#that new puppy smell

[nnicknnelsonn]

kit’s gasp is literally everything good in the world

romeo + juliet + puppies Source: Buzzfeed Puppy Interview

[nnicknnelsonn]

loving that new puppy smell

Kit Connor for the buzzfeed puppy interview

[prettyboy-remi]

He is excited about all the new autumn smells

[vultursvolans]

oh!! happy lunar new year to those who celebrate! 🌙

[nicenight]

wooo i'm in the process of getting approved for my own apartment very soon and i'm pretty excited/nervous about it!! this'll be my first time living solo Ever after renting with family and partners my entire adult life so it's untreaded water for me.

[stealchain]

good news ! my main plushie can be saved

[me-myself-and-my-fos]

Bernard hold me

[othernaut]

Character Creation Challenge, Day 30: Heart: the City Beneath

If there is a single truth made evident through all the efforts of my tiresome living, it is that reality, despite reason, is a consensus. I remember it, learning mathematics in a dugout classroom beneath the floorboards of a public storehouse. When class was over, my instructor would only let us out in ones and twos, five minutes apart, and made sure each of us children took an apple or half-bag of millet home. Only when I had grown did I learn that the aelfir patrolled the refugee camp at the same time, that my classroom was illegal and what I was doing was hiding. As I memorized the physics of a sanitary universe, the outside world was watchful for the decreed threat of children learning.

And if reality, despite reason, is a consensus, then I must ask it continually and without pause: Why does it want to be like this?

I must describe reality as it is, else I contribute to the madness. I am trudging knee-deep in the metal-tainted floodwaters that gurgle over the tracks between Sump Station and Moonward Junction. My subway map, amended by a sage-colleague two weeks ago, originally indicated that this was the Yellow Line; the marking changed when I wasn't paying attention. Now I am on the Q Line, which I don't believe actually exists. I am carrying a lantern, a light between two other lights: the sputtering lamplight of the pilgrim-refugees behind me and the red, regular pulse of whatever is ahead, leading me on.

I have left the pilgrims in the electrical room, the last-discovered piece of dry ground, to scout ahead. I am fairly certain that something is hunting me.

My railway-plate, necessary as it is for anyone who regularly wanders the Vermissian, is not a stealthy piece of equipment. I clomp, I slosh, I creak, I hiss with steam. I have felt the touch of the parasitic, unregarded things that dwell within the floodwaters; they have tested my steel, scraped their teeth against it, and drifted away. But anything that is truly paying attention will see me and hear me, and this is partially by design. As uncertain as the pilgrims were to have a lone, heavily-armored gnoll guide them through the black tunnels, it was much more comprehensible, much more palatable if I were to be the first and foremost target of anything lurking in the darkness.

That red light... I began seeing it once we passed halfway. It is a regular flash and diminution, timed to 1.3 seconds between each pulse. The last time I was at Moonward Junction, a half-cut sage told me that, sometimes, people lost in the tunnels become enamored with the signal boxes - that, sometimes, they listen to them, worship them, interpreting their lost signals as the secret code of otherworldly wisdom. When these people are deep in their derangement, they become a threat to anyone associated closely with the Vermissian - the librarians, the pages, the knights dressed in railway-plate. At their best, these cultists wish to trap us, to extract our knowledge of the transit-library; at their worst, they fail to properly interpret anything we say into the bespoke language of obsessive faith, and we become sources of sacrifice.

The light ahead rises, dims, red and regular. As I stomp closer, close enough to nearly, almost, just about make out the source of the glow, it fades completely. This has happened before. Something is leading me on down here, deeper into the tunnels. As I approach the signal-box, now dead and dark, the red light blooms again further down the tunnel, just at the edge of sight.

I slosh my feet through the murky water, drawing to the edge of the tunnel, to where a one-man-wide ledge rises above the rail bed. Once upon a time, these were intended as service corridors; now, with the Vermissian serving as one of the safer routes from town to town, these are pilgrim-pathways, cleaned of ancient soot by the passing of shuffling feet and brushing hems. There is a pocked yellow service ladder leading up from the wet pit, and I climb it, shedding water. A small, square cutout in the concrete wall next to the signal-box, pinned with ancient diagrams, would have once been used to service the thing. Now, I hold my magelight up to the arcane markings and wait for them to change.

Only a few moments, between eyeblinks. The Heart never makes me wait for long.

The further I descend into the Heart, the more I add my voice to its consensus, the more I find that writing becomes a changeable and uncertain thing. Books alter their meaning as I turn the page; I set pencil to paper, intending to write one thing, and emit a novel and unintended sentence. Sometimes, the Heart intends to shock me with these changes, unsettle or disturb me. It has been helpful on this journey, though - more important, it has been consistent, which I know must be a great burden. The numbers change, the arcane service schematic rewriting itself to instead display the number of people that can be safely stationed on this spit of dry land. Thirteen? Troubling. I will have to wait in the water.

I creak my way down the ladder, settle into the water, lift my magelight high, and whistle twice back the way I came - safe passage. I see the flicker of lamplight as the pilgrims emerge from the electrical room, spill in single-file onto the service ledge and begin their shuffling procession towards me. It is comforting, I must admit. I have never been able to intuitively understand religion - I was not raised with it, and I seem incapable of translating disparate stimuli into belief in the way that religious people do. But I can see and respect their values, and I do look upon their shared community with warmth. As much as their presence here is a liability, it is a much better thing than wandering these passages alone.

As they draw closer, two of the pilgrims - a young child and an older one - lift their lanterns and wave at me. I wave back, smiling under the shadow of my helmet. Another, an adult, lifts and arm and points - not at me, at something behind me. I am halfway through turning to follow her signal when something large and painful clangs against my helmet, driving me to one knee.

I spin up, turn, my sword unsheathed, instantly ready. Three of them, little to discern beneath those heavy robes other than the fact that each were humanoid. Two, including the one looming over me, are wielding heavy mauls; one with a length of rope or cable terminating in a wicked hook.

Injured, sodden, at disadvantage, I nevertheless must respond to reality in the language with which it is accustomed. I explode into violence. I am a surge of scrap-steel and indignation. There is no point, no purpose in being ponderous and strategic. Blood thrums in my eardrums as I drive my weight into my aggressor; we meet in the middle, my sword buried in their belly, and I progress in my momentum. I do not pause to verify the death of my first adversary. I cannot, when I am the only sword and steel between maniacs and children.

The second cultist attempts to block my driving rush. I do not endeavor to respond to their defense with a change in positioning; I trust my weight and drive into him, body-to-body. No way to tell whether my sword strikes anything. This is pure momentum and its purpose is to send my opponent under the water, into the ground. I stand over their sloshing, flailing form and pin it under my heavy boots, one knee planted on their groin and one foot at their chest; they grip at my shins, struggling to keep their face above water. I lift my head and see the third matching my aggression with aggression, hook already swinging down towards me, impossible to dodge. Behind them, more figures in that gently pulsing red light - too dim, too chaotic to count.

The star-sharp hook scrapes beneath a shoulderplate and bites into the meat of my back. I feel it piercing, entering, meeting my blood. I do not recoil from the blow. I stand firm. I howl.

The Heart is the blood and the bone of this bastard world, the loudest voice screaming in the consensus. If it would toy with me, if it would intimate an interest in me, then it can damn well help from time to time. I howl, and the world changes.

The red light, pulsing at the end of the tunnel, changes. No more dimming; it is a steady glow, the hue shifting in a moment from apple-red to blood-scarlet.

The soot-smeared, concrete-black, half-flooded tunnel around me changes. It ripples like a serpent's body when you pin its head to the ground. I hear the groan of the steel tracks under my pinned captive, the sound of bodies behind me hitting water. I smell, I feel the rending of the earth.

The words shift, the numbers zero out, language changes. My map translates itself into a love poem. The world becomes a cacophony of disparate speech. No one is using the same tongue.

I feel it, a single, heavy, bloody, undeniable beat. The Heart contracts, releases.

The creature beneath me writhes, slackens, gives up. Their scrabbling hands sink back into the water; the last bubbles rise. The one before me drops the cable they are wielding. The look in their eyes is somewhere between fear and awe - a sublime expression, a religious expression, one I've never been able to parse. They break and run, sloshing back into the halo of the steady red light; their fellows behind them, waiting for a signal, follow.

I turn back to the pilgrims, to where they are paused, half in the water, watching. They are still and shocked, all of them, as if painted in place. Violence, to an observer, is always sudden and chaotic. It only has meaning to the people in its grip. I must do something; I am not used to anyone looking to me for leadership.

I whistle twice - safe passage. I see shoulders slacken, grips loosen. A child begins to clamber up the yellow service ladder an an adult moves quick to help them. That seemed to do it.

As I wait for the pilgrims to make their way to dry land, I ease the hook out from my shoulder and contemplate the violence that just befell me. I have been here long enough; violence, on its own, rarely shocks me anymore, and rarer still when I am its victim. And yet, as usual, I must ask why. The corpse at my feet had some rationale to its ambush that, now, I will never ascertain. The children who witnessed this will remember it, and it will shape how they meet the future.

The blood on the hook is mixed red and black. I am bleeding ink again. That's been happening more and more these days.

I ask, as I always do, and wait for an answer I'll never receive. If reality is a consensus, why does it want to be like this? Who argued for any of this to happen? Why does it think we want this?

Do we?

*****

Name: Taala Ancestry: Gnoll Calling: Heartsong Class: Vermissian Knight Skills: Delve, Kill Domains: Technology Protection: +3 Echo Resources: Scrapsword (Kill d6); Magelight rig (Delve d6) Equipment: Spare capacitors and wires (d6 Technology)

Abilities: Core: In the Blood (Echo protection; once per session, if I take stress to not-Echo, I can allocate it to Echo); Vermissian Plate (once a session, I can consume an Occult or Technology resource, roll its die, and either remove Blood/Mind/Echo stress equal to the roll, inflict stress on a delve adversary equal to the roll, gain access to a skill or domain for the rest of the session (d8 resource or more), or increase my Blood protection by 1 for the rest of the situation (d8 resource or more)) Minor: Knight Protector (Gain Kill; once per situation I can take the stress in the place of an ally who would mark stress to Blood); Arcane Rebreather (+2 Echo protection) Major: Get Behind Me (an ally within arm's reach of me gains +1 Blood protection; once per situation, I may shout an order an ally and remove d4 Blood or Mind stress from them)

Trinkets, keepsakes: Several cubes of refined sugar wrapped in red paper, djinn-battery I don't know how to recharge, greenish candles that help me sleep a dreamless sleep (sometimes). I traveled to the Heart in search of the Vermissian itself, following an oft-repeating truism - "The library is a safe place." I went alone, half-heartedly guided by a drunken sage. I found it. I live within it now. I dream of a gloaming marble-and-slate Vermissian mezzanine stacked with loose paper, spent bullets, and abandoned tents. I recognize the Heart in writing; it always speaks to me directly. My connection to the Heart has affected my voice, expanded my vocal range, so that I occasionally, unintentionally, sound like someone else.

*****

Heart is just one of those games, man. Enigmatic. It tells stories that can't be told any other way, in any other medium. It requires enthusiastic participation in order to reach its goal; it's not something that can be told at you, you have to make yourself a part of it in some way, you have to buy in, opt in, jumble it around with your own two hands. The world it's got is reactive, visceral, and malleable - that sort of fantasy where reality isn't just impossible, but psychogenic, constructing its impossibility from the paradoxes of the mind.

And, for some reason, my brain just doesn't want to put it together. I look at Heart's simple ruleset, with its redundant system mirroring between different sorts of actions and plentiful examples, and the wet newspaper inside my skull lets out a kind of sad trombone noise and stops trying. I have to keep going back and referencing earlier rules as I read through it, re-learning how to use all those cool resources I could find or fight all those horrible monsters I could encounter, and even as I do, I can feel that knowledge failing to stick, sliding off my cerebellum like a fresh egg splattered on an office whiteboard. I don't know if this is a universal thing or if my brain is fully rotted through. I'm like this with Fate, too, which is a simpler game and thus a sadder result.

But man, is the world of Heart cool as shit. It's visceral, personal fantasy, impossible at every angle, which is just the kind of stuff I like. Every little bit of description underscores everything I want in fantasy fiction (except the deep apiarists, which hit two of my Bad Phobias at once and combined them into something so deeply uncomfortable that I don't want to write about them anymore). But, given that it's a game that I somehow can't grasp without played examples, I also can't teach it to myself with solo play. And if I can't teach it to myself, it's going to wind up being one of those games I enthuse to friends about but also can't run for them, meaning my only means of engagement are going to be, like, reading through the rulebook again and again or successfully inducting/guilting a friend into running it for me.

So here I am, engaging with Heart in one of the only ways my stupid brain will let me. I have to put it back on the shelf when I'm done, and I don't want to, but the numbers won't let me do it any other way. Pleh.

Next up, and finally: If it's stupid and it works, it's still stupid, but hey, you only had to spend four bucks on the thing, so who cares?

