#still mildly in denial

[behind-backstage]

"I promise, there's nothing going on between me and the pizza boy" - Enrique fucking lying to his mother

[nemotakeit]

i remember the first time ever i listened to SO i was like pfft rap? get out. (i was cringe) and then when i gave it a listen again a few months later i was a changed person... so i binge listened to their entire discography immediately and was genuinely shocked because how could ALL of their songs be bangers, like i couldn't believe it was possible it was surreal........ i wish i could turn back time (lol) to experience that pure shock again

[euclydya]

every now and then when we say something in-sys we DO still hear Allan's voice but barely so

and sometimes. they're like "QUIT TELLING EVERYONE I'M DEAD??" when,

We never DID explicitly tell anyone that, and

He is dead? He's literally a ghost. He honest to god legit for realsies died in 2019.

and he's like..,,,, "oh right! lmao sorry I forgot, carry on" JDJSMSKDMFCN??

[pigeonpeach]

Yandere sex shit

Cw: fem reader, pregnancy risk, degradation, dubious consent for some, somnophillia, breeding, women with dicks, might be mildly misogynistic in arlecchino’s but idk if it really counts as that.

Characters included: Diluc, Arlecchino, Neuvillette, Yelan, and Pantalone

“I can’t stop…” his voice was like a growl almost. You raised your head, your body felt sore as you took in the scenery and the position you had been forced in. You were on your side, leg hitched onto his shoulder.Diluc must’ve come home late while you were already asleep. The fact your nightgown had been hitched, your panties pushed aside, and your womb had been filled was enough to incriminate him yes. But it wasn’t like you could leave this olace anyways. As his pace resumed the chains on your hands clanked slightly. You hated how you still had to be chained to this day. You had been so good and yet his staff still doesn’t trust you. Or is it their way of offering you as a sacrifice to him, leaving you defenseless so he can have his way. Although initially you were numb to all pleasure, your mind sleepy snd still processing everything. You suddenly gasped as you felt him knock against your g-spot. Your arms thrashed, the chains clanked and jingled.

“You feel like so good.” He commented,”Haah… fuck If you squeeze me like that… oh… fuck.. shit I’m going to cum.” Your eyes widened as you looked down. Unable to communicate your concerns as you realized you had no form of birth control here. Nor was he wearing a condom. But it felt so good you didn’t want to stop deep down. The previous rounds sloshed inside yourself as you couldn’t help but spread your legs s little more. Your sensibility actively fucked out of you.

You just had to hope you weren’t ovulating

“Please~~~!” You whined. The vibrations of the toy inside had been edging you for so long now. Each time you would get close to release Arlecchino would pull it out making you squirm desperately. You had tried to escape recently, growing a bit paranoid after being here for so long against your will. But after what must’ve been hours of orgasm denial the torture session’ had turned you into what you would later regret. But currently you were dumb and horny and really just wanted to cum already.

“You haven’t earned it. Disobedient wives to be don’t try to escape in the middle of then night now do they? You’re a bad little fiancé and therefore you need be punished until you’re absolutely sorry.” She growled into your ear. You whined as she pulled it out once more.

“N-no no I’ll be good i promise! I promise I’ll be good!” You whined desperately. Your hips chased the toy to no avail. You heard her belt unbuckling. You looked down to see a rather impressive cock. You were to out of it to think about how she wasn’t reaching for a condom or any form of protection.

“You promise? As if that has any value.” She smacked your face with her cock. “Don’t just stare at it, be a good little whore for me and I’ll consider letting you cum.” You gulped but quickly pressed your lips to it as she quickly forced it in. Your sounds of surprise were muffled as she quickly settled her own pace.

“A useless little whore. Am i the first to defile this little mouth? Will I be the first to deflower you?~” she grasped your hair like a leash. Forcing you up and down until suddenly pulling out.

“W-wha-“ you whined as she suddenly flipped you over.

“I need to know how pure my beloved little fiancé is.” She responded with immediately sinking her cock into your pussy. You whined as you felt absolutely heavenly. Squirming as she established a brutal pace. “You’re tight, even after all that foreplay… fuck… i need to defile you, make you my whore and only mine. I’ll turn your body into my little cumdump!” You gagged from the ferocity of her thrusts. You tried to say something but it came out in stutters and mumbles. She seemed to understand it somehow. “You’re going to cum? Good. I want to feel you cum on my cock again and again until I fill your womb with my seed.”

“The Iudex is… currently in heat.. miss please do consider your position on your marital responsibilities!” The maids pleaded with you. The Iudex, the hydro dragon was currently in heat but hadn’t the heart to make you accompany him during it. You turned your head away. You could care less if your captor was suffering, it hardly would be as painful ad you felt just being here. “Please its been absolutely torrential rains!” The maids pleads ment nothing.

“I don’t care. Now where is that tea I ordered?” Normally you would be polite and respectful of service workers. But considering who they were working for and what their intentions were you really couldn’t give s fuck if you made them cry. What you didn’t know was in that tea they begrudgingly brought out was a aphrodisiac.

“My love… they said you weren’t feeling well…” His hands traced over your face. You didn’t really know where he came from just that he emerged from hiding to help you. You were certain those maids had some role in your current predicament, but also you were too horny to care. Your body felt firey and hot and you needed him more than ever. He opened his mouth to lick at your sweat as his hands reached down below your nightgown.

“Just… get it over with..” you whined, trying to maintain some defiance. It was humiliating sure but… oh you couldn’t help but fall apart as his finger entered inside. His cold hands making you clamp onto him tightly.

“So.. warm.. fuck.. you’re fertile too.. i can taste it in your sweat.” He purred. “I won’t be able to control myself. Please pardon me.”

“Ne-neu-neuvillette!” You whined as he slammed every inch of his cock into your sopping wet little cunt. His hands pinning you down as you squirmed mindlessly. All resistance long drawn out as you had been fingered through three orgasms until now. You were practically his little bitch now. Unable to think straight.

“You’re so tight for me… fuck I can’t… i need to breed you my love.” You gasped at his words but couldn’t respond as he started to fuck you at a brutal and unrelenting pace. His cock dragging against your insides only to slam back in. “So good for me. So good…” his whines turned you on more than you would like. But who could blame you when his cock was just so thick and reached all the right places, his voice bordered on a purr as you were held in a mating press unable to stop or resist as his cock bulldozed any thoughts out of your head. The aphrodisiac making you into a fine slut.

“Cum inside! Please!” You begged instinctively. Your body wishing to be fertilized and impregnated beyond your senses. You needed him in this moment more than anything.

“Fuck… can’t.. stop… ugh!” He groaned loudly as he came, his seed flooding your womb as you whined in release. He paused briefly before resuming his pace. “I’m going go knock you up, maybe then you’ll finally be a obedient little slut for me”

“You’re such a bad liar you know. I wonder what your god would think if she saw one of her top soldiers bouncing like this.” Yelan was simply smarter than you, a simple Fatui agent. But you really couldn’t resist. Her charisma was irresistible. Her voice itself was aphrodisiac that made you buck your hips.

Pantalone would no doubt be utterly disgusted if he saw you now. Although he’d likely be more disgusted that you were bottoming than your sexual orientation. But the chances of you ever returning now were low. You had a feeling this encounter would leave you in her grasp forever based on that possessive stare she held. “Fuck… you’re such a good slut. I don’t know how you haven’t been taken by that harbinger yet, although he already doesn’t have good tastes in fashion, he must’ve been blind to your true potential~”

“N-noooo… ah~”

“No? You aren’t a good slut? I beg to differ. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun interrogating any of the other agents before. You certainly are a catch.” She purred. You tensed up at the idea that your colleagues may have similarly found themselves in your position. “Don’t worry, you’re the first I’ve done this too. I just couldn’t resist the way your uniform looked on you. You’re always so well dressed. Maybe I should steal your clothes and send you back to him nude?”

“N-no!” You gasped, blushing more than you should’ve. She winced as you clenched on her.

“I’m only teasing now. I have absolutely no intentions of letting you go back at all.” She grinned like a cat as she suddenly held your hips down, forcing you to feel her deep inside. You flinched and squirmed. Desperately trying to get off or finish. “Look me in my eyes now.” You hesitated before eventually obliging. Your hands bound tightly in some artistic pattern behind, your legs sore and exhausted. You were used to the point of exhaustion, a normal sensation but not in the sexual sense. You thought if you could break your restraints now and gain some freedom you could make a escape now, you would just have to cover your torn tights that left your cunt exposed- “I know what you’re thinking. You’ve already tried to break those restraints and you haven’t succeeded yet. Why would you even want to go back anyways?” Her hands pushed your thighs so you were on your back, legs in the air, you tried to kick at her with what little sense and strength you had. But she grabbed it with amusement.

“I’m not letting you leave. I think of all those nick-knacks I’ve taken from that harbinger you’ve certainly been my favorite. I don’t care what he tries, you are going to be mine. Even if I have to melt your mind myself. I’ll happily train you to be a good little slut~”.

“I-i didn’t mean anything sir I was just trying to be polite to her!” You whined. You were simply his secretary. Used to handling and recieving guest when he was busy. Apparently Signora had a bone to pick with the Regrator, some drama you weren’t aware of and she decided to… make him jealous? You hadn’t even known of his feelings. Despite his smile he is hardly expressive minus when he’s angry. What were you supposed to do other than abide by her advances! She was a harbinger afterall!

“I don’t care about that. I don’t care if that manual didn’t specify or told you what. You are mine.” Pantalone was certainly pissed now. His eyes revealing a unnatural and omitting a possessive aura. You felt like a mouse in the clutches of a cat. You hadn’t even been stripped yet as he had simply thrown you onto his desk. He towered above you as his hand trailed up your skirt, which was now pushed up to expose you. “You are my secretary. And I swear if I have to lock you up in some room in my mansion I will gladly do so. I don’t care if some harbinger catches your fancy or whatever prior commitments you have. You will henceforth be considered mine both in mind and body.”

“I-I didn’t know that you considered me in su-AH!” You squeaked as he tore your tights. Those tights weren’t the fragile type either, special made and lined with thicker fabrics to help insulate in the typical blizzards you would encounter leaving the office.

“It doesn’t matter now…. You’re practically leaking right now. You tremble and shake but your body is as ripe as a peach. I wonder if you’ve dreamed of this scenario before…” his voice grew more assertive. “Or maybe you were thinking of that woman instead. Hoping she’d be the one to see this perhaps?”

“N-no! No sir!” You shivered. Your legs trembled as you were utterly lost on where to go from here. You couldn’t escape and you hadn’t ever fucked your boss before so this was a quite the adjustment. A shiver ran up your spine as you suddenly felt his lips latch onto your dripping cunt. Your hand reached to cover your face from embarrassment. Trying to stay still as if it wasn’t already to late. What made you even more embarrassed was the sounds he was making. The sensations and pleasure you felt was in your veins but the sounds of wet smacks and slurping could be heard potentially out of his office. You knew they hadn’t finished soundproofing it. Anyone passing by would hear it. Your hand suddenly was tugged away.

“Don’t muffle your sounds now. You were oh so chatty just a few seconds ago. So go on, scream, cry, beg I don’t care. The louder you are, then the better other people will hear you.”

“Bu-but that’s p-mmmmm!” You bit your lip as a finger suddenly entered. You didn’t even notice the rings had been removed.

“Go on. Let everyone in this building know your mine!” He growled as he began to finger you more aggressively. The tips of his fingers still clothed by his gloves, reached your g-spot making you yelp and squeal. “I’ll make sure you never go unmarked again. You aren’t going to leave this office or my presence until I’m thoroughly satisfied.”

[cheesencrackersinprison]

Jotaro pining headcanons

• He still has feelings like any guy, just that when he gets basically harassed by a flock of fangirls he constantly tells to fuck off that borderline stalk him just because he's pretty he kind of developed a wall toward romance because he thinks it'll be superficial.

• Honestly the only actual thing I see him falling with is friends to lovers

• You probably just treated him like an actual human and not just a handsome face, which I feel is important to him.

• He'd grow a friendship with you when seeing you don't want to fuck him and it would eventually slowly grow to something more.

• Slowburn 100%

• He'd be in denial for a long time and when he finally caves in he'd give the most extremely subtle hints even Einstein wouldn't be able to decipher.

• He'd probably just make an effort to be close to you more often.

• Bro is not good at it, ok.

• He'd probably never actually have dated anyone before you so he'd be nervous as hell.

• Would stare at you a lot.

• Would ask Joseph for advice and come back with two hours of teasing and a mental note to never ask a man married in the 1930s love advice.

• Would definetly ask Kakyoin and get mildly better advice he wouldn't use either because he's too much of a pussy to actually act.

• He wrote like over ten letters at 3am and they all ended up crumpled into a ball and on his floor.

• He'd tell himself he'd say it himself and have at least four attempts of 'I gotta tell you something' before actually saying it instead of going dead silent and giving out a random fact to pretend that's what he wanted to say before leaving and considering moving to another country.

• Ended up just blurting out "Date me" went dead silent and suddently tried to walk away before you grabbed his arm like bro WHAT?

• Would 100% walk you home that day even if your house is in the other side of the city (unless you go by car)

• Holds your hand when you go by streets without many people, tipping his hat to cover his increasingly red face.

• He'd probably want to keep it private at school because his fangirls seem fucking scary.

• Would definetly NOT be a PDA person

• If you kissed him that day he would probably become a walking tomato.

• Silly ocean man

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | two

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: will a complicated realisation drive you and joel apart, or drag you closer together? warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, some mildly gratuitous Classics chatter, some very gratuitous descriptions of joel's office, trope of being enamoured by your favourite teacher lol [and her fav isn't even joel, sorry guys], angst, a little manhandling, semi-public sex acts with a not-so-stranger, dirty talk, brief impact play, fingering, orgasm denial, oral [m!receiving], face fucking, facial, cum eating, sheeesh i think that's it okay i need a glass of cold water word count: 10.3k i'm not sorry series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: folks, this series has taken over my entire brain. i'm having the best time writing+outlining it, and i have been so delighted by how many people liked the first part. giving you all the biggest kiss through the screen right now. lmk what you think of part two! this is part two of ALP. you can read the previous part here: one.

Tuesday.

It’s as though a mirage resides in the periphery of your vision.

A wobbling, shimmering thing that offsets the centre of a picture and makes your eyes hurt until you want to close them. The type where you’re squinting and trying to see, trying to make out what’s happening, and people are turning to look at you and pointing and you realise that you aren’t wearing any pants, and it’s a dream, a dream, a nightmare, it’s not fucking real. Illusory. Fantasy.

It's a childish thought that you can’t help but be consumed by. The idea that this is all some cruel, fucked up delusion you’re about to wake up from. That it couldn’t be possible for the charming Texan you’d met four nights prior to be stood only a few metres in front of you, discussing your fucking syllabus. Reality becomes this twisting, writhing thing that is painful and awkward to comprehend, and everything slows to a liquid, dreamlike pace. His voice, his movement, the shifting of other students around you, all drifting by slowly, as if a year has passed in the span of ten seconds.

And yet when you pinch your arm—nails scraping across skin until raw red marks raise in jagged lines—and you don’t wake up, the mirage remains, your stomach rolls.

Joel looks so different here. What had been casual at the bar, a lob of messy hair above a cotton t-shirt, is now professional. Buttoned shirt tucked into pressed brown pants. Beard trimmed, and hair pushed back into soft, tidy waves that roll down to his neck. A set of glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. Square, with black frames that compliment his skin tone, and have your fingers gripping the edge of the desk, wondering why the hell he hadn’t been wearing them on Friday night when he sunk his mouth against your cunt. Dirty little thing.

You can still feel his hands on you, days later. Feel the rough scrape of calloused fingers on your thighs, between your legs. Remember how soft his hair was when you buried your fingers in it and held him against your aching core, whining his name. It had been like this all weekend; holding an image of his tan, handsome face in your mind, trying to emulate the feeling of his hand between your thighs with your own, only to fail over and over again.

And he’s talking. That low, honeyed drawl that tickles across your skin and drips into your ears, warming your insides. It’s a marvellous thing; the way he shifts easily from topic to topic, disarming the room with short, sharp—surprising—jokes sifted in between soft-spoken sentiments about classical academia and the university, and what he hopes you as individuals will gain from a postgraduate in this course, and it feels like it’s been both hours and seconds as you watch him breathlessly, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to skirt to your side of the room, to dance across your face and recognise you, remember you, just as he said he would. 

Joel is talking about The Aeneid when he finally notices you.  

“I want you to be thinking about language,” he’s saying. “And tone. Virgil and Homer’s writing differs in a lotta ways, but it does share that same character of irony. Don’t forget that Virgil wrote during the Golden Age of the Roman Empire – and he’s presenting us with a story about destiny, about fate. Our focus here isn’t so much about love, or reverence, as it is about tragedy – no one in The Aeneid is safe from what their own fate lays out for them. All of these calamities and heartbreaks are necessary for the empire to thrive.”

He pauses. “Take Dido in book four as a prime example. In the openin’ lines of her story, if we’re looking to the West translation; she is suffering from love’s deadly wound, feeding it with her blood and being consumed by its hidden fire. We know from the beginnin’, that her love for Aeneas will be her downfall; that her death is essential for him to leave Carthage. And on that same page, talkin’ about Aeneas, we get, oh how cruelly he has been hounded by the Fates. This is what you need to think about if you’re gonna get to the bottom of Virgil’s bigger plan with these books. Why is he using this language? These words? I want—” 

Joel inhales sharply, dark eyes frozen on your face, which grows steadily warmer beneath his scrutiny. His body doesn’t move, hands hovering in the air mid-gesticulation, lips parted as his next words rest there, caught on his tongue. You swallow thickly. Feel sweat form on your hairline. The silence stretches, dead air giving rise to confused murmurs across the room, and your eyes widen, willing him to look away and continue; to do anything except stand there and keep looking at you like that. But it’s like he’s in a trance. Tan face dimming to a sickly, pallid colour, shoulders shifting as he breaths deeply. Staring.

A few heads turn in your direction, but you can’t bring yourself to look back at them; to snatch yourself away from the feeling of being held in his gaze again. It’s intoxicating—almost euphoric—to have those dark eyes on your skin.

And then it’s over, the moment severed as Joel’s eyes snap away and he clears his throat, offering a pained smile to the rest of the room. And he’s apologising, Lost my train of thought for a moment there, using a playful tone of voice as he says, first day of the semester jitters, y’know?

He ignores you after that.

For the entirety of the two-hour lecture, he makes sure not to spare a single glance in your direction. And it stings, but you suppose you understand. Can see the tension held in his shoulders now; the strain in his voice as he works to talk with that same measured ease he’d had at the beginning.

You take notes carefully, and don’t bother raising your hand when he inspires participation from the other students. But by the end of the class, you can’t bring yourself to walk out – not without saying something, without finding some kind of understanding over what the fuck is happening. You’re practically glued to your seat as students rise, filing out of the theatre hall.

Joel stands by the desk, back hunched as he collects his things, fielding kind comments of thanks and that was great from people as they pass him on their way toward the exit.  Eventually you join the stream, wandering down the stairs on shaky legs until you find yourself at the edge of his desk, fiddling with the strap of your bag and watching his back. His shoulders hunch tighter when you pause there, shadow splaying across the desk. Though his face isn’t visible to you, his hands are almost a blur, scrambling to drag his things into a messy pile so that he can pack up faster. He slaps his laptop closed and you flinch at the sound.

After a few moments, you find the courage to speak.

“That was, uhh, that was really interesting,” you clear your throat awkwardly, watching other students shuffle past in your periphery. His hands move faster, stuffing loose notes into a leather satchel with little disregard for the paper creasing.

You lower your voice to a hoarse, careful whisper. “We need to talk about this.”  

Joel finally looks up, nostrils flaring as he meets your stare. He nods once, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Not here,” he says gruffly, tight eyes darting around the room. “Room’s booked for another lecture in five.”

He tilts his head towards the door, encouraging you to follow him as he paces out towards the hall. You shadow him quickly, clutching your bag and watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he walks three paces ahead of you. You fight the urge to place your hand in the dip between his shoulder blades; to feel the heat of his skin, the rolling tension beneath it, and dig your fingernails into him. Joel doesn’t look back to check if you’re following – he knows you are.

He leads you up a flight of stairs and down another hall, makes a left, and then another left, until finally he’s pausing and dragging a key from his pocket, pressing it into the lock of a heavy wooden door and nudging it open. There’s a plaque on the wood that reads J MILLER, PhD. You swallow. And then follow him inside and let the door fall shut behind you.

Joel stalks into the room, feet heavy against the dark carpet. He tosses his satchel to the floor and then stands by the desk, wild eyes trained on where you hover silently by the door. He looks on edge, to say the least. Frazzled fingers race through his hair, mussing the curls until they look reminiscent of the past Friday. Foot tapping against the ground in a quick, jerky rhythm.

And you know that you need to talk, need to clear the air, need to say anything, but you can’t help it when your eyes wander around the room because—

His office is sort of beautiful.

A larger space than you expected it to be, with a north-facing window that allows a natural yellowed morning light to fill the space, and a vast bookshelf stretching across the wall behind a large desk. You can’t make out the titles from where you stand by the door, but texts fill every crack and crevice of the shelfing unit, not organised by any noticeable colour scheme or structure. The space is messy – personal. In fact, everywhere you look seems to expose something private, something intimate.

A jacket hangs from a hook on the back of the door, made of a worn duck brown waxed material that looks soft to the touch. In the corner opposite the desk, a velvet green armchair sits beside a low table that houses a record player and a potted plant. Sleeves of records are tucked beneath the table, stacked upon each other haphazardly, without a hint of dust on them. Clearly touched and rifled through more often than not.

The wide window is cracked just an inch, allowing a warm early-Fall breeze to slip in and rustle the starched curtains. A coffee mug is beside the record player. Two more sit abandoned on the outskirts of his desk. All empty and forgotten about, too busy to be refilled or moved or cleaned. And there are books everywhere; strewn across his desk, forgotten beneath the cushion of his armchair, piled against the wall beneath the window. Worn, well-read books, with frayed covers and broken spines. You almost drool, tempted to ignore him completely and venture towards them; to run your fingers over the covers and find out exactly what kind of writing this enigma of a man spends so much time devouring.

After what feels like an hour of simply looking—but could only have been a minute—Joel breaks the silence.

“Did you know?”

His voice is quiet. Detached. The backs of his thighs perch on the edge of the desk, hands tangled in his lap. Large fingers pluck at each other as he stares at you from across the room, in an almost anxious fiddling movement.

“What?” you ask.

“Did you know who I was?” he clarifies, voice hardening. Those dark eyebrows tighten in the middle of his forehead, features pinching together into a sharp frown. “When you saw me.”

“Joel,” you scoff, taken aback. “How the hell would I know who you were?”

“Your classes were organised,” his voice raises slightly—just a little. “You knew the names of your profess—”

“J Miller,” you interrupt. “Everything says J Miller, that’s it. I didn’t fucking know, Joel.”

His frown softens at that, eyes dropping to the carpet as he nods once, clearly still unsure. You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, shoulders tense. There’s only a metre or so between the pair of you, and yet you can feel it. That static, burning energy, the same as four nights before. Something inside of you that rages and claws at your skin from the inside, begging to get closer to him. You ignore it.

“Why didn’t I meet you when I interviewed for the program?” you ask. You remember the day you came in, six months ago. Sitting with an older man—the Classics department head—and a soft, round woman with light hair. No Joel. You would’ve remembered him. 

His eyes flash, hands tightening in his lap. “I was on vacation,” he grinds out. It’s like it physically pains him to talk to you—to even look at you. One of his hands drops, palm flexing by his side. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly trying to calm the quell of panic that has been swirling inside him for the past two hours. You keep your distance.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“Greece, huh?” It comes out in a low scoff. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, frustration laced through the lines in his face. “Said you were there for a month.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I was involved in a text translation study based in Athens.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes. “This can’t be happenin’.”

“Joel—”

“Y’need to transfer out of my class,” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “They run it online, you can—”

“What?” you blink. You feel your blood pressure rise, anger spiking as you comprehend what he is suggesting. “Be serious – I am not doing the class online because of this. It’ll jeopardise my entire semester.”

“I don’t care,” he glowers, rising from the desk.

“Jesus, stop acting like this was all my doing,” you snap. “If memory serves, you’re just as to blame as I am—you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

“Stop,” he growls. It’s a rough, unforgettable sound that fills your stomach with heat. An oddly familiar thing that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Silly little slut. The memory licks at your throat, the skin of your chest, leaving a hot heady feeling in its wake. You wonder if he’s noticed the hickey on your neck that hasn’t entirely faded yet. A persistent, lingering reminder of his mouth on your skin. Of the sharp scrape of his teeth.

You take a step forward and Joel’s entire body goes rigid, right hand jutting out in front of him, fingers splayed open.

“Stay over there,” he says quickly, voice a low warning.

You scowl but don’t move, feet planted in the soft carpet. The breeze rushes in through the window and causes a paper on his desk to flap upward, and your eyes drift toward the movement. Gaze shifting over the items on his desk, the mess of papers, the half-full mugs, and then… a picture frame. You squint, unable to make it out from where you are. Take a step forward, and then another, and realise it’s Joel’s shape in the image, standing with a tall woman tucked against his side. It’s too far for you to see clearly, but you can tell his arm is wrapped around her shoulder, holding her against his chest, and you know he’s grinning from the splash of white across his face.

“What’re you—” Joel’s words turn to silence as he tilts his head and realises what you’re looking at. A broad hand darts out, gripping the frame and knocking it face down on his desk.  You flinch, eyes widening in incredulity as you turn to him.

“What?” A sardonic laugh escapes your mouth. “Are you fucking married or something? Jesus, Joel.”

You reach for the frame, fingers skirting across it with every intention of seeing, of understanding, of knowing just what it is that he’s so desperate to hide. But then he’s there, strong fingers looping around your wrist, halting your movement. The speed of it sends you stumbling toward the desk, and Joel’s body follows you forward, chest flush against your back as your lower stomach collides with the dark wood. Caught between a rock and a hard place, quite literally. You stiffen, sorely aware of how close he is. How much of his body is touching yours, and how similar it is to before.

“I’m not married,” he bites, and you can feel his breath against your ear. Hot, harsh exhales that send whisps of your hair fluttering forward. A shiver runs down your spine. His grip is firm around your wrist; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place with your hand frozen in the air, fingers still outstretched towards the frame.

“Then who’s in the picture?” you grunt.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps quickly. You can feel his stubble graze the edge of your jaw, and something fizzes in your stomach. Your resolve softens at the frustration in his voice; the truth that bleeds out through his words. It is none of your business. Your body relaxes a little, arm going limp in his hold, and yet he doesn’t let go. It takes a moment for you to realise why.  

Joel’s hips are pressed tightly into you, trapping you against the desk, and he’s hard. You can practically feel him throb against the small of your back, the full length of his cock only separated from you by two layers of clothing. Saliva pools in your mouth, eyes pinching closed as you remember the feeling of him; the delicious burn of his heavy cock dragging through you. Using your free hand, you twist your arm behind you and slide it down his front. A whispered oh fuck escapes your lips as your fingers drag across the front of his pants, and he grunts in your ear, grasp tightening around your wrist. Painful this time, but only for a second, until he’s tearing his hand off you and placing it on your lower back, pushing you down so that your chest is flush with his desk.

You gasp, lips parting to speak, but no words are coming out and Joel’s hands are on the waistband of your jeans, on the button. He’s undoing it, fingers steadfast in their movement, and then he yanks the material down roughly over your ass.

