#please note that all of this was in a singsong tone

[surrealist-dreamer]

I swear the best thing about my dad leaving is that I have a 10/10 joke to whip out at just about everything. Crack a joke about your dad leaving and anyone on this site will crack the fuck up.

[inlovewithpandora]

- His Precious Tawtute -

Pairing: Ao’nung x fem!human!reader

Request: [ @teyamsbitch ] one being shorter and it being a source of great enjoyment for the other w/ Ao'nung || I feel like Ao'nung would have a field day knowing he can tower over us and use our head as an armrest and we act like we don't like it but we do anything to be near him.

Synopsis: Ao’nung wasn’t too fond of you when you first arrived with the Sullys’ especially since you were human but when he got to know you he was head over heels.

Content: Established relationship, extra fluffy, subtle spicy scenarios, soft Ao’nung, them being couple goals, just some cute hc’s

- The group = the Sully kids, Ao’nung, Tsireya and Rotxo

Author’s Note: Thank you for requesting, I had a lot of fun writing this because I love soft Ao’nung! I hope it fulfills your expectations and that you enjoy!

- I loved making these hc’s so feel free to request them!

Word Count: 712

Glossary: syulang - flower || tawtute - human

Extra: Requests are open! Please read rules before requesting! || Likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated🩷!

Links: Navigation || Avatar Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Taglist

❖ — When Ao’nung saw you for the first time, he held a dislike for you because you were a “demon”. After everything his mother told him about the sky people, he assumed that you were the same. He was cold toward you in the beginning, but with a mix of your beauty and charming personality, he began to grow feelings for you and soon after, you both became a couple.

❖ — The first thing he noticed about you was your height. In his eyes, you were the height of a child, which always caused him to crack some type of joke that you didn’t find funny or amusing.

“You are so little, I could literally crush you.”

“How are you and Tuk almost the same height?!”

❖ — He thought your height was an advantage for some things and one of them was ‘spicy time’.

“You are eye level with my waist, that will come in handy when you suck my-” Your eyes widen at his comment and you hit him in the chest, forcing him to not finish his sentence. “Shut up, skxawng! That’s all you think about!”

❖ — Whenever you and the group hang out, somehow his arm always manages to rest on your head. He saw you as his “personal armrest” and he took advantage anytime both of you were standing next to each other. You always tell him that he’s being annoying, but deep down you love him being comfortable with you in that aspect.

❖ — When both of you talked, you always had to look up to him, which gets aggravating at times when your neck starts to hurt. Ao’nung noticed this, so sometimes when both of you talk, he’d sit down and let you stand so both of you will be at eye level.

❖ — Walking around the village would be tiring for you at times especially since everyone around you had bodies more equipped for the environment. Whenever you began to lag behind, Ao’nung became your mode of transportation.

“Do you want me to carry you the rest of the way?”

Ao’nung would let you get on his back and he would take you wherever the destination was, which you appreciated because you didn’t know how much longer you were going to last.

❖ — When he started teaching you the way of water, you were eager, but it was hard for you, being human in a Na’vi environment wasn’t easy. Whenever you were having doubts or he heard you mumble about giving up, he was right there encouraging you (sometimes with spicy incentives).

“You got this, syulang! I’m right here with you.”

“If you hold your breath a little longer this time, when we finish our lesson, I’ll take you to my marui and do that thing you like.” He ends his sentence in a singsong tone and a small smirk on his face knowing that his words would motivate you.

After he said that, you held your breath twice the time you did before. Ao’nung was so proud of you that he couldn’t wait to take you home. He carried you into a secluded area of the jungle and happily rewarded you for breaking your record.

❖ — Whenever you and him held hands he made sure not to squeeze your hand too tight because he didn’t want to crush you. He always made sure to treat you delicately because he knew how fragile humans were to Na’vi.

“Ao’nung, can you give me a real hug? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“I don’t wanna squeeze you too tight or I’ll hurt you.”

❖ — Whenever you spend the night in his marui, both of you would cuddle together and you would have the best time being the little spoon. Feeling his big arms curled around your small waist, burying your head in his broad chest, him every so often giving your skin a soft kiss made you want to melt instantly. Him being so affectionate and gentle with you was hands down one of the things you loved most.

❖ — He loves you and your human body and wouldn’t trade you for anyone on Pandora. The only person he wants is you. You were his precious tawtute and he loved you with every fiber in his body.

I hope you enjoyed🩷!

Previous Fic

Editor - @justmemyselfandthemoon

Tags: @iluvpandorawomen @kasai-https @neteyamsblog @neteyamyawne @hc-geralt-23 @myh3artttt @savagemickey03 @shit-i-say-shit-i-think @number1gal @headsincloud9 @jane-3043 @yetanotherattemptatanaccount

©️inlovewithpandora ━━━ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 | All rights reserved. Do not repost, reupload, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[fyodior]

.˳⁺⁎˚ LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND CONFESS YOUR LUST

✧ pairing: brother!bachira x little sister!reader

✧ warnings: dark content, (i)ncest, minors DNI. exhibitionism, risky places, dubcon, vaginal sex, creampie. characters aged up, both reader and bachira are in their 20's

✧ notes: my entry for the lovely @killsaki's family ties collab!! also my first time writing for blue lock!! much more to come hehe likes and rbs very much appreciated :)

✧ word count: 1.7k

dark content disclaimer: this is entirely fiction with absolutely no reflection of reality! i do not condone this nor any other dc i write, pls just block or unfollow if you don't like it, and do NOT report or leave hate comments please!

“Meguru, this is not a good id-” your hushed words were cut off as Bachira pressed his hungry lips against yours, forcing your back against the unfamiliar mattress.

As much as you tried to protest, you couldn’t help but melt into your brother’s touch, shoulders relaxing as you threw your arms around his neck and finally reciprocated his kiss. Bachira wastes no time, using his knee to spread your legs open, and rub his toned thigh against your core. You got lost in the pleasure briefly, letting out the tiniest of moans before you heard a thump downstairs, gasping as you pushed Bachira away from you.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you whispered again, leaning your head against your brother’s chest, still searching for his comfort even in moments like this where you wanted to wring his neck.

Bachira refused to quit, pushing you back against the pillows so he could mouth at your neck, freeing one of his hands to massage you over your panties.

“You act like you hate it, but you still get so wet from me,” Bachira taunted, the signature singsong nature of his voice matching the stupid grin on his face.

All you could do is groan – he was right. It didn’t matter that he had manhandled you all the way up the stairs of your house to throw you into your parent’s bed in hopes of humiliating you, your panties were still soaked from the thought of your brother’s hands on you.

This was all because you had asked him to chill out, at least a little bit. Bachira had always had a thing for exhibitionism and risky places, absolutely loved the high he got from almost getting caught balls deep into his little sister. But he had started to get a little too risky.

Your and Bachira’s relationship had started out pretty innocently – at least as innocent as sexually pursuing your brother could be, anyway. It all began a few months ago when you had let yourself into Meguru’s room to give him his laundry, only to find him shooting white spurts into his fist as he moaned your name. Your name. He invited you in, amber eyes full of mirth, to come help him clean up the mess with your mouth.

First, it was just blowjobs and fingering in the darkness of your bedrooms with the door locked. You were a virgin, so it was okay for your big brother to be three fingers deep into your cunt as he mouthed at your clit, he was just showing you how your future lovers ought to treat you!

But you never thought you’d go further than that, never thought you’d have real sex. Until you did. Shitfaced after a party thrown for a big win for Bachira’s soccer team, he quietly led you to an empty bedroom and laid you down, jumping at the opportunity to slide right into your unresisting pussy. And even though you were drunk and more easily influenced than normal, you didn’t put up a fight – you even found yourself moaning for more, more, more.

Once that line was crossed there was no going back. You fucked whenever Bachira pleased, and wherever Bachira pleased. On a bench in the locker room, in between stacks of books at your university library, behind trees in public parks. But his favorite places were anywhere in your house, specifically when your parents were home. Bachira liked bending you over the kitchen counter in the middle of the night as your parents slept soundly upstairs, shoving his cock down your throat while the two of you were “washing up” for dinner, and fingering you under the blankets as you all watched TV together in the living room. There was no surface in that house the two of you hadn’t fucked on.

The thrill of not just anyone, but your parents finding out the two of you were fucking excited Bachira so much he could almost cum untouched. He was getting too reckless, though. There were only so many excuses as to why grown siblings constantly slept in each other’s beds and shared blankets, and it didn’t help that he was always hanging all over you. Brothers don’t spoon their sisters from the back and kiss their necks as they cook breakfast.

So you gently approached Bachira, and put it in the most gentle words possible to ask him if he could tone it down just a little bit. You weren’t proposing an end to your activities, just to slow down – and keep it in more private areas. Bachira didn’t take it well.

And that’s how you found yourself in the sheets of your parents’ bed right after they had left for work, mattress still warm from where their forms had been resting not too long prior. You knew it was futile to try and resist Bachira when he got like this, when his eyes went wide and his pupils blew as he narrowed his eyebrows, setting his sights on you – his prey.

He wouldn’t listen as you tried to tell him how bad of an idea it was.

“You know Mom always forgets shit and has to come back,” you whined as he grabbed your wrists and kissed your neck. “And I’m almost positive that’s her house key on the dresser, ‘Guru.” You shuddered at the thought of your innocent mother walking into her own bedroom just to grab her key only to find her son rutting desperately into her daughter.

“That’s what makes this fun,” Bachira giggled, biting your throat.

His face was partially obscured by his morning-mussed fringe as he leaned back to yank your sleep shorts off, but you could still see his smirk that had yet to melt away.

“God, you’re so fucking wet, love,” he groaned, running his fingers up and down your slit. “About to make such a mess all over Mom and Dad’s sheets.” You just hid your face in your hands.

You almost lost all your inhibitions as Bachira spread your legs with his rough palms to spit on your pussy and run the flat of his tongue from your clit to your hole, the lewd sounds of his saliva and your slick almost drowning out the anxious thoughts that rang in your ear. The bedroom door was open.

His tongue swirled around and flicked at your throbbing clit as he slid two fingers knuckle deep into your hole, curling and pumping in the exact ways he knew would make you come undone. Bachira had you and your body memorized by heart, and he weaponized that knowledge.

But everything was forgotten as he sunk his thick cock inside you, crying out as he stretched you open, both hands fisting the sheets. You almost drooled at the sight of his toned, muscly athlete body flexing as he thrusted into you quick but methodically.

The yellow tufts of hair at the base of his neck curled up at the ends as they were drenched in his sweat, chest heaving as he fucked into you with primal hunger and desire. You could tell the excitement of fucking in your parents’ bed was driving Bachira absolutely wild, his cock throbbing inside you.

“A-ahh, Meguru, feels so fucking g-good,” you whined, unable to deny the pleasure overwhelming your body as his cock rubbed against your sweet spot and kissed your cervix with every thrust.

Bachira only grinned at the praise. “Want more, baby?” Your frantic nod was all he needed.

Suddenly he was flipping you over, pressing your face into the pillow as he pushed back into your sopping wet cunt, marveling at the thick layer of cream that coated his cock. His hand intertwined with yours, squeezing your fingers as he fucked you deep into the mattress. With this position, presenting your ass for him like this, he can see the exact way your hole struggled to stretch around his length, the ring pulsing as it tugged with every thrust in and out. It was nicer for you too, being unable to see the bedroom door wide open, a disgusting reminder of what could be found out.

“Can’t last much longer like this, darlin’,” Bachira groaned into your ear, biting the lobe. “Not when you’re taking me so good like this.” You could only whine in response, your fingers tightening around his own. “Can I come inside you? You’ve never let me before, would love to see what it’s like.” You couldn’t see him, but you could hear the devilish smirk in his voice. Yet again, words had failed you, nodding into the pillow.

