#please help they are both so hot

[inquisimer]

pspspsps

[iloveacronix]

Boutta go sleep cuz my brain be lacking neurons rn but guys PLEASE hear me out

Supportive brothers for life. Also taggin the historyshipping queen @kyokittymeow

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (the wing spiral)

(~5,2 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

this comes right after the hot spring bath, still the same setting. and once again this is based on our discord rp so most of it is going to be a lengthy back and forth for a scene that could be summed up much shorter <3 hopefully you’ll enjoy!

[cws self-destructive tendencies, like seriously, a LOT. this is all kind of just that. and trauma. and going nonverbal.]

~~~

It’s once Grian’s wings become properly waterlogged and start sinking him that Scar pulls Grian back to the shore and wakes him up. And he worries, for many good reasons, that the moment of peace will be gone as soon as Grian’s feathers dry up. 

He doesn’t expect the end to come much sooner. 

Grian’s body feels like mush after sleeping in the warm water, relaxed for the first time in forever. He feels weak, heavy. His wings are leaden. He isn’t sure he can actually walk. With trembling legs, he slumps down, instantly getting his damp skin dirty. The air brushes his damp body and sends him shivering.

Even though it’s winter, the ground outside frost-painted and frozen, the cave is somewhat warmed by the pool of hot water. It’s something, but it's still far from ideal. The walls provide them enough shielding though, and they’re relatively hidden… So Scar gingerly dares to set up a fire for the night.

Sitting down on the spread out cloak, Grian hunches up while Scar works.

Grian’s feeling Bad. Frustrated with his wings. He can’t lift them up and spread them over the fire; they’re too wet, too heavy. Everything itches So Much Worse now that the debris got dislodged from the spots he's learned to ignore. He's swarmed by an overwhelming pile of awful sensations that make him hyperaware and overstimulated in the worst ways, and he wants it to Stop. 

He needs his wings dry now, or—

Or he needs them gone.

His hands hover over his feathers, expression drawn. He considers squeezing them to get the water out, but that’s only bound to damage them—and he isn’t entirely sure if he could stop himself from yanking at them right now if he so much as touches them.

Scar watches him, uneasy, trying to figure out how to help. Tentatively, he offers to help spread Grian’s wings out close to the fire. He could cover his hands with fabric! It wouldn’t even be skin-on-feather contact! And he won’t move unless Grian moves him, and and—

He’s just rambling nervously. He doesn't actually know what to do.

Grian’s a shivering mess at this point. His nerve-endings are firing and flaring up and he’s quickly growing so tense again and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He begs Scar to help, but at the same time he doesn’t want his wings to be touched. (He can only comprehend painful touches. If Scar’d grab and pull instead of be gentle, maybe that’d be something Grian’s mind could comprehend.)

Scar tries to soothe him. “Hey, hey, we’ve got plenty of time to let them dry! It’s fine. It’s fine! I’ll help however you let me!”

But Grian’s mind is already spiralling, overtaken by the sensations that don’t let him calm down. There’s an encroaching feeling, something sharp and unpleasantly familiar. His hands curl. He whines and cries that his wings are heavy and they feel wrong.

Self destruction brushes against the nape of his neck, ghosts over his feathers. He can’t help but misguidedly crave pain against his feathers, because maybe that would feel right. Maybe that would make sense. Maybe they deserve to be punished. Maybe— Maybe they should be cut off.

Just— Please. Please make it stop feeling like this.

He needs Scar to do something, but he doesn’t know what. Can’t articulate it either to release them from this stalemate of an awful moment.

Not for the first time in this world, Scar is convinced he completely messed up for suggesting the bath at all. It was a bad idea, clearly. Why was he so eager? Why did he have to insist, even though Grian was clearly hesitant? Why did he have to go ahead and drag Grian into it, only for it all to end up like this?

He’s a bit frantic, but he’s trying to keep his suggestions level and calm. He offers Grian to lie down so he doesn’t need to keep his wings up too much in his attempts to reach the warmth of the crackling fire.

With a weak whimper, Grian curls up on the cloak. With a sharp flinch, he nudges his wing a bit too close to the fire. (He doesn’t care; he’s so upset with them. He watches blankly, sees it happen, but doesn’t move away.) (His wing is so heavy.) (What has it ever done for him—and Scar—in this world but bring suffering?) (Maybe it'd be better if it burned.) (Maybe it should.) (It deserves whatever happens to it, he thinks dazedly.) 

Scar’s stunned, locked in place at the sight. What is he meant to do here?? He can’t move Grian’s wings. He— Does he move the fire? Or— Or he could scoot all of Grian, maybe. But now he’s convinced all of his ideas are garbage now. He doesn’t want to make things worse, and he’s aware that he tends to inadvertently do that far too often.

Grian’s mind continues spiralling, untethered, in free fall. He’s blankly looking at his feathers near the fire; the sparks fly nearby. The glow illuminates the damp mess of his feathers. 

In the quietest voice, barely audible, he asks: “... Scar, do you want to cut them off?”

Scar’s lungs seize up. Surely he heard that wrong? “What?”

Grian purses his lips, a small frown settling between his eyebrows. He’s still staring in the direction of the feathers and the flame, not turning to look at Scar.

Something in Scar shifts then, so adamantly. Where he was trying to work with Grian’s spiralling before, now he just has outright refusal flowing through him. “Grian, no.” His voice is stern instead of that squeaky, panicked gentleness from before. “Listen to me, you are fine, we are safe, they will dry. I told you I’d watch your back, okay? I told you it was okay to relax, so let me figure this out.”

Grian doesn’t move. He stays lying quietly, not looking at Scar, fingers slightly curled but left with nothing to hold onto. Scar’s words swirl through him, but they refuse to take hold.

“Scar.” It’s quiet, so incredibly quiet. Wobbly and blank, somber and so horribly factual. “I don’t need them.”

“Yeah I don’t need my hair either but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna shave it,” Scar grumbles. His voice isn’t angry exactly, but he is not playing this game. “I can make another fire if you want. We have enough fuel, we’ll just have to gather more soon. And then we either wait or you let me help.” He’s gone full diplomatic, spending all his energy on remaining calm and certain.

Grian squeezes his eyes shut, pulling himself tighter into a ball. Scar’s voice is flatter than usual, not the coaxing gentleness he usually uses, and Grian silently blames himself for that tonal shift, further unease blooming under his skin.

His wing twitches, feathers moving just the slightest bit towards the fire. It’s not an intended motion, and with his eyes tightly closed and mind fuzzy, Grian isn’t even fully aware of it. (He wouldn’t correct it anyway.) 

The wings are wet and heavy and cold, and everything in them feels dislodged and damaging, and he wants to tear at them—

He curls his fingers tighter, nails digging into his palm as a whimper breaks past his lips.

Even if Scar is upset with him. Even if Grian is feeling and saying wrong things. (Things that scare him but sink into him like daggers anyway.) Even then, he still wants Scar to help. He— He needs Scar’s help, because he isn’t sure he’s going to win this fight with himself. 

Grian sniffles and looks to him, all wretched and pathetic. “Help.”

 The tension tugging at Scar’s features as he racks his brain eases slightly when he meets Grian’s eyes. His expression immediately softens, utterly weak to it. 

“Okay,” Scar says softly, even if he’s not sure what that promised help entails quite yet. He scoots a little closer, purposely putting his foot in between the fire and Grian’s encroaching feathers. “Another fire or do you want me to help you dry off?”

Notably, Grian’s feathers don’t shy from the barrier of Scar’s foot. They’d usually flinch back, maintaining distance, but Grian can’t muster up enough will to care right now. He’s willing to get them hurt.

The way Scar’s voice softens chips at something in Grian. Abruptly, his eyes flood with tears and his fists loosen, hands twitching up. (To cover his face or to reach for Scar, he isn’t sure.) “I just want— I just want them dry. Scar, please.” 

It’s not an answer to a preferred method, but it is an answer to the scale of urgency. (And that’s not even it. Grian wants more. He wants them clean but without being bright. He wants all the things lodged in them to be pulled out without them being touched. He wants them to stop feeling so awful all the time. He wants them to stop being beacons. He wants them to stop being such an incessant burden. He wants people to stop so hungrily wanting them, as if they were an object to take. He wants to stop being afraid of the day when they will inevitably be hacked off his back while he screams and can't fight back. He wants them to feel like a part of him again instead of just something unwieldy and wounded he carries along. He wants them to stop feeling so inflamed and scratched up, so tense, so big and visible, so untouchable, like a dead space around his back that has to forever be navigated around. He wants— He wants it all to stop. He wants them gone, now, on his own terms.) 

“Okay,” Scar says again. His voice is steady but his hands, notably, are not. 

Aside from the fire, every suggestion he has involves touching Grian’s wings— which as far as he’s concerned, is something he is never allowed to do. 

“Okay, just… let them down? Um, droop?” Scar slides his leg firmly between them and fire, though. “… And not too close to the fire.” He’s no longer beating around the bush with that. He knows what Grian is thinking about. He can sense the self destructiveness.

Grian tries to follow what Scar wants from him while wading through the endless suggestions his own mind spews at him. He shifts, a bit clumsy, and his wings sweep across the floor. They’re so heavy to move. To adjust. To redirect. It’s ungraceful, fumbly.

Despite Scar banning the proximity to the fire, the feathers lightly crash against Scar’s legs anyway, a small pressure leaving nothing but a despondent suggestion of Scar moving out of the way as Grian sobs quietly while his mind spins. (Tear rip destroy cut get rid of them get rid of them make them GONE pluck them out claw them off anything just gone gone gONE) (Make it stOP—)

While—as Scar presumes, anyway—Grian’s mind is preoccupied dealing with the task of moving his wings, Scar goes ahead and tears the other band-aid off. “…Grian, I’m— I’m going to have to touch your wings to make this work.” Again he’s fighting down his nerves, forcing his voice to remain even, but he struggles. 

He hates this.

Grian blinks, not looking quite at Scar. His vision is blurry and something in his chest tingles, plunging him into uncertainty. He doesn’t know how he feels. His ears ring. “Okay…” he says, a bit too quiet, a bit too flat. 

His brain fumbles through nonsensical half-sentences. He considers asking Scar to yank the feathers. He considers asking him to make it hurt? He thinks maybe he should tell him again to cut them off, get rid of the problem at the root. 

What he ends up saying instead is something else entirely, and his voice is small and incredibly off while he delivers the line.

“... Do you want them?”

“... What?” Scar says again, entirely thrown off by that nonsensical question. But he quickly decides he doesn’t want Grian to explain that, actually, and keeps talking. “No, Grian, I want you. All of you. I just—“ The gravity of those statements weighs on Scar after a moment and he stutters slightly over his words, but still powers through. “I just want you to be okay. This was supposed to be relaxing.”

It takes a second for Scar to realize Grian did provide consent for the idea of his wings being touched, which is wild, and it sets off a whole bunch of other questions he doesn’t want answered flying around his brain. “So I’ll be as fast as I can, okay? And then we can enjoy some nice warm clothes and a lovely campfire.”

Grian grows both more sheepish and more numb, quieter. It feels like surrendering. To what exactly, he isn’t sure yet. He’s just done fighting. Whatever happens, happens.

His voice is tiny and hollow, but he gives Scar another nudge, another confirmation that he’s listening and Scar is allowed to carry on. “Okay.”

“… Okay,” Scar repeats, somewhat terrified. He’s never known Grian to give in so easily to anything, even when it’s good for him. “I won’t hurt you, you know that?” It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out far too close to a question. 

The words are out there and— Grian knows Scar wouldn’t hurt him, but his brain is screaming at him anyway, and he thinks he’d welcome it if Scar did something horrible to him. (He’s verging on doing it himself—) Instead of answering, he just closes his eyes.