[joni-witchell]

ITS APPARENTLY

"MAKE SURE YOU OVERSTIMULATE JO TODAY BY DOING THINGS SPECIFICALLY TAILORED TO ANNOY THEM" DAY FOR MY BOSS CAUSE GODDAAAAAAAAMN!

[teabookgremlin]

my roommate and i were inventorying our dog stuff as a puppy is likely arriving this month and i found justice’s collar tag so now i can have it on my keys i was very excited

[lalunanymph]

KILLSHOT

sypnosis when fate gives you back your supposedly “dead” foster childhood bestfriend who is now the colonel of one of the most powerful fleets in the world, what else is there to do but fuck him right in the interrogation room? 

warnings interrogation, caleb is mean for like 0.24848 seconds cause lbr he is a puppy of a man, drugging, drugged sex, improper use of evol, collaring, mutual pining, biting, marking, betrayal, mindfuck, injuries, mentions of blood, psychological warfare, seduction, fighting, hurt and comfort, angst, potential spoilers for “farspace deprivation” and “farspace bloomfall”, dark themes, hate sex, cervix fucking, fingers in mouth, sucking on gloved fingers, gunplay, degradation, undertones of Dom/sub, oral sex, kink, bratting, disciplining, after effects of interrogations, unprotected sex, ceiling sex, grieving, spoilers for chapter 4, mentions of death, aftercare, cuddling, guilt, repressed emotions, 18+

dawn says caleb girlies RISE UP oh we are eating so good our man is back home and you KNOW i had to write about his hot new glowup in that slutty colonel outfit,...

Yet again, you’re in the thick of trouble.

They said curiosity killed the cat, and this time, you had little doubt of coming out alive. But, it can hardly be classified as your fault. 

It was a stupid lead. A blind coordinate Nero sent to you, leading you to stumble right into the heart of a military operation unauthorized. In the world of bureaucracy and red tape, it’s as good as being dead.

Now, you’re being led away, bound and blindfolded with no one to blame but yourself for your shitty luck and foresight. 

Whoever is leading you to your certain death stops in his tracks, nudging you into a cool room. You’re made to sit on a hard chair, and within seconds, your wrists are untied only to be bound again to the chair’s arms and something hard and circular is snapped onto your neck. 

“Unh—” you gasp when you hear the soft whir of the device starting. A sudden pressure wraps around your body, holding you back from resonating. Without your Evol, you’re defenceless and whoever has captured you knows it. 

“Don’t resist.” 

A cold voice pierces the silence. You stop squirming and peel your ears.

“W-who’s there?” You curse the stutter in your question, the trembling underlying your show of courage.

A Hunter resists and never gives up intel easily. Evasion Interrogation Class 101. You weren’t going to cave without a fight. 

The slow approach of boots on the hard floor thumps like the blood rushing through your ears. You tense, feeling the other person’s presence before you. 

Light floods your senses, and your eyes pry open when the blindfold is whipped off your face. You blink, trying to focus on the dark spot standing right in front of you. The furrow of his brow is the first thing you notice, then those piercing violet eyes.

No…

“Hey… Pipsqueak.” 

Your blood turns to ice in your veins, fear shooting up your spine.

It can’t be… you struggle to make sense of what you’re seeing, feeling your stomach dropping heavily right into the soles of your Hunter boots. It can’t… 

You mourned him. You watched your entire family—your world—go up in flames.

This stranger wearing his face sits down in front of you, legs spreading with ease under the stretch of his starched white pants. He’s in a decorated jacket, one you’ve never seen him wear before. It’s like the memory of all that you once knew of Caleb is corrupted with a dark veneer, giving way to this tainted version sitting before you with barely any emotion in his eyes.  

The familiar slope of his features, the same ones you’ve seen throughout the years, changing and growing, as intimate to you as your own breath, is cold and distant. 

Warm sunny days, the smell of freshly cut grass, a hand holding yours through the rain…

It disappears in a flash of lightning, the dark clouds rolling behind him like the dread churning right in your gut. 

Your voice is soft, fringed with disbelief, as the shock renders you immobile to the chair. 

“What?” He quips, and a shadow of his old smile appears. But, where there was once familiarity, now there only exists the ruins of everything you held dear. 

“Don’t you recognize me?” 

It’s as if he’s goading you. 

He picks up an apple from the centerpiece on the table next to the chair he has you strapped in, and holds it in his hand like it would give him all the answers in the world. His pensive gaze, those once wondrous violet eyes catching the last of the sun’s rays as it disappeared over a river, cloud over with an undeniable oppression. 

He can’t even look at you properly. 

“Did you honestly think I would always be the kind-hearted boy from your childhood?” 

Like a horror show unfolding, he lifts his gaze, looking right into your depths, as the snap of the apple's skin gives way to the tension of his jaws. A bit of its juice dribbles onto his lower lip, and you force yourself to tear your eyes away, needing to retain your wits. Caleb sets the fruit down, chewing thoughtfully, before lifting it to your lips. 

“Eat,” he murmurs softly, a shadow of his old self on the tired terrain of his face. “You must be starving.”

The sweet boy from your past can’t be coincided with this cold man right in front of you. Where you would’ve leapt at the opportunity to taste any dish from the labor of his kind hands, you fear this forbidden bite would poison you the second his tainted fruit touched your lips. 

Turning your head away, you glare at the rain-slicked windows, trying to hide the sting in your eyes.

Caleb, knowing how stubborn you can be, sighs and drops his olive branch offering.

“Fine.” His voice is flat. Unemotional. “Let’s get to the bottom of things, then.”

He stands, and you feel a fissure of fear opening in your chest when he retrieves his baton, removing his military cap and tossing it onto the table. 

“Why’re you here?” 

You refuse to open your mouth, glaring at him. Caleb shakes his head.

“You always have to make things so hard for me, don’t you, Pipsqueak?” He murmurs and steps closer to you, the fire in his violet gaze crackling. “You’ve always been insufferable since we were kids. Now—” he frowns. “—why are you here? And how did you find this place?” 

You find your voice, croaking out, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to? Are you sure?” He cuts you off coldly. Caleb straightens and adjusts his gloves. There’s a hint of a smile on his face, though it’s corrupted by the detachment oozing from his suddenly frosty demeanour. “You expect me to believe that? That you just stumbled into the scene like a stray kitten?” 

When you don’t speak, he sighs, kneeling down to your height. The warmth of his eyes is back and a lump forms in your throat.

“Caleb…” your whisper is soft. Tentative. He senses a chink in your defenses, a drop of blood in the ocean, and the gleam of his teeth reminds you of a shark.

“All you have to do is answer my questions, Pipsqueak,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to stroke your hair. “Can you do that for me? Can you be a good girl?” That same, mischievous smile plays on the corners of his lips, though it sends a chill down your spine, instead. “There’s more than one pair of eyes observing you in this room so I suggest you play nice.”

He pulls back again, depriving you of his warmth. “Now that you understand, we can have a friendly chat, hmm, Pips?” When you refuse to look at him, or give any indication you’re willing to cooperate, he sighs. 

Instantly, the sensation of a thousand bricks falling onto your shoulders hits you, and you scream, almost crushed by the pressure. Caleb uses this momentary distraction to kneel down and lock your ankles to the chair’s legs and snap a band around your right wrist, his other hand gently running the ghost of his touch up your ankle. The forcefield of his Evol deters him from ever touching your skin, and if you could look closer, you would’ve seen his throat bobbing from a harsh swallow.

“Do you remember that injured cat you brought back home? Back when we were kids?” He glares up at you. “I got a collar with a bell. That way, it couldn't escape without being noisy,” he gently squeezes your knee. “The same can be said for you—you’re not allowed to leave me again.” 

As he speaks, something sharp pokes your neck and you flinch. While your eyes are on him, the room starts to spin, and before you know it, you’re hunched over the chair, gasping and shaking.

“Caleb,” your voice sounds like you’re whispering from under the sea. “W-what’s—?”

“Don’t worry,” his reassurances warble back. “It won’t harm you—images in your brain,” his words flicker through your consciousness and you feel the collar tightening around your throat.

Shit… He had sanctioned a drug to be shot into your system. 

Your woozy eyes keep on sliding back to the floor. 

Caleb has drugged me.

“Where did you find the coordinates to this place?” 

You’re fighting a losing battle trying to keep your composure. Everything feels too loud—too bright. Digging your nails into the chair’s arms, you grit your teeth, fighting back against the wave of vertigo threatening to take you under. You feel like you’re on a rollercoaster, out of breath, the ground dangling far from your feet. Every sharp inhale you take makes you float higher and higher, till you think your brain would burst from the stratosphere of your skull.

Nero… Nero knew this… and he let you walk right into it.

Nero… The sound of Caleb’s voice pierces through your mind like bright light cutting past the fog. That’s good, Pipsqueak. That’s my good girl… Is Nero your colleague?

You think of him, in his horn-rimmed glasses, hunched over his screen.

Good, Caleb’s voice soothes you, a lifeline through this impenetrable fog your mind has settled in. And, why are you here?

The image of his dog tag with the apple charm takes over your mind, and it hits you too late that Caleb can possibly see your thoughts unfold. 

What are the possibilities that you can fight this? Your brain races. You feel like an astronaut stranded in space, isolated from gravity and light, as your spacesuit begins to fill up with water, almost drowning you.

A sharp jab to your chest makes your eyes flutter open, and his baton is pointed right at the apple charm hanging around your neck. Something softer, presumably made out of hide, brushes your chin as he studies the charm in between his fingers, his expression unreadable. 

“It’ll all be over soon,” he whispers, the switch flipping, “As long as you keep on cooperating.” 

You lean into his reassurances, a whimper slipping past your gritted teeth. 

“I know, I know,” he soothes, and stands before you, his hands clenched into fists. “But, it’s for your own good. Just a little longer, Pips.” 

He asks his final question: “Were you trailed?” 

You can’t stop the next thought from forming in your head of your Hunter’s watch. Instantly, the band is ripped from your wrist, and you hear a loud crunch. The air thickens and you close your eyes, trying to find your centre. The world threatens to spin off your axis; G-Force pressure right in your center threatens to tear you apart.

Please… make it stop… 

Like a switch has been flipped, the spinning cyclone in your mind stops. The sound of your harsh breathing and the erratic pulse in your ears is the only thing you can hear. Someone kneels right in front of you, and you don’t have the strength to push him away, not when he’s this close.

“Congratulations,” he says softly, stretching his hand like he wants to pat your head, but retracts it at the last minute. “You passed.” 

The collar slips off your neck, and you hear it being tossed onto the table. “Come here,” he whispers and unbinds you. Caleb lifts you into his arms, though not even his warmth can comfort you. 

Through the fog whirling in your mind, you make a snap decision.

Your hand collides into his cheek, the loud slap ricocheting around the room. He grunts, taken aback, and you use the momentum to swing your legs, wrapping your thighs around his neck so he’s forced to let go of you. Using every iota of balance you can muster, you land on your feet, none too gracefully. His hand wraps around your arm and practically hiss, sinking your teeth into his flesh.

Caleb gasps, and whips his hand back, glaring down at you. 

“Hey! It’s me—”

But, you’re not listening. You’re ready to pounce when he grabs your wrist, drawing you closer to him, pressing your cheek to his chest so you can hear the harsh rise and fall of his breathing.

“Pips, it’s me,” he tries earnestly again. “It’s me. I’m back.”

To your horror, you start to cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

You sob and blubber like a child, growing weak in his arms as the hand in his grasp turns into a fist and you smack it weakly against his hard chest.

“How could you?” is the first thing you ask through your sobs. And, the next: “How’re you even alive?” 

Caleb looks away, like he might reveal too much if he stares into your eyes. “It’s complicated—”

“Bullshit,” your anger resounds in the room like the crack of a whip. You should’ve bit him harder. 

You think you see him flinch. You push away from his arms and he looks down at you, every crevice of his face dripping with desolation. There’s a glimmer of wetness in his eyes, and yet, you can’t trust it. 

You can’t trust him. 

“Pipsqueak,” he tries again, reminding you of the times when you were both younger, and he had to sweet-talk you out of a bad mood. “I know you must think some chip got put into my brain, or I’m no longer who I used to be. But, I’m still me,” he urges, and lifts your chin to meet his eyes. “I’m still Caleb. I never left.” 

You grit your teeth and with a strength neither of you expect you to have, you push him against the table, pressing yourself in between his legs. Caleb grunts, but doesn’t shove you aside. He looks up at you, with those same pitiful, defiant violet eyes that urges you to either kiss him senseless or claw his eyeballs out.

… Wait. 

Kiss him senseless? 

You shake your head, pushing those thoughts aside. As if he can’t control himself anymore, he runs his knuckles down the back of your thighs, the new (downright useless) mandated Hunters uniform showing off too much bare skin. But, you couldn’t care less about that right now. 

Right now, you have a score to settle with your oldest childhood friend.