“Joel,” you whimper urgently as he grips your panties, dragging them to your knees as well. He keeps you bent against the desk, so you twist your neck to stare at him over your shoulder, legs tensing when you see the expression on his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown behind his glasses as he looks down to where his covered cock grinds against the swell of your ass.

“God dammit,” he exhales, and you clench around nothing, warmth pooling between your thighs. This is so different from at the bar. There the door was locked, place full of people who didn’t know either of you. Here, in his office, anyone could walk in. A member of faculty, a student, anyone. And the thought has you fucking aching for him.

Thick fingers streak between your thighs from behind, spreading your slick folds apart. You gasp as cool air hits your throbbing clit, but the sound cuts into a low moan as his fingers expertly roll over the sizzling nerve endings there. He ousts a low grunt of surprise at how wet you are, hips still grinding against you as his fingers drift to your entrance, rubbing and collecting your slick on his fingers until you’re whimpering into your own palm, pressing your hips back and begging him for more. All at once, one of his palms slaps across your ass while two thick fingers press inside you. The sting has your eyes rolling back. Your teeth sink into the palm of your hand to muffle the noise you make, and he’s curling his fingers inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and your legs are trembling with the effort of staying standing. Your mind is a blur. You feel almost lightheaded at how suddenly this is all happening – and at how relieved you are to feel his hands on you again.

“S’this what you wanted?” Joel pants, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you out. “Knew if you followed me in here, I’d end up fuckin’ this pretty pussy again? Huh?”

“Fuck,” you choke out, eyelids fluttering as he adds a third finger. Heat sizzles beneath the tightening muscles in your stomach, and you can feel yourself clenching around him over and over again, your high already approaching. It’s almost pitiful, the affect he has on you; how easily your body yields to the simplest of touches from his hands.

“Huh?” he prompts for a response. You can feel the cool zipper of his pants cutting across the bare skin of your ass, scratching you as his hips rut forward.

“Please,” you say, voice quiet as you can muster. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”

He grunts, increasing the speed of his fingers. Soft squelching sounds are audible now, slick smearing against your inner thighs, his wrist, and your face goes warm at the sound of it. Your fingers claw at his desk, nails catching on paper as your hand lands against a book and grips it tight. Your abdomen burns, that soft thrumming heat licking at your skin, the muscles of your thighs, scorching in its might as your orgasm builds and builds, hanging dangerously close to the precipice.  

“Gonna come all over my fingers?” Joel asks, voice haggard and breathless. “C’mon, give it t’me.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, forehead knocking roughly against wood, eyebrows pinching together. So close, so close, so fucking clo—

A light knock sounds against his office door.

Joel freezes. Your eyes widen, hips shifting against his hand as you murmur no, no, no, please Joel. But he ignores you, gripping your hip to keep you still and dragging his fingers from your dripping cunt to press them over your mouth. Your pulse thunders in your ears, heart trashing wildly in your chest as you catch your breath, devasted.

“Joel?” a soft voice calls from the hall. A woman. “You in there?”

“Just on the phone,” he says loudly, voice surprisingly steady. You can taste yourself on his fingers. Feel it smear across your lips. “What d’ya need?”

“I’m headed to the café,” the woman calls. “You want anything?”

Joel responds with a sharp, resounding no.  

There’s a beat of silence where you can almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to inevitably open the unlocked door and discover the scene in his office. But the silence stretches on, and then you can hear soft footfalls fade down the corridor, and you know that you’re alone again.

Joel rips his hand from your mouth. Grips your underwear and drags it up over your hips, then your jeans, before he’s stumbling away and dropping into the armchair across the room. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wide as he gazes at the floor. When you push off the desk and turn to stare at him, a firm tent is visible in his pants. You button your jeans slowly, watching him. He doesn’t look at you.

“Joel—” you start softly.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Just… just get out.”

You open your mouth to speak—to argue—but once again, nothing comes out. No words to defend yourself, or what the two of you just did. You stare at him for almost a minute, but Joel’s eyes stay trained on the carpet, fists clenched against his thighs.

You leave his office silently and try not to look back. Make two rights and head down the stairs, outside and across the green to where your car is parked. The whole thing feels so dirty, so debauched, and yet you want so much more from him. Want it so badly that you drive home in silence, mind too busy with thoughts of Joel Joel Joel to remember to turn on the radio. 

And behind it all, is a low, itching thought at the base of your skull, something that makes you smile as you drive – the knowledge that he wants you just as badly as you want him.

Wednesday.

You decide very quickly that you like Rachel.

Maybe it was because you were having a good day. The sun had been shining when you woke up; strong beams that teased their way through the window in your bedroom and rested warm upon the bare skin of your back. By the time you rose, the coffee was already done brewing, and Trin met you in the hall with a large mug of it and a soft hey, man, how’d you sleep? And when you went to get dressed for the day you remembered you did the washing two nights before, and found your favourite pair of jeans—the ones that squeezed your ass just right—were neatly folded in a drawer, waiting for you. Yes; maybe all of that had something to do with it. Or maybe, it because Rachel was just great.  

You like her tenacity, her words; the idolatry with which she discusses her work. And she is charming; an intellectual through and through. The soft roundness of her face and the kind slant to her eyes offset by a razor-sharp wit. And there’s this peculiar quirkiness to her that catches your attention in seconds – a rough snort whenever she laughs, the bright orange shade of the toenails sticking out of her sandals.

Her teaching is direct, no-bullshit, and yet she has this smile. This soft, thin-lipped genuine smile that says, I know something you don’t know, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

During her first lecture, you feel rooted to the spot, unable to draw your eyes away from her for two-hours as she waxes poetic about heroines and tragic love stories, about the importance of myth, of gore.

Listening to her reminds you of what you’d always loved about classics – the filth of it, the horror. It feels like reaching your hands into a puddle of mud, flexing your fingers and letting the dirt and grime slide beneath your nails, coating every inch of your skin. The squeamishness of it, the rot, the tragedy – you love it all, and Rachel does too.

“When we talk about the juxtaposition between heroines across different texts,” she says. “We want to look at the values being portrayed; the meaning behind what’s happening to these women. Let’s appreciate the context here, guys! To understand the rage of Medea, or, say, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, we have to get to the root of their roles in society. Priestess, mistress, virgin, mother – we want to understand the perspectives being shown to us. What drives these women? What fire lives within them, pushing them to make their decisions—or to have their decisions made for them?”

She points to a student and nods, “Go on.”

“Do you think Medea holds much bearing here?” someone to your left asks. A man. “If we’re focusing on heroines, I mean.”

“Do you?” she challenges. A hint of a smile—that smile—drifts across her lips, hands clasped to her stomach as she awaits his response.

“Not particularly,” he says, voice less sure now. “I know you can view any text through most perspectives, but I’d never thought of her so much as a heroine in a feminist text.”  

“I see,” Rachel nods. “Well, the short answer is that I’d encourage you to read it again.” She laughs, a soft tinkering sound. “The long answer is that her character is complex. Let’s not beat around the bush; Medea is a woman scorned. Banished by Creon, forgotten by Jason. As the reader, we are able to comprehend the most brutal pain through her – a woman trapped in a world where men have decided everything for her, and she is furious. Even describes herself as a woman born to sorrow. Now, as the reader, it is your right to believe that she is bad, or an anti-heroine, but you cannot deny that she is made bad by circumstances out of her own control.” She pauses, thick eyebrows jutting upward as she looks around the quiet theatre. “I’d say that’s pretty feminist of Euripides.”

You approach her afterwards, fingers an awkward tangle in front of your chest.

“I just have to say,” you smile bashfully. “That was wonderful. You’re so engaging, I was… god, I don’t even know what to say, but thank you. I’m really looking forward to learning from you this semester.”

Rachel’s eyes light up at your words.

Up close you notice a pair of thick, ceramic earrings dangling from her lobes. They look hand painted; thick brushstrokes of dandelion yellow smeared across crimson red ovals.

“Oh, how lovely,” her eyes assess you quickly, mouth splitting into a crooked, fond smile. “I’m very glad to have you here…?”

You tell your name in a mumbled rush, and she nods once, eyes scanning the list of students on her sheet.

“Oh of course,” she says knowingly. “You emailed yesterday, no? Some trouble with accessing the readings online?”

You stiffen. Blink at her, smile dimming somewhat. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Yes, that’s actually—I was having trouble with the link for another class, and I hoped you might be able to help.”

“I see,” she frowns then. “Well, unfortunately if it’s not for this class I won’t be of much help; my access code only gets me so far in that damn portal. Which professor assigned the reading?”

“It’s, uhh,” you speak slowly, the words stiff as they stumble out of your mouth. “It’s Joel Miller.”

“Oh, Joel?” she smiles. “Well, he’ll be happy to help, I’m sure. He’s usually in his office around this time – do you need me to show you the way?”

Your mouth is dry. Yeah, you think. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see me.

“That’s okay,” you reply with a tight smile. “I’ll find it.”

She nods, bids you a warm goodbye, and her eyes have already drifted back to the papers in front of her when you turn to leave the room.

Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, straps of canvas material digging into the muscle there as you retrace your footsteps from yesterday. Up the creaking set of stairs, taking a left, and then another left, and your mind is a blur, static wobbling in your veins as you rehearse what you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you’d last seen him, and from the second you left, an image of what happened in his office played on a loop in your brain. Like the spool on a VHS has been stuck together, wound into a circle, and the tape repeats over and over again, the same images, sounds, smells, soaking your mind until all else is white noise. And it’s twisted, and wrong, and you’re vaguely aware of that, somewhere in the part of your brain where you stash knowledge that you’d prefer to forget. Because it’s easier to forget the hard part, the ugly part, and far nicer to remember the scrape of his stubble against your skin. The smell of him filling your nostrils as he crowds you against his desk. The scratch on your ass from his zipper. Remember how your name sounds when he moans it, and forget the feeling that comes when he refuses to look at you after the fact.  

And you wonder if this is what the entire semester will be like; spending each day reminiscing on your last interaction with Joel, hoping for another touch, taste, another chance, another something, anything, from him. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, like a wall of freshly cemented bricks left to solidify in the sun. And beneath that, beneath the clay and sand and limestone, excitement buzzes. Indisputable, persistent, anticipation. A vibrating that hums in your bones and has you shivering from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull as you knock on his office door. 

J MILLER PhD. The words glare at you from the bronze plaque for the second time in two days.

You hear his voice call pleasantly from behind the door. Light, relaxed. You swallow down the lump in your throat and step inside.

The window is wide open today, pale curtains drawn back to allow the bright midday sun to shine through and warm the carpet. Joel’s head tilts upward and within seconds the soft, easy smile on his face dissolves into something unreadable. He’s perched behind his desk, broad frame bent over a mess of papers, pen tucked neatly between coiled fingers. A clear tension simmers in the lines on his forehead; a tangible rigidity that clouds his expression when he sees that it’s you. He clicks the top of his pen once, twice, three times, and says your name in a clipped greeting.

“Hi,” you say, hand raising in a quick wave. “Sorry to barge in like this, I, uhh, I was wondering if you could help me with something.” 

“My office hours are between one and four,” he says tersely, eyes lowering back to his book. “Schedule an appointment over email.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, face warming as embarrassment swells in your chest. All of the excitement—the longing—that had churned inside you since yesterday seems to dissipate, replaced by a looming sense of dread as you register how distant and apathetic he seems. How hard he tries to not even look in your direction. Those words from yesterday ring in your ears. Just get out.

“Seriously?” you mutter, nonetheless, trying to contain the hurt that threatens to spill across your face. “It’ll take five seco—”

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly.

Your jaw clenches, annoyance tightening the already stiff muscles in your shoulders as you march over to his desk, dropping your bag onto the edge of it. The exact same spot from yesterday, where’d pressed you down against the wood and— Joel’s shoulders hunch. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to just below his elbows, thin white material stressing around cords of muscle. You gaze at the bare skin for a moment, tongue heavy in your mouth, before looking to what he was doing before you came in. A book in front of him is filled with scribbles and annotations, harsh black marks scrawled beneath thin lines of text. You only get a second to look at it before his hands are snapping it shut, revealing the cover. Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey. The picture frame from yesterday is nowhere to be seen.

“Working on something for a lecture?” you try. If it’s about class, he can’t be mad. If it’s about class, he can’t push you away.

“What do you need?” he asks impatiently, ignoring your words entirely.

A hand lifts to rub the skin above his eyebrow. The tip of his middle finger massages the tan skin there in soft circles, and you watch the movement for a second, transfixed. No ring. I’m not married. His other hand reaches for the mug on his desk, and he takes a long, drawn-out sip of black coffee. Steam billows from the dark liquid, fogging the lenses of his glasses. The sight makes you want to laugh, but you swallow it down, acutely aware that Joel would be less than impressed by the reaction.

“I can’t access one of the readings for next week,” you explain distractedly, dragging the laptop from your bag.

You round his desk in a few short steps and Joel sighs, cringing as you place it down in front of him, opening the screen for him to see. He shifts his chair just slightly to the right, away from you. That persistent feeling of doubt coils in your gut, sharp teeth that twist and nip at your insides, taunting you, telling you that he doesn’t want you. And it’s not why you’re here—not at all—but you can’t bring yourself believe it. Don’t want to believe it. So you bite back – turn your back to his desk and pitch your thighs atop the edge of it, feet dangling an inch off the ground. You jeans are tight, and the fabric cuts into the skin of your hips where they bend.

“Get down,” he warns sharply, dismissing you with a taut shake of his head. “You can ask IT for help with that.”

“I’m asking you,” you persist stubbornly. “You’re my professor, Joel—"

“Yes, I am your professor,” Joel bites in agreement, glowering up at you. You stiffen warily at the heat in his gaze. At the anger you can see stirring in those dark brown orbs, brimming and ready to boil over. “And I don’t think we should be alone together,” he adds. “It’s not… this is bad for us, okay? I can’t… fuck, you can’t just come in here. I don’t want you comin’ in here anymore.”

And the memory plays once more. That thing, that something twisted, something wrong, something familiar, curls in your stomach. Snaps and bares its teeth at your uncertainty, sends it scattering into the distance, and replaces it with want.

“I didn’t even plan to come here,” your voice hardens, hackles rising as the feeling rises within you. “You’re not the first person I asked, alright? I just need some fucking help—”

“Don’t swear at me,” he interrupts through gritted teeth.

A beat of stunned silence hangs between you. A shocked laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes widening as you take in the grave expression on his face.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you stare at him incredulously. “Joel, you had your fingers inside of me against this desk yesterday. I think swearing is the least of our worries.”

“Jesus,” he spits, pushing his chair further from the desk. His elbows fall against his knees, head resting in his palms as he breaths, not looking at you. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, y’know that? Can you not just behave?”

Don’t swear, you want to tease, but think better of it.

Instead, you nod slowly, drop your hand onto the desk, fingers hovering over his book. “Joel,” you implore, tone pleading. “I don’t… I don’t know how to act around you right now, okay? It’s not easy for me to just pretend nothing has happened between us. To just forget.”

“And you think it’s easy for me?” he gripes. His eyes are focused on your hand; on the way your fingers tense and untense over the bound cover, stroking the frayed paper his own fingers have clearly touched countless times. He doesn’t move a muscle. “To try and act like things are normal, act like I didn’t—” he cuts himself off, lips clamping shut. An anguished look crosses his features.

“We’re both adults,” you frown. “It’s not a crime that we fucked, Joel.”

A harsh laugh falls from his mouth, stern eyes blazing. “Ain’t about that and you know it. It’s against professional ethics,” Joel snaps, tone firm. “Against university policy – if anybody finds out it could put us both in jeopardy.”

You’re silent for a moment, watching him. His glasses have slid down a little, and they rest precariously on the tip of this nose. Dark eyes stare from over the top of black frames, and then his legs are crossing, one tucking tightly over the other, a thick forearm dropping to rest across his lap, and want burns in your throat. You struggle to remember why you came to his office in the first place.

“Nobody is going to find out,” you whisper.

A rasp of your name catches in his throat. Joel looks bemused, face as flat as he rolls his eyes. “Quit fuckin’ playin’ around. You know how serious this is.”

You contain the urge to scowl, lips tight as you say, “Yeah, I know. Just—look, you don’t have to worry. We can cut it off right now – I won’t say a word of it to anyone. Nothing else is going to happen.”

But you can see the way his eyes flicker down your body whenever you move. How his gaze rests heavily at the pinch of your waist, the spread of your thighs against his desk, your bare arms, before darting away. You wonder if he’s touched himself thinking about you, and a jagged heat tears through the top of your thighs as you picture what that would look like.

“But that's not what you want, is it?” you ask softly. Joel doesn’t speak. He’s so still you almost think he didn’t hear you. But his eyes glance to your thighs again, you know that he did.

“You want me,” you say then, voice low and sure.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. Lips purse around clenched teeth and a harsh breath escapes his nose before he’s saying your name again, a strained whisper. And God, you love the way he says it. Like the word was created just to spite him.

“You are walkin’ on some mighty thin ice right now,” he grits out, heated gaze scorching your skin.

You glance down to his lap, where a forearm still balances over his crotch, and arch an eyebrow.

“Show me,” you murmur.

You can hear him breathing. Slow, exaggerated puffs of breath, chest rising and falling at an increasing pace as he maintains eye contact. Large hands tighten into fists, fingers curling against palms, and he’s dragging his arm back from his lap, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go within the arms of his chair. You wet your lips, face heating as you stare. The firm line of his cock is evident beneath his pants, a solid ridge against his left thigh. When you look back to his face there’s a faint red hue colouring the skin of his neck, steadily rising toward the edge of his facial hair. He’s blushing.

“How long?” you ask, voice awed.

“Since you got on the desk,” Joel grumbles, tone almost begrudging.  

You hum softly, a low vibration in your throat, and then you’re slipping off his desk and taking a step towards him. And he doesn’t flinch away. He watches you close the distance between the pair of you and hover between his thighs, your legs almost brushing his.   

“Let me help,” you whisper, lowering onto the ground in front of him. The carpet is warm and rough against your jean-clad knees. Your eyes drift from his face to between his thighs, and then back up, slowly.

“We shouldn’t,” he croaks, lips chapped and dry. You want to kiss him senseless. Want to drag your tongue across his mouth until it’s soaking wet and then push your way inside.

“But do you want me to?”

An agonising beat of silence follows. But there’s no doubt there anymore. No more wondering, or uncertainty, because you can see it in his eyes. The same all-consuming, devastating desire that crawls its way up to rest at the base of your throat whenever you’re with him. 

And then thick fingers are at the waist of his pants, undoing his leather belt, his button, pushing the material open to reveal a pair of black briefs. He doesn’t take his pants off, just adjusts slightly in the chair before pressing his hand beneath the band of his underwear. Joel grips himself, the sight still obscured from your vision, and you find yourself mesmerised nonetheless, unable to drag your eyes away from the dark material. A low grunt escapes him, and then he shifts the band of his underwear down and pulls his cock out.

The head of him is swollen and leaking, tight skin so red that it’s almost a purple hue against the stark white of his shirt. Joel’s fingers tighten around his base, stroking himself once. Impatient, you lick you hand and let it drift forward to replace his, fingers slipping over the silky wet skin of his head and wrapping around him. Your hand is so much smaller in comparison, and your fingertips almost don’t meet as you flex your grip around girth.

Your underwear clings to the skin between your thighs, material warm and damp against you, a result of the simmering heat that rests in the base of your belly and flares every time Joel sighs. When you glance up to see his face, he’s already staring at you, pupils blown wide, lips sealed in a tight line. His length twitches in your palm, and you salivate.

You lean in and place a gentle kiss again his tip, smearing the pearl of precome there against your lips. You stroke the length of him in slow, firm pumps, guiding his head against your puckered lips, but not quite taking it inside yet. Joel’s fists are tight against his thighs, and you wish he would put them in your hair, on the back of your head, grip you, pull you down against him. But he doesn’t, not yet.

He’s got a salty, heady taste, and you swipe your tongue out to clean the hint of it from your mouth, swallowing with a satisfied purr. A harsh exhale shoots from his nose, eyebrows dragging further down as he watches you tease him.

A quick flick of your tongue against his slit has a sharp gasp rising from him, and in response you lathe wet, messy kisses to his head, puckering your lips around it and swirling your tongue, not caring what you look like, not caring that he probably wants you to go faster. It’s purely for your own enjoyment, and you’re moaning and sighing around the taste of him. You want to take Joel Miller a part, piece by piece, and feel him come undone beneath your mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, you let his head slip passed your open lips and sink into the wet heat of your mouth. And he’s so quiet, so composed, so you glide your tongue over his slit again before pressing forward, lips meeting the movement of your own hand as you take him deeper.

Your jaw strains, muscles smarting as you attempt to take the entirety of him. He’s so long, so thick, and the tip of him is nudging against the back of your throat in seconds, making your eyes water. And god it’s better than you could’ve imagined.

Tears cling to your eyelashes as you look up and find Joel with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, pink skin turning white from pressure. The heavy weight of him crowds your senses, his taste on your tongue and scent in your nostrils, everywhere, and you can feel how hot your face is getting but you can’t look away from him. You don’t stop until his hand is landing on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair in his fist and dragging your mouth off him. You part with a wet gasp, a string of saliva dangling between his tip and your shiny lips.

“Breathe, goddammit,” Joel says, holding you still when you attempt to press forward and take him back into your mouth.

“You’re so big,” you say earnestly, head tilting backward to rest heavy in his hold. You blink through bleary eyes, smiling lazily. Drunk on him after only a little taste. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this, you know. How you’d taste… how it would feel to have you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, stop,” Joel says quickly, voice pained. “Y’can’t say shit like that.” His grip tightens at the base of your neck, and then he’s guiding your face forward so the head of his cock slips back into your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

You hum appreciatively and relax your jaw, taking him until he’s nudging at your throat again, and he’s still so fucking silent. Determined to get some kind of reaction from him, you pull off and lick a broad stripe from tip to base, hand stroking his length in unhurried, firm pulls as your mouth finds his heavy balls. Your tongue glides along the sensitive skin in slow, overwhelming movements, leaving no inch of him untouched. Wet sounds fill the air as the movement of your fist increases in pace, and your lips drag over him, sucking one of his balls into your mouth and then—finally—a long, drawn-out groan spills into the air, and he’s saying, “Shit, that’s it.”

Never pausing the movement of your hand, you pull back just a smidge and grin.

Joel’s hands are on you then, another deep sound sputtering from his lips. He’s brushing your hair off your face, mussing it as he rakes his fingers through it, short nails scraping against your scalp. He swears softly when you take him back into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly. “Is that what you want? Needy little thing wants a little praise, huh? Want me to tell you how good you are, how good your pretty mouth feels on my cock?”

You whimper, eyelids fluttering as you begin to move on him desperately. Your mouth tightens around him, and a tear squeezes from your eyes as his hips jolt forward, cock nudging suddenly into the back of your throat. Joel’s hand cups the back of your head, strokes the damp skin at the base of your neck as you gag around him.

“Jesus,” Joel groans at the sound. “There you go, s’perfect, s’fuckin’ perfect.”

The muscles in your thighs tighten, legs pressing together to try and soothe the pulsing ache there. Your head is moving up and down along his length and it’s wet and messy and depraved, saliva gliding down your chin to your neck, and you fucking love it. Joel’s gruff sounds of encouragement only serve to spur you on.

And then, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, it happens again.

A firm rap against the door of his office.

Joel goes silent. Your shoulders tense, and you pull back until his tip rests heavy on your bottom lip. Wide eyed, you gaze up at him, panic swelling in your chest. And then comes that voice; the same voice as yesterday.

“You in there Joel?”

You can feel your lungs squeezing inside your chest, grasping violently for air and finding zero reprieve as the reality of the moment begins to overwhelm you, because you know that voice.

“Fuck,” you whisper dazedly, slumping back to rest on your heels. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

Joel shakes his head, strong hands gripping your shoulders to soothe you. “Shh,” he hushes quietly. “Stop, hey, stop. It’s fine.”

Another knock at the door. Nowhere for you to go, nowhere to hide.

“Just a sec, Rachel,” Joel calls, voice laced with frustration.

And then those hands are guiding you backwards. You move blindly, allowing him to encourage your body back, back, back, broad palm protecting your head as he nudges you underneath the desk. Further and further until you’re completely hidden, tucked away where only he can see you. And as you settle into the warm, sweaty space, watch Joel drag his chair forward and squeeze his long legs around your body, you feel the panic quell. Your pulse slows, the tremor in your hands settles, and cool relief comes in the form of a chill down your spine.

“Come in,” Joel calls. You can hear the door click open a second later, soft footsteps entering the room. You hold your breath as they begin to talk, heart stuttering, eyes trained on his where his spit-soaked cock rests against the underside of his desk.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Rachel’s soft voice chimes. “I was hoping to grab my copy of The Annals, I need it for the undergrad lecture I’m covering this afternoon.”

“Course,” he says sharply, and you can hear a drawer to your right open and close. A moment of silence. “All yours.”  

Your abdomen tenses at the sound of his haggard voice, and something tight pulls in your chest. A flare of jealousy, of possessiveness, at the fact that someone else is seeing him right now. That the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his neck, is no longer yours alone. And it’s absurd, because she has no idea. But the desire to reclaim the moment for yourself, to assert that his sweat, his blush—his body—is yours is overwhelming, and you find your hand gripping his heavy cock, tongue gliding out of your mouth to swipe against his weeping tip. The dread from before flares in the back of your mind but you push it away, shove it down until it’s hazy, a faint ringing that fades into the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Joel’s thighs stiffen. He coughs, a sharp, surprised noise.

“Thanks for that,” Rachel says, voice slow. “Hey… are you doing okay? Looking pretty faint over there, Miller.”

You smile around him and rub your tongue in teasing strokes along the underside of his sensitive head. He clears his throat roughly, and then his hand is slipping underneath the desk to tangle in your hair. It’s rough and it stings, and you find yourself humming ever so slightly around him, indicating that you love it.

“Feelin’ a little under the weather,” he agrees faintly.

“Should try some of that tea I always tell you about,” she says, ever so friendly. “Works a treat when you’re sick.”

“Maybe I will,” Joel says, and his fingers are twisting in your messy locks, pulling your mouth away from his cock.

Although he can’t see you, you pout. Not wanting to push it, you settle for looping three fingers around him, index middle and thumb, gripping just beneath his head, and begin to rub him in slow, soundless movements. With every forward motion of your hand, the tip of his cock brushes against your lower lip, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“I could bring you some,” Rachel offers then. You can practically hear the smile in her voice, picture the kind slant to her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow, if you think you’ll be coming into wor—”

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Joel snaps suddenly, voice almost harsh as he interrupts her. “Was that all you needed?”

“Oh,” she replies awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No,” he says, audibly flustered. His cock is drooling over your lips, and the salty taste has your pussy aching, clenching painfully tight, begging to be filled. “m’sorry, got a fuckin’ headache, is all. Tea tomorrow?”  

“Tea tomorrow, sure,” Rachel confirms. “Sorry again, I… yeah, sorry, I hope you feel better, Joel.”

Whem the door closes a moment later Joel is shoving his chair backward again, hands wrenching you out from underneath his desk. You fall forward, flushed and breathless. His expression is thunderous, pitch-black eyes glaring down at you. On all fours, you crawl forward and splay your palms across his thighs, feel them twitch and tremble beneath your nimble fingers.

“You couldn’t fuckin’ wait?” he snaps, hand finding a home in your hair once more. He drags it into a ponytail and wraps it around his fist.