Bachira’s pace impossibly quickened as he chased the tightening feeling in his gut, leaving you gasping for air as his bony hips slammed into your ass over and over. His body stuttered and he gasped as he came, coating your walls with cum as he groaned into your ear. The second he pulled out you could feel it gushing out of your hole, dripping down your thighs and pooling onto the sheets. You hoped your parents either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t question why you had decided to strip their bed and wash their sheets for them.

You leaned into your brother’s grasp as he gathered you into his arms, pressing your head against his warm chest. His fingertips danced up and down your back, pressing a kiss into your mussed hair.

“Love you so, so much, Meguru,” you sighed, kissing his chest.

“Love you too, darling. This is what happens though when you try to push me away,” he cooed, a slight edge to his voice.

“I know. I won’t do it again, I promise. I love you.” Your words were garbled as fatigue consumed you. Surely your parents wouldn’t mind the two of you napping in their bed together?

Bachira only smirked as he eyed the forgotten house key on your mother’s dresser, knowing the two of you didn’t have much longer to get decent and get the hell out of there. But that’s just the way he liked it.

[jannahime]

One Helluva Hunt Part 2

Raian Kure x GN Reader Raian Kure x Reader Raian Kure x female reader

Synopsis: You are now trapped in Raian's grasp as he took you with him without hesitation. Where is he taking you? Why did he take you? What y'all's destination....only the Devil himself knows.

Warning: ⚠️ blood, gore, Explicit, violence, angst, brutality, trash husband, Brutal Raian Kure, profanity, rough sex, rough kissing, unprotected sex, M and F oral, breeding, trigger warning

MDNI 18+ only

Side note: some of the stuff on the warnings won't come until later but I'm letting you know what the story will have. And I'm trying to make this one really long at least. It's Raian bro! He needs to shine!

Gif credit: @hoe4rairai and also clideo.com: if I got this wrong please let me know so I can fix.

Word count: l,202

Part 1 ⬇️

You were still being carried like a sack of rice and Raian cackled wickedly in amusement.

“Um….sir…..Mister….where are you taking me?” You say still confused as all you could see was a vast range of forest and dirt and his walking feet.

Raian says nothing as he handles you roughly. “Hey!” You say a bit annoyed as he continues to carry you like a sack of rice.

You notice his ass, firm, and very enticing. You begin to blush. “God he has a fina ass. I want to touch it…it's probably firm.” You think to yourself as you gulp down some saliva and look away from his ass.

“Can you at least tell me your name?” You say pretty irritated.

Suddenly Raian drops you on your bottom in which you land hard on the ground. “OW! HEY YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO TELL ME THAT YOU'RE PUTTING ME DOWN!” You Bellowed with rage as you rubbed your butt to soothe the pain away.

“SHUT UP!” Bellowed Raian back with a wicked sneer.

“MAKE ME YOU SON OF A BITCH!” You yell back, getting in his face.

The two of you growl at each other but Raian seems to be enjoying the interaction seeing as he kept laughing with an amused wide grin.

Suddenly your stomach growls and you back away feeling a little embarrassed. Raian laughs at you as he then gets up and walks away. You wonder what the hell he's doing.

He brings back some wood and starts a fire. “go hunt for your food I ain't no one's babysitter especially for a weakling like you!” replied Raian harshly.

“I'm not a weakling you bastard! And I know how to fucking hint and I don't fucking need a man to do shit for me! And why did you bring me with you anyway!” You retorted back at him loudly.

He continued to laugh in amusement as he got up and went deep into the woods to hunt for a boar. You just fumed and you went your own way to hunt for anything to eat, like a boar, a rabbit, a deer, and yes even a snake.

As you enter deep into the woods you see a boar. But what you didn't know is that it was the same boat that Raian was hunting. As soon as you lunge at the boar and so does Raian.

“I saw it first you jackass!” you growled as you pushed him out of the way. Raian just laughed and lunged forward towards the boar. You punched him in the face and kicked him hard on his side sending him flying through various trees knocking them down like Domino's and that still had no effect on him.

“You think that will stop me! You brat!” He growled as he lunged towards you and the boar. You quickly dodged his attacks and you decided to hide above the trees. Luckily you managed to gather some sticks and some rocks and what you could use as string.

“I’ll be damned if he gets that boar before me!” You grumble under your breath as you make a bow and arrow with what you could gather in the forest.

“Oh Angel cakes! Where are you?” Called out Raian in a chilling singsong tone.

“Tch! Fucking asshole.” You mutter under your breath annoyed. You look for the boar ignoring Raian and once you see the boar you take your aim and shoot the boar down.

You glide from tree to tree to claim your prize but Raian tackles you to the ground. “I found you! Angel cakes!” He growled with a menacing glare still with that vile sneer on his face.

“Oof! Hey you bastard! The boar is mine! I shot it down with my bow and arrow fair and square.” You spat with fury as you pushed him off of you. You hurried and took your prize. But he laughed as he showed you that he had caught many more boars and deers he had hunted down and claimed as prizes.

It was as if he was toying with you from the very beginning the hunt started. You glared at him and purposely bumped into him to move out of the way.

He devoured all of his prizes while you slowly ate yours. He finishes all of his hunts and then he puts out the fire and picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder once again like a sack of rice.

“Augh! Hey! You ass! Stop it! Let me go!” You yell as you try to get out of his grasp.

Raian continued to grin slyly as he smacked your ass with his right hand.

“Oh! HEY! WHAT THE FUCK! WHY DID YOU DO THAT! I BARELY KNOW YOU- AUGH!” You yell at him irritated by his personality. He then jerked her back a little on his shoulder making her grab onto the back of his black jacket tightly.

“What a noisy bunny you are.” He says laughing at you as he continues to walk through the woods with you over his shoulder. After a good while of him walking in the woods you start getting sleepy. Your eyelids are getting heavy and your whole body is going and limp.

You finally crash and your hands are swaying back and forth as they start patting Raian’s firm and hot ass.

Raian could hear you snoring so he pulled you backwards and carried you in his arms bridal style.

“Damn it! This stupid woman fell asleep ...how boring…..well at least she won't remember how to get back home since The Kure clan’s village is hidden near the mountains anyway. What a foolish woman she is.” Replied Raian with a heavy and irritated sigh.

The next morning you woke up in an unfamiliar place. There was no more forest. You looked around and saw that you were sleeping on a comfortable futon and a very cozy room with tatami flooring and a beautiful scenery of the veranda surrounded by the gardens and forest.

“W-we're am I?” You talk to yourself all puzzled.

“Oh good! You're awake!” Says a cherry voice. You turn to look and see a young woman with short black hair and the same Black eyes that Raian has. But she seemed much nicer than him. She had a tray of food in her hands.

“Um….hello there….good morning…um….where exactly am I and who are you?” You ask, still puzzled but smiling kindly at her.

“You're at the home of the Kure Clan. I'm Fusui Kure and your sister in law….it's so nice to finally meet my older brother's wife!” She bows respectfully to you.

“Huh…..*blinks rapidly.* Pardon me? Come again?.......” You are still confused.

“Welcome to the family! Sister in law!” She says with a bright smile.

You faint back on the futon as your soul leaves your body.

“OH NO! SISTER IN-LAW! SISTER IN-LAW! GRANDPA! RAIAN’S WIFE FAINTED! SOMEONE! HELP!” Fusui yelled as she quickly grabbed a hand fan and began blowing air to you.

“How….did I……end up in this situation again.” You think to yourself as you scream internally still unconscious.

To be continued: .......

[il0veyoujk]

Soldier! Attack!

This is a tickle-related ff, if you are not interested in it, please keep scrolling

Summary: Jungkook returns home from his military service to see his little sister, Nefeli (18)

Warnings: None

Notes: This ff is requested by the beautiful @someone-who-loves-kpop-saranghae ! I hope you'll like it love! I am sorry I couldn't do it a cheer-up ff, but I remembered it last second, and I couldn't change it, I had to rewrite the whole ff 😭

Lots of love Nef 💕

The sound of the front door shutting wasn't enough to pierce the sound of the loud music Nefeli was busting through her headphones. The young girl was currently in her room, pretending to study. In reality, she was vibing to her favorite music, with her Spanish book widely open in front of her, and her homework waiting.

Nefeli was wiggling her body to the rhythm of the music, feeling like she owned the world. Using her pen as a microphone, she pretended to be the singer and headbanging unstoppably. Just like she used to when she was a little girl.

"We are home!" her parents yelled the moment they stepped home "Nefeli! We have a surprise for you!" her mum used her singsong voice to allure her daughter into coming downstairs.

One, two, three minutes... Nefeli was nowhere to be seen. She was so drowned in her music she hadn't heard anything. Looking at each other, the two middle-aged ones decided to send the surprise to their daughter.

Nefeli was occasionally trying to focus on her exercises, trying to conjugate the verb cosquillear, but the loud Lady Gaga music was too intense to ler her focus. Vibing excitedly, she was enjoying herself way too much to notice an unexpected change in her room.

However, turning her head, the young girl was shocked to see her older brother leaning on the doorframe smirking "Why hello there girly" Jungkook chuckled, amused.

It's been a year since Jungkook left for his military service. He hadn't seen his family all this time. Even though they communicated with letters, it's not the same as seeing each other in real life.

"Eeek! You are home!" Nefeli squealed. She instantly jumped on her brother, letting her headphones fall on the floor "I missed you so much!"

Catching her, Jungkook let out a small groan along with a small giggle "Hehey! I missed you too, little one!" he smiled softly, gently swinging his little sister in the air back and forth.

The two siblings remained all hugged for a while, not bothering to even move a single inch from the spot the young lad was standing "So you still got the moves huh?" Jungkook scrunched his nose cutely and bounced her gently in the air like he used to when she was younger.

"You think?" Nefeli giggled, as she was squishing her brother's cheeks "I had the best teacher!" she smiled widely.

It was true, Nefeli had learned how to sync with the rhythm through BTS video clips. Ever since she was a kid, she would try to copy every choreography her brother and his friends would publish. She had ever mastered some of them! And Jungkook was so proud of her.

A wide, bunny-toothy grin appeared on Jungkook's face. He gently placed a kiss on her cheek and hug her tighter "Aw thank you little one" he giggled softly.

A small smirk though flashed onto Nefeli's face, who giggled softly "Oh I meant Jimin, not you" she shrugged, trying not to show her teasing sense.

However, the small smirk turned into a full-on giggly state the moment Jungkook's fingers started wiggling around on Nefeli's ribs "Oh really? Jimin huh? Not me?" he asked in the most mischievous, warning tone he has ever used.

The surprising, way too missed feeling on her sides, made the young girl erupt into an unexpected loud fit of giggles "Whahahaha--- wait nohohoho pleahahase ahahaha!" she squealed as she was thrashing around in her brother's grip, trying to push herself out of there.

The two siblings would occasionally have tickle fights, usually with the young girl ending up on the receiving end. But it was their dynamic. They loved those cute little fights!

Nefeli failed miserably to escape her brother's arms. Much to her surprise. Usually she would manage after one or two tries. Yet, this time she didn't.

Chuckling mockingly next to his little sister's cheek, Jungkook moved his fingers to Nefeli's favorite, and worst spot: the sides! He started walking towards his own bedroom, letting her now hysterical giggles fill the whole house "You should know better than to tease a soldier, cutiepie!" Jungkook teased, as he was tasering the poor girl's sides.

"Nohohoho stohohop ahahaha! Whahahat did I do ahahaha?!" Nefeli screamed between her loud giggles. She was flailing around in the air in her attempt to fall off of her brother and run away for dear life.

Of course though, that didn't happen. It was nowhere close to happening!

"Oh stop screaming, Nef! You know it's going to happen, stop fighting it" Jungkook used his singsong voice to tease his little sister as he was throwing his sack on the floor and closing the door behind him.

"He's tickling her again" mrs Jeon smiled to herself as she was preparing dinner downstairs. Homemade pepperoni pizza! Jungkook's favorite.