Scar fumbles his hands about, looking for his clothes that he set out to get warm, taking his vest for starters because it’s the thickest. He wraps the fabric over and around his hand, taking this time to steel his nerves. He really shouldn’t build up to this whole thing, even if he wants to preface it with about a dozen apologies. 

Grian can sense Scar getting ready. It sets his nerves alight, and he wants to retreat, back into that numbness, even as the anticipation builds up under his skin. He takes a shaky breath, brings his arms up and ducks his face in them, hiding himself.

It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay let it happen—

Scar really doesn’t want to prolong this any more than necessary, so he gets right to it, placing his wrapped-up hand on the wing closest to him and moving it in line with the feathers, trying to place as little pressure as possible for this first pass.

Grian’s wing barely twitches, startled as Scar starts touching it. Grian’s biting into his lip, trying not to tremble, trying not to— He isn’t sure what. (He wishes Scar’d pull his claws out and dug in.) (The lightness of the touch is driving him insane.)

Restless with mounting tension, Grian shifts a little, moving to curl on his other side, effectively turning his back to Scar. It seems practical: it helps the angle, gives Scar easier access to the wing. But more than that, it also means relinquishing even more control—something Grian usually never does. (The idea of someone behind his  back usually spirals him into panic. He never really allows it. Not anymore.) (And yet.)

Scar’s surprised he isn’t given much resistance for doing this. He feels like he ought to be slapped, or in the very least shouted at for causing this whole mess. He’s miserable, not at all enjoying this disaster of a preening session, if you could even call it that.

Grian’s chest feels horribly constricted and his hands shake. Turned away from Scar, he presses his hand against his bare, damp chest, nails clawing at his skin, clutching at the pain he can’t quite get to. 

Scar presses down a little more with each pass, letting the cloth soak up as much water as it can, and after a few successful strokes down the entire length, Scar lifts ever so slightly to let it drip off the bottom, testing if he can get away with drying there as well. He doesn’t exactly want to, but it would get this done faster if he could.

The firmer pressure on Grian’s wings, oddly enough, feels better than the light touch. Grian doesn’t want Scar to be gentle. (He doesn’t know how to make him understand that.) (He thinks maybe Scar knows and just doesn’t want to understand.) Nonsensically, he wishes it’d all be worse.

 He doesn’t react to Scar manipulating his wings in any way, doesn’t twitch or flinch them away. The wing isn’t relaxed, not in the slightest, but it obliges and obeys, surrendered just like Grian. (Please please please make it hurt—)

As he works, Scar takes a breath to speak. It’s shaky, just like his hands, but he pushes past it. “I was—“ His voice catches in his throat, and he quietly curses himself for failing on his one strength here— his words. But he tries again, pushes past the wobble in his voice. “… I was gonna build a castle this season. I know I’m always on about how I hate big castle builds, but I had a block palette ready and everything.”

When Scar starts talking, voice faltering, Grian feels an abrupt rise of emotions clog his throat. It’s the first time since the start that his wing really twitches, threatening awareness on him. He fights down the uprise of panic, breathes through his mouth, a long and steady exhale.

“Wh— What palette did you— have in mind?” he manages to say in bits and pieces, voice hoarse and thick, sounding like he’s been crying. He can barely comprehend what he’s saying, half of him switched on autopilot.

Scar is so relieved to hear Grian speak, even if his voice is more pained than his own. It just feels like something more manageable than the task at hand, however, so he clings to it, continues on. 

“I was gonna use blue ice for the roof. Maybe a little impractical but—“ he almost chuckles, trying to ease into the easy conversation. “I think the worst part of castles is everyone goes for the medieval look. They suck the soul right out of the build with it. There’s no magic!” 

He scrubs more methodically, even offering the occasional squeeze to get the water out. He still hates it. The enthusiasm of his words rings false to his own ears. To make up for his frustration, he frees a small twig that had been driving him crazy before back in the hot spring. “I would go for a more pastel color palette— sandstone, terracotta, no deepslate allowed.”

Grian presses his forehead against the cloak that’s underneath him, just trying to hold himself together. (He still wants to grab the wing and do bad bad bad things—) (The freed twig sends a toppling sense of relief through him that he can’t quite decipher or understand.) He tries so hard to follow Scar’s words, instead of the unending scalding avalanche of things his mind keeps suggesting and burying him under.

He wants to tell Scar to rake his claws through his feathers.

He wants to tell him to just tear at the joint, right where Grian’s exposed back lies defenceless.

He wants to tell him to bite and tear and take—

He swallows thickly and says, instead: “A fairytale castle.”

“Exactly!” Scar says, the excitement partially real this time. “A proper castle isn’t just a build, it’s an experience!” 

It feels like this might take an eternity, but Scar does recognize progress. He continues taking out anything he sees stuck in the wings, deciding he’s at least going to make Grian’s wings feel better if he has to do this to him.

Grian's curling up tighter, shivering despite himself, but his wing is still and willing in Scar's hands, nothing but an object to be manipulated. (To be taken.) He still wants this all to get worse. He also wants it to be over. He can't stand this in-between.

With effort, Grian drags his other wing—the one Scar isn't currently working on—across himself. He hasn't purposefully touched his wings in so long, but with a stutter of his breath and mind burning, his fingers find the feathers now.

“Careful,” Scar warns, like he’s the one that should be offering wing advice somehow. “I’m almost done with this one, I think?” He lifts his hand, seeing the vest is properly soaked already.

“Mm.” Grian doesn’t really process what Scar means by saying careful. Doesn’t catch the warning. His wing tucks around him, fingers curling into the feathers without care. He’s playing with the idea of yanking as if he was playing with fire, but somehow it seems like the option that will burn him is the safe one. The letting go. Like he should pick this destructive option instead to make it all better.

His earwings shield his face, even as all of him is turned away from Scar’s sight anyway. 

They muffle the quietest, choked sob. 

Grian’s fingers pull.

Just at that moment, Scar turns to grab his undershirt, figuring he may as well. The clothes’ll dry easier than the feathers, clearly. 

When he looks back, he sees the slight pull Grian’s fingers make and he narrows his eyes, wanting to be wrong about what he just saw. He decides against bringing attention to it, instead grabbing Grian’s hand and unthreading his fingers altogether. “Let me,” he says, though he leaves little room for argument.

There’s no fighting back; Grian’s self destructive, but entirely given up otherwise, still surrendered to Scar fully. (His mind is a tangled mess of contradictions and warnings and pleas.) He lets Scar do what he wants, a sense of blank numbness descending back over him. (He wants to keep it. It’s easier. He wants to tuck himself in it and never emerge.)

Scar doesn’t bring up what he thinks he just saw, not now. He’s not so sure Grian is fully with it, something he’s become more familiar with than he’d like to be. 

He gets to work on that wing, leaving the drier one spread out near the fire. (Though he keeps a close eye on that.) The undershirt is a tad worse at collecting water, but it’s longer and still does the job. And he wants that job done as soon as possible. “How did you ever bathe back home…” he mumbles, not expecting an answer.

Grian’s completely resigned, his wing fully in Scar’s control. He’s staring blankly ahead at the darker part of the cave, not really seeing anything. His soul feels like a warzone, littered with exploded landmines. 

He isn’t sure if there’s anything left to explode. (There probably is.) (He doesn’t want to think about it.)

He hears Scar asking something, but he doesn’t quite catch and process it. The word home makes it through to his awareness though and, quietly, without a word, his eyes flood with fresh tears.

Despite not expecting an answer, it still hurts Scar not to receive one. He feels like he’s talking to the void when Grian gets like this. Like his heart is about to tip forward and fall into it. 

“Is there like… a hair dryer for wings?” His attempt at a joke doesn’t make him feel any better. Again he moves the wing to work on the underside, carefully pinching when he needs to squeeze the water out.

Numbness tingles through Grian, but contradictory, the tears continue to overflow and silently drip down his face. He doesn't know what he's feeling. Is it emptiness? Is it pain? Is it fear? He thinks of the campfire and feathers. He thinks of blood and screaming, arms and blades and being pinned down. He thinks of Scar's soft voice and of his hands massaging Grian's scalp.

He can't untangle himself.

He continues staying quiet, not reacting.

“I guess you… could just use a normal hair dryer.” Scar’s heart aches. His vision is getting blurry with tears as well. He’s still doing well drying the wings, but his chest feel likes it’s splintering. With a small sniffle, he adds on, far too quiet: “Grian, I’m so sorry.”

The apology, barely audible, elicits a small twitch of Grian’s wing in Scar’s hold.

He doesn’t understand. Why is Scar sorry? Why is Scar hurting?

He can’t get through the fog that surrounds him. (He thinks it shields him; he isn’t sure he wants to venture out.) He thinks, disorientingly, of warm beds and tight cuddles.

He wants to ask if this is over yet. He wants to ask if Scar is okay. He wants to—

(He wants to discard his wings and—)

His eyes close, eyelashes wet. His hand weakly paws at the cloak that’s still underneath him, a feeble layer shielding him from the coldness of rough ground.

“Maybe not— not one of my better ideas, the whole bath thing.” Releasing his inner conflict is comforting to Scar in some way. It makes his tears feel like less of a waste. It helps him keep going somehow. 

He might rush somewhat, but only because he can barely take it anymore. 

Softly, he croaks out: “It was nice to hear you laugh…”

A shaky breath leaves Grian. He itches to reassure Scar. To tell him the bath was absolutely wonderful. To thank him, for letting him laugh. To press a kiss to his cheek and genuinely thank him for it, for that moment of reprieve.

But he can’t.

He can’t, not now, not now, because if he does try, everything will fall apart and the carefully held back dam of panic will break and he’d suffocate.

So he just silently waits for it to be over, even as the heartache builds and builds and builds through the numbness in his heart, a desperate aching leading straight back to Scar, yelling at Grian to fix it.

Scar continues in silence after that, words entirely failing him either way— whether he opts for sentimentality or distraction. 

After a while longer, he feels like he stops making progress, like the rest will simply have to be air dried.

The wings are let go and there’s a lull, an empty moment, and Grian hazily realises he doesn’t remember most of the wing drying. Something in him skipped over it and buried it deep down, the sensation of harmless pressure over his wings lost to some void.

Scar slowly shifts to be in front of Grian as he wrings out his shirt. “Is it—“ His voice breaks painfully and he has to pause to clear his throat. “Is it okay?” He sets the shirt down near the fire and offers his empty palms, his usual placating gesture. “I could help you up?”

Grian hears Scar shift to the front of him, and it draws a small questioning sound out of him. He opens his eyes, finding Scar’s, noticing the rawness of his expression, the wetness of his eyelashes and cheeks that mirrors Grian’s own.

Scar is checking up on him, but he sounds so wounded, and it’s absolutely destroying Grian’s heart. His breath hitches, and his vision blurs anew. (Fix it fix it fix it fix it—) He still can’t quite find words. He still can’t quite find himself.

But he wants to give Scar something, and Scar didn’t take his wings, and—

Timidly, he reaches for Scar’s offered palms, but remains pressed to the ground, not attempting to get up. “Scar.” It’s hoarse and small, pleading and broken. There’s an edge of fragmentation to it, a cracked glass too sharp to not get cut on accident.

Scar’s breath hitches again at the sound of his name— god, how he loves hearing Grian say his name— and he chokes out a small sniffle, bordering on a sob. “Hi,” he says lamely, meeting Grian’s outstretched hand and taking it. His other hand immediately finds Grian’s cheek, brushing aside a few stray tears and cradling his head gently.

