Little brother telling you he has questions about stuff. You're really close so it doesn't put you off of helping when he tells you it's about sex.
He asks what girls like, how things are supposed to feel. He watches intently as you talk, focusing on your lips and hands, despite you not doing anything specific. He watches where your fingers trail down your neck when he asks where girls like to be kissed. He asks how, and when you can't seem to give a good answer, he asks if he can try...
It can't be bad to say no, just to a kiss on your hand right? To tell him as he does it? His soft lips on the back of your hand are warm, and you clam up when he starts kissing up your arm. You try to pull back when his lips tenderly, timidly touch your neck, but you're against the wall your bed is up against, and have no where to go.
You start to heat up, his soft voice asking if girls like it on their chest. Your short and silent nod seems to give him confidence enough to gently lift your shirt from your stomach, waiting to see if you stop him. You want to, you know you should, but you can't bring your body to move. Your stomach twitches as you jolt when his fingers touch your skin. He lifts the shirt higher and higher, so slow it's almost torture, all the time you have to say no, or stop.
But you let him get it over your head, and you let him lean in close, and you let him reach around to attempt to unclasp your bra, and when he can't...you do it for him.
Slowly falling, slowly pulled away, your bra is dropped on the bed. His pretty, curious eyes look up at you as he goes down, breathing hotly on your breast. His tongue lays out of his mouth for a moment before cupping and licking up the flesh of your nipple. You whimper, you want to be quiet, you want to forget this is happening. But when you look down at him when he latches on and begins sucking, you can't bring yourself to do anything at all.
Soft moans, whispered sighs, please sounds at the feeling of your breast in his mouth finally. This is what he wanted, but he got here so fast, he wonders if he can go further.
And he can.
You nod and shift your way into laying naked on your bed while your little brother gives kitten licks to your clit between your fingers that part your lips. You moan and whine your way into your little brother eating you out, doing so good with his mouth and tongue.
You get lost in the fear of the taboo and now your little brother is lining his cock up against your hole, and slipping inside with a small push. It barely hurts, he's either a good size, or did so well with his tongue that you're more than a little ready.
He never thought he'd get here. Above you in bed, bare, skin on skin...he never thought he'd get it...
He never thought he'd get to have sex with his older sister
It's almost too much. Almost
His hips are slow and calm as he eases himself in and out of you, something you're obviously enjoying. He begins to whine, about how good his big sister is, how well she's teaching him, how good it is to know you love him too.
You didn't ever get around to telling him people use condoms or they don't cum inside because it wasn't relevant at the start. But now he's whining, moaning desperately about how he loves his big sis and you're the best big sister for teaching him, the best big sister because you love him, and he loves you and...
Synopsis: You’ve always had a hard time standing up for yourself. Your new roommate loves that about you.
(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, slight exhibitionism, forced voyeurism(?), non-con, gojo being a freak)
It was a clerical error.
Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to have a roommate because he was Gojo Satoru. The apartment was specifically his, as most things were.
You were a mistake.
The administration apologized to you both. They’d fix it in no time, they promised. This would only last a month before you’d move to your permanent residence.
You didn’t mind the error. His apartment was large and expansive, and you’d already unpacked your stuff. The plan was to keep you there until everybody settled in for the semester, and then they could swap you out to an empty room.
Gojo didn’t seem to mind too much either. You assumed he’d be a bit more irritated with the situation, but his lax nature was a pleasant surprise. You wouldn’t necessarily call the two of you close, but you weren’t on bad terms either.
Positive, is the better word. Not exactly neutral, but not too friendly either. You existed on the edges of each other's peripherals, and you were pretty happy with that. Gojo wasn’t a bad roommate either. He kept the apartment mostly clean and didn’t leave any food out. You thought you’d have to deal with loud parties; he seemed like the type, but the tiny circle he gravitated towards never overstayed its welcome.
The only issue was the music.
It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am.
A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had.
You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–
“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.
He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up.
“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.”
He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth.
“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience.
You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily.
“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.
Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth.
“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.
A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous.
“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit.
Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went.
⌂
Two things change today.
First, Gojo is up this morning.
He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules.
Second, he was naked.
Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.
Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.
You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you.
You aren’t that lucky.
Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles.
“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps.
You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it.
This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants.
Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something.
You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.
Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets.
“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”
One second.
Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter.
“Gojo–”
“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks.
For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful.
Delighted, even.
“No,” you say, “it was fine.”
He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again.
“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?”
Temporary roommates, you correct in your head.
“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.”
Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave.
He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.”
It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke.
“Satoru,” you obey.
He smiles.
“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.”
⌂
After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence.
It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties.
You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option.
Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world.
A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again.
And then, Satoru invites you into his room.
It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script.
He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow.
“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.”
You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away.
There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo.
“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen.
There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape.
Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh.
He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin.
He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again.
He shifts. His hand slips even closer.
When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again.
It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room.
“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?”
You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice.
But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie.
“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think.
Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion.
“Like what?” He asks.
Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t.
“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.”
He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door.
Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent.
Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well.
Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off.
You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.
But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door.
To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick.
You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home.
And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate.
“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.”
He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone.
More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor.
A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible.
By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room.
“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed.
You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss.
“You good?” He asks.
No.
“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.”
“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.”
You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled.
No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it.
Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…
…it was a dark red piece of fabric.
⌂
You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him.
These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru.
Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here.
He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t.
Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote.
“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.”
He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it.
Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you.
“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.”
You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in.
Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor.
“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit.
You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would.
“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.”
“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute.
“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.”
Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception.
You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone.
“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.”
You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen.
“I haven’t played this before,” you respond.
“I can tell.”
He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets.
“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.”
You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes.
“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.”
He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away.
“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.”
“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs.
“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments.
But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes.
Maybe that’s why they got along so well.
“Shut up.” Satoru snaps.
“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?”
You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too.
“I will.” You say instead.
Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body.
“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.”
⌂
Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around.
The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air.
Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment.
The only person in your line of sight was Satoru.
Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’.
Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly.
It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–
So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing.
Someone clears his throat.
You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back.
The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh.
“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks.
“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo.
He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did.
At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks:
“Can I get you a drink?”
You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home.
You open your mouth for a polite rejection.
Satoru does it for you.
He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner.
Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly.
“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?”
He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily.
Unlike you.
He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall.
“We’re going.” He finally says.
You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him.
“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes.
Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain.
You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him.
You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place.
You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest.
And Satoru?
Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone.
“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight.
“I don’t–”
“Who the fuck was he?” He demands.
You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway.
“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.”
He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic.
“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?”
“I–”
“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.”
It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs.
No one has ever said such horrible things to you before.
“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–”
“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.”
The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car.
“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away.
You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home.
The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.
But it’s even worse.
There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock.
He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down.
Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive.
You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on.
Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.
You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you.
“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”,
You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands.
You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up.
You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact.
You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you.
Even if someone was around…what could you say?
“Can we go home, please?”
There’s a sharp inhale.
“Sure.” The affection in his tone makes you nauseous.
You close your eyes.
“Anything for you, pretty girl.”
⌂
Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room.
Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office.
They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment.
He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—
A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office.
It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking.
It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer.
“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks.
You eagerly nod, straightening your posture.
“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“
“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.”
You swallow.
“What?”
He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy.
“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.”
You struggle to find the words.
“I don’t—“
“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin.
“Are you and your roommate having issues?”
You think about the truth.
“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.”
You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face.
You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh.
You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate.
Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that.
Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further.
But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun.
You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place.
He is everything. He has everything.
You are nothing. You have nothing.
When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch.
He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side.
“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two.
Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention.
“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say.
He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again.
“Satoru?” You ask.
There’s a distant hum of an answer.
“Did you tell Housing I was staying?”
For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh.
“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.”
Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you.
“Unless you have a problem with that?”
He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement.
Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house.
Or maybe it was always going to end up this way.
“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing.
Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it.
⌂
You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key.
This is his apartment, after all.
The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again.
He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you.
You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
One minute.
Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing.
The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders.
He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave.
You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales.
Fingers play with the ends of your shirt.
He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–
“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile.
His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining.
“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.”
He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek.
Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin.
“Please stop.”
He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean.
“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.
“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–”
He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic.
Your eyes sting.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is.
You shake your head. His teeth gleam.
“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?”
It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you.
By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.
He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed.
He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you.
“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.”
You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses.
“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.”
Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties.
There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper.
You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you.
“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?”
You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits.
You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position.
