#not purposefully written that way but it could be read so.

[xf-cases-solved]

ayyyy, @numinousmysteries, guess who it is! it's me, your secret santa for the @poangpals gift exchange, here to gift you words that are kinda angsty, kinda hurt/comfort-y, and kinda (or more than kinda) horny. i've written a lot of cancer arc lately and was like "hmm, maybe i should branch out..." BUT, when i saw your ideal episode was "memento mori but they bang at the end," i was like, "okay, well, obviously this was meant to be." so that is what i have brought you! a post-memento mori fic where they bang at the end! thank you for everything you bring to this community. you're a baller and i hope you enjoy your gift <3 -diz Title: Memento Vivere Word count: ~6500 (bc i can't shut the fuck up to save my life) Rating: Explicit Here's the link to ao3, or save yourself a click and read below!

***

Memento Vivere

She is in the middle of grimacing at her own reflection in the small compact mirror she found at the bottom of her overnight bag when Mulder shows up at her hospital room, keys jangling in his hand as he hovers in the doorway, neither outside nor inside, like he's uncertain about what kind of proximity he's allowed this morning. Like she's a skittish cat he's trying to win over. And what grates at her isn't his tenuous disposition—it's that it's completely warranted, and it's so jarring to be known so well.

She knows that he knows that she bared her heart to him last night, and is now grappling with mortification. She's never been good with emotions. In college, she could do a walk of shame with her head held high, but when a lover would voice their affection for her she would suddenly become incapable of looking them in the eye. Her heart is in a lockbox and sometimes she goes so long without opening it she almost forgets the combination, and when she does manage to pop it open she gets frantic, wanting to immediately slam it shut.

"You about ready to go?" Mulder asks casually. Too casually. He's assessing her like he would a suspect, adjusting his tone to meet her mood and make himself more approachable, and she wants to snap at him for profiling her, but she won't. She can't. Not without confirming his analysis of her, and she doesn't need to open the spine of her book any wider when he can already read her with such clarity.

In her writings—the filled pages already torn from the notebook and shredded into pieces in the wire trash bin next to her bed—she had thought she was divulging the secrets of her heart to him. It occurs to her only now, as he watches her from across the room with a purposefully mild expression, that while he may not know her every thought, he is the only other person who knows the combination to the lockbox in her chest. He could open it at any time, but he doesn't. He could reach inside her and hold her beating heart in his cupped hands, learning every detail and committing it to memory, but he would never take from her anything that wasn't freely given. His respect is almost more overwhelming than anything, because it's a reminder that if he weren't an honorable man he could ruin her. He has access to her nuke, and she can do nothing but trust that he won't hit the button.

"Yeah, just a second," she replies—casual. 

She slips the compact mirror back inside her bag and gets to her feet. She tries to summon the woman inside her who walks down the hallways of the Hoover Building—confident, assertive, and unaffected by stares or assumptions—but it's difficult without her body armor. Even though she only had one infusion of the chemo, her body still feels frail and hungover, like the day after a bad twenty-four hour flu, and she's wearing flats with her yoga pants and sweater, highlighting the height disparity between the two of them in a way her heels usually help to mitigate. There wasn't a hair dryer to use after her shower, so the natural curls she usually irons out are taking over, absurdly making her feel disorderly and sloppy. And she's not wearing makeup, and it's not the dark circles around her eyes or even the mole above her lip that she's self-conscious about—it's the freckles that spatter across her cheeks and nose. Well put together women don't have freckles, and she's sure he's going to interpret her vulnerabilities on her sun-kissed skin like the soggy tea leaves at the bottom of a china cup. 

The worst part of dying, she's starting to think, is the discovery that her walls that felt sturdy like concrete are actually made of straw, and there's nothing like an illness to come sweeping through to blow your house down.

On the way out of the hospital they pass the room Penny died in. She looks away from the door, and Mulder looks at her. In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment he reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

They don't say anything. 

Scully thinks his choice of silence says more than words ever could.

*

When she wakes up on her couch she isn't sure if it was the nightmare that roused her, or the relentless throbbing in her head.

The ride back home from Allentown had been uncomfortable in every sense of the word. Mulder had rambled theories at her—about Dr. Scanlon and MUFON and government agendas—until her lack of engagement made the conversation eventually dissolve, first into him nervously chattering about the most ridiculous X-Files cases he could think of and, when that didn't work either, into nothing, a pall falling over them as she shifted restlessly in her seat, unable to find a position that didn't feel ill-fitting like a shirt that she couldn't untwist. They didn't once speak the word cancer.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep after he dropped her off, but ten minutes into some daytime talk show and she was suddenly dead to the world, and judging by the low light that surrounds her, she has slept all the way from early afternoon well into dusk. The TV still flickers at her, now playing the evening news, and she's sure that there aren't going to be any headlines about manufactured brain tumors and shady oncologists who betray their Hippocratic oath by purposefully poisoning women who look to them for salvation. The types of horrors she witnesses rarely make the news. Not with all the facts attached, at least.

She pushes herself up with a groan. Her head really hurts, and although her first instinct is to attribute it to the mass in her sinus cavity, when she reaches up to swipe under her nose there are no remnants of dried blood, and the dryness of her tongue and hollowness of her belly makes her think that the rhythmic throbbing in her skull is probably because she can't remember the last time she had a glass of water or a single bite of food. 

She goes about the motions of getting together what she supposes is technically dinner, even though she forgot to proceed it with breakfast or lunch, and when she gets it all together—a hearty meal of half a banana, a slice of buttered toast, three ibuprofen, and a tall glass of ice water—she settles back down on the couch and assesses the other ache she'd awoken with.

The nightmare is formless in her memory, lacking a cohesive plotline now that she's in the waking world, but nevertheless, the emotions it stirred up inside her are visceral. There is a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, bottomless as the abyss. It's a type of fear that grips her from the inside, putting her adrenal gland into a chokehold and activating her fight or flight, except she can't fight her own mind anymore than she can flee it. 

This is how she knows, even without the details, that her dream was about dying.

These types of dreams have been coming to her more frequently nowadays, starting the night Leonard Betts spoke five chilling words to her in the back of an ambulance. She's had friends who have been pregnant, and they would often tell her about the constant dreams they would have on the subject throughout the entire nine months. In a way, she figures, it's a similar concept; she and her friends all have had dreams about what their body is growing inside them—the notable difference of course being that they grew something into life, and she's growing something that takes it away. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to start making phone calls. Make appointments and discuss treatment options and try not to get discouraged when the options are limited. When she first told Mulder about the cancer, he had been so insistent, saying, "There must be some people who receive treatment for this," and at the time she hadn't been able to bring herself to tell him that she wasn't sure she was going to be one of them. The odds were, and are, so heavily stacked against her, and as a medical doctor she is very aware that sometimes quality of life outweighs the quantity of it. Her experience in Allentown hasn't really endeared her toward the idea either, if she's being honest, and not because of Scanlon, or even because of Penny, but because she had not felt sick at all, up until she tried to treat the illness, and then suddenly she'd been in hell. 

But while she may be uncomfortable with how much of herself she bared to him last night, she knows that she made promises that she can't take back. She is loyal to a fault, and she gave both him and herself her word that she would continue to live as long as she could, and so she will. 

She's just not convinced much of her life in the upcoming days and weeks and months and maybe even years will feel much like living. In fact, she's pretty worried—down to the very depths of her subconscious, if her dreams are any indication—that she's going to feel like she's dying.

They say doctors make the worst patients. Sometimes that's because of stubbornness. Sometimes it's because they know exactly what to expect.

She finishes her meager meal and drinks down the last of her water. She slips an ice cube into her mouth and bites down on it, shattering it into pieces. The enamel of her teeth has always been sensitive to temperature, but instead of being off-put by the pain that spikes through to her jawbone when the ice touches her nerves, she revels in it. Her head, while somewhat improved, is still aching, and she finds herself appreciating that as well. She finds she is grateful for the signs her body is giving her to tell her it's still here, and maybe that's the trick. Maybe to get through this she has to go into it with a respect for the pain. This only hurts because I am alive, she'll have to train herself to think. 

She can do that. She's certainly stubborn enough. 

She wishes it didn't all have to be about pain, though. She doesn't want to forget that a body can feel good things too.

Ice crunches between her teeth, shocking her like a root canal, while she thinks about the signs of life that are enjoyable. Warmth. Comfort. Pleasure.

Pleasure.

On the TV, the news anchors are tying up their reports that are lacking things they don't even realize are missing. In her mouth her internal temperature warms the ice water, and the ebbing of the pain is a brief moment of gratification that acts as a sampling of what endorphins can do. 

Tomorrow she is going to have to make plans to put herself in a varying, yet indefinite state of pain, and she will have to learn to appreciate it in order to remember how to be alive. 

Tonight, however, she could remind herself in a different way.

It is a terrible idea.

It's an idea she has had a million times before and has stamped down just as often.

Ten minutes later and she's out her front door and getting into the driver's side of her car. Muscle memory guides her down the streets toward Alexandria, while she spends the whole drive telling herself to turn back.

She doesn't.

*

"Hey," Mulder says in surprise, eye widening slightly at the sight of her standing at his door. He's got on a white tank top and dark grey sweatpants, looking nothing like the federal agent he usually does. Instead of seeing a professional, albeit a tad bit crazy, government official, she sees her friend in the way that is much easier to ignore when he's wearing a suit and an ugly patterned tie. Like this, he exudes masculine energy, and her eyes are immediately drawn to the slopes and curves of his muscular shoulders and biceps. There is hair peeking out on his chest where the neckline of his shirt dips low. He hasn't shaved for at least a day, an even stubble shadowing his cheeks and jaw. She drops her gaze to the floor before he can catch her roaming eyes, and she sees his feet are bare. For some reason that's the most intimate part of it all, and the reality of what she's come here to do hits her like a freight train and she flushes with what must be a particularly spectacular shade of red.

In contrast, she's feeling a lot like she did this morning, like a soldier out of uniform. She's wearing the same pair of yoga pants, and under her coat she has on a faded souvenir t-shirt her parents gave her after an anniversary trip to the Outer Banks well over five years ago. It occurs to her only now that she'd left in such a rush that she hadn't even bothered with a bra, and she becomes instantly aware of the oversized shirt brushing directly against her breasts.

At least she wore boots with a heel this time, but in reality it's not doing much to level the playing field. Mulder's six-foot frame still dwarfs her completely, and while she normally feels like a peer in his presence—like a respected intellectual whose gender is totally irrelevant—tonight she is feeling a lot like she did the first time she entered a university science lecture and found herself surrounded almost entirely by men. The difference is that back then she had felt, ridiculously, embarrassed by her femininity, hyper-aware of every questioning stare, asking the same question: What is she doing here?

But like with most things, Mulder—simply by virtue of being Mulder—challenges her way of thinking. While she has long since stopped viewing her womanhood as a flaw, she is always viscerally aware when the people around her view it as one, and over time that has bred resentment. Standing here before him, though, she holds no animosity toward the difference in their sexes. Like the way her science complements his reckless belief, so too, in this moment, does her feminine ying balance his masculine yang. 

She doesn't even worry about the freckles on her makeupless face. 

"Scully?" He sounds concerned, and she realizes she's been standing here in silence after appearing at his apartment unannounced, and the last time they saw each other it had ended with her muttering a curt goodbye as she all but bolted from his car to escape the suffocation of her own self-imposed belief that emotional vulnerability was akin to disgrace.

But what Mulder isn't privy to yet is that the shame from this morning about being so transparent has been wholly replaced by the need of a dying woman to be reminded of the good parts of being alive. Scully is ready to be bare, by every definition, and she can only hope that he'll let her. 

Refusing to give in to cowardice, she forces herself to look up from the floor to meet his eye. 

"Can I come in?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course." He angles himself to place a hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside, and even through her coat and shirt the contact burns like the ice touching her enamel. She kicks off her boots, sinking back down to her natural five foot two—three, if the height gauge at the doctor's office chooses to be generous—and lets him take her coat and hang it up, before leading them both over to the couch. He plops down, leaving a purposeful vacancy beside him, and looks up at her expectantly, but she doesn't sit. Cocking his head, he asks, "Are you all right? Why are you here? If you needed something you know you could have called me and I would have come to you. I know you only went through one day of treatment, but I'm sure it had to have taken a toll on your—"

"I'm fine," she insists, cutting him off. She doesn't say it harshly, but she doesn't leave room for him to argue against it either, even though she can tell he desperately wants to. Instead, he chooses to heed her command, and presses his lips closed, waiting for her to tell him why she's standing here when earlier today they drove over three hours and she had barely said a word the entire time.

It's possible she didn't think this far ahead. More than that—it's possible she hasn't thought this through at all. 

But she's committed now, and she's starting to feel feral, her needs centered around primitive instincts. It is in every species' nature to fight for survival at any cost, but she is burdened with a human's intellect that can allow her to deny herself continued survival if doing so also means prolonged suffering. If she is to keep her promise—if she is to fight for her life with treatments that make her feel sicker than the disease they're targeting—then she has to go into it with a memory that reminds her why it's worth it to stay alive.

She walks over to his desk and leans against it, mindlessly thumbing through documents strewn carelessly across the top. There are pieces from casefiles, and pages photocopied from obscure books on phenomena she'd never believe. There are scratch pieces of paper with notes scribbled on them, written in a shorthand that she's sure only makes sense to him. There are newspaper clippings and articles torn from tabloid magazines he would call source material, and she would call a scam. She doesn't read any of it, but she keeps her eyes trained on them as she considers her next steps.

Gaze pinned on a faded picture of some kind of creature that has clearly come off a printer that was running low on ink, she finally says, "I want to ask you for a favor, but I should warn you that it's a bit unorthodox."

"Unorthodox, huh? I dunno, Scully, I'm a pretty conventional guy, I'm not sure I can handle anything out of the ordinary."

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. How does he do that? she wonders. How does he know how to calm her when he doesn't even know that she's feeling frantic in the first place? 

That you should know my heart, look into it, finding there the memory and experience that belong to you. That are you. 

Those were words she had written only days before, placed inside a journal that was meant to be a confessional, but again, she should have known better. What use is there in inviting someone into your heart when they're already there?

She stops fiddling with the contents of his desk and looks over at him. He's regarding her with an expression of concern that on a different day she would construe as pity and detest, but right now she has the capacity to accept that he's looking at her like that, not because she's weak, but because he cares. Because he's worried. Because he wants her to live.

"Last night, when you said you read some of what I wrote... how much did you read exactly?"

Mulder rubs the nape of his neck and shrugs.

"A bit," he says, which she takes to mean "all of it." She can picture him, after confirming she was safe, sneaking into her hospital room and sitting on her bed, skimming each page, and then going back through a second time to take it in more fully. It should feel like an invasion of privacy, but instead her impulse is to huff a small laugh. She tries so hard to hide from him, and yet he finds her every time.

"So you know about the treatment. What it feels like." He nods slowly, like he's trying to piece together what she's getting at and hasn't quite formed a cohesive picture yet. She sighs.

"Tomorrow I'm going to set up a meeting with Skinner and take him up on his offer in getting into contact with an oncologist. We can still pursue the case—that is, if any new evidence presents itself to give us any new leads—but in the meantime, I need to figure out what treatment options are available to me. Time is of the essence in these sorts of situations." 

Mulder nods again, still waiting for the clarifying piece of the puzzle.

"Mulder, without talking it over with a specialist, I can't know for certain what treatment route they're going to have me take, but with my medical background I can make an educated enough guess to safely say that, whatever it is, it's not going to be pleasant."

"Any help you need, Scully, you know I'm just a phone call away. And don't worry about work. If you have to take leave that's fine. What matters most is that you get yourself health—"

"I know. I know that, but that's not what I came here to talk to you about."

"... Okay." He gives a small shake of his head. "What then? What's the favor?"

Scully draws her lower lip between her teeth. 

"I need your help," she says slowly, "in reminding myself that my body can do more than feel pain. That it's more than just a vessel to get me from one place to another... I need you to help me remember why it's worth saving."

"I don't..." he starts, but his sentence trails off as she makes her approach over to him with a purposeful gait. She goes to stand between his legs and he opens them wider to give her space like the action is automatic. He tilts his head back to look dumbly up at her, and the change in dynamic—her above and him below—makes her feel some type of way low in her belly. 

She reaches out and cups his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her thumb, and she sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. She thinks the picture may be becoming clear to him now.

"Scully—"

"You can tell me to leave," she cuts him off. "You can say no and I won't hold it against you. We don't ever have to talk about it again. But if you're willing..."

Mulder gives a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

"Scully, trust me, it's not a matter of whether or not I'm willing, but look at what all you've been through in the past couple days. I don't think you're thinking rationally, and I don't want to take advantage—"

"Not thinking rationally? Me?" She smiles a little as she pulls her hand back, making a point to drag her fingers slowly across his skin on the way, and she doesn't think she imagines him leaning into her touch. "Mulder, I appreciate your concern, but why don't you let me decide what I do and don't want to do."

"Scully..."

"Do you trust me?"

He lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Of course I do."

She takes hold of both of his wrists, and when she tugs his arms out to settle his hands on her hips she's met with slight resistance, but she knows it's just for show. She's not weak, but he's got plenty of strength to get away from her if he really wanted to. Instead, the pads of his fingers press into her pelvic bone, even after she's dropped her hold on his wrists.

"Then trust me when I say this is what I need from you," she says. She smirks and adds, "I told you it was unorthodox." 

"You weren't kidding," he mutters, and fuck, his eyes are boring into hers so intensely she nearly shudders. 

Sweatpants are not exactly ideal when it comes to maintaining modesty in sensitive situations, and Scully's effect on him does not go unnoticed. Her eyes dart down to the significant bulge between his thighs, and then back up to his face where he gives a bashful half-grin accompanied with a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say "can you blame me?"

"I won't hold it against you," she tells him again, "but I do want this."

"Fuck," Mulder breathes. He shuts his eyes for a beat, like he's trying to compose himself, and then blinks them back open, embers of an impending fire starting to glow behind his dilating pupils. "This is a bad idea," he tells her, stating it more like a fact than as a deterrent. 

"Maybe," she agrees.

"We have to work together tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that one, too. You don't think this will... change things?"

"Not if we don't let it." 

"You really think it's that simple?"

She considers the question. Considers whether or not she can learn what it's like to have him explore her body tonight, and then pretend like she didn't come morning.

"We're two consenting adults," she says, evading the question. "Has the thought of doing this really never crossed your mind?"

"That... That feels like a leading question."