“Hi,” Grian echoes back so, so weakly. (He wants to give more more more more more—) His hand squeezes against Scar’s, but it’s feeble. He feels taken apart into pieces, unsure how to put himself back together.

But he looks at Scar and he thinks that Scar also needs someone to put a scrap of cloth over the wounds scattered across his heart. (They don’t have bandages. They don’t have stitches. They have hands and words, tears and prayers, and some scraps.) 

So Grian does his best to pull through the thick fog, to attempt a tiny, tiniest, weakest smile. “The bath felt nice.” It’s hoarse and precarious, but it rings sincere.

Scar coughs, choking on a small bark of laughter that’s hardly even joyful. It’s still pained. But it’s something. 

“I’m glad,” he replies softly, eyes flicking downward. “Your sweater should be all warm by now.”

Scar’s small laughter is more than just something. Grian holds onto it, wraps it up in his mind, protects it from the tingling fog as if it was the most precious thing.

“Mm.” His sweater might be warm, and gosh, what a tantalising though that is. But it isn’t within his reach.

Scar is.

Lightly, questioningly, he tugs at Scar’s hand. “C’mere?”

This time the laughter is a touch more sincere. Scar can’t help it. That simple word warms his heart enough to melt away a bit of the ice he was letting freeze over him. 

He slides his legs down, ignoring the cold ground, and adjusts himself so he can lie down in front of Grian, leaning his head close. “I’m here.”

Without hesitation, Grian shifts towards him, yearning. There’s that string between them, a bond that tugs, dictating that there’s only one direction for Grian to go to reach safety. 

His feathers are lighter. They tuck behind him loosely, still semi-sprawled, still siphoning the warmth of the fire to dry off the remaining bits. He feels a little bit silly for how violent he wanted to be with them. (He thinks he might end up wanting that again. But not now. Not now, when Scar’s lying in front of him after just laughing unsteadily, looking so vulnerable after trying his absolute best for Grian.) 

“Mm.” Grian reaches out his free hand and lightly brushes over Scar’s cheek. “You are,” he confirms in a whisper, and then he sniffles. “I’m— I—” He swallows down the apology, buries it deep within his heart as he tips forward, wanting to tuck himself against Scar. “Thank you.”

The returned gesture manages to get Scar to smile, however weak it may be. He leans into the touch, needing it desperately. “Mm, I— …Yeah.” He wants to say of course like he normally would, but it doesn’t feel right. “… Is it any better?”

Grian nuzzles himself under Scar’s jaw, searching for his spot at the crook of Scar’s neck. “It’s better,” he reassures, soft and quiet and unsteadily sincere.

Even if he's still hurting. (Even if Scar is as well.)

Even if his wings still feel off and he's still scared.

Even if he still feels exhausted and numb, a little bit volatile and a whole lot fractured. With a bruised heart behind his paper-thin ribs.

Even then, this one thing is a truth he can concede.

It's better.

It's better, because Scar was here to make it so.

And Scar is still here.

Abruptly, Grian shivers, because his skin is still exposed, and so is Scar’s, and—

Maybe rashly, on impulse, he swishes his wing up, where it falters.

“Scar.” He pulls away just enough to be able to look at him. There’s an edge of fear in his wide eyes, something so desperately shackled, and an endless pool of vulnerability. “Don’t— Don’t touch them anymore, not— Just—” He starts tripping over his words. He opts to duck back into the safety of his spot and— His wing slowly, so very slowly drapes across him and Scar, like a blanket. “Just. Is this—” He wants to ask if it’s okay, but the words don’t make it past his throat.

“I won’t,” Scar confirms immediately, and he’s glad he did, because those words would have definitely been broken up and choked out if he had waited for Grian’s wings to be draped over them. “I—“ he still stammers, hopelessly endeared and emotional by the touch. “… O–okay.”

“Okay,” Grian echoes a little breathlessly, and on nothing but instinct and yearning, the wing presses against Scar’s back in a gentle tug. And his feathers still flare up, overstimulated, but it feels different now. Like this might be something he can handle.

Like maybe this could help, too.

And it's him initiating this whole touch, perfectly aware of where his wings are and what they're pressed against. He's in control here, like walking on a tightrope, begging Scar not to unexpectedly shake it underneath him.

Being cocooned in feathers feels very natural and comforting to Grian, even though it’s something he’s been denying himself for the longest time. They shield them from the cold air, trap the warmth between them, quite like a literal blanket would, even as some of the feathers are still damp. (He hopes Scar doesn’t mind.)

Maybe clothes would be warmer, but this makes Scar feel so much lighter. His heart feels like it could spring out his chest, a mixture of relief and gratefulness stirring within him. Immensely glad that the awful part is now over, quite honestly struggling to catch up to this jump in development.

But he’ll take it.

He’ll take this over Grian asking him to cut off his wings any day.

[nowshesdoingitallthetime]

I think I need to sit down actually

[onegianthotmess]

I need help deciding!!! Much appreciation to ANYONE who votes!

[missyorkswhore]

How do I explain to my mom that I want a man old enough to be my dad and a man two years younger than me?

[du-hjarta-skulblaka]

Stuck on the first few eps of Farscape after finishing up Fantasy High s2 and maybe its the whole most recently consumed bias but I'm really struck by how much it feels like a dnd game??? Bunch of weird lil renegades slapped together and put in weird situations, honestly it would make a really interesting starting point for a game

Anyway John Crichton is a bard/wizard; he does a lot of persuasion as performance and that scene of him collapsing to the floor to write slingshot equations is THE most wizard shit- perhaps Artificer would be more accurate to him but it's not a class I'm familiar with.

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 64

Chapter; Highlights

Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.

At the disaster they'd narrowly avoided, at the deaths she'd witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.

Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.

All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.

A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.

She'd been asked to inspect the queen when she'd been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn't been able to stop her hands from shaking as she'd hovered them over Aelin's unconscious body.

There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself.

Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.

Who held the might of a god within her veins.

Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he'd waved her off, claiming he'd come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.

So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.

—

To Lorcan, whose injuries ... Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene's had been so depleted.

The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn't so much as stir while they worked on him.

That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.

Yes, she needed to rest.

But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.

Everyone halted-then rushed to the windows. Yrene's smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.

To where the rest of the khagan's army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.

Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.

From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.

Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin.

…

Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.

Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.

If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.

Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.

"You are one lucky bastard."

Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys's drawl.

Fenrys's smirk was a slash of white.

"You've been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you."

A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.

Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. "Elide." Her name was a rasp on his tongue.

The last he remembered, they'd ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius's unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.

"Helping with the healing in the Great Hall," Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.

Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.

"Well, since you're not dead," Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.

Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn't know.

The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then.

He didn't care. Not when the dim light revealed the delicate woman lying facedown on the end of his cot, the lower half of her body still on the wooden chair where Fenrys had been. Her arms cradled her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.

Elide.

Her dark hair spilled across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face.

Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Lorcan stretched his arm just enough to touch her fingers. They were cold, their tips so much smaller than his. They contracted, pulling away as she sucked in a sharp, awakening breath.

Lorcan savored every feature as she grimaced at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settled on him. She went still as she found him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had ridden through hell to find him ...

Tired. She looked spent, yet her chin remained unbowed.

Lorcan had no words. He'd given her everything on the back of that horse anyway.

But Elide asked, "How do you feel?" Aching. Exhausted. Yet finding her sitting at his bedside... "Alive," he said, and meant it.

Her face remained unreadable, even as her eyes dipped to his body. The blanket had slid down enough to reveal most of his torso, though it still hid the scarred-over wound in his abdomen. Yet he'd never felt so keenly naked.

It was an effort to keep his breathing steady beneath her sharp-eyed gaze. "Yrene said you would have died, if they hadn't gotten to you when they did."

"I would have died," he said, voice like gravel, "if you hadn't braved hell to find me." Her gaze lifted to his. "I made you a promise."

"So you said."

Was that a hint of color stealing across her pale cheeks? But she didn't balk. "You said some interesting things, too."

Lorcan tried to sit up, but his body gave a burst of pain in protest.

Elide explained, "Yrene warned that though the wounds are healed, some soreness will linger."

Lorcan gritted his teeth around the sharp stab in his back, his stomach. He managed to get onto his elbows, and deemed that progress enough. "It's been a while since I was so gravely injured. I'd forgotten what an inconvenience it is."

A faint smile tugged on her mouth.

His heart halted. The first smile she had given him in months and months. Since that day on the ship, when he'd touched her hand as they'd swayed in their hammocks.

Her smile faded, but the color on her cheeks lingered. "Did you mean it? What you said." He held her stare. Let some inner wall within him come crumbling down. Only for her. For this sharp-eyed, cunning little liar who had slipped through every defense and ironclad rule he'd ever made for himself. He let her see that in his face. Let her see all of it, as no one had ever done before. "Yes."

Her mouth tightened, but not in displeasure.

So Lorcan said softly, "I meant every word." His heart thundered, so wildly it was a wonder she couldn't hear it. "And I will until the day I fade into the Afterworld."

Lorcan didn't breathe as Elide gently reached out her hand. And interlaced their fingers. "I love you," she whispered.

He was glad he was lying down. The words would have knocked him to his knees. Even now, he was half inclined to bow before her, the true owner of his ancient, wicked heart.

"I have loved you," she went on, "from the moment you came to fight for me against Vernon and the ilken." The light in her eyes stole his breath. "And when I heard you were somewhere on that battlefield, the only thing I wanted was to be able to tell you that. It was the only thing that mattered."

Once, he might have scoffed. Declared that far bigger things mattered, in this war especially. And yet the hand grasping his ... He'd never known anything more precious.

Lorcan ran his thumb over the back of her hand. "I am sorry, Elide. For all of it."

"I know," she said softly, and no regret or hurt dimmed her face. Only clear, unwavering calm shone there. The face of the mighty lady she was growing into, and had already become, and who would rule Perranth with wisdom in one hand and compassion in the other.

They stared at each other for minutes. For a blessed eternity.

Then Elide untangled their hands and rose. "I should return to help Yrene."

Lorcan caught her hand again. "Stay."

She arched a dark brow. "I'm only going to the Great Hall."

Lorcan caressed his thumb over the back of her hand once more. "Stay," he breathed.

For a heartbeat, he thought she'd say no, and was prepared to be fine with it, to accept these last few minutes as more of a gift than he'd deserved.

"Say it," she whispered, fingers stilling in his hair. Lorcan opened his eyes, finding her gaze. "I love you."

"Yrene said you might always have this," she said, her hand mercifully falling away.

"Then it will be the scar I treasure most."

Fenrys would laugh until he cried to hear him speak this way, but Lorcan didn't care. To hell with the rest of them.

Another one of those small smiles curved her lips, and Lorcan's hands tightened in the sheets with the effort it took not to taste that smile, to worship it with his own mouth.

But this new, fragile thing humming between them ... He would not risk it for all the world.

Elide, thank the gods, had no such worries.

None at all, it seemed, as she lifted a hand to his cheek and ran her thumb along it. Every breath was an effort of control.

Lorcan held absolutely still as she brought her mouth to his. Brushed her lips across his own.

She pulled back. "Rest, Lorcan. I'll be here again when you wake."

Anything she asked, he'd give her.

Anything at all.

Too shaken by that soft, beautiful kiss to bother with words, he lay back down.

But until then, he wanted her here. Sleeping at his side, where he might watch over her. As she had watched over him.

Elide seemed to read that on his face, and her cheeks reddened further. "Later, then," she breathed, limping to the door.