“Sorry,” you lie, teeth nipping at your swollen bottom lip. Joel’s eyes follow the movement and he grunts, unimpressed with the apology.

“She could’ve caught us,” he admonishes you.

“Better start locking the door then,” you clip, winking lazily. A short huff passes through his lips, and then his left hand is dropping to land on your chin, thumb rubbing against your lower lip, prying it from between your teeth.

“Open,” he orders.

His jaw is set with concentration, eyebrows drawn low as he cradles your jaw, holding it still while he pushes his cock back into your eager mouth. The salt of him rushes your senses again and you’re moaning around him, cheeks hollowed and eyes wet as he begins to rut into your mouth, the tip of his cock caressing the back of your throat with every thrust. It’s fast and hard, and the noises coming out of you are scandalous, but you can’t drag your eyes away from his face. Lips parted, eyes ablaze as he watches his cock push in and out of your mouth, over and over again. A tear streaks down your cheek and Joel groans, swiping at it with his fingers. Shallow curses and murmurs of your name spill from his lips in a tortured stream of consciousness.

“Always so fuckin’—impatient,” he mutters. His grip on your jaw is near bruising, cock throbbing against your tongue. You can sense how close he is. Feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, snapping thrusts losing their rhythm.  

The stretch has a dull ache searing through your jaw, but Joel is breathless, eyes dark and focused on yours, saying, “Look at you. So pretty takin’ my cock like this.” and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyelids flutter closed, and his fingers are tapping your cheek quickly—softly?

“Let me see you,” he says urgently. “Want those eyes on me, don’t close them.” You cast your eyes up to meet his gaze, and Joel hisses under his breath, expression taut.

His hips drag backward, and he’s replacing your mouth with his hand, fucking himself in quick, brutal strokes, and your mouth is open, slick tongue peaking between your lips before he can even say open your mouth.

“Fuck,” he exhales at the sight, tip bumping against your tongue with every wet pump of his fist. His thighs are trembling beneath your hands, and you dig your nails into the muscles there, encouraging him. “Fuck me.”

And then he’s coming, face going slack as hot ropes of his come paint your lips, your tongue, your chin. Unashamed rasps of your name fall from pink lips, washing over you in glorious waves as you sit there and take all of it. And for a moment, you think it’s over. But then Joel’s hand is still moving over his length, calloused thumb gliding against the ridge of his rounded tip, and there’s more.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck—yes.”

Salty strings of his spend gloss over your cheeks and slide down to paint your neck. And it’s like he’s coming a second time, torso jolting in short, jerky movements, and you wish you could see his body while he came; the way the muscles in his stomach would flex and pull taut, entire frame straining as he gives you his all.  

His shoulders slump forward as he stares down at you, hand falling away from his sensitive cock, and his face is ruined. Eyes blown wide, cheeks a dark red, looking at you like he’d enjoy nothing more than to devour you whole. Maintaining eye contact, you swallow down his spend, practically purring at the taste of him.

Joel’s thumb smears his come off your cheeks and into your swollen mouth, making sure you don’t miss a single drop.

“Good girl,” his voice is broken. “That’s it, yeah—yes, s’perfect.”

Perfect, perfect, perfect. The word rings in your ears. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t believe that you are both still fully clothed. You feel naked, bared to him in the truest sense of the word, despite being completely covered up.

He groans heartily when you suck his fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around them greedily, and swallow down the last of his spend. 

For a moment after, the two of you simply sit there, your knees chafed and aching against the carpet, his fingers hooked against your tongue, staring at each other. And you know. You both know – there’s no going back from this.

Joel drags his hand away and snatches a box of tissues from the top drawer of his desk. You stand, knees popping in relief, and lean against the desk to stabilise yourself. He takes a moment to clean himself, and when you’re sure he’s not looking you swipe a pen from his desk, scribble a set of numbers on a post it and press the sticky paper down against the cover of The Odyssey.

He offers you the box of tissues and you wipe your face carefully, make sure no trace of him is left on your skin. Joel watches your movements like a hawk, eyes fading from black to brown as he fixes his belt and tucks his shirt back into his pants.

“You good?” he asks after a moment. And it’s the same. The same thing he asked you that night in the bar after fucking your brains out. After calling you a slut, a dirty little thing. Maybe it’s his thing—you good? And it’s more than anyone else has ever said after you’ve had their cock in your mouth, so you smile at him. Nod. The duality of man, you think.

“Perfect,” you use his word, and cringe at how wrecked your voice is. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches upward, something sly and conspiratorial in his gaze as he watches you tuck your computer into your bag, IT issue long forgotten.

Even as you wander toward the door of his office, tossing a casual see you tomorrow over your shoulder, you can see it in his face. In the lines by his eyes, the furrow of his brow; never satiated, never finished, never satisfied. More, more, more. This wasn’t enough for either of you. And this will not be the last time.

Hours later, when you’re tucked into bed with a glass of wine and a book perched in your lap, you get a text from an unknown number.

You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.

And then another, twenty minutes later.

That can’t happen again.

You grin. Save his number under J MILLER, PhD, and don’t reply.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida

thank you for reading! x

[thewertsearch]

I guess everyone is reacting to their parents' deaths in this arc. Dave's relationship with Bro has always been a little... complicated, so this should be a very interesting conversation.

TG: oh my fucking god […] TG: we just got done talking and agreed it would be awesome if you didnt bother me for a while […] GC: OH GC: TH4TS R1GHT GC: 1 FORGOT! TG: it was five seconds ago

Girl, get your damn timelines in order!

GC: D1D YOU LOV3 H1M D4V3? TG: no

I believe you.

There's something about the Strider brothers which I noticed a while ago, but haven't had the opportunity to talk about. This is the perfect moment to discuss it, though, because it explains a lot about why Dave is the way he is.

So - let's talk about the Strife fights.

When John first attacked his father with a hammer, I decided to roll with the assumption that this fight was symbolic, rather than literal. John loves his dad, and it can be safely assumed that he doesn't want to kill the guy.

Instead, this scene serves as a stand in for the familial strife between father and son. John finds his father's parenting style to be mildly frustrating, and their interactions sometimes feel like a fight to him.

Likewise, Rose (probably) isn’t actually going for Mom with those needles. Instead, their fight represents Mom’s 'ironic' negligence, and the gifts that Rose refuses to believe are from the heart. The Lalonde relationship is clearly more fraught than the Egbert one, but I don't think Rose actually wants to skewer Ms Lalonde.

Jade doesn't really fight her Grandpa, but their Strife clearly demonstrated how deeply in-denial she is - not about his death, but about the fact that her life isn't normal. She's desperately trying to have the same childhood that John and Rose are describing, but she can't, because she doesn't have a parent to bicker with.

Now, I'm sure you've guessed where I'm going with this. What, exactly, did Dave's Strife scenes represent?

Well...

...first of all, it's worth noting that Dave is the only Player to explicitly describe the events of his Strife to a third party. We've never heard John reminiscing about bludgeoning Dad, but Dave's constantly complaining about getting beaten up by puppets.

And - rather more worryingly - Dave is the only Player to retain his Strife injuries, even after this ostensibly 'metaphorical' fight is over.

In fact, one of those Strife injuries still marks him to this day.

The point I am obviously dancing around is that I don't think Dave's Strife was a metaphor at all. Unlike his friends, there's no pretense to these fights. They're literal. Dave's brother routinely attacked him.

Odds are, this was Bro's way of 'preparing' Dave for the game he surely knew was coming - but you don't need me to tell you that he took it way too far. The guy might have been Dave's assigned Guardian, but he really shouldn't have been raising anyone.

[shhhsecretsideblog]

[Labor Denial, inconvenient birth] Imagine for a moment you're a professor at prestigious college. It's just the beginning of the final exam period of the year and your huge swell of twin belly has proven difficult to maneuver in your 38th week of pregnancy. Braxton hicks are a constant plague on you during the first and second day of finals and by the end of the third you're certain your belly has lowered a bit. At the end of the fourth day as you get ready for bed, a new and strengthened pain takes hold of your overstretched bump. It lasts longer than any braxton you had before, your belly even feels harder beneath your palms as it progresses.

You are still two weeks out from being full term and your doctor assured you that your babies had no interest in making an early appearance. Besides, there was no way you could miss the last day of exams, your employers would hardly approve.

In your mind, you decide these are just mildly more intense braxtons. Nothing more. You keep telling yourself this as the walk into the first test of the final day with a distinct, new pressure building in your low abdomen. You keep telling yourself it's nothing as you absentmindedly rock your hips during the first exam. You don't bother timing these pains; no need to time braxton hicks contractions. You ignore the growing pressure as students submit their exams. You ignore the slight wetness between your thighs when they shuffle out. You ignore the pain flaring in your hips as you shuffle to the next exam room.

All you need is to get through the next six hours of exams, go home, and get some rest. These pains were just the product of stressful times of exam season...

Keep Calm & Carry On

AN: thanks for a great prompt anon! Fpreg, labour denial, clothing birth. 2538 words.

Letting out a short grunt, I cup the underside of my low and heavy belly and arduously push myself up out of the chair. Being so heavily pregnant at the end of the school year, two babies wrestling in my belly, was no joke. Each week during my third trimester brought forth a new ache or pain and as I approached my due date I was regretting not taking early maternity leave. But the university was having staffing issues, there were barely enough faculty members to cover all the end of year exams as it was without me taking early leave. Plus I couldn’t exactly bow out now at this late notice. I couldn’t do that to all the students, they’d worked so hard.

So I grit my teeth and persevered through the long week of exams, through all the aches and pains and practice contractions. Only a few hours left on the final day and soon I would be at home resting for the double arrival. As I reached the exit of the now-empty exam room I had to pause and grab the door frame when another braxton hicks rippled across my taut skin. A groan slipped from my mouth and my knees slightly dipped as the wave built and built before eventually peaking with a lightning bolt of pain to my crotch. “Ooohhhhh… you need to s-stop t-this…” I muttered to the babies in my belly. “I know you’re practising for the main event but jeeze… mnnhhh… please just give me a break for a few hours.”

Unusually, the babies seemed to respond to my plea and after a particularly strong movement, with one baby’s head nestling deep within my pelvis, they settled quietly in my belly. “Phew, thank you. We’ll be done soon, I promise.” I dropped off the papers from my previous exam in the designated tray in the teachers lounge and picked up the stack of booklets for my next exam. After taking a quick breather, drinking some water and dampening the sweat from the back of my neck, I began the trek to my next exam in the hall on the other side of campus.

My body seemed to be practising for labour every few minutes at this point, each wave forcing me to stop and brace against a solid surface and breathe my way through them. I was grateful the students were all in their examination halls so the campus was empty, no one to see me hunched over my bump leaning against a wall.

“Hooohooo… oof! Come on babies, this is getting anno— annoying now—!” The weight between my legs was ever increasing, my waddle so distinctively wide it was almost comical, if not for the pressure and pain that came with it. I couldn’t stop the growl rumbling in my throat as my entire belly turned to stone and squeezed hard. The stack of booklets trembled in my hands and I was panting heavily. I wanted to go home, fighting these pains all day was draining all my energy, but I just couldn’t abandon the students. When the pain passed I fixed my expression and walked as determinedly as I could towards my next shift, my free hand rubbing the constant ache in my lower belly.

When I got to the exam I grit my teeth through the roll call and amazingly managed to walk up and down the rows of students to hand out the test papers, but my ability to stay standing was wavering fast and I plumped down on the chair behind the moderator's desk with a humph. My hands naturally gravitated towards my belly, my fingers splayed each side across the tensing swell, and I took measured deep breaths.

“Are you alright, Miss?” One of the students asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes I’m fine.” I tried to reassure the student and keep my eyes from closing as the wave continued to build. “Y-you may turn over your papers and begin.”

The contraction built to astronomical heights and my face scrunched, silently bearing the pain of the worst braxton hicks yet. There was just so much pressure, my pelvis was screaming at me. Unconsciously my legs were wide beneath the table, my belly sitting heavily between my thighs, my hips tilting outwards in my slumped position. Thankfully the wooden desk had a modesty panel so the students could not see beneath the table or view my ridiculously widened legs.

One of the baby’s felt so damn low, as if one good sneeze would shoot them out, but I was sure the heaviness was simply a common feeling for being this advanced with twins. It couldn’t be as low as it felt, I’d have to be in labour for that, which I was not.

As time ticked on I barely noticed my body’s subtle movements, trying to keep my concentration focused on the students and their exam, ignoring all the aches and pains that my body was subjecting me to. I wasn’t even aware of when I started rocking forward and back in my chair, or when I lifted my hips off the seat…? Unconsciously I’d pushed my weight forward onto the desk, leaning on my forearms and elbows, subtly lifting my backside and easing the fiery ache building in my pelvis. God, this chair was torturous, I couldn’t find any position that didn’t make me want to scream.

Eventually I gave up on sitting, resorting instead to pacing the room keeping one firm hand pressed into my lower back while the other lifted my heavy belly. The students paid no attention, focusing on the exam papers, all too used to the moderators patrolling around the room and monitoring for any cheating.

The walking was helping the aggressive pains in my hips but it felt like the movement was bringing the baby down even lower. My breaths came thick and fast, my constant movements tiring my body but I couldn’t bear to sit back down in that chair. Another wild pain lashed across my middle and I was forced to stop my pacing, thankfully while I was at the back of the hall behind all the students facing the other way. My belly tightened, urgent and sharp, and I nearly doubled over but instead threw both palms out in front and braced against the wall. My hips were making wild circular motions that I couldn’t control and somewhere in the depths of my mind was a calling to squat down.

Fighting against my body’s instincts I clamped my mouth shut and panted through my wide nostrils. Fuck, it felt like one of the baby’s was coming out… but that couldn’t be right… I wasn’t in labour. But— but then why did I feel a need to push?! I glanced up at the clock, no phones were allowed in the exam hall, and saw I still had two more hours to go.

Two hours, I could do that. Even if I was in labour, a twin birth would take a long time. Everything was fine. I paced along the back wall of the exam hall, my fingers brushing the plasterboard keeping constant contact with a nearby surface to keep myself grounded and stable. Up and down I waddled, restless in my taut and tired skin. The waves crashing through my uterus every few minutes were creeping towards agony and I was finding it harder to stay silent. Just a few hours. That’s all I had to do. But the weight and pressure was sinking lower by the minute and I was having to bite down on my fist to refrain from groaning.

With just over an hour to go I noticed a hand go up at the front of the sea of students. Reluctantly I left my haven at the back of the room and waddled painfully down the row towards the person in question.

“Have you got any spare pens? Mine has run out.” They asked, their eyebrows pinching at seeing my exhausted and sweaty state. “Mmngg— sure.” I managed to grit and went back to my desk for the extra stationary. After providing the student with extra pens I barely made it back to the desk before the next contraction struck, a deep low groan escaping from my mouth as I curled forward and braced the wooden frame, my hips swaying instinctively against the pain.

“Oh my gosh Miss, are you okay?” One student asked in a panic. My only response was another deep groan, louder this time, as I battled the urgent squeezing that was shoving a baby’s head through my cervix.

“Shit! She’s having her baby!” One student cried out.

I shook my head frantically, trying to keep some semblance of control within the exam, despite the incessant tensing and building pressure. “It— it’s fine. Everyone back to your tests.” I tried to assure the students, even though I couldn’t move from my position gripping the desk. “I… it’s possible I’m in labour but… just carry on with your final exam okay. Labour takes hours, it’s— ooooh— it’s nothing to worry about.” The grin plastered on my face was entirely false, the pressure building between my thighs was telling me I might not have as long as I’d hoped.

Instead, when the contraction waned, I stood up and confidently sat back down at the desk and shuffled papers mindlessly and eventually the students went back to their exams. These babies were coming, I could feel it, the giant boulder in my pelvis was almost certainly one of the heads burrowing its way out of me. I straightened up, blocking any exit with the seat of the chair. Just an hour to go, I was going to make it.

I lasted 10 minutes before my determination faltered, the urge to push returning with a vengeance. There was no stopping it, my only hope was the uncomfortable but strategic position on the chair. As soon as the contraction began tightening my womb my body was bearing down uncontrollably. My head dipped, my chin to my chest, my fingers white knuckling the desk as I pushed. Fuck. The head was moving down, I could feel it as it inched lower towards the exit. I barely had time to catch my breath before my body pushed again, hard, fully leaning into the contraction and bringing this baby out whether I wanted to or not.

Through the incessant contractions and the desperate urgency of these babies to be born, I held fast to my position on the chair, blocking any exit with the seat. I was granted only a short reprieve before the next contraction struck and I was back to my silent pushing. I couldn’t make a noise, couldn’t distract the students from their graduating exam, but I also couldn’t do anything else to delay or stop the birth. I was trapped in this never ending cycle of pain. The head was right at my opening, bulging my sensitive lips into my underwear. I wanted to scream, to cry, to open my legs, but I couldn’t. One glance at the clock told me there was only 20 minutes left of the exam. I could make it.

My babies however, were not too keen on following my schedule, and even with my upright position I could feel myself opening around the head. This baby wanted out and it wanted out now. When the burning started I couldn’t help but widen my legs, throwing each thigh over the edges of my seat. My body kept on pushing, through every grievous wave of pain that squeezed my middle, and I couldn’t stop myself from pushing in earnest. The grunt that echoed my throat caught the attention of a few students at the front and I tried to offer a reassuring smile, desperately hiding the fact the head of one of my babies was crowning into my underwear.

When I let go of the push the baby retreated and sighed in relief. But this was short lived as I was back to pushing again barely a minute later. Fuck! I had no phone, a room full of students, and two babies that were desperate to get out of my body. In the short break between pushes the high-pitched ding of a bell sounded signalling the end of the exam. Everyone in the room looked up at me. My chest was heaving with laboured breaths, I gulped and managed to say “Pens down everyone. P-please leave your papers on your d-desks and exit the hall…”

The scratching of chairs on hardwood floors echoed the room as the students stood up and left the exam hall via the door at the back of the room. I was supposed to have collected each paper before dismissing them but there was no way in hell I could stand up. The next contraction was upon me before all the students left and I panted my way through the squeezing urgency of my rock-hard belly.

The crown of the baby’s head was getting bigger and bigger and the second the final student left, the door closing behind them, I let out a deep primal groan that I had been stifling for the past few hours. The head came to a full crown in my underwear and I sobbed and squirmed as everything burned white hot. Out. I needed this baby out of me!!!! With a forceful grunt I disappeared into a deep earnest push and birthed the head of my first child into my knickers.

“Mnnnnghhh… ohh god…. It’s out— the head…. Oh fuck…” With a trembling hand I felt the bulge of my trousers and the head that now sat at the apex of my thighs. “Why couldn’t you wait… just a bit longer guys?!” Before I could form any sort of plan or thought, another tightening rippled across my belly and I knew there was no stopping what was about to happen. Gripping the edge of my seat I bore down with everything that I had, the shoulders stretching me as wide as the head, and I wailed as I threw my head back.

“Oh my gosh Miss Jones…?” A voice came from the other side of the hall. I opened my eyes to see the headmistress in the doorway. “Grrrhhhh… babies are coming—!!!” I grunted and roared, pushing the shoulders out which was immediately followed by the torso of the first baby slipping out and down my trouser leg.

My colleague and boss rushed across the hall to me, wide eyed and panicking. “You poor dear, why didn’t you tell us you were in labour?” She asked, helping me pull the waistband of my trousers down so I could get to my newborn babe.

I couldn’t speak, in too much shock and trembling, an instinctual need to hold my baby was the only thing I was capable of. The infant immediately gurgled and cried as I lifted them up and placed them on my chest, wiping their face and checking every inch of my new baby.

“You did it, goodness, you had your baby.” The head teacher muttered in awe.

“Yeah… but mnnggh… I’m having twins, remember.” I grumbled, as I felt my womb contract again…

[luveline]

hi jade! :) i wanted to potentially request anything with poly!marauders x reader? maybe winter themed since its december now?

you write remus, james, & sirius x reader so well that i started reading fanfic for them because of you! i love your style, keep it up lovely! <3 sending you all my love

thank you, ily!! ♡ fem!reader

James’ car idles outside of your work. 

You rush down the frosted steps despite the danger, and open the passenger door with a, “Hello,” that can't be dimmed. You could not be happier to see him in his dark-haired, light-eyed glory. Your hands shake at the sight of him alone. 

“Hello,” he says keenly. 

You climb across the handbrake to kiss him. He takes your face into two big hands, expectant, waiting for you and twice as eager. “Oh, shit, I missed you,” you say, smashed into his lips and leaning further still, “Did you have a good time? Did–” 

James rubs your cheek with his thumb, silently asking for you to slow down, and kisses you again. His lips are soft as anything, his hands a little less so, rough of his palms sliding up your cheeks to just behind your ears. He's quick and rather aggressive about it considering you're only a couple of yards from your place of work, but you don't care. 

Clearly, he missed you too. 

James breaks the kiss to hug you to him, nosing at the side of your head as he says, “I missed you too. And I had a great time. Next year, you'll come with me.” 

Your heart skips at the thought. Going home with James to visit his parents would be a dream, if only so you don't have to miss him for three weeks at a time. 

He gives you a last quick kiss and drives you home. With his suitcase still in the car and his rucksack in the footwell, you realise he's picked you up before going home, and you rub it in Sirius’ face as soon as you can. 

“He picked me,” you say, climbing out of the car, cheeks flush with the heat of having James’ hand on your thighs the entire way home. 

Sirius doesn't seem too bothered. Remus worms around him, doesn't even wait for James to get out of the car, ducking in for an awkwardly skewed but achingly affectionate hug. It's not like Remus to show his emotions in any way that could be held against him, but it's clear he trusts the three of you to never do such a thing. You wouldn't. 

“You okay?” James asks him quietly. You nearly miss it, apprehended and forced into a headlock by Sirius Black and his bad attitude. 

“No more holidays,” Remus says. 

“You look handsome anyways,” James says, “what's that about? Thriving in my absence or something?” 

Remus flushes at the suggestion —you can see it, having breathlessly escaped Sirius' cruel grasp to stand watching their reunion. He mumbles a denial and burrows deeper into James’ arms. 

Sirius is much less emotional than you or Remus, but he's in a good mood. You can tell, tucked under his happy touch. (You weren't rubbing it in that James picked you up first to be cruel, the opposite —you and Sirius love to argue. And the cool, mildly intimidating stare down thing he does gives you chills, so that's a bonus.) 

“Alright!” James says, hand on Remus’ shoulder, rucksack on his arm as he shuts and locks the driver's side door. “Let's see how you idiots have done with the decorations.” 

“Not nice,” you say. 

“But accurate,” Sirius says. 

The truth is that without James’ direction, the Christmas decorations have barely been put up. You had the common sense to erect the Christmas tree and it’s adorned with carefully draped tinsel and polished baubles, but the rest of the home is lacklustre, to say the least. You've no stockings for the electric fire, no banners, no foiled hangings or silver trappings. 

“Jesus,” James says, dropping his rucksack on the sofa. “This is sad. Where's the wooden bits? My white wooden Christmas tree? Absolutely minimal effort. I'm appalled.” 

You and Remus look at one another and shrug. “We searched. Pulled out the airing cupboard and everything, it took ages, and we still didn't find them.” 

“That's because it's up in the attic,” James says, chuckling to himself. “Idiots. Where's the stepladder?” 

And this is where Sirius’ love rears its head, his arms wrapped around James’ legs as he climbs the ladder positioned dangerously on the landing by the open stairwell. “You can't be real,” James says, swaying dangerously as he pokes around up there with a torch. “You're worried about me? You were on the roof of the shed a month ago—” 

“To get a fucking football for next door–” 

“Oh, fuck this,” James says with a sigh. Before any of you can stop him, he's leveraging himself into the attic using his upper body strength. 

You cross your arms over your chest with a smile. “That was fit.” 

“Right?” Remus murmurs. 

“Where's the fucking– Ah-hah! Alright, sweethearts, one of you come and grab this from me.” 

Sirius looks up at the creaking attic above, frowning, his eyes narrowed. “I don't trust the floor.” 

“Siri, just come and get them.” 

You build a procession line and slowly unearth the three boxes of Christmas decorations, and a box of festive linens. Sirius helps James safely down onto stable footing, while you and Remus ferry the decorations downstairs. James is the Christmas nut of the lot of you, but Remus likes what James likes, especially now he's been missing him, and so they set about decorating your home while you and Sirius argue over who's making what for dinner. James’ favourite, since he's been away so long, you argue. Pizza, Sirius decides. “Look at the state of him. You know he goes home and Euphemia spoils him half to death.” 

“Fully to death,” James says, dotting a kiss into your cheek as he passes with a sheet of snowflake window stickers. “But I was revived.” 

Sirius kisses your other cheek, and Remus shouts for you to come and see the lights, lovely!

It's nice to have everyone home. 

[a-ikuoliver]

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞?

what's your favourite scary movie? | k. bakugou— k-atsukibakugou

finally convincing one of your best friends to come to the 30th anniversary re-release of scream, he figures out one of your best-kept secrets

pairing: bakugou katsuki x f!reader w/c: 4.9k warnings: femme reader (called girl, has a pussy, wears makeup n a skirt), death threat kinda lmao, public & unprotected sex, blood mention, knife mention, reader implied to be recon/stealth hero, not beta’d bc i got nervous and we die like men, this is like all lead up my b notes: HAPPY LATE HALLOWEEEEEEN this is sorta inspired by @katsukikitten's post and um i have no explanation for this i was possessed by that post n my fat crush on katsuki and I KNOW scream came out in 1996 imagine the timelines line up lmao crossposted to ao3 • masterlist • recent wips & updates • kofi • askbox

“pleaaaase?” you’re too aware you’re whining, your bottom lip stuck out in a pout, probably only one more emotionless denial away from getting on your hands and knees and begging the stoic hero, “i’ll owe you? i'll do anything you want!”

you caught the mischievous sparkle in his eye at your promise, dropping your head in desperation to your hands still clamped together like you were praying, one final time, you pleaded, “please? it’s the thirty-year-anniversary re-release! i can't miss it!”

bakugou made a sound like he was thinking over your request, eyes glancing between the two tickets in your hand, the blood red title printed at the top calling his name, and your pleading eyes, a gravelly hum low in his throat. his mind had been made up since you asked, already planning on watching the theatrical re-release, it was just his luck your favourite horror movie was his, too. but he didn’t plan on telling you that quite yet, revelling in your desperation after a third rejection; eijirou too scared of a slasher, denki already having plans for a different night, and sero scheduled to patrol.