"It's not like she's complaining though. She loves it!" mr Jeon commented as he was reading his newspaper. Yes, the historical tickle fights in the Jeon residence were well-known in the whole neighborhood.

Upstairs in Jungkook's room, Nefeli was trying to fight to escape the ticklish hell she was put into. She was thrown onto the bed and Jungkook was pinning her down with his own body weight and was torturing her poor tummy with his fingertips "Aww you are just as I ticklish as I remembered!" he giggles as his fingertips were shaking on her tummy like crazy.

A deep blush had started spreading on her cheeks as Nefeli was trying to push his hands away all shy "I ahahaham nahahaot ticklish ahaha-AHAHAHA NAHAHAHAO AHAHAHA!!!" she tried to lie... but a few nibbles on her side made the poor girl go ballistic!

Jungkook knew what he was doing... Pretty well! Using her worst against her... "I am sorry what? Did you just dare to lie, little one? Huh?" he smirked widely before moving his nails on her poor armpits and started scribbling on them like crazy.

Instantly pressing her arms on her torso, Nefeli trapped Jungkook's fingers under her armpits, unfortunately for her "Whyhyhy did you cohohome bahahahack so meahahan ahahaha?!" she squealed through her loud giggling.

"Oh no... Now I have to dig my way out... You are so rude" the young lad was enjoying the playful torture he was giving his little sister to the fullest. Not that Nefeli wasn't... but maybe Jungkook was enjoying this a bit more. He had missed her laughter... So here he was now, digging into his little sister's armpits mercilessly, making Nefeli howl in loud giggling and driving her crazy bit by bit.

"Agh!" Nefeli squealed loudly as she was wiggling around like a worm "Nohoho pleahahahase ahahaha I ahaham sorry ahahaha!" she pleaded as her hands were gripping onto her brother's wrists to pull them away from her.

"Oh no no no no no no, you are not getting away with just a few begs" the young lad smirked as he lowered his head again towards her tummy "You are going to regret choosing Jimin over me!"

And that's where Nefeli lost it... She widened her eyes, but before she could even ask for mercy, she instantly felt tiny shots of electricity hitting her unstoppably and all over her midsection, exposed as it was from squirming around too much "NOHOHOHO NOT THE BEHEHEHERRIES KOOK PLEAHAHASE AHAHAHA I AHAHAHAM SORRY!" she screamed in laughter, throwing her head back in ticklish agony.

Jungkook was shaking his own head on Nefeli's tummy to add more to the ticklish sensations. A few chuckles would escape his mouth while he was blowing raspberries all over Nefeli's midsection "Oh so now we're using nicknames huh? Such a cheap way to escape your punishment, little one..." he mumbled on Nefeli's soft skin.

This situation kept on for about three more minutes. Having moved his fingers to her sides, Jungkook wasn't planning on showing any hint of mercy any time soon... The whole house was filled with hysterical laughter and nonstop begging from Nefeli's way too ticklish reactions.

However, a well-known voice interrupted the playful assault of the Jeon siblings "Kids! Dinner's ready!" mrs Jeon yelled for her children.

Everything stopped instantly. Jungkook let go of his little sister in an instant and pulled away. It's been months since he's eaten his favorite food! "This isn't over..." he mumbled, poking a few times Nefeli's tummy and sides before eventually letting her go "I just have to gain some more energy for round two... You better disappear!" he smirked, winking at his little sister.

As Jungkook ran downstairs to grab a bite, Nefeli remained on his bed in a ticklish delirium, with a wide smile on her face. She was trying to catch her breath hopelessly, as a few leftover giggles were leaving her mouth.

Jungkook made his case clear... She better hide!

[corrodedhawkins]

Beg for It: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Turned this into a full fic for @mantorokk-writes

Content warnings: 18+ (minors DNI) language, sub!Eddie, bratty!Eddie, dom!Reader, punishment, pegging, handcuffs, begging, crying, sex toys (fleshlight, cock ring), hair pulling, face slapping, safe words (stoplight system), overstimulation, praise.

“Baby”, Eddie singsongs, kneeing his way towards you on the bed.

Sitting against the headboard with your notes and textbook balanced on your lap, you work dutifully to finish your homework. Your professor was an incredibly tough grader, and you could not afford to retake this class…again.

When Eddie flops down beside you and you don’t look up from your lap, he tries again. “Baby”, he calls, this time a few octaves higher.

Looking up briefly, you give him a soft “hi” before turning back to your notes.

Sweeping your hair off of your shoulder, he places a kiss to the soft skin, one hand splayed across your lower back. “Missed you”, he murmurs, warm breath ghosting over your ear, making you shiver.

“Missed you too”, you reply, your pen never lifting from the page.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie’s free hand moves to cradle your cheek, turning your face to look at him.

“Baby”, you sigh, “I’m sorry, I have to finish this.”

“But I’m lonely”, Eddie pouts, pressing a kiss to the side of your mouth.

You laugh, turning your gaze back to your lap as you continue to write. “Can you entertain yourself for another half hour? Then I’m all yours. I promise.”

“Deal.” He reaches over into his bedside table, pulling out his worn copy of The Hobbit to entertain himself, getting comfortable as he lounges against the pillows.

Eddie tries. He really, really does. It’s just…he’s so horny today and you’re so pretty, concentrating so hard on your work that your pink tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth. He makes it a whole five minutes before he’s back to bothering you.

His hand slowly inches up your bare thigh, slipping under the leg of your pajama shorts.

“Eddie”, you say, tone disapproving. “What are you doing?”

“M’sorry”, he whines, grinding his growing erection into your hip. Nuzzling into the crook of your neck, he nips at the skin softly, making his way up to your ear. “Need t’fuck you, baby. Please?”

You pull away from Eddie just as he’s sucking your earlobe into his mouth, his fingertips grazing your clothed clit through your underwear.

“Eds, please. This has to be done by midnight.” You look up from your work, finding Eddie’s sad eyes staring back at you.

Eddie nods over to the clock on the wall that reads 8:57 PM. “Looks like we have plenty of time.”

His hand is back in your shorts, pulling your panties to the side as his ring finger glides through your wet folds. “Need to bury my cock in this pretty pussy, that okay?”

You gasp and buck up into his touch, torn on whether you should forget about your work or just get it done. “N-no, just let me finish and then you can fuck me.”

He snatches the books from your lap, haphazardly throwing them onto his bedside table, where they knock over the half-full open can of Mountain Dew. Before he can react, the green liquid is spilling all over the pages of your notes.

“Eddie!”, you shriek, jumping up to try to save your work. It’s useless, your notes are already soaking wet and illegible.

“Fuck, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry”, Eddie grabs the dripping wet notebook and blots it with the sleeve of his shirt.

You’re practically vibrating with anger, eyes closed as you take deep breaths. You know Eddie didn’t do it on purpose, but that doesn’t change the fact that all of your hard work is now lost.

“Eddie”, you say, voice calm with just a hint of bite. “Please clean this up. I need to go email my professor, but I will be back in ten minutes. When I come back, I expect you naked and ready for me. Understood?”

Eyes cast down, he mumbles a yes ma’am before you turn to leave.

Twenty minutes later, Eddie is spread out beneath you, hands cuffed to the headboard as you sink into him, the strap grinding into his sweet spot with every maddeningly slow thrust.

His eyes are wet, blinking back tears as he begs you to fuck him faster, his cries high and needy.

Between you, Eddie’s fucking the fleshlight you’re holding for him, whining when you pull it almost all the way off, the head now the only part of him enveloped in the warm wetness.

“Please”, Eddie gasps, tongue shooting out to lick his dry lips. “Please le-let me fuck it. Wanna cum.”

Biting your lip, you make a show of considering his plea. “Hmm, be good and I’ll think about it.”

Eddie’s leg kicks out, muscles in his arms straining against the cuffs as he thrashes beneath you.

“Hey!”, you warn, pulling the fleshlight off and letting it fall at your side. “Quit acting like a fucking brat”, you hiss, winding your hand into his hair and pulling hard.

“I’m already being so generous, fucking you like this after what you did. I could have left you tied up and begging and ignored you.” Eddie whines at the thought.

“I said I’d think about it if you were good.” The hand not wrapped in his hair moves to caress his cheek, cracking against his skin at the last second. “So be good.”

He moans, a smirk on his lips when you smack him again, cock twitching against his stomach where it rests, precum pooling in the dip of his abs. “That’s not much of a punishment, you know I like it when you hit me.”

“That’s it”, you hiss.

Pulling your hips back, the strap slips from his tight hole, earning a pitiful whine from Eddie. You reach into the bedside table, pulling out his vibrating cock ring.

“Nononono”, Eddie whines as soon as he sees it.

“No?”, you ask, tone full of fake sympathy as you secure the ring as the base of his cock.“You did this to yourself, baby. Just lay back and enjoy.” Your eyes flick up to meet his, “color?”

“Green”, Eddie sighs.

The strap sinks back into him easily as you press the power button on the remote to the cock ring. A desperate moan leaves Eddie’s lips as you fuck him with hard, fast thrusts.

“Please”, Eddie sobs, eyes brimming with tears.

“Please, what?”, you ask.

“Let me-please let me fuck the toy”, he cries.

Grabbing his hips, you angle them up as you scoot forward on your knees, bending him slightly. The new angle lets you slide deeper, the head of your cock nudging his sweet spot.

“You want to fuck the toy?”, you ask. “But I thought you said you wanted to, what did you say again? ‘Need to bury my cock in this pretty pussy.’ Wouldn’t you rather fuck me than a toy?”

He gasps, head nodding frantically. “Yesyesyes”, he hisses through clenched teeth. “Wanna fuck you, please.”

Laughing meanly, you pull your hips back until your cock slides out of him. You loosen the buckles on the harness, wriggling out of it as fast as you can.

You straddle Eddie who’s still whining, the vibrations of the cock ring driving him crazy. “You want this pussy?”, you ask, biting back a smile when Eddie whimpers out a yes, ma’am please.

Grabbing the base, you glide the head of his cock between your folds, catching on your clit with every pass.

Eddie’s hips are thrusting up desperately, movements uncoordinated as he tries to sink into you unsuccessfully.

“Yeah? You want it? Beg.”

“I-”, he sniffles, taking in a shaky breath. “Please. Please, baby. I need to fuck you so fuckin’ bad. M’sorry for earlier, I swear.”

“You’ll be good? Take what I give you and thank me for it?”

“Yes”, he he breathes. “Promise.”

“Good boy”, you praise, slotting the head against your entrance and sinking down in one swift motion. “What do you say?”

“Thank you”, he sighs, head falling back against the pillows.

Your hands settle against Eddie’s chest, bracing yourself for leverage as you bounce up and grind down, rhythm slow at first. The vibrations from the cock ring are almost too much for you, and you can only imagine what it’s like for Eddie.

“How’s it feel, baby?”, you breathe, eyes sliding shut to focus on how good it feels. Before he can answer, you lift up and slam down onto him, grinding your hips down before you repeat the motion.

“Oh. I-fuck-s’too much”, he pants, jaw falling slack as he gasps for air. “It’s-I need to cum.”

“Oh? You need to cum?”, you hum disapprovingly. “I thought you promised to be good and take what I give you.”

Eddie nods, biting down hard on his bottom lip. “Yeah, I-fuck-M’sorry. I’ll be good. Thank you for letting me in your pussy.”

You chuckle, pace quickening as you lean down to place a chaste kiss to his lips. “That’s more like it.”

Tagging:

@bayouteche @sweetpeapod @munsonquinns @thefreakandthehair @hellfirebabes @mcplestreet @latenightsimping @just-absolutely-feral @wroteclassicaly

[humanmorph]

I heard nothing is stationary—well, it’s never been more clear.