Lorcan sent a flicker of his power to wrap around her ankle. The limp vanished.

A hand on the knob, she gave him a small, grateful nod. "I missed that."

He heard the unspoken words as she disappeared into the busy hall.

I missed you.

Lorcan allowed himself a rare smile.

[1980ssunflower]

I dont want anyonr to forget tsjt my min & my ryan are my one and onlys

[chuluoyi]

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

husband and wife, at the pinnacle of their love. on a night filled with wonders, you will know that he sees only you and everything that you are

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—fluff, explicit smut: slightly rough & drunken sex, fingering, missionary. you and zayne have a daughter (her name is meirin!)

note: god what have i written... the anniversary banner pv made me do it T^T anyhow, this is also a direct prequel to the upcoming angst fic in the name of love :))

“Whoa, so that’s Dr. Zayne and his wife...”

Soft whispers rippled through the crowd the moment you and your husband stepped into the pristine ballroom, all eyes subtly drawn to your arrival.

Tonight, you were accompanying Zayne to Akso Hospital’s anniversary dinner party. His sharp gaze and immaculate three-piece suit made a striking impression. Naturally, you matched his sophistication in every way—your flowing black dress accentuated your figure, while your hair styled into an elegant updo.

A sight for sore eyes, that was what the two of you were.

“Mind your step,” he murmured softly, his voice reassuring as the two of you gracefully ascended the stairs. His left arm wrapped around your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but notice the envious gazes of the ladies fixed on you.

“How does such a perfect couple even exist?”

“She’s so pretty… Of course, Dr. Zayne only wants the best.”

“Oh! And I’ve heard they already have a daughter too!”

A smile curled on your lips, a subtle boost of confidence washing over you as their murmurs reached your ears. You felt giddy too—on most days, you were a hunter in a life-and-death situations, rough and rugged. But tonight, draped in elegance and arm-in-arm with Zayne, you felt like a princess.

“Don’t smile that wide...” he suddenly whispered to your ears, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “You’ll look like Meirin when she’s munching on her cookies.”

You shot him a frown. “Wha?”

“All those praises are going straight to your head.” Even in a prestigious event like this, Zayne couldn’t resist teasing you. “Sooner or later, it’ll get too big for me to handle.”

Fixing him with an unimpressed glare, you deadpanned, “Shush, you!”

When you reached the main hall, the buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, blending with the elegant music playing in the background. The hospital director, an elderly man with a warm smile, greeted you both along with his wife.

"Zayne, thank you for coming," he said, shaking your husband's hand and giving him a light pat on the shoulder. His gaze then turned to you. "Ah, this must be the stellar hunter wife of Dr. Zayne. You look absolutely radiant, madam."

"Ah, please don't call me that..." You mustered your most polished facade, supplying a soft, graceful laugh.

The director's wife grinned and added, "Why didn’t you bring your daughter here? Everyone’s looking forward to finally meet her already."

"She's a handful," Zayne immediately replied with a smile, his tone warm and affectionate. "And she gets fussy when her bedtime nears, so we decided to leave her with my in-laws tonight."

The director let out a hearty guffaw. "No matter how fussy she is, she must be really adorable with a mother this beautiful, eh?"

Throughout the night, it was a compliment you frequently heard. While you were flattered, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—what were your husband's true thoughts about all this attention to you?

Zayne was keenly aware of how captivating you were.

There was a surge of pride whenever he had you on his arm. Just like any man out there, he too wanted to show his hot wife off and flaunt her so everyone could see, as if saying: This is my woman.

But he too knew that it was in a human's nature to covet what they didn't have. And it was rightly proven when he stepped away for just a moment, only to return and find you engaged in conversation with a man.

The hospital director's son, no less.

"Miss, I've heard you're part of the Hunter Association?" he asked you inquisitively. "What a noble profession it is! Keeping all of us here safe on daily basis."

You responded demurely, "And those in Akso do the same, don’t they?"

Your conversation was harmless, and Zayne was a rational man, so he didn’t feel the need to intervene. He just made sure his gaze was on you every so often.

But when the director’s son began persistently offering you drinks, filling your glass time after time, Zayne's patience began to wear thin. The sight of the man’s insistence grated on him, stirring a possessive unease he couldn’t entirely ignore.

. . .

You could’ve sworn your vision swam a little after the third glass of alcohol. The warm buzz coursing through you also made everything seem a little brighter, and left you feeling just slightly off-balance.

"Miss, the white wine here is the best—" the man standing before you declared with a convincing grin, swirling the bottle in front of you. "Don't you want to try some?"

"Ah, no, sir..." you replied with a polite laugh, raising a hand in subtle refusal. "I've already had whiskey and gin just now—"

"Just a little! You really have to try it!"

You hesitated, heat creeping up your neck as the alcohol already coursing through your system made your cheeks flush. You didn’t even like alcohol much and only drank socially, but this was the very son of your husband's boss. Refusing outright seemed rude—

“Can you kindly not make her drink too much?”

Or so you thought, until your knight in three-piece suit suddenly stepped in and saved you from your plight.

Zayne’s tone was gentle yet firm, his words striking an authoritative balance. He flashed a placating smile. “My wife doesn’t have a very high tolerance.” Swiftly, he grabbed the glass from your hand and, without missing a beat, downed its contents in one go.

“If you’re looking for a drinking partner, let it be me instead.”

You knew better than anyone that your husband didn’t have a particularly high tolerance for alcohol either. Yet, for the next 30 minutes, you watched, equal parts impressed and concerned, as he matched the man drink for drink, deflecting further offers directed your way with a subtle, protective grace. Though Zayne’s words remained measured, you could see the flush creeping up his neck.

And soon, you’d witness just how far his limits had been pushed.

“Zayne! Are you alright?”

Worry laced your voice as you placed both hands on Zayne's cheeks, your brow furrowing in concern. Somehow or another you managed to drag your husband away and led him to the hotel room.

The warmth of his skin was unmistakable, and his face contorted in discomfort as the vertigo hit him full force. “Oh no, what have you done? Why did you even drink that much!?”

“I’m fine,” Zayne grumbled, his voice thick.

“You’re drunk!” You couldn't help but scold him as you started pulling off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt, trying to help him breathe easier. “You can’t even handle alcohol properly, and yet you’re trying to keep up with him...”

To Zayne, your voice somehow felt comforting. His mind was hazed, but your touch—your hand against his neck—felt like a cool splash of clarity.

His pretty wife... The dizziness was making it hard to stay upright, but the sight of you grounded him, and he instinctively leaned into you—

“Zayne—!”

You barely managed to catch his weight, instinctively wrapping your arms around him. He was so warm against you, his breath uneven, not to mention the slight tremor in his body. "Are you alright?!" you asked in a flurry. "Oh, let me get you some water—"

"You talk too much..." Zayne murmured, his words slurred as everything around him swayed.

Gripping your shoulder to steady himself, his unfocused gaze lingered on you, drawn to the curve of your lips, the delicate line of your neck, and the outline of your cleavage.

How can he have a wife this ravishing and do nothing?

And suddenly, he was sober. Very sober.

Or maybe not. It was simply just him finally giving in to his desires.

In one go, he seized your wrist, yanking you against him with sudden force— and with a quick tilt of your startled, precious face, he devoured your lips in heat.

"—!" It was like a spark igniting, burning through every thought. His mouth was urgent, demanding, as if he couldn’t wait another second to feel the rush of your closeness. His kiss was intoxicating—almost overwhelming—as he tangled his fingers in your hair, tilting your head to gain better access.

Zayne's hands moved to your back, pulling you into him, so close that the heat of his body pressed against yours. Then those sinful hands wandered to your hips, guiding you toward the desk. With reckless urgency, he swept everything off the surface, sending objects crashing to the floor with a sharp clang and made you sit on it.

"Ah, Zayne, you—!" You accidentally pushed him back, and he growled the moment your lips parted.

"Are you trying... to escape?" His gaze turned dark with lust, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "Why? Isn't this exactly how you wanted me to be...?"

In that moment, you gulped as your heart thundered in your chest. What was even happening now? How did it escalate into this?

You stuttered, eyes widened, "Z-Zayne..."

But your husband had shed all traces of his usual composed self. In the haze of his muddled thoughts, he was driven purely by need. He swiftly removed his glasses, tossing them aside without a second thought, and this time—

His lips went straight for your neck, which, unbeknownst to you, had looked so enticing to him all evening.

"Hahh..." His breathy grunts were hot against your skin and his touch no longer gentle but firm and possessive. His mouth moved with a mix of hunger and desperation, and you struggled to contain the moans as his hands slipped inside your dress, and—

A shiver ran down your spine when he spread your legs, and you couldn’t help the titillating gasp that escaped when inserted his two of his fingers in you all at once, edging you.

"Ungh, ngh! Hah—" Your body jerked and you clung to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. Zayne wasn't usually this brash, but tonight it was as if a screw had come loose.

"Louder," he commanded in your ear, and your heart pounded at his authoritative voice. He pushed his digits deeper as if punishing you, that you yelped. "Do not hold back."

He lifted you by your waist, effortlessly pressing you against the small table by the window. You were on the 20th floor, the world below far out of sight, but the thought that anyone might catch a glimpse was somehow... thrilling.

"I-I'm close—" you stammered, and the moment you did, your husband vigorously moved his fingers inside your squelching folds, "A-ah!"

The room felt smaller, the air thicker. The way your walls took his fingers alone made your thoughts scatter, and when you came undone on him, you latched onto him, your head resting against his chest as your breaths came in shaky, uneven gasps. "Z-Zayne... please..."

He pulled out his fingers, looked at your cum coating them, and brought them to your lips. You, still trembling, sucked the essence off with teary eyes.

Sweaty, disheveled, lips swollen and cheeks flushed... how he had reduced you into this state was gratifying.

Zayne’s gaze darkened, his breath heavy as he stared down at you. "Are you ready to take me now?"

You nodded.

He gave you a small smirk, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw gently. "Good girl."

He lifted you over to the bed, and you gasped in surprise as he tossed you onto the soft sheets, the motion quick but not unkind. You barely had time to react before his intense gaze locked onto yours, his presence domineering above you.

“Spread your legs.”

Was this man really your husband? Sometimes, you still struggled to reconcile the tender part of him and the man consumed by a unrestrained intensity before you now.

By now you had swallowed all shame and did so. You wanted to look away, but then unable to when the sight before you caught your breath—

All the while, he had his eyes on you. Zayne pulled at his tie with deliberate intent, then he shed his suit pieces, casting them to the floor with a casual abandon, before undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt, revealing his bare chest altogether.

Your husband looks so hot. The way he gazed at you throughout it all too...

He glanced at the space between your legs. “Wider.”

You complied, letting your face burn impossibly hotter, anticipating him.

He eased in slowly, starting with just the tip. You whimpered at the intrusion.

"Hurts?" he questioned with a frown.

"No," you refuted quickly, desire too burning in your gaze as you met his eyes. "I can take more."

You arched your back as Zayne sank deeper, his full length filling you. A moan tumbled from your lips as your walls clenched in response, and he pushed himself completely inside you.

"Hah..." You inhaled sharply, giving yourself a moment to adjust to his entire length, and seeing you like that, your husband cradled the side of your face with his palm.

"So beautiful..." Zayne whispered, his glazed gray-hazel eyes fixed on your spent face. His other hand clasped yours, pinning it beside your head. "My wife... is so incredibly beautiful."

It was heart-fluttering to know that your husband found you pretty. Everyone might compliment you the same way, but his were the only one that truly mattered. After seven years of marriage, your heart still skipped a beat every time he held your gaze like this.