“you’ll do anything i want just for a movie?” his voice was mildly condescending, but the twitch in his lips had you rolling your eyes and crossing your arms like a grumpy child bargaining with a guardian, “if that’s what it takes!”

exasperated, you throw your head back with a groan, about to turn to him and announce your forfeit when he beats you to it, pinching the extra ticket from your hand, a satisfied smirk painted on his lips, “i’ll pick you up friday night, ya owe me one.”

katsuki walked away without even waiting for your response, leaving you simultaneously frustrated at your friends toying with you, and cheering at finally having found someone to join you.

punctual as always in his adult years, katsuki was outside your door friday night half an hour earlier than when you told him to drop by and get you, fists banging on your door while you were still tugging your skirt over your hips, just getting the zipper up when you swung the door open, already growling at your friend standing in the doorway in front of you, “i heard the first thirteen times you knocked.”

you toyed with the hem of your shirt, stepping aside to let him inside, promptly looking him up and down to admire the casual outfit he wore, far different from the hero costume you were used to seeing on him, the simple black cotton stretching over his broad chest somehow emphasising the muscles there more than the tight costume. there was a hint of a necklace underneath the collar of the shirt, the thin line of silver glinting under the lowlights of your hallway, similar jewellery on three of his fingers, and his blond locks sitting normally, spiked up around his head, his undercut leaving his ears free to show off the handful of piercings there. glancing back up, your eyes locked on his glinting ruby eyes, already watching you drink him in, the eye contact only breaking when he tapped his heavy boots on the floor just inside your door, “quit whining, how long are ya gonna be?”

you rolled your eyes at his impatience, waving him off while fixing your hair in your reflection in the glass beside the door, “give me two minutes.”

you flitted back up the hallway, swift and silent as he was used to seeing you be, leaving him beside the door to take a glimpse around your living room, taking in the little plush ghostface sat front and centre on your couch, blood red felt stitched over its soft knife, a stack of novels beside the couch, a few titles he recognised as classics, and more horror novels he knew nestled between scattered romance titles. he heard a few more heavy bumps from your bedroom, just out of his view before you emerged once more, in a tight shirt, gorey graphic printed in the middle, a sweater thrown over your arm and boots looped in your fingers, a cute garnet charm dangling off the back of each loop of fabric, “you want me to fill up your car?”

your question had his eyebrows shooting into his hairline, “the fuck are you on about?”

“to repay you?” you asked dumbly, stepping closer to place your key in the lock, clicking it locked once your tall friend ducked under it and stepped outside onto the driveway. he sucked his teeth disapprovingly, unlocking his car with you bounding over to the passenger side, jumping into the seat to wiggle your boots onto your feet, he only dignified you with a response once he was seated on the dark leather, huffing out a grumpy, but demanding, “you’re not payin’,”

reversing from your driveway, he interrupted when you opened your mouth to argue back, “besides, i haven’t decided what i want from ya yet,” katsuki smirked at you, vermillion eyes darting from his rear view mirror to you when he propped his arm behind your headrest to make sure the road was clear, speaking again with all your focus studying the way his lips moved with every low syllable, “it’s more fun keepin’ you in suspense.”

head dropping from the clouds, you glared at him, unsure if you were more annoyed at his self assured grin or yourself for throbbing from it, leaning down to tie the lace of your boots, “fine, last time i'm offering though.”

katsuki shook his head, exiting onto the road towards the cinema, ending the conversation there, and leaving you both to settle into a comfortable air, sometimes dropping into silence, sometimes a casual conversation about your hero work until you reached the quiet theatre, arriving with plenty of time to spare before your screening. the lot was dead, nowhere near as busy as you expected it to be, katsuki parking with no one else beside him for at least twenty feet in each direction.

locking his car, you both made your way inside, side by side through the glass doors of the cinema, decorated for today with original posters, thin black fabric on the walls, the doors spattered with dark red fake blood, even the employee checking tickets adorning a flimsy ghostface mask. you were practically buzzing with excitement, squeezing his forearm when you saw the guy ahead, handing your ticket over for him to scan. the corner of his lip twitched in a grin, never seeing you geek out quite so much like you were right now, your eyes shining with excitement right up until he turned to face the fabric screen playing static.

the static soon faded into the production logos, and finally, the title screen; scream. you were vibrating in your seat, eyes glued to the screen so much you hardly had any of the popcorn he’d got for you both to share, only occasionally did you reach for the cup to take large sips, all without tearing your eyes from the screen. katsuki was even beginning to question the last time you blinked.

gradually, as the movie went on, he noticed your minute squirming more and more, first dismissing it as discomfort from sitting in the one spot too long, but the longer he fixated on you, the more he noticed your inability to remain still, your legs crossing and uncrossing every five minutes. your clothes rubbed against the fabric of the chair with every wriggle, the rustling having him observe you from the corner of his eye more than he watched the final act, deep red irises catching you swipe your tongue across your lips, your sparkling eyes darting around the screen, your black skirt doing nothing to hide the way your thighs were pressed tightly together.

your wide pupils reflected the carmine on the screen, heart eyes locked on the blood spattered slashers on the screen, your ears blocking out the monologue to focus entirely on the villain’s bloody face, lips just parting to release a short puff of breath you didn’t know you were holding in your heaving chest.

realising he was staring, katsuki clenched his sharp jaw and focused back on the crescendo of the third act, trying to ignore the way you kept writhing right up until the credits were rolling. you stayed fixated, entranced, for a minute longer, unable to hide your smile when the lights slowly turned back up, illuminating your shiny, plump lips and your hungry eyes. without wasting another second you started gushing over the movie without looking at katsuki, half of your words running into the next without so much as a breath between them, sounding more like the obsessive deku the longer you prattled on about the characters and theories.

you were still chatting his ear off when you both made your way down the carpeted stairs towards the exit, past the decorations and blood splatter once more, out of the dead theatre, spotting only one or two employees left cleaning counters and floor as you left, their costume discarded on the counter as they swept.

exiting into the night, a gentle icy wind blew through your body, making a shiver wrack your body. you gripped katsuki's wrist to drag him faster to his car, desperate to retrieve your forgotten sweater from underneath the passenger seat before your lips turned blue. your tugging did little to change his pace, his heavy boots stomping along the paved car park, illuminated only by the moon and a singular lit lamppost just outside the cinemas doors, his car shrouded in the darkness of the night, alone in the lot.

chirping as it unlocked, you swung the door open immediately, digging around under the passenger seat where you knew you’d dropped the sweater, not paying attention to your friend climbing into the driver's seat beside you, still rummaging around under the seat when he made a disapproving sound. finally getting hold of the soft fabric of the sweater, you pulled it from under the seat, and into your lap to untangle the sleeves of it while eyeing katsuki, catching the signature scowl gracing his lips, although this one seemed tinged with confusion, tongue clicking against his teeth as the dashboard made a beeping sound once more before it turned dark. you watched him try it once more with a frustrated curse, “useless fucking thing.”

you pulled the sweater over your head, confusion painted on your face now, too, as you watched him reach under the steering wheel to click the lock for the metal bonnet.

“what’s going on?” curiously, you leaned over to peer at the dashboard with him, watching his nimble fingers unbuckle his seatbelt and climb from the car.

“‘m not sure yet, battery might be dead.” he grunted, closing the driver's door to go around the front of the car. you watched him through the pristine windshield until he was blocked by the bonnet being lifted and locked up into place. you followed suit, meeting him around the front, scarlet eyes darted around the metal and tubes and batteries, a muscular arm flexing when he squeezed the metal in frustration, swearing once more.

“shit, i’ll need to call for a jump.” you watched him think, sadly studying the battery that was ruining your plans with your bottom bedside drawer. “oh.”

“wait in the car, i’ll call ei to come help us.'' without question, you nod, studying the way he leaned back on the car, pulling up the number pad, rapidly typing in both of your closest friends' number. sparing one last glance up at him, you caught the unreadable look on katsuki’s face, an expression of his you’d never seen before, crimson eyes glaring down at the technology in front of him.

climbing once more into the car, you relaxed as much as you could into the seat, slipping your heavy boots off your feet with your body thrumming, no way to sit comfortably with the way your pussy throbbed against the seam of your panties, your hips jolting forward whenever you sat a certain way, the slashers bloody ghost mask imprinted behind your eyelids each time you blinked. your cheeks were hot, embarrassed to be so desperate from a movie, but still praying eijirou would rush to save you both to solve katsuki’s problem and let you get home to fix yours.

you squirmed in the seat, your skin hot on the leather while you eyed the dark streets, hope growing in you with every car that drove down the street, only to be crushed when they continued past the cinema. waiting for a moment longer with quivering thighs squeezed together, you finally huffed and opened the passenger door, “katsuki? did he answer?”

a beat went by, nothing responded to you except the soft chirp of crickets nestled in the dark of the greenery sprinkled around.

“katsuki?” you repeated, your voice a bit louder, and still you heard nothing back, the silence interrupted by the vibrating of your phone.

left all alone, sweetheart? 12:41am

you reread the text from the unknown number with your heart in your throat, nervously watching a typing bubble pop up beneath it.

you climbed off the seat warmed by your body to take on the cool night in search for your silent friend, the skin of your thighs erupting in goosebumps the moment your light feet landed on the ground, wrapping tingling arms around your torso, you attempted to rationalise while you watched the bubble disappear. rounding the front of the car, you scanned the space in front of the car, expecting to see the hulking blond standing there, ready to jump out and scare you, instead, the spot was empty, not a trace he’d even been there to begin with.

brave little hero. you’re not the type to run headfirst into danger.12:42am

let’s play a game, see if you can win him back, sweetheart. 12:42am

your breath was knocked from your chest reading the text, your heartbeat deafening when you choked out his name once more, your tone painted with worry.

“i swear to god, if this is a joke i'll make sure no one hears from you ever again.” shivering, and not from the cold, your voice shook, wide eyes not conveying the threatening aura you were trying to achieve, nor your entire trust in this only being a joke.

and if you get an answer wrong i’ll make sure no one finds you. 12:42am

your blood ran cold feeling the phone buzz again, your face still shamefully warm when your cunt throbbed at the threat, fear and need settling in the pit of your stomach. sucking in a breath, you shouted at nothing, “fine!”

you’ll be a good final girl. 12:43am

if you’re smart about it. 12:43am

you crept around the car silently, sticking close by the lifted hood to scan the darkness around you, sneaking around the side to get back inside the car, desperate to get back to safety, wanting to think this through, to be smart about getting katsuki back by your side. seeing no one, you darted for the driver’s side door, tugging on the smooth handle with trembling hands, the lock unlatching only for a moment before being shoved shut once more with a strong, scarred hand planted on the window, causing you to squeal in surprise when the door slammed with a thud.

“wrong move, final girl,” his deep voice whispered in your ear, feeling like it was echoing all around you, his free hand clamping around your hip to keep your weak legs upright. your stalker smiled into your hair, ego swelling at how easily he had you worked up from a few threatening texts, “how wet are you right now?”

katsuki rasped, voice impossibly deeper, his nose bumping your temple when he spoke. heat flushed through your body, embarrassment pooling in your stomach, only adding to the drippiness of your needy pussy.

“what?”

“what?” he mocked, “you think i wouldn’t notice you humpin the fuckin air in there? what was it, sweetheart? the blood, or the fear?”

sharp teeth emphasised his final question, canines catching on your sensitive lobe, his hand tightening around your hip, pinning you hard between his thick chest and tumid car.

“i don't have any idea what youre talking about.” your voice was an uneven, unconvincing murmur, your breath fogging on the window in front of your face, blurring your view of him, bar a sliver of the cherry-red of his irises reflecting back at you. you felt the fervid heat of his eyes on yours as if there wasn’t a single obstacle between you and him, the burn of his gaze dropping down to your lips when you surrendered a shuddering breath.

“you don’t?” you shook your head, barely disturbing the air around you, more shy than you ever had been since knowing him, “that didn’t turn you on at all?”

you shook your head once more, your gaze averting to the ground beneath your feet, suddenly interested in the shine of the lamplight on his boots instead of his interrogating, knowing he already knew the answers to every question he asked you.

his calloused fingertips ran up your plush, pillowy thighs, blunt fingernails digging in at the peak, a mere inch away from your dripping core, “c’mon, final girl, tell the truth, and i’ll stop.”

he got impossibly closer, crowding over you with a thick forearm sliding around your waist, settling in where he remained still, the hairs on the back of your neck standing when you felt his gentle breath there. your hips jerked forward into his biting nails, surely leaving half-moon indent in the soft skin underneath them. you felt his cocky smile in your hair when a low mewl reverberated in your throat, your bitten lips smothering the sound almost imperceptibly, “please, don’t stop.”

katsuki heard you, his ears so attuned to your voice, he’d hear you in a sea of half a million people, loud and clear. still, he let his fingers drop further away from where you needed him, incessant in his teasing, “what was that? “please stop”?”

his hold around you loosened, his boot disappearing from your view when he took a step back, this time it was your fingers digging into the skin of his forearm, pulling him close to you, “no, katsuki, please don’t stop.”

he didn’t need to hear a single word more from you, his cock already straining against his pants hearing your shaky voice beg only twice for him. he cursed again, his fingers gliding over your skin, not going to deny you, or himself, the pleasure of dipping his fingers into your sopping cunt.

a high pitched mewl escaped you when he swiped his thumb over your slit, the soaking fabric still separating you two doing nothing to weaken the pleasure his skilled fingers brought you, enough to have your hips bucking into his hold again. katsuki’s devilish laugh tickles the back of your neck, your eyelids becoming heavy with need filling your veins, adrenaline keeping your heart beating loudly in your ears, and lightning through your body when he finally slips his fingers under the waistband of your panties, hardened fingertips free to touch your core any way he desired. snaking his free hand up your body, katsuki brushed the hair from your neck, letting his hand rest slackly at the base of your throat, leaving the junction where your shoulder met your neck free for him to plant his lips there, sucking your skin into his mouth, bringing your blood as close to the surface of your skin as he could without a buck knife of his own. you crooned, warm body melting into the blond’s touch, stumbling back over your own feet when he slid his hand under your skirt to pull you back a foot by your hip, holding you hard to his chest, a thick, powerful arm holding you upright. your lustful eyes were trained on his hand when it abandoned its hold on your throat, committing every flaw, divot, vein and scar to memory while he yanked the shiny handle, shoving it further out of his way with his shoulder before he let you drop forward again; missing his strength to keep your goo-like legs holding you up, you stumbled forward into the car, catching yourself on the driver's seat with your forearms, a stammer forced from your chest when you landed on your palms. you peer over your shoulder at him with wild, hazy eyes, adjusting yourself up on your hands, his hot hands pushing down on the small of your back to keep you firmly against the leather before you get too comfortable, marvelling at the feel of your hammering heart against the soft seat.

katsuki’s hands at the nape of your neck and the small of your back forced you to arch your back further, your plush ass pressing back into him when he lifted your head a couple of inches off the material by your hair, eliciting a high-pitched gasp from you, “say it again.”

there wasn’t a trace of a request in his tone, it was a simple demand, accentuated by the large hand pressing down harder on your back, contorting your body in an uncomfortable pose you’d be relieved of the second he had your approval once more, your trembling figure entirely in control of him despite his incredible strength holding you down.

“i need you, ‘ki, don’t stop.” your head fell forward, your ass pushed back against his hard cock, your stammer breathless but clear when you spoke, your shining lips parting to moan lowly when he released your hair to tease your core again, deft fingers fucking into you again, deeper than they were before when he was focused on taking your attention from the stupid slasher on the screen inside. now his attention was turned to having your pussy clenching him as soon as possible.

the blond behind you groaned, feeling your tight cunt hug his digits, squeezing like you were trying to swallow him deeper and deeper, mesmerised by the way you took him, your blushing, wanton face already marking the soft material of the seat with your foundation and he wasn’t even close to being done toying with you. you were already soaking after the little he was giving you, the movie and now his teasing ministrations having you dripping, hole clenching in anticipation; unnecessary for him to continue pumping his fingers in and out of you other than for his own lewd entertainment, needing to commit the sight to memory in case it never happened again.

“keep talkin’ to me, final girl, you want me to stop?”

you shook your head, your face buried in the crook of your elbow and your back arching into his touch, a long moan escaping you, getting closer and closer to cumming around his fingers, lewd squelching echoing in the dark night.

“you want me to fuck you like this?”

“mhm!”

“you thinkin’ of me or that pathetic slasher, huh?” katsuki's fingers curled as he whispered, forcing a choked gasp from you, any answer slipping from your mind when his fingertips grazed that sensitive spot inside you, your brain going blank, your vision turning white.

colour returned to your vision far too quickly, your bleary eyes snapping open, staring behind you where katsuki stood tall, one hand still pressing down on your back but no other part of him touching you, his wet fingers at his mouth instead of inside your aching pussy, sucking the two into his mouth, smirking down at your shocked face, one eyebrow raising when your mouth bobbed open and shut noiselessly.

“you’re not gonna be thinking of that pitiful ghostface when i fuck you,” the moonlight shining behind him cast his menacing face in darkness, only his eyes and sharp canines glowing from the shadows when he spoke, voice deep and gravelly with his own desire, unable to deny himself your sweet cunt any longer. his dexterous fingers working the shining steel button on his pants undone while you beam up at him, entranced by his bared teeth, narrow scarlet eyes watching you, blond locks hanging over his face when his stare shifted down, lining himself up with your sloppy hole, “you’re gonna be thinking. of. me.”

he sunk into you, word by demanding word, inch by salacious inch, until your eyes were rolling back into your skull, cock moulding your throbbing, silken cunt to the shape of him. 

“katsukiiiii,” you panted, earning a sharp snap of his hips bumping your forward in the car across the seat, your soft sweater doing nothing but glide against the material, digging your fingernails into the soft leather, you tried to hold yourself still, an impossible feat against the strength of his movements.

katsuki’s hot hands seized your hips, pulling you back in time with him thrusting forward, his hips pressing into your squishy thighs hard enough to leave a dark bruise before he was pulling back out to fuck you hard again, his dominance making your pussy squeeze tighter around him, leaving you to helplessly cry out broken stammers of his name beneath him until your voice broke, your breathing growing faster, harder, with his movements, “oh-h, ka-katsuki, ‘m close.”

your slurring words had him fucking ever harder into you, helping you chase the orgasm you’d been desperate for since the second act, shifting your hips to have the head of his cock brushing the spongy spot deep inside your pretty cunt, hitting it again and again until you were squealing, creamy cum gushing out of you to collect around the base of his thick cock in a lewd ring. despite your spasming pussy, katsuki’s vice-like grip didn’t loosen, virile fingers splayed over your shaking hips, pulling them up to keep his pace, dragging his veiny cock in and out of you, watching your cum gather and drip down him to the ground below.

his cock felt like it was in your throat, every thrust forcing out garbled moans into the night air, even a deep sigh escaping the blond above you when your thighs twitched and trembled again. katsuki slid a hand up your spine from your hip, pushing your face back down with a strong grip on the back of your skull, leaning forward to grind deeper inside you, revelling in your muffled whine, watching the way your eyes widened before rolling back again, “you’re gonna cum again?”

katsuki’s mocking tone was uneven, tinged with his own impending end, but you still heard the cocky smile in his voice, his ego ever ballooning at the ease he worked you up, revelling in the warm squeeze of your thirsty cunt around his cock, more and more wetness dripping from you to collect around him. still, you nodded, too delirious to even try and deny the effect he had on you, your tense thighs and delirium only inflating his ego more.

“who makes you feel like this, huh?” his voice was a hoarse whisper now, thick eyebrows scrunching when you squeeze around him again, just from his voice and the stretch of his cock.

“you! you do, katsuki!” you choke out his name once more, your voice still muffled against the seat, his hand at the small of your back doing little to stop you standing on the very tip of your toes to swallow his cock deeper until he matched you with his own stammer of your name, pushing your head down harder as he stood up again, fucking rougher into you, faster, abusing your hole to get to his own end with you.

repeating his name like a mantra, your whole body tensed under him like you’d been shocked, a long whine of his name when you came intensely around him again, your high pitched keen making him follow suit, holding you firm against him, emptying himself into you, thrusting shallowly twice more to fuck his cum deep into you before he laid atop you with a low groan of his own.

you whimpered underneath him, your cunt still tight around him while you both started to calm, heart rates returning to normal, sweating skin cooling rapidly in the night air. you both laid still for a moment, bodies relaxing into the leather like you were in a liquid state, a soft whimper escaping you every so often as the last waves of your orgasm washed over you; similarly, katsuki remained still, gently releasing his grip on the back of your head to hold himself up above you before gingerly standing back up behind you, slowly pulling out of you with a soft wince at the sensitivity, glancing back up to study your face when you shivered at the loss of his warm body.

he leans over you to twist his keys in the ignition, the car starting with a low rumble, air blowing from the vents quickly warming both you and the car. you gawk up at him, stars still in your eyes when you connect the dots, “your car’s been fine the whole time?!”

he slides your soaking wet panties back up your thighs, snapping the waistband against your skin once they sat comfortably on your hips again,“obviously, the final girl’s supposed to notice that.” 

“the final girl was a bit preoccupied.” you glare, gasping again when his fingers loosely loops around your throat to pull you up to stand in front of him again, lust dripping from his near-silent voice, “well, it’s just your luck the final girl owes me a favour…wanna see if you’ll survive the sequel?"

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[writingoddess1125]

Deadpool Headcanon

Dad!Deadpool and GN Reader

Fluffy Weirdness

Kinda just came to me so enjoy? 🤷🏼

Masterlist <<

Kofi <<

• Deadpool, finds out that he has a teenage kid, (Y/N) by total accident.

• A relative of a old fling of his telling him they had his kid before disappearing themselves.

• His reaction is a delightful mix of shock, denial, and inappropriate jokes.

"Wait, I'm someone's dad? Damn- They must be fucked up!"

• But underneath all the sarcasm and one-liners, the idea begins to settle into his brain.

• A tinge of fear eats at his brain and itches under his skin..

• When Wade first digs into (Y/N)’s background—using his "very legal" skills—it’s mostly to make sure they’re not a mini supervillain in training.

• But what he finds instead knocks the wind out of him: (Y/N) has been in and out of the foster system for years.

• That hits him harder than he'd like to admit- making him pace a bit back and forth in thought.

• At first, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

• His own past was screwed up, but seeing his kid going through the same kind of instability?

• It messes with him. Wade cracks a joke to numb the ache.

“Of course, my kid’s in the system… couldn’t have inherited my charm or good looks, huh?”

• Deadpool starts paying more attention, following (Y/N) closely.

• He watches them move from one foster home to another, each one more temporary than the last.

• Sometimes (Y/N) would get picked up by a social worker right after school, with nothing more than a worn-out backpack slung over their shoulder.

• Wade stays out of sight, gripping his weapons tighter than he should, resisting the urge to intervene... for now.

• Seeing (Y/N) trying to stay strong, dealing with bullies, shifting from home to home, makes something snap inside Wade.

• He realizes he’s angry, really angry. No kid, especially not ***his kid*** , should have to feel so lost and abandoned.

• He remembers what it was like to feel that way, and no amount of sex, drugs, or killing can take the edge off that pain.

• Wade starts leaving more than just quirky gifts. In (Y/N)’s locker, there’s a new hoodie with a note, “To make you feel less invisible. You’re worth more than these idiots know. ~ D.”

• Another time, a stuffed unicorn with a note, "Even the toughest need a cuddle buddy." One day, Wade overhears (Y/N) talking to a friend about how they’ll probably get moved again soon

"Yeah, these fosters are.. assholes to put it mildly" (Y/N) jest to one of the few friends they have. Not knowing the hoodie that had mysteriously appeared had a wire hidden in it.

• That night, a hefty envelope shows up in their locker, stuffed with cash and a note that says, “You ever need a place to crash? You’ve got options. Let me know when you’re ready. P.S. This is totally not a bribe. ~D”

"I'm probably gonna get moved again-"

• Deadpool even starts anonymously dropping hints to social workers that (Y/N) should stay in one stable placement, using his "subtle" methods to make sure they’re treated better. He also might’ve scared a foster parent or two into straightening up.

• It doesn't take long for (Y/N) to get to notice all the changes- The social workers treating them better, and now getting to stay with an actually nice family.

• He watches (Y/N) cope with it all, still from a distance hkwever, but now more protective than ever. He knows he can’t change the past, but he can sure as hell make sure (Y/N) doesn’t feel abandoned anymore.

Mini Shot

(Y/N) sat on the roof of the foster home, the cool breeze brushing against their face as they stared out into the dimly lit neighborhood wrapping their read hoodie tighter around themselves. As they sat something caught their eye—a shadowy figure across the way from them perfectly out of view, watching them from a distance. Their heart skipped a beat at first in fear, However after a moment a wash of a unknown familiarity seemed to hit.

Before they could stop themselves, (Y/N) called out softly, "Thank you."

The figure stepped into the light just enough for (Y/N) to catch a glimpse of their hand as they gave them a casual thumbs up.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the night as (Y/N) watched. A sense of pride in Wade's step as he headed off. He'd done it—he'd helped his kid in some way.

And that was enough..

For now

[slowd1ving]

FANTASMAS ゜・BLADE NSFW

"solo miro fantasmas están dentro de ti." - fantasmas (twin tribes) continuation of roommate au kind of part 2 to both ain't shit see here for some basic designs for them male reader warnings: male reader, amab reader, porn with plot, bottom reader, band au, blade's kinda obsessive, he's also in denial for like half the fic wc: 6.9k (unintentional)

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

With the piercing light of day shining upon this nondescript building, it resembles every other office in the vicinity: cold grey facade, nauseatingly plain decor, and workers that look like they’d rather be anywhere but here. But as the sun kisses the horizon and the stars scatter across the fabric blanketing the world, the infamous ‘underground’ opens—a venue beloved by local bands and those looking to drink until dawn.

It’s no surprise that Kafka’s there tonight; she’s lounging at the back with her magenta irises fixed right on the stage while her maraschino pout sips at her cocktail. The dim hall hosts dozens of people, if not about a hundred—all eagerly waiting for the arrival of the Trailblazers, bodies pressed against bodies and barely anyone sitting at the pushed-back tables near the walls. That’s why it’s perfect that she’s here and not at the front—otherwise, she’s sure the pretty flame-haired Trailblazer’s manager will notice her and give her that glare. She doesn’t want to get on her bad side, not today. 

She’s mildly astonished that Blade tagged along to scout them out of his own volition; the only member he knows for sure is Dan Heng, and anyone and everyone with a brain knows how tense things are between them. Well, it’s not entirely accurate to say he knows only one of the members behind their varied masks—there’s still you, but she doubts he’s figured it out for himself that you’re the guitarist in particular. 

The man next to her might appear relaxed—body pressed against the back of the cherry-red seating, legs spread with fingers tapping languidly on his thighs—but Kafka likes to think she can read people a lot better than that. He’s as… naive, she’d like to put it, as ever—thinking he can hide his feelings as though he doesn’t wear his pulsating, visceral heart on his sleeve for everyone to look at. 

There’s a simmering anger lying beneath his milky dermis; like his eyes, it is red-hot and coils his body inwards with a thick tension. She doesn’t know what happened these past few days, but she knows for sure he’s gotten worse—pupils honed in right on the platform in the front and not a swill taken from the liquor on the table. 

(Wine flows—the man who does not partake will sorely regret what he sees sober, she later comments in her journal.)

It’s not like you’re any better; a good mood stretched your lips into a smile as bright and messy as yolk when you saw her a few days ago. Still, any explanation for Blade’s bad mood was encapsulated in one neat, cruel word: payback. 

Several meanings can be attached to this—and these have been duly noted in the journal she keeps on the side. 

The clearest red thread she can find in this investigation is that this has something to do with you, and maybe the bassist currently setting up on stage with a delicate, draconic mask perched across his features—judging by the way Blade’s fingers dig right into the plush of his thighs. 

Oh, her mouth suppresses a bloodied smile—this is interesting. 

She doesn’t watch you in your Venetian mask—a fragile one that spans three-quarters of your face, a Phantom of the Opera style she does appreciate. 

No, actually, she glances at the revealing top you’re wearing and makes out several bite marks and bruises in the strobe lighting—putting two and two together quite quickly. Ah. No wonder he’s pissed. 

She then, very efficiently, decides it will be far more amusing to watch Blade’s expression surreptitiously as he slowly figures it out. 

Just who exactly is that guitarist?