"Would it make you feel better if I said that it has definitely crossed mine?"

"Jesus, Scully," he breathes, shifting in his seat and clutching her hips so tight that she won't be surprised if later she finds finger-shaped bruises on her skin, reminiscent of dusted prints at a crime scene.

"It's just sex, Mulder," but even as she says it, she knows it's a lie.

He knows it too, judging by the muscle twitching in his clenched jaw as he holds her eyes with a steady look.

"Is it?" he asks evenly, and they both know the answer is no.

No. Of course not. Sex could never be "just" anything between them, but the reason why is a topic they've come to an unspoken agreement to never acknowledge aloud. But Scully isn't stupid. She knows that the way electricity behaves between them—constantly thrumming and sparking, in tense situations as well as banal—isn't normal. Four years ago she dropped her robe in front of him in a candle lit hotel room, and she hasn't stopped feeling his gaze on her lower back since; the tender way his eyes roved over her delusive mosquito bites is as permanent a tattoo as the blood red ouroboros that has only recently lost its scabs.

The term "something more" is a vague and fanciful concept she would sooner dismiss as nothing but a perpetuation of commercialized romance, if she herself wasn't subjected to it on a near daily basis. Since day number one there has been an elusive "something more" surrounding them, fighting for their attention, even as they so ardently deny its existence.

So no, it isn't just sex, but Scully also didn't come here to give voice to the elephant that follows them from room to room. To put it plainly, she came here so he could fuck the will to live back into her body, and she refuses to lose sight of her mission.

So in lieu of a response—because she can't animate any elephants, but neither can she lie to a man who treats truth like the core tenet to his religion—she instead throws caution to the wind, swoops in, and kisses him. 

Ice touches enamel. She wants it to burn.

Whatever reservations or protests he may have been fighting against must not be too hard to cast aside, because his response to her is instant, tilting his head to slot their lips together and kissing back so forcefully their teeth clack together. But even that doesn't, or maybe can't slow them down.

Mulder's hands move from her hips to her ass, and in a single swift movement he lifts her onto his lap. He swallows her surprised gasp as she straddles his thighs, his hard cock brushing her center, the layers of their clothing teasing her relentlessly when right now she needs skin-on-skin more than she needs air.

Mulder seems to be of the same mind, because one second she's sitting astride him fully clothed, and in the next he has somehow stripped her of her shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Returning the favor, she peels his off too, feeling like a kid at Christmas unwrapping the box she knows contains the best present under the tree.

Scully tries to recapture his lips, but he stills her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. He then leans back to get a good, long look at her.

"God, Scully," he whispers reverently, eyes trained on her chest. He reaches out to touch her, and when he does her breasts fit perfectly in his hands. Tentatively, and with such profound focus you'd think he was attempting to split an atom, he pinches her left nipple and rolls it experimentally between his index finger and thumb. It's such a simple touch, but it goes straight to her leaking cunt, and when she moans Mulder's attention darts back up to her face, the embers behind his eyes now a full-fledged forest fire, blazing a warpath through the trees. He makes it a point not to break her gaze when he leans in and takes the same nipple into his mouth.

"Mmm," she hums, letting her head loll back. He sucks the nub of her nipple taut, and involuntarily she bucks her hips in response. 

Mulder mumbles something incoherent against her breast, and when she asks for clarification, he pulls away with an obscene pop and then nuzzles his face in the crook of her neck, saying, "You're everything."

Everything. Like he ran through the full gamut of adjectives and found himself wanting. Like she is so many things at once that there isn't a single word that encompasses the breadth of her worth to him. 

You're everything.

It's the most overwhelming compliment she has ever received, because she wants, more than anything, to live up to it, and yet she's not even sure if she is going to be able to simply live, period. She's not sure when her greatest fear became failing him. It might have been the first time he ever challenged her. When she stood in front of his projector, veiled by the illuminated slides he'd already prepared for her arrival, as he quizzed her on chemistry, and causes of death, and the supposed limits of science in a vast and complex universe. She had wanted to prove herself to him then, and then just never stopped. 

The truth of his influence over her is too much to handle right now, so she decides to kiss him again—an act that is quickly becoming her new favorite strategy for deflection—and then buries her fingers in his hair. She oscillates her hips in slow circles, taunting them both with light but consistent pressure on his cock. She feels him twitch in anticipation for her, and her pulse throbs in her cunt in turn.

"I want you," she whispers against his lips, but he shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs. "No, not yet."

Before she can ask him for clarification, he's lifting her up with a firm grip on the backs of her thighs, and then proceeds to lay her down lengthwise on the couch.

There's a manic energy wafting off of him in waves, and yet, in total contrast, the way he slides her leggings and panties down and off her legs is so purposeful and leisurely that she has the absurd thought that nobody has ever undressed her with such respect before.

When he kisses her soundly on the mouth and then begins making a trek down her body with his lips and tongue and an occasional nip of his teeth, she feels—for the first time since she stepped foot inside his apartment with this ludacris idea—a pang of apprehension.

For the most part, she isn't a self-conscious person. Once she got past the awkwardness of adolescence, she's had a fairly healthy relationship with her self-image. But that said, Mulder's intended destination is obvious, and she's had enough sexual partners turn their nose up at the suggestion that for a moment she worries he's only doing it because he thinks she expects it of him.

But then he settles himself in between her thighs and peers up at her with a hunger better fit for a man so far into starvation he's about to succumb to it, and she realizes then that while he may be able to read all the words on her every page, it is not a one-sided transparency. If ever there were to be a scholar on the topic of Fox William Mulder, she would be the one.

The apprehension, already fleeting in the first place, dissipates entirely, and she lets her legs fall open in invitation.

There is no hesitancy in his acceptance. He uses two fingers to part her labia, and then starts off by dragging the flat of his tongue from her soaking entrance up to her swollen clit in one long stroke, and that alone has her crying out, unconcerned about how she sounds or how thin the walls might be. 

Never a man to miss important details, it's unsurprising the speed at which he masters the intricacies of her body. She knows he's paying attention to every miniscule shift in her body language by the way he adjusts the pressure and speed and direction of his mouth and tongue. When he slips one finger inside her, quickly following it up with a second, and pulses a come hither motion as he sucks on her aching clit she wants to sob. He eats cunt with the devotion of a holy man, and he makes her feel deserving of being worshipped.

This is why it's worth it to live. Because for every twinge and ache and pain her body is capable of, it is equally capable of so much good feeling that it could constitute a religious experience. That while there are always going to be moments of suffering, there are also going to be moments of pleasure, and to truly live you have to accept the full spectrum of what it means to possess a human body.

When the coiling heat in her cunt finally boils over, and she arches her back and cries out Mulder's name while a rapturous climax works through her, suspending time and space, she thinks to herself, over and over like a mantra—like a promise: This is what I'm fighting for. This is what I'm fighting for. This. Is what. I am fighting for.

When she comes back to herself enough to spring into action, she is barely conscious of her own movements, acting more on primal instinct as she yanks Mulder up and kisses him sloppily, licking into his mouth and tasting herself on his tongue as she manages to flip them so that he's lying on his back, panting up at her with blown pupils and parted lips. 

She gets his sweatpants and boxers pulled down past his knees, and he kicks them the rest of the way off. He curses when she takes hold of him and guides him to her entrance, unable to wait to be filled by him any longer. 

He's so big, and even with the slickness from her orgasm she has to take him in slowly, letting her cunt adjust to the stretch of him. 

"There's so much of you," she groans, rocking her hips, slipping him in further inch by inch. He's holding onto her hips again, gripping her like she's a life preserver as he clenches his jaw, clearly trying his utmost not to thrust into her before she's ready for it.

"You feel... Jesus, Scully, there aren't words to describe how you feel," he says, strained between gritted teeth, and she's so thankful for him. For his patience. For his attention. For the "something more" between them that she doesn't dare give a name to, even in the privacy of her own mind.

When she finally takes him to the hilt, it feels like an accomplishment. Skewered between her legs on his massive cock, she has the same sense of satisfaction she gets when she pins him into a corner during a debate. Already he has infiltrated almost every aspect of her life, and now he's inside her body as well, and she understands what he meant before, because it's everything. He's everything.

She tells him so, and that's more than he can handle. After the words spill from her lips, he thrusts up into her, making her shout, but on the next thrust she meets him in a counter-rhythm, driving him impossibly deeper inside her. The apartment is full of the sounds and smells of sex as she begins to ride him in earnest. She plays with her own tits, and he watches her, rapt with attention, and when his breathing starts to hollow, he puts a hand between her legs and lets her rub her clit against him.

"Yes," she moans, riding him harder, shocked that he has her teetering on the edge again so soon. "God, yes. Mulder, I—I'm going to—" 

She completes her sentence nonverbally, falling over the edge once more, and this time Mulder follows her. He's chanting nonsense syllables that are probably supposed to be her name, as she clenches around him and milks his cock dry, letting him fill her fully and completely. She wants to feel his spend leaking out of her later. She wants to feel bruised when she walks. She wants to remember every last second of tonight—even if they never speak of it again—because she is going to need the memories in order to face what's waiting for her come tomorrow.

When they've both returned to Earth, they stay joined together in silence for just a little longer, searching each other's faces, possibly for signs of regret, or maybe just for the sake of looking. He pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear and she lets her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch. Between her legs he's starting to soften. Her unorthodox favor has been fulfilled, and reality is hurtling back to them at speed.

"Thank you," she says, not opening her eyes. 

He doesn't respond for a few beats, and then he says, "It's worth it, Scully. Remember it's worth it." 

She nods. 

It's so easy, she thinks, to be aware of her own mortality. To remember that she will die.

She vows now that, in the face of every upcoming obstacle, she will remind herself, often, that she can also live.

[cinnasweetss]

SHE. | p.sh

check your window, he's at your window...

wc: 1k

content: this is strictly for the bitches that are sick & afraid of their own mind like ME, little to no dialogue, stalking, dub con/non con, hitting, choking, unprotected sex, squirting, creampie, etc etc...

a/n: I recommend listening to "she" by tyler the creator while you read. this work was written with that song in mind, hence the name. ideas, constructive criticism, and compliments are always welcome. thanks for reading <3

It rained all day. streets slippery with rainwater and mud, the earth outside your window was the same. big, chunky, steel toed boots sinking in the ground beneath them. he should've been more careful, removed his boots before he came in. maybe then he would've spared you the horror of finding muddy footprints inside of your home. 

he was sure that would be the last time he saw you. that you'd do the most obvious thing and call the police, tell them about the footprints, the squeaking floorboards in the middle of the night, the letters. or that time you woke up unexpectedly, peeked out the window to find him there. 

had he not blinked, you probably wouldn't have known. you wouldn't have screamed either, forcing him to flee. 

had he been in his right mind, he would've stopped hanging outside your window then. had you been in your right mind, you would've made sure your blinds were shut before you slept. you would've called the police. 

instead, you made him greedy. wanting to believe you might actually feel the same way, the notes became more frequent, longer, more passionate. he'd watch you read them too, swearing he could see a smile on your face each time you read one. swearing he might actually have a chance with you. 

he knew it when you made it easier for him to get in. he knows you purposefully left your back door cracked. in fact, he watched you. watched you contemplate between locking it, leaving it unlocked, or keeping it just a tad bit open. 

endless nights of following you home, memorizing your routines and schedules, watching you sleep, watching you unknowingly undress in front of your window, even those nights when you touch yourself under your covers, writhing and squirming until you finish. 

all those nights have finally paid off. he thinks that maybe, it was fate that he left those footprints on the floor outside your bedroom. after all, you’ve finally accepted him.

so why are you screaming? 

he couldn't figure out why you weren't happy to finally see him. why you were so surprised when he told you that you two would be together soon. he didn't understand why you fought him off either. 

he watched you frantically reach for your cellphone on your dresser, and had you not been shaking so much you probably could've made the call while you had him stunned. but your mistake gave him enough time to recover. he made sure to break it before he came back for you. large hands covered by black gloves dragging you back to your mattress, forcing you on your back. 

he'll never forget the way you looked at him. eyes wide as if you've seen a ghost, body trembling yet frozen in your fear, frantically trying to make your eyes adjust so you can see the figure above you.

frozen when he reached into his pants, eager to finally be inside you after weeks of watching and waiting, after dealing with your endless teasing. you'd mumbled a plead for him to wait that fell on deaf ears, sunghoon too occupied with getting his cock free and forcing your legs open. 

"wait! w-wait! don't!"  he'd heard that one, but it was weak, barely audible even. had you really wanted him to wait or even stop, you would've screamed like you did just minutes before. you would've made it harder for him to force your hands away. 

you wouldn't have put on this skimpy little night gown either. you made it too easy for him for him to shove a hand between your legs and push the damp fabric to the side. didn't even try to hide your ecstasy when he finally got himself inside you. 

it was all he dreamed of and more. so much better than sneaking in under the guise of the night and getting off by himself after pulling your covers back. never once did he think he'd actually be on top of you, buried deep inside of your cunt instead of using your hand while you're sleeping.

much different to see you squirming, mouth hung open as you release sounds of pleasure despite your feeble attempts at trying to resist. your legs kick in the air, arms pressed to your chest as sunghoon keeps up with his ruthless thrusting. he's used to having you so easily pliant, and at his disposal. 

didn't expect you to be so coy, instinctively moving to cover your chest as if he hasn't seen everything already. he surely didn't expect you to reject his kiss just moments after, going as far as biting him.

"fuck!"

it makes him draw back, the metallic taste in his mouth making him realize you actually drew blood. it infuriates him, and his hand cocks back and comes across your face before you have time to dodge. he wraps a hand around your throat to serve as a warning, thumb and forefinger squeezing around your artery. 

it's just enough to force you into submission for the time being. enough for sunghoon to lean back in and kiss you properly this time. sloppy open mouthed kisses against your lips, leading down to your chest. he makes sure to leave marks along the way. whether its around your neck, across your chest, at your hips, your wrists— anywhere to make sure you don't forget this eventful night. 

his thrusts are rough enough to do the same, sure to leave you sore in the morning, maybe even the days following.

he only lets go of your neck when tears form at your eyes and you begin to claw at his wrists. a loud gasp fills the air, followed by a choked and frantic "stop, stop!"

had you not began to convulse beneath him and cry out sounds of pleasure in the immediate seconds following, he just might have. 

he has to swallow back a laugh when he glances between your legs to where the two of you meet. skin of your thighs and the fabric of his jeans saturated in your orgasm. all the more reason for him to believe you want this just as much as him.

he's just a few more thrusts behind you, stifling back his own groans as his hips begin to stutter, cumming inside of you without warning shortly after.

this is something he’ll truly never forget. he’ll make sure you don’t either.

just as long as you continue to keep your door open.

[chibinasuu]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do Luffy, Zoro, and Sanji (separately) X Reader, and it's of them already in a relationship, and kind of based on the trend on TikTok, Reader calls them "Buddy" to see their reaction?

hi!! sorry this took so long, i just returned from a trip and didn’t have much time to write at all last week. thanks for the request, this was so fun to write! this was my first time writing short drabbles like this, but i hope i captured the boys’ reactions well :)

“Buddy”

Pairings: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji x Reader (separate)  Tags: sfw, fluff, established relationship, GN but written with F!Reader in mind, no use of y/n

Sanji

The lid to the peanut butter jar was exceptionally tight that morning. 

You glanced at Sanji, who was trying and failing to prevent his lips from turning up into a mischievous smirk. You rolled your eyes as a small huff escaped your mouth.

Did he seriously think you wouldn’t catch on to his little schemes? You had long been aware that he’d sometimes purposefully tighten the lids to all of the jars in the kitchen just so you would ask him for help. 

After struggling for a good few seconds, you finally relented and passed the jar to him, “Open this for me, please?”

Sanji beamed at you, “Why, of course, dearest! With pleasure.” 

He popped the lid open with ease and handed the jar back to you.

You took it gratefully but couldn’t resist the temptation of getting back at him in some way. So, as you walked away, you patted his shoulder and said lightly, “Thanks, buddy!”

You instantly regretted it when you saw Sanji’s crestfallen expression, “...Buddy?”

He looked like he was close to tears as he searched your face, “A-are you mad at me? Is this about the jars? I promise I won't do it aga–” 

His small voice broke you and you immediately rushed back to him, “Oh sweetheart, no, I’m just joking!” 

You planted a kiss on his cheek, “I’m sorry, honey.” You moved your lips to his other cheek, “Baby.” To his forehead, “Darling.”

He let out a relieved sigh at the return of your usual repertoire of nicknames, before squishing your cheeks in between his hands, “Don’t ever call me buddy again. Please.” 

You chuckled, “Yes, my love.” 

He nodded, satisfied at your answer, before leaning in and melding his lips to yours in the sweetest kiss.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Zoro

“Hey, can you pass me the towel?” 

You were sitting on the bench of the crow’s nest, quietly reading your book as Zoro spent hours after hours working out. This was the first instance that he had spoken to you in all that time, which was no surprise, really. You knew that he took his workout very seriously.

But, you couldn’t deny that it still annoyed you to no end that he had not glanced even once in your direction this whole time, despite this being one of the rare moments that the two of you could spend alone onboard this rowdy ship. 

“Sure.” You reached for the towel beside you and tossed it in his direction, “Here you go, buddy!”

“Thank–” Zoro started to reply before he registered your words. He looked at you, his face contorted in what you could only describe as disgust, “Ha?!”

You smirked at how readily he took your bait, watching him closely as he wiped off his sweat and stalked toward you. He placed his hands on the bench on either side of you, caging you in as he bent forward to bring his face close to yours, “What did you just call me?”

“What, you don't like my new nickname for you, buddy?” You taunted, fully realizing that this would piss him off even further.

“Oh, am I your buddy, now?” He pressed his body even closer to yours, an intense look in his eyes as he said, “Well, would a buddy do this, then?” 

Your heart danced in victory when his lips finally captured yours in a hungry kiss, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down onto the bench.

Maybe you should rile him up more often.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Luffy

Luffy was sitting at his usual spot at the figurehead when you approached him. 

The conversation you had with Nami earlier still plagued your mind. She had told you that men hated to be called “buddy” by their significant other, but you were pretty sure that Luffy wouldn’t mind at all. He had liked all of the nicknames you gave him so far, no matter how ridiculous they were. She laughed and disagreed, telling you that Luffy was a man after all, and there was no way he would not be affected in some way. 

So, that’s how you ended up climbing the stairs to the figurehead, on your way to test Nami’s theory. 

“Hey, buddy!” You called out to Luffy.