“You’re still the same, huh?” Your hand presses to his chest, feeling the erratic pulse of his heartbeat under your palm. Even through all the layers he wears, you can still feel the heat of his body seeping past your skin. “You’re still the same Caleb I knew—the same one who walked through that damn door—” you growl, curling your hand into a fist and hitting it right into his sternum, “—and blew up on me?!”

“Pipsqueak—”

“Don’t you dare,” you seethe, baring your teeth. Though the tears continue to fall, your mind is honed in. Focused.

The need to obliterate him, to make him feel a shred of the same pain he had put you through for months, rears its ugly head.

Like he can read your mind—and you honestly think he can—he caresses your face, running his thumb over your jaw. The look on his face is pure regret, mingled with something unfathomable. You scent it in the lingering heat of his breath on your parted lips, or how much closer his face has gotten to yours. 

Right here, he’s in the palm of your hands… And yet, why is he still so painfully out of reach? 

“I don’t trust you,” the words slip past your numb lips before you can take them back. You grip his face, steadying those violet eyes on your furious ones. “I need to test you… to put you through a trial.”

The look of indignation on his face is delicious, and it whets your appetite for vindication. 

“A trial?” He almost sounds insulted. “What have I done wrong?” 

Your other hand slowly reaches for the front of his chest, running the tip of your finger down the starch lapels of his jacket. “You were missing. For months,” you grit out the words. “I need to check if you’re still him.”

“Still… me?” 

You growl and tighten your grip on his chin.

“What is my favorite food?” 

Caleb huffs, as if you had just asked him what color the sky was. “Braised chicken wings,” he murmurs almost sarcastically. “Next.”

You glance at the bite mark on his hand. “What is my favorite way of getting you back?” 

He raises a brow. “Biting. I remember how when we were kids, you bit me so hard, the mark took 15 days to disappear.”

You swallow. He’s correct again. 

Reluctantly, you loosen your grip on his chin. The position you’re both in hits you—his arm around your waist, his free hand still stroking the back of your thigh. Your one hand tangled in his jacket and the other still on his chin.

Heat floods your cheeks, and you recall him saying that there were more than one pair of eyes watching in this room. But, a part of you—the one who’s been deprived of Caleb for far too long, who had to contend with days of loneliness and missing him, couldn’t care less.

“Pipsqueak,” he murmurs, and his hand moves from your leg to your hair, gently nudging you deeper into the circle of his arms. The smell of him floods your nostrils with nostalgia and a hint of pine, the old Caleb you grew up with solidifying further and further under your touch. 

“Caleb…” 

Faster than two atoms on the path to collision, his lips are on yours.

Caleb kisses you like you’re the only source of oxygen left in his world. Something crashes onto the floor, and the plate of apples rolls onto the carpet, an orchard of sin scattered in between your legs pressed together. The sweet, tart flavor of the fruit he had just eaten saturates your tastebuds, and you moan when he desperately tangles his tongue with yours. 

He lifts you into his arms bridal style, and carries you down a narrow hallway you had never noticed before, the flashing thunder illuminating the gaudy paintings hung on the wall. 

He takes you to what looks like a medical room, though no one is in there. Your lips press to his neck, kissing and sucking on his pulse point. He hisses and in a low tone, warns, “Keep that up and you might regret it, Pipsqueak.” 

Gently, like you’re precious cargo, he sets you down onto the bed, those violet eyes like a newfound nebula fixed onto you, filled with the brightest stars in the galaxy.

Caleb runs his hand up your thigh, and you flicker your gaze to his gun holster. 

In the split second when he’s distracted, you lunge right for it, grabbing the handle.

He yelps, taken aback, but is faster, snapping his hand around your wrists to impede your movements. The gun drops from your grasp like dead weight, along with your hopes of ever escaping. If looks could kill, you would  be dead meat from the intensity of his glare.

Caleb exhales, fixing his frigid gaze onto yours. 

“Oh,” he chuckles, and you shiver at the dark edge in his tone. “You will pay for that.”

Gravity surrounds you like a weighted blanket, except it pins you to the bed rather than offering any comfort. Your whimper is lost behind the gloved hand that muffles your cries, hissing into your ear to, “Stay still, goddamnit.”

Caleb is breathing hard, a drop of sweat rolling from his temple down his throat. You feel it dripping onto your neck, your wild eyes fix on him. 

When he’s sure you won't retaliate again, he stands up from the bed, bearing down on you. Picking up the gun from the floor, he trails it right to your temple. His Evol hasn’t muffled your speech, but you don’t want to say a word to him, preferring to glare. 

“I asked you a simple question—”

“And, you know I can’t answer that,” he retaliates, recognizing what you’re trying to do. His brow furrows. “There are things I can’t tell you, Pips. Things you don’t even understand—”

“Then, help me understand!” You’re yelling now, close to tears. “Help me understand why you left… why you left me…” your voice breaks on the last word, and a look of regret shadows his face.

“I never wanted to.” The gun slides from your temple right to your jaw, but you’re not afraid of it. Nothing in the world can keep you from knowing the truth; from uncovering every layer in Caleb’s new facade. 

(But, maybe, this dark side of him has always been there, and you were just too blind not to notice). 

He takes a shaky breath. “If I had the choice to do it over again, I would’ve never—ever—left you.” 

Sincerity bleeds past the shades of night falling outside the window. Silence envelopes the two of you, and the realization dawns when he exhales your name.

“Pipsqueak…” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

You’re not his Pipsqueak anymore, the same way he is inexplicably not your Caleb anymore.

He gets back down to his knees, right in front of you. The look on his face is nothing short of misery, heavy with a thousand implications he could never divulge. 

You’re desperate, hungry for more. To know more, to feel more. To embrace the darkness brewing in you like the undeniable heat that’s simmering between your two bodies. 

“Do you hate it?” He asks softly, in a voice frayed with a thousand emotions, and you sense he’s not referring to your old nickname. Do you hate me? 

The silent question hangs heavy in the air, and without a second thought, you turn your face and press your lips to the barrel of his gun.

You can point a weapon at me, but you will never shoot, your kisses on the cold metal speak where words fail you. The gun trembles in his grasp, and between your body pinned to the bed from his Evol and a military-grade weapon pointed at you, what you’re doing is completely ballsy. And, insane.

“I know you have secrets,” you murmur as the cold metal tip travels to the nape of your neck. Despite himself and his rigorous self-control, Caleb is still a man. 

Still flesh and bone. Love and grief. 

“But, we’re a team, remember? You and me. Me and you. We work together, Caleb. Not against each other.” 

Your blurry mind tries hard to focus on the task at hand—needing to throw him off guard—but you can’t deny how the heat in his hooded eyes is making you feel.

He inhales sharply at your words, though the rest of his expression remains unreadable. “I told you, what I know is top secret and even you’re not allowed to know it.”

Those violet eyes trail down your susceptible body spread wide open for him on the bed, and you notice a flicker of hunger behind his dark gaze. 

You’ve always loved Caleb’s attention: whether he’s complimenting you on scoring a goal, or commending your plane model assembly skills. 

Everything you did was, to a degree, for him to see you. To finally accept you wholeheartedly and without restraint.

You were his little tail; the Pipsqueak who followed him around like his shadow.

And even now, when he has a gun right at your throat, all you can think about is how much you want to please him. 

Tilting your head back, you moan when the barrel slides down the valley of your breasts. His breathing is growing heavier; the look in his lilac eyes is stormy and dark.

“You… like this?” 

He sounds hoarse. In disbelief.

You nod. “I…” you lick your lips. “I love it.” 

The cool metal grazes your jaw, and when it taps on your lips, you don’t hesitate to part them. Glancing into those molten, violet eyes, you suck on the hollow tip, aware of his finger on the trigger and the look of undefiled lust on his face. 

“God,” he mumbles, hungrily eyeing how deep the barrel is down your throat. “You’re such a good, good little girl…”

He prises the gun from between your teeth, and the strands of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the spit-soaked metal shimmers in the low light. 

Caleb tosses the gun onto the table, growling as he crawls on top of you. 

The effect of his Evol fades, allowing you to move your feet, but his hands on your knees make sure you can’t pull off anything funny.

“You’re gonna lay back, and you’re going to be good,” he lifts your leg and kisses over your knee. It would be so easy to drive the hard cartilage right into his nose… but, you don’t want his hands to leave your skin. You want to see what he will do next. 

The off-duty Hunter uniform you’re wearing rides up your thighs, exposing the plush fat of your thighs. His gloves rasping on your skin drives a shiver up your spine. 

It’s like he refuses to engage in skin-to-skin, whether as punishment or a caution. 

You whine softly when his bigger body bears down on yours.

“Caleb…” 

He grasps your chin, none too gentle as he pulls you closer to him. “Look at you,” he growls, pushing himself closer—the heat of his body melting with yours. “Look at what you do to me.” 

It’s hard to even breathe when he’s close enough to devour your face. 

His breath grazes your cheek, and you close your eyes. Your oldest childhood friend savors the proximity, taking in a whiff of your clean perfume. 

Before your mind can play catchup, your body falls right into the orbit of his desire; lips on his, breaths mingling as one. 

“Fuck,” Caleb breathes, a moan pulled from the depths of his chest, tortured and strangled. “You taste so—nhng—” 

He gasps when your arms come to loop around his shoulders, dragging him almost between your legs. He steadies himself, gloved palms on the bed. You run your hands over the starch grooves of his jacket, finding the first button. 

Caleb lets your touch wander aimlessly, his breath caught in the back of his throat.

“Are you sure?” He whispers, those anguished violet eyes almost gouging into yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. “Are you sure you want this?”

Are you sure you want me? 

As a silent answer, you lean forward, catching his lower lip in between your teeth. 

“Ngnhmhm,” he moans, gasping when you bite down hard. 

He tastes blood and your desperation, helping you unbutton his coat. The heavy chain slaps against your eager cheek in his rush to slide it off his arms. “Shit—sorry.” Cool fingers brush the afflicted cheek. “You alright, sweetness?” 

You nod, huffing and moving your hands to his other lighter jacket, unbuttoning it. He chuckles at your eagerness and helps you with the brass buttons. As the layer disappears, you’re confronted with another shirt.

“How many clothes are you wearing?!” Your cry brings a mischievous grin tugging on the corners of his lips. 

“Lots,” he murmurs and takes over with a nimble skill only a man of his caliber can have. The grey shirt melts off his broad shoulders, discarded onto the floor, and finally—fucking finally—he removes the black turtleneck, revealing smooth acres of warmed, tan skin right under your touch. 

You exhale shakily, running your fingers down his distinct pectorals, tugging on the dog tag around his neck. Your eyes land on the familiar apple charm.

“How—?” 

He thumbs the similar charm hanging from around your neck. For the first time this evening, he voluntarily gives up some information. 

“I—uh—had someone copy my old necklace.”

The look of disbelief on your face is enough to deter his next words. 

“You decoyed the necklace I gifted you?” 

Caleb winces. “C’mon, Pip—I-I mean, love…” he sighs and presses his palm to the back of your head, drawing you closer to peck your pouty lips. “It helped me make sure you were safe. Plus,” he adds, a touch of humor in his tone. “You did tell me you would kick my ass if I ever took it off.” 

You struggle to understand the layers behind his words, fighting to form a reply when his lips travel to the juncture of your neck, softly kissing and sucking your sensitive flesh. 

Focused on retrieving the truth, you fight hard against his best efforts at derailing you. “You—mhm—were tracking me? All this time?” 

Caleb doesn’t pause his sensual assault, groaning softly. “Won’t call it tracking per say…” 

You want to get mad. Truly, you do. But, the feeling of his teeth grazing your pulse point melts any coherent thoughts left in your brain.

The confusion you felt before gives way to something deeper. Unrestrained. He kisses you again, and you absorb the feeling of warm skin under your palms, feeling the heat of his body thrumming under your touch. His muscles expand and contract with every shaky breath, his chest pressed so intimately to yours.

You squirm, and he hisses, restraining your hips to the bed.

“Stop that,” he hisses. 

Confusion overtakes you, and  you want to ask what’s wrong when he winces and shifts his hips further from yours, instinctively setting a physical boundary you want gone immediately.

“Are you scared?” It’s your turn to goad him. If he thinks you’re going to be nothing but docile and wanting, he’s been away for far too long. 

His lips twitch. “Of you? Nah. But, of what I can do?” His voice drops an octave, and he leans in, one gloved hand going to your chin, holding it in place. “If anyone should be scared, it’s you.” 

Caleb tests the waters of this new dynamic unfolding between you two, dipping his fingers past the gap of your lips. The breach should make you pull away, take a step back to reassess the situation.

But, you’re as much under his spell as you have bewitched him. 

The taste of earthy hardness fills your mouth, and you suck on his thumb obediently. 

Caleb looks down at you, the heat in his eyes almost touching the boiling point. A few more moments of your teasing, and he would be close to bursting and taking you right on this bed. 

Never one to be satisfied with what he is allowed to take, Caleb pushes his luck further, sinking his thumb deeper down the soft gullet of your throat; compressing your gurgled words down to the bottom of your mouth in his journey to devour everything you can give him. 