Without warning, Zayne started to move his hips. Your moans got louder and unabashed as his movements were slow at first, before he picked up the pace and thrusted in and out of you with fervor.

"Ahhh!" You threw your head back as his thick cock messily dragged itself against your walls. In, out, in out— Stars began to blur your vision, your nails digging into his shoulder as you reached for him.

You could see that excited glint in his eyes, the lust exploding at the sight of you. He watched you intently, savoring the way unbound desire twisted your face, each mewl you made filling the air. Your thoughts turned into puzzle pieces—

Thrust. So full, you are.

Thrust. What if... this time— you become pregnant again?

Thrust. That would be... nice. You can call it “New Years’ baby.”

Everything was incoherent. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, each hit to that one spot sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, pushing you to the brink of tears and screams.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached his climax first. His cum shot through, filling your womb to the brim in spurts after spurts, and you cried, trembling beneath him. Your release followed suit though, and you went limp in the aftermath.

Zayne collapsed on top of you and you wrapped your arms around him, burying your head in the crook of his neck, his name still falling off your lips as a whisper in his ear, a gentle song laced within moans. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, panting heavily against you.

“I love you.”

The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in a tangled web of desire.

The first thing he heard was your whimper.

With a groan, Zayne cracked his eyes open the morning after, instantly recognizing the dull ache in his head—it was a hangover. But before he could press his hands to his temples, his gaze fell on you, curled up in a blanket next to him.

And the whimper came again, and it tugged at something deep inside him.

“What’s... wrong?” he asked in a groggy voice, turning toward you, his hand instinctively reaching for you despite the pounding headache. “Are you alright...?”

You blinked up at him, a flicker of resentment in your gaze, and Zayne gathered you into his arms. The events of last night came back to him in fragments, and realization dawned on him.

“Are you... sore?” he murmured, concern edging his tone.

“I hate you,” you retorted in a scratchy voice, mushing your head in his shoulder. Zayne widened in slight surprise, pulling you closer into his embrace.

“Is that it...? I’m sorry...”

He gently patted your head and back, trying to soothe you. The sight of you—vulnerable and distressed—made his heart tighten with a pang of guilt. Just how rough had he been with you last night?

“There, there, it’ll pass...” he said quietly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “It’s normal... because we went longer and more vigorous than usual... Probably just mild irritation in your—”

“Don’t pull medical facts on me,” you muttered sullenly, weakly punching his chest. A smile made its way to his face at your mini attack.

“But it’s true though?”

How endearing. He couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his chest, his heart softening at the sight of you, even in your grumpy state.

And in that moment, Zayne thought, nothing could've possibly ever shatter his world ever again.

[marsixm]

hot dads do be loving deadpool unfortunately

[webism]

pornstar!toji who is known for being easy with his scenes. he's there for a good fuck and an even better paycheck: it doesn't matter who, or where, or how... if he's being paid he will do it. he doesn't mind getting nasty, and so he's often booked for more exotic scenes. he fucks good, and he fucks a lot.

pornstar!toji who is strapped for cash one week after an unfortunate loss on the horses, and takes the first scene offered to him. a vanilla fuck with a new-to-the-scene pornstar with potential... at least that's what his agent, shiu, tells him. he's confused on what potential he's hinting at until he rocks up ten minutes late to the shoot and lays eyes on you, already naked and on the stage bed. you have a look to you that makes a man like toji feel obliged to drop to his knees.

pornstar!toji who is already harder than he has been in a long time when shiu clarifies that when he called you 'new to the scene' he meant it: this is your first porn shoot. and though you're not a virgin, toji has the honour of taking your first time on camera... and god does he love the thought.

pornstar!toji who is greeted with a small smile and a soft 'hello' from you, shy beneath his gaze as if you aren't naked and soon to be stuffed full of his cock. he watches your eyes shift, from his piercing eyes to his beautifully scarred lip to the gorgeous tone of his body, all the way down to his awfully large cock. he can tell you're nervous, worried about taking all of him on film.

pornstar!toji who isnt good with gentle comforts, but still wants you to feel at ease with him. so, despite his instructions for a simple fuck scene, toji attacks you with deep kisses first, gets you used to the burning heat of his body against yours. and when you're melted enough against his skin he trails down and eats you out for a long twenty minutes. production would try and stop him, but he's already tipsy on your taste and the moans leaving your lips are, frankly, made for porn.

pornstar!toji who revels in the way your back arches off the mattress—he'd accuse you of putting on a show for the cameras if your hips weren't bucking up against his face in an almost primal need. he can taste it on you, the genuine lust, the way you drip wet on his tongue and still grab at his hair for more. and when he gives you more—when he finally slips his cock into you—he can't help himself from groaning out something needy. he's the silent type, letting his costar take center stage, but god can he not keep quiet feeling your walls wrapped around him.

pornstar!toji who has never had an issue with porn before, but with your legs wrapped around his waist, your eyes locked onto his as he pumps in and out of you with white hot need, he finds he hates the thought of anyone else seeing you like this. he's not a possessive man, he shouldn't feel this way, but he does. even the watchful stares of the cameramen piss him off, and he finds his hips moving faster and his cock nestling deeper inside of you just to show them that he's the one pleasing you.

pornstar!toji who can't help but kiss you as you both cum in unison. he ruins the shot, the cameras cant see your orgasm face when he's swallowing your moans like they're sweet wine. he's surprised his pay doesn't get cut for it.

when pornstar!toji does get paid, it's the first cheque in a very long time that he doesn't blow the same night it comes through. because he doesn't have time to go out and waste his money: he's at home fucking his fist to the film you made together and mentally degrading himself for being so pussy whipped. he strokes himself in time with his own thrusts in the video, and tries so desperately to recall your taste on his tongue, but its fruitless. he's agitated and sexually frustrated and keeps reloading your personal pages to see if you've filmed with anyone since him.

pornstar!toji who becomes so lost in his own mind that he starts turning down shoots with other actors���shoots with good pay. he's done everything under the sun, done all the hardcore porn and weird fetish content but now that he's gotten a fresh taste of plain passion sex with you, he can't stomach anything else. he'd say your name, he knows it—and it doesn't help that he hasn't been able to reach orgasm for a week without thinking of you.

pornstar!toji who, after three weeks of pure misery, decides to make a move. he doesn't do dates or romantic nights on the town. he doesn't do flowers or sweet nothings or eye contact even, but he finds himself contacting shiu and threatening the poor man in hopes of your real name, your address, anything.

and you, late one evening fucking yourself on your fingers to the brink of frustrated tears because they're not his cock. even more disgruntled when theres a pounding knock at your front door, and after cleaning yourself up a little you swing it open to find pornstar!toji stood in the rain outside. and you can only take him in—his heavy build and desperate eyes—before he's crashing his lips against yours, walking you into your own home and kicking the door shut behind him.

[icepip]

ughh imagine having a heavy make out session with yuta and sitting on his lap and he just can't seem to get enough of you, constantly squeezing and gripping at your hips, pulling you closer and closer because he's so desperate for you. moaning and licking into your mouth, only pulling away a hair's breadth to fill his lungs with air.

there's this need that flows through both your veins and you just want each other. it's dumb and irresponsible — but fuck, you really don't want to leave yuta's lap.

you're pawing at his bulge beneath you, shaky hands trying to get it out, and he doesn't stop you. raising his hips to help you, yuta gasps when your hands wraps around his shaft. his head falls back and for the first time, you can breathe.

he's hot and heavy in your hand, velvety smooth and already beginning to leak, and you want so bad.

"please, yuta," you mumble against his jaw, rubbing your covered cunt against his cock. "i need you."

"c-condom." it's choked out, like it pains him to say. like you could've forgotten about it.

"just the tip. you can, you can just pull out."

yuta whines, a sound high in his throat, his dick jumping in your hand. he shouldn't. he couldn't possibly stop himself from losing control. you know this more than anyone else, but you want.

you push your shorts and panties to the side, pressing his tip to your mound. it's dangerous and far too tempting for both of you and it's no surprise when his cockhead pushes into your pussy.

[unintentionalseductress]

Prescription For Pleasure

Warnings: MDNI, sex, masturbation, medical masturbation, use of vibrators, clit play, piv sex, use of latex gloves, oral (fem receiving), some praise, kinda slow burn A/n: I am not normal about this man in any way. Not really proofread. Please do not use my banners without permission.

You’re seated in Zayne’s office, trying not to squirm as he sets up your appointment. Although this was now the third time you were seeing him for this regular inspection, it didn’t alleviate your nerves the slightest. Each month, according to the Hunter’s Association regulations, every hunter needed to be seen by their primary care physician for 3 consecutive days for their health.

And although the association deemed it a necessity, it was an embarrassing requirement according to you. The Hunter’s Association had done a survey and discovered that many of their employees suffered from high levels of stress because they were isolated and lacked much-needed human contact. To combat this, they made it mandatory to get physical contact by a medical professional every month.

But when all the fancy jargon was pushed aside, all the hunters called it the same thing - medical masturbation. It had become wildly popular amongst both men and women hunters, eagerly marking the days on their calendar for when they could come in. When you heard about the rule, you wished the earth would open up and swallow you whole. You had tried talking to Jenna to insist that you were indeed taking care of yourself in that aspect, thanks to your trusted vibrator, but she had shaken her head no. 

“We need documentation. I’m subject to it, and so is everyone else in my order.”  Defeated, you’d walked out of Jenna’s office before remembering another mortifying fact with a jolt. Your primary care physician was Zayne. 

Your childhood friend, your trusted cardiologist, stoic and calm, who remained reserved during your general checkups, was going to be your medical masturbator. You had almost turned yourself into a ball on the floor, tweaked out at the insanity of it all. Although Zayne was your general physician, you had a separate gynecologist, and apart from asking if you’d had your annual PAP smear, Zayne had left that part of your anatomy unquestioned. It didn’t help that you were attracted to him, and sure, if he’d asked you out on a date, you would have been more than happy to let him inspect you all he wanted down there.

But this clinical setting, enforced by your organization was a little too much to bear. Wondering how to tackle this situation, you wander over to Tara who was humming as she made her medical bookings on her phone app. “Isn’t this exciting?” she squeals as she sees you. “God knows the dating pool is thin right now. This is just what I needed!”

Tara’s primary care physician was a woman, and you wondered if that was a pro or a con. On the one hand, dropping your panties for a woman doctor seemed less unnerving than for a man. But if you had a preference for men, would it work against your arousal? You shook your head at your ridiculous musings and focused on talking to Tara. “Are you really that excited about this?”

“You have no idea!” Tara taps her feet as she talks to you. 

“And you’re ok about having a woman stimulate you?” You probe, trying to gauge Tara’s reaction. Tara giggles and lightly pats your shoulder. 

“I don’t know but the idea is kind of hot. I mean, getting it on in a doctor’s office? Besides if I don’t like it, I can change the doctor the next time.”

Her words hit you like a ton of bricks. “You can change your doctor?”

“For this yes, the app gives you an option since it involves showing off a lot of intimate areas. You have to be able to trust your doctor right?”

You logged into the app, finding the little button to request a change in doctors, but for some reason, the page kept refreshing and crashing. With a sigh, you decide to get the worst of it over with and call Zayne, hoping he can make the change for you on his end. His voice is cool and professional when he answers your call.

“Yes?”

“So, you must have heard about…the new regulation?” you had put forth nervously.

“I am aware of it, yes.” 

“Well, for obvious reasons, I would like a different doctor.” 

Zayne smoothly says, “Of course. Patient comfort is always first. Do you have a doctor in mind?”