It weighs on his mind—heavy, uncomfortable. He loathes Dan Heng, and the rest of the Trailblazers by proxy; even without the ongoing feud, he’d hate them regardless. While he did come to the performance to clear his head and remind him of exactly who he’s up against, he can’t help but gaze at the person currently plugging in his guitar. 

Stop. 

Pungent copper warmth spills into his mouth as he bites hard into his cheek; bleeding sanguine replaces the lingering caress of whiskey on his taste buds. 

Yet still—as the strobe dies down and a haunting, ghostly incandescence shimmers over the band—his eyes continue to trace his figure. 

His flimsy shirt rides up his stomach as he loops the guitar around his neck, and Blade can feel his mouth go dry. Damn you—he can’t stop thinking about that scene he almost walked in a few days ago, and now that small patch of skin is making him imagine what it would be like with a guy. 

This venue is for the amateurish bands—ones that won’t ever make it big but still have a loyal base of dedicated followers. Very technically speaking, the Trailblazers are popular and rightfully so: skill macerates itself into their songs. Yet, he can’t help the dislike that taints his perception of their music. 

The vocalist’s voice is well suited to this genre—long grey hair framing a golden mask while she sings, but he’s more focused on the melody accompanying it. There’s several embellishments on the guitar chords accompanying it that his ears pick up: too used to your irritating playing to ignore them. Nothing too wild, just some flair he begrudgingly appreciates. 

He can only focus on the guitarist, not even sparing a glare at the bassist close to them. 

It’s in the second song you finally have a solo: a long riff that appears to be a crowd favourite, stirring a hitched breath from him. 

Familiar, it somehow seems—something along your style but he’d be damned if he ever heard this from you. 

He loses track of the minutes that turn into well over an hour. 

The atmosphere in the club has shifted significantly—expectant. It appears to be one of the last songs; and Blade’s ashamed that the time passed quickly for him. 

Too busy staring at the guitarist, he can hear future Kafka tease, and he clenches his fists in his lap.

“Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips,” 

You’ve done nothing but play the electric guitar, which is why he widens his eyes in surprise as your mouth opens and you lean into the vocalist’s mic. A melancholy synth accompanies the bittersweet song—with a deeper voice that makes your face flash in his mind. 

Can’t be. 

“Arsenic on your tongue.”

Involuntarily, that scene of you with Dan Heng’s lips against yours takes up the space in his mind—all-consuming, fury-inducing. 

“Frankly, dear, you could send me to the tomb,”

He downs the hard liquor that’s been sitting on the table for the past hour. God, he sounds perfect: making his dick twitch in his pants as he imagines this voice in his headphones. 

“Pressing your hands to my frigid cadaver,”

His breathing becomes slightly more shallow as he notices how the flimsy shirt finally sticks in a way that half-exposes the guitarist’s chest—a prominent bite-mark just peeking out from the side.

“One live pulse and the other lifeless,”

The lighting shifts to illuminate you more, and he can suddenly see the slight discolouration against his slicked collarbone and sweat-soaked neck—bruises which feel slightly off, in the sense that Blade’s stomach grows tight and his heart pounds fast and hard against his lungs. 

“And still I’d wait, Styx cradling me in its miasma—”

His eyes sweep across the room and land directly on Blade’s, and there’s something so familiar in that gaze that he can’t look away. 

“Is my apostasy enough for you?”

It’s past one in the morning when he leaves the venue—cold air nipping at his arms as Kafka waves him goodbye and he drives home with the icy street lamps lighting his way. In the privacy of his car, he finds the specific song online—letting the guitarist’s honey-rich voice sweep over him, before his heart begins thrumming uncontrollably.

He’s onto something—a specific line of thinking that feels so ludicrous he can’t help but scoff at himself as he parks. 

Ridiculous, he thinks. Perhaps it’s simply human nature to deny that which brings discomfort. 

Cognitive dissonance. 

But there’s no one at the apartment. Not a dim slit of light on the wall opposite your door—where it’s almost a daily occurrence at the young hours of the night. In fact, your slightly open door (and here his heart pangs at the thought of that day) indicates not a soul currently inhabits the empty room. He stands there for a long time, staring. 

You can’t…

Tongue leaden, he makes his way to the living room: sinking into the couch while his rubine eyes fix themselves on the door. He loosens the buttons of his shirt, running his tired hands through his inky spills of hair. He’s good at the waiting game; the minutes may drag out infinitely, but he wills himself to sit in silence. 

It’s far past two when you finally stumble in—a long coat bundled over casual clothes that make the tension in his shoulders dissipate slightly. There’s a bag clutched in your hands but no signs of a guitar case. 

Why does he feel so relieved?

You finally notice him: locking eyes, yet not saying anything. His lips press together, then part suddenly.

“Where were you?” It sounds accusatory, and he supposes it is. Don’t tell me what I’m thinking is true. 

“Out,” you reply shortly. His fingers clench around one of the pillows next to him. 

You won’t answer. There’s no point in asking anymore; with gritted teeth, he knows the taste of futility. It seeps bitter in his mouth as he lights the small amber lamp on the coffee table—attempting to numb his mind through the tried-and-true method of reading upon the principles of cement and composites. 

As he hears the steady stream of the shower, his plans go awry. Those same words he’s memorised blur in his vision when his mind conjures you. 

Don’t. 

Where were you?

He’s sliding his book back onto the shelf as your soft footsteps pad out of the bathroom. When his head turns, you’re wearing only a towel: steam still rising from your warm body as you don’t spare him a glance. 

Perhaps it’s fate. 

Perhaps it’s his own fault for getting his hopes up. 

You pass by him—too close, he thinks, you’re much too close—and your bare torso is right there. 

As is the bite-mark that caught his eye earlier. 

When those chromatic eyes trace the expanse of your trapezius muscles, each and every bruise matches the practical constellation he saw littering the guitarist’s body. The dips in your arms, the specific shade of tinted lips you’d sported, each valley and plane of the guitarist’s body—all pointed to the two being one and the same. 

His chest is impossibly taut; only when you clear your throat does he realise he’s standing in the doorway. A fitting Cerebus to this household—if he could, he’d keep you here forever and not let anyone else in. 

“Do you have a problem?” you ask, and it’s the perfect, tired pitch that just about stirs his inky spills of hair and makes his eyes heavy with lust. 

“Maybe,” he accedes in his own low voice, too busy wondering how your songs would taste to notice you getting slightly closer. 

No, that’s a lie. He notices—feeling and seeing the small wisps of vapour still cling to you from your shower  (and now him). He inhales, slowly savouring the unique flavour of you: burnt sugar curling honey-sweet from your lips, the shower gel he knows you just randomly grabbed—it’s the one he uses too, the faint tendrils of sweat and steam and lotion that each have their own distinct tang. 

His nose is level with yours: he can feel the faint fan of particles that brush across him. It’s not that which causes his nails to dig into his palms, but rather the quirk of your brow as you ever-so-slightly raise it. 

“What—no girls to warm up your bed and cure your boredom?” 

It’s a question that could insinuate two meanings. First, that you’re simply mocking him and his previous activities. The second implies that he’s desperate enough to seek you out. 

“No fellow Trailblazer to warm yours?” he bites out. Question for a question—and perhaps he’s slightly sick for enjoying how your eyes widen in abrupt shock. 

“Does that matter?” It’s almost like a game at this point—defences and hackles raised, inching to total annihilation by inquiry. Maybe you’ve realised it’s futile to deny it; a frown settles on your face with a matching glare. After all, for the average student, coming across a member of the bands—Knights of Beauty, Galaxy Rangers, the Family (to name a few)—isn’t a big deal. 

But he’s not the average student. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It really does.”

Oh. Oh.

He watches as you piece it together—noting his connection to Kafka, the drumkit in his room, and his clear hostility towards Dan Heng. He watches as you accidentally take a step back into the large shelf, watches as you furrow your brows in the way he spots when you’re solving a particularly difficult problem. 

“You’re a damn headache, you know that.”

There’s no malice in your eyes, but he can feel you slipping from his fingers; he can hear the cogs in your brain turn with certainty as you look away with resolve. He’s going to move out—Blade realises, and it’s perhaps the second time in his life that he regrets letting his heart seep through his lips with that sort of confession. Suddenly, he’s stepping forward: hand wrapping tightly around your wrist, with less-than-bruising strength. 

Fuck. The back-and-forth from earlier reminds him exactly of the position he’s in: practically caging you against the wooden frame while you’re still warm and damp from the shower. He’s lucky he wore loose trousers out—and you’re too busy glancing at him in surprise to notice him straining against them. 

“Blade—”

“Yingxing.” He’s not quite sure why he interrupts. Like a gaping wound, he’s ripped past the scab and hit tender flesh. 

He can’t define where the firm line between you and him is. 

And maybe he’s your roommate and there’s a messy boundary constructed by both parties, but there’s something pressing his lungs tight against bone.

“—Yingxing,” you taste carefully: sampling the two characters in your poisonous mouth. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The normally-collected engineering student has abandoned his wits—gazing at you like a man half-starved. 

“Making you stay,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to move out—don’t we work well together?”

I can treat you so right. His thigh cants against your legs, and he hears you inhale sharply. Fuck. 

Bringing your wrist to his face, he presses his lips to the skin—burning, as some would say, so utterly contrasting with his colder image that it brings about an effect of cognitive dissonance. What’s so good about Dan Heng?

“You’re such a prick,” you hiss, and he feels the words pierce right through him. He is. Objectively, he knows he’s a bastard—unapologetically, wholeheartedly—but you don’t make an effort to pull away. 

“I am,” he admits in a tired, low voice. He doesn’t know if it’s the steely look in your eyes, or the firm set of your mouth—yet he thinks you’ve rooted him in place instead of the opposite. 

Why? If he gets involved with his roommate of all people, it would turn blurry boundaries into cacophonous messes—and it’s not like he wants you to leave. It would be far simpler to let you move out; slice away the relationship cleanly before his heart tightens any further. 

“Do you find it fun fucking with people like this?” 

He looks at you. Really, he does. 

Guitarist. Physics student. Capable scholar. Then there’s that—Trailblazer. 

But there’s also that. 

My roommate. 

So many concepts to consider, when that’s only surface level. He’s never had to think so hard about someone before: preferring to not know them at all. 

“Hah.” You sound incredulous. “Are you this fucking indecisive with everyone?”

“No,” he finally replies. “Just you.”

It’s then that he releases your wrist. You’ll walk away. In line with his own predictions, he already knows you’ll barge past him—perhaps knocking a book or two off his shelf. 

But, no—

“Do you ever shut up?”

—you seem to defy his expectations each time. 

His eyes flicker to your mouth, and this time you take notice. 

Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips. How fitting. 

His eyes widen as you roughly grasp the front of his shirt: creasing the smooth fabric in your fist as you yank his face forward. It’s as if you’re about to punch him square in the jaw, yet for some reason his heart pounds faster and his cheeks flush ever so slightly. Delicately, yet he is anything but that. 

“Seriously, you’re so—”

The heat consuming him is sweltering and omnipotent. One that controls his limbs like a marionette; he’s already reaching to grasp your chin with his rough hand. You’re warm: exhaling in surprise as his mouth meets yours. 

“Mmh–” Hands worn from playing chords tonight slip from the front of his shirt and slide around his nape. He can feel your fingers entangle themselves in his inky hair, and for once he closes his eyes. You taste like the sweetest poison: traces of cherry syrup and the faint spice of liqueur. 

He should’ve done this sooner. 

Canting his head to the side, he deepens the kiss—tongue spilling into your mouth, twining with your gasps. He presses you against the shelf; his shirt’s becoming damp from the drops of water still clinging to you, but surprisingly, he’s not irritated. If it were anyone else—if it were anyone but you—he would be disgusted. But maybe because it’s you, he just wants to meld his body against yours. 

Perhaps that’s the first sign. 

Arsenic on your tongue. 

Something colourless, without taste. He certainly feels poisoned: heart racing uncontrollably, skin rosy with flush, pupils dilated until the sanguine in his eyes is just a sliver. He pulls back with breaths heavy against the still air. You’re wrapped around his neck, unmoving, and he can’t help but taste victory on his taste buds instead. 

“You’re still not forgiven,” you mutter callously.

“That’s fine.” A thin, sharp smile appears on his face as he leans his face into the crook between your neck and shoulder—practically branding you with the sear of his words against the expanse of your dermis. He’s smiling—grinning—ecstasy racing through his veins as he hears your groans when he presses his open mouth against the flesh. Bruises upon bruises will blossom later on your body; his pants strain at the very thought. 

You’re staying, and his mind goes hazy and numb when he thinks of how you’ll look in his arms come morning—all pretty and fucked-out just for him. 

It’s not like he likes you in that way—it’s simply the most opportune moment to steal you away from Dan Heng’s filthy hands. He saw how the bassist stared at you throughout your parts: heard how that bastard’s hands fumbled on the strings with the lines streaming from your lips. 

No, he doesn’t like his roommate like that. 

Frankly, dear, you could send me to the tomb. 

Why is his heart beating so fast then? When his hand trails to land on your scalding waist, pressing your almost-naked body against his—why does his own body burn?

(Why did he give you his name?)

“Fuck—” you groan as his mouth latches onto your chest: rebranding it on his own terms. He laps up the salt and sweat on your skin—too hazed out to fully take into consideration the effort he’s putting into this. Rather than a rough fuck with his peers, he wants you to enjoy yourself—wants to be acknowledged as better than his nemesis.

His fingers dig into the plush and muscle corded between the planes of hip and rib cage, wrapping until the tips of his hands reach the cobbled path of your spine. You’re so warm: so much so that he can’t stop clutching your body like a lifeline. 

“Wanna go further?” he murmurs against the fat of your chest, feeling the heavy thump–thump of your heart against his lips. 

He pulls back with the sheen of saliva on his lips, gazing up at you with a spoken and unspoken question. Aeons—when you stare back at him with those lowered eyelids and that grin on your lips; when you slither your hands so they entwine against his scalp in his murky locks; when you bring his mouth back to yours in a scorching, open-mouthed kiss—he can feel his body and soul crumble around him into an ashen heap. 

“Thought you didn’t like me.” You catch his lip with your canines, and the sour tang of blood fills his mouth and pools on his tongue. 

Pressing your hands against my frigid cadaver.

“I don’t,” he answers as he pushes you up against his bed—shucking the shirt worn over his tight top onto his floor—and letting your steaming flesh warm up his frigid muscles. 

“Yeah, I don’t like you either,” you reply exasperatedly, raking your nails against the contours of his back while he looks up at you: mouth still latched over where that man left those impressions as if to erase them. 

“So what the fuck are we doing?” you comment in wonder. He doesn’t reply—too busy stripping himself of his top so he can finally feel your bare skin on his like this, flesh squishing against flesh as he kisses you over and over. 

It’s like he’s laving your lips clean with his own, and there’s a trickling understanding somewhere in his subconscious. 

Why is he doing this? Why have you agreed to this?

The two questions ingrain themselves deeply in his troubled mind. 

But when he looks down on the sweat on your face, lips bitten to muffle the noises slipping from your lips, he doesn’t ever want to stop this. 

“Wouldn’t you have hurried up by now?” He doesn’t know what you’re referring to until he recalls how you heard him—and it bothers him how relaxed you sound, how nonplussed you seem, when he’s filled with a seething anger everytime he recalls what he saw when he stumbled on you with Dan Heng splayed bare over you. 

“Why? Want me to recreate the experience?” He won’t ever admit that those sorts of rough fucks aren’t suited for you—he wants to take it slow for once, wants to make you feel good until you completely lose yourself and forget all about that bastard. 

“No—ah,” you grip his hair as his tongue trails down the dips of your stomach, stopping only above the towel still tied above your waist. The hasty tug on his hair elicits a groan out of him; slowly, he can feel his face grow flushed once more at the knowledge that he’s making you lose control. There’s that strain against the fabric of the towel, one that definitely mirrors his own. 

Aeons. 

“Fuck— fuck—” you whine as he slips his hand under the towel, wrapping around your dick with a deftness that doesn’t belie his inexperience with men. He’s a quick study—watching every minute twitch in your expression as he strokes you to full hardness. 

Soft—you’re so pliable as you moan under him, eyes squeezed shut as he observes your face with his smile stretched taut on his face. 

He’s never felt this affectionate towards anyone, and perhaps that’s what he should focus his attention on. He wants to rob you of your breath with his lips, he wants to listen to you forever as he draws out pleasure upon pleasure from you. 

“Ngh–” you whimper as his thumb brushes over your leaking slit, crudely pressing it and letting the precum drip onto his fingers. The rough motions cause the towel to finally drop past your hips, and his breath hitches at the sight of you beneath him—finally, finally. This is the first time that he’s taken his mind off his own pleasure: practically entranced by how you squirm and bite down on your sounds. 

Aeons. Aeons. Aeons. His mind goes numb as you cant your hips into his hand, and his head dips down to capture your noisy mouth with his own. 

Fuck. He doesn’t think he can let you go like this. 

Your nails claw at his back—it only makes him more determined to wrack you with pleasure, to leave you glassy-eyed and mindless to anything but him. 

Forget about the Trailblazers, he wants to say as you arch your back to press yourself more fully against him. Think only about me, he conveys as he twists his hand—and you keen against him. 

He’s in far too deep. 

As you cry out, as thick rivulets of cum paint his skin and yours, as he continues pumping his hand so he can see those pretty tears leak from the sides of your eyes—he’s drunk on the scent of you, drunk on the taste of your moans and the salt of your skin. He laps up each cry you give him eagerly: tasting the complex emotions of blood, tears and that lingering taste of cherry liquor weakly underpinning it all. 

One live pulse and the other lifeless. 

“Ah— mmh—” you choke out, and his face blossoms into such a profound shade of crimson that he buries his face in your neck. He kisses the rhythmic echo of your heartbeat, right where the pulsepoint is situated and thrumming with desperation. 

He’s never felt this urge with any of his other hookups—this stupid willingness to hold your body close to his like this. 

His lips surge to yours once more as his finger slips in you, drinking in the gasp you let out: how your body freezes beneath his, how your body nestles into his closer as your spine reacts to the sudden intrusion. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he breathes as you practically suck him in. “You’re so tight.”

“Don’t do this—ah—often,” you answer through your wavering mouth. Good, he wants to say—but there’s something about commenting on what you just said that prickles him with ominous foreboding. Was it Dan Heng too? Like this, between your legs—drinking in each small mewl that leaves those swollen, bitten lips. 

 Your abdomen tenses and relaxes in short bursts, and he can feel himself stiffen even more against his bed. 

Fuck. 

Impulsively, he dips his head lower so he can suckle right on your mushroom tip. And immediately, your hands move from where they were still scratching up his back to his head—tugging on his hair in a futile attempt to keep yourself grounded. 

He groans around you, and it’s clear you won’t last much longer—not when he’s added another finger, not when he’s carefully taking you deeper down his throat. 

He’s never done this before—never considered doing this—but there’s something about you that makes him want to never think of anyone else but him. 

You’re salty on his tongue—slightly bitter from the residue of cum still dripping from the slit. He licks a long strip from base to tip: trying to accustom himself before he fully commits. It’s clear he’s doing something right; there’s a panting, needy quality to your moans. With his free hand, he strokes your balls to add more hellish stimulation—and suddenly you’re locking your legs around his head. 

His eyelids flutter slightly: busy suppressing the long whine that’s about to emerge from his larynx. Aeons, he should’ve done this sooner. If he could taste you, if he could feel the slick smell of sweat and cum still plastered on your inner thighs earlier like this, if he could be like this sooner—it would’ve been worth asking Kafka for a favour. 

“Ah—” your voice shakes as he slips yet another finger inside while finally taking you fully down his throat: even with you losing control, it’s clear you don’t want to hurt him as you don’t push his head down to deepthroat you. It’s strangely sweet—something caring that just makes him want you to be rougher instead. 

He moans lowly as you pull on his hair desperately again; this is the vibration that finally pushes you over the brink. You spill into his mouth, warm and salty and slightly metallic—and stupid wanting wracks his body. 

Blade swallows it all, continuing to suck you off until he can feel your body tremble beneath him—feel the crushing pressure of your thighs around his head. 

“Want you, fuck,” he murmurs after he pulls away; thin strings of cum still connect him from your tip, and he doesn’t think he’s ever unbuckled his belt so fast. He kisses you as though he’s a man starving: teeth clashing slightly against teeth as he tugs his trousers off. 

“Care— careful,” you breathe unsteadily as he lines himself up, sinking his sharp teeth into your shoulder lightly. “You wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression that you actually like me now.”

And there’s something vulnerable in your tone: a small self-deprecation. He tries ignoring it. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, grasping your warm hand in his own calloused, frigid one. “Wouldn’t want that.”

But his tone is insincere, and he thinks you can tell. 

Somehow. 

Somehow. 

Maybe it’s futile to believe you understand him, yet your piercing eyes and annoyed glare as you look at him are always surface-level: angry but still not resolving to actually move out. You were the one who figured out his intentions from the beginning—irritating you until you simply left—while the other roommates just shivered and slammed the door behind them. 

You stayed. 

He’s been kissing you over and over and over—and he kisses you again now as he slowly sinks into the tight heat of your hole. Fuck. Perhaps if his head was clearer, he’d think about the implications of kissing you in particular when he hasn’t touched lips with anyone else for years. 

He whines lowly as he pushes in deeper. You’re so damn warm—so gorgeous like this: palms splayed against his shoulders, expression all hazy and fucked-out, lips so inviting he has to put his mouth on yours yet again. 

“Fuck,” you hiss into his lips as he bottoms out. It takes all his self-restraint to not cum immediately, adjusting to just how good you feel. 

You cant your hips so you’re rocking back onto him with a satisfied hum. The motion wrangles a moan out of him, but he desperately grips your waist with his strong fingers so you quit moving. 

“Hold on,” he slurs, rubbing small circles on the flesh with his thumbs. He’s throbbing, teeth caught on his lips to keep his mind clear. Shit. To be so close already makes him feel like a virgin again: sensitive at the slightest touch. You seem to be so damn full of surprises. 

“What, surprised it feels like this?” You sound amused, and he looks at you irritably. 

“Yeah,” he leans down and practically moans into your ear, rolling his hips against your plush ass. You shiver slightly, and his lips split wide in a mocking grin at the effect the sound had. 

“You feel so good,” he whines, deliberately dragging out the noise. “Taste so good too.”

“Mmh–” you cover your mouth as he begins moving properly now—yet still so teasingly slow. 

He catches your wrist with a firm hand, gripping it tightly against the bed so he can hear you properly.

“What’s wrong? Surprised—hah—it feels like this?” He throws your words back at you, but it’s not like he’s doing much better. It’s taking everything within him to not just fill you up: letting his cum drip out of you while he stuffs it back in. The thought darkens his red face even further. 

You don’t answer. It’s only natural that he moves agonisingly slow—probing for an answer while his fingers busy themselves by wrapping around your weeping cock, achingly rubbing from shaft to base with a sticky shick-shick noise. 

“I gave you an answer,” he mocks, ignoring the tightness in his stomach when gazing at your teary eyes. So pretty. 

Wordlessly, your free hand that isn’t pinned by Blade trails from his scalp to his nape—and you pull him into you so your lips meet his, scorchingly so. 

“Ngh–” he groans into the kiss, practically feeling his climax build up. He forces it down—too preoccupied in filling you up at the right time, not now. 

“Aeons,” he mutters as he pulls away, and there’s a grin on your lips he wants to wipe off. 

“Does that count?”

He lost this time, but the sight is worth it. 

With a greedy pang of his heart, he pulls his pelvis back until just his shaft remains hooked in your walls—your eyes widen, and this time it’s his turn to smile. 

He slams back in, and the long moan you let out is almost angelic. 

“Fuck, fuck,” you sob out as he drills into you over and over; tacky skin meets tacky skin with a perverted plap-plap, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so euphoric. 

He can feel it on his face: an adoring, almost fanatic look hazing his once-clear red eyes. 

And still I’d wait, Styx cradling me in its miasma.

He wants you.

The man twines his fingers with yours tightly. Possessively. 

“Blade—” you gasp out brokenly as he hits your prostate, kissing the tip right into the nerves with each thrust. His grip on your hand tightens, and you wince at the sudden pressure. 

“Yingxing,” he corrects, speeding up the jerking motions of his other hand. 

Why? Why does he so readily reveal to you what he hides for everyone else?

Fuck. He needs you, so so so badly. 

Your abdomen is taut and quivering, and he knows you’re not far off from climaxing again. Like this, with teary eyes and the impression of petrichor on your rainy lips, he thinks you’ve never looked more captivating. 

Perhaps it’s a fleeting attraction, but in his very bones he can feel his entire existence enrapture himself by you and only you. 

And just like that, your expression changes minutely and he already knows just how close you are to that haunting precipice. 

He twists his hand just so. As expected, you pliantly move your body against his with broken moans: arching into his touch while you tighten around him. You’re shaking—and he’s so close too, just like you. You’ve brought him to the brink so easily, but it’s not the sopping heat of your walls that finally catalyses his sweet downfall. 

“Yingxing,” you breathe. He almost doesn’t catch it, but then you say it again.

“Yingxing.” And this time the sound is so light, so affectionate as you spill all over his abdomen and your own—so airy. It’s enough to push him to that brink; hot ropes of cum spurt deep inside you, and you gasp almost immediately at the intense feeling. 

“Ah—fuck,” you moan out as he rocks into you to ride out his orgasm, something so intense he bites down into your trapezius muscle to keep himself sane. 

It’s indescribable—mind finally going blank as he litters his bites everywhere, prolonging the movement of his hips against yours for as long as he can. And you milk him for all he’s worth; he’s already feeling that relief and exhaustion wash over him even though it’s only been one round. 

He finally lets himself go: practically smothering you with his body as he lies on top of you, still nestled deep within you. 

“I should go,” you say awkwardly, but there’s that tiniest trace of hesitation he can read in your voice that makes him wrap his arms tight around you instead. 

“No.” His own voice is muffled from where his mouth is connected to the bitten flesh of the juncture between shoulder and neck. 

“Fuck do you mean no?” you grumble, but the way you thread a lazy finger through his hair and work through the tangles in his locks makes his heart beat in a way it hadn’t just now. 

What the hell? 

That damn flush on his face is still there—and still, that lovelorn look in his eyes hasn’t faded either. 

“Just stay with me tonight,” he presses kiss after kiss to your shoulder as if to convince you. 

“Hah,” you sigh. There’s a glare trained on the crown of his head—he can feel it without even looking at you. Is that not proof he knows you this well? Can’t you see that? He furrows his brow. 

Is my apostasy enough for you?

“Yingxing—” His heart beats wildly at his name leaving your lips, and he knows he’s screwed. “—you don’t need to keep it up after we’ve already fucked.”

There’s a distraught hesitation in his pulse—it takes him far too long to clock just how he feels about you. 

“Keep what up?” His tone is neutral. Perfectly polite. Ironic, considering his naked form covering yours currently—bathed in a mess of sweat, scratch marks, and cum.

Who is he not to indulge in you?

“This act of affection.” Jet hair flutters back to fan out on his back when you let the strands go. Much like sand in an hourglass, he can feel you slipping away as though you were time itself. “I don’t need it, and I’d prefer you save it for someone you actually like.”

His heart skips a beat, and he sits up, startled. 

“Hit a nerve there, didn’t I,” you mutter, but he barely hears you. Those senseless thoughts—the constant stream of panic and anger and despair—are beginning to emerge from their lairs. In your presence, they always seem to recede: as though you were the salvation he’s been trying to reach in his own myth of Sisyphus. 