“Oh, fuck.” He groans when you take another finger into your mouth like you were meant for him. “That’s a good girl… my good little girl…” 

You moan around his digits stuffed down your throat, peeling your watery eyes to his smirking expression.

“Cat got your tongue, Pipsqueak?” He murmurs, and stretches your jaw with a third finger. You’re so full of the taste of him, you start to choke. “You look so pretty like this—not a thought in your brain, just relying on me to make you full… to make you whole.” 

His words send a shiver down your spine. You want to protest, but deep down, it’s true.

The grief that clashes with his year-long absence, this “new” side to him you are starting to unravel… the old Calen, the one you loved and looked up to, is starting to metamorphosize right before your eyes.

“Cwaleb—” you whimper past his fingers. 

He’s barely laid a hand on you and you’re already folding. 

Pulling his fingers out of your mouth, he discreetly wipes off your spit on the bed sheets, fixing you with an arched brow. 

As if asking: Well… your move, Pipsqueak. 

Your hands fly to the buckle of his military pants, the sound of his zipper dragging down punctuating the air like a crass remark. 

Caleb stiffens when he feels your cool finger dipping past the waistband and he shudders, mind going hazy at a touch he had only dreamed off but never thought would come true. When you reveal him to the cool air, he’s half-flaccid, already at a six inch mast and the prettiest shade of pink you have ever seen with an undertone of mauve.

He’s part of the thicker team, though length-wise, it would make any woman scream and cream. Heavy balls. A slight curve. Growing up pumped full of hormones, you had secretly wondered how your oldest childhood friend’s cock would look like, but you never once anticipated seeing it in real time.

“Holy…” you trail off, and he grins.

“Like what you see?” 

You’re spread out for him on the threadbare sheets like a vision from a forbidden oasis. As much as he wants to bury himself in you, Caleb needs to make sure you’re ready first. He licks his lips, whets his appetite, and fills up your empty mouth with his tongue. 

“Mhm…” you groan into the depths of his mouth. “Caleb…” You swallow, and deciding to throw him off, you murmur a word he thought would never, ever come out from your mouth: 

“Sir,” you whimper. “ Kiss me harder…” 

Sparks go off in his mind. He feels like the force of the explosion has finally caught up with him a year later and his breath is knocked out from his lungs. 

“What did you say?” 

His deep violet eyes devour the look of wanton desire on your face, mind drawing a blank.

Did you just…? 

Did he hear it right? 

“Again,” he almost stutters, desperately needing to hear that word from your lips. “Say that word again.”

The restraint in your mind is at best a flimsy net letting your inhibitions fly freely. “Sir,” the word drips from your lips like the sultriest confession; the look on his face like that of a holy man scandalized. Except Caleb wasn’t holy—he was hardly a saint. He was the scum of the earth trying to lay his corrupted hands on a being far too precious for him. 

Immolating from his own self-hatred, it’s hard for him to fathom that you want this—that you want him. 

“Please,” your whisper cuts through the tension of the self-inflicted torment settling onto pensive demeanor. “Please… make love to me, Sir.”

All his years of restraint—of immaculate self-control—snaps like the last leaf off an autumn branch. He rains dizzying kisses down onto the jut of your collarbone, summer rain sweeter than sin on your tongue.

Caleb removes his pants, kicking the heavy material down to the floor as he works his boots off frantically with the toes of each alternating foot. 

The feel of his body on yours, almost smothering you to the mattress, drives you wild with a heat stoking right in the heart of your core.

“Sir,” you murmur, almost dizzy with lust. 

He pops open the buttons of your dress, slipping it down your shoulders. The swathes of your bare skin presented for him makes him feel like he’s barely lucid, lost in a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from. With one hand, he expertly unhooks your bra and slides it down your body, tossing it onto the floor where it joins his pants.

Caleb is barely restrained when he pushes you back onto the bed, his lips finding refuge in the juncture of your neck and shoulders. He nips, licks and sucks like his life depends on marking you; the sight of his marks on your skin only serves to make his feral need rise higher and higher. 

He takes refuge right at your chest, nibbling and nipping the plush fat of your breasts till you’re practically vibrating with excitement, your nipples wet with his spit and aching for more of his touch. 

The dark haired man can barely stop himself from what he does next—sliding your dress further down your body till the rise of your lace panties appears in his sights like the sun breaking over the horizon.

He feels the warmth of you on his face, right in his cheeks as your thighs tighten around his head.

“Oh, love,” he groans, like a man starving. “C’mere, Princess—”

He pulls you closer till your pelvis bumps his chin and you squeak, feeling his hot breath graze your bare skin. 

“Caleb—”

Your protests die an immature death when he buries his tongue right into your tight cunt. He moans at your taste, the lightning playing with shadows all over your body, illuminating the pulsing beats of darkness hiding behind those violet eyes. His pupils almost swallow those lilac orbs whole, their darkened gaze latched right onto you. 

“God,” he mumbles like a man tasting manna for the first time. “... s’sweet… this pussy is so sweet…”

The charming, charismatic and kind Caleb from before would’ve never dared utter such words in front of you. But, his other twin in bed, the one who wears his face complete with a devilish smirk, rolls his tongue over your syrupy folds, moaning at your flavor.

You taste like candied apples, and Caleb thinks he could eat you up whole. 

He squeezes more moans past your sweet lips when he draws all your folds into his mouth, spitting it back out only to do it again and again and again. 

“You’re so wet,” he slurs, those pretty purple eyes already pussy-drunk. “So fucking wet f’me.” 

Your legs spread, wrapping around his shoulders, the taste of your cunt almost coating the back of his throat—Caleb couldn’t be more in love with you.

“Mhm,” he moans, a sight in between your legs, chin slick with your juices, eyes half-closed in pure ecstasy. 

“You’re so full for me… dripping down everywhere,” he murmurs, placing a quick kiss onto your twitchy clit. “I could drink you for days.” 

Your cries and moans only fuel him to be meaner. Now that he has you in the palm of his hand, he’s not planning to let go of you anytime. 

It’s filthy, animalistic, and utterly raw. The emotions he evokes in you quakes through your soul, seeping out of your core only to be consumed by him, your lust growing his lust, his moans inciting your yearning. 

Caleb continues his gentle assault on your clit with his tongue, grinning against your cunt. 

“Louder… let them hear you.” He slips one leather-clad finger inside your pussy, pressing down on the spongy, soft spot. Those pretty lips wrap around your clit, giving it a gentle suck and you fold. 

You keen, tangling your fingers in his hair. It’s one thing to be eaten out this thoroughly, but another to be subjected to such pleasurable torture by a man who has hungered for you for years.

“Good girl,” the bridge of his nose almost rubs your clit raw when he buries his tongue even deeper inside you. “Louder,” he moans past flesh and more pussy juice gushing onto his chin. “Make it messy, baby.” 

Caleb… Caleb… your breaths come out in huge gasps, your back arching off the bed. 

He makes unravelling you look so easy, and you’d be absolutely pissed off if he wasn’t edging you towards the biggest orgasm of your life. 

While you’re in the throes of your pleasure, you feel his gloved hand wrap around your throat, thumb pushing past your flush lips.

“Mhm—” you moan at the flavor of him saturating your tongue. “Oh… Caleb—”

“Yeah,” he growls, chest rumbling. “Say my name, baby. Say it. Scream it.”

“Caleb,” your moans double in volume, the pleasure about to burst from your seams. “Oh, Caleb—!” 

Heat, wetness, a deep, stirring pleasure threatening to consume you, and then—

Nothing.

Caleb pulls away, squeezing your thighs. He rips off the gloves, and finally—finally—you feel his skin on yours.

The rasp of his warmth across your thighs drives goosebumps down your arms. “Shit,” you whimper when he pushes your thighs further apart to settle in between them. His body smothers yours, encompassing you in the pure mass that is his weight bearing fully down onto your exposed body.

Bastard. He leaves you hanging, reeling from a ruined orgasm, as you glare at him, your anger and indignation sputtering and dying on your tongue.

“Caleb! You—you—”

He grins, dark and sweaty bangs falling all over face as he drags you closer by the hips. 

“Open wide, pretty,” Caleb coaxes, thumbing the head of his pretty cock, smearing precum all over his digit. 

Fuck—ah… you groan sinfully. The sight of him pleasuring himself is seared in your brain. You bite your lower lip, shifting your hips. Need drips from your gasping breaths and your head is spinning.

Easy, he murmurs. I gotcha.

Caleb lifts your hips in his large hands, finding the perfect angle before slipping the sticky head between your folds. Your gasp grazes his ears in a warm puff, a telltale sign of your unexpected surprise at how good this feels.

It reminds you of those times when he would tease you as kids—always holding something out of reach and never giving in unless you begged nicely.

And, you sense it’s what he’s doing right now. Mercilessly teasing, testing your patience. Waiting for you to beg.

Caleb grasps the base of his hefty cock and runs it over the mess of your creases, soaked with your excitement for him. He teasingly pushes the plump head past the slutty ring of muscle gaping open for him, and heaves in a deep groan, like that of a beast about to breed his mate. Your eyes are crossed with pleasure, and you’re whimpering sweetly, no thoughts forming in your brain besides more, more, more.

You ache for him, but all you can do is take his teasing. “Please,” you huff, peeling your docile, little lamb eyes onto him, wishing he would relent and just fuck you.

The sheets twist in your fist and your other hand is tangled in his sweat-soaked hair.

Caleb uses one hand to brush his damp bangs off his face, and he grins, intent on making you pliable to his every whim. He presses a kiss to your jugular, biting down on it, relishing in your jolt of pleasure.

You’re so sensitive, even his pelvis grinding down on your clit feels good and you shift your hips higher, desperate for more friction—for more of him.

“Sir,” you sputter, woozy. “Please… please…” 

Caleb hums, lifts your thighs over his broad, muscular shoulders. The slight tilt spreads you out for him, a wildflower blooming under his touch. You’ve captivated him with your scent, your skin, your sweet sounds…

But, little does he know, you’re equally enraptured; caught in his trap. 

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs hoarsely. “Pretty when you beg. Pretty when you look at me like you can’t wait a second longer…”

His wet lips swell around your pulse point again, flowering heated kisses onto your sensitive skin.

“Nghh—Caleb,” you whimper and he chuckles—that bastard.

“You ready, sweets?” He teases you, shooting you a smug, stupid smile much to your consternation. 

You want to roll your eyes and be crass, asking him to just give up and put it in, but your words get stuck right in your throat when you realize you're already on the verge of losing it altogether.

You take one good look at him, and wet your lips, yielding with a nod. 

“Yes, Sir.”

Your obedience is like a hit of ecstasy for him, firing up his veins, and he moans, shifting closer to you. The bulbous tip jostles deep inside you as another inch is added and you writhe, eyes squeezed close in delirium. “Mhnmph!” 

Your moans shoot through his veins like licks of a strong, disorientating drug and Caleb groans. His hefty body is already shaking from the strain, and he doesn’t know how long he can last. His thighs shudder, and he has to bite on his lower lip to keep from moaning like a goddamn loser when he finally sinks his dick all the way into the love of his life. 

“Mhm—ah!” Your nails dig into his shoulders and he hisses. 

He gives you a split second to get used to the sensation, nothing more, nothing less. Obviously, he’s waited for you for his entire life. Etiquette and consideration can come later—all he wants to do right now is fuck the ever loving shit out of you. Caleb sets a pace, one that has you twitching, and he seethes at your lack of resistance.

“You’re—hnng, already so eager,” he snarls. “Been dreaming about this? About my cock?”

The sight of your decoyed necklace slapping against your skin from every thrust drives him dizzy with lust. His name on the dog tag, the apple charm looking so innocent and snug right in the valley of your luscious tits. It doesn’t take much to please a man like him and Caleb is as happy as a dog who got the best bone. 

He gnaws on your shoulder, teeth making indents on your precious skin.

Your thighs tighten around his shoulders, body almost folded in half like a pancake.

Caleb… Caleb… you whisper-gasp, the darkness of the room and the subsiding storm outside the windows lending to the dark yet intense atmosphere.

He licks along your bottom lip, sucking on your tongue. You taste so good, Princess…

Your whimpers brush his chin and his hair tickles your sternum as he ducks his head lower, bringing your stiff peaks into his mouth. He nurses and suckles on you, a fiendish look in his eyes.

“Mhmph—you taste like sin,” he groans deeply, the sound travelling all the way down to your core. The forbidden fruit, right here in his arms and like a selfish man, he wants more.

Without warning, gravity disengages around your body and you’re pinned to the ceiling in the blink of an eye. 

It feels surreal to look over his shoulder, at the bed hovering above your head, the medicine cabinet and lamp all peering up at you like a twisted version of wonderland. 

“Caleb—!” 

He silences your protests with a harsh kiss, licking and sucking on your lower lip till you whimper and quiver. Deftly, he guides your hips away from him and lets gravity do the rest. You sink down—full and to the hilt. He’s so deep in you, you swear you can taste him all the way in the back of your throat. 

