your safety. Selfishly, you don’t mind. You’d rather they remain here than die forgotten on some distant battlefield.

“I think I’d like that,” you say. 

They’re quiet suddenly. You look up and find Rubedo and Argyros staring at one another, probably having a conversation on a communication channel you aren’t privy to. Rubedo strokes the back of your head. Argyros’ head bows slightly in what looks like reluctance. 

“REQUESTING NODE ACCESS,” he says. 

You huff out a bitter laugh. “Is that why you’re here? Laurintius couldn’t get in so he asked you to try?” 

“REQUEST…DENIED?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Argyros. I really don’t want—”

You hear a muted click of metal prongs sliding firmly into metal slots, a catch mechanism securing. You look up at Rubedo with wide, betrayed eyes. You see just a twinge of guilt before it vanishes; quarantined wherever he banishes emotions he has no time to process, replaced by steady certainty. His hand slipped down to the nape of your neck when you weren’t paying attention, pushing something into your port. “Rubedo?” you say hoarsely. He’s given someone remote access. You feel your firewalls fizzling out. 

“Stating apology.” Laurintius' voice speaks directly into your head. “Deception necessary. Circumstances dire. It is not sacrilege if it deepens understanding.”

You bite back a sob. It’s not fair. You know he’s used the skitarii to nudge you whichever way he wants, watching through their eyes and listening through their ears, but he’s never been so direct before. You’re furious and you can’t do anything about it. You twist your fingers in the fabric of Rubedo’s cloak and he murmurs an apology, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Get out!” you cry. “I don’t want you there! I don’t trust you!” You’ve barely raised your hands to reach for the back of your neck when Argyros lunges, trapping both of your arms behind your back in an unshakable iron grip. “Rubedo, please, help me!” 

Rubedo cups your cheek with his hand. “I am helping you,” he says. “The Archmagos can heal you. Do not struggle.” 

You struggle as hard as you can. There’s no breaking out of Argyros’ grip but you can make Laurintius’ search more difficult, partitioning off parts of your mind from his probing searches and overclocking your nodes. It’s a dangerous, foolish thing to do—you feel feverish, your head aching and a trickle of blood dribbling from your nose. Argyros pleads with you to stop in a deafeningly shrill voice like an emergency alarm. Rubedo risks frying his nervous system when he makes a tentative connection, his presence cool and soothing in the back of your mind.

In a panic, Laurintius fumbles something. Trips the wrong nerve cluster, maybe. You have no idea what goes wrong but a bolt of searing, mind-numbing pleasure shoots down your spine and you’re driven directly into climax between the skitarii. 

Complete stillness and silence follow. You hide your face in Rubedo’s chest. You can just barely feel Laurintius plucking through your head slower and softer, checking for brain damage. Argyros is completely silent, like he just shut down in sheer terror. “Stating additional apology,” Laurintius says, sounding bewildered. “You are uninjured?” You’re still catching your breath. You nod weakly. You don’t want to think about the noise you made a second ago, or how you arched your back and bucked wildly against Rubedo’s codpiece. You feel overheated and tingly. “You are relaxed,” Laurintius says. His curious tone makes you sit up straighter in alarm. “That relaxed you immensely. Noting a sharp increase in serotonin and oxytocin.”

“No,” you say quickly. You try to move but Argyros is holding you even more tightly. Rubedo looks at you like he’s just glimpsed a miracle. “No, no, no, we’re not doing this. You can’t just—” 

“Hypothesis,” Laurintius says, sounding far too excited. “Copulation will improve mood, cooperativeness. Uploading test program now.” There’s one last moment of calm before the storm, oculars glittering limbs twitching as the skitarii download new instructions and battle plans. Then they’re on you.

The skitarii move with the same perfect coordination they use in battle, positioning themselves around you in a strategic formation. You’re caressed by dozens of hands all at once, over and under your clothes. The ones with sharp, weaponized digits use only their blunt palms while the ones with softer silicone hand sheaths have the privilege of accessing your more vulnerable flesh. Argyros frees up his hands by tying your arms with a grappling cable and undresses you swiftly with several extremely precise swipes of his claws. Your torn clothes are carefully folded and set aside like precious treasures, never permitted to touch the ground.