You’re leaving after all.

All because of him and his incompetence.

His fingers clasp your own in a softer mirror of before. Whatever you might’ve said lies forever discarded—words resting just within your mouth, not a single syllable crossing the threshold of your lips. You don’t leave, simply gazing at him from where you lie: bare skin of your side pressing against his own naked thigh. 

Don’t you know he sees you and only you?

“Look at me.” For once, the arrogant cadence he wears like a second skin fades as he pleads. “Look at me.”

In the dim amber lighting that sweeps over his cluttered room, it seeps into all four corners and lands on his drum kit sequestered in the corner: the very thing that got him into this mess in the first place. There’s stacks upon stacks of engineering manuals and textbooks organised neatly on his shelves—a passion that you understand, one that you live and breathe with in the same way he does. 

Do you see him?

Do you see him as he sees you?

And finally, the incandescence traces the outlines of him and you. You, peering up at him—eyes lucid and clear despite it being the young hours of the night. Him, gazing down at you—eyes so desperate that he’s reverted back to Yingxing. No longer Blade, but the man beneath the frigid exoshell. 

He raises your joined hands, pressing fragile kiss upon kiss to your fingers and the slight raise of veins on the back of yours. All the while, his eyes don’t waver from yours. 

Your brows twitch; judging by the press of your lips, you’re holding back something along the lines of wow, Yingxing, never took you for a romantic. 

He’s not. 

“Oh,” you breathe. You’re smart; connecting the dots isn’t particularly difficult with a mind as sharply analytical as yours. Constantly questioning, constantly evaluating everything (not limited to the domain of your physics major only) including the human psyche. 

He raises your hand even further, and presses it against his cheek. Scalding skin against boreal dermis. 

You sit up. Expectantly, he waits for you to twist out of his grasp and leave. You’re still naked after all, and he’s talking about feelings right after a hookup. If it was anyone he’d bought home, he’d have kicked them out right there and then. 

But before he can process it, your lips are gently touching his own: about as tender as a flesh wound, raw and throbbing. He makes a surprised sound into your mouth—something between a gasp and a hum, two very conflicting actions that make you smile against his lips. And then you’re kissing him properly, nothing like the lust-driven actions of earlier. 

“Yingxing,” you murmur into his mouth. 

“Yes,” he answers instantaneously.

“You’re still a prick for those stunts you pulled with those drums.”

It’s nighttime, but he’s never felt so at ease as he does tonight. He’s got his head planted firmly on your chest listening to the steady beat of your heart, as you finally slumber in his arms.  

And when the day finally dawns, you will have stayed.

[adventuringblind]

Mentor Them

Lando Norris x Reader X Carlos Sainz

Genre: Smut

summary: Carlos teaches his teammate some good bedroom skills. feelings come to light in the process.

Warnings: Smut, PinV, porn with plot, oral (m and f receiving), denial, overtimulation, Dom Carlos, Sub reader and Lando, bandage

Notes: You know who you are. You did this to me. I will not be speaking on the subject.

Masterlist

Carlos has taken a liking to his younger teammate. He’s also taken an interest in said teammates relationship.

Lando, in the year and a half Carlos has known him, has kept the same girlfriend. But the thing that fascinates him is how oddly similar they are. The only difference is their energy. Lando is a bit more bouncy and chaotic, whereas she is soft-spoken and shy.

Carlos knows it’s weird. But he’s also not oblivious and incredibly intuitive. He notices the flustered laughs and blushes Lando gets when he’s around. He sees how the female looks at him until he catches her.

He knows both well. Wherever one is you can find the other not to far behind. It’s like they are each others safety blanket.

Is it bad he wants to absolutely ruin both of them? He tries not to think about it to much. They just look so soft together that he can’t help himself.

It’s after a race one afternoon that Carlos realizes he may have his fantasy fulfilled after all.

Lando came knocking on the door of his room in the McLaren motorhome. He was already blushing when Carlos let him inside. For the first time in a long time, there is no female in sight and Carlos thinks something bad may have happened.

“I need to ask you something and you’re not aloud to laugh at me.” The Brit says in an arguably strict tone.

“Anything. I won’t laugh.”

“I need help with, uh, bedroom stuff.” He looks down in shame ad Carlos is quick to stand up and lift Lando’s gaze to meet his.

“There is no shame is asking about that.”

Lando looks like he might go into shock but he manages a simple “Okay.”

~

Carlos goes over everything him and Lando had talked about on his way to their room. The two are trying to experiment but have no idea where to start.

Is he taking advantage of the situation? Probably. But for right now he’s just going to let himself enjoy it. Teach them a few things. Maybe even make a mess of them both in the process.

The one thing he’s mildly concerned about is the female. lando had made it clear that he doesn’t care what happens, but she has a tendency to not speak up if she doesn’t like things because she’s afraid of disappointing. It doesn’t help that she is shy and even struggles talking to Carlos despite having known him for awhile now.

Lando also mentioned her ability to not make any sounds during sex like her life depends on it. Her entire body could be spasming and she could still be silent. Another habit he’s hoping to break tonight.

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

~

She has no idea what to expect. Lando and her had been thinking about this for some time now, inviting Carlos to join them. She just wasn’t sure what the whole ‘experimenting’ excuse is about. Her and Lando have done plenty of that!

Dynamics are a little funky a times because they’ve both had to learn to be switch’s. They fumbled for a bit, but she thought they’d done plenty of that and that their sexual health is fantastic.

Then he explained that he kind of fibbed because this counts as experimenting, technically speaking. He also said that Carlos didn’t hesitate to say yes and got excited at the proposal. It makes her wonder if Carlos has also thought about them in this way.

Lando sits next to her on the bed. His arms wrapped around her and his head in the crook of her neck. “remember Carlos doesn’t know how to read you like I do. You’ll have to communicate verbally with him.” She just hums. She doesn’t know why she does it, her voice just leaves during sex and it’s so hard for her to speak. “For me, please?”

“I will, for you.”

They don’t get to continue their conversation as they hear a knock at the door. Lando bounds to go and greet their guest and she curls herself into the corner of the bed. Just her and her breaths for a minute.

The curious sound of something hitting the wall fills her ears. Then follows the wet sound of sloppy kisses and a few moans. Finally they come into view and she can see Carlos smothering Lando in a full mouth kiss. She even thinks she can see the swipe of their tongues every now and then.

When Carlos pulls away, he looks between them with hunger. “Why do I feel like you two actually know exactly what you’re doing?”

“Cause I sorta kinda fibbed.”

“I can tell by the way you let me shove my tongue down your throat with ease.”

Lando blushes at the statement. ‘Oops.”

Carlos sits on the end of the bed and swings himself around to face the female. He motions for Lando to join and a small smirk tugs at his lips when he obeys.

“Complete transparency: I have thought about this for awhile now.”

She exchanges a look with the Brit. Turns out he has been thinking about them as well. “So have we.”

“So the experimenting?”

“Technically this is experimenting.”

Carlos just shakes his head. “You could’ve just asked and I would’ve said yes.”

The girl uncurls from herself just a bit. “It’s hard to do when you have a crush on the person you’re asking.” The smile on Carlos’ face is unreal. He looks ecstatic and it makes her feel fuzzy on the inside. “We were going to ask if you wanted to try things with us. Like, in a romantic sense.”

Her and Lando look at him expectantly. The Spaniards smile seems to grow even more. “Yeah, I think I would like to try that. But I have one condition.”

“And what would that be?” Lando’s tone is a bit snarky but she knows what he’s doing. He has a tendency to rile people up quickly. Namely her. In a sexual way.

“I want to take you both apart tonight.”

The stunned silence that falls between them is ridiculous. the fact that she’s not sure what he means by that and the idea of watching that happened seems very appealing. She does not register, however, that Carlos said both of them. She’d already settled for mostly watching the two of them go at it. Not to much involvement on her end.

There are no words exchanged. Just Lando staring at the Spaniard as if waiting for his doom. Not a bad way to go out really.

And just as suspected, when there is even an inkling of confirmation, Carlos is once again choking his tongue down Lando’s throat. The two of them clamber back onto the bed with nothing but clumsy chaos.

The female curls into herself further. She watches in awe. The same feeling of losing her voice during intimate moments comes crashing over her, and she has no clue what she should do.

If she's honest with herself, she would be perfectly content just watching. She lets her mind wander to the future and what their life might look like together. If people found out what they might say.

She doesn't realize she's been spacing out until Lando is calling her name. She must have been gone a while because he and Carlos are both missing their shirts.

She feels clueless.

Carlos, in all of his beauty, gently grabs under her knees and slides her almost fully underneath him.

The hungry stare makes her squeak. It's nothing like she's ever seen before. Lando is usually needy and whiny, but this is nothing but pure untamed lust.

He hovers over her. Hands moving to pin her wrists to the mattress beneath her. He studies her. His eyes move down her body as if calculating how to best attack.

She's panting heavily. A pause. A calm before the storm.

Then something in him snaps.

His belt is off in seconds. Carlos finds Lando's wrists and uses his belt as some sort of makeshift rope. One that he won't be getting out of on his own. Lando won't be doing much touching if his hands are stuck behind him, and she wonders what Carlos is planning.

Carlos is half straddling her now. The other hand of him towering Lando. His hands gripping messy curls. "You said you can't get her to make noise? If that's the case, I feel that you haven't been doing it right." He grabs Lando's chin and directs his haze at her. "You've had such a beautiful girl, compliant even, and you haven't made her cum so hard she's praying your name?"

Carlos clicks his tongue. He strips Lando of the rest of his clothes. Completely bare. Unless you count the belt, keeping his hands from really doing anything.

"We're using colors for safe words. Are you both familiar?" She shakes her head yes in confirmation, and Lando gives a verbal answer. "I need words, princesa."

How is she ever going to get through tonight if he calls her things like that? She breathes and attempts to make her paralyzed vocal chords work. "Yeah..." it's barely even a whisper, but Carlos looks so pleased with himself.

The Spaniard maneuvers Lando back onto the bed on his knees. He grabs his jaw again and looks so stern that she thinks he might actually be upset. "You are not going to finish until you pull a noise out of her. Do you understand?"

A slurred "Yes sir" stumbles out of the Brits mouth. Then Carlos is back over her body. He tugs at the bottom of her shirt. The outer layers are shed so easily. She's not self-consciousness, even quite confident with how Lando compliments her every opportunity he gets. Yet Carlos' hungry eyes make her want to shield herself.

It's overwhelming, a good overwhelming, but still overwhelming.

"Don't hide away from me now. If you do that, I can't teach Lando how to pleasure such a good girl."

Is it possible for a human to melt? Because she is most definitely melting. Putty to be molded as the Spaniard pleases.

He works off her bra with skilled fingers. She goes again to try and close up but Carlos is quick to catch her and pin her hands.

He kisses her neck, her lips, her shoulders, the center of her chest. It's such a contrast to the roughness she saw with Lando. He's being slow and taking his time with her. Lando looks like he is enjoying being punished to an extent (he's always been a bit of a brat for her).

She sucks in a breath when Carlos' tongue and teeth find her nipples. He goes back and forth between both of them. Her breathing is heavier than it was before. More labored from the stimulation.

Still no noise.

He captures her lips again and then trails his lips all the way to the last piece of clothing she has on. Her body shivers in anticapation. He tugs at the elastic and makes eye contact with her. "Can I take these off?"

The nodding her head in response isn't going to work, and she knows that. She steels herself and forces her voice to work even if it's small. "Please." A blink, and you'll miss it type of whisper, but he hears her.

He drags them off. Hands running across her body in an almost desperate motion. He pries her legs apart easily. You'd think she was weightless. Another confidence booster since she's got a 'not a supermodel' kind of body. In her opinion, at least.

Carlos goes back to kissing her. Now, adding small bites as he goes. He's teasing the area around where she would like him to be. Again, not complaining, simply enjoying what he's giving.

He pulls away, and she huffs. He looks satisfied with it. "Maybe if you begged for it, I would keep going." He smirks. Her eyes widen in the realization that he wants to get her as vocal as possible. Not just for Lando, but for himself also.

Carlos manhandles Lando in between her legs. She can feel his warm breath clinging to her body in all the right places.

"Do you want me to just sit here or...?"

A flash of movement and a small amount of force appear out of thin air. Lando's tongue is everywhere she jeeds it to be. Carlos passes her a curious look. "Is he always like this." She shakes her head yes. If only he knew the half of it.

"Remember amour." He whispers into Lando's ear. "You pull a noise out of her, and you can finish." Then he looks at her. Gentle eyes but stern voice. "And you can finish if you want, but do not make a sound if it isn't real. Let him be desperate and learn from this."

And oh how desperate he would become.

Carlos doesn't make it any easier on him. She knew it was going to be torcher for the Brit when Carlos asked if there was lube in close proximity, and the answer was yes.

Hands are everywhere. Touching, feeling, grabbing, spreading. Her nerves are on fire from all the stimulation. Lando whining into her core and Carlos continually shoving the Brit further into her is making her feel all sorts of ways.

Her body spasms without warning. The deep sated pleasure hit her in a wave.

Silence. A little labored breathing. But still no noises pulled from her.

Carlos halts all movment. Lando cries from having no physical contact. Limbs flail like a child whose mother said no to ice cream.

"I guess we'll have to try something different, huh Landito." How Carlos can move people around so effortlessly is beyond her. The positions are reversed now. Though she is sitting more comfortably since she has her hands.

Carlos takes the courtesy of letting his hands free. The Brit immediately runs his hands all over both of them.

Carlos pulls her body into his back. Fingers caress her sides, then grabs her hair. He pulls hard enough so that she can look at him, albeit upside down in a way.

He places a chaste kiss to her nose, causing her to smile a bit. "I want to hear the words. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me you want to be a good girl for me."

It comes so naturally this time. Like begging for him is her first language. It's the only thing she knows. It falls from her lips in the form of a prayer, and Carlos looks satisfied with her for it.

Something happens when he slams into her without warning. Her hands grip onto Lando's thighs, and her mouth falls open.

Something between a shreik and a moan leaves her, and it's shocking. Carlos doesn't stop, but he's reveling in it. "See princesa, you sound so fucking beautiful. Moan for me more. Whine for me with Lando in your throat."

And so she did. Like she found her voice despite it never really being gone. Carlos had unlocked something in her mind that let her get past the mental block.

Lando looks like he might cum just to the sound of her. It's his favorite song on repeat, and every noise makes his eyes roll back further.

Praise. Both are praising her. It only makes her do it more. Her mind is so far gone that it's possible she'll never recover. Lando has gotten her here before, but never this far.

They are both gone. Deep into the glassy eyes and fuzzy headspaces that she doesn't care what happens next.

She's choking off Lando's length, but she can't be bothered to care. His hands fist her hair as he slams his hips into her face. His breathing is labored and mouth open. His words are swimming in her ears as are Carlos'.

She fell over a while ago. She's been over the edge for an insane amount of time. Lando spilling down into her throat only pulls her deeper into it.

Carlos is getting sloppy with his relentless thrusts. She feels him stutter and pulse onside of her. His angle hitting her where she wants it.

That small voice in the back of her head is glad Carlos was responsible and put on protection. He doesn't pull out until he's done.

They are all sweaty, but it doesn't matter. She finds herself in Lando's lap. He's buried in her. His hands are tracing the sensitive lines he knows so well. She reciprocated the gentle affection.

Carlos has complete control of the situation. He lays wet kisses to every area of skin he can get to. He praises and degrades in all the correct ways. Guides them through every action. Lando pulling ever sound he'd been longing to hear for over a year from the depths of her soul.

It's bliss. They'd been at it so long that she couldn't control her own body anymore. Gone are coherent thoughts.

Carlos stops them. Gently slowing both down with his hands as guides. "You're both such beautiful creatures."

They fall into a heap. Her and Lando can barely move and settle for holding hands and staring. Sleep because the best idea she has ever had. Her eyes droop.

"No sleep yet. Don't want you getting sick or subdropping on me." Carlos chuckles as he presses cold rags to their skin. "I would have you bathe, but I don't think that would I can manage you both in there."

"Thank you, Carlos, really." Mumbles Lando.

"I should be thanking you two. I've wanted this for so long. It's hard to believe it took us this long." Carlos runs a hand through his hair. "Tommorow I'm taking you two out for a real date."

"I think I speak for both of us when I say that we would love that."

"I seconds that." She mumbles before throwing herself over the boys in a head of bodies and comfort.

[charliemwrites]

Chapter 3

Content: Mild Pet Play, Dub-Con, Sexual Content

You wake to the scent of cooking eggs.

The previous night filters in between the muted clatter of dishes. Sneaking and hiding, then running and struggling. Your ass aches dully, no doubt bruised in a few key places, but the rest of your body is loose and heavy. Pleasantly so. Owed to that spectacular orgasm, though you’re reluctant to give Ghost any credit for that. He just took advantage of your body’s unorthodox arousal responses, that’s all.

Has absolutely nothing to do with the molten gravel of his voice. The rock-hard biceps, barrel chest, thick thighs. Those midnight eyes lurking behind that damn mask.

Nope. Nothing to do with him…

Well, that’s enough of that.

You yawn and stretch, blink your eyes slowly open. Before bed, Ghost scooped you up and took you back to your own cushion, saying something about earning the right to sleep with Johnny. You’d been dozing off and only managed a half-hearted grumble when he clipped your leash on again.

Across the room, Johnny is still splayed out and snoring – likely stayed up on self-imposed watch when he should have been resting. Shaking your head, you gingerly sit up, testing your body weight on your sore butt. Not too bad, if mildly uncomfortable. Manageable, you decide, and slump against the wall.

You rub your eyes, shift as your bladder twinges. Fuck. All that water Ghost made you chug last night. You glance dubiously at the kitchen doorway. To call out or not?

Ghost appears before you can decide. He notices you instantly, rumbles “good morning” in a sleep-laden voice that sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t respond, eyes dropping to your lap as your face warms. Christ, one good orgasm and a tender ass, and you feel like a teenager with a crush.

Don’t even realize he’s moved until he sinks to a knee in front of you. It’s too close; he absolutely dwarfs you. Your head doesn’t even feel screwed on yet, still floating somewhere in the memory of the previous night. He tuts as you duck your head, fingers curling in your blanket.

“What did I say about answering me?” he rumbles, deceptively soft. “Are we already misbehaving?”

He radiates so much heat. A tired part of you wants to curl into him, soak it up as you shake off the chill of sleep. You clear your throat against that thought and turn your face away. Not that he lets you get far, guiding your chin around and up. Exposing your throat – and yet still so devastatingly gentle.

“No. Sorry,” you whisper. “Just woke up, ‘s all.”

He coos. “Just a grumpy little thing, is that it? Need a spot of coffee?”

“A-and the restroom,” you add quietly, unwilling to risk denial. “Please.”

“Give us a proper hello and I’ll take you for a piddle.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tamping down embarrassed anger as your face burns. He’s willing to give you what you want, that’s all that matters.

“Good morning, Ghost,” you murmur.

He hums. “Lovely, but not how my kitten should greet me.”

You blink, brows furrowing in confusion. How you should…? Right, because you’re his “pet.”

You recall what you can of cat behavior (though it’s been a while since you’ve interacted with one) and come to a hesitant conclusion. Slow and gauging, you shift forward, balancing on a hand between your legs. Ghost holds your gaze, dark and indecipherable.

Praying that his request supersedes his “no touching” rule, you lean up to press your cheek to his. When he doesn’t yank you back, you rub your face against the soft fabric of the balaclava, nuzzling to the sharp line of his jaw and then down to his neck. A rumble starts low in his chest. At first, you fear he’s growling. Then realize when he tilts his chin that he’s humming. Happily, it seems.

“Good morning, sir,” you murmur, pressing your nose to the hollow under his jaw. He still smells so fucking good. Even with the lingering scent of gunpowder and leather beneath the bodywash.

“Very good,” he croons, fingers burying in your hair. He scritches his fingers gently along your scalp, petting you. “What a sweet baby.”

You brace yourself against another shudder. You aren’t supposed to find this arousing or enjoyable. He’s holding your need to pee over you. That’s the only reason you’ve gone along with this. The only thing you get out of it is a trip to the restroom.

The chain rattles, drawing you from your thoughts. It’s… gone? When did he do that? Ghost squeezes the back of your neck and guides you away from his shoulder. You meet his eyes, bite the inside of your cheek when you see the gleam in them.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He clicks his tongue again, but lets you stand. It takes you a second, still a little stiff, but Ghost is patient as you stretch. Standing too close, sure, but not rushing you. Probably still preening over your compliance.

He walks you in front of him towards the basement hallway. When you come up short, Ghost chuckles and smooths a hand down your side. Meant to comfort, maybe.

“Downstairs bathroom is this way, little one,” he explains. “The basement isn’t for kitties. Even naughty ones.”

Well, even if he’s lying, it’s not like you have much choice. So you brace yourself and venture into the short hallway at his prodding. There are… four doors. You blink, glance at him over your shoulder. He points to the one at the very end. There are a series of locks on the outside, big heavy ones.

“Ominous,” you joke, strained.

“That’s the basement.” He pivots you to the right. “This one’s the restroom.”

“What… about the others?” you ask.

He snorts. “Sex dungeons one and two.”

You whip around, eyes huge. He barks a laugh and pats your ass.

“Storage and garage,” he chuckles. “Christ, your face.”

“Well, how should I know?!” you complain, shoving at the bathroom door. “I don’t know what you’re into!”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head. You will.”

And then he slams the door behind you, leaving you in speechless silence. You press your hands to your face, compelled to hide when there’s not even a mirror for company. Fuck, you’re so stupidly turned on. It defies all logic and sanity. Once you feel a little less like you’re about to spontaneously combust, you hurry to do your business.

The downstairs restroom is a clean and modern half-bath. A brief exploration reveals nothing of interest (namely a weapon) in the cabinets. Hand towels, extra toilet paper, a little travel kit with a toothbrush and toothpaste under the sink. It’s decently stocked, but not helpful for anything beyond its intended use. Fair enough, you suppose.

When you finish, Ghost is waiting for you in the hall. Just like before, he walks you in front of him back to the living room. Soap is just starting to rouse, stretching and yawning widely. You immediately pivot to join him.

Two fingers hook in the side of your collar and tug, not hard enough to choke, but enough to stop you.

“Ah ah,” Ghost says.

You grab at his arm with an embarrassingly whiny noise, turning back to him in confusion.

“Why not?” you demand, frowning.

“Because you don’t have permission, brat,” he answers, voice turning dangerous. “Now, release.”

It takes a beat for you to realize what he means. Then you drop your hands, praying your little transgression hasn’t earned you another punishment so soon. Thankfully, he just tsks.

“Don’t give me that look. You two can play in a bit.”

You scrunch up your nose – not sure what “look” he means but knowing that he’s probably being condescending. Seems like his default.

“Back to bed,” he commands, jerking his head.

You huff and slink to your cushion, even going so far as to flop down. You’re being petulant, you know that, but you’re cranky. Ghost doesn’t say a word, just attaches your chain and leaves you with a patronizing little pat to the head.

“Morning, pup,” he calls.

Johnny squints at him for a second, scratching at the dark stubble shadowing his handsome jaw.

“Mornin’,” he grunts after a second.

Ghost snorts, stops with his boots at the edge of Johnny’s cushion. “I think we can do better than that. C’mere, pup.”

Johnny sighs through his nose but pushes himself up on his knees to shuffle closer. His eyes flick to you, looking for a clue.

Like a pet, you mouth as clear as you can.

His brows twitch with confusion. Then Ghost scratches encouragingly at the shorn hair behind his ear and understanding sparks in his sleepy blue eyes. He balances his palms on those broad thighs and presses his face into Ghost’s lower stomach. Your brows arch, impressed and a little envious – though you’re… not sure of who.

“Good boy,” Ghost rumbles, “my good boy.”

“Aye, mind taking me for a pish, then?” Johnny grumbles.

You cough a laugh as Ghost shakes his head with exasperation. But Johnny gets his wish, unclipped and led away just like you were. It sounds like he snips a couple more smart comments, but you don’t catch any of it as another yawn racks you.

When they return, Johnny returns to his cushion and allows himself to be secured again without complaint. Ghost scrubs a palm through Johnny’s overgrown mohawk, then disappears into the kitchen.

“How’d ye sleep?” Johnny asks. He seems more alert now, bright eyes giving you a thorough once over, lingering on your lower body.

“Like a wee lamb,” you tease, badly mimicking his accent.

“Haud yer wheesht, it gets worse every time,” he complains, rolling his eyes.

You snicker at his scowl, even when Ghost emerges from the kitchen. Helps that he has plates piled with food in hand. He delivers one to you and the other to Soap. Dips into the kitchen once more and returns with two mugs this time.

The rich scent of coffee greets you when Ghost sets one in your reaching hands. Peering at the surface, you’re pleasantly surprised to find it just the right shade. The first sip confirms; he’s made it just the way you like. Sugar, creamer, and even a hint of cinnamon.

That should be disturbing. It should chill you to the core and turn your stomach that your serial killer kidnapper knows exactly how you take your coffee. Maybe it will later. Right now, though, it’s a familiar bit of comfort.

“Thanks,” you mumble, balancing your plate on your knees.

Ghost grunts from the couch where he’s settled. No breakfast for him, apparently. Probably on account of his mysterious identity under the mask.

It would be degrading to have to eat on the floor – except you and Johnny have done this plenty of times. On missions, in safe houses, in the base common room. Hell, even to this day, the two of you have camped out on the floor of one of your flats, watching movies with takeout between you. At least you’ve been served on actual plates with utensils.

“Och, love a man who can cook,” Johnny groans into his eggs.

You stuff a bite in your mouth, humming when you find that the scramble is really good. Bits of bacon, onion, pepper, mushroom. Hell, it’s better than you or Johnny would have made for yourselves on a normal day.

“Okay, yeah,” you admit, “this definitely makes up for the kidnapping.”

Ghost doesn’t deign that with more than a droll look as he turns on the television.

There’s even perfectly browned toast with jam! What the hell sort of serial killer is he?

“Ye’ve got any other talents?” Johnny chuckles, mouth half-full. “Did ye knit these blankets yourself?”

“You two are awfully chatty all of a sudden.”

“Good food’ll do that,” you chirp, grinning across at him.

“Didn’t realize I’d nabbed a coupla hens.”

You exchange looks with Johnny. “Bawk bawk, Ghostie boy,” he cackles.

You nearly choke, flipping him off when he laughs at your ragged coughs. And Ghost, to your eternal shock, just shakes his head.

“Call me that again and you’ll be squawking for a different reason,” he warns.

It’s more than likely not an idle threat, but there’s audible amusement in his voice too. Like he thinks Johnny is funny in spite of himself.

Odd, you think.

From what you know of scenarios like this, stalkers don’t really want the people they kidnap. Not the actual person, personality and all. They want some ideal they’ve built up in their head. Try to twist and manipulate their victim into behaving the way they’ve deluded themselves into believing they are. So far, not the case with Ghost. He doesn’t seem disenchanted by Soap’s banter or your snark.

Maybe he did his “homework” after all. Or maybe you and Johnny are on an ever-dwindling timer. Eventually, Ghost’s patience will dry up. Your reactions will stop being novel and amusing, will become frustrating and wrong. He’ll decide you two are not his perfect pets after all and go looking for another pair to fantasize about.

And then, well…

“Finish eating, kitten.”