Caleb fucks you this way—mean, demanding—using gravity and his Evol to his advantage. 

You writhe and twist in his grasp, head thrown back. The ceiling wall is cold against your back, though he’s warm enough to the touch to make your head spin.

Bodies press intricately, you can’t tell where he begins and where you end. Like two snakes interlocking, you feel Caleb everywhere. His breath on your neck, his hands roaming down your body possessively, the feel of his thick girth hitting every spot just right.

Drool drips down your chin, and you feel him chuckle; the rough rasp of his tongue lapping it up.

Messy girl, he drawls, smacking his lips. A smug grin tugs on his mouth, giving his boyishly handsome face a devilish touch. 

Give me more, he urges. More. Make it messy, Princess.

He sucks on your pulse point, your neck the perfect canvas for his marks. Nuzzling you close, you feel the tenderness behind his searing need.

His cock molds into you like a perfect fit. The sound of his hefty balls slapping wetly against your skin fills the room with a salacious symphony. 

Caleb, Caleb, Caleb. You can’t control the stream of moans escaping your puffy lips. He kisses you hard again, deepening it and letting his tongue tangle with yours in a passionate dance. Your heart swells with adoration for him; his flavor heavy on your tongue, sousing through your senses like a creeping heat reaching towards its completion. 

His touch kindles up more desire as if you’re dry straw waiting to catch fire, and oh—does he let you burn. 

Strings of your pussy juice drip past his balls, streaking his thighs like filthy snail trails. The shine of your own arousal dribbles past the pert curve of his fit ass, and ribbons into droplets falling from the ceiling like it’s goopy rain. 

Caleb doesn’t care about the mess you’re making. All he wants is to see you unravel.

Your cheeks flushed, eyes crossed—he leans in to kiss you hard, needing to taste your desperation firsthand.

Your hot moans give everything up to him, your body quaking like a tempest ready to unleash hell onto his self-control. 

He grunts when you fist his hair, finding your rhythm as you fuck him back, meeting him in the middle. The sway of your hips tells him all he needs to know—his little mei mei isn’t as innocent as he thinks she is.

“—taught you how to fuck like that?” He grunts, lapping at a bead of sweat about to freefall from your chin. 

“Huh?” You peel your watery eyes on his, his sticky kiss gracing your cheek.

“Said—who taught my sweet, innocent, little Pipsqueak to fuck like this?” 

He punctuates his emphasis with two harsh thrusts, his length jabbing your cervix. 

You grunt, eyes rolling back into your head. “N-no one—fuck,” you whine when he slips one big hand between your bodies, rolling his thumb over your lubricious clit.

“A-ah!” your cries rebound across the room as he plays with your fleshy pearl, thumbing circles onto it vigorously, hoping to glean your confession. “Ngh—Caleb!” 

Your thighs begin to shake, and his grin turns wolfish. “Won’t let you come ‘less you tell me the truth, Pipsqueak. M’waiting.”

He stamps a possessively hard kiss onto the nape of your neck, like he’s trying to drive the mark of his mouth past your skin. 

“I’m telling the truth,” you whimper. “Never had no one—no one but you.”

A deep, guttural groan brushes the soft shell of your ear.

“Swear?” he demands. 

“Uh-huh,” you hiccup, all dulcet and demure with the position he has you in. Your lachrymose eyes are fixated on him and only him—Caleb thinks his body might burst from all the blood swelling in his cock and heart.

He huns, and runs his tongue down your clavicle. “Good girl… good little Pips.”

The nickname combined with his derogatory tone inadvertently makes you clench around him tighter, and he hisses. 

“You’ll be the death of me, y’know?” His eyes darken and he drives his hips harder as if trying to make a point. “Gonna make sure you never leave my side—we’ll always be together. Forever.” 

You whine and dig your nails into his biceps. 

“Caleb—” you gasp, almost falling out of his grasp and face down onto a bed 10 feet below you. But, he tightens his grip, and you know he would never let you go. 

He shuffles you deeper into the alcove of his body, and you tighten your hold around his neck. “You—mhm—are insane.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “Only for you, Pips.”

Tingles running down your spine, and you feel hot and cold at the same time. He fixes his sights on your glassy gaze, enjoying how wrecked you look under him. 

(Well, technically, above him with the power of his Evol, but eh, semantics). 

The storm outside is no match for the one raging inside of you, and you cling onto him like a second skin, drunk off the pleasure he’s inducing in you. Kissing his jaw, nipping his lower lip. Caleb grunts when you press your chest to him, the feeling of your pert nipples rubbing against his toned pecs making him feel like this is all a dream—one he doesn’t want to wake up from.

Too soon, his vision to see you come undone flashes as you toss your head back and moan his name.

“Caleb…”

Your whimper is a signal of your impending release, and he grits his teeth, driving his hips further into you, planting his knees on the water-stained ceiling and going ham on your pliant body. 

He feels you shuddering around him, dipping his head to feast on the sweat slicking your tits.

He glances up at you, catching your eye the second your release tears through you, his smirk making your heart skip a few beats.

Caleb feels the heat stirring in his own belly. You’re down for the count, holding onto him like a washed up doll whose lax mouth occasionally lets out a few moans and whimpers.

So pliant… so malleable… so easily molded to his whims…

Breaking you clean, he wants to dominate every inch of your body—claim your thoughts as his so that all you think, feel and want is him.

“Ngh,” he groans, burying his face into the crook of his neck as he finally breaks and fat loads of hot cum fill you up.

Caleb holds you closer—securely—as he reels his Evol in, and slowly floats down onto the bed with you in his arms.

With the combination of the serum, your release and this newfound dynamic between you and Caleb, you’re out cold in seconds.

He feels your body going limp, giving way to sleep and presses his nose into your hair. For a few moments, he refuses to let you go, arms protectively wrapped around you. 

Then, the peace is shattered by a polite knock on the door. 

“... Colonel… we need to evaluate her…”

Shit. He licks his lips and groans softly. You’re so warm, so comfortable in his arms. He can’t let you out his grasp. 

But, duty calls and the Farspace Fleet is a minefield of legality. He can’t steal away and run off with their test subject.

Not yet, at least. 

As much as he wants to stay like this with you forever, Caleb steels his heart and pulls out of your warm, slurry depths. He dresses you first, and then gets himself presentable. 

First Commander Brigette of the medical aide steps in at his signal. Her silver hair is tightened into a bun and mirrors the tight look of dismay on her face. 

“Sir, it is imperative—”

“Don’t. Not now,” he mutters tersely and straightens his tie. “Just check if her vitals are alright. And, don’t you dare mention this to anyone else, you hear me? If you do, things’ll get messy for me—the next round of body bags hasn’t been shipped in yet.” 

She nods, though she looks like she wants to argue. 

The rest of the fleet didn’t yet know of his true relationship with you—to them, you’re just a pretty face their Colonel took a fancy to. And, he wants to keep it that way for as long as he can while he formulates the best plan to get you to safety. 

“The sedative we gave her was meant to lower her inhibitions enough to confess,” Brigitte murmurs. “I didn’t think—”

“If she doesn’t wake up, I’m throwing you and your team right into the Deepspace tunnel,” he threatens. 

The award-winning scientist flinches, and lowers her gaze. “Colonel Xia, we will recover the antidote for her quickly.”

Caleb exhales, the tension in his broad shoulders lessening slightly. That’s what he likes to hear. 

Brigette soon finishes her rounds of physical examinations on you. She bows and exits the medical room, leaving him alone with you again. 

Caleb steps forward and gently runs his gloved fingers through your hair. In the silence of the fleet, where mechanical whirs mingle with his steady breathing, he makes you a promise that he will do everything in his power to fulfill.

“I swear I’m getting you out of here in one piece, Pipsqueak.” He leans forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Swear it on my life.”

He told you before that you would always see him when he came home and this time, he intends to keep his promise till the very end.

a/n: i need this man biblically and carnally,,,, feedbacks and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, claim as your own or feed my content to AI learning tools.

[dollyichi]

BETTER THAN A BLANKET!

katsuki bakugou x f ! reader ᯓ★ 1.04k words. fluff / established relationship / not proofread / maybe ooc but you know… it’s a sleepy bakugou

katsuki has this habit of moving you on top of him. it’s a very pure, almost natural, but mindless action that just happens when you’re together.

it happens more frequently on a lazy, late afternoon during his off days. when the sun’s about to set and the both of you are enjoying each other’s company. laying down side by side, comfortable in each other’s silence.

the errands for the day were done and instead of going on a date outside, you opted to just get back home quickly—he definitely had no complaints at all, in fact, he was happy to stay at home with you, especially since he was barely even at home because of the several missions and emergencies he was dispatched to. to him, a big flaw of being a hero is being away from their lover for long periods of time—but it’s always more important that the world you helped widen for him is safer for you.

when you got home, you watched a few movies with him. laughing about the cheesy romcoms that’s number one on the streaming site. throwing popcorn when he mocks a cringy line. “well shit, he was really fucking stupid for that. can’t be me.” was your favorite comment from him, making a mental note in your head that he really hates slow-burn romance. definitely hates cheating routes too, thinking the whole film is a waste of time.

sooner or later, the two of you end up getting a little drowsy, wanting to take that power nap that the two of you deserved after the hell you guys went through this week. both of you are just waiting for sleep to hit and drift off in each other’s arms.

this moment you have with him is always special, never failing to tug on your heartstrings, especially since the golden shine of the sun passes through the thin curtains of your lovely home, landing perfectly on his pretty face that’s trying to blink and stay awake all because he always preferred you falling asleep first. half lidded eyes that still shined prettily accompanied by the warm rays.

when katsuki gets extra groggy and sluggish, he pulls you over on top him all too suddenly. tugging at your arm, looking at you like a puppy wanting treats. his mouth’s in a straight line yet his eyes already is saying a lot, it is one of the most expressive parts of him if he chooses not to speak.

and you let him, moving on top of him while he maneuvered you to however he liked, landing on him with a soft thud. you scoot a little bit to be more comfortable. nuzzling your face against his neck when you’re already put in place, “he smells so nice,” you think. he wraps his arms around you in such a tender embrace—you couldn’t move even if you wanted to. also spreading his legs apart so yours could stay on the mattress in case your legs get numb later on, he’s so considerate.

your arms under his while you softly cling to the sleeves of his shirt. you’re both chest to chest, almost feeling each other’s heartbeats. he loved doing this so much because you being his very own personal blanket would always bring him comfort. you’re always just so full of warmth and he always wants to feel it from head to toe—this is just the best position to have it possible.

you’ll talk for a bit, saying how you missed him all week and he grins at you. “yeah? your boyfriend left you all alone huh? what a dumbass.” and then you’ll tell him some stories about what you did at work, chatting about how the coffee machine keeps breaking cause an intern hasn’t learned to use it properly. he’d give you replies in small phrases, happily listening to your voice while fighting the drowsiness that’s kicking in. chuckles whenever your pitch gets higher from your rants. then you’d go back to telling him how you saw him at the news the other day, how you always worried a lot, which always made him a little sad but it couldn’t be helped.

but you’re pouting at him so cutely he ends up smiling. “i’m here now aren’t i?” he asks in a way that reassures you. “mhm, safe and sound.” you say, nudging your cheek against his.

you really wished time could slow down, even for just a bit, just to have katsuki all to yourself for a little while longer.

eventually your chat with him turns to a slower pace, your voice gradually getting softer and softer, and words more disconnected as your mind gets hazy with sleep.

he mumbles a small, “sleepy?” and you snuggle deeper onto him, which immediately translates to his head as a ‘yes.’ he doesn’t ‘bother’ you anymore with any other words or further conversation. instead, he kisses the top of your head while he waits for you to drift off before him. and he repeatedly tells you how much he loved you, at least in his head he did.

you’re closing your eyes while he rubs your back, soothing you into that dreamscape while you hope to see him right there next to you just like you are now.

when you wake up you’re in the same place you were in, except the extra warmth on your back with your puffy comforter that katsuki somehow placed on without waking you.

you figured it’s time to start preparing dinner from how dark the room is. yet, with the way he looked so cute sleeping so soundly under the cool hue of the moonlight you think it’s probably fine to sleep for a few more minutes.

and you kiss him just for a little while before you lay back down. not knowing he was awake a few minutes after you did and hoped you wouldn’t notice the blush that’s creeping up his cheeks. “that was dangerous,” he thought to himself. maybe it was cause he was still high off from his dream but whenever you make his heart skip a beat this much it makes him want to ask you to be his girlfriend again (i think this definitely calls for a ring katsuki!)

do not copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost my works

[scap34]

Thinking about Yandere!Mafia boss

warning: sex, degradation, feminization, slight exhibitionism

Yandere!Mafia boss who fell in love with you at first sight. He can’t even remember the day, only the sight of you. From that instant, his once-meaningless existence found its purpose: you. Nothing else mattered. Your presence became his singular focus, an addiction. It didn’t matter if you didn’t see it like that. You’d come to understand that you two were meant to be.