One of the rangers gropes your chest, flicking your nipples with his thumbs. Another caresses your thigh with long, caressing sweeps before his fingers dip between your legs and rub your sex hard and fast. All of them touch anything they can reach, whether that means fondling your ass or squeezing your hips. They tease you mercilessly, working you right up to the peak again with nothing but their devoted, relentless attention. Rubedo curls his fingers beneath your chin and you feel him establish a connection the moment your eyes meet. Laurintius gave him complete access. 

“Forgive me,” he implores you, an admission of guilt. He could blame this on the Archmagos if he really wanted to, could feign a complete loss of control, but that’s not what’s happened. He’s choosing this. Laurintius didn’t have to force anything. You feel him there, trespassing in your nodal network. You feel it like sparking heat and pleasure, a penetration that isn’t physically possible. Rubedo starts panting, organic engines rumbling faster. It might as well be sex; your body can’t tell the difference. He deliberately rubs against the same spot Laurintius stumbled across earlier, teasing it, whispering binharic that feels like electric shocks to the base of your spine.

His gaze strays down your bare, trembling body with half-lidded, shameful desire. Before you, flesh was weakness; merely the first stepping stone on the road to completion, never a place to linger. But you are more flesh than machine—your nodes depend on your organic body to run smoothly, seamlessly integrated and interdependent. 

Elsewhere, the Adeptus Mechanicus can believe what they want. Aboard the Hephaesian, flesh is sacred.

“DETECTING…” Argyros slots against your back, running hot with his internal fans on overdrive. His vox skips, sounds repeating. “F-F-FAVORABLE…HORMONAL SHIFT.” He nudges into the nodal network through a different backdoor and you shudder at the sudden sense of fullness. A sharp finger drags down your back between your shoulder blades. Laurintius is a pervasive, oppressive weight over everything, the engulfing caress of a much larger body curled around yours. Rubedo is warmth like licking, plaintive kisses. Argyros is frenzied. He finds your pleasure center, the nerve clusters that send signals of ecstatic bliss, and locks on. You cum and you can’t stop because he pounds into it with tireless, mechanical speed and precision. 

While the others fuck your mind, the skitarii continue to stimulate your body. They babble in static-laced whispers full of awe and desire. 

“So soft!”

“Flesh, all flesh. Astounding discovery. Flesh is wonderful.” 

“Is this forbidden? It must be forbidden. Anything as enticing as this…”

“It is a revelation. This is the will of the Omnissiah: complete and perfect merging.”

“The atavistic wed to the neoteric.”

“This is how all will worship, one day.” 

You can’t take any more. Argyros forces another orgasm and you sob, neither your organic brain nor your synthetic nodes able to handle all of the sensations coursing through your body. Argyros pulls out first, sloppy and sudden. You slump back against him, feeling raw and wrecked. Rubedo is far gentler. His withdrawal is a slow drag and your mind tries to hold onto him, overwhelmed and disoriented. It makes him groan, his lower body twitching with small, slight thrusts of his hips as a long-buried reflex briefly resurfaces. He presses his forehead against yours, hot breath and steam-like exhaust fanning across your face every time he exhales. Overexertion spreads like a virus through the open connection and all of the skitarii drop where they are at the same time. Your bed frame creaks in protest.

You’re just barely aware of Laurintius lurking in your mind while your eyelids flutter, muttering something about adjusting parameters and extending duration for maximum effect. Clumsily, you eject the data stick Rubedo shoved into your nape and throw it as hard as you can, uncaring of whether or not it shatters against the floor. You don’t have the strength or the mental bandwidth to be properly outraged or upset just yet so you let out a long breath and curl up in a tangle of metal limbs and synchronized pulses. 

Rubedo watches you drift off. His gaze is soft, half-lidded, utterly entranced by your fluttering lashes and how you keep trying to fight back to consciousness. Just as you teeter on the precipice of sleep, you hear a soft sigh and feel lips—half-organic, half-synthetic—press against yours. 

You can’t decide what’s worse—being an untouchable God, or being one that is all too easy to reach.