The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes.
It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust.
He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you.
“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.”
To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb.
“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder.
“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.”
There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises.
It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock.
There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth.
“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy.
“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.”
Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru.
“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear.
He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock.
“It’s all you’ll ever be.”
You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body.
There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole.
He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat.
The anger comes too late to do anything about.
“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”
“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh.
Welcome to me stepping into a new fandom space with redesigns as usual
Idk if I'm 100% happy with Jack's design, but it's better than the first draft so whatever we'll see if I keep it or never touch it again (the ugly preliminary designs are under the cut)
Warnings: FTM Trans!Reader, Adult Armin, Top Armin, Bottom Reader, Messy Makeout, Leg Humping, Hickies, Breeding Kink, Mentions of Cervix Bullying, Copious Amounts of Precum, Like Mans is Leaky, Needy Armin, Standard Just The Tip Desperation, So So Much Praise, Petnames(Baby), Hand Holding During Sex, Armin Keeps Apologizing While Absolutely Rearranging Intestines, Armin is Literally a Freak in the Sheets Who Knew
Note: Terminology For Genitalia Used: Folds, Cunt, Clit, Entrance, Cervix is Mentioned
Armin is 21+
Word Count: 2.8K
When you and Armin finally stopped skirting around your feelings for each other, you both decided it would be best to take things as slowly as possible. Armin was such a soft and innocent person when it came to any form of intimacy, and you didn’t mind waiting a bit, never wanting to make the first move for fear of him feeling rushed. Plus, not rushing into anything meant being able to take it all in and feel like a slightly normal couple even as the threat of titans loomed above your heads every day.
The first time he hugged you, you don’t even think he'd realized he’d done it. It was after a successful expedition, and two weeks after the both of you made it official. Adrenaline and excitement were so strong in the air that his arms wrapped around you without a second thought. Only after he pulled back did the realization hit him. You watched his eyes widen, his entire face burning red, and all you could do was smile. You gave him a pat on the back, your touch lingering slightly as if to say, ‘It’s okay, I want you to touch me’, and continued with the excited chattering of the rest of your squad.
Despite that, though, the milestone for holding hands came slowly, one random afternoon in the mess hall a month later. You think back on it often—the way Armin’s face flushed a deep red as his hand slowly inched toward yours on the table, fingers interlacing together despite the prying eyes and giggles of the rest of the squad. It was the first time he touched you with intent, and his fingers felt so perfect between yours. You wanted to know if they felt as perfect inside of you.
Your first kiss with him came a few weeks later, with the admission that it was his first kiss entirely. You remember how his voice shook when he pulled you toward a more secluded part of the library and asked if he could. The kiss itself was chaste, full of vulnerability, but even then, you were enamored by how soft his lips were and how his breath smelt like strawberries as it puffed briefly against your face. You wanted to know if his spit tasted like strawberries too.
The inappropriate thoughts should’ve made you feel bad; if it weren’t for the fact that any time there was physical contact between the both of you, Armin would have to adjust himself in his pants. He always tried to do it discretely, pretending to scratch his leg or turning around and pretending to be doing something so you wouldn’t see him, but you knew what he was doing. You were happy your presence and touch were affecting him just as much as his was affecting you, and you wondered just how long it would take before that bubble of tension popped.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary for both you and Armin to read together. You both had a huge interest in books and would spend hours silently enjoying each other's company while being taken outside the walls in the safety of words on a page. Usually, this was done in the library or the common area of the headquarters. But, Armin had asked if the both of you could read within the comfort of your quarters on that day.
You both sat on the floor, side by side, so close that if you moved even an inch, your thighs would meet, with your backs pressed against the edge of your bed. In normal circumstances, privacy while reading would be nice. Even if the library was supposed to be a quiet place, it could become rowdy at times, and the common room always had a buzz of people in and out of it. But these weren’t normal circumstances. You knew Armin was the type to silently scheme and plan miles ahead. It was the whole reason that Erwin had unofficially taken him under his wing. Him asking you to be somewhere private with him when all other times the public areas of the base had been fine, meant he probably had something other than reading in mind for the both of you to do together. There was no other reason for the sudden change, right?