Yandere!Mafia boss who stalks you to your work and college. Who gets pissed when anyone talks to you. Your friends, colleagues, professors and even cashiers. You’re his, so why were you even looking at others?

Yandere!Mafia boss who breaks into your apartment just to steal your clothes. Taking pictures of all the things you like so he could fill your new room in his house with things you liked.

Yandere!Mafia boss who kidnapped you claiming to give you a better life. Sick of watching you work and struggle, he took you back to his place. It didn’t matter if he had to drug you. It was for your own good.

Yandere!Mafia boss who insists that you have to obey him and never leave him, even when he is on his knees massaging your legs willingly after you made a comment about how they were numb.

Yandere!Mafia boss who acts tough and aggressive only to wither under your frown like a disobedient puppy. Practically begging for your forgiveness as he hesitantly tried to please you by offering money, and insisting he you give you anything you wanted as long as you weren’t mad at him.

Yandere!Mafia boss who bursts into your room at night, demanding that you pay him back for his generosity using your body, only to stiffen and cower as you agree.

Yandere!Mafia boss who is clueless about sex, awkwardly stripping, showing off his well defined chest and heavy pecs. Sitting on the edge of the bed, like a trembling virgin.

Yandere!Mafia boss who you have to coax to come close and for all his arrogance and bravado cums the minute you touch his cock. Face flushing red as he pressed his thighs together, trying to hide the stickiness.

Yandere!Mafia boss who can’t help but whine when you kiss him throughly, breath hitching when you play with his chest. Nodding obediently when you tell him you’re going to fuck him instead.

Yandere!Mafia boss who whines prettily turning his face away when you call him pretty, and coo about how big his tits are. It shouldn’t turn him on, but he can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy at your words.

Yandere!Mafia boss who eagerly spreads his ass cheeks so you can fuck his cute pussy. Showing off his twitching pink hole he already prepped, trembling as he tried to see if you were pleased. Crying out when your cock entered him, and cumming immediately form the fullness.

Yandere!Mafia boss who lets you manhandle him into different positions, as you fuck him into incoherency. Drawn out whines of your name and sobbing leaving his kiss swollen red lips when you fuck his tight hole.

Yandere!Mafia boss who cry when you degrade him, calling him a slut for breaking into your room and smelling your clothes. And calling him a pathetic whore for begging for a cock in his pussy. He begs and sobs for forgiveness as you ask who else fucked his tight pussy. Sobbing that’s he’s only a slut for you as he clings to your body pressing his tits against you trying to distract you.

Yandere!Mafia boss who love how sweet you are during aftercare, clinging to you like a desperate puppy, begging you to fuck his wet pussy again.

Yandere!Mafia boss who’d let you fuck him anywhere. Too desperate for your approval to deny you, even as you fuck him during a video call meeting. Let you paint his face with cum, eagerly licking it off to taste you. Sitting on your cock during meetings, only to stay after every one has left so you could fuck his swollen pussy.

Yandere!Mafia boss who claim your nothing but a toy only to run to you and kneel and beg for your attention and approval. Letting you punish him however you wanted, loving it when you call princess and your pretty girl.

Yandere!Mafia boss who’s so in love with you they’d do anything for you. Acting more like a content pet than a dominant leader. Looking at you with hearts in his eyes. All hazy and adoring, making you feel high off his love. He only got more addicted to you when you acted mean, showing what kind of cruel person lay under your nice facade.

GOJO, TOJI, SUKUNA, WRIOTHESLEY, GHOST, ZORO, BEELZEBUB, MAMMON, JIYAN, CALCHIRO, KÖNIG, and anyone else you like <3

[xazse]

helllooo! can i request hybrid goio x fem hybrid reader whos new to the house (geto adopted them^^) and reader and gojo have a good bond it hasnt really been much sexual (gojo doesnt know what sex is) until reader goes into heat and she ends up using one of her toys and leaving it on the bed when she went to go wash up or smth.. and gojo ends up smelling it and shit and they boombaya🤯

i had several strokes writing this thank u for listening 💔

Cw: SnowLeopard!Satoru x PuppyHybrid!Reader + fem!reader + heats + crying + mentions of Suguru

Hello!! I am sorry this took so long I hope you like this! And everyone else who’s been waiting more puppy!reader!!

Satoru and you were instantly locked together the first week you were brought to the house, he instantly fell in love with your jumpy fun personality, he freaking loves you so much. You and him do everything together, refusing to go anywhere without one another is absolute.

Suguru even has a hard time separating the two of you, he doesn’t try to but the on the occasion he needs to it’s the hardest thing in the world.

Like now, he’s had to have you completely separated from Satoru because he’s acting strangely, strange in the aspect that he’s started to sniff at you a lot more, Satoru will sit for hours just simply content with smelling you. Going on and on about there’s a sickly sweet smell coming from you, he has yet to place his finger on where the smell is coming, that was the cue for Suguru to throw you in a spare bedroom alone.

It’s absolute hell for you that week all the toys Suguru supplies you with become thrown against the wall in frustration, the tears on your part are endless as you beg Suguru for something he just can’t give you, all he can do is rub your soft fluffy ears and offer reassurance while you fuck yourself wild on your toy. The room is encased in a thick layer of just pure warmness, you’ve been going at it for at least a few hours, he feels terrible for not being able to fully understand what you’re going through.

Satoru’s still acting strangely, he’ll sit at your door and whine for his fun companion to come back out, but everytime he tries to open the door he’s quickly met with Suguru’s swift hand upon his, letting him know that you’re off limits for right now. He’ll trudge back into the living room with a sad sag of his shoulders looking back at your room with an even sadder expression, Suguru’s heart rips in half when those blue eyes look at him.

Ever so innocent Satoru is as hardheaded as they come, regardless when Suguru is sleep in the dead of night he slips out of the room and makes his way to yours, it’s been too long without a word from you and Suguru isn’t helping to calm his mind at all.

He tries your lock and finds it doesn’t budge, so with the smallest amount of strength he breaks it, he can already picture Suguru’s livid face going on and on about how expensive that’ll be to replace.

When he steps into the room he’s hit with a wave of a sweet smell, the same one he’s been smelling on you but it’s at an all time high now, he covers his nose but the smell still penetrates deep. He could turn around right now since he can hear your shower running but he hasn’t seen you in so long, how he is supposed to stay away without making sure you’ve been fine?

He makes his way towards your bathroom but something out of the corner of eye catches him, it’s on your bed and with his sense of smell he knows that’s where the scent is the strongest. His heady head tells him to get closer: to investigate. Without even properly thinking he’s walking towards the toy, he’s kneeling in front of it and with a slow cautious hand he’s picking it up.

Every sense of Satoru’s is immediately heightened as he zones in on it, his breath doesn’t seem to be keeping up all that well. He realizes he’s breathing out of his mouth rather than his nose, it smells so fucking good he can hardly contain himself, no he feels he won’t be able to contain himself if he doesn’t leave this room, his legs feels shaky when he grips the edge of the bed to help him stand.

He comes crashing right back down to the floor with the toy in hand, he sniffs at it, almost salivating. He’s never felt like this before, his body runs hot and feverish in almost an instant, now all his mind is telling him to do is to find you.

“Satoru?” You. Your voice travels within his ears and he’s really about to lose it, the short shorts and the mini tank top don’t help whatever this feeling is, he zones in on the droplets of water deploying from your body. You stare at him with an unreadable expression, a fire burns within your eyes as you realize what’s happening to him.

You don’t think he knows that his cock is standing at full attention, that his tail is swishing behind him like he’s looking at prey. You walk towards him as slow as you can and like a burning man Satoru stares so intensely, watching every step you take towards him, also feeling just as hot as he is.

You know Satoru’s strength is nothing to play with but the way his hips are meeting your ass are just downright stupid, ever since you laid your lips upon his he’s just been like an untamed animal, fucking into you for at least a good hour, he’s cum so many times but he recovers just as fast, pumping another unprotected load into you. You’re equally as slutty with the way your pussy grips onto him and pulls him right back into position.

The room smells like sweat, you know that. Your cunt has been begging for release like this since your awful heat had started and now she’s finally getting what she wants and is absolutely being greedy about it. Satoru kisses you just like a virgin would, messy and uncoordinated but you know he loves it, loves you and loves how good you’re making him feel.

His balls tighten once more and he spills liquid hot into you for the however time today.

He moans shamelessly in your ear, resting in the crook of your neck, begging for another release, he’s probably also begging for the hot feeling invading his being to stop as well, it’s all your fault, poor Satoru, he can’t stop the filt of his hips all because you and you’re heat but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[0bticeo]

mark grayson | boyfriend material

summary:

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

tags: mlw, aged up a little (early 20's), idiots to lovers, pwp, mark is adorable, pining, sexual tension, making out, fingering, edging, marking, biting, loss of virginity, use of the pull out method (wrap it before you tap it), mark is down bad and so is reader, no y/n, lowercase intended.

there’s a ringing in your ear. nagging, persistent, strident little thing. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue, and your shoulders ache, skin too warm under the tight leather of your catsuit. 

movement to your right. invincible, landing next to you, his hand steady on your shoulder. you lean back against him, panting, just the time for the taste of blood in your mouth to recede, for you to breathe-

a commotion.

your head tilts in its direction, your weary gaze hidden by your domino mask. journalists. it’s almost funny, how they swarm scenes of wreckage, flies drawn to a burning carcass. ruins stretch around you. the wounded are under the GDA’s care. you wonder what the fuck cecil was thinking, sending a team as uncoordinated as the new guardians of the globe on the field. you barely work for him, and neither does invincible, yet- 

here you are, stumbling down a pile of rubble, invincible’s grip steadying you.

“you okay?” he breathes. 

you know he can hear the erratic drum of your heartbeat. smell the blood dripping down your split lip.

“i’m fine. really.”

a flash. a journalist. tall, sharply dressed in a black tailored suit, with a cute pencil skirt, long red hair falling graciously on the long slope of her neck. striking green eyes. the embodiment of the office siren, coming straight at you to sing her pretty song and coax the filthiest gossip out of you.

you share a look with invincible and watch as his lips curl into an exasperated smile.

and so it begins. lights, camera, action!

“my age?”

you frown a little, titling your head to the side. besides you, mark - invincible - snickers. you can almost hear the words. like a cute little puppy. insulting. you’re more of a cat person.

you grin, two fingers tapping your chin. 

“that’s classified.”

the journalist in front of you - twenty something, almost made your jaw drop and did cause you to get slammed into a nearby wall by the lizard league, because wow - groans, green eyes rolling playfully.

“come on, shadow,” she grins, extending her mic a little more. she’s close enough for you to grip her arm and disarm- relax. civilian. “you can’t leave us hanging! we barely know you!”

that’s the point. the voice in your head sounds oddly like cecil. done with this shit, done with life, done with this conversation. but the GDA can and will be up your ass if you unleash a PR disaster, so you humour her.

“and i don’t even have your name, hun’.”

a little blush creeps up her cheeks. your smile widens a little, sharp in all ways it shouldn’t. besides you, invincible rolls his eyes, exasperatedly fond.

“meg.”

“ooh, pretty name. right, ask me anything.”

she seizes you up. you, clad in a catsuit so dark it looks like it’s absorbing the very daylight. you, hip cocked to the side, gloved fingers tapping at your hip bone. the way the lapels of your coat brush the bloodied ground, dripping red. invincible at your side, lazily leaning on your shoulder. you, swatting at him with a tired grin because blood on leather is a pain to clean up. 

meg pulls out her phone. you lean forward a little, intrigued, and catch a glimpse of what appears to be a list of questions.

“are you aware you have a fanbase?”

you exchange a glance with invincible. you may not see the soft melted brown of his eyes, but you know there’s a little spark of mischief beneath his mask. 

“oh?”

“yeah, you guys are as popular as teen team, if not more. how do you feel about them? any gossip you want to share?”

a pointed look. between rex’s… explosive relationship with eve and… well, his other relationship… relationships? with dupli-kate, you’d be stuck here for a while. you settle for a lesser evil. gotta throw a bone or two to the press. makes for nice trivia for fan books. 

“robot recently discovered that he has a fondness for junk food.”

“yep, he’s been pretty unsettled by it.”

meg stares at you with a pointed look. no juicy drama. both of you refuse to play the game. infuriating but understandable. she checks her watch, grimaces.

“shit, gotta wrap this up. ugh, if i had it my way, the two of you would answer the web’s most searched questions.” her gaze snaps back to you, green eyes rooting you in place. “the two of you work incredibly well together. what’s a usual mission like?”

it’s a relatively innocent question. you describe it, invincible occasionally chiming in, still leaning on your shoulder, hovering a little above the ground for comfort. (a flash. you staring up at mark after a mission as he pulls off his mask, feet a few inches off the ground. flying just… feels natural, y’know?)

usually, you get to the scene, assess the situation, neutralise the villain of the day and rescue those caught in the crossfire. get in, punch some people, get out. try not to have a heart attack when you watch invincible getting the shit beaten out of him by aliens/wizards/mafiosi/clones/dragons. cradle his face after a mission while scolding him because that was reckless, you idiot.

meg hums, perfectly manicured finger scrolling down on her screen, on the lookout for the next juicy question. her lips split in a slow grin.