Transcript:

Austin (as Parti): …that’s what I’m saying, I’m saying it’s not just a mentality, it’s like—it’s a structure that keeps people, it—no, it produces mentality, it doesn’t just…

One second, I think—I think we’re live. I think the signal’s up again. Hello? Hello? Are you hearing us? Hello, Palisade. Hello, Twilight Mirage. Hello, Qui Err Coalition. You know what? Hello to the Bilateral Intercession! I know you hate to hear us, [singsong] but we’re back!

Back in the lab again, back finding mixtures and fixes for shit you done mixed up. Back in Black’s chair, back at his microphone. I wish he could see it—the colors, the tone, the skies all rhinestones. I’m sorry, I’m stoned, just a little. A little goes a long way here on our new home. A little ripple in the middle of war. I saw a missile transformed into straw hospital filled, but it’s hard to ignore that the sky’s on fire with light.

Yes, they name me Particular Emphasis, but there’s a party up in here. I heard nothing is stationary—well, it’s never been more clear. We’re moving on them now, and it’s up for them. It ain’t even really close. ’Bout to hit the lick then take home [singsong] a full seven notes. So let me check mine, ’cause I know that I got some shit to say before small things grow big, before tomorrow turns yesterday.

This one’s for Baldwin, for Black Screen—all caps, please. This one’s for Phrygian, who’s between the fuse and the bomb. This one’s for the figure in our hearts who I hope is finally calm. This one’s for those who’ve had their names stripped away, or with names we never say, or with many names, multivalence, but committed in each to snatching they chains today.

Nah, you know what? This one’s just for me. If you’re listening, Bilats, let me tell you what I see. We are ungettable, unforgettable, unfuck-wit-able. And we’re really cute—we are unmistakable, undebatable, and we don’t even need a backing track to do what we ’bout to do.

(by @sacredwhim)

[syrcus]

FFXIVwrite 2024 Prompt 5: Stamp

Non-WoL OC. Set during Shadowbringers, spoilers for 5.0 story. Either the beginning or middle of the Thancred/Denh ship depending on how hard you squint at it. 1562 words ao3 link

The arrival of the Warrior of Light is rarely a quiet affair.      The Rising Stones' main door slams, their voice bounces seemingly without end off the stone walls, amplifying itself. Denh ignores them. After all, she has a job to do, though it may drain and vex her. Whatever business brings Quoye Mhoros to Mor Dhona can remain their own, as far as she's concerned.

     She retains her focus with intent, channelling aether from the environment around her, into the pit of her heart, turning it over and allowing it to flow down through her arms and to the hand she holds. Her fingers tingle with the warmth of it, and perhaps a little with inactivity, but over the past weeks this particular aetheric manipulation has become a speciality of hers. How many days has she spent, lately, sitting in this chair immobile, doing naught but preserving the empty husks of the people she loves?

     Her gaze glides over her current charge, a knot gathering in her core.  Thancred was once one of her closest friends, almost more, and yet.  And yet, in recent years she has avoided him, treated him with pointed indifference whenever their paths were forced to cross.  She has been cold, she has been immovable, and now that he's gone it shames her.

     "Denh!" Even through the thick wooden door of Dawn's Respite, Quoye's distinctive holler is barely muffled. "Anyone seen Denh? Somebody point me at- Oh, is she? Should've known." And with that, the door bursts open, and the Warrior of Light through it. Denh's breath leaves her in a weary sigh. She doesn't look at them, or even otherwise acknowledge them; she keeps her eyes on Thancred, committing his face carefully to memory. Even the most minor change could bode ill for him, in this state.      Were his eyes always so sunken? she wonders. Is this a worrying sign, or did I simply fail to notice? Gods, when is the last time I truly looked at him? Nobody had expected this, of course. She could never have been expected to know, all those years she spent angry and hurt, how easily the people she loved could be taken from her. She'd thought she had more time.

     Quoye's footsteps echo against the walls, quick and excited, far too upbeat for a room like this. The candle on the dresser by Thancred's cot sputters, flickering in the disturbed air as the Warrior of Light draws to a stop beside her.

     "Hi Denh," they chirp, sounding altogether too pleased with themself. Quoye's energy is infuriating at the best of times, even moreso now. She sets Thancred's hand down atop his chest and turns to them.

     "What do you want, Quoye." What are her odds, she wonders, of successfully setting them on fire? She'd never let it show, of course, but she's considered the question more and more often of late: Hydaelyn's Blessing may protect them from primal influence, they may have bested some of the world's strongest in combat, but surely a fireball to the face would take down even this vaunted hero? Some hero, anyway. What good have they done for Thancred and Shtola and the twins?      Quoye grins impishly back at her and laughs, bright and clear, blissfully unaware of the resentment Denh holds for them. Too bright for a room filled with such stagnant misery.

     "I've got something for you," they reply, in quite possibly the most aggravating singsong tone Denh has ever heard, brandishing a sheet of carefully folded paper and wiggling it above her head. "I think you'll like it." She considers snatching it, but Quoye is considerably taller than she is and could easily pull it from arms reach - which, she realises, is likely exactly what they're hoping for. She squares her shoulders and fixes Quoye with a level gaze. She will not embarrass herself for their amusement.  They can give her the note or not, it makes little difference.

     "Then hand it over and be on your way." She keeps her tone brusque, matter-of-fact, and for added effect extends an open hand. The intent is clear; put it in my hand and get lost. Quoye blinks a couple of times, perhaps surprised she didn't rise to their bait. Her tail flicks with irritation. "Now, Quoye. As you can see, I am busy and I am tired."      Hearing herself speak, she sounds tired. More than she'd expected. When is the last time she held a conversation that wasn't just a brief exchange, updating Krile on the vital signs of her closest friends? Quoye visibly deflates, apparently realising, at last, that this is neither the time nor the place for such gleeful behaviour. What thoughts exist in that empty skull? Denh finds herself thinking.

     Quoye sighs, looking vaguely ashamed, and places the note on a nearby table. "Sorry. Wasn't thinking, see… Everyone's fine, Denh. I was just talking to 'em all and they're fine, so I didn't…" They speak quickly, rubbing awkwardly at the back of their neck as they do. They look around at the lifeless Scions, their ears a little more lowered than usual. "Anyway. You'll want to read that soonish, I've gotta get back and he didn't say as much but I reckon he was mayhaps hoping for a reply- Not to rush you!" They wince. "Slightly to rush you, 'cause like I say I can't loiter long. I'll be out front. Sorry."      And they leave as quickly as they came.

     Alone again, or as alone as one can be in a room filled with empty bodies, Denh regrounds herself. She tries to ignore the note on the table, retrains her focus on Thancred; poor Thancred, sickly and grey in the candlelight. She breathes in deep, closes her eyes, drawing the aether back around her ready for use as she has done so many times.  It's delicate work, sustaining someone's corporeal form without them inside it, with little margin for error, but in recent weeks it has become as natural to her as breathing.      Today, though, when she reopens her eyes, they float unbidden back to that note on the table, and the aether she's so carefully collected fizzles and dissipates.  She tries to draw it back, but the unknown hangs in her mind like a bad omen.  Quoye hadn't mentioned the sender by name; had she imagined it, or had their gaze lingered on Thancred when they'd said 'he' was hoping for a response?  She quickly shakes that thought free.  Hope helps nobody, she learned that one young.  Hope leads to disappointment, hope lets one down.      That settles it.  I have to read that hells-damned letter.

     "Sorry, Thancred," she says quietly, almost a whisper.  "I shan't be away long."      She leaves the room in a few determined paces, grabbing the note and stuffing it into her shirt for safekeeping on her way out.  She passes Krile in the main foyer, hurriedly asks her to take over aether-sustaining duty for a little while without giving any excuse for her own abandonment of it, and skitters off up the stairs.      The dormitory hallway has never felt so long, nor had she ever realised before just how far down it her own room lies.  Try as she might to keep it away, by the time she reaches her door a small, irritating hope has settled in her chest.      She locks the door behind herself, and only once that's done does she pull the paper from her shirt and really look at it.

It's folded neatly, carefully, though now slightly crumpled.  A small drop of wax seals it closed, pressed flat with what looks, from the imprint, to be a one gil coin.  She flips it over, and sees her own name handwritten across the front in spindly, vigorous cursive.  Her breath catches.  That is, without a doubt, Thancred's handwriting.      She sinks to the floor, picking free the wax seal absentmindedly.  What could possibly be so important for Thancred to write to her from across the void, and send the hero of the realm to deliver it?        Perhaps he can offer some insight on his, and the others', condition.

     She unfolds the letter.

          Denh, Truth be told, I am not wholly sure you will welcome this correspondence.  You were, if I recall, not entirely pleased with me when last we spoke.  Would you believe me if I were to tell you that it feels like a lifetime ago? In some ways, I suppose it has been.  I have had more time to think since my... "collapse" than one may imagine, and it is my - perhaps vain - hope that you might wish to become acquainted with the man I have found myself to be. I am deeply sorry.  For all I've had you endure. If you are not averse, I should very much like to hear back!  How are things at the Rising Stones?           Sincerely,           Thancred. p.s.  You may wish to employ a wax seal of your own, should you choose to reply.  Quoye showed an unnerving degree of interest in the contents of this letter when I asked them to deliver it.

     A lone droplet of water lands upon the page as she reads the last line, smudging the ink.  Another quickly follows it.  She blinks, brings a hand to her eyes, and is almost surprised to find that she's begun to cry.

[gravedigest]

More DS drabble.

“No offense, Vic, but why are you putting up with it?”

His coworker has a hip leaning against the counter, the lull after lunch rush giving them all a moment to breathe. Victor logs himself out of the register, digging his phone from his back pocket as he slips to the back of the kitchen.

His coworker follows.

“He helps with the chores.”

“He’s not helping with the chores now,” they quirk their head towards the dining room, where Deimos is curled up in a booth. The way he’s zoned out suggests he’s probably working on something, the bored tilt of his head says it’s probably actual work. “Isn’t he freeloading?”

“No. No, he helps.”

“Helps what?”

“Is that actually any of your business?”

“Oh. Ooooh, I see.” That singsong tone of voice.

“No.”

“Still, he’s kind of a wreck, Vic. You could do better.”

“Can you not?”

He’s not in the mood for this.

Everyone trying to pry, dig in at his life. He’s not going to talk about it.

“I’m taking my lunch.”

“Gonna bring food to your boyfr-“

“We’re just roommates. Go fill a bag of ice for me.”

Even with all the heckling, they still do that, at least. Deimos might not be particularly popular as a restaurant appliance, but there’s a general understanding amongst the workers.

They won’t just let him overheat.

So Victor collects his lunch from the back, orders up something for Deimos, and gets the bag of ice.

He’s still blanked out in his booth when Victor gets there, resting on the table, head pillowed in his crossed arms. It makes it easy to get the ice spread over the back of his neck, stirring him just enough that he starts blinking and backing out of his rig.

“Got busy in here for a minute,” Deimos notes, stretching his arms over the table, then grinning up at him. “Lagged out the wifi.”

“Did it mess up whatever you’re doing?”

“Nah, music kept buffering, though. What’d ya get me?”

“Nuggets.”

“You are too sweet to me.”

He can see how hard it is for Deimos to get himself sat up, keeping the weight of his arms on the table, careful not to drop the ice by staying hunched over. Victor pops the box open for him, gets the top ripped off the sauce, the little fine motor things that can be a struggle when he’s lagging out.

And he is lagging out, there’s a slowness to how his eyes are tracking things, a sheen of sweat in his hairline. Little things Victor’s gotten good at noticing.

“Job’s gonna pay okay,” Deimos says it with his teeth halfway through a nugget, only realizing it was too hot halfway through the bite. “‘Lectricity should be good for the month. Or could go for the water, iunno. Your choice.”

“You get the electric, I’ll get water,” He doesn’t know how Deimos can eat the same things for weeks solid like he does, but it simplifies a lot of things.