That was the only thought going through your head as you tried desperately to focus on the book in your hands. You could feel the heat radiating off of Armin’s body beside you, allowing yourself to glance at him. You didn’t expect him to already be looking at you. His face was flushed, and his lips were glossy as if he had just freshly wettened them with his tongue.
“I think… I mean— if you would like to. I would, uh, like to try kissing… more.” His voice was so sweet and soft, eyes shifting down toward your lips before slowly raking back up.
“I’d like that, yeah.” You tried to keep your voice calm, though every piece of you was vibrating with excitement. You carefully set your book beside you, standing and holding a hand out to him. He looked at you confused, but took it anyway and stood himself. “Wanna sit on the bed.” You clarified, intertwining your fingers with his as you hopped up on the plush mattress. He took a seat beside you, his lip pulled between his teeth. It was obvious he was nervous. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” you reassured. “Just kissing, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He gave a nod and leaned forward. Your lips brushed for a second, electricity flowing through the both of you at the brief contact, just as it always did when you shared chaste kisses. However, this was different, Armin giving your hand a soft squeeze as your lips finally slotted together. Your free hand moved to clasp the back of Armin’s head, a silent reassurance, heat beginning to bloom in your stomach from the sheer sweetness that the kiss held. Armin’s tongue swiped the bottom of your lip, and you accepted him greedily. You were pleased to know that his spit did taste like strawberries; it mingled with yours as your tongues lazily explored each other. The kiss only broke when the both of you needed air, taking a small moment before resuming with more heat.
You felt a hand softly grip at your hip, as if you might crumble into pieces if the grip were any harder than the brush of a feather. Your fingers tangled into golden locks, your fingertips grazing his scalp, which earned you a soft groan that you gladly drank up. The tongue in your mouth doubled its efforts, exploring further, becoming more insistent and less hesitant. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought Armin had done this before, with the confidence you could feel growing in him. Your body was reacting to the contact as it always had, thighs pressing together to help ease the throbbing sensation you began to feel between them. The rumbling of a soft moan left your throat, the hand on your hip squeezing just the smallest amount at the sound. You could feel the bed bouncing softly, could feel Armin’s legs flexing against yours. He pulled back from the kiss, his lips red and swollen, eyes half-mast. You looked down and realized where the movement was coming from, his hips were bucking slightly into the air, no doubt attempting to grind himself against the fabric of his own pants.
“I’m… Can I… Ne-need to rub against something. I’m sorry, it’s just so much and I—”
Without replying, you flung the leg closest to him up, letting it rest against Armin’s crotch and dangle between his legs. He let out a small gasp, his free hand immediately moving to rest on your thigh as if he were holding you in place. His hips never stopped their tiny movements, and you could feel just how hard he was under your lower thigh. You tugged him into another kiss, missing the friction your thighs being pressed together gave you but loving the feeling of him rutting up against you more. You took in every little sound he made, breathing in the air from his lungs like it was yours for the taking.
There was spit dripping down your chin from just how messy the kiss had gotten, Armin becoming primal in the way he gripped the meat of your thigh. You pressed your leg down slightly, the expected and sudden pressure causing his rhythm to falter for a moment before picking back up, a breathy sound escaping his lips. His teeth clashed with your bottom lip, tugging against it hard and letting go with a soft pop. Instead of pressing his lips against yours again, he only kissed the corner of your mouth, and then down further and further, smearing saliva until he reached your neck. His tongue lapped behind your ear, hand beginning to explore your inner thigh.
“Hhaa…” His teeth scraped against your skin, mouth latching onto that section for a moment before moving to another. Your hand squeezed his, still interlaced and resting against the bed behind the both of you. His hips stilled.
“Fu-fuck… Can I just— I need to take it out. It hurts so much, my pants are too tight. Please…” His breath against your wet neck gave you goosebumps, voice muffled as he continued to mark you with hickies you weren’t even sure he knew he was making. You had never heard Armin swear before; the sound of it was making you dizzy.
“Ye-yeah. Tha— Nngg.. That’s fine.” Your voice was breathless, unable to hold back moans as he continued to ravish your throat. He pushed your leg to the side a bit, and you watched as he fumbled with the zip of his pants. After managing to undo them, he reached inside, tugging his briefs down as his cock sprang free, hooking them under his balls. You took the sight in, his cock visibly throbbing, the head of it a bright red, almost purple from the amount of blood being pumped through. Pearlescent beads of precum were puddling up and falling down his thick shaft, and you were sure the inside of his briefs were soaked in it. Wirey, trimmed blonde hair peaked from the base, leading up in a trail and disappearing underneath his shirt.