His head tilted in confusion as he turned to face you, before replying uncertainly, “Hey to you too… buddy.”

Well, how the table had turned. You didn’t expect him to call you "buddy” back. And you didn’t like it. At all. 

“Ugh.” You groaned as you sat down beside him, “Forget that. Please don’t call me buddy.” 

He pouted, “Hey, you said it first!” 

You chuckled and caressed his cheek, your thumb lightly grazing over his scar, “My bad, turned out I don’t like it when you called me that.” 

“Well, I don’t like it either.” He shrugged as he admitted, “It made me feel like I was just your friend. And I’m not… right?” 

So Nami was right. It did affect him.

“You’re right, I’m sorry." You smiled, somehow filled with a strange satisfaction, as you pulled him in for a quick kiss, "You're definitely more than just my buddy, Lu.”

You kept his face close to yours as you said, “I promise I won’t call you buddy ever again if you promise not to call me buddy too.”

Luffy laughed before closing the gap between you again, “Deal!”

↳ masterlist

[rehmes]

Nothing Solitary about Us : ⋆༘ Wriothesley / reader | headcannons . oneshot

‗ content / trigger warning: bigger story / reader background not fully mentioned, reader is a refugee, Wriothesley swooning (in his own way), thoughts of self doubt, fluff/angst?? Like a weird mixture of the two, not beta read, we die like Wriothesley's adoptive parents. ‗word count: 4k ‗ author's note: If you saw when I accidentally posted this the first time . . . no you didn't! Apologies if it's ooc, a little long, or has errors in spelling. English isn't my first language and this is the first time I've written for Wriothesley! Any suggestions to improve will be much appreciated! :D

Wriothesley could still remember the day he saw you, the day that you had come into the Fortress after, purposefully, committing a crime to gain some sort of refugee status; Why you thought to come to a prison, of all places, to receive such a thing baffled him the most. And it had baffled him for the longest time until you had told him why:

You and The Duke first met when The Duke wasn’t even The Duke; Meeting as cellmates in the Fortress, having been put in the same age group for practically everything that the Fortress had to offer at that time. Which wasn't a lot, and with Wrothesley’s lack of enthusiasm to even look in your direction, it made everything a lot more insufferable. But, Wriothesley didn’t know that; He was just intent on staying out of your way and not causing any more trouble for himself. Likewise, the thought of making friends with you did creep into his mind but so did the doubts that you might hate him after you figured out why he was sentenced here. So, it took a lot for Wriothesley and you to actually begin talking, despite being paired for a lot of the backbreaking activities. And, Wriothesley does still remember that day, too: It was after a tiring shift, where you were both thoroughly whipped out and about to crash at the dinner tables. You both had used coupons to buy food, and didn’t even have the energy to sit at different tables, muchless to open the containers containing your dinner. It felt as though every muscle in your bodies had been torn, limb from limb, muscle from tissue and bone, it was excruciating… and you were about sure you could appeal to the Iudex about this being considered some sort of child labor. Maybe even murder if they kept pushing you both like this. Luckily, you guessed, Wriothesley looked a little better in shape than you did, but he was not far lagging behind. With shaking hands he reached out to open his dinner for the night, to only pause and stare down in horror at what was on his tray. It made you nervous to even peek into yours, seeing the way Wriothesley’s face contorted; A corner of his left eye tightening, his eyebrows furrowing down to create visible creases along his forehead, and a scowl you’ve only ever seen when someone bothered him. A look of pure disgust.

Yet, you still checked yours away. You didn’t know that Wriothesley had glanced up to see if you had gotten the same horror as he did, and by some god awful prank (or pure disluck) you also had the conglomeration on your plate. Some weird, mysterious meat that sat on the plate, sometimes twitching like it was still mooing, sometimes resting as meat should rest. Equally unappetizing and making your hunger even more apparent, as you were tempted to taste the horrific creation that came out of that unsanitized kitchen. “You know,” Your voice caught Wriothesley's attention, as his had drifted down to the plate of food in front of him. His eyes shot up and barely met yours, “it could be worse?” You shrugged your shoulders in a joking way, giving Wriothesley an awkward look paired with an even awkwarder smile. He was a bit baffled at your conclusion, “It could be worse?” He questioned, calm and steady, confused and a bit curious on where you were going to go with such a statement.

In his fatigue, he had broken the one rule he had set for himself in this place; Don’t talk to anyone, don’t make yourself known, don’t make any friends. In his fatigue he didn’t believe answering you would be so wrong nor did he believe that you two would ever speak again after his point, so why not entertain you… and himself.

“At least they didn’t puke on our plate?” The joke fell from your lips with the weakest chuckle you could muster. Your eyes drooped and the pain was evident in the way your eyes shined ever so less than normal. Wriothesley was about to respond, yet you managed to get at it before him; “You know, where I came from, if you didn’t have a fire you had to eat your fish cold! Like, ice cold. And there was nothing you could do about it… other descale the thing and pray you didn’t just eat your last meal.” “Is that right?” Wriothesley cocked an eyebrow up, unsure where you had come from yet didn’t enjoy the images that came into his head. Well, one was particularly funny and it was the thought of you trying to bite into a frozen fish and hurting your teeth. Not like he wanted that to happen, maybe. “Well, don’t give the kitchen staff any ideas or maybe they’ll just import that from your weird homeland.” It had been a while since Wriothesley had laughed, and he couldn’t help but chuckle softly alongside you. The conversation was a ridiculous one, especially when first conversations usually went along the lines of introducing yourselves to each other. Yet, oddly to Wriothesley, it felt about right. And from that day, Wriothesley was sure he didn’t know of a day where he didn’t talk to you. Even if it started with a small greeting in the hallway or pointers on how to do a job more efficiently, small conversation gradually turned into the two of you chatting for hours eating lunch or dinner and even trying to talk after lights out. It finally felt like you had escaped your past and had a friend in a place you named your refuge, and Wriothesley finally felt like he had met someone (though this feeling was slow and gradually coming) that would accept him, despite his past doings.

Wriothesley interlocked his fingers, resting his elbows on the table, and nestled his chin on the finger net he had made. His eyes were softer than usual, yet that piercing blue. Back then, when you two had simply been inmates trying to work out your frustration and struggles with the world; Now, you laid on the couch in Wriothesley’s office in the fortress, with his coat draped over you like a blanket, napping. From outside eyes, you both would look like the perfect couple, yet he hadn’t even managed to ask you the question yet; But, he had an inkling you understood, just as he did, how he felt about you. Otherwise, Wriothesley couldn’t fathom why you decide to spend your nights in his office, keeping him company, when you could be in the nurse wing with Sigewinne or doing “orderly duties” for the fortress above on the surface. It made a small smile twitch onto his lips seeing you, you always managed to do that; But, it also bubbled the age old question in his mind . . . is this life good enough for you? Wriothesley is usually a calm man, a collected one, who didn’t often question why people came to the Fortress and simply gave them a second chance at peace – well, more frankly, at life. He understood how such a thing could quell the anger that simmered in convicts and made it his life work to make sure everyone was treated as fairly as they worked for. Yet, you? You were a different question. He still wasn’t sure why you had come to the Fortress in the first place, yet had deduced from several conversations you came from the Snezhnaya. Sure, he could go into the room lined with file drawers with the reasons why convicts had been placed into captivity, but that room was one, far too crowded for his taste, and two, he didn’t wish on peaking into your personal life. At least, without your permission. 

Yet, still, the thought always crossed him on why you were here – by choice! Not that you walked in and checked yourself in, yet you committed many crimes to be noticed in Fontaine, trailed in court, then admitted to your crimes to be placed into the Fortress. The thought of doing such a thing made him cross his arms and lean back in the chair, his eyes more settled on your sleeping form and the way his jacket hugged the curves of your body. You always looked so happy on the surface, to see the sky and breathe the fresh air. Wriothesley wouldn’t want to keep you trapped in the Fortress. “I’ve never seen you so pensive before, Duke!” A voice suddenly appeared besides Wriothesley, causing him to jerk out of his train of thought. He sat up straight, a little suddenly, as he quickly turned to notice the all too familiar nurse of the Fortress: Sigewinne. The Duke played off his thoughts with a chuckle, “Ah, yes, well, I was thinking about something, Sigewinne.” He would half-heartedly joke, as the nurse gave him an all too unamused look. ‘No shit’, was what he was sure she was telling him in her head, but he only responded with a cool snicker. “Well, the tea you ordered from Liyue arrived at the Fortress and I came wondering if you wanted some,” The offer hung in the air, and Wriothesley knew the nurse would tag on a remark. “But it seems like you may need to talk out some problems.” She wasn’t an expert on human emotions, but she was better than spilling his mind to an inmate, Wriothesley guessed… or maybe even you. A pensive hum left the Duke’s lips as Sigewinne walked over, a hop away from skipping, and settled her tray with tea onto his desk. Promptly, she would nestle herself properly into a chair on the other side of Wriothesley’s desk, hands resting over her stomach and a pleased smile on her face.

“Go on, Wriothesley! I’m open ears.” Chimed the Nurse. Though only playful sarcasm came from the Duke as he poured himself a cup of tea, “Hmm, talking about my emotions? That seems like such a fun topic.” He knew it was needed, if not wanted. Even more so when Sigewinne didn’t seem too pleased with his half-hearted answer; As she pouted her lips and let out an extensive huff; “As the nurse, I care for everyone in the Fortress and that includes you too, Duke! Please, don’t make my job any harder than it needs to be.” There was an earnest tone in her voice, and Wriothesley knew she was getting better in her studies.

Even more so when she shook her head after his moments of silence, “Your eyebrows are frowned and your eyes rest everywhere but me or,” Wriothesley’s eyes drifted to you when Sigewinne pointed you out. You had shifted in your sleep, now laying on your back. You were peaceful; It made his eyes soften. He remembered when you used to have trouble sleeping by yourself, never feeling safe enough… Now you were sleeping like nothing in the world could ever hurt you. Like those fears of the past were nothing but fears. And they were; Wriothesley will make sure of it.

Sigewinne’s eyes had drifted off to you too. She was silent as she surveyed the way you slept and then the way Wriothesley lingered his attention on you. “You’re still debating whether or not to tell her, huh?” “And where did you hear that?” There’s the cheeky Sigewinne that Wriothesley knew. Of course, he knew her more caring side as the Nurse but he had a hunch that she also knew about why he had been so “thoughtful” – to put it colorfully. Though Sigewinne would shake her head and smile, “You’re very obvious sometimes! I think even Miss Clorinde knows!” That wouldn’t be good. Not at all. “Does she now?” But Wriothesley had to remain cool, collected. Now, it wasn’t that Wriothesley was embarrassed for others to know of his crush on you – well, by this point, it’s lasted so long he was sure he could dub it love, but better safe than sorry if you didn’t return his feelings – but he was simply cautious about other inmates knowing. After all, you were still technically one of them, an inmate. Your sentencing had been for about three years, maybe four, but you never left. You had chosen to stay since the first day you came, technically giving you a life sentence on your own will. So, if the other inmates know about the two of you – or well Writoehsley’s feelings – it could put your life in danger. There was a tick of silence again, something Wriothesley was rather fond of sometimes… like in this case. Yet, his eyes did not miss Sigewinne standing up from her chair and striding over to where you rested on the couch. There was a careful, cautious, way she held her hand out as she checked you.

“She’s still asleep,” Sigewinne noted.

And Wriothesley hummed in response, “I couldn’t tell.” Where was Sigewinne going with this, Wriothesley’s eyes narrowed slightly, though they were not harsh.

“Maybe she’s dreaming about you, Duke!”

Wriothesley is a hard man to crack. He was the Duke of the Fortress, a peacekeeper among the convicted, and yet sometimes when he was with you he couldn’t help but be that ever so lenient. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to confess to you after Sigewinne had come skipping into his office late one day while you were in her Medical Bay. It wasn’t uncommon, of course, being in the Fortress there were few people to speak to you with the kindness Sigewinne does; And you two often had conversations, even nights where you would have quote-on-quote sleepovers. Yet, today you went due to a headache. And, no less than an hour later, Sigewinne came skipping into his office like she had won the lottery – and Wriothesley half-entertained such a ridiculous thought. “What’s the good news, Nurse Sigewinne?” Wriothesley played along with her bubbly demeanor; Enjoying the change of pace from his slow, meticulous work which dragged on for hours on end. He swore to himself when he was half way done, he would go check on you, yet he was only a ¼. Luckily, seemingly, the news had been brought to him. “Well, they’re doing a lot better! It only appeared to be a headache due to not drinking enough water, but that tends to be normal.” Sigewinne reported as she came to a halt beside Wriothesley’s desk. “But, she also spoke rather colorfully about you!"

“Oh?” Wriothesley’s curiosity peaked, though a voice also nagged him about respecting your privacy. “Is that a good thing, or perhaps a bad thing, Nurse Sigewinne?” He knew she wouldn’t be able to tell him much, as there still was patient confidentiality, even in the Fortress. But, by the way Sigewinne’s face beamed and the way her hands animatedly rested upon her hip, he was sure she was about to tell him to shoot his shot… once again. He thought it was enough she had gotten the others to bug him about it, while also still placing stickers upon his back, but he couldn’t stay angered, or even annoyed, at them for long. Or at all. “I can’t say much, but I say you have a very good chance of landing her, Mr. Wriothesley!” Sigewinne beamed, and Wriothesley swore her smile went ear to ear.

Wriothesley was a private man, as private as one can get for being the Duke of a prison, yet you can always tell how he felt about a person from his actions. He was, and is, a man of few words … he always had been since you two were teenagers. And you never failed to take notice of it. Especially when he first began to give you some favor. 

Of course, it was nothing too big, nor grand, when you were teenagers going onto young adults. It was small gestures that would brighten up your day ever so slightly more, like holding open the door for you or walking closer when a nasty group of inmates sent creepy looks your way. He had even gotten into a fight with one of them after they approached you. Wriothesley had walked away for a second, going to get you both your lunch, when he turned around to see the guy grabbing your arm. Seeing you wriggle and writhe under the man’s disgusting touch was more than enough for Wriothesley to send a nasty blow to the side of the guy’s head, which caused him to crack his head open on the floor below.  It had been one of the few complications he had gotten into while at the Fortress, and he never regretted it. At least, that’s what he constantly told you and you had to believe his word. But, that event had been the first time that you felt some sort of pang in your heart regarding the, now, Duke; And it surely wasn’t the last. Especially after you were sure that Wriothesley was sending signals your way constantly by his small actions that always made you feel safer, closer, to him.

Yet, you had always had your own reservations on confessing to the Duke; Mostly having to do with where you came from, why you had left, and who was currently looking for you. You didn’t want Wriothesley, no matter how many times he defended you and said he would punch someone’s lights out if they messed with you, to get hurt because of the people you used to know. So you always waited for him to confess… and then tell him the dangers. But, day by day you compiled more and more reasons as to why Wriothesley might love you, and many more reasons why you loved him back. For one, he was a complete gentleman; To that, while he tended to be a little short and cold, he very much made it apparent that you could tell him anything, or even just lean on him if you needed. When you two walked, sometimes his hand would rest on the small of your back rather than your waist, and he would open the doors for you when you entered a building. Then there was the glares to the inmates who tried to mess with you, which was a little less fun to deal with, but a comfort nonetheless, and the visits to the Medical Bay he’d personally take to check up on your well being. There was, of course, a lot more that Wriothesley did that always made you feel special, more than you could ever count in a lifetime. And you were sure if things were different in your life you would have confessed to him long ago about the feelings that continuously welled in your chest, like a rapid river bashing against a dam begging to be freed yet never feeling such freedom. Man, wasn’t that poetic? 

“Hey, we need to talk.” Wriothesley’s voice was like a net, catching your attention and bringing it to shore – bringing you back to the present moment and back to Wriothesley. You had been at lunch, having brought up your meal you bought with coupons up to Wriothesley’s office and was currently toying with it on his floor. You would usually be sitting on the couch, waiting for the Duke to spare some attention to you which he tended to grace you with more than others. (Seriously! You had watched Neuvillette have to sit and wait for about an hour or more to speak with the Duke as he finished up some paperwork. It was slightly painful). But, you decided to not test your luck that day and possibly stain Wriothesley’s couch with… whatever you were eating. Honestly, you were so lost in thought you had forgotten what they had served, and now looking at it, it was too much of a mess for your brain to piece together. “A talk? That’s never good,” The sly comment shortly dropped from your lips, a snicker across your face as you glanced up at the Duke. His arms were crossed in a somehow pensive and relaxed (you weren’t sure how that's feasible, but he made it work) fashion as he leaned back against his chair, having taken his eyes off of his work for the first time in a few hours. Unknown to you, he hadn’t been able to complete some of the papers that flooded his desk because his mind kept drifting back to you. You. God, you were so perfect in his eyes. Even if he logically knew that no one could be quote-on-quote perfect, he sometimes chose to ignore that fact for you. Only you, really. 

“Nah, I think you’ll like this one,” Wriothesley continued, a chuckle present upon his lips that gave his stubble some light. When was the last time he shaved? The thought crossed your mind. You didn’t mind it, of course, you always enjoyed his stubble, it made him look more handsome in your eyes. But, even so, his looks weren’t enough to evade your skeptical side glance and the cock of your eyebrow. Even if Wriothesley snickered, knowing you had been checking him out a little; After all, he sometimes purposely lets his stubble grow out for you. Wriothesley was a man of few words, and even sometimes his words tended to fail him. So, there was a brief moment that his eyes lingered onto yours, and yours lingered right back to his. A beat, maybe even longer, before he stood from his desk and strided over to where you sat on the floor, kneeling down to your height. And, being so close, you could almost see all the words that were swirling in his head in his eyes; The regrets yet also momentums that wanted to pour out, yet he kept locked inside, as he reached a hand out and wiped a smug of food from your cheek. To others, his face might have seemed cold or indifferent, but you could tell there was some sort of attentiveness in his eyes that gave him away. It always had. And, just like Wriothesley, your own eyes and body always tended to give you away to him. The way your eyes crinkled ever so more when you laughed at one of his poorly delivered jokes. The way you always entertained the joke of Sigewinne being your shared child, much to her dismay, and the way you always naturally floated to his presence when he was in a room.