He’s easy to please.

And he helps.

It’s not that complicated. He’s the easiest job Victor’s ever had.

Except for the parts that are hard.

When Victor checks on him again, nearing the end of his shift, Deimos hasn’t moved.

From across the restaurant, it looked like he was just back to work, face tucked into his arms and his hand around a soda cup.

He should’ve known better, made him take a break from his rig or moved him to the office when the boss had left for the day. Moved him to the walk-in. Had him walk around the dining room for a minute.

He’s crashing.

It takes two more people to help drag Deimos to the walk in, Deimos’ eyes stuck open wide, his limbs locked up in their curled positions, Victor’s shivering in the freezer with him as someone is cussing out corporate for the fact that no one can find a goddamn pen.

Sunglasses.

His sunglasses.

It takes a minute to pull the rubber off of the arm, to expose the narrow metal, but yeah- Yeah. That’s thin enough.

He tilts Deimos’ head down, finding that little pinhole from the diagrams he’d memorized, feeding the tip of the arm into the hole until he can feel the click-

Deimos jerks, immediately slamming his palms into his own eyes and coiling up. “Fuck, ow, shit, fuck- ow-“

“Hey- You’re gonna pop your eyeball-“

His hands drag up his face and into his hair, pressing hard at his skull as he collects himself from the hard cancellation of whatever process he was stuck in. “Shit, shit. What- Where?”

“Freezer?”

“… Overheated?”

… Sometimes, he wishes he could explain some things to Deimos.

He’s a little too deep for that, though.

It’s nicer to him if he just doesn’t know, anyway.

“… Yeah. Shift’s over. Wanna call Sanford?”

“… Yeah.”

[mathisshiftss]

A scenario in my Coffee Shop DR

I arrive at Spencer’s house after a very long week.

Warnings: Drinking, boys kissing, lowkey a breakdown

Immediately after I’m done at work I go to Spencer’s apartment. It’s been a hard week and it’s finally Friday, I can finally keep him up because he finally doesn’t have work the next day. Thank god.

He answers the door, still in his regular clothes, lacking the blazer and tie. Brown pants, green cardigan, dress shirt.

“Matt? What’s up?” He asks gently, inviting me inside.

“I missed you.” I say gently. “I had a hard week.”

“How come?” He asks, his hands finding my jacket as he helps me slip out of it.

“Just… I don’t really know.”

He knows it’s a lie. He doesn’t press me about it, he knows better than to. I’d just get upset and leave, he’d rather me not be alone when I’m upset.

“Okay, well… do you want to do something? Need anything?” He asks gently.

“You keep the good wine around here somewhere, don’t you?” I ask.

“You don’t think any wine is good.” He teases, pushing the hair out of my face.

“Maybe I will tonight.” I say with a smile. “Please?”

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his voice softening as he asks.

“Yeah, I’m just really in the mood to take some edge off.” I force a smile.

“Fine… just, let’s not overdo it, okay?”

He gets the wine and we sit down, sipping quietly. I definitely end up overdoing it. Within about 20 minutes I’m sifting through his records, looking for something to listen to.

“Your music taste is ass.” I giggle. “All classical. Where’s that album I got you?”

“Oh, it’s next to the player.” He says. We’re both slurring our words a little, I’m more drunk than him. Neither of us are surprised about that.

I get up, stumbling over my own two feet as I walk over to the record player. I almost fall, causing me to curse under my breath.

“Ah, found it.” I say, putting it on the player. It takes a second before music starts coming out of it.

The story behind the gift is funny. A few weeks before Christmas last year I had been at Spencer’s, looking at his stuff, and I noticed that he has no good music. So I went out and found my favorite album ever recorded; Grace (legacy edition) by Jeff Buckley. With it, there was a handwritten note.

“Here you go, Spence. The start of good music in your collection. It’s my favorite, you’d better like it.

Love, Matt.”

“I listen to it a lot.” He admits from the couch. I turn to him with a soft smile.

“Yeah?” I say softly. “Glad I got it for you?”

“Definitely.” He smiles. I put on the record, the first song that plays is “Mojo Pin.” I sing along drunkenly. The words are slurred and I’m slightly behind on the words but I know it by heart.

Spencer watches as I dance around his apartment, although, it wasn’t exactly dancing, more so waltzing around the apartment, occasionally throwing my hands up and tripping over my own two feet.

When “Hallelujah” comes on I look at Spencer. I smile forms over my lips and I step toward him, stumbling a little. He isn’t nearly as inebriated as I am, he usually isn’t.

“Spencer.” I say in a singsong tone. “You should dance with me.”

He smiles and lets out a quiet laugh. “What? I can’t dance.” He says, trying his best to get out of it.

“Come on. Please? For me?” I ask.

“Matt, I can’t dance when I’m sober, what makes you think I’m gonna be able to dance when I’m drunk?” He says, smiling up at me. I offer him my hand.

“Then just sway with me.” I say softly.

He rolls his eyes. “I can’t!” He giggles.

By the time he is finally convinced, Jeff Buckley has gotten through almost a minute of the song. I pull him up and I wrap my arms around his waist. He doesn’t know what to do with his.

“Matt, I don’t dance.” He giggles.

“Just hold me. You do that, right?” I say, looking at him with a gentle gaze. He smiles and looks down as he rests his arms over my shoulders.

“Is this good?” He asks.

“This is perfect.” I say gently. I shift forward and rest my head on his shoulder.

Well it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth

As the music progresses, I begin to make more dramatic movements with my body, guiding Spencer’s along with mine. He stumbles and blushes with embarrassment.

“I’m so uncoordinated!” He says. “I can’t do this.”

I smile at him.

“Yes you can, come on.” I say, pulling him back into me. My hands rest on his hips.

“Put your hands here.” I say, and I move his hands to my waist, they wrap around slightly. “Would you like to hold one of my hands or stay like this?”

He pauses for a moment. “Um… Hold hands.”

I giggle and take his left hand in my right. I hold it to the side, near our shoulders.

“I’ll guide you, okay?” I say softly. “Step with your right foot.”

He does, I do it at the same time. He smiles at me. I tell him to move his left and he does.

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

He’s finally starting to get the hang of it, although, he accidentally steps on my feet every so often. We laugh together.

“You’re doing great.” I say softly.

“Am I?” He sounds like he absolutely does not believe me. “I keep stepping on you and I’ve never danced before in my life-“

I kiss him to interrupt him. The movement stops.

“That’s why I’m teaching you.” I whisper when the kiss finally ends. His face is red. “Come on. Left… right…”

I guide him and we dance in circles around his living room.

And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Our dancing has slowed. It’s turned more into a standing hug. My face is buried in his shoulder and his hand is on my head, gently playing with my hair.

“Matt?” He asks, his voice is gentle.

“Hm?” I ask gently.

“It’s not healthy to drink away your problems.” He says gently. “I’m not trying to tell you how to live or anything. Just…”

“I know.” I say quietly. My hold on Spencer tightens, just a little. “I don’t know what else to do. There isn’t anything to talk through…”

“That’s okay.” He whispers. “This was fun though, right?”

“Mhm.” I admit.

“And I’m glad you didn’t just get sad drunk all by yourself. I’m glad you came to me.” He says softly. His hand runs up my hair.

“I knew you’d be upset if I ended up drinking myself into a coma.” I joke.

“Maybe a little.” He laughs. He puts his hand under my chin and makes me look at him. “I love you, Mathis.”

I smile, looking over his face.

“I love you too, Spencer.”

He places a gentle kiss on my lips, his hand finding my jaw.

“Stay the night?” He asks softly. “You can’t exactly drive home, anyway.”

“I’ll stay.” I whisper. “Thank you.”

[mywifeleftme]

361: bill bissett & The Mandan Massacre // Awake in Th Red Desert

Awake in Th Red Desert bill bissett & Th Mandan Massacre 1968, See/Hear Productions (Bandcamp)

(From “mor memoreez uv marvara reel konversaysyun,” scars on the seehors, Talonbooks 1999)

That’s a sample of how poet bill bissett’s writing looks on the page, phonetic and arbitrary, intuitive and free, while also checking the reader from taking any word for granted. The poems are frequently conversational in tone, but the way you have to sound out his writing to understand it means the reader's cadence ends up replicating the idiosyncratic singsong way bissett speaks. The 84-year-old remains a one-of-a-kind live performer, doodling all over the line between spoken poetry and song. He croons nonsense lullabies and pastiche ragas, shakes a maraca, intones mantras until their familiar words lose all their sense, even dances a little. It’s funny—I wouldn’t recommend his writing to someone unfamiliar with the avant-garde, but I would confidently take just about any open-minded person to see one of his shows. He has the affect of a holy fool or a joyful monk, and basically anything he does makes more sense in the context of his corporeal presence.

Back in 1968 though, bill was a wild young man, and Awake In Th Red Desert, his LP with backing “band” Th Mandan Massacre, is full of noisy freakouts and some patience-testing explorations. The Massacre includes four percussionists, some trained (jazz drummer Gregg Simpson) and some not (poet Martina Clinton, bill’s then-partner); electric guitar; two flutes (one a toy); and cutting edge Buchla Box synthesizer by the otherwise unknown Wayne Carr. Response to Red Desert has been pretty mixed—one of its Bandcamp uploads even warns, “Please preview the tracks before downloading. There are no refunds.” I suspect many listeners don’t make it past the first side of the record, which often sounds like what it is: clattering free improvisations around bissett’s sung or shouted recitations. On the flip though, things mellow out for some fascinating minimal synth explorations, bissett doing his visionary thing on a haunting electronic field (see “fires in the tempul”). “she, still and curling” is particularly freaky, Carr making sinister cricket noises with his Buchla, tape of bissett’s voice chopped up into hypnotic loops, layered and manipulated till it sounds like a collage of short wave radio transmissions. The ramshackle noise of the early tracks eventually returns on the awesome “now according to paragraph ‘c’”: bissett reads what (initially) seems like a found text that gets weirder and bolder as the poet works himself into a lather, the Buchla’s bleak tones tattered by the percussion squad’s stiff beat.

I snagged this off Montrealer Alex Moskos, who oversaw the reissue for Massachusetts-based avant-garde label Feeding Tube, and getting this thing back out there has clearly been a labour of love for him (the production quality is impeccable; great explanatory liner notes too). Are there 500 people who want this record? I’m not sure. But for fans of bissett, sound poetry, freaky music, and early electronic, this’ll be of interest. One idea: tell people Awake was the work of a solar death cult leader from the Pacific Northwest who disappeared during an eclipse and they won’t be able to keep the damn thing in stock.

361/365

[roseianxiety]

Eros with Roceit, or Pragma with Logince? <3

prompts based on the different types of love

Pragma - committed/practical love

Ship: Logince (romantic)

Content Warning: Swearing

Word Count: 1800+ words

Author's Note: Sorry this isn't the best, I wrote this in a hurry but I hope you like this!

————————————————————————————————

His eyes were starting to close while he stared at his laptop screen. It was already past midnight but he was still finishing up his thesis, even though he had been working on it nonstop for hours. Logan was starting to have migraines and the pain in his temple only got worse with each passing second. He just wanted to finish his work so he could get a few hours of sleep and then he can finish it. Too caught up with his thesis, he didn't notice his boyfriend had woken up and noticed him still working.

Roman got up and quietly walked towards where Logan was sitting, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and planting a small kiss on the top of his head, "Lo? You're still awake? It's so late, you gotta sleep now." Roman's voice was gentle but firm. His tone was filled with concern as he gently tried to persuade his boyfriend to rest. Logan shook his head in response, "Later. I'm near to finishing this off." He says simply, typing away at the keyboard. Roman sighed at his stubbornness and decided to take matters into his own hands. He pulled Logan from his chair and carried him to their bed despite Logan's complaints.