“Lo-look at what you’re doing t’me. You always—” He tugged your thigh back against his cock, and you could feel him shiver at the roughness of your jeans as he bucked into it. “Hhaaa— Always get me s-so worked up. Can’t— M-mm… Can’t help it…” He licked back up your neck, planting another kiss against your lips. Your tongue automatically moved with his, his hand settling on your inner thigh again. You could feel his touch grow bolder, moving closer and closer to where you needed him most. His fingers grazed against your crotch, causing your hips to buck into the feeling. You were so hard and wet, clit jumping at the sensation. He could surely feel the bud against your pants and began to target it, pressing his index finger in circles around it.
“A-Armin— Mnng..” You broke the kiss, head leaning back as your eyes closed. You felt his hips speed slightly at the sound of his name, precum soaking into the leg of your jeans.
“O-off. Want them off. ‘M sorry… Please. Jus’ wanna see you.” Armin mumbled, slurred with lust. He moved his hand up, tugging at the bottom of your shirt. “Th-this too. Please, baby…”
You let go of his hand to tug your shirt off, letting Armin work on unbuttoning your pants. Your leg moved from Armin’s lap, and your hips lifted off of the bed to allow him to tug them down completely, along with your briefs. Without pause, Armin did the same, completely stripping himself of clothing. You felt a hand against your chest, pushing you to lay back against the bed. He nestled in between your thighs as if he was always meant to be there, taking in the sight of you. You watched his cock bounce, precum dripping onto the mattress.
“You’re so beautiful. I— Wanna just… Can I…” He couldn’t even finish his thought, bracing one hand beside your head, lacing his fingers with yours with the other hand, and holding that one above your head. His cock fit perfectly in between your folds, his hips slowly grinding against you. With each movement, the tip of his cock hit your swollen clit, causing your back to arch. “M’sorry— Fuck— You’re so wet, I— Hah… S-so fucking warm… m’sorry…”
“Armi—” A moan caught in your throat, Armin’s cock catching against your entrance. You could feel yourself clenching around nothing, arm clutching against his back like a lifeline. Your nails dug in slightly, leaving crescent-shaped imprints.
“Just— Just gonna p-put the tip in, okay? M’so sorry… Feels too good… Just the tip, ‘promise.” You gave a nod. It was really all you were capable of doing—the friction from him grinding against you, leaving your mouth too occupied with moans to say anything. You felt the bluntness of the head of his cock prodding against you, pleasure flowing through your veins as it pushed in. “Mmm.. Sh-shit. You’re even— Hahhh… Wa-warmer inside…”
The whine that you let out would’ve been embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good to have Armin inside of you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and his hips began to move in tiny thrusts.
“Fuck… N-nng… It’s like you’re sucking me in. So tight against me. M’sorry— I— M’so sorry— Feels so… Ahh…” His hips began to pick up speed, his head leaning down to kiss and suck against your already bruised neck. Each thrust began to feel deeper, more and more pushing inside of you. His pubic bone was rubbing against your swollen clit on each thrust. “M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry- Shit— Baby, you— Mmm… Fu-fuck I can’t…” His cock bottomed out in you, pelvis pressed against yours for only a moment before he began to slam into you.
“‘Min— Too much! Yo-you’re so big! Fu-fuck ‘Min— So full!” You managed to get out in between moans. You felt lightheaded, Armin’s cock pressing against you in all the right places. The head of his cock felt like it was bullying your cervix each time he pushed inside fully; the rhythm of his hips unruly and unforgiving. You could already feel your orgasm growing close, your stomach growing tighter and tighter.
“Ca-can’t stop— M’so sorry— Feels so good. Ba-baby, your cunt feels so good. N-nnmm… M’sorry, you take me so well. Su-such a good boy, taking me so deep—” You could barely even register his hand clutching yours, his praise ringing in your ears. Your legs tightened around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into his tailbone. “Wanna… Fuck ahh— Gonna cum… Baby, please— Mmm… Can’t stop— M’gonna cum inside… Wanna fill you up. You’re milking my cock, baby— Hahh… Squeezing me so— fuck— m’sorry— m’gonna breed you, baby— Fuck, m’sorry, m’sorry—”
The way Armin was talking to you, you just couldn’t take it anymore. White flashed behind your eyes, your cunt pulsing around his cock as you came. Your nails scratched down his back, leaving red marks behind.