“You’re a horrible liar, you know that, right?” Wriothesley would tease, as a crinkle appeared in the corner of his eye. You knew what he was talking about and it made your heart flip. Both in a good way and a bad way. You would feel guilty putting Wriothesley into the fire that you had forged, which burnt down everything you had ever known beforehand. And yet, you were unaware that Wriothesley was equally as revered as confessing to you due to the likeness that the Fortress might become your shared home. He didn’t want that life for you as much as you didn’t want your life for him. And yet, despite that, Wriothesley was shooting his shot, as despite all the uncertainties that clouded both of your minds, there will still always be a shared affection for one another that wouldn’t fade easily, if ever. So, you snorted and confessed, “You’re not much better yourself, Duke.” Despite your mind screaming at you differently.

And, it was strangely peaceful to get that heavy weight off your chest, even if it felt like your heart was being crushed all the same. Though, if you were able to weather your own struggles with anyone, you know it would be with Wriothesley – in turn, Wriothesley knew that if push came to shove, you’ll be there to lend him the extra strength to deal twice the blow. And so it always felt right, in your hearts, for you two to be together. Yet, why did that new found heavyweight only grow heavier?

Home | Masterlist

[pen-and-umbra]

The second episode of the Remake, FF7 Rebirth, has proven to be a terrific experience thus far. SE obviously made a few big decisions here and there.

It is seemingly implied now that Jenova wasn't "brain-dead", and it is hinted that Sephiroth was addled during his breakdown.

It all begins with a strategically placed cut, when Sephiroth touches the door bearing the name Jenova and instructs "Cloud" to close the valve. The scene is merely functional for new fans, yet leaves a vacant space that Crisis Core players will quickly fill in with the inferred arrival of Genesis. Smart move that, leaving the interpretation to the player. Whether Genesis exists inside the Remake's continuity or not, the moment reads differently to each fan. Quite frankly, I was half-expecting “Cloud” to come across a banora apple, rolling on the floor, but I suppose that would be telling.

What's remarkable is that they give Sephiroth almost identical symptoms to those that Cloud has in the remake. Glitches and odd headaches superimpose themselves nicely over the original Crisis Core scene. And, as much as I loathe Tyler Hoechlin's acting in the game, he lends a tangible sense of rage to Sephiroth's disparaging remarks about Hojo and his experiments. You can hear the hatred, a touch of pity, and disgust directed at Hojo's work and the creatures he tortured. In Crisis Core, he refers to the test subjects as “abominations” with the same touch of bitterness.

Back to the point: glitches, pupil dilations, and headaches are visual cues for Jenovaroth's influence or proximity, as shown in the first part of the Remake. However, at this point, Sephiroth is still sane — cracking, but still himself — so the only agent who can exert influence on him is, well, Jenova.

Now, a widely established fan hypothesis maintained that Jenova was brain-dead or comatose. Bodily functions sustained, but brain activity plateaued. Rebirth, however, strangely suggests otherwise.

When "Cloud" returns to Sephiroth in the manor's basement for the second time, Sephiroth recites an excerpt from a journal purportedly written by Professor Gast: 

“The specimen, found in a strata dating back two thousand years, smiled with what could only be described as 'ethereal grace'… Though the truth eluded me at first, I later determined that she was an Ancient - or a 'steward of the planet', as they are referred to in legend”. 

Remembering the battles with Jenova Dreamweaver and Jenova Emergent, the creature is far from "graceful" or "ethereal". There is nothing graceful about her figure in the tube either, and she is not smiling. The game goes out of its way to lampshade the glaring contradiction by showing the flashes of Jenova’s fanged skull and grotesque body as Sephiroth quotes the passage. So how could Gast perceive her as such?.. The answer is most likely found in Jenova Dreamweaver's description given in Ultimania: the entity has the ability to induce hallucinations in individuals who come into proximity with it, which is further corroborated by Jenova Emergent description.

An ancient lifeform that Shinra Company has kept under strict confidentiality. Those who come into contact can have their conscience interfered as well as see illusions. Professor Hojo has dedicated half of his life to researching Jenova, and within the Shinra Company building's top floors lies a secret research center called the "Dome," where Jenova's cells are injected into lifeforms or machinery to conduct experiments. (Ultimania)

Gast even writes that “the truth eluded him at first”, but LATER he determines the specimen belonged to the race of Ancients, as if that answer was suggested. The implication is chilling: Jenova may have purposefully misled Gast in order to present itself as an Ancient. As Sephiroth later explains in the FF7Rb, Jenova is capable of seeing deep into one's soul and impersonating individuals you fear, love, or hate.

If ShinRA and Gast were determined to unravel the mysteries of Ancients and their Promised Land, it would make sense for Jenova to "scan" Gast and determine the best course of action: disguise itself as an Ancient in order to escape captivity in geological strata jail.

The scene in which Sephiroth reads Gast's notes is possibly the final time he is more or less himself, before Jenova's image intermingles with his for a brief moment. Again, I appreciate Tyler's voice acting in this particular section and the real rage he brought to it. Admittedly, I was concerned that with next-gen visuals, they would take a more gruesome approach, displaying Sephiroth conducting the Nibelheim carnage with sadistic pleasure, but they took a different route. Slow, zombie-like movements, and a glassy expression.

He speared the militiamen as casually as if he were spearing bugs, which is far more frightening from a narrative point. What jumped out was how they emphasized the possessed-like behavior: from snarling and flailing the book like a suffering person to an empty countenance and automaton-like strides, as if he was being beckoned. Which is what "Mother is waiting" implies.

The final segment of the Nibelheim flashback is likely the most essential as well. According to previous developer claims, Sephiroth's will took precedence over Jenova's, and he was in control — whether Jenova was brain-dead or simply of lesser willpower.  However, the Rebirth appears to suggest something different right off the bat. First, "Cloud" shouts, "I believed in you… No… Not you — whoever the hell you are!", highlighting the significant personality change and the resulting lack of recognition. But then "Cloud" sees Jenova's image superimposed over that of Sephiroth in a rapid, glitch-like succession.

In other words, he sees Jenova inhabiting Sephiroth's body as a vehicle to once again escape the confinements. Whatever that means, whether it suggests that Jenova is in control from the start, or whether Sephiroth is literally the greatest functional agglomeration of her cells, and therefore literally “becomes” Jenova. 

If Jenova's original body was severely damaged — either as a result of eons of incarceration or Hojo's tinkering — it stands to reason that, if she wished to carry out her plan, she would need a new body, one capable of moving at the very least. Perhaps Sephiroth, an able-bodied skilled Mako-infused fighter of considerable might, served as a better "vessel" than her original damaged one. 

But the crux of the matter lies elsewhere. The possibility of Jenova being conscious and influencing Gast is very terrifying. With the potential to affect others in close vicinity, she may have influenced the minds of the whole science team behind the Jenova Project, particularly those who had long-term contact with her tissue — Gast and Hojo. It could turn out that the whole idea to revive an “Ancient” was planted by Jenova in order to grow itself a powerful host. In fact, if it could "peer into one's soul," i.e. read minds and memories, it might have easily identified a pressure point to indoctrinate people who could forward her objective. It's one thing to inject tissue samples into an adult body; it's quite another to devise a plan to inject cells into a developing human fetus. Who knows. Perhaps Hojo is such an obsessed Jenova nutcase in large part because he fell under its spell; feelings of inadequacy and being overshadowed by his colleague may have offered a crack in his defenses.

One that Jenova easily took advantage of. After all, as Dirge of Cerberus implies, Hojo ended up implanting himself with alien organic material.

Again, Jenova's power to extract information from an individual when in proximity supports a bleak reading of the events leading up to Nibelheim's ransacking. A person who kept on carrying a photograph of his supposedly late mother and badgered others about his background, as suggested by Ever Crisis episodes, was literally wearing his weakness on a sleeve.

Perhaps the 30-something years of the Jenova Project were supposed to bring Sephiroth there.

Perhaps the chain of events had been nudged in that direction, starting from the very discovery of a derelict non-human lifeform. Nudged by an intelligence both cunning and incomprehensible. And that makes Jenova a much, much scarier presence in the remake than it was ever suggested in OG.

[lailols]

I hope I'm not bothering you and you don't have to write this if it makes you feel better you can but I'm curious. All txt members are dom overstimulation orgasm denial and in addition to that, I wonder what the members who ate special chocolate would be like. I really trust you, I'm sorry, my English is not very good, I hope I can be understood.

Okay, we'll (I'll) answer this in two parts!

MDNI! Very hastily written, don’t kill me

MTL (ish) overstim v denial

Overstim

Yeonjun

Soobin

Kai

Taehyun

Beomgyu

Denial

Yeonjun does it both as a punishment and just on the daily. He’s all about making sure you’re thoroughly satisfied by the end of the night, and with his stamina, you surely will be. Whether it’s from his fingers, mouth, thigh, or cock, you’re being sent to heaven every single time. If you’re not blacking out from pleasure, he’s not doing his job right. If he’s just doing it for funsies, he’s praising you all the while telling you ‘just one more’ and ‘you’re such a good girl for taking it.’ If it’s a punishment he’s saying ‘if it hurts, why is your body still pulling me in, hm?’ and ‘if you act like a slut, you’re going to get treated like one’

Soobin truly doesn’t mean to, but he just gets so captured in how good you feel and loses himself in the moment. It’s only natural that before he even thinks about getting inside you he’s prepping you and then eating you out. Like that’s not even a question. So that’s two there. And then once he’s inside you, he’s not thinking anymore, literally you’re synonymous with a fleshlight at that point. Tears streaming down your face because he’s come twice and he’s still going. And then afterwards the little pervert is going down on you again because the sight of his come dripping out of you is too tempting.

Kai is a bit of a wild card. Heavily inspired by kpg! Kai (you should read that if you haven’t wink wink) but he just gets such a power trip from the way you completely trust him with your body. If he decides to overstim you? You’re taking it with trembling thighs and tears in your eyes. If he decides you don’t deserve to come? You’re crying and begging but taking all that he’s willing to give you while holding off your impending orgasm. He doesn’t really have tells for either mood and while he’s not above punishment, that’s not really his motivator either. It really just depends on what he’s feeling like in the moment.

Taehyun will only deny you as a punishment. He’s a simple man that thinks good girls should come and stupid sluts should not. That’s not to say that he doesn’t purposefully make rules so that you break them, but you’d think that after all this time you’d know better, right? It’s not his fault you’re breaking rules, he just has to enforce them. You know your safe word and if you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t have broken the rule in the first place. Your tears will not sway him but if you cry enough he might come back later to let you come. Maybe. And while he does go a few rounds, it’s with breaks in between and not all at once so I don’t think it counts as overstim?

Beomgyu is just so mean :(. He likes keeping you wound up and frustrated. He likes having you beg and plead for him to let you come and then deciding not to anyways. It’s like a game to him. Will he? Won’t he? Hell, half the time he doesn’t know himself. It’s a bit of a power trip for him. You could be a brat or even just the perfect princes, and he still won’t let you come. But he’s not a complete monster, if you don’t deserve to come from his dick, he’ll let you get yourself off on a pillow if you’re so desperate.

[froggiewrites]

i love your writing so much and im so glad you opened requests!! :) i would love if you wrote a fic about zoro being dominant (maybe some spanking/spitting?) him having a dirty mouth, and perhaps some edging? i have another idea that i'll send in a diff message too! even if you dont choose this one i look forward to reading the others <3

I've never written anything with a lot of dirty talk or dominance before, but I tried my best, and I hope I did it justice! 😊

Playing Rough

Pairing: Zoro x Reader

NSFW

Summary: You're being terribly stubborn, insisting on fighting battles you can't handle. Zoro decides to put you in your place. Warnings: Smut, Dom Zoro, Spanking, Dirty Talk, Slight Edging, Begging Word Count: 2.4k

It was a stupid argument, one that shouldn’t have happened.

The battle you had been through was rough, sure, but you didn’t take any damage that wouldn’t heal. Zoro had insisted you not fight on your own, not take on any challenge you couldn’t handle, and you had insisted that you were more than capable of handling it. And you were. You came home, didn’t you? And the bruises might be nasty and the stitches weren’t terribly fun either, but you were in one piece. You had managed to hobble your way back to the ship on your own, and you didn’t even collapse before making it into Zoro’s arms.

You were too out of it to comprehend the words he said, though you understood the panic and fear in his tone well enough. And you certainly understood the words he spoke when you first woke up.

“Are you stupid?”

“Excuse me?”

Before you could truly get angry, his arms were around you, crushing you against his chest. You can feel a slight tremor as he takes a deep breath, nose buried in your hair, taking in your scent, your warmth, any evidence that you are here with him and alive. He takes a shuddering inhale, the closest thing to weakness you’ve ever heard from him, before his voice comes back again, rough and absolutely furious. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t almost die.” You try to say it sweetly, soothingly, but his fingers tighten in a way that is less than kind.

“You almost died. You went even though you knew you shouldn’t, and you almost died. I almost lost you.” His voice isn’t shaking, not quite, but you swear you feel the tremor anyway. Zoro is not a man easily rattled, yet somehow you have shaken him to his very foundation.

“You could never lose me, Zoro. I knew what I was doing, I promise.”

“You knew the risk you were taking?”

“Yes. But I had to do it.” You bring a hand up to run through his hair. “I knew I would come back. I knew what I was doing, and I knew I was strong enough. I promise.”

You’re suddenly devoid of his warmth as he pulls away, glaring at you. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Chopper said if you got back even a few minutes later…” He trails off, clenching his teeth.

“But I didn’t,” you insist. “Everything turned out fine, Zoro.”

“Do you think that’s all that matters?”

“Kind of!”

He huffs. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He stalks out of the room, slamming the door as he leaves. You throw yourself back onto the bed, wincing as you realize your ribs are very much broken. Every inch of you is bruised, and it hurts to breathe. But it was worth it. He would understand that eventually. Not every fight has a pretty ending, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t finish them.

He did not understand, as it turns out.

He still helped you as you healed, your dear protector always carrying you so gently, so purposefully. But you could feel the distance, the tension. Neither of you acknowledged it, focusing on your health first and foremost, but it haunted every moment you two were together. Touches were fleeting, conversation was sparse. But finally, finally, today you have been officially given a clean bill of health by Chopper.

“You’re cleared for everyday activity, but I still want you to stay out of fights for a while. And don’t do anything that reckless again!” Chopper’s words are law when it comes to your health, so you’ll do your best, but you can’t help but think of how no one else on this ship would follow such instructions.

“I’ll try.” No promises you can’t keep, and Chopper purses his lips a little when he realizes, but after a moment he simply nods. He’s used to patients even more stubborn than you, of course.

As you leave the office, ready to get back to your regular life, you’re instantly met by Zoro’s broad chest as he pulls you into him.

“You’re fine now?” There’s a tension to his voice you don’t fully understand.

“I–yeah? I guess?”

“Good.” He throws you over his shoulder, not exactly gently, now that he knows being rough with you won’t open your stitches.

“What are you doing?” You try to pull yourself up to see where he’s taking you, but he gives you a quick swat on the ass that makes you squeak as you fall limp again.

“You’ll see.” He jogs down a hallway you only recognize right before you reach your destination: his room. When the door slams shut behind you, enclosing you in darkness, it almost sounds like a death knell.

He throws you onto the bed carelessly, pushing a hand onto your stomach to keep you from bouncing. His other hand makes quick work of your pants as you squirm, not out of fear but out of pure confusion.

“Zoro? What’s going on?”

“We have a conversation to finish.” His voice is flat. You don’t need to ask him which conversation. You know damn well which one. He’s finally rid you of your pants, throwing them carelessly to the floor, and he begins to work on the buttons of your shirt.

“Is that what this is going to be? A conversation?”

He hums. “No, I guess not.” His callused hands are rough against your bare skin as he unhooks your bra and grabs your breasts. “You aren’t going to be doing much talking, today. It’s finally time for you to listen.” He kneads your chest for a moment, pinching harshly, before he moves to slide off your panties.

“Listen?” Your voice is a little strained as you feel his fingers slide against your bare skin for the first time in weeks.

“Yeah, listen. You weren’t willing before, so I have to try something else.” He flips you over before pulling you onto his lap, ass in the air. “Make you remember our roles here.”

“Our roles?”

“Yeah. I’m the protector of the ship, of our crew. That’s my job.”

“Oh? And what’s mine?”

“In general? To survive. Right now? To take what I give you.”

“And what are you giving me?”

“Do you think you’re in a position to interrogate me right now?” His hand grabs one of your ass cheeks, an attempt to remind you exactly who’s in charge. And you know, of course, who’s in charge here. But that doesn’t mean you can’t push him.

“You’ve been answering, haven’t you?” You can’t keep the mischief out of your voice.

He chuckles in spite of himself. “Yeah, I have. I’m being too nice, aren’t I?” His voice gets a little deeper, an intensity creeping in. “I’ll give you one more, as a treat. I’m giving you exactly what you’ve earned, for acting so fucking recklessly. And then, if you’re good? I’ll give you my cock. I’m sure you want it, hm? All cooped up in the infirmary for weeks, thinking about it, knowing you can’t have it. I bet it’s been driving you insane.”

With that, you feel the sharp sting of his hand as he brings it down. It makes you cry out as it connects with your soft flesh, but you know he isn’t using even half of his strength, holding back, somehow taking care of you even now. You feel him harden when he does it, though you can’t tell if it’s from the sound you make or from the action itself. Maybe both. His hand gently caresses the growing handprint, a moment of tenderness, before he raises his hand again and you tense.

“Just relax, sweetheart. It can’t be any worse than what you put us through.” Another smack, this one on the other cheek, and another, and another, alternating each time. You can’t help the small squeaks and whines you let out, and Zoro can’t hide the effect they have on him, breathing growing heavier and smacks becoming more intense as you both lose yourselves.

“That’s it. One more. You can take one more.”

“Ah!”

“That’s right. Another. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re practically dripping.” You clench your thighs together, trying to hide the fact that he’s right, about this, about the fight, about everything here. When you try, he tuts, bringing his hand down yet again, making you jolt. “Don’t go hiding yourself from me, pretty thing. You’re mine, every inch of you. You can’t hide a thing from me. Can you say it for me, sweet thing? Admit that you’re mine?”

“I’m yours, Zoro!”

“And that I was right?”

“You were—ah!” His hand comes down again, but you force your way through. “You were right, Zoro!”

“There we go.” His hands finally stop, coming to rest on your red and stinging ass. “Was that so hard to admit?”

You keep silent, your stubbornness still carrying you through.

He laughs at you. “You know, I could add a bit to your punishment for not answering. But,” his fingers find your entrance, wet and waiting, “I think you’d probably like that, huh?”

You hum, pushing your face into the bed, trying to hide your red face and ears. He lifts you up, pulling you up into a sitting position, holding your chin and forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Hiding again? You really liked your punishment, didn’t you? As much as I’d love to continue, that’s not all I had in store. So eyes on me.”