[bambiraptorx]

Okay, since there was some interest in seeing this short story, here it is. The working title is Foot Quest but I might change that lmao

— — —

The Dragon cracked open an eye at the distant sound of footsteps echoing faintly down the halls of its cavern.  A group of several people, accompanied by hearty squabbling and crass insults.  Hm, it hadn’t had visitors in quite some time.  Perhaps these ones would be entertaining before being eaten.

It closed its eye and curled deeper into its golden hoard.  It would find out soon enough.

— — —

Another sound roused it shortly after, the sliding click of coins and jewels being displayed. Whether from a not-so-sly attempt to pocket a few of its gold pieces or to scale its prodigious hoard, the Dragon did not care.  It cracked open a different eye.  It was always better to observe one’s meal a bit before consumption, after all.

The figure below (rather far away, at nearly the bottom of its hoard) appeared to have sat down for a moment, possibly on one of the treasure chests that stayed down there.  The wooden boxes were always a bit too odd and lump-like to do anything other than inhibit quality rest.  From the Dragon’s best guess, it was likely a human.  No beard, ears too small to be one of its cave goblins, and none of that insufferable stench elves carried with them wherever they went. That made it edible.

The biped shifted a bit, then jumped off the chest completely, flourishing what appeared to be a tiny dagger.  It was too far away to truly tell.  In any case, they seemed to realize rather quickly how ineffective their speck of a blade would be, and lowered it shamefacedly.

“... …. ……. ..?” What was that?  The Dragon tilted its head at the human’s distant mouth sounds.  Given that such things were distinctly less worthy of its attention than sounds like footfalls or clicking gold pieces tended to be, it wasn’t used to attending to such tongues.  How did human speech go again?  It hadn’t tested its vocal cords in some time.  

“Ahem.  Speak louder, puny thing.”  It freed an arm from its bed, glittering jewels cascading down the hills of hoard.  Pity, it would have to pick those up later.  Preferably after a snack.

The human took a step back.  Then raised their hands to their face, cupping them around their mouth.  “I apologize for the intrusion!”

Not the typical first words of a prospective breakfast.  “Do those companions of yours offer the same?”

The biped made some small motion with a hand.  “I think the goblins got to them!”

Well, good.  That was what the Dragon kept them around for.  Cleaning out the tunnels.

“You realize you shan’t leave, morsel.”  The Dragon flicked a few eyes open and shut, blinking away the sleep-grime.  “Intruders are only welcome if they become… long-term guests.”

A rather clever way to put it, if it said so itself, but if the human agreed they were unfortunately too far away for it to tell.  Instead of answering, the two-legged thing displayed a tremendous amount of stupidity by beginning to climb up the steep slopes of the hoard, even daring to come closer to the side with the Dragon’s head clearly visible.  A deliciously foolish endeavor.

The human stopped once more over a small rise in the glittery piles, still rather far for the Dragon to reach unless it really stood up and stretched its neck out to catch them.  Perhaps not so unintelligent after all?  “There!  Can you hear me better now?” 

The Dragon stretched for a moment, the gold covering it slowly giving way to its limbs.  Ugh, this was a most encumbering way to have fallen asleep.  “You must be exceptionally stupid or desperate to approach me.”  Evidence pointed to the latter, but of course the former would be the tastier option.

Their face moved strangely, an awkward display of baring small, flat teeth.  “Oh, I just came to ask a question.  Care to share a small amount of your wealth with a humble orphan?” “Not a chance.”

“...perhaps a loan?” “Mm… no.  Loans are for goblins only, which you clearly are not.”  The Dragon shook its head, shiny objects spinning away with loud crashes as they tumbled downwards and smacked against things.  Its neck was that much more mobile with the gold around it lessened.

“And at any rate, little thing, you’ve interrupted my sleep.  And so—” it worked the other forelimb free, its tail almost there—“You are to be my dinner, as is the way of things.”  Unless they did something worth its attention, but it was rapidly growing bored.

“Wait wait wait, please, I beg you, don't—your arm,” the human babbled.  “Leg.  Limb?”

It spared a glance for its stump, the limb most likely visible from the human's current location.  “Yes, that.  Staring is not appreciated, insect.”  The last human to make it this far had said something annoyingly rude, and had needed to be eaten immediately as a result.  A pity, wizards never tasted too good.  All the thick wooly robes got caught in its teeth.