“Maybe my gynecologist? I tried doing it in the app but it keeps crashing.” There’s a moment of silence and you can hear Zayne’s fingers tapping away at his keyboard before a low hum leaves his end of the line.

“There appears to be a problem.”

“Problem?” you’d parrotted back.

“Yes. Because so many people are booking appointments at the same time, most of the available doctors are already taken. Including your gynecologist.” 

It felt like watching a bird crashing into a window in slow motion, that brief moment of hope that it wouldn’t hit the glass shattering in an instant. “Oh.”

There’s a pause before Zayne delicately says, “I’m sorry but it looks like you will have to make those appointments with me for this month. 3 of them according to the regulation. Hopefully, you can make the change for next month.” His voice sounded slightly apologetic.

“Won’t it be weird given that we know each other personally?” The question had fallen from your lips before you could stop yourself. 

“I promise not to treat you any differently than any of my other patients who are coming in for this inspection. I understand this may be a little unexpected, but I assure you I did a term of gynecology during my internship.”

A tinge of mirth carried over in his voice and you can’t help but make a noise of embarrassment. “Zayne, please!” His laugh was dry but not unkind, and you can’t help but want to hide your face even though he couldn’t see you. 

“Don’t worry too much. But I do advise you to make the appointments soon. My schedule is filling up rapidly.”

With those words, he’d disconnected the call and you were left wondering if an unknown god from another planet had cursed your existence. 

And changing doctors had proven to be more difficult than you’d thought. The entire organization seemed to be having a single thought. They had made appointments in the app almost halfway into the year, essentially blocking you from being able to do anything about your situation. Now on your third month with Zayne, you watch as he checks his notes from your last session, feeling like you want to scamper from the room.

The last two sessions had been incredibly stimulating, your arousal heightened by the fact you were attracted to Zayne. You’d never considered having someone watch as you touched yourself but found that you’d enjoyed it, at least, when it was him. He had remained professional, but you’d avoided him these last two months, save for when you had to get your monthly cardiac profile. He reads his notes from his computer as he prepares for your session. 

“Preferred device for stimulation still a vibrator, with a large, rounded, flexible head?” His eyes remain on his screen and you’re grateful for him giving you this smidgen of privacy. 

“Yes.”

“Preference for the doggystyle position still?” 

Your face burns. “Yes.”

“Still consenting for verbal stimulation?”

You nod your head.

“And still consenting for internal vaginal stimulation?” You make a noise of consent, squeezing your thighs together, your panties uncomfortably chafing against your already swollen pussy. 

“All right, I have everything I need.” He logs off and removes his lab coat, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing his well-corded arms, and your mouth almost waters at the sight of them. Clearing your throat, you shyly reach into your bag and pull out the vibrator in question, which he takes from you and clamps into a stand, adjusting it over the examination table you’d be on. A bottle of lube awaits on the tray next to the table and you swallow as he finishes the setup. 

��Whenever you’re ready,” he says in that deep voice, and feeling like your fingers are wrapped in thick woolen mittens, you reach behind you to untie the hospital gown you’re wearing, and it falls to the floor with a swoosh, your nipples pebbling under the sudden chill. A small set of sensors were taped to your chest and on the sides of your forehead, essential medical devices to ensure your orgasm was satisfactory. Unperturbed, Zayne gestures to the table and you make your way onto it, letting your feet settle in the stirrups as he settles on a stool between your legs, pulling on latex gloves before gently spreading your folds apart. You stare up at the ceiling as he does his initial checkup.

“Labia look healthy, no signs of trauma or abnormal discharge,” he murmurs, then runs a finger down the edge of the fold that separates your inner and outer lips, causing your core to clench involuntarily. You hold still, knowing very well he saw the action, holding your breath, letting out a little sigh as he lets go. 

“Normal reaction to stimuli, already semi-aroused,” he says, trashing the gloves and making another note on his computer. He glances over at you, leaning back uncertainly on the table. “You may begin.”

You swallow, then carefully turn onto your hands and knees, crawling towards the head of the table, grabbing the bottle of lube and squeezing the viscous liquid onto the head of the vibrator, avoiding eye contact as your breasts sway under the motion, nipples painfully hard from anticipation. You could feel Zayne’s gaze but can’t bring yourself to look up. Even though this was the third time, it hadn’t gotten easier, stripping naked and pleasuring yourself in his office. 

Once the rounded head of the vibrator is slick, you turn, the chill of the lube against your heated membranes causing more blood to flow into your already engorged nub, and run your moist slit across the surface to spread the liquid onto your slickened folds. Your hand fumbles for the little remote control and with a buzz, the vibrator turns on at the lowest setting. You click the button a few more times until it gets to the speed you liked, then fail to hold back a moan as the sensations pleasurably begin to take hold in your clit. 

The first time you had done this, nervousness had made you set the vibrator on the highest possible setting hoping to get a quick orgasm and sprint out of the office. Unfortunately, the sensors relayed this information into Zayne’s medical record that your climax had been unsatisfactory, and you had endured being lectured by him with the medical gown loosely draped on your body, your rear open to the cold office air. 

His tone wasn’t unkind but it hadn’t helped you feel better either. “It helps neither of us if you rush this. The whole purpose of this examination is to ensure you’re relaxing. I know it’s embarrassing but if you fail to have a proper orgasm, I’ll have to make you repeat the process until I get data that says otherwise.”

“The sensors are-”

“The only way to measure anything. Without involving another person anyway.”

His words had left you gobsmacked and your retort had died in your mouth. After that incident, you had learned. Even with the chagrin of having him watch you, you had learned to take your time and let the feelings build, leading to incredibly savory climaxes that made your body squirm from the aftershocks. 

Your hips sway, setting up a rhythm to brush your sensitive slit onto the head, letting it vibrate from cunt to clit, the lube aiding the frictionless sliding and making your core drip. Quiet noises of pleasure leave your throat as help yourself, arching your back and changing the curvature of your ass to maximize the sensations, then when the perfect pattern emerges, you let out a keening sigh, and try to remain still, letting the vibrator work its magic. 

Zayne, who has been quietly observing the computer this entire time, observing the spikes relayed from the sensors, asks, “Have you found your optimal pleasure form?”

“Yes,” you gasp, the timbre of his voice sending an arrow of lust into the deepest parts of your clenching core. You knew what was about to come next. The sound of Zayne’s desk chair moving, followed by the snap of latex gloves as he pulled a fresh pair onto those beautiful hands. He approaches the examination table and takes the bottle of lube you had set aside earlier, a wet squelching noise issuing from it as he squeezes it over his gloved hand, gathering the fluid on his index and middle fingers. He leans over to whisper in your ears; the verbal stimulation has begun.

The humiliating reveal that you had a heavy praise kink had come up during your initial session and despite your insistence that it wasn’t necessary, Zayne, the ever-diligent worker, had made a note in your profile, and he’d been fulfilling it each time. A tickle of hot breath near your ear, before he murmurs, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

The hum of the vibrator in the background coupled with his voice makes your breath catch in your throat. You nod, knowing you didn’t have it in you to form coherent words. 

“That’s a good patient. Good patients listen to their doctors you know. And you’re doing a wonderful job.”

Your hips snap back to push your clit against the rubber pad, letting out a whimper of pleasure, the action pushing your ass up higher, revealing your pathetically drooling cunt, fluttering with the dissatisfaction of being unfilled. 

“Are you ready?” He waits for your consent and you manage a husky, ‘mm hm’.

“Good girl. Take a breath.”

You inhale, trying to relax, then let out an uninhibited moan as Dr. Zayne inserts his middle finger into your needy cunt, the ring of muscles offering no resistance to the probing digit. He gently thrusts a few times, before curling the tip of his finger up into the delicate patch of nerves on your upper wall, the smooth come hither motion awakening a new level of pleasure in your body. Your fingers tighten on the edges of the table, sobbing, trying not to scream at the feelings that threatened to explode from you. He keeps up the gentle assault before asking, “Are you ready for another one?”

“Yes…” your voice comes out shakily, knowing you desired more than just his fingers, but that you would never get to experience it. 

“Perfect. So well behaved, taking exactly what I give you.” Zayne’s sensual voice floods your ear before his index pushes into you, the thickness of both his fingers sending you into overdrive. Your walls clench welcomingly around him, inciting an exciting pull of liquid heat in your abdomen, the muscles tensing in anticipation for the exquisite release you knew was about to occur. 

Feeling your inhibitions abandon you as you are stroked closer to orgasm your self-control slips and his name falls from your lips as he pushes over the edge.

“Zayne…” some partially functioning confine in the back of your brain registers what you had just involuntarily purred, but the spasms rocking your core, those gratifying waves of delight flooding your body made it easier to ignore it as your being is reduced to a pliant mess of pleasure. His fingers ease up as the fluttering in your pussy calms down, your clit pulsating weakly as the final vestiges of pleasure are wrung from your body. 

With a wet noise, his fingers leave your moist hole, the glove coated with your juices and the lubricant. Awareness finally comes crashing around you as you realize what you had uttered in the throes of passion. 

“I…I didn’t…I wasn’t in control…” You try to find a way to explain, to let him know you had very little choice in the matter of sobbing his name as you orgasmed, but everything feels flat, almost on the fine line between explaining and insulting. 

“There’s no need.” Almost as if he’s read your mind, Zayne matter-of-factly redirects the conversation. “It’s not uncommon to blurt out things during climax. Some people swear, and others call out names. It was a very normal reaction considering I was the one in the room with you.”

He throws the gloves in the trash and goes to check the computer, to ensure the sensors had given him the information he needed before starting the second round of the appointment.

“Oh.” You say quietly as he sits at his desk, feeling dejected. Although relieved he wasn’t making a big deal out of it, you can’t help but feel disappointed with his reaction. Shouldn’t a man be flattered when a woman cried out his name when she came? Maybe he really was treating you strictly as a patient. And here you were, pussy exposed and spread after being probed by his dextrous fingers, mooning over him like a high school girl. Perhaps the limit of your relationship with him was in fact, doctor and patient, the childhood friends aspect fading. 

So there was no romance here at all. You had a crush on him, and he was doing his job. Reality sucks. You sniff and suddenly feel cheap, and get out of the doggystyle position and try to find the hospital gown to preserve some of your modesty. Zayne glances over at your sudden movements.

“Are you cold? I can get you a blanket.”

“I’m fine.” You try to sound normal. 

“Your records show that you usually rest about 10 minutes before you are ready for the next round. Do you feel like that will be the case this time too?”

You find the gown and drag it up to your chin, covering your body as you lay back on the table. “Yeah. Actually a little sooner today maybe. I have somewhere to be.”

“You can’t rush these things. Your body will cum when it wants to. A forced orgasm doesn’t promote anything beneficial.”

“Well can we find a way for this to happen quickly and in compliance with the sensors?” You’re trying not to let your frustration show, the pleasantness of your orgasm fading. “I don’t think I have the patience to do two more rounds.”

Zayne listens to you impassively, but those amber eyes flecked with green had an underlying intensity you couldn’t place. “You don’t have the patience to do two more rounds?” He gets up and comes over to you. “You want to just leave then?” He approaches the edge of the table and there’s tension in his jaw. Perplexed, you look at him, his reaction unexpected. 

“No, I’m sorry, I know I can’t leave because of compliance and all that.”

“Compliance,” Zayne mutters under his breath before grasping your chin and forcing you to look at him, a gasp leaving your throat. 

“You’re getting frustrated because you have to do this a few times every month while being supervised? Do you have any idea what I have to do before you come in for these sessions?” His voice is a growl and you clam up, shocked by this aggressive display of expression from him.