"No, shush it, starlight. You're tired." Roman said as he placed his boyfriend down on the bed and climbed in beside him. He wrapped his arms around him tightly, placing kisses on his neck as he did so, "Come on Lo, please go to sleep. Sleep is important.".

"But–"

"No buts!" Roman interrupted, "Just sleep, darling. I'll finish your thesis for you, don't worry." Logan smiled fondly at his boyfriend as he hears his words. As much as he hated to admit it, Roman was right about one thing: he was exhausted and needed some time to relax. So, after giving in to his boyfriend and resting his head on Roman's chest, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep within his partner's embrace.

The next day, he wakes up alone in bed and sighs. He sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before getting up and walking to his desk. Logan opens his laptop and checks on his unfinished thesis document only to find out that it was finished, proofread, and edited. He can't help but smile softly, remembering what Roman had said last night. He finished Logan's thesis... for him. His heart swelled. It was a small gesture yet Logan appreciated it, greatly.

After making some finishing touches on his document, he closes his laptop and heads to the kitchen for breakfast. Logan then finds Roman setting a plateful of food on the counter, oblivious to Logan's presence. When he spots him, he immediately perks up and greets him brightly. "Morning, love! I made breakfast for you~!". He singsongs happily. Logan smiles at him as he sits down on one of the stools at the counter, "Good morning to you too, Roman." Logan replies softly as he took his plate. Roman sat down beside him and grabbed his plate as well.

"Thank you..."

Roman queries, "For what?".

Logan glances over at him, a soft smile playing on his lips, "For finishing my thesis, for everything.". Roman smiles back at him, staring at him lovingly. " Anything for you.".

--------

Roman pushed open the door of their apartment. God, he was so so frustrated. One of his colleagues at work decided to cause problems for him by assigning him more work than necessary. All of the work he had to do was so damn complicated that it drained all the energy out of his body. At that moment, Roman was feeling like he was going to explode with pent-up frustration.

He waddled to the living room and dropped his bag down before plopping down on the couch, sighing exasperatedly. He heard the footsteps coming from behind him, "Ro, you're home." Logan spoke quietly, "How did work go?". Roman let out a long sigh, " It's tiring, one of my coworkers kept bothering me nonstop. The workload is ridiculous!". He then glanced up at his boyfriend. "Oh and the groceries...".

Groceries...

Shit, the groceries! Roman forgot to buy groceries. "Oh my God, I forgot the groceries!" He exclaims as he sits up on the ground, running his fingers through his hair. "Shit, I'm sorry, Lo." He groans. "I'll go run out to the store real quick and–".

Logan walks over to Roman and places his hand on his shoulder, "It's alright, dear. I understand. I'll do it instead, ok?" Logan replies reassuringly. Roman looks up at him with surprise written all over his face, "Really? You wouldn't mind taking care of the groceries instead? You don't have to.".

"Of course not, my supernova," Logan assures him again. "I want to, anyway." He adds with a soft smile. Roman lets a smile grace his lips as he leans in to kiss his boyfriend sweetly. "Thank you, love." Logan hums contently against Roman's lips as he pulls back, resting his forehead on his. They stayed like that, basking in each other's presence until Logan eventually needed to go out and buy their groceries.

--------

"Let me carry our little princess, Nightingale," Roman says as he presses a soft kiss on Logan's temple before he takes their baby girl from his hold. Roman cradles her tenderly, kissing her cheek as he does so. She giggles softly in return before yawning and nestling herself comfortably in his arms. "Aww, is our little princess sleepy?" Roman cooed teasingly. She gurgles in reply as she tries to cover her mouth with her chubby little hands. She then stretches her arms to be able to reach Roman's face.

Roman laughs and kisses the tip of her nose, "Yes, yes, you are, aren't you?". He looks at Logan who watches them with a small smile adorning his face.

The two of them exchange loving glances as they continue to stare at their daughter lovingly while he sways her side to side, trying to lull her back to sleep. He turns back to look at Logan who is watching them with a loving expression on his face. "You are a natural with kids, Ro." Logan comments. Roman snickers as he responds, "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's part of my charm." Logan rolls his eyes affectionately as he chuckles at his husband's antics.

"Anyway, don't you have work to attend to, Lo?"

"Hmm, I do. But I want to treasure this moment one more time."

Logan got back from work earlier than usual today. He hangs his coat on the coat hanger and walked to the living room, slightly confused why it was so quiet. He looked around and notices that his husband wasn't around and decides to go upstairs and check if they were there. He peeks inside their bedroom and sees his husband lying on their bed asleep while hugging their also-sleeping daughter, still holding onto her as he slept. Logan couldn't help but smile widely at the scene. He silently goes closer to them and brushes the hair away from both their faces. Logan then leans down and plants a small kiss on each of their foreheads.

"Lo? You're back already?" Roman asks as he stirs awake, his drowsy eyes looking at his lover questionably. Logan nods, smiling fondly at him, "Yes. I've just come from work. How was your day? How's our little lovebug doing?" He replied, stroking their daughter's cheek. She starts to babble in her sleep in response, causing Logan to smile at how cute she was being.

"She's very well-behaved today, so far." Roman chuckles, turning his attention back to their daughter. "Anyway, I gotta put her in her crib so we can eat." He says as he carefully sat up and shifted her into his arms. Logan watched amusedly as his husband bounced their sleeping daughter slightly in an attempt to make sure that she was properly settled in.

Logan queries as he followed after his husband who exited their bedroom and headed to their daughter's nursery room, "You waited for me?". He asked as they entered the room. "Why of course! I want us to eat dinner together." Roman hums, setting their daughter down in her crib. He then turns to Logan and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close to himself.

"Hello there, starry night~" Roman greeted with a wide grin. Logan rolls his eyes playfully as he returns his husband's embrace, wrapping his arm around Roman's neck. "Hello to you too, Mr. Sunshine." Logan hums. Roman nuzzles his nose against Logan's collarbone. "I missed you, love." He whispered. Logan blushed at Roman's remark, burying his face in Roman's hair. "And I missed you as well. Very much.". Roman then pulls away and grabs Logan's hand. "Now come along, let's go eat some dinner. I've made us something special tonight.".

Logan took his empty plate and stood up from his seat and walked towards Roman who glanced up at him skeptically. "Are you done eating?" Logan queries. Roman nodded casually and stood up as well, "Yeah, I'm done. Are you going to clean the dishes? If so, let me help you." He offered, grabbing his plate. Logan smiled warmly at him, "It's alright, I can handle it, Roman.". He says before reaching to take the plate from Roman's hands but the latter shakes his head.

"No no no, let me help you. I insist.". Logan rolled his eyes and gave him a fond smile.

"Alright, fine. You can help."

He acquiesces. Roman beams at Logan before heading into the kitchen. Logan follows suit, placing their plates in the sink. As they were washing their dishes, Roman glanced at his husband who seems quite preoccupied at the moment. A smile forms on his face as he observes his husband. He loved Logan so much, he loved everything about him. His good qualities, his imperfections, his beauty, everything about him. Logan could be the most stubborn person he knew yet he would still end up giving him everything that he wanted and he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with him and him only.

"You are staring, Roman. Something in your mind?" Logan asks as he turns around to face Roman. Roman immediately averts his gaze back to the dishes. "Nothing... I'm just thinking how lucky I am to marry a man like you." He whispers before he finally manages to meet Logan's eyes. Logan smiles warmly at him and leans to kiss his lips gently. "As am I, Ro. You're always there when I need you, I'm thankful that I'm blessed with such a wonderful husband as you.". He stated, his eyes shining brightly.

"I love you, my nightingale..."

"I love you too, my supernova."

————————————————————————————————

Writing Taglist: @cutebisexualmess @extraintrovertedalien (please tell me if you want to be added or removed in the tag list)

[voraciousvore]

Big Corp Inc. (19/43)

Chapter 19: Stuck between a Rock and a Hardon

The end of the month was approaching all too quickly. Candy had already been served with an eviction notice that would come into effect on the 1st, if she wasn’t able to scrounge up the money for at least a month’s rent. She had been working at Big Corp Inc. for a couple of weeks now without any mention of pay or having a paycheck in hand. As Candy left for work, her landlord Bob accosted her on her way down the stairs with a “gentle” reminder that she only had a few days left. Candy acknowledged his words and headed out with a twisting feeling in her gut. 

She knew the only way to sort the matter out would be to discuss it with her boss. The thought terrified her, since she was more frightened of him than ever, now that she was fully aware of what he was capable of doing. He had eased off his harassment a fraction, not wanting to push her into outright quitting, but his eyes were always on her. She knew he was biding his time, waiting to strike like the vicious snake that he was. And now, unless she wanted to end up homeless, she had no choice but to approach him. 

Her thoughts roiled and churned in her brain as she rode the railcar to work. She watched the scenery fly by, full of gargantuan buildings and people. Candy had figured, after working with Giants for a couple of weeks, she would’ve become accustomed to everything and everyone around her being so large. While she had, to some extent, overcome that initial anxiety, she had fresh fears with the awareness of what some Giants were cruel enough to do to her. She had never imagined that anybody would eat her whole, since she believed Giants were civilized like humans, yet such a thing had happened more than once. She shuddered. 

Candy departed from the railway station and crossed the human walkway, ignoring the Giant feet stomping around her, stepping over her head, and vibrating the ground below. She was relieved to see Bianca ahead of her in the lobby, strolling towards the elevator. 

“Bianca!” Candy called with a wave. “Mind giving me a lift?”  

Bianca turned around and smiled. “Sure thing, Candy!” She lowered her hand to the ground so Candy could climb up into her palm. “How’s everything going? I thought I saw you with that handsome gentleman Martin the other day,” she teased in a singsong voice, flashing Candy a knowing smile. 

Candy blushed and cupped her face in her hands. “Oh, him? Why, yes… yes you did… he’s quite charming, isn’t he?” She wriggled with delight in Bianca’s hand as she thought about the attractive Giant. “Thanks for your advice regarding courtship, by the way. I used the information you gave me about him liking sweets and baked him a cake. Needless to say, he was very pleased!” 

“I’m glad to hear things are working out between you two lovebirds,” Bianca remarked with a smile. She patted Candy on the head with her fingertip. 

“Oh, Bianca! I meant to ask you something. When’s payday?” Candy looked up at the Giantess, anxious for an answer. 

“Payday was yesterday. You didn’t get your check? You should have, since you’ve been here long enough. At least for your first week.” Candy shook her head despondently. “Did you get direct deposit set up? If not, Mr. Hardon probably has your paper check.” 

“No…” Candy sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to talk to him sometime today.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Bianca questioned, a note of worry in her tone. 

“No, I can handle it,” Candy responded. She was tempted, but she didn’t want to be dependent on others for everything. She realized she needed to be brave. She was aware that she would be forced to face her boss eventually. Mr. Hardon didn’t have the power to withhold her pay from her. Besides, she knew Bianca hated being around Mr. Hardon as much as she did. 

“Well… alright then. Good luck,” Bianca replied, placing Candy on her desk. “See you around.” Candy logged into her computer and started typing. She was procrastinating the inevitable. She really didn’t want to interact with Mr. Hardon if she could help it. After her long week of getting lost and typing on an oversized keyboard, her limbs were sore and tired, and she struggled to stay focused. She was stressed. She decided to sneak out for lunch early. She rode the capsule launcher down to the floor and exited her cubicle into the hallway. 

She looked across the expansive hall, at Mr. Hardon’s office. The door was wide open and he was sitting at his desk. She could see him, high above her head, scrolling on his computer with a bored look on his face. Candy recognized that this would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him. Her heart started to pound with fear. She forced her feet to move forward, across the long distance. Before she knew it she was inside his personal office. As she got closer to his desk, the vast edifice blocked him from her view. She circled around, trying to keep her footsteps quiet so her heels wouldn’t clack on the floor and give away her position. Eventually, she rounded the desk and found herself next to Mr. Hardon’s massive shoes. She stared up at the behemoth towering over her, oblivious to her presence. 