“No, I mean—” quite unexpectedly, the human sat down again, this time on a rise in the piles of gold, and did something to one of their lower limbs that appeared to involve undoing numerous straps, then held the limb out towards the Dragon. 

…It didn’t know the smaller races could do that.  It had never paid them much attention, to be sure, but weren't their limbs supposed to stay attached to their bodies?

“Here, my prosthesis.  I lost the leg as a girl, it was some sickness the local apothecary couldn’t cure.  Better limb than life, I think she said.  And a while after that, I got another one to help me walk, but I’m still—we’ve got that in common.” the human explained breathlessly.

The Dragon lowered its head (interesting, how this ant-like creature barely flinched at its approach) and turned a set of eyes towards the thing.  A facsimile of a leg, carved of wood with fabric and that cow-skin two-leggers were so fond of hanging off in thinnish bits and pieces.  It even had a shoe to match the other one the biped wore.

It huffed, a gentle stream of smoke escaping its jaws to envelop the small figure.  “Mildly interesting, I suppose.  But why should I care?”

“The people outside haven’t seen you in over a century. It would do them well to remember your presence here,” the human said.  Some small expression, too quick for the Dragon to read, crossed her face.  “And… I know what it’s like.  Losing a limb, figuring out how to live afterwards.  Besides, the gnomish craft cities aren’t too far from here, and you know they love a challenge.  You’ve got plenty of gold to spare, and they’d think it an honor to craft something for you.”

The Dragon reared its head back.  “I have no need of gnome workmanship, you little asp.  I am a great thing, powerful and fearsome!  There is nothing here that needs to be fixed!”  Its wings were yet buried, or it would have beat them dramatically for emphasis.  Perhaps the brat was back on the menu.

“Please, it’s—it’s not—it wouldn’t be for fixing!” The human yelled, her hands lifted to shield her face.  “It would be a tool!  To make things easier!”

It stared down its nose at her.  “And why should I bother with such a… tool?”

“You don’t have to,” came the answer.  “Lots of people don’t.  But I know the merchants from here to Ocean’s Crest, I know the metalsmiths and leather workers and tailors, and there’s dozens of ways that a leg can be built.  And look, I can tell you it won’t fix things all the way.  It might create other problems.  But I can tell you this much—it works for me.  And it might be able to work for you?”

The human held her hands outstretched above her head, a gesture something like a plea.  For mercy, perhaps, or more time, or some other petty human desire. If the Dragon was already awake, it might as well move around a bit.

The Dragon blinked three eyes at once, snorted and began to stand, gold slithering over its scales as it shook itself free of its hoard.  “You have piqued my interest, ant.  I shall embark with you on this journey of yours.  Now put back those coins you have in your pocket.”

[leafnighthybridwolfsbane]

Skywing Headcanons

So- this picture and tribe may be a little Hades and Persephone coded. Admittedly, I was listening to Epic III from Hadestown while I made the design. I may make a similar character to this, but having the tribe's version of vitiligo. I don't know. I just loved drawing and designing the character. Something I should note, with all the designs with spikes or feathering, They all have it going all the way down. I just didn't want to draw every one of them.

Tribe Headcanons

Their coloration tends to match up with the sky they are hatched under. If they hatch with a roof over the egg, they will still be their normal reds, oranges, yellows and golds.

Sometimes on cloudy or stormy days, the Skywings hatched during those will have a sort of vitiligo called "cloud kissed". As they haven't had an open aired hatching for hundreds of centuries, those who are cloud kissed are not exactly liked by everyone. Though, most agree that it's attractive.

Their flames can vary depending on how high the eggs are kept. Lower eggs had lower heat flames. Higher eggs are going to have hotter fire without being a fire scales. Some say eggs that hatch at the highest points can produce lightning from their breath.

Their feathered crests very in design, shape and length. The patterning resembling those of birds.

Some of their secret codes are vocal only and are in various bird calls and patterns similar to birds. Only Skywings can decipher them unless they teach others, but those dragons have a hard time knowing if it's another Skywing or not.

Fire scales Skywings are not as hot as the Sandwings once were. Though due to their excess amount of fire, their outer bodies glow like magma inside an active volcano. The glow going in and out, moving around their bodies.