Armin let out a guttural moan, his hips stuttering at the rhythmic clenching. You could feel his warm cum spurting inside of you, filling you up. His hips continued to rock, making sure every last drop was inside before his arm gave out and he collapsed on top of you. You both lay like that, panting as the high slowly came down, his spent cock beginning to soften inside of you. When he finally did move, his face had that familiar flush you loved.
“O-oh my god. I’m so sorry, I— I don’t know what came over me.” He scrambled to get off of you, causing you to whine softly at the empty feeling of your cunt. You could already feel cum dribbling out of you, sliding down your ass and onto the covers. “That was— I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry.” He was rushing to pick up his clothes from the floor, unable to look at you.
“Armin. Armin, baby, look at me,” you said as you sat up. Every part of you was throbbing. He was tugging up his pants when his eyes snapped up to you. They hovered on your neck before moving to your face, his cheeks growing impossibly redder. You could tell he was trying desperately hard not to look at your body. “I liked it. Loved it even. Did it make you feel good?” His brows furrowed in thought, tucking himself into his jeans blindly.
“Ye-yeah, I did feel good. I, um… I am sorry, though…”
You smiled, willing your body to move to the edge of the bed even though it felt like jello. You took his hand in yours, squeezing it.
Synopsis- You are Varang's quiet and sweet mate. When Miles Quaritch comes taking her attention, you develop a distaste for the demon—that is until it becomes glaringly clear they're in competition for you.
Warnings-Smut, dirty old perv Quaritch, toxic!Varang, dubious consent, power-imbalance
A/n- MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! I managed to (barely) make it... At least for my time zone hehe! This was my first time writing smut and omg... I have so much respect for Smut authors... It was so hard???? Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoy!
Varang knew exactly what kept her breathing.
Spite.
It sat in her lungs like soot and settled behind her ribs like a coal that refused to die. Every memory she carried tasted of burned soil—blood soaking into blackened ground, screams rising like smoke. Hers. Her clan’s.
“Please, great Mother. Eywa, save us.”
It left her mouth in a whisper. Not a prayer, never a prayer.
She bent over a grove of saplings—young, thin things, barely taller than her waist. Infants compared to the old thunks that once crowned the forest. Their green made her stomach turn.
“Please, great Mother, balance of all. Eywa,” she crooned.
Her hand closed around a thin trunk, green where wood would grow. She drove it into the earth until it snapped with a soft, wet gasp.
She paused.
Do they pray? Did they beg Eywa when the sky-people burned the forest? Did they learn what refusal felt like, too?
“Tsahik.”
The voice came from behind her. Yepa stepped around a bushel of leaves, stripes still damp from the paint he had earned only days ago. A boy-turned-hunter, proud and awkward in the same breath.
Varang turned just enough to meet his eyes. Smiled. “Yes?”
He read the violence in her stance, the splintered tree at her feet, and managed a small, careful grin. “It’s Y/n. She asks for your presence.”
Ah.
Y/n.
Varang’s breath softened, just barely. Yes—spite kept her alive. Spite moved her hands, her teeth, her every step through the burned forest.
But there was something else that pulled herfrom the ruins. Something gentler. Warmer. More dangerous than any hatred she’d survived.
“If she asks for me,” Varang murmured, straightening. “it is only natural I answer.”
She stepped forward, leaving the crushed sapling behind her.
Y/n.
Y/n.
Y/n.
Her name throbbed in Varang’s chest like a second heartbeat.
“Y/n.”
You were crouched beneath a leaning pillar of old wood, shoulders tight, attention fixed on something beyond Varang’s first glance. When she stepped forward, she saw it. Him. Sapok.
The elder’s breaths were slowing, the chest rising more from will than its usual habit. A man held together by tendon, and even those were loosening.
You lifted your gaze to her, a soft frown creasing your features.
“It’s time.”
Those two words carried the finality of the situation. The kind that meant a soul would not return through the roots of the Tree, not tonight, not ever. Time meant the moment Eywa reclaimed what was left—unless, as in Sapok’s case, He refused.