“no… longer missions? undercover missions?”

oh, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. there’s a little curl to her lips, the sweet professional smile bordering on something more cutting. invincible laughs. you feel the vibration of it seep under your skin, percolating straight to your heart. you think you’re getting a little warmer, the summer sun high above you.

you think invincible’s blinding you with how wide he’s smiling.

“we’re superheroes. not spies.”

she hums, steps closer, fingers lightly trailing over the fabric of your coat.

“people have noticed this little number.”

“oh, yeah, it’s fairly new.”

meg looks up from her phone and smirks.

“we have a question from inviciboyfan25: is it boyfriend material?”

undeterred, you lean a little closer, until all the camera can see is the sharp edge of your smile.

“too heavy for that. the real deal? boxers and oversized tee. unparalleled.”

**

a smack at the back of your head. you let out a little yelp, your phone landing flat on your chin, cradling the sore spot with a pout.

“what was that for?”

mark glares at you, holding up his phone. on it, images of your encounter with that cute journalist three hours ago. he’s got a bandaid on his cheek, another one on his nose, both of them pink with hello kitty patterns.

he’s frowning. you gaze up to the small crease between his eyebrows and wonder how to smooth it away. you boop his nose instead, giggling when his frown deepens. he swats your hand. 

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

he groans, leaning back on his pillow. his fingers close on the sleeve of your (his) shirt, the one with seance dog proudly taking off, all heroic blues and reds. 

“but why?”

you grin up at him, scooting a little closer.

“because it’s comfy. and smells like you.”

you’re delighted when you watch the blush blossom on his cheeks, all soft pink awkwardness. he averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the video on his phone. you shrug and grab a nearby comic - seance dog, again, because markus sebastian grayson totally isn’t seance dog’s biggest fan. nope. doesn’t have every collectible on earth. 

you’ve juuust started to get invested in the plot, something about a meteor shower the loyal hero must stop to protect billions from dying, when mark groans again, his hand leaving the sleeve of your t-shirt to cover his eyes.

“dramatic much?”

a muffled groan. you cup your ear, the back of your hand brushing his thigh, the corded muscle of it tensing by a fraction under your skin. 

“sorry, what was that?”

“people are dogs. just… look at the comments!”

you lean back further into him, craning your neck.

“if you’re not planning on reading some out loud, at least lower your damn phone before i break my neck.”

he complies with a grumble, arms framing your head as he holds up his phone for you to see the comments. your eyes widen upon seeing the amount of views under the video.

“one million? you’ve got to be kidding me.”

you scroll down the comment section, the heat of mark seeping into you, your index near his thumb. progressively, your eyebrows raise. something like giddiness takes hold of your heart. people are dogs. you see it all, from people commenting on how sick that coat is, to complaints about property damage, to-

“no way. ‘i just know they be fucking nasty?!’ ”

“that’s one of the tamest ones. someone wrote a literal fanfiction in there.”

you look up at him, neck craned back. mark swears he’s never seen a sight as endearing as this one. you, snuggled up against him, drowning in his favourite shirt, so close he’s freely running his fingers over your shoulder, thumb occasionally creeping up your trapezius.

“you are not shaming fanfiction on my watch, grayson.”

“it’s about us!”

you poke his thigh. he twitches uncomfortably.

“like you haven’t read at least one.”

he flicks your forehead. you squeal, grinning wide.

“you can’t prove anything.”

a pointed look.

“fine. yes, i have. it’s… i don’t know. weird.”

you turn around, flipping on your belly, palms cradling your cheek as you look up at him. his breath hitches in his throat. you’re playing with the hem of his shirt absently, nails lightly scratching the navy fabric, the back of your fingers a light pressure on his adonis belt. you narrow your eyes, and he’s able to make out each individual lashes fanning your cheeks. 

there, in the quiet light of melting sunset, molten golds and pinks frame the edges of your face. he wants to cradle your cheek. he wants to trace the slope of your nose like you do his, down to your split lip, still swollen from that bastard king lizard punching you in the face. he wants-

“you do know invincible shadow is a thing, right?”

he blinks back to reality.

“uh? like a ship name?”

you nod, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt. despite the cool air breezing in past his open window, heat creeps up his neck. his fingers flex in the sheets, nails digging in the cotton threads - egyptian cotton, because dad knows a guy who owes him a favour or two and you don’t say no to omni-man anyway. 

“yeah. a ship name. super popular too. crazy, right?”

right. right. like you’re totally not molding your body to his. he can feel you, down to the bone, pressing against him, skin impossibly soft, lightly smelling of his own laundry detergent, something barely there because viltrumite senses are sharp. he feels the pounding of your heart in his throat, the way your lips part, tongue darting out to wet them. 

“yeah,” he mumbles, voice a little choked. “crazy.”

and fuck, where’s his bravado? fighting alongside you as invincible, when all you can see of each other are smiling, grinning, bloodied mouths, blood drip dripping down chins, is easy.

he thinks you might as well be a part of him, with how the two of you move around each other like you know what the other thinks. he has your six, you have his. his fists back you up at the slightest inconvenience, your shadows ripple whenever someone gets so much as an inch closer to him. 

it’s easy. when he snatches you by the waist after a mission, pressing you close enough to inhale the marrow of you without burying his nose in your hair - doesn’t need to. viltrumite senses are sharp, y’know.

when he zooms insides the drive thru and orders your favourite - that one greasy cheeseburger with french fries. when you remind him for the nth time that, first of all, there’s no way these qualify as fries. this is mcdonald's, for christ’s sake. second, fries are belgian, and- and that’s no reason to steal your fries, dammit!

it’s easy, being with you. when you’re sitting together, shoulder to shoulder on the edge of a skyscraper, your head lolling on his shoulder because you get sleepy once the adrenaline dies down. 

it’s easy. he thinks he’s going to die of a heart attack, with how fast it’s beating. here lies markus sebastian grayson, killed because his best friend is too beautiful for this world and sent him into damn cardiac arrest.

the day melts away. you don’t talk anymore, just bask in each other’s presence, his hand in your hair, your cheek a little beside his knee. his thumb brushes a fading bruise on your cheek bone and he winces in sympathy.

your fingertips run over his knuckles, finding them bruised and torn. you want to press your lips to them. you want to cradle him against you and never let go, because hero work may suck, and his civilian friends may not understand what he goes through every day, getting bloody and beaten and worn down down down, but you’re here.

“so they ship us, huh?” mark mumbles.

“mm.”

“crazy.”

you snort.

“i already said that, dummy.”

he flicks your forehead.

“m’not dumb.”

“are too!”

“that is not true.”

“please, you’re like. the embodiment of the jock stereotype. the kind jock, of course.”

he rolls his eyes, ruffling your hair, ignoring your soft cry of protest because it’s hair day, nooo don’t mess it up!

“i’ll have you know, i have more than decent grades.”

“they’ve been slipping ever since you started out as invincible, though.”

“ouch.”

you chuckle.

“you do have the physique though.”

“yeah, whateve- ow!”

he looks down at you incredulously. did you just… bite his thigh?

your teeth press against the corded muscle, bone over tender skin, a hint of warmth from your breath, and he thinks he’s dying. everything is too hot. too fucking hot, nevermind that it’s the middle of autumn and the air is getting colder and colder. 

shit. he sees the imprint of you in his skin. his hips shift uncomfortably. your tongue laps at the bitemark, soothingly. it’s almost tender, the softness of your tongue against him, scorchingly intimate.

your eyes meet his. time stops. he’s only aware of the metronome beat of his heart and your own - fuck, he can hear your heart, the way the blood rushes south. he lets out a shuddering sigh, and almost moans when he smells it. your arousal. 

something snaps. 

you’re kissing up his thigh, lips a lover’s breeze over his skin, the dips and curves of his muscles. you feel him gasp more than you hear it, when you put your mouth to him through his briefs, pressing soft little kisses to his bulge.

his fingers cup the back of your neck, weave through your hair, a gentle pressure, desperately trying to keep his strength under control. he could crush you like he did with komodo dragon, brain matter staining his fingers, drip drip dripping down to the ground. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t, yet you can feel him strain against the weight of his desire, tensing beneath you, breath shallow and wanting. you nip at his thigh again, a gentle press of tender teeth. he shivers, legs parting for you.

you nuzzle against him, feel the sheer heat of him against your cheek, like the warmth of a blazing sun. you want to melt into him until you don’t know where you start and where he ends.

“w-wait,” he groans. 

heat pools between your legs, and it’s hot, and - and his hand cups your face and he pulls you in until finally, he’s kissing you. it’s soft. a brush of his lips against yours, until you’re melting against him, arching into him because his hand - broad and calloused and heavy - is cupping your breast.

he pulls you close before you can react, lips brushing yours again and again until you’re not sure you can breathe without him. your nose brushes his. your eyes open and you meet his, dark pools of molten desire. 

“hey, you.”

“hey.”

he grins, something a little soft, a little shy. you inch closer and bite back a soft whimper when the motion has your core grinding down against his hardening cock. it strikes you, then. the thin edge you’re walking. he’s your friend. you can still back away. pull away, mumble something about your mama calling you - and it’s quite the walk, so you should go home-

fuck it.

you trace the shape of his abs, nails digging in his skin, and he arches into you, hips bucking up, desperate for friction. you’re dizzy. dizzy with him, with the way his hands encircle your hips, with the way his fingers dig into you, grinding you down on him with barely controlled strength.

“mark-” you gasp.

it’s not enough. doesn’t matter, there’s too much fabric between you, you’re not close enough, you need him in you, you need him to make himself at home between your ribs and burrow himself there, bloody and viscous and yours. 

he cups your cheek, thumb brushing against the plush of your lower lip, gaze impossibly soft.

“have you ever… ?”

you flush a little.

“n-no.”

he pecks your nose, your forehead, your eyelids.

“s’okay. lemme make you feel good…”

he pins you down, fingers slipping under your shirt until he pulls it off you, discards it in the corner of his room. he runs his fingers up your side, brushing against your bruised ribs, lips ghosting the contusion, knees bracketing your hips. you shiver, lips parting in a soft sigh of his name. he grins down at you, a little soft, a little feral, a white flash of too-sharp teeth.

“so, so pretty…” he mumbles, mouthing at your neck, teeth dragging up, up, up, until-

until you let out the softest whimper. he grins against your skin, nipping at your neck, his breath burning brands on that soft spot under your ear. his hands roam your body, trailing lower and lower, dipping past the waistband of your boxers.

“so wet,” he moans, and he sounds as wrecked as he’s making you feel.

his touch is tentative, you can feel the trembling of his fingers as they brush against you, lightly dipping between your folds, almost.. almost petting you. your hips grind against his hand, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist to get him to please, please more-

he tuts, pinning your arm to the side.

“no, no, no, lemme- just relax, i need- please, i want to make you feel good-”

you bring up your other arm willingly for him to keep pressed against his pillow, fingers flexing against your wrist in an unbreakable grip. your thighs part for him and you desperately try not to moan, because- fuck, because his dad may be home, you think, and what if you’re too loud, what if-

he curls his fingers - so pretty and slender and long - and you keen, back arching off the bed. he laughs at that, something breathless and teasing, claiming your lips for himself again and again and again, swallowing your moans. his tongue coaxes your lips open and he lets out a low growl as he finally gets to taste you. 

you think he made you come. you’re not sure. you’re panting. there’s a ringing in your ear. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue - he bit you - there’s a ringing in your ear, and everything is too much- 

mark worries his lip between his teeth, tugging down your boxers, fumbling a little, eager, so very eager to taste you, to make you feel as good as you do him.

you’re squirming in his grip, you realise, distantly, as you try to press closer to him, breasts brushing tantalizingly against the fabric of his shirt and-

“what’s wrong? 

“i need- please let me touch you, mark.”

he blinks, a little owlishly. 

“you- yeah, yeah okay-”

he lets go of your wrists and your hands slip under his shirt, nails raking down his chest, a thumb teasing his nipple and he groans, panting hot against your neck. his hips rut against yours, mindlessly, each thrusts having you biting your lips because the friction is just too much and- and he’s cupping your breasts, mouthing at them.

“ah!”

“too much?”

your breath catches in your throat. he’s looking up at you, chin resting on your chest, a lazy smirk on his lips, one long finger lazily trailing around your nipple, thumb flicking at it. and fuck, the way he looks at you, eyes dark and wanting, like you’re the most precious thing in the universe…

“fuck me.”

he raises an eyebrow.