He quickly strips off his shirt before easily lifting you with one arm so he can slide off his pants. As he does, you can see a wet spot where you were resting. It’s a little mortifying, realizing how easily he can turn you to putty in his hands, literally dripping wet for him. Your embarrassment quickly subsides when he frees his cock, red and twitching, and you realize you hold just as much sway over him as he does over you. He lines himself up with your entrance, ready to give you exactly what you want.

As he slowly slides you down on his cock, you let out a moan, and he groans in response. His eyes are locked onto where your bodies meet, taking in the sight of you stretching around him. “Fuck, you take me so perfectly. Like you were made for me.”

Once he’s fully sheathed in you, you both take a moment to breathe in, enjoying the feeling of this first sweet stretch. The second you breathe out, he begins to bounce you roughly, making you squeak. “Oh, you thought I was going to go easy on you now?” He laughs, continuing his fast pace, fingertips digging into your hips. “Fuck, you feel so good, pretty thing. Bouncing on my cock just like that.”

One hand leaves your hips, moving up your body, finding its place at your chest. He pinches your nipples, making you squeal, before he leans forward, breathing heavily in your ear. “God, when you squeeze around me like that…” he squeezes your chest again, moaning. “You kill me, sweetheart.”

His hips continue to snap harshly into yours, pounding relentlessly as the sounds of slapping skin fill the room. His lips latch onto your neck, sucking and leaving a mark that clearly defines you as his. You can feel the heat rising as your orgasm builds, your sounds growing more wanton and desperate as Zoro begins to pound into you even faster, and faster.

And then it stops.

“Wha–”

You can feel the rumble of his chest against your back as he laughs. “Oh, did you think I was going to just give it to you?”

“I–But–I was good,” you say petulantly. Your voice is still a half whine as you try to ground yourself, the tension in your body slowly unraveling and leaving nothing but a cold dissatisfaction.

“Hm.” He presses his cheek to your shoulder, humming as though he’s thinking. “Well. Maybe if you beg you can cum on my cock. If you’re real sweet about it.”

It’s embarrassing how quickly the frantic cry leaves your mouth. “Please, please, please Zoro can I cum? Please?”

“Hm. I think you can do better.”

“Please, can I cum on your cock, Zoro! Please, I need you, please!”

“Alright. Since you asked so nicely.”

His fingers find your clit, rubbing circles around it. He enters you again, pace slower this time, but strokes deep and deliberate. You can feel every inch of him as he pulls in and out, feel the heat of his breath on your ear, hear his quiet moans as you clench around him. He will give you your release, but not as quickly as you want it. You’ll get it on his terms.

Even still, you reach your precipice quickly, and he whispers huskily in your ear. “Are you ready?”

You’re beyond all practical thought at this point, but you still manage two simple words. “Yes! Please.”

“Alright then, pretty thing. Cum for me.” With one final thrust, one final movement of his fingers, you do, gushing around him as the world shatters. You’re panting, desperate for breath, but you can’t seem to make your lungs listen to you over the symphony of pleasure you’re drowning in. Right as you manage to regain some control of yourself, you can feel Zoro go tense beneath you before you feel him spill inside of you, filling you to the brim as he quietly moans out your name. 

You both sit together a moment, you limp in Zoro’s arms as he falls back onto the bed, before he speaks up.

“Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. Really.” His arms wrap around you a little tighter. “I…I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.”

“I won’t do it again, Zoro, I promise.” Your voice is weak, but you look up to see a sincere smile creep onto his face and you know he heard you. “...Are there other things that might get me punished like this? Less deadly things?”

He laughs. “Oh, there are plenty. And I’m sure you’ll do them all.” His hand runs through your hair affectionately. “But I’ll find more excuses to spank you later. I think you need some rest.”

With that, you two simply lay together, the only sound in the room your quiet breaths and the sound of Zoro’s heartbeat, growing slower and slower as you both drift off.

[throw-down-enjoyer]

Organ donation, compassion fatigue, and Japanese perspectives on brain death

I don’t think Shidou’s sin was actually a crime (as in, it was perfectly legal) and I’m going to explain why. This is essentially a very long Kirisaki Shidou Is Not An Organ Harvester post

To start: Shidou’s sin was convincing the families of braindead patients to donate their relatives’ organs. He confirms doing this in his T2 voice drama, and the way he words it makes it clear he thinks of it as murder. (He does say that this is only half of his sin, but we’ll get to the other half later.)

You know, I… continuously tried to persuade the relatives of braindead patients who were against organ transplants.

“In order to save the life of someone you don’t know, please let me kill your family member,” I told them.

It doesn’t even take much thinking to realize how cruel that is, but… I didn’t realize that until the very end.

Translation used: https://youtu.be/9xmokVJ-6x4?si=VgcIp5LCdNnUwqUW

Brain death is the irreversible, complete loss of brain function, meaning there’s no chance for a braindead patient to ever come back. Because of this, some people may feel that removing life support from a braindead patient doesn’t constitute murder. It definitely doesn’t constitute murder from a legal perspective, but it makes sense why someone might think of it as murder— especially in Japan.

Japanese perspectives on brain death

In evaluating Shidou’s case, we have to consider the cultural context within which it was written. Many people in Japan do not consider brain death as human death, and brain death cannot be declared without consent from the family and the intention to donate organs. In fact, braindead patients are not removed from life support until their heart stops beating. Shidou isn’t being dramatic when he frames his words as basically saying, “please let me kill your family member.”

Brain death is a very contentious topic in Japan—Doctors are put under scrutiny for declaring brain death and performing organ transplants. It’s important to know that in Japan, brain death only exists in relation to organ transplants. And only certain designated hospitals will do this. Even more so, if a person writes an advance directive asking to be taken off of life support in the case of brain death, doctors are not required to follow it. And many of them don’t, out of fear of the patient’s family lashing out at them.

Only in 2010 was Japan’s Organ Transplant Law revised so that organ transplants could be performed without prior consent from the brain dead patient (now only requiring consent from the family).

Here’s a couple of scholarly articles on the topic if you’d like to read more about it.

https://doi.org/10.1186%2Fs12910-021-00626-2

https://doi.org/10.1353/nib.2022.0019

Another very important facet of this discussion is how low organ donation rates are in Japan. To give you an idea, here’s a chart showing the per million population of donations after brain death (DBD) and donations after cardiac death (DCD) in a few different countries.

Sourced from this article, which has some other interesting statistics as well: https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tpr.2023.100131

As you can see, Japan’s rates are astronomically low in comparison to other countries. This helps to contextualize why Shidou had to try so hard to persuade families to donate, and why he later became extremely desperate when his wife’s life was on the line.

I’ve seen a lot of people confused about Shidou’s crime, and many speculations about him doing heinous things such as organ harvesting or purposefully botching surgeries—but I think this is because we’re approaching the case with a western perspective. As we know, many (if not all) of the Milgram prisoners represent a controversial social issue. Brain death is not nearly as divisive in western medicine as it is in Japan, so it’s easy to overlook the idea that all Shidou actually did was take organs from braindead patients. Perspectives on brain death in Japan have changed a lot in the past couple of decades, but it’s still quite controversial; because of this, I truly believe that this is the point of contention behind Shidou’s case, and there’s nothing more sinister secretly going on.

Compassion fatigue

Compassion fatigue is commonly thought to be the manifestation of secondary traumatic stress and burnout, caused by caring for others who are in stressful situations. This commonly affects people who work in healthcare.

I believe Shidou experienced compassion fatigue from working in the hospital, as he exhibits some of the symptoms—in particular, a reduced sense of empathy and a detachment from others.

I feel that Throw Down makes a lot of sense when you view it from this angle.

Lyrical analysis on Throw Down

Shidou expresses that he no longer remembers what it feels like to take away in order to give.

Pomegranates represent death in Greek mythology, and I believe that’s what they represent here too. Shidou has become desensitized to death; the pomegranate no longer has any flavor.

If it’s not needed, I’m not interested

Shidou only thought about what was physically necessary to keep a patient alive, and remained emotionally distant.

They’re dead either way, so it doesn’t really matter to him.

Now slowly close your eye, put your regret on display

Wish for being there for someone

With the same expression no matter who comes

This is the part that most makes me think of compassion fatigue—Shidou had difficulty expressing empathy for grieving families and had to fake it.

I don’t feel scared because I don’t know

Shidou didn’t understand what it was like to be in that situation. But now that it’s happened to him… he understands. And, looking back, he understands how unkind he had been about all of it. This is why he considers himself to be a murderer, why he truly believes that he has killed many people.

Ethics is a delusion

This is a line that definitely struck me as odd for awhile, but I think it makes sense in the context of his situation. His sin was not illegal—but is it ethical? That’s what all of this—whether you forgive him or not—hinges on.

The other half of Shidou’s sin

Going back to what I said earlier, Shidou’s sin wasn’t only convincing families to donate their relatives’ organs. His sin is also transplanting his son’s organs in an attempt to save his wife.

I believe that Shidou’s family got into a car accident, which resulted in his older child experiencing brain death and his wife being left in critical condition (and the younger child presumably died immediately). Considering the views surrounding brain death in Japan, it would have been difficult to find a donor, so Shidou became desperate enough to transplant his son’s organs. Since he’s the father, there wouldn’t have been any issues with receiving consent for the transplant.

Some people believe it’s the other way around—that he transplanted his wife’s organs into his son—but I believe otherwise, for multiple reasons.

In Shidou’s T1 voice drama, he expresses relief at the fact that his judgment is being determined by Es, who is a child. This makes sense if he feels that he killed his son.

Instead of being told by the law that I won’t be forgiven, I wanted a child like you, Es, to tell me that.

I feel sorry that you had to be given this role. And, I truly apologize for being so insistent about sentencing me to death as well… But, you’re perfect. You’ll give me the ending I’m most suited for.

Translation used: https://youtu.be/C4MiQ3V3YjQ?si=hPmlUkc6BfdcacNg

Additionally, a few scenes in Triage…

As stated before, I interpret the pomegranates to represent death. Shidou brings home three pomegranates, one for each of his family members. He later hands his son a price tag from the pomegranates—a representation of Shidou sentencing him to death.

And at the end of Throw Down, an organ tag falls out of the flower person. The name seems to read “Rei Kirisaki” and has XY marked, probably indicating that the donor is male.

Not to mention, it’s much more plausible for the flower person to represent Shidou’s wife rather than his son. When the person falls apart, there’s a shot of a red rose—the flower most known for representing romantic love—falling out of them.

Final thoughts and conclusion

To summarize: Shidou used to routinely try to persuade the families of braindead patients to donate their relatives’ organs. Despite that the prevailing thought in Japan is that brain death is not human death, Shidou did not think of it this way.

Shidou’s family later got into an accident; he transplanted his braindead son’s organs in an attempt to save his wife, but it was a failure, resulting in her death. This situation made him reflect on his past actions—he did not consider it murder before to discontinue life support on a patient, but now that he did it to his son, his perspective has changed. Everything he has done is within the confines of the law, but he is now burdened with immense guilt and thinks himself a murderer. Not just in regards to his son, but to all of the patients that he had pulled the plug on.

Side note: I don’t think having low empathy is inherently a bad thing (I have naturally low empathy), but in this context it would make sense for Shidou to feel bad about lacking empathy.

Side note 2: Shidou is a surgeon, so it is entirely possible he personally performed the transplant on his wife. Operating on family members isn’t illegal or anything, but is widely considered to be unethical and not really a good idea.

Well, that’s all I had to say—Feel free to either add on to this theory or debate me on it. This post ended up quite long, so thank you for reading!

[orionremastered]

Damian Wayne x Paramedic!Reader

Soulmate AU

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

You knew what curare was. The plant, originating from South America, was a plant drug that was used in the first forms of anesthesia before being replaced by newer agents. That left curare no longer as something useful, but as a deadly poison.

Curare relaxes the muscles until, eventually, the victim's diaphragmatic muscles no longer have the strength, causing the body to die of asphyxia.

It is in times like this, when you gaze over the hospital bed of your soulmate, that you wished you didn't know these things. You wished you didn't know how long it took for it to kill a human- twenty minutes at most- but your knowledge was useful. It was useful in the way that you knew the poison wasn't eaten or consumed.

That wasn't how curare worked.

The nurses found a pinprick from a needle in Damian's hand, indicating that was where the dosage was given to him.

In front of you suddenly, Bruce clears his throat. He passes you a coffee and you gratefully take it, drinking it practically in one go. “He must've felt the needle.”

Bruce sat back on the chair beside you, sighing into his cup. It was one of those paper cups and the billionaire looked comical drinking from it. “There are things that you one day will learn about my son,” he says in a low, deep voice, “But that day has yet to come.”

He offers no room for further explanation, and part of you doesn't want to know. Not with the way he said it.

With an understanding nod, your gaze drifts to the TV directly across from the bed. A news channel is playing, but the volume's all the way down. The news reporter- a lady with blonde hair in a fur coat as she stands outside the GCPD headquarters- finishes talking and smiles.

You read the headline and immediately point it out for Bruce.

VIGILANTES DETAIN SUSPECT OF WAYNE POISONING.

The suspect in question is heavily beat up, setting off alarms in your head you didn't know existed. You recognised him from the meeting in the Wayne Tower; one of the businessmen from another city.

Beside you, Bruce smiles. But only slightly; you have to triple check to make sure it's really there.

"Did they get him, father?"

The low voice startles you and your head immediately whips around to see your soulmate's eyes opened, watching his father until his gaze slowly turns to you.

"Hi," you say quietly, fidgeting with a pen you found in your pocket.

Damian slowly looks to his forearm where the words he and his family- both the Al Ghuls and the Waynes- dreaded. Instead of being written in black, they were now written in your favourite colour. The word on your forearm was now written in emerald green.

"How are you feeling?" you ask after clearing your throat. 

There’s a moment of pause as he eyes you warily. A tired figure who’s worked too hard and for too long; someone who’s seen horrors and met lunatics all for a shitty paycheck. You don’t even know why you do your job; it’s something you always wanted to do, and it’s fulfilling, but sometimes those reasons didn’t feel like enough. “Better,” he finally decides.

Better. You could settle for better. 

“I’d better get going, then. I’ve had a long day, so, uhm,” you scribble your phone number and name down on a piece of paper, placing it on the bedside table. “Here. Call whenever you want to talk.”

There’s no universe where Damian’s eyes widen a fraction when he realises you’re not staying, but perhaps in this one, he did. Giving a nod to Bruce, you head out the door, walking purposefully to the entrance.

The truth was; you’re not ready for publicity. Being a paramedic means focus on the job and having paparazzi following you around at work was far from what you wanted. You were busy. Galas you would skip from being too tired or your back hurting from lifting patients or simply not being able to take the day off due to lack of staff. You’d become a target for criminals across the city rather than a face they sought for help.

You had been the one to give him your number for whenever he was ready to talk, but maybe it should’ve been the other way around. 

Harper slammed the passenger door to the ambulance shut, signalling the start of a busy night shift. It was the first shift you’d had together since you discovered the identity of your soulmate and you were grateful for a distraction. 

You partner whistled awkwardly, casting nervous glances your way as you pull out of the station. 

“Did you talk?”

“Briefly.”

“Exchange numbers?”

“Yes.”

“Did you… talk over text?”

“No,” you sigh, driving to the nearest coffee shop despite you knowing you wouldn’t make it before getting a call. “Maybe it’s a good thing. I mean, I don’t really want the publicity, you know?”

Harper nodded slowly. “Is he doing better?”

“Yeah, he got discharged an hour after I left. Checked the hospital staff portal.”

The computer beside Harper beeps, shifting your attention to it. “Elderly male complaining of chest pains, history of cardiac issues.”

“Nothing like a heart attack to change the subject,” you mutter, putting the topic of your soulmate in the back of your mind. Lingering, but never gone.

Half an hour until your shift ended. That was the only thing you could think about as the grey clouds hanging constantly over Gotham brightened with the rising sun. Your shift had been long, eventful and it was safe to say the pizza you managed to find open at this hour was the best thing you'd ever tasted.

"Do you think-"

Harper gets cut off by the sound of a message reaching your phone. He raises an eyebrow, smile growing as you roll your eyes and pull it out of your pocket. Truth is, you still weren't ready to register or make the decision on whether or not you wanted to be with someone like a Wayne.

Sorry for not texting you sooner. We should talk.

You change the new number's name to 'Soulmate' and fiddle with your phone case, trying to come up with a reply. Harper casts glances at the screen every few seconds, trying to act normal.

I can't have the publicity.

Your gut sours as you wait for a reply, but you can't seem to rip your eyes away.

I understand.

That is why we should talk.

"Maybe you should talk," Harper says. "It'll be worth it, I'm sure."

You know it will- you want to be with him, you want to have a future together and you want that yearning in your chest to be filled with satisfaction that maybe, just maybe, you can finally do life right.

But part of you- perhaps the rational part of you- believes that could never happen. You'd have to choose between your soulmate and your job. Helping the city, being anonymous, meeting new people and laughing with your colleagues- your best friends- doing what you love...

You turn off your phone without replying.

A/N: Requests are open for batfam if anyone has ideas (bc I heavily lack those rn)

Masterlist

[sanakimohara]

“Stalker” B.C.

{ MDNI }

+++++

Chan as a stalker would be painfully toxic. The constant messages you’d receive from him, vague, but highly personal. He wouldn’t threaten you at all…at first.

It starts off with little random reminders or sending a few innocent pictures of you doing random tasks throughout the day.

“You look so cute when you’re cleaning, baby…”

“You should really eat something today, sweetheart…”

“Don’t stay up too late like last time little one…need you well rested okay?…”

Then he progresses to intricate gestures. It’s not hard to get to you since you’re a trainee under JYPE and coincidentally share the same dorm building as Stray Kids. Chan has easy access to the areas you occupy most often.

Even your dorm, specifically your bedroom.

Of course you don’t know this so when random pieces of your clothing start to disappear and reappear at odd times you just chalk it up to your forgetfulness. In reality Chan slips into your room when no one’s around, admiring how neat or messy you keep it, and committing to memory all the little trinkets/games/decor that you personalized it with. He likes the fact that your room reflects who you are, it brings out your purity in his opinion, and if he could lock you in it he would.

Deep down he liked the idea of locking you in his room much better. Then you’d be even safer under his constant watch. For now he settled with invading your private spaces, slipping your panties into his pocket as he wanders around, picking up the little messes around your room. When he’s all done and satisfied with the amount of possessions he’s taken from you he writes a note to you before leaving and continuing on with his day like nothing happened.