You blink, eyes darting up. Ghost is staring from the couch, gaze fathomless, like he knows exactly where your thoughts were spiraling. You hum and shovel another bite in. Past him, Johnny is watching as well, a contemplative frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It’ll do no good to fret about the inevitable right now, so you pointedly turn your gaze to the telly.

“Aw, the news again?” you complain around your mouthful.

Not much you want to see happening in the world. You used to make a game of guessing which international conflicts Price and Gaz would be deployed to. But then it made you sad and worried, and your therapist told you to stop – for once you’d listened.

“Saturday cartoons are always a winner,” Johnny chimes in. “I loved Looney Tunes as a bairn.”

“You are a Looney Tune,” you reply.

“Och, c’mere and say that, ya wee menace.”

“You’re lucky I can’t come over there.” Punctuated by an obnoxious slurp of your coffee.

Ghost points a warning finger at you, so you stop – though not without sticking your tongue out at Johnny. He responds with a rude gesture that makes your mouth drop open in faux outrage.

“How about a movie.”

Ghost doesn’t say it like it’s a suggestion, but Johnny is sure to impart his opinion anyway.

“Aye, let’s watch a horror movie. We can all compare notes.”

“I’m partial to slashers,” you add.

“Are you now?” Ghost drawls.

You blink at him once and stuff the rest of your toast – a not inconsiderable chunk – into your stupid, traitorous mouth.

“Good idea. Who’s that big bloke with the mask and the knife? Hunts horny campers down?” Johnny asks, a wicked smirk curling his mouth.

You tilt your head, point at Ghost with an arched eyebrow. Johnny’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

“Jason Vorhees,” Ghost answers, flat and unamused.

“Aye, that’s the bitch,” Johnny crows, snapping his fingers. “Cousin of yours, then?”

This time you do choke, breadcrumbs straight down your windpipe. You have absolutely no business crying with laughter in a serial killer’s house – at that serial killer’s expense, no less – but here you are, trying desperately not to suffocate on breakfast.

“Right then,” Ghost sighs.

He rocks to his feet and lumbers to Johnny. His giggles taper off as Ghost approaches, though a shit-eating grin remains plastered wide across his face. He tilts his head back, opens his mouth to say something else obnoxious. Before he can make a single noise, two of Ghost’s thick fingers plunge past his lips.

He jolts, tries to jerk back, but Ghost just follows and pins him against the wall with a leg planted between his thighs, knee to his chest.

“If you bite down,” Ghost rumbles, “you won’t like what happens next.”

Biting looks like the last thing on Johnny’s mind. His eyes go half-lidded and hazy as Ghost’s wrist flexes, petting at his tongue and teasing at his gag reflex.

“You’re cute, pup,” Ghost coos, “problem is, you know it.”

You press your lips together; your input probably isn’t wise at this moment. But yes, he’s absolutely right.

He draws his hand back a bit, hooks his fingers behind Johnny’s bottom teeth and gives a little shake.

“I know you’re all riled up, but it’s not time to play yet,” Ghost condescends, like… well, like he’s humoring a naughty pet. “Now, be good or you won’t get to play at all. Understood?”

Johnny warbles an affirmative noise, tongue flicking over Ghost’s scarred and tattooed knuckles. He allows it for a moment, long enough for a droplet of spit to sneak down Johnny’s chin. Then he steps back to let Johnny breathe, wiping wet fingers on his cheek.

“Good.” He turns and catches your eye. “That goes for you as well.”

“I’m just sitting here!” you protest, offended.

He points at you again, fingertips still shiny with Johnny’s saliva. A (not) small part of you is sorely tempted to see what he’ll do if you push your luck. The ache in your ass dissuades you, but only just. You deflate, turning your face away haughtily.

“Understood,” you grumble.

From the corner of your eye, you watch him duck to collect Johnny’s plate and empty mug, then blink in shock as he crosses the room to do the same with yours. You stare as he takes it all back to the kitchen, followed soon by a telltale rattle of dishes in the sink.

When your eyes cut to Johnny, he’s also gawking at the doorway.

“Do you… get him?” you ask.

“Not a bit.”

Ghost ends up choosing the original 1978 Halloween. You curl up on your cushion with your blanket around your shoulders, bobbing along to the opening theme. After a moment, that creeping sense of being watched itches at your shoulders. You turn to find both men watching you with unnerving affection.

“What?” you ask, flustered. “It’s a classic!”

Ghost obliges to turn back to the screen, but Johnny’s eyes linger. You wrinkle your nose and make a show of ignoring him. Even still, you feel his attention on your profile. It makes you fidgety, so you force yourself to sit still until he finally refocuses on the movie.

It’s easy to settle in after that; Halloween is one of your favorites after all. Nothing like a big scary masked dude with an unrelenting and uncompromising obsession. You remember that Michael Myers was one of your first guilty wanks as a teenager, not sure why you found him attractive, just that you did.

Oh, if only you knew.

Halfway through, your hip starts to protest the extended stint on the floor. As soft as the dog bed is, it’s no substitute for a proper cushion or mattress. You try repositioning, legs extended, then folded, then bent. Nothing eases the building ache though, and finally you relent to stand.

It draws Johnny and Ghost’s attention again, the former frowning when he sees how you’re favoring your leg.

“Acting up?” he asks.

“Just need to stretch,” you say, waving away his concern.

It’s more than that and you know it. Between the fight at the cabin, crawling around yesterday, and a lack of meds, you’re lucky that your hip is only just starting to hurt. Borrowed time, at this point. If you sit down now, chances are that you won’t be able to get up on your own again.

Johnny knows it too, based on the tension in his jaw. But he spares your pride and pretends to believe you, turning back to the telly – though you know he’s sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye.

Ghost is not so polite.

His stare is so heavy it threatens to knock your good leg out from under you. Like Johnny, you pretend to watch the movie, working through exercises the PT taught you. It helps a bit, though you neither lay down nor put much weight on it. You settle for leaning against the wall, absently fiddling with the chain of your leash.

Ghost abruptly stands, one of those uncanny fluid movements that remind you why he’s so deadly. He doesn’t say a word, just disappears into the back hall. Restroom, you figure, and turn round again. In the back of your mind, your spine prickles. That instinctual wariness of taking your eyes off a lurking predator. It’s not like it would do you much good to see him coming anyway.

Doesn’t stop you from startling when fingertips caress the back of your neck. You’re not surprised that you didn’t hear him, but you didn’t even notice his shadow this time. The weight of the leash disappears as it coils onto the cushion at your feet.

You still, shock and confusion freezing you to the spot. Is this another game?

Ghost saunters back to the couch, lounges closer to one arm rather than dead center like usual. He may be facing the screen, but you know he’s scrutinizing your reaction – or lack thereof. After an extended moment, he leans forward, elbow on his knee and hand extended towards you, palm up.

“Here, kitty,” he calls.

You hesitate, caught on distrust and pride. He wiggles his fingers a bit, makes a clicking noise with his tongue like he’s luring a stray. Another beat as you consider… but maybe you really are a cat because curiosity wins out. You slink across the living room until you’re hovering at the far end from him.

“That’s it,” Ghost croons, “c’mon.”

Slowly, carefully, you place a hand on the cushion. His eyes glint with satisfaction, so you settle more of your weight and place the other hand a little closer to him. He hums and leans back in a deliberate gesture to allow you space. You slide your knee up, all but entirely on the couch now – but you stop. Wait.

Ghost just observes, an amused crinkle around his eyes. He doesn’t coax again or try to reach for you. That, more than anything, lures you into crawling fully onto the cushion, scrunched up against the arm of the couch.

“’S alright, little one. Stretch out that leg.”

You blink, mouth parting on words he’s robbed you of. It is… an unexpectedly kind gesture. But then he hasn’t been needlessly cruel, has he? Okay, yes, he spanked you raw last night, but that was a clear chain of action-transgression-consequence. He’s sort of gone out of his way to make you and Johnny comfortable, even if he’s a manipulative asshole.

A glance at Johnny decides you. There’s a glimmer of genuine respect for Ghost in his eye.

You ease across the cushions inch by inch, letting your legs extend until your toes are centimeters from Ghost’s thigh. Only then does he touch you, a warm calloused hand curling around your ankle. His thumb rubs light circles over the ball joint, hypnotic little spirals that leech the tension from your muscles.

“Settle in, now,” he says, “we’re almost at the good part.”

And you have no reason not to, so you do. The extra padding is an immediate improvement and you’re able to enjoy the rest of the movie with minimal readjustments. Ghost never seems to mind, just waits until you’ve rotated the socket to your satisfaction and resumes his gentle petting.

As soon as the credits start rolling, Johnny sits forward and rattles his chain.

“Well now, I’m feeling left out. I’ve been perfectly well behaved,” he complains. “I want in on the snuggle party too.”

You perk up. Johnny is always a good movie companion.

Ghost snorts. “That’s what you call well-behaved?”

“Aye, and if you’ve been stalking us for that long, you know it.”

You hum in agreement. Johnny sitting quietly through an entire movie is something of a feat.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” you chime in. Ghost pins you with a skeptical look and you, in a moment of inspiration, widen your eyes at him. “Please? Sir?”

He squeezes your ankle, eyes narrow. “You’re not subtle.”

You wiggle a little closer, ignoring the twinge in your hip. “Please?”

“Alright,” he grouses. “Enough.”

He stands, dislodging your feet, and crosses to your cushion. At first, you’re afraid that he’s going to leash you again. But then he unlocks the chain from the wall anchor and crosses back to Johnny. He kneels down, fiddles with the links and padlocks for a second before grabbing a firm hold of Johnny’s collar and tugging.

“This is a privilege, you understand?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “If you act up, it’s not your ass I’ll be taking it out of. Clear?”

Johnny’s eyes flash, a stormy glance sent your way in understanding. “Aye, crystal.”

“Give us a bark like a good mutt.”

Johnny’s lip curls, but he delivers a sullen little “woof” that seems to satisfy Ghost. He releases the collar and returns to the couch. This time, he takes the side your upper half is lounging on. Before you can scramble to make room, he lifts you up, takes your spot, and drops your torso onto his lap.

“Hey,” you grumble.

His fingers bury in your hair, equal parts restraining and pacifying. You wriggle around, dig your shoulder into his thigh as revenge. It not that his huge thigh doesn’t make for a nice pillow – the issue is that it does. Warm and firm to support your neck, but still a generous layer of soft tissue for your cheek to snuggle into.

“Consider this a trade for letting the pup onto the furniture,” Ghost drawls.

You subside as Johnny, now on an extended leash with the addition of yours, takes the other end. He gathers your legs in his lap and immediately starts massaging his big, warm hands along the damaged nerve pathway. You make a quiet noise, mouth a “thank you” that earns you a warm look.

“What’s next, then?” he asks. “I’m still partial to that Jason bloke.”

You snicker, earn a tug to the hair from Ghost.

“Something spooky?” you suggest. “Ghosts?”

This time he pinches your cheek hard enough to smart. You whine, almost whack yourself in the face while swatting at him. He does end up putting on a supernatural movie next, much to your delight. It’s something generic that you’ve seen a million times, but the familiarity soothes you.

Twenty minutes later, it strikes you how domestic it all is. Ghost is still playing with your hair, Johnny is digging his thumb into a sore muscle – and despite everything, you’re warm and comfortable and… feel more at ease than you ever have alone in your own apartment.

Well, shit. That’s… that’s probably not healthy.

Thankfully, your thoughts are interrupted by Johnny’s clever hands finding a point that sends a shockwave down your calf and up your spine. You gasp, body jerking, and then loose a soft moan. Ghost’s hand pauses in your hair.

“Yeah?” Johnny asks, voice dipping low and rough. “That the spot, bonnie?”

You hum the affirmative, all you’re able to manage as his fingers press into it again. Persistent pressure, kneading tender muscle where the worst of the pain seems to originate. Every tiny shift ignites another round of sparks through that side of your body, plucking quiet noises from your throat. It hurts as much as it feels good, one of those weird dichotomies of the human body not knowing how to interpret stimulation.

Eventually he eases up, gently working out the last of the tension until you’re little more than a puddle spread between his and Ghost’s laps.

“Thank you, Johnny,” you mumble into Ghost’s leg.

“Any time, darlin’.”

His hands don’t stop moving, though. No longer massaging, just… touching. Not that you mind. You’ve always liked his touch a little more than you should as a friend, and after your pseudo-confession last night, you’re practically squirming for more contact.

He seems all too happy to oblige, one hand anchoring on your knee. The other edges further and further between your thighs, stroking tantalizing patterns across sensitive skin. Even through your joggers his touch is hot, sends tingles into the pit of your stomach.

Johnny’s good with fire, and the one he’s building in your body smolders like coal. Reminds you of underground mines, burning quietly beneath the surface until they finally erupt above ground, scorching everything.

You’ve carried a torch for him so long you wouldn’t even notice if you started to burn.

It becomes increasingly difficult to focus on the movie as his hand creeps higher and higher. You’re starting to react; it’s only a matter of time before the evidence becomes obvious. You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth, heart beating hard and fast in your chest.

When you sneak a glance his way, his eyes are already on you, knowing and heated.

“Johnny.”

You both jump at Ghost’s sharp tone, eyes flying to him.

“What did I say?” he rumbles. “Behave.”

“I am!”

“Are you going to settle down, or do I need to make you?” Ghost asks, implacable.

You swallow, try to sit up to diffuse the stubborn light in Johnny’s eyes. Ghost’s fingers hook deftly in your collar and keep you pinned down. All you can manage is to twist a bit and shake your head when Johnny’s gaze darts to you. His hand tenses on your knee, jaw twitching with the clench of his teeth. You can see him teetering on the edge of something rash; his temper is a glass threatening to tip over and shatter.

And if that happens, this tentative peace is over. Ghost will punish you both, and probably take away these comfort “privileges” as collateral.

“Ghost?” You murmur. There’s a beat where you think he’ll ignore you. And then his chin tilts, dark eyes glinting when he sees the shy turn to your mouth. It’s not entirely an act either, your face heats as you struggle to hold his gaze. “When the movie is over… could we… could we play?”

He grunts, eyes narrowing – though you can’t tell if it’s with amusement or aggravation at your antics. His thumb traces your bottom lip, tugging it from between your teeth. You let him glide the pad of it along your canines and then back to your molars, opening your mouth to accommodate his hand. Squeeze your thighs together and realize Johnny’s hand is still there, make a soft noise knowing that he can feel the effect this is having on you.

“That pent up already, hm?” Ghost muses.

You nod, careful that you don’t nick skin. He blows out a long breath as if you’re asking for something terribly inconvenient. Then he turns back to Johnny. He pulls his thumb from your mouth, only to offer it with an audible smirk.

“Well, pup?”

You purposefully flex your thighs around Johnny’s hand, a silent plea to mind his temper. It proves to be unnecessary. His eyes are locked on Ghost’s hand, his thumb glistening with your saliva. Johnny’s full mouth parts, tongue unfurling decadently over his bottom lip.

“Is that it, mm?” Ghost purrs. “You just need to play? Need to get all that energy out?”

He smears the pad of his thumb down the midline of Johnny’s tongue and Johnny moans, like the secondhand taste of you is ambrosia. You bite the inside of your cheek and swallow back an answering noise; don’t want to interrupt the moment.

Ghost presses down, pins Johnny’s tongue.

“Puppy needs his exercise, or he gets antsy,” Ghost chuckles. “Alright, then. Be good until this movie is over and then we’ll set you right, yeah?”

Johnny hums agreement, tongue curling around Ghost’s thumb as his thick lashes flutter.

“Atta boy.”

Ghost indulges him a moment longer, then pulls his hand away. Johnny’s brow furrows like he’s going to protest, but then he clears his throat and nestles into the cushions, face pinkening.

The hand in your collar begins to stroke the skin around it, lingering on your erratic pulse and the bob of your throat. It’s distracting, keeps that flame burning bright in your belly. Johnny’s hand is still between your thighs, but even without moving, you’re all too aware of it.

“Goes for you too, kitten,” Ghost warns when you start fidgeting.

You tuck your face against his thigh and force yourself to lie still. The movie is a lost cause at this point. You’re just counting down the seconds until it’s over. Johnny isn’t in much better state; you can feel him pressing against your calf, thick and hard.

In your head, an entirely different movie is playing. Ghost toying with Johnny the previous night, big hands stroking his cock like they belonged there. The way Johnny’s face twisted with pleasure and desperation. You can almost hear the sounds he made, the way ecstasy shredded his voice.

And then you blink, and the credits are rolling.

It barely registers before you’re smothered. Johnny stretches the entirety of his body along yours, one long, muscular line of blissful heat crowding you into the cushions. His mouth smashes into yours, nothing neat or restrained about it.

A little, hazy part of you thinks that if you’ve been carrying a torch, Johnny has been tending a bonfire. At least that’s the way he kisses you. Like it’s the end and beginning of his whole world, like any second his tongue isn’t exploring your mouth is a waste of air. You can’t breathe without him filling your lungs, can barely even move to reciprocate.

And god, do you want to.

The best you can manage is to curl your fingers into his shirt and give him all the access he’s clambering for. He keeps pressing and pressing, wedging his thigh between yours and snaking an arm beneath you to squish your chests together. His teeth scrape your lip when you rock your hips, moaning as you finally get barest hint of the friction you crave.

He gets more frantic when you gather the brain cells to move your hands, sneaking them beneath his shirt. His stomach flexes as you trace the tempting lines you’ve admired so long, physically mapping the hills and valleys you memorized with your eyes. You gently scratch your fingers through the downy hair beneath his navel and feel him twitch against your hip. Do it again and get the barest, eager rock of his hips.

You’re lightheaded when he finally pulls away, though he doesn’t go far. His beard rasps along your cheek and jaw as he licks and sucks down to your neck. Your eyes flutter as you tilt your head back, trying to give him room.

You find Ghost’s eyes instead.

The reminder that he’s right there, that you and Johnny are making out like horny teenagers in his lap, sends a wicked thrill through you. It feels dangerous, like you’re provoking a wild animal, dangling food in front of a starving beast.

Johnny nips your collarbone hard; it’s going to leave a mark. Between one heartbeat and the next, Ghost tangles his fingers in Johnny’s mohawk, tugging him back from you with a chuckle.

“Easy now, pup,” he says, “play nice.”

“This is nice,” Johnny growls, flashing his teeth. His thigh flexes at the apex of yours, sending a shudder down your spine.

“Then we’ll just have to train you better, won’t we?”

With his free hand, Ghost rucks up your shirt. A tiny part of you thinks to protest his assumed entitlement to your body, but the thought fades when Johnny literally drools. You make a soft noise, get shushed by Ghost while Johnny’s pupils swallow the blue of his eyes. When your shirt can’t get any higher, you help Ghost shimmy it the rest of the way off, leaving your torso bare.

He presses against Johnny’s head, who gladly dips down to continue mauling your chest – only to be stopped just before he can reach you. His mouth hovers at the hollow of your throat, hot breaths puffing out against your skin.

“Well?” Ghost mocks.

Johnny’s tongue darts out, tasting, testing. When he tries to get closer, lips curling back from his teeth, Ghost stops him again. Only allows him close enough for the barest, sweetest brush of his mouth. Understanding, Johnny groans with annoyance, but Ghost is unyielding. He guides Johnny’s mouth to your nipple, hard and pebbled in the open air.

You moan as Johnny circles his tongue, spirals that get tighter and tighter until he’s flicking at it. He smirks when your eyes meet, laps with the flat of his tongue and then blows cool air. You squirm and pant, wanting more, wanting to lean into his mouth, but can’t with Ghost’s wide hand stretched across your collarbones.

Johnny’s teasing doesn’t last long either when he’s constrained to the smallest taste of you. Finesse devolves as hunger grows, his tongue losing its rhythm and technique in favor of sloppy, desperate licks. Saliva drips onto your chest and ribs, his appreciative grunts pitching into pleading whines.

“Something you want?” Ghost taunts.

“Let me…” Johnny breathes. “Let me…”

Ghost just chuckles again and drags Johnny’s face down your abdomen, smushing his cheek against the skin so that his beard leaves red marks in his wake. At your lower stomach, though, Johnny puts up the first real resistance. He turns his head and presses his parted lips to the angry red scars climbing over your waistband.

“Johnny…” you murmur, a little heartbroken at the way his face twists.

Ghost eases up a bit, gives him room to worship the injury that ended your military career. His tongue traces old suture marks, wide gashes where shrapnel embedded. He rubs his lips against the whirls of burns. You slip a hand from between your bodies, rub your thumb against his cheek until his gaze locks with yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your skin. It sounds like it comes straight from his soul.

Your chest hitches with a surge of emotion.

“I’m not dead,” you reply, just as quiet, but fierce. “Stop treating me like I am.”

His eyes flicker, ignite, and burn. He sinks his teeth into a clear patch of skin amongst the carnage. You yelp even through a grin, leaning into the bruising pain until Ghost tugs playfully at his hair.

“Release, pup,” he says after a moment.

Johnny does, but not without sucking first to ensure a livid mark is left behind. He licks his lips as Ghost pulls him away. You’re pulsing against Johnny’s thigh, wish you had even a centimeter of room to grind against his leg.

Ghost seems to notice, cooing at your flushed face as his free hand pinches your nipple. It’s a delicious sharp counterpoint to the sweet ache of Johnny’s earlier attention. You cry out, want to arch for more as much as you want to hide away, and you’re unable to do either. He does the same to the other, twisting as he plucks the flesh to aching sensitivity.

“Getting restless, kitten?” He mocks as you mewl and squirm. “I told you that you’d get to play too.”

You nod, blinking up at him as frustration starts to sting your eyes. He clicks his tongue and untangles his hand from Johnny’s hair, snaps your waistband.

“Off.”

Johnny, bless him, scrambles to help you strip, tossing your pants over the side of the couch. You hiss as your sore ass rubs against the cushions, less pleasant than the soft lining of your joggers.

Ghost outright laughs and manhandles you around onto your front, strokes a covetous hand down your back.

“C’mon, little one. Arch your back like a good kitty.” You’re already complying when he adds, “Show Johnny his toy.”

Syrupy heat washes over you, drips along your spine. Your moan twines with Johnny’s, lust drunk. You plant your knees as far apart as you can and tilt your hips, leaning your weight into Ghost’s lap. Johnny curses softly under his breath.

“Go on, pup. You can touch,” Ghost purrs.

Suddenly Johnny’s hands are everywhere. Your chest, your hips, your thighs, your ass. Stroking and kneading and pulling and squeezing. It’s an overload of sensation after that carefully controlled contact; Johnny’s like a kid let loose in a candy store. All enthusiasm, no restraint, so eager to glut himself on you.

Ghost’s hand cups the back of your neck, thumb caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“That’s it, sweetness. Let him have his fun, get all that energy out.”

You whimper as Johnny licks a hot stripe up the back of your thigh. Punctuates with teeth digging into the crease where it meets your ass.

“Wanna eat you out,” Johnny slurs, breaths heavy against you. “Lemme eat you out, Kit. Promise I’ll make it so good f’you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Feel like you’re going to shake apart and he hasn’t even touched you.

“Please, Johnny,” you whine.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” he groans, spreading your cheeks. “Say my name jus’ like that.”

You gasp as he seals his mouth against your fluttering hole, spare syllables tripping off your tongue. He goes down on you the same way he kissed you. Near feral, licking and sucking, drool dripping. You open up for him embarrassingly fast, can feel droplets of your own arousal falling onto the couch below.

He massages his tongue against your walls, growls when your hips twitch at the too-much-too-fast of it all. His fingers hook around your thighs and yank you back into his face. You yelp, reach for something to feel anchored. Find a large, calloused hand and grip tightly as Ghost hums over your head.

“Doing so well, pup,” he rumbles. “Good boy.”

Johnny curses, wicked vibrations down your nerve pathways. His enthusiasm somehow doubles with the praise. He fucks into you with his tongue, curving the tip each time he draws it out, only to plunge as deep as he can again. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream when he fits a finger inside, pulling gently at your entrance, gaping you open a bit to give his tongue more room. It’s intimate and filthy and perfect.

“Don’t be mean, kitty,” Ghost says. The hand on your neck slips around to toy with your sensitive nipples, pinching and tugging until you’re writhing back onto Johnny’s face. “Tell the puppy how well he’s doing.”

It takes a second to remember what words are. And then another to gather enough air to speak.

“S-so good, Johnny,” you mewl. “Feels… feels so… g-gonna cum if you keep…”

He groans long and loud, twisting his wrist to press his thumb against the nerves past your hole. Your eyes roll back, realize you’re going to make good on your word even sooner than you expected. Then his finger crooks inside you, finds that spot that sends your brain into the stratosphere.

“There, there, Johnny please, right there, don’t stop,” you chant, plead, cry.

He abuses it ruthlessly, pressing and petting until your broken little “ah, ah, ahs” go up an octave and you’re cumming with a scream. You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted, rocking into it as wave after wave threatens to knock your legs out from under you. Johnny milks every last drop of pleasure from you, his rhythm not faltering once while you ride it out.

Your orgasm finally ebbs, but Johnny is still going. Isn’t even slowing.

“Johnny, ‘s too much,” you whimper, trying to crawl away and failing miserably. “Please, please, ’s too – you have to…”

“Told me not to stop, love,” he reminds without pulling his face away. “I don’t plan to.”

“N-no, Johnny,” you start, but he dives right back in and steals the words from your mouth.

He drags you like a riptide into a sea of overstimulation, drowning you in pleasure bordering on pain. You can’t even get your muscles to cooperate enough to push at him, tortured with aftershocks that leech any strength or resolve from your body.

So you settle on your only hope for salvation.

“Ghost,” you sob, “Ghost, please make him stop. C-can’t take it. Please.”

He hums as if debating, lets the moment extend until you wail at the threat of another finger against your soaked entrance.

“Enough, pup.”

Johnny practically snarls, teeth grazing oversensitive skin and making you squeal.

“Enough.”

You feel him shift, though your eyes are closed so you don’t see what he does. All you know is that Johnny’s mouth and hands are gone all at once, leaving you wrung out and trembling. There’s a beat of charged silence. Then two sets of hands help you stretch out your legs, rubbing any lingering soreness from your hips.

You squeeze Ghost’s hand in silent thanks, receive one in return that makes you blush brighter than the orgasm did.

“Don’t pout, pup,” Ghost chides, amusement thick in his voice. “Show me how much fun you’re having.”

Fabric rustles behind you. You peek over your shoulder, suck in a breath when Johnny’s cock springs from his joggers. There’s a noticeable wet patch on the gray fabric. His head is flushed red, shiny with precum, so hard it looks painful. You bite your lip at the sight of him so close, so big. Half of you wants to climb on his dick and ride him until you pass out, the other half is still reeling.

“Let’s give the kitty a break, yeah?” Ghost says. Who would have guessed he’d be the voice of reason here. “Play with yourself for us.”

Watching Johnny fist his own throbbing cock is the singular most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. He’s gorgeous, lit by the TV screen and soft lamplight, hips rocking into his hand like he can’t convince his body to commit to the rhythm. The rosy head peeks in and out of view, pearls of pre slicking the way. Every few strokes, he twists his wrist and squeezes a little harder, and his thumb sweeps over the weeping slit.

“Pretty boy,” Ghost croons, “so good for us, isn’t he, kitten?”

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, Johnny,” you rasp.

He moans, head rolling back on his shoulders. Remembering how he reacted to Ghost earlier, you keep talking.

“I wanna choke on your dick, Johnny. Want you to fuck my throat until I’m crying.”

“Kit.”

He sounds gutted. You make a soft noise, part your legs a bit so that he can see the mess he’s made of you.