Sapok had been split open long before his body began to fail—grief hollowing him when fire took his children, then his grandchildren, then the home his mothers grandmother had woven and built. Some wounds refused to close.
Grief had rotted him from the inside, until madness carved out his eyes with his own hands.
“I curse Eywa,” he’d spat at Varang once, voice shredded. “Do not let me return. Let my energy be mine, and mine alone.”
And she had promised.
Varang lowered herself beside you, knees against the soft earth. With deliberate care she drew her blades—curved shypers that caught what little light seeped through the smoke. Sapok could not see her, could not know whose hand would free him—but she swore his breath steadied, as if some part of him knew she was there.
She angled the blade.
Then she opened his throat.
With a second practiced motion, she severed his queue. The neural tendrils sparked with a frantic, chaotic flutter before collapsing.
Varang laid the queue against her hip, another to the collection.
“To the fires we will see you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the cooling skin of his brow, “and in the ash of your remains, we will carry you.”
You joined her in the ritual. Together you washed his body in ash, coating every wound, every ridge, every piece of him that grief had kept. You bound the flesh with cloth and quiet hands, sealing him for the journey he had chosen.
Tradition demanded quiet before the flames rose, and so you held your breath. Thinking.
Varang leaned in first (she always did) and brushed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. You shifted, shy. “Not now,” you muttered.
But she only hummed and wrapped an arm around your waist anyway.
“Why not?” she whispered against your skin. “Life should be savored when death sits so close, no?”
You shot her a look. Annoying. So annoying. You gathered your tools, bowls—your things, and packed them into a hollowed gourd. “Do not be like this.”
One ear flicked. “Like what?”
“Crude,” you snapped.
Varang smiled. She always smiled. It never meant anything except whatever she wanted it to.
“You’re angry,” she said. She caught your hand and pressed her mouth to each knuckle, slow, though her eyes never left yours. “Tell me. What have I done?”
Your lips thinned. Your tail gave you away.
“The sky-person,” you grumbled. “The one with the strange voice and the uglier face.”
Varang paused. And for the first time, her smile shifted into something fond. Now that angered you. You pulled your hand away and turned, jaw tight.
“Oh. Him?” she said at last. “Miles Quaritch.”
She reached for you again, palms gliding up your forearms, barely touching. She tried to catch your eye again.
“Him?” you mimicked her airy tone. “Yes. Him.” With a sudden twitch to your tail you groaned. “Eywa preserve me. I will not have a lovers quarrel beside Sapok’s dead body.”
“He would laugh,” she offered lightly.
You hissed and shoved her back with a flat hand. She pouted, and somehow that made it worse. “I need to do some things.”
You slipped out of the hut, brushing past the hanging beads. Of course she followed. Her stride matched yours.
“That is very vague, Y/n,” she said, tone almost sing-song.
You turned your head back, hands failing about. “Oh that's very vague?! You-”
You suddenly hit someone's chest. “Oh!”
Your eyes looked up. Golden eyes, hair along the brows and a meatier, softer impact. Who else other then:
“Miles Quaritch.” You said his name clumsily. It was the demon language, English. But it earned something of a smile from him. Like Varangs, cocky. Unlike Varangs, surprisingly warm.
“Watch where you’re going, cupcake.”
You barely understood him. Varang seemed to, though. Her demeanor changed, she tilted her head. “Demon.” She briefed a nod, and he tilted his head back, gesturing to a nearby Yurt.
“We got some things to discuss.” He grumbled.
Varang soothed a hum, before gently taking a strand of your hair and pinching it. “I’ll see you in the evening.”
You watched as she led him, and glared at Miles Quaritch, who eyed you before following her.
Great.
.
.
.
You had seen death stare at you.
It wore a woman’s face—pleasant, almost gentle. Golden-amber eyes that caught the light, hatred folded neatly behind patient lips. Black against black: wax-dark hair braided with bones of past loves.
Death came as kisses pressed to your cheek, as queues offered in submission, heads bowed. Death had a name here.
Varang.
Quaritch was not death, but the feeling curled similar in your chest. It lodged beneath your ribs and dragged its way down your spine, coiling into your legs until instinct screamed. Move, idiot. Move until he catches you.