“Keep your room clean, sweetheart.”

You’re shaking with fear and anxiety reading his note but seeing as you don’t have a clue who wrote it you keep the information to yourself. It bothers you all week but weirdly you’re loving the anonymous attention. Blushing at random times of the day just from the thought of who might’ve written that note for you. It’s still terrifying but you admire their devotion…

Chan observes you from an afar after that, continuing to sneak in your room when he has the chance, and leaving less than innocent notes on your desk more often.

“You did well practicing. I was impressed, really,”

“I left you a little gift for working hard, baby. Open it when you’re ready..”

You spot his gift at the foot of your bed, all the random clothes (mostly underwear) he’s taken from you are neatly washed and folded too. It disgusts you to see your intimates causally laid out -and probably used for other purposes- like a present. At the same time your mind is reeling with the image of your ‘admirer’ getting off to the simple scent of you or the thought of you wearing them.

You’ve never felt so beautifully violated in your life and you hate how wet it gets you.

Something has to be wrong with you…

Paranoid. You become extremely paranoid and Chan uses that against you. You’re such a young trainee, being tortured by some skillful stalker, and he’s the first person you open up to about it. How can he not help you cope?

Everytime you come running to him about the last occurrence with your supposed stalker Chan is ready to console you with a warm smile and loving embrace. Sure, he’s extremely turned on by the fear in your wide eyes, and his cock twitches every time you curl into him for a comforting hug. He’s just there to help you through this mess, right?

“Why would anyone want to treat you this way?..”

“I’ll protect you I promise… “

“You can always come to me when you don’t feel safe..”

Every word he says is a backhanded lie and you fall for it every time. You spend less time in your dorm and more time with him. The other trainees and his members notice but don’t say a word since Chan never makes it a big deal. That isn’t to say he doesn’t purposefully act unnerved by the notion of a stalker with in the company.

His habit of texting you escalates into sending obscure photos of you in the shower, alone in the practice rooms, or simply getting changed. He’s gotten comfortable with his obsession now, actively seeking out chances for vulnerability, and that raises your fears and fantasies higher.

“Want to see you do this in person…”

“I can’t help but to watch you , baby… I’m just making sure you’re safe…”

Safe….and unknowingly reliant on him.

A perfect combination of control and fear.

“I know everything about you, little one. You can never hide from me…”

+++++

[tiktaalic]

PREFACE TO MY POST: I’m not arguing with someone who says fanfiction as a medium is better than published books. It’s a better use of both our time not to argue gives you more time to read omegaverse me more time to do Anything Else.

POST: it’s so funny when someone trots out I got tired of reading books by old white men. I Find Better And More Representation In Fanfiction than Published Books! Because representation is so clearly standing in for the phrase “white gay/bi man”.

POINT ONE. it’s straight up not hard to find books by people with different perspectives. I could go to Libby dot com right now and find 3 different reading lists put together by the library to encourage you, the patron, to diversify your reading. Even when I don’t use those lists and I’m just going by clicking on covers I like I end up reading a variety of authors bc. They’re writing good books that are ending up on most popular lists that float their way to the top of recommendations. There are plenty of tools in place that guide you to books Not Written by old white men, Not About old white men. Libraries make it very very very easy to expand your palette. They want you to expand your palette soooo bad they want you to do it purposefully and if not purposefully, they’ll at least make it easy for you to do accidentally.

POINT TWO. if you are talking about fanfiction and you Aren’t using representation as shorthand for “white man but he’s gay” then the amount of fanfiction with “representation” is shit fucking all. On every axis. Nothing about women nothing about people of color. Women of color RIGHT out. I think I honestly would respect the stance of “oh I read fanfic instead of books because they’re easier, similar, and mostly about homosexuality” than I would the faux posturing of Its Praxis for me to read the diverse representation of ao3 top 100 (97 m/m) (3 f/f) (every character is white).

[jolalibrary]

make me like the holidays

marcus pike x f!reader | marcus masterlist

written for 12 Days of Pedro

summary: you're not the biggest fan of the holidays, so marcus makes it his mission to change that with a christmas market and a gift you have to wear.

wordcount: 3.6k warnings: smutty-themes, a teeny bit of orgasm denial, you consent to wear a vibrator controlled by marcus, vibrator worn in public, outdoor orgasm, christmas themes, marcus being a tease, his dimples, his smile, him.

an: huge thank you to @hellishjoel for asking me to be a part of this, and to @thetriumphantpanda for holding my hand, answering questions about warnings, and reading this as i shoved it at her face.

“So, what? You just don’t like the holidays?”

Snorting, you slide your fork around your bowl, licking your lips.

Because you knew eventually this would come up.

"I didn't... say that," you reply, averting your eyes. Mouth opening, closing again, unsure where to begin.

How to start.

How to begin to explain the odd feeling you get around this festive time of year. How your eyes don’t light up at tall Christmas trees, and instead your heart sinks whenever you see one of those adverts where the family all meet excitedly for the holidays.

It doesn’t matter how you dress it up—whether you hang tinsel or baubles—it always seems like an odd time of year. And because of that, It makes people pity you, aww at you, feel compelled to leave candy canes on your desk and purposefully add you to their Christmas card list, as though it's going to fix the decades of memories.

Placing your fork down, and you sigh. “I guess. I-I just don’t get super excited for it.”

Marcus is already thinking—you can tell.

The faintest line begins to appear between his brows, deepening the more he stares, drowning you in a brown you’re forever grateful to get the chance to wake up to every, single, day.

Leaning across the breakfast bar, he smirks—all devil, no angel. “I think I could change that.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

Nodding, his breath dances over your skin—all tantalising—before he softly slants his lips over yours, biting carefully on the bottom of your lip.

“That how you’re going to convince me, Pike—using underhand tactics such as your mouth?”

Snorting, he leaves his fingers lingering under your chin. “That’s a last resort. I think I can convince you in other ways to see how magical it can be with me.”

“You sound very confident.”

He smiles, and it makes something twist inside of you—a worry growing there, planting itself, all ready to grow into something ugly that he’ll eventually see. Be the thing at the top of the list when he inevitably realises he can do better than you.

Stroking your skin, he sighs. Not heavy, nor soft. Something in the middle. “I’m still going to love you if you hate the holidays, baby.”

Smiling, you look down at the counter—the one the two of you eat at whenever you can now, taking what hours you can have together.

“I promise,” he whispers. “But, you think you can let me try and make it special for you? Show you that there’s nothing quite like a Pike Christmas?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you let out a heavy sigh, meeting his eyes—somehow feeling yourself fall even deeper in love with him when you do.

“How can I say no to such an offer.”

Bundled up, wrapped in layers—including his scarf—your gloved hand slides into his, fingers awkwardly trying to find the home between his, almost wanting to pout at the fact you couldn’t feel his palm against yours.

“Comfortable?”

There’s a sparkle to his eye, made worse by the smirk that accompanies it. The one you imagine he’s been wearing since he’d handed you the bag stuffed with tissue, arms folding as he leans in the doorway.

It’s a little bit of fun, he had said.

Your fingers unfold it, unwrapping it free as your eyes immediately land on the box containing the little purple device and its remote.

“I know the season isn’t your favourite thing, but I thought this might make it more enjoyable.”

Narrowing your eyes, you stare at the box.

“Thought it could give you something to be excited about,” he adds, tone shifting—more silky than normal. “Now, whether you’re on the nice or naughty list today, is down to you.”

"Oh, Santa Pike. Please put me on the good girls list."

Grinning, his fingers slid over your jaw as he kissed you, "I think you'd prefer to be on my naughty list, baby."

Now, that same purple, unboxed gift is resting against you, flush. Stuffed and held in position by the underwear he helped you choose—the lace of it keeping it very much in place. And while it isn’t currently switched on, but you know he could change that at any moment—the remote buried in his pocket, all within his grasp.

A thought which makes heat lick up your spine and an ember of worry knot in your stomach—

At any point you change your mind, you tell me, baby. You hear me? Just say the word.

Clearing your throat, you curl into his arm, staring up at him—watching him take in the run of wooden huts, fairy lights and overt cheer.

“Let me guess, you have a to-do list for today?”

Smirking, his arm comes around you keeping you close, before he pinches your side. “No. We’re gonna see what we get up to.”

Squinting playfully, you brush the edge of his stubbly chin. “I’m not buying it. You have a plan.”

Shaking his head, his teeth tease his lip, nose almost flush with yours. “No plan—just want a lovely day with my girl…”

Hovering your lips over his. “But?”

His eyes slowly close, nose scrunching—lips spreading into the biggest, most foolish smile. “We have to start with a festive drink—”

“I fucking knew it, Pike. Fine, come on.”

But, he doesn’t let you budge, not even as you grumble, grasping your hips, yanking you close.

He gives you a look, a pointed one—all accompanied by a grin. It’s all shit-eating, spreading delightfully up into his cheeks. One you’d usually brush over with the pads of your index fingers.

"You don't sound like you're having a good time, baby."

"Marcus..."

You don’t move them this time—leave them on his waist. Feeling his hand slide into his pocket. And you brace.

It’s the only way you’re able to stifle the soft moan which attempts to slide through your teeth and burn the air as it buzzes. Light, but good. Your breath was suddenly a challenge to find, made worse by his watchful stare.

Lashes fluttering, gloved fingers gripping into the side of his jacket as you let your breath paint against his neck. It’s all building—layering itself on thickly atop the earlier ‘testing’ he had done earlier. When you had whined his name, been tempted to shed the many layers and keep warm in an entirely different way with him.

“That feel good?” he asks, low, breathy—only able to formulate a nod.

Then, it stops.

Blinking, your thoughts suddenly cleaner, more appropriate—things beginning to speckle back into your mind.

“Kiss?” he asks, the request falling from his tongue like silk.

“Depends how good the drink is.”

It turns out, it’s delicious.

Marcus had practically whispered the name of the drink he recommended into your ear—having likely noticed the overwhelmed expression slowly etching into your face.

Trust me his expression reads, as if you’d ever trust anyone else.

As soon as the taste of his recommendation met your tongue, your body almost welcomed the season with open arms. Your groan wasn't even buried as your eyes widened at the taste, at him for suggesting it—watching him smirk before he looped his arm around your waist.

“Thoughts?”

Smiling, you almost reply that you like being close to him, preferably forever choosing to be pressed close to him. You find it calming, suddenly no problems ever seem that big when he’s next to you.

Swallowing that, you glance at him, knowing it would be easy to fight the smirk. To act placid, add a shrug, sell it. But, his eyes have widened a fraction, pupils a mere dot in a sky of brown, with the reflection of the lights acting like stars.

The hope etched into his expression is what puts the final nail in your attempt at nonchalance.

“It’s good.”

Brows rising, he grins. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you take another sip. The flavours of the hot chocolate coating your mouth as you slide your arm around his waist. The feel of his lips against your forehead spreading an additional warmth through you, that the drink would never have available.

You’re almost sad when it ends.

Not that he lets you sit in that. Quickly, he takes your cup from you, placing both in a nearby trash can, before he’s pulling you back to him. For the briefest of moments, you just stare, admiring the way you see the outline of yourself in the pool of his eyes, the way you get to witness the way his adoration spreads across his face—all lit up by swinging fairy lights in the gentle, winter breeze.

“Got cream on your lip, baby,” he whispers, tongue swiping across your bottom lip—nowhere close to the site he pointed out.

And then you feel it again.

The thrum which spreads through you, is pressed against your bundle of nerves, making your thighs quake on fixed and solid ground. With the addition of his mouth on yours, the waves lap more feverishly, it all building, all desperate to crash.

Your fingers grasp onto him, teeth piercing into his bottom lip as he kisses you, letting you bury a moan into his mouth—and Marcus is happy to swallow it. Gleefully getting to feel and taste the way he makes you feel as your walls flutter, tightening—wishing for more. Needing more. Almost begging for it when you catch his gaze.

“You know how good you look right now?”

And then it stops. Your breath hitching. Skin prickling with warmth as you let a gasp escape—it weaving into the air, encased in vapour as you blink.

“W-what’s next?”

He grins, it rising up until his dimple appears. His palm flattening to the back of your coat, fingers sliding in pulses.

“Thought we could pick decorations for our tree.”

Brows raising, you turn your head, looking at him, finding him already watching you. Something is spreading in you, a symbolic bandage extending out from his touch to around the places warped and scarred from years of bad memories.

“Our?”

Kissing your head again, you hear him repeat that one word: our.

Just like he had done when he’d moved the last box of yours, you asking whether his place would get your favourite burgers delivered—ours, baby. Ours. It felt it, too. He’d made sure of that. Created space on shelves, and moved ornaments from their homes to allow yours to have a place.

So, it wasn’t out of reach he’d do the same with his holiday, his tradition.

“What if you hate my taste?”

Snorting, he brushes your cheek. “You know I love the way you taste.”

Rolling your eyes, he laughs.

“I could never hate your taste, baby. I love everything about you.” His hand drops, and he takes a sip of his drink as you do the same. “Plus, you chose me. Can’t be all bad.”

He’s kind to you when you’re handling the baubles, even more, when the two of you wander hand-in-hand through tightly packed huts.

Your hands point out things, not just for the two of you, but for others—his parents, a friend. It allows your guard to drop, and your brain to temporarily forget the device resting snugly against the swollen nerves desperate for him—even if you’re aware of how soaked your underwear is. How it clings, how it brushes nicely against you when the two of you walk from place to place.

Marcus becomes less kind when you’re in the queue for a sugary snack, your mouth busy explaining to him where you best think the tree can go in his place—a thing he corrects to ours at every chance he can.

“You almost sound like you’re getting into all of this.”

Smiling, you rest your head against his shoulder in the line. “Maybe it’s the company.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice low, the corner of your eye-catching his other hand sliding into his pocket. “Could be that.”

“Marcus.”

He just raises his brow, a sly smirk passing over him, before you feel him flick it on. “How else are you going to remember that it’s our place, baby?”

Every nerve, the ones previously all frayed, now lit up—just like the tree in the centre of the market. Your mind empties with a press of a button, fingers sliding inside his open coat, grasping for him—for grip.

“You excited about the holidays now?”

Fuck, you hate him, because yes—if it’s like this you’ll forever adore Pike holidays. You’ll wish for them, count down to them on your calendar. Ticking off in red pen, making a point to excitedly cross each one of them off.

Because the two of you haven’t even put the tree up yet.

There’s still so much prep, so much you suspect he wants to replace with good, better—more excitable—memories.

“Bet you’re wet,” he whispers.

And you glare at him, unsure if it’s with adoration or anger. Both merging, swirling—concocting into something you can’t stifle as your cheeks warm and your ears burn. Because there are people around—families, small children.

“Take me home,” you plead. “Please?”

Pressing your thighs together you find only makes it worse. The pulses are far more forceful, and better aimed directly at the already needy parts of you.

The ones which he’s usually so attentive with, barely keeping you like this, all wanting and not satisfied. Marcus barely lets the knot in your stomach tighten usually, but now, you think he’s having fun with it. Likely admiring the way your pupils are swallowing colour and a sheen is crossing over the skin on show. Because you’re warm, too hot— there are too many fucking layers and not enough of him pressed against you—

“Need you, Marcus.”

His fingers brush against your chin, aiding you to take a step forward as the queue moves. “I know, but be good for me.” His mouth close to your ear, hand impossibly tight on your hip—keeping you pressed against him, able to lean, let him take your weight as your legs shake. “You deserve this—”

Your lips part, and all attempts at levelling your breathing fail, falling away from your grip. Feeling the focus on the surroundings fading, black spots appearing—this game of taunt and tease having made you so impossibly shaky on your legs.

And he turns it up.

Moves it to the next one up, an up-and-down kind of vibration. It feels good, but then it lessens—a momentary break, a chance to mumble his name less in a whine—before it returns like a second wave.

It pulsing. Something akin to a rollercoaster, a high and a low—it comes around in slow circles that makes it hard to know whether you’re close to coming or growing more frustrated.

“You want something with chocolate or prefer just sugar?”

You try to speak, mouth moving close to his ear, but only a moan escapes. Low, coming from somewhere deep in your soul as his grip tightens on your hip. The speed slowed for a moment, likely settling itself up to do another build-up.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Your legs are unstable, more jelly than muscle and bone. It’s all too much, but not quite enough either—just needing that fraction more to stop teetering on the edge and fall over, filling with bliss, and pleasure.

Each time he slides his hand over your hip or back, you have to swallow a whimper of his name. Dangling against the edge, dangerously so—only one little push and you’d be falling, freely, willingly, likely moaning and making an embarrassment of yourself so close to Santa’s fucking grotto.

“If,” you begin, hand to his chest, fingers trying to find skin, something, anything, his still around your waist, practically bruisingly, clutching the many paper bags against you, “we go home now, we might have time to put the tree up.”

You watch him smirk, how it hits his eyes—making the twinkling lights pale under the brightness of his expression.

“Then,” you continue, lips sliding close to his ear, “you can—shit—do something no one has ever done.”

He swallows, loudly—not even swallowed by the choir. “What’s that?”

Smiling, licking your lips. “Fuck me under it.”

Pinching your side, you swear you hear him grunt.

You barely register that you’re being dragged, hip to his, being led—the little device working its magic against your drenched cunt as you pass by choir singers and a person dressed like an elf until it’s suddenly quieter.

Bags dropped to the side of you, back pressed against the side of a hut—the roof casts a shadow over his face, but his eyes still shine. They’re bright and alert. Drinking you in like you’re the only thing that he can see, ever wants to see.

"No one can see us, I promise."

You believe him. It's the only reason you allow yourself to release a pathetic moan before your fingers dig into his pocket. Searching through receipts and his phone, finding it. The thing which weighs more than gold to you, the remote that has the chance to make or break you right now.

It clicks with such ease.

Every muscle in your tightens, your eyes clench shut, all but vanishing winter wonderland from sight and painting a new picture on the back of your lids. Him—naked. Stood all soft muscles and his signature smirk. His room—ours, you hear it in your head, ours baby, ours—surrounding you.

You’re on fire.

Cracking an eye open, finding him watching—in awe, captivated like you’re a sight to behold. And maybe, clutching the remote in your hand, you were. Maybe you were illuminated in a heavenly glow and looking as though you could melt the fake snow around the two of you—you feel you could, anyway, just from the look he wears.

The fact the two of you are just focused, lost in only the other as he keeps you against the side of the empty hut—thankful, happy, that at least one of the stalls hadn’t opened so you couldn’t be heard being held against it, mind being lost to the buzzing in your underwear.