“Gonna make you cum in all my holes,” you continue, “drip with you all day.”

Every salacious thought you’ve ever had spills from your tingling lips, no filter or shame to stop them now. Johnny’s hand speeds up on his cock with each word, brutally fast. You can see him twitching, know he must be close from the way his voice is rising and breaking.

“Stop,” Ghost says like a gavel strike.

Johnny’s hand freezes, seemingly from sheer befuddlement rather than willing obedience. His orgasm recedes, replaced with frustration.

“Ghost, why—”

“You don’t want the kitten to get you off, then? My mistake.”

Johnny perks up instantly while your gut clenches – and you can’t even tell if its anticipation or dismay.

“No, wait, ‘m sorry. Please, Ghost.”

“That’s more like it.”

He snatches a fallen throw pillow from the floor – the same one from the previous night. Again, it goes under your hips, propping your ass in the air. This time, he nudges your thighs closer together. Johnny seems to catch on, makes a quiet, pleased noise. You don’t understand until he straddles your thighs and the slick head of his cock nudges at the seam of your ass.

You whine as his hand plants on your lower back.

“What?” Ghost mocks, “You didn’t think playtime was over, did you? ‘S not very fair to Johnny, is it?”

You make a vague noise of agreement. Johnny should be able to get off, and you’re pleased that he’s using you to do it.

“Sweet thing,” Ghost chuckles, petting between your shoulders.

You press your forehead against his thigh, sink your teeth into the muscle as Johnny’s thick cock sinks between your thighs. There’s hardly any friction, wet from his mouth and your combined arousal.

“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he groans. “Tense up for me, doll. Make it nice and tight.”

You squeeze your thighs together and cant your hips just so, making the perfect channel for him to fuck into. The head of his cock drags against sensitive, swollen flesh, bullies overworked nerves with each jerk of his hips. He’s not being gentle; don’t think he could manage it if you asked.

Even after your “break,” it’s still overwhelming. You struggle to lay there and take it, hands clenching and unclenching in Ghost’s pants. Find yourself mouthing mindlessly at the sizeable bulge pressing against your cheek. Reluctance and embarrassment long abandoned, you turn your head to press your tongue against the fabric.

“Ghost, can I?” you ask. “Please, I-I need something to… please?”

He chuckles roughly, sinks his fingers into your hair to keep your head in place as he rocks against your face.

“That what you need, little one? Need a cock in your mouth to distract you from how good the pup is making you feel?”

You nod as best you can, writhing beneath Johnny’s weight and the awful pleasure that sings through you every time his cock catches on your hole.

“S’pose you’ve been good.”

Ghost dips his other hand into his sweats, allows you to tug them down a bit. His cock is somehow bigger than Johnny’s, almost intimidating. Long and thick, curved towards his stomach, gratifyingly hard just from watching you and Johnny play. A pretty silver ring loops through the head – a Prince Albert, your mind supplies.

You swallow him down without a thought, moan at the way the piercing rubs against your tongue. It’s an instant obsession, you can’t help flicking at it each time you rise up. He seems to enjoy the special attention, grunting when you suck obscenely at the head.

“Oh fuck,” Johnny groans behind you. “You two are so fucking hot, it’s not fair.”

He thrusts harder, more erratic. Your thighs clench tighter as you take Ghost down as far as you can, gagging, eyes watering. He grunts, hips twitching, lodging himself just that little bit deeper. You can’t breathe, but you don’t really want to. Not when you can feel metal teasing the back of your throat.

“Fuck, Johnny, keep being good and maybe I’ll let you have this one day,” Ghost groans.

With the hand in your hair, he guides you into a proper rhythm. Not as demanding as you’d expect a man like him to be, but he’s not coddling you either. You have to get air when you can, actively swallow past your gag reflex. Hum and moan as Johnny continues to grind, getting wetter as his end approaches.

You’re distracted enough by Ghost’s cock ruining your mouth that Johnny’s rutting is almost bearable.

“Fuck, shit, I-I’m gonna…”

“Atta boy, Johnny,” Ghost growls, voice gravel. “Cum all over our pretty kitty.”

You shudder as Johnny buries himself one last time. Heat splatters across your stomach, then as he pulls back, all over your thighs, ass, hole. His breath stutters as he milks himself through it, then smears the head through the mess. One of his fingers toys at your entrance, massages his cum in there.

You keen, teeth accidentally scraping Ghost’s shaft. Thankfully, he seems to enjoy that, a ragged groan thundering through his chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls. “Get over here, mutt.”

Johnny, dazed and sated, stumbles off the couch and crawls between Ghost’s parted knees.

“Up, little one,” he instructs you.

You follow his guidance to the top half of his shaft, where it’s still easy to breathe and move your tongue.

“Well?” Ghost says to Johnny. “Pick up the slack.”

And soon you feel his breath caressing your face, his forehead bumping gently against your chin. It takes a bit of doing, but you manage to coordinate, licking and sucking and worshipping Ghost’s cock. Your lips meet in the middle, exchange messy kisses, Johnny moaning at the taste of Ghost’s precum on your tongue.

It’s messy and hot, humid with shared air and sweat and lust. You dip the tip of your tongue into Ghost’s slit where the piercing threads. He curses, hand tightening in your hair. As one, you and Johnny double your efforts, finding those most sensitive spots and working at them until Ghost pants, ragged, “Just like that.”

Your only warning is the noise Johnny makes in the back of his throat. Then Ghost’s dick jerks violently and salt explodes across your tongue. He pulls you off almost immediately, spurts across your nose and cheek, then yanks Johnny up to receive the same. The two of you lap up the remains, then, at Ghost’s urging, clean each other up.

In the aftermath, you drop your head heavily into Ghost’s lap. Beside you, Johnny slumps over, his arm looping tiredly around your back.

“Well done,” Ghost murmurs, a hand on each of your heads. “Better now?”

You exchange glassy, stupid glances with Johnny, twin dopey grins tugging at your mouths.

“Yes, Ghost,” you chorus.

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Masterlist

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

The Triceratons Experiment: part 2 (Angst) (18+)

2003!Turtles, Donatello x reader

Intro Part 1 (18+) / Part 3 (18+)

A/N: Finally! Finally I’ve been able to write part 2! I know some of you have been waiting for this for quite some time, and it’s finally here! Hope it was worth the wait💜💚

All characters are aged up.

Warnings: Loooong (but we do like that), lust drug?, mildly forced?, forced injection, fingering, being watched, orale - female receiving, orgasm denial?

What Mikey had told Donatello and his brothers, had the purple clad turtle on edge. As a man of science, the unethical ways the triceratons went around their so called experiments, left a bad taste in Donnie’s mouth. He did not like what Mikey just had told him, and furthermore, Donnie had a feeling that this wasn’t the last they would see of the triceraton “professor”. But Donnie would have no idea how quickly his suspicions would come to pass.

The next day started like the day before. The turtles were woken up along with the rest of the prisoners, and told to head for the cantina for food. However, as the turtles made their way down the hallway, they were stopped by the guards, stretching their hands out and blocking their way.

“Halt here”, the nearest guard grumbled, scowling at the turtles.

“Why?”, Raph asked, already feeling agitated. He was hungry, even if it was for a plate full of horrible alien beige goop.

But the guard did not answer him. Instead they intensely stared at each other. Raph waiting for the guard to answer, and the guard expecting Raph to stand down. But neither of them did, standing strong in their silent power struggle. But finally the guard gave in with an agitated look.

“Crowd control. We can’t let all prisoners in at once”, the guard grumbled.

“Since when?”, Donnie asked, confused yet slightly annoyed. It made no sense to him. But the guard did not answer, instead he turned with his side facing the turtles, making it clear that he wasn’t interested in talking, leaving the turtles in silence for some time.

None of the turtles had any way of knowing how long they stood in that hall, waiting for the time they were allowed to go into the cantine. And as the time went on, their already present hunger had started growing, their stomach growling loudly. Raph’s anger and frustration grew as well, to the point where his brothers had to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, in order to calm him down.

Then, finally. Finally the turtles were allowed to go down the hall, making their way to the cantine. Mikey and Raph practically sprinted, not caring what kind of horrible food was left. They just wanted something. But as soon as the two of them came to the cantine, just ahead of their brothers, they were sad and horrified to learn that there was no more food.

Mikey kept pulling on the handle, hoping that a little bit of that beige goop would come out into his bowl, but nothing came. There was no more food.

“They did that on purpose!”, Raph spat, throwing his bowl and spoon on the table in distaine, before sitting down with his brothers. “Fucking triceratons! If I could get my hand on them I would-”.

“Raph!”, Leo exclaimed, cutting his brother off with a stern voice, his face matching his tone.

“What?!”, the red turtle asked, still fuming his anger.

Leo didn’t say a word, but with the same stern look, be pointed to level above them. Raph turned to look up, and found what Leo was talking about. On the floor above, professor Exzor stood with his clipboard, surrounded by guards, looking down at them, taking notes on his board.

“They’re doing it on purpose”, Donnie mumbled, not taking his eyes from the professor in his white lab coat. “It’s probably his idea. A way to force us into giving in to what he wants”.

“You’re telling me that that piece of shit doesn’t think he’s done after yesterday?!”, Raph boomed, fighting not to jump at the nearest guard.

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you”, Donnie calmly said. “Now, sit down before you give them a reason to go at us”.

With a scowl Raph finally sat down, staring angrily at the table, his knee bouncing under him.

“Aw man!”, Mikey whined, laying down on the table. “I was looking forward to food!”

Donnie and Leo exchanged looks before side eyeing the triceraton on the balcony above. Both had a feeling there soon would be an offer of food coming their way…

—

Once back in their cell, all four stomachs were growling like never before. Raph was getting angry, walking in circles, mumbling and growling. Mikey was once again sitting on the bench, talking about the human girl from yesterday. Though he had been surprised and shaken by the events, he nonetheless had found you very attractive. So attractive he would still mention you out of nowhere before rambling on. Both Leo and Donnie found themselves in deep silence, trying to figure out what was going on.

Suddenly the door slid open, once again revealing six triceraton guards with their weapons ready at hand.

“Face against the walls!”, they roared, marching into the small room. For a moment, Raph looked like he was ready to attack, but with a sharp look from Leo, he let out a small grumble before turning around to face the wall.

With every turtle turned and facing the walls with a guard behind them, professor Exzor made an entrance. For a moment, just a brief moment, Mikey hoped he came to pick him out once more. Though yesterday had been quite a shocker, he wouldn’t mind seeing you again. And if he actually would be allowed to have his time with you this time, he would have absolutely nothing against it. But Exzor didn’t go for Mikey this time around. Instead he went directly over to the guard that stood with Donnie.

“This one”.

“What makes ya think he wants to go?”, Raph suddenly perked up. “After what ya did to my brother, ya be having some nerve coming in here-!”

“Raph!”, Leo yelled out in a stern voice, causing his brother to shut his mouth instantly. “Shut it”. Raph tensened his jaw, letting out a strained sigh. He hated this so much.

Donnie didn’t really say a word as the guards escorted him out. And for some reason, he wasn’t too scared. No, he was thinking. He was too busy throwing glances towards professor Exzor to be fearful, his mind working trying to figure out what was going on.

They guided Donnie down one long hall after another, until they finally came to what Donnie assumed was professor Exzor’s laboratory. Under any other circumstances, Donnie might have been fascinated by it, wanting to get a closer look at the different machinery all around. But not today. Right now, he stood out in the middle of the room, all six guards standing by the walls, while professor Exzor went around the room, getting things ready.

“You’re probably wondering why I chose you today, aren’t you?”, Exzor asked, still not looking at Donnie.

“Because you want a different test subject than yesterday?”, Donnie asked innocently, acting as if he didn’t already knew.

This time professor Exzor finally looked up at him. He stared at him for a moment, before putting his hands behind his back, slowly wandering over to Donnie, slowly walking around him, taking a look at him, before stopping right in front of him, his horn up in the air as he did so.

“You seem like the smarter one of you four”, Exzor said, looking at Donnie down the bridge of his horn. “Am I right to assume that?”

“I like to think so”, Donnie calmly answered.

Exzor nodded a few times before stepping back, moving over to a strap table, setting things up for whatever he had planned for.

“Are you a scientist yourself?”, he asked with his back turned to Donnie, hands busy on the side table.

“I am”.

“I had a feeling you were”, Exzor said. “That’s why I picked you for today”.

“What do you have planned for today?”, Donnie asked, studying the way Exzor moved, along with what he was getting ready by the table.

Exzor stood for a moment, thinking his words through before he spoke. “Do you know a lot about humans?”

Donnie frowned his brows. “A thing or two”.

“What about human biology?"

“A few things as well”, Donnie said, feeling his hands getting clammy. “Some of my friends are human. I know enough in case they need medical attention”. Donnie wanted to ask why, but he had a feeling he would know soon. All day he had had a feeling he would learn something today.

“Have you ever gotten hands on with a human?”

This question took Donnie a little aback. He had never been asked such a question. He had never even allowed himself to think of such a thing. Him, a mutant turtle getting hands on with a human? No way.

“No, never”.

Exzor turned back towards Donnie, this time with a small self satisfied smile. He was finally going to explain. “Your brother has probably already told you about the human girl we have, right? I thought so. She’s an interesting specimen. We found her in an unknown spaceship, cruising around at the edge of the galaxy. We believed she was a spy from the Federation, but she kept saying she was from a planet named Earth. She wasn’t very convincing so we didn’t believe her. Yet she’s the only human we’ve ever had in captivity. It would be idiotic to get rid of her, when she could provide useful information about the mental and physical workings of our enemy. Yet there was only so much we could learn about with only one specimen. But then you and your brothers showed up, stating you were from planet Earth. That suddenly provided us with a whole new opportunity”, professor Exzor said, taking a hold of what he had been working with on the side table. Gloves… High tech gloves… “Though you and your brothers may not be the same species as her, you are from the same planet. That can be just as useful as well”. Exzor took a hold of Donnie’s hands, forcing the three fingered gloves on his hands. “These gloves are made to scan and read the subject. What we want you to do is touch the subject in specific areas, so that we can have our readings”.

“And why exactly do I have to do it?”, Donnie asked, somewhat fascinated by the gloves.

“Because no triceraton is so low as to touch a human in that manner. Disgusting!”, Exzor said sternly, almost offended that Donnie could even ask such a question. “Bring in the subject for testing!”

Another set of doors slides open, revealing two more guards, dragging in a woman wearing what looked like what Donnie could only describe as a hospital gown. Suddenly Donnie understood why Mikey kept talking about you - you were beautiful. A very attractive woman. You made him freeze on the spot and stare with wide eyes as they strapped you onto the table, hands and arms restrained, legs open wide in front of Donnie. He instinctively avoided his eyes, trying to be gentlemanly. But given the whole situation, it was kind of hard for him to do. That was when the two of you made eye contact, and Donnie felt a strange feeling in his stomach, remembering all the things Mikey had told him. Why did Mikey have to tell him all those things? And why did he have to remember them right now.

Professor Exzor told the guards to stand clear, before moving to a computer screen, pressing a few buttons on the keyboard before suddenly turning back towards the guards.

“Give them the shots”.

Before Donnie was able to react, he was grabbed by two guards, one holding his arm out, ready and exposed. He tried to put up a struggle, but realized it was no use. They had him in a lab. Resisting would only cause him, and maybe even you, more problems.

You and Donnie watched the guards with wide observant eyes, as they came in closer, two syringes at the ready. One for you and one for Donnie, filled with a violet substance. You immediately began struggling against your restraints when you saw it. Donnie immediately knew what it was. Whatever gas they had used on you and Mikey yesterday, it was that in liquid form.

“What is that?”, Donnie asked, keeping his voice calm, trying to sound curious, hoping it would make Exzor talk. But the triceraton didn’t budge so easily.

“You’ll figure it out”, was all he said, not looking up from his computer screen once.

Grabbing a hold of your arms, the guards injected you and Donnie with the pinkish, violet liquid, before quickly taking a few steps back from the two of you.

“Now”, professor Exzor said with a stern voice directed at Donnie. “Before the effects set in, put your hands on her angels”.

Donnie gave you an apologetic look before doing as he was told, closing his eyes for a moment when he felt your leg under his gloves. He would lie if he said he didn’t already feel the effects slowly kick in. His senses was already getting heightened, the scent of you slowly getting stronger and stronger. Along with another scent from you… oh no. It was kicking in for you as well. Donnie could understand what Mikey was talking about now. You already smelled so good. Why did you have to smell so good?

“Move your hands further up”, the professor said, still not looking up, somehow sounding even less interested than before.

Donnie already wanted to shoot him a death stare. Somehow the sound of Exzor’s voice made him feel like he was being ripped straight out of a pleasant state of peace. He did as he was told and moved his hands further up, noticing how your legs tensed up and your scent getting stronger. How easy it would be for Donnie to just slide his hands further up, lifting your hospital gown just a little…

“Don’t hold yourself back”, Exzor’s voice sounded once again, reading whatever came up on his screen. “The more you explore, the more information I get”.

Donnie looked back at your eyes, only to find you pupils blown wide already. From the sweat he was feeling forming on his own body, he was sure he looked the same. He sheared your eyes for permission, and to his surprise, you gave it to him. Giving him a small nod. Remembering what Mikey had told him from yesterday, you probably still had a lot of pent up emotions from yesterday. And with that, Donnie gave in, sliding your gown up so that he had a full view of you, the scent of your arousal smacking him in the face.

Donnie stood and stared for a moment, just the sight of your most private area making him go dizzy. Never had he seen a woman up close, nor been able to smell a woman like this. He couldn’t tell if it was because of your scent or the dose running through his veins at the moment, but it was making him feel like he was a week away from his mating season.

Donnie’s hands settled on where your thighs met your hips, pushing your legs further apart for him, his thumbs subconsciously making small circles against your skin, making small whimpers escape you. It didn’t take much to figure out that you were already feeling the effects, and that they were already hitting you strong. Just the feeling of Donnie’s hands on you making you tense with neediness under him.

You laid there before him, your eyes closed and your hands holding onto the restraints. Donnie caught the sight of your tongue wetting your lips, the stuff in his blood already creating images of what that tongue would be capable of doing to him…

“Please”, you whimpered, bringing Donnie back to reality, his abdomen tightening at the sound of your voice. The first time he had heard your voice, leaving him stunned. You sounded just as beautiful as you looked. Your legs quivered, trying to close so that you could create some friction yourself. “Please do something”.

Donnie’s brain went into reboot. He had never thought he would get to hear a woman beg for him to touch her - to do something to her. Yet here he was, with your legs spread wide open for him, though under rather dubious circumstances.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of staring, Donnie finally dared to touch your most intimate zone, letting his thumb grace over your clit. The slight touch made your hip buckle and a small sound of pleasure leaving your mouth. Donnie took a deep breath, taking in the strong scent of your arousal, totally forgetting about the triceraton guards standing around by the walls. Frozen like statues, not even looking at the two of you. It was as if your doings weren’t interesting to them at all.

Pressing this thumb a little firmer against your bundle of nerves, Donnie watched your reaction. You opened your eyes, trying to look down at his hand on you, heavy breathing and hands shaking. You needed more, your eyes silently begging him to do more. And so, Donnie started moving his glove covered thumb in small circles on your clit, causing you to cry out under him.

“Shit!”, you cursed, buckling your hips against him once more. Donnie couldn’t stop himself from churring lowly in his chest at the sound, the hand on your thigh tightening, pushing you even further open with a small increase of force, your head falling back. “Don’t stop”.

Donnie ignored the sound of the triceraton professor pressing the keys on the computer keyboard, focusing on your sounds, your smell and the expression on your face, pressing his thumb firmer against you. You slammed your foot against the table, moving your hips, forcing Donnie to use his other hand, placing it on the side of your hip and keeping you down against the table.

With his thumb still moving against you, he moved one other finger to your folds, gliding his finger through them. How he wished he could be doing this without gloves, so that he could feel your wetness against his skin…

Donnie’s finger glided through your folds until he found your entrance. He did not ask for your permission, feeling both you and his need growing with every second, instead pushing his finger into you, sliding into you with ease. You let out a loud moan that took both you and Donnie by surprise. Yet it fuelled something within him that he didn’t even know was there.

“Is that what you needed?”, Donnie asked as he started to move his finger inside of you, causing you to squirm underneath him.

“Yes”, you whimpered, your restrained hands moving to hold onto the table. Donnie could only imagine how pent up you had been yesterday, finally gaining some sort of release. “Faster, please”.

Donnie hummed at your words, doing just as you told him to, speeding up the movement of his finger, curling it up inside of you. Your reaction was better than he had expected, one moan falling from your parted lip after another. He felt that pressure against the inside of his cloaca, which he grown familiar with throughout his many mating seasons. How he just wanted to drop on the spot a slam into you, as if there was no one around the two of you. But he restrained himself, growling at the strong pressure within him, instead adding a second finger into your clenching hole, watching as your juices gathered up around his digits.

Your legs started kicking against your restraints, your muscles tensing and relaxing as he stimulated your nerves, his fingers hitting the sweet spot deep inside of you. One would not be wrong for believing that he was a master at this, that this wasn’t his first time at the rodeo. Donnie couldn’t explain it. His actions just felt natural at that moment.

You clenched around Donnie’s fingers making him groan, thoughts of how you would clench around him running through his head. You were intoxicating, every sound from you dulling the fire in his veins, yet edging him on, telling him that he needed more. That you needed more.

Donnie couldn’t help but press a kiss to your knee, making you look up at him, your eyes pleading for him. Pleading for him to continue what he was doing. To do more of it. So Donnie did, his lips going from your knee to hovering just above where his thumb was rubbing circles on you. You whimpered when you felt Donnie’s breath on you, your excitement for the feeling of his lips where you needed him the most, almost turning into anxiety of the thought of him not doing it. Flashes of what happened yesterday appeared in your head. The pain and need you felt for hours after the guards had broken you and the other guy apart. You had had no release, and the slowly growing feeling made you almost anxious. You wanted nothing more to cum, letting your juices drench this guy’s face. You still didn’t know he or his brothers names, yet in that moment you were desperate for either one of them to make you cum, just to stop the growing burning feeling inside of you.

Donnie replaced his thumb with his lips, giving your bundle a small lick before attaching his lips with small sucks. This action caused you to let out another loud moan, arching your back, once again struggling against the restraints. Donnie’s fingers speed up, so did his tongue continuing to do fast small licks on you, while the hand that had been holding you down, slowly sliding up under your gown, reaching to grab a hold of your chest. You and Donnie was so far gone in what you were doing, that you didn’t hear professor Exzor mumbling “interesting”, at what he saw on his screen.

You were so close, your mouth open wide, your eyes closed shut, and your body squirming underneath Donnie. He could feel how close you were, driven by a primal instinct to make you climax on him. You were so close. So close that Donnie could almost taste more than your sweet and salty juices. So close…

“Okay, that’s enough”, Exzor said to the guards. “I got the data I need for now. Put him in a holding cell before you bring him back to the others. Just send her straight to her cell”.

It felt sudden to you and Donnie when the guards grabbed a hold of him, pulling him away from you. You let out an almost pained scream, knowing that your possibility of release was once again being pulled from you. Donnie was like a wild animal at this point, fighting against the guards that were trying to restrain him.

“Let me go!”, he yelled, trying to pull his arm away from them with as much force as possible, only causing the guards to get more aggressive towards him. However, with eight guards around, it was only a matter of time before they were able to overpower him, and escort him out of the lab, so that they could place him in a holding cell. But just before they managed to get him out of the door, Donnie managed to get a look back at you, fighting against the restraints on the strap table. He caught your eyes, seeing how you silently pleaded for help. And suddenly Donnie understood why Mikey couldn’t stop talking about you.

—

“Log 67 on Human Studies by Professor Exzor. Date: the eighth of galamion, in the year 56 of the Triceraton Republic.

Today’s experiment once again proved a success. The turtle specimen marked purple has proved to be just as useful as theorized. With their help, I have been able to obtain more information about the human reproductive system, as well as their nerve system, along with a long theorized connection with humans' perception of pain and pleasure.

With today’s obtained data, I can now green light tomorrow's experiment, focusing further on humans’ connection between pain and pleasure, using the turtle marked red.

For the Republic”.

[libra-kirishima]

Mystic Messenger Characters + Their Toxic Traits ✨

Feat. Zen, Yoosung, Jaehee, Jumin, Seven, and V

Short headcanons inspired by this post I've made about My Hero Academia characters and their toxic traits x

! fem reader, brief mentions of sex !

Zen

Insanely jealous. He's barely able to restrain himself from barking like a dog when he sees you talking to another man

- and he will come up to you mid-conversation and embarrass you in front of this man because Zen wants him to know who you belong to.

Has some mildly sexist views on women

- Speaks for you even if you're right next to him. Will order for you at restaurants without being asked. If someone asks you a question and Zen thinks he knows the answer he'll answer it for you as if you aren't capable of answering for yourself.

- Tends to believe that you're fragile and vulnerable and that he needs to protect you because you're a woman

- Will help you with chores but he believes it's your job to cook

- Doesn't ever let you take control during sex. He thinks that, as the man, he is supposed to be the one on top and in control. He's a pleasure dom but sex is always done his way because he never lets you take the lead.

Canonically homophobic

Lacks self awareness

Yoosung

King of putting things off. Ignores problems in the relationship for as long as he possibly can until one day it all comes to the surface and he bursts into tears

Avoids conflict to the point of concern. He'd rather lie to himself that everything is fine between the two of you than address an issue in your relationship because he doesn't want to start a fight.

Struggles to make time for you. A lot of your dates are hanging out together while he studies in his room or at the library.

Shamelessly codependent

Jaehee

Also terrible at making time for you

Always working. If she's not working under Jumin then she's always working on improving the coffee shop. She doesn't know how to function when she's not working 24/7 and under constant stress

She takes things so personally. She'll never tell you she took something you said personally but you can tell.

Lowkey a grudge holder. If you two get into an argument she'll bring up something you said to hurt her feelings two years ago.

Jumin

Wants to take care of you but "taking care of you" can mean doing things that are very controlling sometimes

- extremely resistant at first to the idea of you having a job or going to college since he can provide for both of you

- hates taking "no" for an answer if he thinks he knows better than you. If you're sick with a cold he'll go against your wishes and call a doctor no matter how many times you insist that you're fine.

- Never learned how to let someone else be in charge of something so he also never lets you take control during sex.

Resistant to change

Makes important decisions without you based on what he thinks you would want

Can come across as very apathetic at times. He thinks he's offering an objective point of view that will help soothe your emotions but instead it can feel like he doesn't care about them because you're being unreasonable.

707

Has gotten into the habit of lying about the dumbest shit, so it can be difficult to tell whether he's being serious or messing with you

Doesn't help with household chores because he doesn't find them mentally stimulating

Gets really bad depressive episodes. He doesn't want Saeran to see him like that so he bottles everything up until he can't anymore and will take all his emotions out on you sometimes.

Has never had to communicate how he feels before meeting you, so he never learned how. A lot of the time you're relying on your intuition because he doesn't talk to you about it. Part of him still believes nobody cares about how he's feeling.

V

Incredibly passive. Getting him to voice what he wants is like pulling teeth.

Codependent and in denial about it. Thinks he's just really in love with his wife.

Has a tendency to completely ignore how he's feeling because part of him is desperate to please you.

Tends to think in absolutes. Has a very black and white view on most things

Struggles to believe that he deserves you and that makes him crave validation, but he never wants to voice to you that he needs validation.