“Every month I have to remain professional as you come in, pleasure yourself, and then leave. I have to endure seeing your beautiful body bare in front of me and control all my impulses to touch you, to not overstep my limitations as your doctor. I pleasure myself remembering the noises you make and ensure I’m well spent before coming in to do your appointments. You sit there, acting like it’s hard for you, but do you have any idea what you do to me?”

One of his knees is on the table, and he’s looming over you making you feel like a tiny animal caught in his fury. “It’s torture, to watch you. You’re not like the other patients I see. You never have been. Because with you, I always feel like I’m on the verge of losing control. Do you know how difficult it is to not do things to you that aren’t specified on your medical record? To have my fingers so intimately inside you, feel every little drop of pleasure clenching around my fingers, knowing at the end I can’t have you to myself? To hear you call my name and know that you only see me as your doctor?” 

Your face is a bright shade of red but you can’t look away from his face. His teeth are gritted, and when you dare to glance down, you see the noticeable bulge that has formed between his legs. He follows your glance and clicks his tongue, letting go of your chin. 

“I know I crossed a boundary today. It’s all right. You can go. I’ll reschedule you with another doctor. I know you didn’t want me in the first place.”

Your mind is a blur as you quickly reach out to grab his hand, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. His admission was like a prayer answered, and you weren’t going to meek about this. His breath hitches as he feels you pulling at his hand and gives you a look of uncertainty. Your lips part but the words you want to say refuse to come out. 

“Damn it,” he whispers ferally before his mouth captures yours in a rough kiss. It was wild and demanding, a contrast to the reserved, patient man he usually was. You’re swept up in the feeling of his mouth on yours, the taste of his tongue, and the softness of his lips. When you break apart, his hand cups your cheek, his eyes searching your face.

“This isn’t just because of the session right?” He asks keenly and you realize what he’s asking you. He’d been aching for you before this whole stupid policy came into place. The same way you’d been longing for him. 

“No, it’s not. I had a crush on you back when you became my doctor to check on my heart condition.” A sigh of relief leaves him before he tenderly presses his forehead to yours, and you’re caught up in the sweetness of the moment. 

“I just had to be sure.”

Boldly, you raise your head, delighted when he meets you, pulled back into his kiss, your tongues sliding over each other, your fingers tangling into his hair, scratching the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you. 

You gasp as he breaks the kiss to drag his tongue down the column of your throat, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the heated flesh, your blood humming in your veins as your eyes flutter closed. He pulls away the gown and pulls your perked nipple into his mouth, and you revel in the jolt of pleasure it brings you, each suckle felt in your clit which had already swollen up again in need. His fingers capture your other nipple, softly tweaking and pulling it and drawing little whines of desire from your throat. 

Your hand finds the junction between his legs and cups the heavy bulge, drawing a groan from him, palming him through his slacks, feeling it grow and tent the fabric under your ministrations. A low guttural sound leaves him and he gets off the table, and you almost protest until you see him dragging the small wheeled stool from earlier towards the table. He settles down on it, looping his arms around the tops of your thighs and pulling you closer to the table's edge until your feet find the stirrups again. 

“Stay open for me darling,” he instructs, his eyes glittering and you shiver as you feel his breath against your swollen folds. You squeak as he pushes your folds apart with his nose, inhaling your scent, his eyes growing dark with lust. “You smell delicious. I always wondered. Had to stop myself from sniffing my gloves after you climaxed. Not professional you know.” 

The musky tang of your pussy fills his senses, and his tongue darts out and dips into your slit, finding the swollen bud and licking it with just the right pressure that makes your toes curl and stars pop into your vision. 

Your hand rests on his head, tugging his beautiful dark locks, his name falling from your lips without barriers. Your hips rock against him, moaning, then let a sob as his lips suction around your clit. His fingers, free from the gloves at last, probe your entrance, scissoring inside to prepare you for what was to come before they curl up into that gummy patch that he knew too well. 

The sensations flood you, and the sheer knowledge of knowing you had Zayne touching you this way, unbound by the usual rules was sending you into a frenzy. Incoherent noises leave your mouth, crying out hotly as he teases the orgasm from you, your body shivering from the intensity. 

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and takes in your appearance, so soft and satisfied on his table, a dreamy look in your eyes.

“Are you prepared for the after?” he asks, you nod, more than eager to experience him. A sly smile crosses his face before he reaches over into the little chest of drawers by the table and pulls out a condom. 

“Hospitals have free condoms. It would be impractical to not use one when it’s on hand.” He explains seeing your questioning look and stands to undo his pants. You watch curiously as his cock is finally freed, eyes widening as it faces you, so impressive and veiny, standing proudly with a slight curve in its length. His pubes were neatly trimmed at the base, ebony curls visible behind the shaft. As he starts to roll on the condom, you feel your whole body heating up in anticipation. 

He leans down to kiss you before taking your feet and resting them on his shoulders, his cock at the perfect angle to enter you. As he sinks into your welcoming heat, you let out a sigh of longing, feeling the delicious stretch of muscle as he pushes up inside you, gasping as you feel his full length sheathe itself. As he bottoms out, his eyes close in bliss, hardly daring to believe that after all this time, he is finally getting to fulfill this private dream. 

Each stroke has him brushing against your gspot and kissing your cervix as he paces himself, feeling the primal urge to take you roughly and selfishly calling at his self-control. A growl leaves his throat as you whimper, straining towards him as the both of you struggle to keep a grip on reality. He feels the seductive way your walls clench around him, hears the soft noises you make, sees your face contort in pleasure with every roll of his hips. 

“Oh you feel so good,” he pants hotly, glasses askew, almost at the tip of his nose as he thrusts. “Clenching me so needily. Gonna milk me dry.”

Your response is a shuddering whimper, your back arching greedily to feel all of him, creating the perfect curvature to brush your clit against the base of his erection with each push of his hips. He feels the little bud on his heated skin, your combined fluids dripping onto his shaft, slickening the bundle of nerves with each stroke. 

“Be a good girl and cum on my cock the way you do on my fingers.” Zayne’s voice is husky as he tries to hold on, damned if he came before you. “I know you want to. I can feel the way your walls are spasming. They always do this pattern before you orgasm.”

The fact that he had memorized this knowledge of you was too much and you let go, your voice filling the room as you climax. Zayne’s hips stutter as he feels you around his length, pussy fluttering so him. His pace quickens, the sound of slapping skin becoming more and more urgent, his balls hitting your ass each time as he chases his orgasm. 

A shiver passes through his body as it happens and he buries himself in your warmth. You hum in satisfaction as you feel his cock twitch and pulse inside you as he spills his load. He pants, sweat on his forehead as he bends down to kiss you again, carefully lowering your legs which burn from the stretch as they settle on the stirrups. 

Threading your fingers through his hair, you brush your noses together, smiling shyly at him as he smirks, his eyes closing as he catches his breath.

“Can I see you outside of my office sometime?” he asks and you laugh at the invitation. 

“Are you asking me out on a date after having sex just once?” you tease as he grips the base of the condom and slides out, your pussy feeling the loss keenly. 

“I have been wanting to for a while. I was just wondering if I was misreading the signals. But I think I have a solid answer now.” He helps you sit up and cradles your body against his, idly stroking your skin, before gently removing the sensors off your body. 

“Let’s get dressed,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead after a moment of cozy silence, and the both of you hunt down your clothes. As he fixes his tie, Zayne passes by his computer and lets out an amused huff. 

“Something funny?” you ask as you button your blouse.

“The sensors definitely gave enough information to make anyone’s head spin.” You walk over and snort as you see the window, full of sharp spikes. 

“Well, at least I am guaranteed you had a good time.” Zayne’s eyes sparkle mischievously as he pulls you in for another kiss. 

“I’m not changing my doctor,” you reassure him as you pull away. There’s amusement in his gaze when he replies. 

“Oh, definitely not. I think if the Hunter’s Association ever sees this record, they’ll heavily advise you to remain with the same healthcare professional.” 

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating support banner by @/ cafekitsune @theimmortalbuns @otomegamesforlife @sweets-kozume @actuallysaiyan

[toji-bunny-girl]

toji fushiguro finding out he’s fucking with a nymphomaniac is definitely not on this year’s bingo list of his.

he merely thought you were just some pretty chick he’d bang for some time before moving on to the next, allowing you to have a taste of a good cock in the meantime— taking pride in the fact that his stamina and bedroom skill is one of the best.

and god did you barge into his life just to snatch that title of sex god away for yourself. you fuck him like he’s nothing but a toy, until he’s nothing but a jolting mess of raw fuck, and as if he’s one of his crying girl.

“You’re still tight,” he groaned, throwing his head back as your walls wrapped around his size, unforgivingly firm. Your cunt was attempting to milk him from the entrance of his cock, and his grip tightened around your ass, the pain stimulating your senses further; rending your walls to tense even more. “Fuck!” the timbre of his voice wavered, he was embarrassingly weak in you.

It’s been the sixth round and as much as Toji would hate to admit it, he was getting drunk off of your little unremitting cunt. The fluttering hot walls around his almost raw girth rubbing and enveloping his senses in tight, sore pleasure and they make his knees weak.

His cock was itching for release with just a few pumps of your dripping cunny, and he had to bite down his need into your lip as you’re eating him up—both by his twitching shaft and blush glazed face. It doesn’t help when you’re practically bouncing on his cock as if it’s your first round, like a rabbit in fucking heat.

“This—haa, pussy too good,” your body jolted when he rolled a thumb over your puffy clit. Which was a huge fucking mistake as your walls fluttered tighter around him, garnering a whiny groan from his sore throat.

“Need m-more, Toji,” you whined into his ear, nails sinking into his flesh as your hips bounced in ceaseless pace. “Fuck me hard—haa. Please, Toji!”

How was he to refuse when you’re all flushed above him, your body gleaming in the dark, and touch so scorchingly hot—both inside and out. “You’re driving me—mmph, crazy, woman,” he grunted as he jerked his hips upwards into your squelching cunt, fat, sensitive cockhead kissing your cervix.

You both cried in sore pleasure with each deep sink of his cock into your hot core. Tears were crowding behind his eyes, and his thighs shook from his throbbing cock. You’re riding him harder and harder, little cunny tightening by the second—Toji was going to cry anytime then. Just from your insatiable libido and cunt.

“Baby—ah! I’m cumming, baby. Fuck—haa,” he moaned, deep and long as his body jerked, pleasure flowed with his blood and through his entire body. You still rode him through his high, even when his cock felt raw to his core and weeping in sensitivity. You were relentlessly chasing after your own orgasm, disregarding the groaning mess under you. “Y’gotta s-stop, baby—” Toji managed to choke through, his fingers tensing into your welted skin as his muscles tensed.

“N-No…not yet!” your tone was desperate, your cunt unrelentingly clenching onto his throbbing cock. Your walls gave a tense squeeze before he felt them flutter around him, your juice gushing all over your thighs and dampening the bedsheets as you threw your head back into a wavering cry. “F-Fuck!”

“You’re insane, woman,” Toji chuckled with a prickling tear at the edge of his eye, your cores sore and twitching in sensitivity as you laid on his chest. He merely drowned in overstimulation then, his mind still blank and mouth thirsty for hydration from the constant orgasms.

You were purring like a contented kitten against his throat, nipping at his salty skin, fingers curling around his softening shaft. “One more?”

“Good God—”

[ridingthatd]

IT'S GETTIN' STICKY

one cock? how about two cocks? what's better than a threesum.

Pairings.

➨ TOJI x READER x GOJO - satoru walking into his slut of a wife getting fucked by non other then toji fushiguro.

➨ SUKUNA x READER x NANAMI - working at the office at night and you got horny, you start fingering your pussy thinking nobody is at work this late , what happens when sukuna your boss and his secretary nanami catch you.