“Who knew you were so dirty?”

“You love it,” you moan, ghosting your lips over his.

Needing a little more, craving a little more.

Please, please, please you think over and over.

He takes it from your shaking fingers, sliding his knee between your thighs—pressing it more defiantly against you, flush, likely feeling the vibrations through his bones as you moan his name. Sketch it into the air, write it there, never wishing it would fade—

More, Marcus. Please, baby. Please.

You’re aching. Your ears flood with buzzing as liquid heat spreads through you when he clicks once, twice—thrice. Landing on a setting he must have seen in the instructions.

And it’s bliss.

It’s mind-melting, muscle surrendering. Your hand cupping the side of his neck, nails digging in, needing to feel him, know he’s there—wishing it was his fingers, wishing he was heavy against you. That weight you crave, that sensation of just him.

Close, so close—

You say it like he wouldn’t know. Like you can’t feel the way he’s looking for signs across your face, likely knowing more about how close you are than you even do. He spends enough time making you feel good. Too good to you, always has been, ever since the moment the two of you met, and you’re grateful, happy, content, fucking over the moon, sun and stars—

“What do you need, baby?”

“You,” you whine.

Just you, only you. Only ever you.

The coil in your stomach tightens, the knot having formed something which can shatter with far too much ease, and it does shatter.

You snap. Break. Fall apart.

He drags your face against his neck, letting you curse, and moan. His name crying out from your lips, until it falls in softer waves from your tongue, splaying across his skin, tattooing him. Squirming close to him, suddenly at ease, shoulders sliding from your ears.

“Marcus,” you whine, differently.

And you’re grateful it stops, him switching it off—a grin breaking out in its wake. Your breath slowly comes back to you, your chest unloosening from trying to bury all your pants.

That’s when you’re finally able to take him in and see the way he’s still staring, so lost in you. His mouth parted, the softest smile trying to stitch into his cheeks, eyes moving around the features of your face.

You just let him stare, and he lets you gaze. Only blinking, letting the rest of the world in when you hear a bunch of kids walk past the end of the hut, loudly laughing.

“I think I could like a Christmas with you.”

Grinning, he pockets the remote, his hand coming to your cheek. “Yeah? I told you I’d make it special for you.”

Nodding, you kiss him. Soft at first, before it deepens, nipping at his bottom lip—finding yourself meeting the hut again, his palm beside your head, able to taste the sweetness of his drink from earlier, the cream, chocolate and ginger—

“I was serious…” you mumble, “earlier.”

Pausing, he lifts his head.

“About the tree, what we could do under it.” Sliding your hand down his front, you cup him, feeling how hard he is, fingers sliding either side of him. “Think you deserve a special day too.”

“Really?”

Biting your lip, you nod, slowly at first—then more purposefully.

“Fuck, I love you, baby.”

an: merry pike christmas ;)

[commandershepardvasfuckit]

How Halsin’s “once you get to my age” conversation not long after he finally recruited as a party member SHOULD have gone if you were an elf and could call him out on not being old.

Because as a drow my Tav should be allowed to call him out and tease him over it

(My Tav, but written pretty generically and without any gender indicators for Tav so knock yourself out)

————————

“You didn’t answer the part about lovers” you say as you fold your arms. Halsin held a certain level of fascination to you. Maybe it was his sheer size, maybe it was his confidence, or his willingness to just listen. Maybe it was because you truly could not get a read on him.

He had been frustratingly dodging most questions about himself until now, softly smiling and telling you ‘there will be time for questions later. I must keep my focus on the task at hand’ and now somehow managed to tell you an incredible amount and nothing at all at the same time.

“I’m 350 years old. Of course there have been lovers. Just because I love nature doesn’t mean I’m betrothed to it. Though sometimes, nature needs reminding…” he trailed off.

Another redirection, talks of the past while not acknowledging that the question was about the current and offering an interesting tidbit instead. You recognized what he was trying to do, but unfortunately his smirk while speaking about nature alluded to an all too good to pass up story.

“Hold on- nature needs reminding of what exactly?” you ask.

“Well, I didn’t pick this scar up in battle. I was in wildshape, only I forgot it was the season when bears are particularly social. A she-bear claimed me as her own- and did not appreciate being spurned” he said.

Less riveting than you hoped, but still interesting. And certainly not enough to convince you to drop the question.

“Don’t leave me hanging- is there someone in your life right now?” Simple. Direct. Surely no way to dodge it again.

“Right now? I bed down alone, I’m afraid” he answers. There’s a small drop in his voice, not sorrow, but, disappointment?“Perhaps once I talk less of curses and parasites, my fortunes will improve”.

It was not quite the answer you were expecting. A clear answer this time, but something in the way his words hung in the air felt off.

You look over his face, searching for some glimmer of information but are met with the same relaxed but stoic expression he used when he was done talking about a subject.

“Tell me something about yourself that I wouldn’t even think to ask” you change the subject, hoping to find any bit of interesting information from him.

“Hmm, I suppose you wouldn’t be shocked to learn I love animals and nature? I know, I know; well-trodden territory. Well, let’s see… I whittle in my spare time, and I’ve something of a sweet tooth- though everyone’s very amused when I say I like honey”.

A smile plays on your lips, you genuinely could not tell if he was avoiding saying much and choosing to give you obvious answers purposefully or not.

“Whittling? What do you make?” you ask, fishing for anything you could.

“Ornaments, utensils- and ducks. I like ducks”.

New information gained and yet nothing new truly learned.

“So you turn into a bear and you like honey?” you repeat back to him, “A little on the nose”.

“I like what I like. Once you get to my age you realize there’s little point in denying yourself, so long as other’s aren’t affected” Halsin replies.

“Your age?” you laugh, in the grand scheme of elven lives Halsin was young still, only a few decades older than yourself despite speaking as if he was at least 800. “And how old do you think I am?”

Halsin flashed a quick smile, brief but betraying a lot of emotion. The sort guilty smile you offer when you’re caught.

“My apologies. I don’t encounter too many full elves these days” his face relaxes, not his usual careful composure, but a true relaxation. “No, I supposed 350 is young still, and sometimes I need reminding of that too. You get used to seeing life on the scale that the others see. People treat you as old and you start to believe it, or at least you let them make their assumptions about you”.

“So ‘old, wise Halsin’ is an act?” you tease.

“I am wise!” he laughs, a truly deep laugh that rumbled from his chest. A laugh that spreads into a sense of warmth within you. “If I wasn’t then you wouldn’t have come to my grove seeking my knowledge and skills!”

“I was told to seek out the old, wise archdruid of the the grove and imagine my surprise seeing an elf, only decades older than myself acting as if he was as least twice his age!” You laughed back, unable to keep his laughter from spreading to you. “Though I suppose I can keep quiet and let you continue this front, if you can keep up with me, old man, because I very much so am still young” you tease.

“You’ll find I’m more than able to keep up with anything you’ve got, don’t let me fool you into thinking my size is just for show. I think you’ll find I’m more than capable of going all day and night” the tone that crept into his voice let you know that he very much knew why you were asking if he currently had a lover earlier.

[blambotheclowngirl]

In Defense of Korisu Morino: A Character Analysis

So I read and watched Makoako and for the most part a really enjoyed it. I see a handful of people sharing the sentiment of "mahoako would be good if they aged everyone up and got rid if korisu" or something along those lines. And I have to say I disagree, and no it's not because "yippe a loli" because I don't actually like lolicon :/ I may not care about it but that doesn't mean it's my cup of tea. No, I have my gripes with mahoako, but Korisu isn't one of them.

See I don't really mind that the cast is, for the most part, 8th graders. I like the idea of this story being about queer teenagers figuring out their sexuality as I feel like kink is a pretty big part of queer spaces and queer people owe a lot to kink. I understand that may not be the actual intention of mahoako, it's an eechi series where 14 year old girls do kinky shut to eachother, clearly a lot of the audience is going to be there for the horny nature of it. But I'm coming at this series from a sapphic asexual perspective, sex is always in the same realm as fantasy to me and it's not something I super care about.

All that said, coming at the series from the angle of "queer sexual awakenings and explorations" I think that korisu works very well and is really well written.

Korisu is unique from the other main characters because she represents the prepubesent sexual curiosity that a lot of children end up experiencing. In that way, Korisu reminds me a lot of myself as a young girl.

TMI about me, but I (and I'm sure many others) started masturbating around 9. I would not reach my first period until age 12 so I was very much still prepubesent. It wasn't a lot, but vague sexual attraction was there. I was trying to figure out what exactly I was attracted to and well at the time, gay was still an insult on the playground so my 9 year old brain was doing it's best to deny that I liked girls. I thought to myself, surely I can't be gay, I just think girls are pretty and I like boobs, but surely I'm straight. I was, in fact, not straight. And I had my confused little sexual fantasies every now and then.

Korisu in that way is very reminiscent of my own childhood experience with sexuality. She clearly has a little bit of a passive interest in sexuality, given some of her battles with tres magia. But she's also still written to be a child. A modest and shy child at that. Korisu is very soft spoken and childish. One if her main interests is toys. She loves to play with toys, and this seems to be the reason she joined enormita in the first place. She thought venelita was a toy and said yes to joining the evil organization so she could play with her. I also think that a lot of care has been put into how korisu is depicted. She's never directly sexualized. She projects her sexual fantasies onto others, but she is never the one in a sexual situation unless she is warping reality to pretend that she is an adult. Korisu is treated with a lot more modesty and decency than the other, older girls. You never see up her skirt, you never see any lewd expressions from her, the only time she is depicted naked is during a 1 panel heavily censored transformation sequence that isn't meant to be sexual, her swimsuit in the beach chapter/episode is almost comically conservative being one of those old timey looking striped suits with the shorts and sleeves and even a swim cap.

Her clothes always cover a lot of skin. It just seems like she's being purposefully written to be more than just the series resident loli, ya know? Like that's not why she's there. They could have written her to be permiscuous or to be obliviously and accidentally sexualized, but they didn't. They wrote her to be a child.

Diving into korisu's sexuality, as stated before, she tends to merely project her fantasies onto others with her powers, not getting directly involved. In our first encounter with her, when she shows off her powers as nero alice for the first time, she essentially just traps tres magia in a dollhouse and plays with them like dolls, having them act out a very sexually charged, but still rather childish and idealized game of house with a mommy, daddy, and child. House actually seems to be one of korisu's favorite games, sexual or not, which we will get into later. She doesn't involve herself in this game of house, just plays with her living dolls for a while before getting too sleepy to continue.

There are currently 2 instances where korisu directly involves herself in her little sexual fantasies, both if which I might argue are not entirely intentionally sexual on her end. The first of which, Utena has just given her back her favorite doll which she has stayed up all night to fix and has caught a cold with a fever as a result. Korisu decides to use her powers to place Utena and herself into her hospital doll set. She uses her powers to age herself up into an adult doctor and through a series of honestly comically childish ideas of what a doctor might do, despite the sexual twinge of the scene, cures Utena's cold. Not just treats it, but cures it outright. In like 5 minutes of playing doctor. What does she do? Presses a stick on Utena's tongue, places a stethoscope all over her chest, turned sexual by the fact that Utena has taken off her shirt and korisu just puts it right on her nipple, and then gives uten a shot. This is absolutely mostly just korisu playing doctor with her magic powers, it's just also a sexual fantasy of hers to be older and in a position of power, specifically in a caregiver role, something that comes up again later on and that we will delve deeper into later.

The second instance of korisu being directly involved in her sexual fantasies come to life via magic powers is during her play date with magenta. This I would argue is less sexual that the playing doctor scene for a few reasons, but first let's analyze this chapter/episode. The anime makes the argument that this scene isn't very sexual even more plausible by giving magenta an actual reason to regress. In the anime, magenta, who has been feeling like a burden to her team for not being very strong, is referred to as the mom friend. And she latches onto that. She takes her role as team mom very seriously and starts babying her friends, packing them lunches and such. This is a role magenta is comfortable in because she has 3 little sisters, and it's also clear it's making her feel useful to the team. Later on she ends up playing with korisu at the park, where they play a game of house, one of korisu's favorite games, in which magenta is the mommy. When she leaves she tells korisu she's always willing to play the mommy and then runs off to do her errands. We get like one mention of her having to pee. Back at the park, korisu is bummed about her play date being over and had the bright idea to keep playing house by using her powers to get magia magenta to show up and sucking her into a fantasy. Magenta obviously falls for this, and we flash into korisu's fantasy of magenta being a literal baby. She's in her crib scared and alone when suddenly her mommy shows up! And who is her mommy? Well it's adult korisu of course, ready to play house where this time she's the mommy.

Magenta is having a great time she regressing, playing with her "mommy" until she has to pee and ends up peeing. And then she starts to slip out of that regressed headspace and realizes she's not a baby and the person changing her diaper is nero alice and panic sets in alongside embarrassment because this is her enemy and she just pissed in front of her and she's not wearing pants and-

she rejects nero alice, who dejectedly starts to leave. And magenta sees that sad face and changes her mind. She can't jostled nero alice leave all sad. She was just playing. She wasn't doing anything evil it was all just fun and games. She plays the role of a baby a little while longer so alice can have her fun playing caregiver. Which results in one of the funniest shots in the manga and the anime.

The rest of their time together basically consists of korisu bottle feeding magenta a lot of milk and making her pee into a diaper again. And then she's done. Neither of them really seem to come away from this encounter with the idea that it was sexual. Sure magenta felt embarrassed and yeah alice wanted her to pee again, going so far as to press lightly on her stomach, but at most the sexual fantasy for korisu stopped there. I genuinely don't believe her intention in this game of house were sexual, I think she really did just want to keep playing house but with her in the caregiving role this time. That doesn't change the fact that the scene was obviously pandering to age players and people with a piss kink. But yeah I just feel like the character's motivations were innocent. In the Manga this chapter is a little harder to read as purely age regression because it doesn't give her the stress of being the team mom and the need to regress. The chapter is more over the top about her needing to pee because she drank too much water at the park, and i don't think it's ever specified that the game they played at the park was house. Manga said piss kink age play chapter, but anime said piss kink age play chapter but give it some character depth.

Moving on from that way too long play by play of the piss kink age play chapter.

The rest of the time we see korisu she doesn't really use her powers sexually at all. She makes her toys bigger so she can ride them around, she traps people in doll houses, and sometimes she'll make a special dollhouse for Utena to use and then fuck off for the rest of the chapter so Utena is using Alice's powers sexually but alice herself is off doing kid stuff somewhere off screen. One of my favorite examples of korisu using her powers in a way that really displays that she is in fact a 9 year old kid, is when she gets so excited about the new toys she just got at the toy store that she transforms out of pure joy and decides to use her godzilla toy and wand toy to have a kaiju battle with her riding godzilla and fighting magenta who she turned giant. She's not doing this for sex, she's doing this because she wants to have a kaiju battle with her new toys. Utena and kiwi making it sexual by crawling into magenta clothes is just aiding her in yhe kaiju battle. She didn't even win the battle but at the end of the day she's so happy.

Outside of her own sexual fantasies, korisu doesn't seem all that interested in sexuality. She either doesn't care, or, particularly with kiwi, gets annoyed and shoots her a disgusted "really?" look.

So looping back around to the consistent theme of Korisu's sexual fantasies either being a game of house or placing herself in a caregiver role. Why do I think she does this? This is just speculation on my end, but I really do think it has to do with her mother being so neglectful. Korisu is left home alone constantly because her mother is at work. She leaves her money to buy food, not even prepared food to eat, just money and a note on the kitchen table. Korisu is allowed to wander the city alone and does so often. The only reason she was able to join enormita is because she was by herself playing with sidewalk chalk in an alley. It's expanded upon that korisu really doesn't have any friends her age. Her first real friends as far as we know are her teammates at enormita, all of which are 5 years older than her. From what little we see of korisu's mom it seems like they love eachother, but she's just never home and her father is out of the picture for one reason or another. I think that this is why korisu is so enraptured with the idea of a perfect loving family. Why she wants to be a good caregiver, to give the love she craves from her mom, and to have a complete household, whatever she thinks that may be.

If you didn't have the experience of being sexually curious you may find yourself thinking why? Why is korisu the way that she is? Why is she having these sexual fantasies at such a young age but also is seemingly bothered by sexuality at other times?

And well, there could be more than one answer. There's the reading I've put forth that she is just having prepubesent sexual curiosity, the answer I think is the most likely to be intended if any. It could just be because the author wanted a loli and the fact the she's written modestly like this could be a coincidence (though I really think there was intent writing her this way especially when compared to how imitatio is written). There's always the possibility that korisu's past is darker than we know, that maybe she's experienced abuse of some kind, she's already experiencing neglect, who's to say there's not a reason her father is out of the picture, another reason her fantasies often revolve around family. We really can't say. I hope that we learn more about korisu when the author decides to pick the series back up again. I think it's likely that we will considering the last chapter introduced roboko.

I dunno man I don't know what I want the takeaway for this long winded post to be other than I think Korisu Morino is a well written character and a good representation of prepubesent sexual curiosity. She's written like a child, not like a sexualized fantasy of a child. When I was first reading through mahoako and got to the chapter where they introduced Korisu, I almost dropped the series. I thought "oh great they had to include a loli what the fuck she's 9" and then I kept reading, just to see what they'd do with her. And they didn't do what I expected. And by the end of reading I thought "wow. It's kind of refreshing to have a child character, especially in an eechi series that is THIS sexual, not being the object of sexualization." And that sentiment has stuck with me.

And then they introduced Imatatio and I wanted to throw my laptop 😤 but we'll that's a post for a different day because I have a lot of thoughts on her, not all as positive as my thoughts on Korisu, but it's more of a mixed bag.

At the end of the day I know that mahoako is a series that is meant to be arousing, it's eechi, it's a magical girl series about kink and bdsm that puts 14 year old girls in sexual situations for the audiences viewing pleasure. I get that. The series is by no means a masterpiece and I know it's very likely that I and a lot of other fans are reading too much into it. But I really think there is something there with the representation of queer kids exploring sexuality in a way that doesn't make them feel like outcasts for liking what they like.

Anyway, stan Korisu. Nero Alice best girl.