“are you su- mn...”

you pull him to you, hands cupping his cheeks, kissing him like he’s the very air you breathe. the earth rotates around the sun. the sky appears blue to the human eye. you’re in love with mark grayson.

he knows, you think. with the way you whisper soft praises against his ear, with the way your fingers thread through the baby hairs on his nape. he knows.

he takes it slow. leans back on his heels, taking off his shirt. the moon is kind to him, silver light hiding in the dips of his collarbones, draping the sharpness of his chest, his abs, rippling down his arms, to the edge of the veins curling around his inner wrist.

you trace the shape of him, your touch reverent. he guides you, leading your hand from his chest, from the strong beat of his heart, to his adonis belt. you think you’re dying with how dizzy you feel, your thighs desperately pressed together for some friction.

your fingers wrap around the base of him and you let out a strangled sound. he’s big. he-

“fuck, you’re never gonna fit-”

he laughs at that.

“wanna bet?”

you groan.

“you’re horrible. you’re not the one getting nine inches of your crush-”

his eyes widen. you flush, mortified, eyes darting away, your grip on him faltering. gently, he tilts your head back towards him.

“yeah?”

you nod.

“yeah.”

he pecks your lips, gentle.

“me too.”

he eases you into it. takes you apart, bit by bit, until you’re dripping for him, babbling an incoherent mess of his name as his fingers spread you open, knuckle deep in you. when he lines himself up with you, leaking tip dragging against your entrance, he groans, low and deep and primal in a way that makes your core throb with need. 

a damn tease is what he is, with the way he barely slides in you, tip sliding against your cunt with wet, sloppy little sounds, lightly brushing against your clit in a way that has you biting back a desperate little whine. he pants.

“need- fuck, baby i need you, please lemme-”

“yeah, yeah mark, just-”

your words die on your tongue when he slowly pushes himself into you, holding your thighs apart. he bites his lip at the sight. you, spread wide under him, chest littered with love bites, lips parted as you whisper his name. you, nails digging in his shoulder blades until you draw blood, begging him to please, please get closer. he spreads you open, thumbs holding your folds apart, watching as your walls flutter against him, as you drip down his length, slick and filthy. 

“please, move,” you whisper. “i can take it, i need-”

“yeah? you need me?”

“mn.”

he smiles at that, a happy little lopsided smile, as he slowly starts thrusting into you, biting back a groan at how tight you are. 

“shit, baby-”

he pulls you up, hand cupping the back of your neck as he plunders your mouth, lightly suckling on your tongue. he’s everywhere, hands reaching for you, pulling you closer, and closer, until your chest is flush to him and he’s fucking himself into you with reckless abandon, hips snapping against yours. 

and what else can you do but take it? but wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself closer, nipping at his earlobe, the vein jutting out of his neck. but let your nails dig in his back and feel his muscles ripple with contained strength - and fuck, if the thought of him holding back for your sake doesn’t make you wetter. 

“m’gonna cum, mark-”

he grins at that, something like a broken chuckle escaping his kiss swollen lips. he tilts your head back, one hand on your hip as he drills himself in you, the other under your chin. 

“yeah? gonna cum for me, baby?”

you nod, heat burning across your cheeks, your chest, your core. he hums, hand pressing against your abdomen, where he can feel himself move in you. satisfaction flashes in his gaze, at having you this full of him. (at having you.)

“good girl.”

that does it for you. you come apart, face buried in the crook of his neck, choking on his name. there’s that ringing in your ear. you think you hear him chuckle. you do know that he slides out of you, leaving you empty, hollow, and you reach for him with a soft whine of protest. he leads your hand to his leaking cock, guiding you, hips stuttering towards you as you pump his length, until he cums, thick ropes of it landing on his stomach, on your hand.

everything is still. he reaches for the tissues on the nightstand and cleans the slick mess between your thigh, something like longing on his face. his eyes meet yours, and you feel heat creep up your neck, gaze darting away from his, stuck on the way he wipes away his cum, abs rippling under the crumpled tissues.

“what?” you mumble.

“next time, i’ll eat you out.”

you let out something like an undignified squeal, burying your face in your hands. he laughs. strokes your cheek, lowering you down on the mattress, cradling you against him. he pulls the covers over you, a hand on your hip, the other lacing with yours.

“feel okay?”

you smile, a little sleepy, nuzzling against him, pressing a soft kiss to the hello kitty bandaid on his nose.

“mn.” you let your finger trail down the slope of his nose. “love you.”

he gives you a closed-eye smile, and you think you’ve met your sun.

“love you too.”

[limerlove]

nsfw content, eighteen+

content warning. fingering, squirting, munch o'clock, athlete!reader, two bitches that are obsessed with each other, cocky!vi, public sex, jealousy if you squint.

being nemeses with hockeyplayer!vi who couldn’t breathe right when she’s in your vicinity without steam puffing out through your ears. everything about her from the way she walks or when she cockily smiles when the precious puck vi believes she’s invented soars through the net. being captain of the undefeated team is all that anyone would talk about on campus — if it weren’t for you.

you on the other hand are known for being the star tennis player, a promising prodigy who turned down the big leagues to seek an education first before showcasing at your first wimbledon. violet can’t stand when she won the biggest match of her life, news of your first tournament appearance in professional tennis made headlines.

desperately vi tries to be ominous, observing from afar, her heart-shaped jaw clenching as she watches you beat the girl in front of you to the ground. with a serve that qualifies as a guaranteed ace and a backhand that has stephanie vazquez running on every end of the court — all of it is so trivial.

meaningless even, but your father who pleads that the matches matter have somehow coaxed you into it.

it’s simple the way you tear your opponents apart, overwhelming them with shots you’ve spent years perfecting. the women on campus didn’t stand a fucking chance and they knew it too.

from the first game, their fate sealed. as finite as the stars sparkling across the midnight sky.

a blissful heart and a cracked dignity is a win for your ego. ultimately, violet hates herself for understanding why there’s so many people who fawn over you. a white dove arising in the spring, the flowers blossoming with each stroke you hit.

the match point? a single ace that sends stephanie to crack her expensive racket on the clay. it’s infuriating to play you, that much you’ve been told, but you need to be this precise if you have a chance on the biggest stage in just a few weeks.

“mija, take ten and then we’ll send the next one.”

your father calls from the stands as you swiftly grab your water bottle before realizing it’s empty, excusing yourself to the locker room and past vi but you know she’ll chase you.

as you suspect, no more than thirty seconds and she’s invading your space like a moth who's been starved of a flame for months. violet can deny it all she wants but the spark she tries to hide behind the cool-oceanic blues reak of warmth when her attention sets on you.

“did you have to humiliate her like that? for what? so you could prove who—”

“i can’t be bothered to go easy on everyone you fuck, violet. might be the whole roster at this point.” once your canister is filled, you take a large swing of water as she stands there dumbfounded.

making sure to flex her bicep, she leans against the water filtration with her puppy eyes attempting to convince you violet is as harmless as she looks.

a bold-faced lie the devil himself couldn’t design as truth.

“do i need to remind you of last season? throwing your body into my ex-girlfriend so hard during the finals last year. her shoulder was fucking dislocated and her collarbone was fractured.”

“that’s not what—”

“uh huh, sure, violet.” you taunt as she dismisses you, shaking her head as you take a step closer.

violet wishes to dismiss you, act like you have no effect on her. then you’re here with your pearly-white pleated skirt and your thin long sleeve jacket that clings to your skin. even with the sweat lining your temple, you still smell of honey-soaked lemon. a hint of lavender radiating off your skin, vi nearly sinks her canines on the side of your neck just to see if she’s able to taste it.

would you be willing to bleed for satisfaction alone?

taste you through a yearning tongue that begs to touch an inch of the transgressions of her sins. iron-coated promise meant to be broken.

but then she’s reminded of just how cruel you can be. you’ll walk over anyone’s dead corpse if it means you’ll get your way.

“you get off on it, making people feel less than you, decimating them on the court until they have nothing left to give.”

“maybe but why are you still here instead of chasing your little girlfriend? she’s really upset but it seems the only one who wants to get off is you.”

“god, would just—” vi pulls at her hair, peeved at how painless it seems to be for you to bury each opponent six feet underground.

"would i just what, violet?"

self-restraint falls through fate, vi's hardened shell practically caves in on itself as her lips melt into yours, her scorching need lights brighter than ever when she feels your smooth lips glide against hers.

soft hints of cranberry and dark chocolate invades her mouth as her calloused fingertips crawl underneath your skirt to the compression shorts connected beneath. with a finger sliding along your slit, violet's delights in watching your back arch against the wall as you stabilize your body clinging onto her strong sculpted shoulders.

"be a good girl for me and take it." violet divulges, letting her skilled mouth prep you as your hips ride against her fuckable face. goddamn it, she’s too good. 

you hate her for it.

a sprinkle of love lavishes against the thin spandex as you watch the entry of the locker room. this should be a sin, how heavenly you smell, limerence coating her mind any time you’re near. never could she be anything but her sugar-coated infatuation. 

an impenetrable grind of someone soaking in more media attention than vi has never set well with her pride but up until now, violet couldn’t have known the rumbling ache pulling her towards you. hell be damned if anyone would get in her way. 

the tips of vi’s fingers glide against your thigh, as she enjoys the tremble your body makes, a magnetic force where vi’s body pulls at your body so easily. 

“so pent up, babygirl. who knew the only way to silence you is to get on my knees. are you always this needy or is this reserved for me?” 

"fucking hell, would you just take off my skirt already?" you whine out in defiance and vi gets the message — crystal clear. 

violet does more than take it off, she rips the thick material in half, eyes grinning as she has the pleasure of knowing how beautiful you are. even if after the two of you walk through those doors, you never acknowledge her again, you’ll never be able to take this away from her. 

in a fall from grace, violet worships her enemy, falling further into temptation. a hopeful message of deliverance place maliciously between your thighs.

with a shimmering touch, she guides your leg over her powerfully built shoulder, moaning as your stomach clenches against the tidal wave of her tongue. soft, gentle even, more accommodating than any of your past lovers had ever been with you. 

as much as you want to tell her to touch you differently, flatten her tongue more, or to critique her in any way that could knock her down a peg, you can’t. despite your best efforts, she does everything flawlessly and you hate her more for it. glowing, powder-blue eyes flickering up at you, watching as you fall apart. each limb becoming numb under touch. 

“yeah, not just a pretty face, angel.” 

“you’re so full of yourself. how do they never get tired of your weasley, impetulant, condescending—” 

“oh, i’m sorry? were you gonna say something or did you still wanna get fucked by my fingers?” vi slips another inside as her tongue gets lost in your pussy once again. 

all of it makes you wanna scream but you feel your voice carrying through the locker room. the rare vacancy surrounds you, moans leaving your lips echo back as she slurps every drop spilling out of you. with a vicious tongue, she won’t stop fucking your pretty little hole with her skilled muscle, thumb stroking your clit with divine purpose. 

“shitttt, oh fuck me, god i— i hate you, violet.” but it’s only because you feel the band slipping, the tightly wound knot read to snap if she doesn’t stop. violet doesn’t, in fact she slips another finger in your sickening, wet warmth as she curls her fingers just perfectly. 

hitting right where she needs to with a skilled flick of her wrist. 

“do that again— shit, just like, oh right there.” 

“c’mon prodigy, be a good girl and come for me, come all over my face and show me.” 

jesus, do you serve your worst. 

it felt like too much, too quickly, before you could even stop it there’s a squelching sound filling the room as you coat her scarred lip, her nose, those freckled cheeks in every ounce of cum. 

chants of her name roll off your tongue before you can stop them as she sucks over your sensitive nub, coaxing you through your high, waiting until you come down before she removes her fingers from your pussy. 

vi swears she hears your cunt whine her name the second she removed herself but maybe that was just you. 

“suck, babygirl.” 

giving into her command, you take the push of her fingers as they kiss the back of your throat, relaxing your jaw as your tongue swirls around the digits until they’re completely clean. 

sliding your leg off her shoulder as the loss of her support nearly causes you to stumble. 

“where do you have a spare? i know you have one, somewhere.” violet smirks, her tone anything but forgiving as she feels triumphant when it comes to you and your impending will. 

“that— over um, there, the first locker. number one.” 

you watch her as she puts in the combination you provide before she grabs one identical to your damaged one. lifting your leg to place you through the opening before you assist her by doing the other one yourself, sliding the material up your leg. 

you thought she was being kind but you feel the mess between your thugs push up against the thin spandex, and she does the pleasure of pushing against the material again, making contact with your pussy that simply can’t stop fluttering for more. 

“when you go out there, i want you to think about me. how good my fingers feels fucking you into oblivion. the way my tongue fucks that pretty hole of yours. every way you chanted my name, those hips unable to stop riding my goddamn face—” she leans down, lips pressed against your ear before she whispers, “remember that no one on this planet will ever fuck you the way i can.” 

a kiss to your cheek sears you as you're too stunned to speak, tragically slumped against the wall but quickly being led out as she guides you back through the front doors, onto the court. she wishes you luck, turning her back as she heads towards the exit. 

“oh, this is just the fucking beginning.”

violet smirks but holds up three fingers as she blows a kiss to you. 

the three she just fucked you with.