➨ CHOSO x READER x GETO - being a sugar mommy meaning you can have two boyfriends?

Warning threesum, desperate men, pervert men, whiney men, alooot of cum, creampie, breeding kink, degrading, two cocks one pussy, pet names, masturbating kink, spit kink, rough sex, over simulation, no mercy, riding nose, yk what doja cat said abt big nose, very smutty

TOJI x READER x GOJO - satoru walking into his slut of a wife getting fucked by non other then toji fushiguro.

you liked it- no you loved getting your pussy hammered by the fat girthy cock that belonged to the man, your husband hated the most ; toji fushiguro.

the filthiness of it, the dirty, taboo feeling of your pussy getting stretched, gapped wide open by a thick, heavy cock that doesn't belong to your husband. getting fucked on the same bed you and satoru sleep in while he's away for a mission.

your pussy gushing, spurting on tojis cock that doesn't stop ramming into you, your hot juice flying everywhere- dripping down his heavy balls into your dirty bed sheets.

"you fucking dirty bitch, squirting on another's man cock like that?". toji groans, his bulky figure was coated with sweat dripping down his pinkish perky nipples down to his toned clenched abs as he struggles to not blow a warm load of his cum inside of you.

but the way your filthy pussy was gripping his cock around your sticky gummy walls wasn't helping. toji growl as he gaze at your fucked face through his heavy eyelids, eyes crossed, cheeks flushed as drool spills down your swollen lips that he wanted to suck on.

toji leans in, pushing your legs further into your body, placing both of your legs near your head as he thrust his big cock deeper inside your swollen red pussy.

"ah! ah! ah-! i cant- fuccck just like this!". you sob out, choking on your spit as your eyes roll back, he was hitting the most sensitive part inside your pussy with his fat tip.

"right here? yea?! like that? you like that fucking bitch?". toji growls, leaning in and taking one of your fat sensitive nipples in his mouth, suckling hard on it as he doesn't stop hammering his leaking cock inside of you, his heavy balls were coated with your warm fluid as your dirty pussy sloppily suck his cock in.

toji was so close, so close that he knew he had to pull out or else he'll end up fucking a baby in you. he pulls his rough hands that were pushing your legs next to your head away. he was about to pull out with a grunt but your words make him freeze in place.

"no! no! please-! mmmmmm- inside of me please!". you whine out desperately, your body shakes as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling his throbbing cock further into your pussy.

toji eyes darken, he hiss his cock was swelling with cum at your filthy words, his balls felt heavier, needier at the idea of breeding gojo satorus wife, creampieing you.

"you want me to creampie your pussy? hm?". he whimpers out, breathing heavily so close to exploding inside of you.

"yes! yes! yes!". you whine out, hips bulking up, arching your back trying to suck his veiny cock inside your stick slimey hole.

he growls before shoving his fat cock inside of your puffy red pussy in one go, ripping a scream out of you before your mind go blank, passing out from the force of his bulky cock ripping your little hole.

his whole body covers you, as he huffs and grunts next to your ear, his perky nipples were brushing against yours as he fuck into you.

"what a-". thrust.

"fucking-". thrust.

"slut!". he thrust his girthy cock one more time in, hitting the cervix of your pussy before shooting robes of his boiling seeds inside of you. the veins on his cock throb as he creampie you.

he smirks, his ears perking up at the sound of who made it here ; gojo satoru. toji doesn't bother turning around, he casually pulls out his now sensitive cock, admiring the way your pussy was full of his cum, dripping down the bed sheets.

"what a fucking bitch". satoru hiss, pulling on his tie as he rolls up his sleeves, exposing his thick forearms. as he makes his way toward your filthy state. he tsks gazing at your bruised swollen pussy, gushing out tojis cum.

"i think we should teach her a lesson". toji smirks.

"we?". satoru mutters.

your eyes shoot open as you feel heavy pain shooting from your pussy, your eyes water, you're not able to breath.

"ah! look who finally woke up". your husband groans, his long cock was bruising the cervix of your tight pussy, while you were drooling on a mouth choker, not giving you any room to breath. your nipples were on fire, they were pinched hard with a nipple clipper.

"oh you're going to regret this love".

its been an hour, or maybe two? you can't remember how many times satoru creampied your sore pussy, how many times he fucked his hot load inside you. your body was shaking, your pussy was so swollen and sensitive, your hole was gaping, gushing gojos cum out as he fucks another load inside of you.

"no more-! please-! im sorry! ahhhhh-mmmm!". you hiccup, choking on your own tears and drool as you struggle to speak, you can't feel your nipples anymore.

you were fucked out of your mind, your body was trembling shaking as you sob and hiccup over simulated and full. a belly bludge was forming from how much cum was pounded in you.

"aw, what do you think fushiguro? is she sorry enough".

"no, fuck no she needs a better lesson". toji groans as he strokes his leaking cock while staring at you.

SUKUNA x READER x NANAMI - working at the office at night and you got horny, you start fingering your pussy thinking nobody is at work this late , what happens when sukuna your boss and his secretary nanami catch you.

you huff, your breath quickens as you squirm in your office chair uncomfortably, were you ovulating? why was your pussy this fucking horny and wet.

maybe you could just- no, no. but nobody is here anyways, you're pretty sure it's just you who's in the building right now plus the idea of rubbing your pussy like a pervert in the office only made you hornier as you rub your thighs together.

fuck it.

your hot breath quickens as you lift your skirt up, rubbing your pussy through your wet panties. while your your finger trail under your shirt squeezing your sensitive nipples through your bra.

it turned you on so much how filthy the feeling felt, rubbing your pussy like a slut in the middle of your work place. you slowly push your panties to the side before circling your swollen clit gently as you bite your lips trying to supress your moans.

pushing your bra down, you gasp as the cold air hit your sensitive nipples- fuck this is so dirty you thought to yourself as you plug your delicate fingers inside your tight wet pussy, feeling the way it tightly grip your fingers, coating it with warm sticky fluid as you pump them in and out.

while your other hand squeeze your perky nipples hard, your fingers pump faster, chasing your orgasm, throwing your head back and shutting your eyes tightly as your pussy start gushing warm juice down your pussy into your office chair.

your back arch, moaning to the ceiling before your pussy clench hard around your fingers and your juice spray everywhere, gushing down your folds making a mess on the chair. your thighs shaking, your wet pussy was throbbing while your boobs were out, heaving as you huff and puff.

your eyes snap as you hear someone sitting on a chair close to you. you gasp, making eye contact with non other then your boss sukuna. who was gazing at you hungrily like you were his prey.

your eyes shift to the man that stood next to him, starting at you through his glasses, nanami. your eyes switch between both of them your body freezing not knowing what to do or what to say.

"i-". you were cut off by sukunas husky voice as he man spread on his chair.

"don't let us interrupt you, continue". he mutter out, his thick legs spreading as he adjust the ragging hard on through his pants.

your eyes widen, your heart beating faster not believing what your boss just said, your eyes follow nanami as he place a chair next to his boss and have a seat, raising his eyebrows at you, giving you a hint to go on.

"im-". this time nanami doesn't let you finish.

"aren't you going to listen to your boss order already you fucking slut?". he growls.

you flinch, you can tell they aren't playing around with you as you gaze at their fat cocks that were pushing against their tight pants. your pussy clench at the size of them.

you can't believe this is happening, you whine rubbing your over sensitive clit staring at the way your boss sukuna was palming his cock as he hazely gaze at you.

"shove a finger in". nanami command you, his gaze never leaving your pussy.

you whimper at his words before slowly pushing your finger in, spreading your thighs wide, placing them on the handle of the chair giving the two man in front of you a full view of how your pussy grip tightly on your finger before sloppily sucking it in.

sukuna curse, his jaw clenched hard as he rub his fat cock harder, you can see the way the tip of his cock was leaking, soaking the fabric of his pants.

your body was on fire, your brain was foggy with pleasure, the office was filled with the sloppy sounds your dirty pussy made as you pounding it with your fingers- filled with the heavy breathing and grunts that came out the two man in front of you.

sukunas wet tongue peaked out to lick his dry lips, before unzipping his pants and freeing his hard huge leaking cock, your throat dried as you stare at the thickness of his cock- fuck it would destroy you.

he hiss as his thumb press on his mushroomy red tip, smearing his precum around his sensitive tip before tugging on the base of his cock. nanami was right next to him not making a move to touch his twitching cock but you can see the pool of cum that was coating his pants- he came in his pants.

your whines got louder, omg you were so close to losing it- you were so close to spraying your hot juice everywhere-

"stop". sukuna groans out, still stroking his thick cock. you whimper, listening to his command.

"crawl over here like a good girl".

here you were on your knees, your ass swaying as you crawl your way to the men in front of you like an obedient dog, their huge figure towering over you.

nanami already has his pink cock out, they were stroking it in front of your face, you rub your thighs together trying to relief the itch and sukuna notice because he place his foot under your skirt.

rubbing the leather fabric of his shoes against your wet pussy, you cry out, grinding it against it like a dog in heat. their cocks were so close to your face yet so far, you can feel the heat of their warm fat cocks throbbing in front of your face, their red tip were getting pumped so hard with their rough hands.

"tongue out". nanami growls out, huffing as he strokes his dick harder. you immediately obey, your wet tongue was out, your hot breath fanning against their sensitive tip throw them to the edge.

robes of hot cum shoot on your face and tongue, heavy grunts and whines were coming out of them as they squeeze the last bit of load into your face.

while some of their cum dripped down the floor, not pleasing your boss because he grabs your hair and push it toward the floor.

"lick it clean you fucking slut".

CHOSO x READER x GETO - being a sugar mommy meaning you can have two boyfriends?

it was 5am in the morning, the birds hasn't chirped yet, lewd wet sounds filled the room, choso was under your meaty pussy lips his flushed face was coated with your hot wetness, dripping from his red swollen lips to his flushed cheeks down to the pillow under him.

he was drowning with the hot fluid your puffy pussy was gushing out as the long bridge of his nose was fucking into your sticky hole, gripping so hard on it not giving him any room to breath.

while he's the cold metal of his tongue piercing was lapping on your swollen clit, suckling on it like a baby suckling on a nipple.

"mmmmm- it's so go-! ahhh". choso slurr on his words not being able to control the way his hips was bukling up, the precum leaking down his clit as he hump the air making his poor cock more sensitive.

cum was coating his cock from how many times he came untouched, the swollen head of his fat cock kept leaking cum, dripping down the veins on his base as they twitch and throb just from the taste of your wet pussy.

you would have told him how much of a good boy he is but your mouth was already full with getos thick cock. his warm seeds were overflowing your mouth from how much cum you sucked out of him.

it was spilling down your swollen bruised lips. "fuck- mmm pleasssse no more-! i can't-". geto whines, his dick was over simulated, so sensitive inside your wet mouth.

you squeeze his balls hard, geto shudders he felt like he's going to piss, his hand immediately flys to your hair gripping hard on it trying to push you away.

"fuck! mommy-ahhhhh! i gotta pee-". he sob out, choking on his drool, trying to supress the huge urge to piss directly down your throat.

his words doesn't stop you, but only make you massage the squishy tip of his cock with your throat, squeezing your throat harder on his cock while you ride chosos nose faster.

slaming your pussy down his nose, causing your juice to splash on his face. suguru couldn't hold it anymore.

your eyes roll back as you feel the hot liquid spraying down your throat, geto was shaking, eyes crossed as you suck the life out of him.

but you don't forget to also reward choso, squirting all over his face, gifting him a spurt of your juice as he doesn't waist a single drop drinking everything you gave him.