[justice4canyonmoon]

something about y/n losing her virginity to harry? please

I hope you enjoy almost 3k words of the softest filth I've ever written 😉 Also, I pictured this as LHH (my beloved) so that's why he's described as having long hair!

warnings: smut!! 18+ only!! vaginal fingering, nipple play (briefly), p in v sex, loss of virginity, innocent reader, soft dom! harry

WC: 2.8 k

Your parents always told you to wait until marriage. Said it wasn’t “ladylike” to give yourself to someone before you were truly dedicated to one another for life. And for a long time you believed them. But now, you were about to graduate college, and you still hadn’t had sex. Your friends all had: Sarah, Mitch, Adam, Harry, Niall, and all of the other people you hung out with found someone to suit them (with Mitch and Sarah it was each other, which you all totally called your freshman year). But you still hadn’t. And you had to say, you didn’t really believe your parents anymore. You wanted to see what the fuss was about. And you wanted it with Harry.

You had always had a bit of a crush on him: the long curls, bright green eyes, full lips, and dimple had drawn you in when you first met in your math class, but his sweet smile, gentle laugh, and kindness made you fall head over heels. Every time he got a new partner, your heart broke a little more, and every time he broke up with them, it healed again. You went through this vicious cycle all throughout your schooling, but tonight, you thought maybe you could break out of it. Harry had been single throughout your whole senior year, and your friends were hanging out at his place tonight. Maybe you could get him alone…

“Alright, I think you’ve had a few too many, Mitch. I’ll get him home.”

Sarah held her boyfriend up, still giggling at how he could barely get up from the chair. Adam had already gone home, since he had an 8-page final essay due for his writing class, and Niall hadn’t been able to come since he was studying for his music theory final. As soon as Harry finished helping Sarah get Mitch out to her car, he came back to find you still on his couch, taking a small sip from the bottle of hard cider you had been drinking. You purposefully didn’t drink enough to get you drunk, wanting to remember this. Sure, this could go horribly wrong and Harry could reject you and not want to be your friend again. But maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way as you. And you would get what you wanted.

“Will you need a ride home? Or are you okay to drive?” he asked.

You smiled, “I’ve only drank one bottle of cider. I’ll be fine, H.”

He smiled back, sitting beside you once more, “Can’t believe it’s almost over. I’ll miss you all when we go.”

“Me too,” you replied, “but I think I’ll miss you the most.”

Harry quirked up a brow, his smile becoming more of a smirk, “Oh, really? And why would that be?”

You sighed, pushing down your nerves and steeling yourself for a potential rejection.

“Because I want you, H. As more than just my friend.”

You paused, waiting for his answer. You locked eyes, trying to read his expression, but it was unusually blank. There was silence. A bit too much. Then his response.

“I wish you had told me that earlier. Before we were about to move home.”

You took one of his large hands in yours, interlacing your fingers.

“I’ve liked you for so long, Harry. But it seemed like every time I worked up the nerve to say something, you’d be with someone else. I didn’t want that to happen again, so I just didn’t say anything,” you explained.

His eyes softened, holding a twinge of guilt, “Only dated other people because I didn’t think I could be yours. Didn’t want to ruin the friendship.”

He brought your hand up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. You couldn’t help but get a little flustered, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

“I felt the same way. Except I just stayed single because I’m a loser,” you joked.

A frown stretched across his lips, “No, you’re not. Don’t say things like that.”

“Well no one’s ever fucked me, so I think that might be true.”

And there it was. The invitation you wanted to send. You could only hope that he would accept. 

Harry looked you in the eyes, his expression unusually serious compared to the bright eyed, joyful man you’d come to know.

“I don’t ever want you to think that about yourself. You’re such a lovely person, could never be a loser,” you smiled bashfully at that, but he continued, “and, well, if you’d like to change that…”

He trailed off, knowing you would know what he meant.

“I do, Harry,” you pulled him closer to you, your knees touching because of your close proximity, “I want that with you. I just wouldn’t really know where to start.”

He let go of your hand in favor of cupping your jaw, brushing his thumb against your soft skin, “Would you like me to teach you?”

You nodded, feeling a bit too shy to speak now. Harry smiled reassuringly, gently resting his other hand on your thigh.

“Let me know what you feel comfortable with, okay?”

“Okay,” you managed to get out.

That was all he needed before his lips were on yours. 

They were just as soft as you imagined: plush, pink, and experienced as they moved against your own. You had kissed someone before, so this was at least familiar territory. But soon, he pulled you into his lap, his long curls tickling your skin as he deepened the kiss. You couldn’t help but gasp softly in surprise as his hands moved from cupping your cheek to wrapping around your waist. You felt almost dizzy, and it was just a kiss.

Harry pulled away then, looking deep into your eyes, “Still okay?”

You nodded, but he shook his head, “Need you to tell me. I want to make sure I have your full permission for everything we do.”

Your heart swelled. You doubted you’d find any other man who would treat you like this.

“I’m okay, Harry. Still a little nervous.”

He smiled, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you. May I take this off?”

You hadn’t even noticed he was tugging on your shirt, but his question brought it to your attention.

Remembering his request, you said, “Yes, H.”

You lifted your arms above your head as he undressed you. You couldn’t help but feel a bit shy at your exposed position, moving your arms to cover yourself.

“Fucking beautiful,” Harry cooed, gently unwrapping your arms from your torso, “don’t need to hide from me, baby, you’re so damned pretty.”

Heat rose to your cheeks again as you mumbled a bashful “thank you.”

“Here, I’ll take mine off too.”

You gawked as Harry stripped his shirt off, revealing his toned and tattooed torso. 

“Glad you’re enjoying the show,” he quipped as he stood from the couch, “but I’m not doing any more until we get to the bedroom. Not taking your virginity on my couch.”

You broke eye contact, slightly embarrassed as you stood up as well, “I didn’t mean to stare, H.”

He gently gripped your hips and leaned forward, lips brushing your ear, “I want you to look, darling.”

As quickly as he stepped into your space, he left it, walking the short distance to his bedroom and gesturing for you to follow. You did, still flustered as you walked past him into the familiar space. Harry closed the door behind you, despite the two of you being alone, and sat on the bed, patting his lap.

“Come here, baby.”

You quickly obeyed, sitting on his lap.

He cupped your face in his hands again, “If at any point you feel uncomfortable, please tell me. It’s okay if we don’t go the whole way today, just want you to feel safe.”

“I’ll tell you, I promise. But I don’t think anything you’ll do will make me feel uncomfortable,” you answered honestly, making him smile.

He leaned in and kissed you again, reintroducing the familiar motions. You went along happily, already addicted to his kisses. But soon, he was gently laying you back until your back was against the mattress. Harry’s hands traveled down your body, stopping at your bra.

“May I?”

“Of course, H.”

He unhooked your bra, throwing it onto the ground carelessly as he took in your fully topless torso. His large hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing against your nipples. You jumped from his touch, making him chuckle.

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” he remarked before replacing his thumbs with his lips, licking and sucking at your pert nipples.

You gasped, grabbing at his luscious curls, “Oh, Harry.” 

You felt him smile against you as he continued his ministrations. You barely noticed his hands traveling down until they tugged at the zipper of your jeans. He looked up at you, silently asking permission.

You nodded, lifting your hips, “Please, H, take them off.”

Harry obliged, undoing the zipper and button of your jeans and tugging them down your legs until you were left in just your panties. He lifted his head and drank you in, tugging down the cotton fabric until you were bare before him. Just like before, you felt a bit shy from the attention, but Harry wasn’t letting you cover up.

“Shit, baby, you’re even more beautiful than I thought you’d be.”

You had lost count of the amount of times you blushed, “Y-you thought about this?”

“So many times,” he confessed, “wanted to be the first one who made you feel good.”

“I’ve wanted that too. For so long. But you can’t do that if you still have your pants on,” you teased.

He chuckled, “I suppose you’re right. Want to help me?”

You nodded eagerly, tugging the zipper down on his ridiculously tight jeans and helping to shove them down his thick thighs. Now all that was separating you was his boxers. There was a sizeable tent in the fabric, and Harry laughed softly again when he caught you staring.

“Want me to take those off, too?”

You nodded, not bothering with words since he knew how needy you were. He guided your hand to the waistband of his underwear, encouraging you to drag them down. And you did so happily.

Holy shit, he was big.

Of course, this was the first time you had seen a cock, so you supposed you didn’t have much to go off of. But it looked big. 

Harry could see the nerves return to your expression, “Don’t worry, lovely. It won’t hurt. I’ll open you up a bit first. Lay back down.”

You listened, laying your head back on the plush pillows as Harry leaned forward, hovering above you. His hands gently ran along your thighs. You knew he was doing it to make sure that you were comfortable, but quite honestly, you were beginning to get a little impatient.

“Want it, H. Need your fingers.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Not so shy anymore, hm? Am I making you wait too long?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer his question, running his fingers through your folds to collect your wetness on his fingers. The response you would’ve had came out as a choked moan as you watched him slip his fingers into his mouth.

“Taste so fucking good,” Harry groaned, “definitely eating this perfect pussy next time.”

Heat rose to your cheeks once more at the implication that there would be a next time. But you didn’t have much of a chance to think about it as he used those fingers to spread your pussy open.

“So pretty,” he murmured almost to himself, dragging his fingers through your wet folds.

“Please, Harry,” you whined, tired of being teased.

He smiled at you, “Don’t worry, baby. Said I’d take care of you.”

And his first finger entered you, stretching your entrance in a way it hadn’t been before. Sure, you’d used your own fingers and a toy or two. But it was so different in the best way when someone else did it. 

“Shit,” you gasped as he stretched you open, smirking at how tight you were against just one of his fingers.

“Relax for me, baby. Gonna need at least one more finger, if not two to make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

You willed yourself to relax, allowing yourself to sink into the pillows as he pressed inside of you. He pulled out completely before re-entering with two fingers, making you moan out in pleasure.

“Oh fuck! Harry!”

“That’s it, beautiful. Look so good taking my fingers like this,” he praised, curling his fingers inside of you, “bet you’ll look even prettier with my cock.”

“Want it, Harry, please,” you begged.

“Not yet, pretty. Need to make sure you’re nice and stretched open for me.”

He took his sweet time, teasing you with the slow drag of his fingers. The sounds coming from your pussy were obscene, wetness squelching around his fingers as he fucked you. You could feel the coil in your belly and your pussy clenched around him.

“Gonna cum for me, baby? Can feel you squeezing me.”

You nodded, already too far gone to speak. Harry smirked, then leaned in to suck your clit. 

You saw stars, vision becoming slightly fuzzy as you experienced the best orgasm of your life. He fucked you through it, fingers not stopping as you soaked them.

“That’s it, pretty. So good for me,” he praised.

When you came down from your high, Harry smirked at you, “Think you're ready for this cock, baby?”

“Please, Harry! Need to feel you in me, please,” you begged, not particularly caring if you sounded desperate. 

He rolled a condom over his cock and lined himself up with your entrance.

Harry’s expression turned serious again, “Promise you’ll tell me if it hurts at all.”

You nodded, “I will, H, promise.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leaned in and kissed you softly as his tip breached your entrance. You gasped softly: if you thought his fingers stretched you out, it was nothing compared to the girth of his cock. Harry murmured soft encouragements into your skin as he slowly entered you, filling your pussy for the first time. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to, the only sounds escaping your lips were broken whimpers. Soon, he was fully sheathed inside of you, making you the fullest you had ever been in your life.

“Harry,” you whined.

He smiled at you, lovingly brushing your hair from your face, “Feel okay, baby?”

You nodded, “So full. Move, please?”

Of course, he couldn’t say no if you asked so politely. So slowly, he rolled his hips, testing the waters. The sweet moan that spilled from your mouth was enough confirmation that you were ready. He pulled out almost entirely before slamming back in, setting a slow yet still somehow relentless pace as he fucked you. Choked gasps and whines fell from your lips with abandon as Harry pounded you. It was absolute bliss. He looked like an angel, long hair framing his perfect face as his brow was furrowed in concentration, determined to make you feel good.

“So good, Harry,” you managed to gasp out to assuage his worries.

He smiled then, lips brushing your temple as he continued his slow, yet powerful thrusts, “Yeah? You like it?”

“Love it,” you moaned as he brushed a spot inside of you, “Right there, H.”

“Here?” he asked cheekily as he hit that spot again, turning you into a pile of mush.

Harry sped up a bit, sensing that you could take more. You moaned desperately as he continued to hit that perfect spot inside of you with every thrust. His cock filled you deliciously, and quite honestly, you didn’t know how you went without it until now. 

“Fuck, feel like I’m gonna cum soon, your pussy is just too perfect. Are you close, pretty?”

You nodded, feeling the coil in your belly once more, “So close, Harry! Please!”

“Need you to cum so I can. C’mon baby, give it to me,” he commanded. 

One of his thumbs moved between your bodies, skillfully rubbing your clit. You writhed around his as your orgasm slammed into you, completely taking your breath away. Somehow, it was even better than the first one, your vision blurring even more as you clenched around him. You vaguely heard yourself whimpering his name brokenly as he spilled into the condom, groaning as he found his release. You were brought back to reality from the feeling of his lips brushing against yours, and you responded to his kiss as best you could.

He smiled, brushing his thumbs against your cheeks, “Was that good for you, baby?”

“Absolutely perfect, Harry. Thank you,” you answered shyly, running your fingers through his curls.

You may not be going to college together anymore in a few weeks, but you knew this wasn’t the last time you’d see him. Not when he treated you better than any other man possibly could.

[writer-freak]

New years confession | Iso x Gn reader

Summary: You have a crush on the new agent Iso but just can't imagine him liking you back. You try your best to avoid him but during the New Year celebration at the headquarters, confessions are made.

Warnings: Gn reader, shy reader, confessions, maybe ooc Iso, english isn't my first language, otherwise fluff

Wordcount: 1.1 k

A/n: So I actually had something written for Christmas but it still isn't finished so take this in the meantime. It's my first time writing for Iso and I didn't know exactly how I wanted to write him so I just tried something out sorry if it is ooc. Finished that right now real quick so some things may not exactly make sense but I hope you guys still enjoy it.

Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated and really motivate me to write more

When Iso arrived you were unable to take your eyes off him, and the first time you talked your words got stuck in your throat. You were somehow able to play it off but Iso definitely noticed that he was the reason for your reaction.

You tried to avoid him as best as you could but somehow he would always find you. It almost felt like he was purposefully seeking you out, especially when the others commented that he seemed to not really talk to anyone else at the headquarters.

But you tried to push that fluttering feeling in the back of your head, you didn't want to read too much into the situation. You reasoned that maybe he is just not used to everyone else and finds you the most approachable. You convinced yourself that that was the reason and that if he just spent more time with the others everything would be fine.

When Jett and Neon asked you if you wanted to help with the party preparations you agreed right away. It was something that could give you an excuse not to talk with Iso while also keeping you busy.

Time flew by as you helped with the party preparations, making sure everything was perfect for the night's festivities. The thought of Iso's presence at the celebration lingered in the back of your mind, and the mere idea of spending the countdown with him in the room made your heart race.

The party was in full swing with everyone drinking, dancing, and conversing.

As the clock ticked closer to midnight you sought out a quiet corner, taking in everyone else from the sidelines. As you were lost in your thoughts someone appeared beside you, "Enjoying the party?" You could recognize Iso's smooth voice immediately, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You jumped slightly, caught off guard "O-Oh, yeah. It's great." you stammered feeling a familiar heat rising to your cheeks. As you looked up at him you took a moment to take in how the colorful lights were casting a beautiful glow across him. Before you could get too lost in your admiration he spoke up again "I'm glad." He said with a smile, for a moment it felt like the world around you disappeared, leaving only you two in this corner.

The new year now was almost around the corner and while you took a sip of your drink you could feel Iso's eyes constantly on you. Trying to break the silence you asked "Ready for the new year?" You looked into his eyes with a slight smile.

He let out a breath before a smile took over on his lips "Well, almost, there is actually one more thing that I really wanted to do this year," Iso admitted, his tone carrying a hint of anticipation. With curiosity in your eyes, you couldn't help but ask, "And what is it?"

Iso took your free hand into his, his eyes now locked onto yours. Iso's smile grew, and he took a moment before answering, "I wanted to be honest with you, to share something that's been on my mind." Your heart quickened the anticipation building. Iso's gaze remained unwavering as he continued "I've noticed the way you react when I'm around, the way your words get caught. It hasn't escaped my attention, and I can't ignore the fact that you've been trying to avoid me."

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how he would continue. Iso, however, tightened his grip on your hand reassuringly. "But tonight, I don't want to play it off or pretend. I want to be straightforward with you," he confessed, his voice carrying sincerity. "I've found myself drawn to you, and I can't ignore the connection that seems to spark between us. I'd like to spend more time with you, and get to know you even more."

As Iso spoke, the countdown to midnight echoed in the background, the excitement of the celebration reaching its peak. "So, what do you say?" he asked, his gaze holding a mixture of hope and vulnerability. "Would you be willing to spend the upcoming year with me, not just as a teammate but maybe as something more?" Iso's confession hung in the air, the weight of his words settling between you two. The anticipation in his eyes was palpable, and you felt a familiar tightness in your throat, much like the first time you spoke to him.

He had bared his feelings, leaving the decision in your hands. Iso's sincerity and vulnerability tugged at your heartstrings, and you took a moment, allowing the silence to linger.

A lump formed in your throat, and you found it difficult to meet Iso's gaze. The colorful lights of the New Year's Eve celebration seemed to blur, but you took a steadying breath. Iso's hand in yours provided a sense of comfort, grounding you in the moment.

"Iso," you finally spoke, your voice soft but resolute. "I… I've felt it too. The way you make my heart race and my words get stuck. I tried to avoid you because I just didn't know how to handle it."

You looked up, meeting his eyes with a shy smile. "But tonight, I don't want to play it off either. I've enjoyed every moment we've spent together, and I'd like to see where this could go. So, yes, Iso. I'd like to spend the upcoming year with you, not just as a teammate but as something more."

The countdown started, everybody loudly screaming around you but everything was drowned out when Iso took a step closer to you. He gently cupped your cheek and almost in a whisper asked "Can I kiss you?" You knew that your words completely escaped you at the moment so you just closed the gap between you two, putting your lips on his.

In the background, you could hear everyone cheering and screaming "Happy New Year!" Cheers and the sound of fireworks filled the air, but for you, time seemed to stand still leaving only the feeling of his lips upon yours.

As fireworks lit up the sky in an arrangement of beautiful colors you and Iso pulled away from each other, a shared smile on your lips. "Happy New Year" Iso whispered, his eyes holding a warmth that eased the nervousness within you.

"Happy New Year" you replied, a genuine happiness blossoming within as you realized that, perhaps, the new year held more surprises.

Divider by: @saradika-graphics