Candy gave a small cough and spoke up. “Mr… Mr. Hardon? Sir?” He looked down and his eyes gleamed with recognition. He swiveled his chair so he was facing the human and leaned over. Candy gulped as she gazed up at the Giant. He was just so damn big. Every inch of him. Even his shoes, splayed out on either side of her, were the size of yachts. His physicality wasn’t the only thing that frightened her, however—it was the hungry glint in his eyes. Like he was eager to chomp her up. Candy, briefly, was at a loss for words. 

“What can I do for you, Candy?” Mr. Hardon asked, raising an eyebrow and resting his chin on his fist. 

Candy bit her lip nervously but forced herself to speak. “Um… I was wondering… if… if you had… my… um… p-paycheck?” She labored to expel each word. 

“Hmmm… let me see,” Mr. Hardon answered, drawing out each word and scratching the side of his head. He rummaged through his desk drawer and pulled out a Giant-sized envelope. “Ah! Here it is!” He plopped it down on the floor in front of Candy, nearly knocking her back with the gust of air it produced. 

Candy stared at the massive envelope. It was easily larger than her entire body. Even the short side of the rectangular shape was longer than she was tall. “Are you serious?” she balked. “I’m not going to be able to cash this!” 

Mr. Hardon grinned wider. He bent over in his huge chair with a creak so he was closer to Candy’s level, while still looming over her with menace. “If you want, I can fix that problem for you—for a price, of course…” He reached his hand toward Candy. 

Candy yelped and jumped back. “No, no, I’m good!” She gripped the envelope by the corner and labored to drag it away. Me. Hardon watched with amusement as she pulled it slowly across the floor, like an ant dragging a large leaf. He couldn’t resist teasing her a little further and picked up the opposite end of the envelope, raising it up to his face with Candy still clinging to the bottom. She was so surprised she released her hold, but Mr. Hardon was ready with his hand directly below her so she wouldn’t fall to her death. When she realized she was in his hand, she went rigid with fear. The Giant deposited her on the desk, still holding her check in his hand out of her reach. 

“Here, let me open this for you,” he offered, tearing open the envelope and sliding the check out. “Ooh, look at that! You made 400 BB! Not bad for a week of work!” He waved the check in front of her, as if taunting her with it. 

“Wait... the company is paying me in Big Bucks? That can’t be right,” Candy said, perturbed. “That’s Giant currency. I can’t use that on the small side of the city...” Her situation was getting worse by the second. She had a check that was too large for her to cash, comprised of currency that she couldn’t use. Mr. Hardon grinned at her distress. He knew full well what he was doing; this time, he was using his cunning, playing the long game. He knew Candy would have to cooperate with him, inevitably. 

“My offer stands, Candy,” he recited smoothly. “I’m willing to help you, but as you know, I expect something in return...” He brushed his fingertip against her face, then ran it down the side of her body, tracing her curves. Candy froze up, unsure what to do. Capitulating to his lascivious whims was not an option for her, but she needed the money badly. She was in a difficult pinch.  

She’d have to find another way. “Let me off your desk, please,” she asserted, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. 

“Of course, darling,” Mr. Hardon replied. He wrapped his fingers around her and swept her up in his palm. Candy really didn’t want to be handled by the Giant, but she didn’t have much of a choice. He took her over to her desk and paused, raising the small human up to his face. “I know you’ll come around, Candy,” he said in a low, deep voice. “You really don’t have any other options, do you?” He stared at her for an uncomfortable span of time. Candy looked away, holding back her tears. She didn’t want him to see how upset she was, but she could hardly hide her insurmountable negative emotions. He lowered his hand, allowing her to dismount on her own, and left her check beside her, then strolled off to get some lunch. 

Candy stared blankly at her computer screen, deep in thought. She wanted to cry. She didn’t know what to do. She had traveled all the way to the large side of the city to find a job, overcame her fears, struggled to work with equipment not scaled to her size, and suffered through all that abuse with Ronny and Mr. Hardon, and she was no closer to her goal than when she started. She was still flat broke and inches away from losing her apartment. All she had to show for all her hard work was money she couldn’t use, a giant check she couldn’t cash. She felt like giving up. 

“Hi, Candy!” Martin’s sonorous voice greeted her from above. Candy turned around to respond and forced a smile. 

“Why, hello, Martin! It’s good to see you,” she replied. Her facial expression may have been forced, but her sentiment was genuine. “What’s up?” 

“I just thought, you know, maybe you’d like some help getting to the break room, since it’s lunchtime,” Martin said, fidgeting with his hands. He became puzzled. “What’s that, Candy? Your paycheck? It looks too big for you to lug around.” 

Candy sighed. “Yeah. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it. No human bank will cash a check that size!” 

“Why don’t you take it to a Giant bank?” Martin suggested. “I’d be happy to escort you, if you’d like…” 

Candy perked up. “Really? You’d do that for me, Martin?” 

“Of course! And actually, I was going to ask if… maybe you’d like to go out to dinner with me tonight? But, but, don’t feel pressured! You don’t have to if you don’t want to! We’ll still go to the bank either way.” Martin blushed and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. 

“I’d love to!” Candy answered enthusiastically. Martin smiled and held out his hand. Candy jumped into his palm, beaming. She felt like, with Martin on her side, everything would turn out alright. 

Chapter 20

First chapter

[chromes-corner]

requests open? don't mind me :D Red velvet with an S/O who Cares for his cake hounds; and he met her because he followed the hounds who ran towards her house which is away from the kingdom and hidden by red roses: red is her color and as you can guess; He is invited in when he chases after the hounds as they barge into her garden space. she even kept one of the weaker hounds who is a big boy and calls him 'tiny' from back when he was the runt of the litter: i will also write for this if ydm <3

GOD YOUR SUGGESTIONS ARE LITERALLY GODLY AND YES PLEASE DO WRITE FOR THIS EVENTUALLY XOXO

I strayed a teeny bit from the prompt but still!!! i think it turned out cute!!!!!

hope you enjoy!!!!

---

Oasis

Red Velvet/Reader

Notes: fluffyyyy

Content Warnings: none

A/N: might be a little ooc but like i do not care. at all. this is cute so I will negate all criticisms of characterization <3

“Chiffon? Chiffon, here boy!”

Red Velvet’s voice echoes through the endless expanse of trees laid out before him. He trots through the woods, calling out in increasingly troubled tones. Every few paces, he slows to assess his current location. Unfortunately, everything around him looks exactly the same. Every direction is shrouded in the misty veil of gloomy pines, with no pattern to their placement that he can pick up.

Red Velvet stops and places his forefinger and thumb between his lips, letting out a shrill whistle that pierces the forest. He tries to swallow down the worrisome lump in his throat as he waits for a response. He had been taking his beloved pup on a walk, and he decided to take a different path for variety’s sake. Chiffon must have heard something that Red Velvet couldn’t, because one moment the two were leisurely strolling through the woods, and the next, Chiffon bolted off like a bat out of hell.

Wringing his hands, Red Velvet feels the onset of panic in his chest. Which way did Chiffon go? Which way did he come from? Had he been going in circles? The trees are so thick, he can’t find the sun to at least get a sense of the direction he was going in. Red Velvet isn’t a tracker. He’s never needed to be. His hounds do that for him, and now, here he is, stranded and alone and–

There’s a distant bark, and Red Velvet snaps his head in the direction of the noise. There’s another, and this time, he’s pinpointed the approximate direction from which it came. Red Velvet takes off, crashing through the forest and following the voice that he knows to be Chiffon’s.

He dashes and dodges through the trees until he is forced to slow before a towering hedge. It stands taller than him, and it is perfectly trimmed into a smooth wall. There is no clear path through, so he makes one himself.

Red Velvet pushes through the bushes, using his cake hand to shield himself from the thorns that probe at his dough. Just as he’s about to breach through, however, he hears a voice. He sinks back into the bushes and peers through the leaves, and instinctively moves to grasp at a sword that isn’t there. He scolds himself for not bringing it with him, as even this far out from civilization, he knows the chances of meeting an enemy are slim, but the odds are never impossible. No matter, he reminds himself, most run upon getting an eyeful of him, anyway. There’s a reason his sword remains so polished and grime-free.

He is pulled from his thoughts when he sees a shadow drifting over the leaves. Red Velvet is careful to pull some foliage back in order to create a window through the greenery. What he sees very nearly makes him jump out of the hedge.

You giggle as Chiffon runs laps around and through your legs, yipping happily as you attempt to kneel down to tend to a flower. The pup is relentless, even after you drop your trowel and try to pick it up. You’re twirling around in the rosy sunlight, chasing the hound and laughing as you make yourself dizzy and run out of breath. A singsong voice tumbles from your lips between gleeful chortles as you playfully scold the overzealous hound for getting in your way.

Red Velvet leans closer through the bushes as he watches you and Chiffon dance around. He’s suddenly very aware of the way the light hits your hair and makes it glow as you spin round and round in pursuit of his hound. It’s entrancing, watching you pirouette like a seasoned ballet dancer and hearing the melody of your joy like lilting birds in the early spring. You’re so carefree in this moment; like a picturesque scene he’s only ever seen in romanticized paintings of a lost time. There is no war in this garden. There is no strife. There is only you and your carmine roses basking in the honeyed sun.

Red Velvet is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that he's begun to lean a bit too far forward. He is only brought back to the present when he finds himself falling. His limbs flail and he curses as twigs snap around him. He tumbles through the thorny hedge and onto the soft, spongy grass below with a grunt.

He doesn’t even have time to lift his head from the dirt before Chiffon is yapping and scrabbling all over him. Red Velvet pushes himself up with a groan, resigned to sit on the ground while his naughty hound whimpers and licks his face in what he can only assume to be an apology for running off. There’s a sharp sting below his eye where Chiffon licks, and he swipes over it, only to find a smear of jam on his thumb. A thorn must have nicked him during his fall.

“There are easier ways to enter, you know.” You’re suddenly standing over him, holding a hand over your mouth as to not reveal that you're smiling at Red Velvet’s slip. The crinkles near your eyes give it away, however. Not that he’s intently studying your face as you bend over him, that is.

Red Velvet clears his throat and looks at the ground, patting a contented Chiffon. “Apologies for the intrusion.” He berates himself for how quietly he speaks. The proud Red Velvet, suddenly shy in front of a mere gardener? “And,” he looks behind him, “apologies for the destruction of your wall.”

You snicker. It’s music on a cool summer’s evening, bathed in gold. “Aw, don’t worry about it. I was just thinking about shearing a new entryway.”

“I will take my leave now. My pup–”

“You’re bleeding, by the way.”

Chiffon wriggles in his lap. Red Velvet’s mouth gapes in bemusement. It wasn’t often that someone so boldly interrupted him. “I–” he fumbles over his words, his tongue tying itself in knots. “Yes, I know. I’ve dealt with much worse. Now, I really must be–”

“Even the smallest scratch can succumb to infection,” you chide, interrupting him once again. He should be furious. He should be sizing you up with a scowl. He should be asking you who it is you think you are to be talking down to him. But instead, he remains on the ground, dumbly looking up at you like you’ve sprouted wings and have begun to float. “Please, come in and let me help clean you up.”

You offer a hand to him. He can lift himself up just fine, but he finds himself grasping your palm as you help him to his feet. His legs move to follow you, but his brain is left behind in those bushes. What on Earthbread is he doing? There must be something in the surrounding roses; some sort of hypnotizing spore that’s conjuring these clouds in his head. Surely, if not for the haze of your dastardly aphrodisiac, he’d have been halfway back to the oven by now, right? He’d have already dismissed and forgotten about you, too, right…?