On the topic of fire scales Skywings, the blue color that appears on their bodies is a natural internal coolant. It keeps the dragon from cooking themselves alive.

The bottom of a Skywing's wings will sometimes have have cloud patterns on the underside of them that are separate from being cloud kissed. It's similar to a Nightwing's starry wings.

The top of their wings will have a version of the pattern on their feathers. Though the colors may differ as the color matches the scales along the spine.

The inner ear of a Skywing has a specific muscle that closes the ear when flying at top speeds or at very high altitudes. It is to protect their eardrums and hearing, effectively making them partially deaf when this happens.

A Skywing's longest flight time between landings. One of the longest flight times was about a year. The dragon learned to dive and catch food from the ocean and other areas to keep up the strength.

All Skywings can sleep midair. Much like Seawings, it's a half sleep so they don't end up crashing into a mountain or any other natural land formation.

Skywings are the tallest tribe. Their heights are said to be the ones longing for reaching the sky above.

Their claws have mini serrations to keep them from slipping in the snowy tops of mountains.

Skywings have a similar sense of balance to many mountain goats. as long as there is a five degree slope, the Skywings can climb up the mountains.

While being known as the grumpiest of tribes, that wasn't always the case. Skywings have a strong sense of duty that is unmatched. Though, no one exactly knows why this is and other dragons theorize. Only other Skywings know why they are the way they are.

Skywing courting rituals are similar to an eagles where they will throw themselves from the highest mountain tops and only separate when they're close to the ground. Talons and wings are locked together in this ritual. If the drop is broken before the moment, they're either not meant to be, or they're not ready.

Skywings are the second most agile tribe due to living in the mountains and having their rituals require very agile movements to avoid incoming death.

Lore Headcanons

Skywings have a belief that fire scales came from a Skywing that decided to try to go into the afterlife to get his mate. The entrance being from the volcano. She was unable to retrieve him, but part of him was burned into her being that caused her scales to produce the same heat of a volcano.

Skywings celebrate love with festivals that can last from a couple weeks, to several months. These were filled with their affection and adoration for each other, family, friends, even lovers and dragonets if a dragon had those. These would normally be held near an active volcano, though it's not unheard of them happening at the peaks of inactive volcanoes.

This tribe once was a very pacifist tribe, looking closer to love and peace when it comes to finding a solution. This changed when the deaths of animus and fire scales Skywings were ordered by one particularly cruel queen. It broke their roots, some of their beliefs as well. Skywings in hiding kept the traditions of old alive, but it was almost impossible to keep fire scales Skywings alive with their twins. Their grumpiness is from centuries old anger and hatred for that queen's lineage.

In more recent years, ancient scrolls and tablets of their histories, myths and traditions have been found. Skywings with fire scales have started to extremely slowly return, but not like they once were. Though, the ancient ability of withstanding their fire hasn't come back and it won't for several centuries to come.

The primary exports of Skywings are armors and weapons. Though, with their ancient tomes, they have slowly been trickling into making metal sculptures. Them getting back to their roots is important to the entire tribe.

Skywings have a close alliance with the sandwings. They do not trick the sandwings and the Skywings have help keeping other Skywings that want to go back to their militant authoritarian monarchy are silenced. It isn't the most moral, but it keeps them from becoming an angry tribe fueled by hate.

Entire cliff faces have been dedicated to multi- layered hatcheries so they can use them for their eggs. These are protected by specific caregivers and guards that would lay their lives for their hatchlings. In saying that, each egg has a mini nest that has a plate with the parents' names engraved into it to know who's egg(s) are whose.

Their reincarnation belief comes from another story about the same characters from the fire scales myth. The body of the fire scales lover was burned at the very top of the mountain. When she inevitably died of old age, she was burned at the top of the mountain and it was said their souls found each other again. The lovers deciding to have a redo of their love in another life in which they were both Skywings again.

Drawing Inspirations

Abyssian cats are the best breed to use for Skywings due to their agile nature.

Eagles are the reference to their courting rituals. and how they look.

Gemstones are a great reference for modern day Skywings due to the enclosed roof hatcheries.

Jewelry for them would be simple unless they are of a higher status.

Wings of Fire Headcanon List

Icewings

Mudwings

Leafwings

Hivewings

Silkwings