You and Red Velvet come along to a small cottage in the center of the garden. It’s a little cube of white in the valley of red and green, with a shingled roof and a smokestack protruding slightly from one of the walls. Chiffon runs up the brick walkway and barks at the door, demanding to be let into the cozy abode. You laugh that stupidly melodic laugh and let him, as well as yourself and Red Velvet, in.

It looks much bigger on the inside, he notes. On one half is a couch and a few varying chairs huddled around a snuffed stone fireplace and a bundle of chopped logs. Knit blankets are draped over the couch that is covered in smooth, red throw pillows that look like they’ve never been used. Nearest to the fireplace is an ornate looking chair with big, padded arms, and there’s a distinct dent in the cushion. There is a stack of books on the table next to the chair, as well as candles that have been burned down to their hilts.

On the other half of the room is a kitchen with countertops forming a U-shape around the wall. There is a well-used oven, several plants in the windowsill, and a stack of used dishes in the sink. In the middle of the kitchen is an island with a vase of crisp red roses and two bar stools neatly tucked under the island’s overhanging ledge. The bright light of the day beams in from the open window above the sink, looking out onto rows of neatly-planted flowers. Between the two rooms is a staircase, which he can only guess leads to your bedroom.

“Excuse the mess,” you say as you notice him eyeing the room. You pull out the barstools and gesture for Red Velvet to sit. “I don’t normally have visitors, much less unexpected ones.”

You rummage through a cabinet until you find a small bottle of something, then you take the barstool next to Red Velvet and sit next to him. He is uncomfortably aware that your knees are touching his as the two of you face each other. Close contact with his hounds is an expected part of his job, but close contact with another cookie? It makes him feel like he’s back in the oven.

“Here, this might sting a little,” you say, dabbing some liquid from the bottle onto a cloth and then pressing it to Red Velvet’s cheek. It doesn’t sting him. He can hardly even feel it. It’s nothing compared to the searing fire that wracks his chest at your touch. His throat constricts and he can’t breathe; he can only stiffly stare at you with wide eyes as your tongue pokes out of your lips, and you clean off the last of the jam.

“Done!” you exclaim as you crumple up the tissue and toss it into the garbage. “Thanks for stopping by the doctor’s office, Mr…”

You look at him expectedly, still droning on your r’s, and for a moment he forgets how to speak. He lets out the breath he had been holding. “Red Velvet.”

“Mr. Red Velvet! Now, this visit’s free of charge, but the next one might cost you,” you jest with a wink, telling him your name with the Dr. prefix – and then adding on that you aren’t actually a certified doctor.

There’s a horribly loud beat of silence that rings in Red Velvet’s ears. You tilt your head slightly at his silence. He can’t hold it in anymore, and he opens his mouth to speak. He blurts out a question he didn’t even know was waiting idly in his throat. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

The goofy smile drops from your face, and Red Velvet instantly regrets his words leaping out before he could process them. He wishes he could bolt out the door, but he stays stock still, anxiously studying the subtle shifts in your countenance.

You purse your lips and tilt your chin upward. “What is there to be afraid of?”

Red Velvet wishes that you had said anything else. He glances down at his ugly, marred arm and clenches it into a fist. He should be used to it by now. He should be used to the way the other lackeys of Dark Enchantress only stare at his arm when they speak to him. He should be used to how darkness sometimes swims at the edge of the vision of his strange black eye. He’s never had to point these things out to potential threats. It’s usually all they see when they look at him – a walking, talking arm of cake.

He sets his jaw tight. “Look at me.”

You do look at him. You look him up and down and Red Velvet wants to sink into the ground as you do so. You fold your hands together and speak very softly. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to see besides some cookie who loves his cake hound.” You scoff, “If you’re talking about your hand, then so what? I’ve heard talk at the markets of cookies with wings, and of cookies with four legs, and of cookies who transform into other creatures entirely! You think for yourself, don’t you? You have your own sentience. That’s what makes you a cookie, just like me and everyone else. If people only see you for your oddities, then they aren’t worth the fight.”

Red Velvet can’t answer. His entire nervous system just shut down all at once. All that’s left is the burning feeling over his entire body, but it’s not the burn of hatred. It’s not the burn of adrenaline or pain or anything he’s experienced before. It's a warmth that flares throughout his arms and legs and settles deep in his gut.

He doesn’t have to answer, however, because as he opens his mouth to form what would probably be the most muddled and tongue-tied response known to cookiekind, a horde of white frosting gallops down the stairs. The pack of cake hounds investigates Chiffon, and instantly take to the pup as though he’s always been a part of their clan.

“Whoa, hey guys!” you say to the hounds as they scamper around the furniture. You run over to open the door and shoo them all out, including a rather happy Chiffon. “Go spend your energy out there.”

“Ugh, sorry about that. You know how it is with them, huh?” you say, now a bit frazzled at the sudden excitement.

The words come easy this time. “I’ve never met another cake hound owner.”

“Me neither! Everyone always wants those expensive “pure-breads” or whatever. Nobody can handle the mutts, but I just love ‘em!” you say, completely changing the subject from the heavy topic from just moments before. “Well, you said you have to leave, but maybe we can set up a play date for Chiffon and my hounds? And maybe you can use the entrance next time?” you add with a giggle.

Red Velvet looks out the window. He can see Chiffon running around with the others. His pup looks delighted to be interacting with other hounds outside of training. “Perhaps I could stay for a little while longer? Chiffon looks happy here.”

Red Velvet wouldn’t admit it to you or himself, but he is happy here, too.

[willowwhispersspeakeasy]

Hello there after reading the riddle x Alice!reader ,I’m not sure if requests are open for the event still but I was wondering if I could have the “enemy’s to lovers” trope with Azul with an Ariel!reader if that’s ok with you?

so, we already had two ppl request w/ the enemy's to lovers prompt, but I took some inspiration for that trope along w/ the 'born yesterday'/amnesia trope for this. full authors notes at the end. -Omen, author

thank you for joining our event

warnings: gender neutral mc, Little Mermaid! mc, blood mention, drowning mention, some merfolk as monsters! trope w/ tweels

every step cut like glass, your own whines of pain locked away internally. it hurt, it hurt so much you could barely think passed the pain.

salt water tears stung your cheeks. your whole body felt like a wound, stinging and crying for its own agony. the arms around you were sturdy, you bit back your sobs as you clutched onto the young man's shirt.

burying your face in his shoulder, you trembled. your body shook like a live wire, pulsing with pain through every nerve.

as a gentle hand ran through your hair, your sight began to fail you. chest skipping, trying to take in as much air as possible. the last thing you remembered was a gentle voice, singing you as song... one you hadn't heard since your childhood.

the songs of the sea rarely made it out passed the waves. sometimes, they can be heard as whispers in bubbles popping upon the surface.

your fever ran high, head pounding and pulsing with the rest of your body. voices blurred together like shadows. they came and went, yet each time they surrounded you like the pattering of rain.

unable to tell which of your visions were memories and which were dreams, the feeling of scales against skin haunted you.

sharp teeth, glowing eyes, blood... so so much blood. matching flesh caught between rows and rows of teeth. your stomach churned with the context your overstimulated mind provided you.

two pairs of eyes, each mismatched. one creature a perfect mirror of the other. blood in your teeth, green scales against your skin, and... your lungs. the burn of a lack of air. you thrashed in terror, unable to breath in your once familiar home.

"they're awake." all you saw was blue.

for a moment, all you saw was home.

"can you hear me?" no, not just blue... a face. a young man. your breath skipped, the most enchanting blue eyes you'd ever seen. yet... they rung familiar. perhaps you'd seen him in one of those clouded dreams.

the taste of ink hung on your tongue, causing you to cough.

"there they are. take a deep breath precious." the young man was sat beside you on the bed. a gloved hand gentle in your hair. confusion clouded your mind again.

loosing the sound of his voice in your own scattered thoughts, the color black washed over your vision. the taste of ink, strong grips on your limbs, holding you still as you cried and thrashed. so... so many limbs. no escape.

"hey hey, come back to me yes?" your eyes blinked open once more, met with that same brilliant blue once more. he dragged the back of his hand over your cheek, as his eyes dragged over your body.

"what do you remember?" he asked, tone even and calm.

you shook your head. your voice failed you, a rush of ideas and expressions tumbled into your mind, but none translated quite right into words.

"...pain..." you whimpered, the only words you were able to recall for the moment. the pale haired man nodded, thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly.

"I have to say, I've never seen merfolk drown." a singsong voice purred from your left.

panic rose in your throat. singsong voice, mismatched eyes, teeth sharp as razors, one reflection in a demonic mirror.

"shh Floyd, you are frightening them." a steadier voice this time, deeper in tone than his twin. closing your eyes tight your body shook.

not again not again please, not again.

"out you two, leave us alone for a moment." both your cheeks were cupped and stroked softly. foot steps faded, followed by the click of a lock.

"look at me precious, come on now," his voice was soothing, purring in your ear and coiling around in your head.

tears spilled from your eyes, the terror of your own memories settling in deep in your mind.

"shh shh, its alright. you are with me, your father can't reach us here." you clutched at his sleeves as soft kisses were placed over your cheeks.

where was 'here' exactly? why... why did your body feel so dry? when did... your... legs... legs.

your body shot up, causing the young man to recoil in surprise. you tore the blanket from your lower body, searching for the source of your pain.

a pair of legs, skin torn and red with irritation. white bandages were wrapped around some of them, mostly the feet. bending the knees you watched in wonder as they moved to your will. they were yours, your legs.

"careful, start walking to soon and the pain won't subside." your attention was pulled back to the young man. he sighed, adjusting the glasses on his nose.

"...do you remember who I am?" he didn't meet your eyes this time, preoccupied with brushing the stray lint from his trousers.

"...Azul." his head raised, blue eyes meeting yours again. you caught a glimpse of your own reflection in his lenses.

"yes! yes, thank the seven seas." he let out a sigh, taking your cheek again.

your breath hitched as he placed his lips on yours. he was so soft under your hands, skin smooth and gentle as he sighed into your mouth.

the taste of ink settled on your tongue once more, eyes rolling back into your head. he cooed into your mouth, tongue hot and heavy on yours. when he finally pulled away, a string of black saliva connected your mouths.

"my precious pearl... please, forgive me." tears of salt water gathered on his lash line. you watched as the sea water streamed down his face.

forgive... where were you? who was this 'father' he'd spoken of? who were those two creatures that haunted your dreams?

wait... what.... what was your name?

[fishstyx]

featuring. college au!gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

wc. 9.2k

genre. dark/taboo, smut, angst

tw. 18+ nsfw, non/dubcon, toxic/abusive relationships, manipulation, victim blaming, dry humping, penetration, masturbation, irresponsible practice of bdsm, hair pulling, mild exhibitionism, size kink (both 6’3”, gojo can lift you), implied corruption kink, degradation, creampie, intoxication/alcohol, incel behavior, misogyny, dacryphilia

synopsis.

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

notes. title inspo: love the way you lie (eminem, rihanna). you’re dating gojo, a charming, manipulative, self-entitled bastard. geto is, of course, his best friend, written as an aloof, self-righteous, bitter incel. please stay safe, read all the warnings, and enjoy. this is the most personal fic i have to offer. it draws from not-so-savory past relationships... i hope it remains the only testament to them. <3

links. broken toys. (sequel)

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole. 

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count—initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy. 

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?” 

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material. 

Perfect. 

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so. 

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away. 

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges. 

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation. 

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them. 

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath. 

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.” 

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds. 

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill. 

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?” 

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response. 

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

Master.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber. 

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you. 

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell. 

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds. 

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom. 

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast. 

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe. 

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion. 

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays. 

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn’t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.” 

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground. 

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax. 

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze. 

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a  pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?” 

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

The night is long and never-ending. 

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper. 

“It’s not like that.” 

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.” 

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion. 

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed. 

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence. 

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him. 

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish. 

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up. 

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?” 

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”

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