You stared at him as he stared at you, the bonfire crackling between. Varang had told you his story: human once, died, reborn na'vi. That's why the pair made sense together, you supposed—he'd crossed the threshold and returned, and if Varang was death itself, then he must be the one who guards her door. Gatekeeper. Guardian. Something worse.
Now the spirit would not stop looking.
You turned away first, fixing your attention anywhere but him. Your mouth pulled into a soft pout as you drank from the skull-cup—nectar cut with water. Too sweet, you felt your teeth ache.
“Your pet has a staring problem.” You grumbled.
Varang lifted an eye, her smile widened, and she played with your beaded top. “He is curious.”
“He should be curious somewhere else.”
“Now, Y/N,” Varang chided softly, “do not be hostile.”
You almost laughed at that. Do not be hostile. When has Varang ever uttered such words?
You flickered back at him, and he winked. His lips quirked up at your sneer, too-perfect-teeth reflecting the orange of the fire. Like stained blood. Then he drank from his cup, and then lifted up.
You had actually flinched at the movement, cocked your head to Varang in slight panic, but she only laughed. He moved, settling heavy beside her. “Evenin’, girls.” He tipped his head in your direction. You scowled back. “Mhm, not so touchy huh?”
“She does not understand you, Quaritch.”
He paused, cup halfway to his mouth. "Huh." A beat, then that grin widened. "Well. Guess I oughta teach her. She'll be talkin' to human grunts soon enough."
Varang's grin widened. She glanced at you, and you felt the weight of her attention like a hand at your throat. "He says he will teach you the demon language, Y/n." You knew that tone. "Take it."
"But Varang—"
And there it was.
The shift. The moment her eyes turned sharp and her smile crooked just enough to bare a hint of fang.
Your ears flattened. You looked at Quaritch—that stupid, shit-eating grin still plastered across his face—and swallowed every word clawing up your throat. Barely managed it.
Varang's fingers—meanwhile, found your hip, she dug in hard enough that tomorrow you'd wear the shape of them in bruises and adorn them like a kiss. That’s all you could do, anyway. She wouldn’t allow for anything else.
You bowed your head before you could stop it, face twisting despite yourself.
"F-Fine."
You turned the glare on Quaritch instead. Poured every drop of frustration and helpless fury into it, let it burn there where Varang couldn't track it. Never at her. Never where she could see. She wouldn't forgive that.
Her grip released. She rose—graceful and already dismissing you. She shoved you toward him with one careless hand. The push sent you stumbling forward before you caught yourself with Quaritch’s bicep.
"She'll do it, Quaritch."
"Atta girl," he drawled around a mouthful of meat.
You hissed at him. “Teylupil,”
.
.
.
Quaritch was everything you'd imagined and worse—arrogant, obtuse, swaggering through life with the blissful ignorance of someone who’d never met a problem his fists couldn’t solve. Worst of all, though? The man was charming, and with the several weeks spent between you two… fond.
You'd never say it aloud. Eywa could strike you down first. His ego needed no more compliments, it was swollen enough to crowd a room. Yet there it was: he made you laugh.
"Aww, c'mon. Like this." His tongue curled with exaggerated precision. "Patient. Pati-eee-nt. Feel that? The tongue goes up, not back."
You mimicked the shape of his mouth, lips pulling awkwardly. "Pati-eee-nt."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. His palm landed twice against your thigh—approving pats. "That's right. Good job."
Your ears flicked traitorously forward. Heat crept beneath your skin as a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Varang had never been this patient, this rewarding. Good things from her meant extra morsels of food. But Quaritch kept a pocket full of those wrapped things—candy, he called them, and handed out those small, colorful spheres when you or another na’vi did something good.
"Patiee-nt. Patiee-nt," you murmured again, testing it.
One brow arched. His mouth quirked. "You're picking up my accent. That's a Kansa's special right there."
"Accent?" The word felt strange on your tongue. Your grasp on this language remained amature at best. You frowned. "Accent... what?"
"What's an accent," he corrected, softening his tone. "What is an accent, you mean, doll."
You tipped your head forward, eyes wide, a question within the angle. Something in that expression pleased him—his thumb caught your chin, tugging playfully. "It's like... hm. Well, not everyone talks the way I do." A laugh escaped him, warm like the sun. "S'funny, actually. You and the other Na'vi pickin’ up my way of speaking. All of you runnin’ around sounding like cowboys. The guys'll lose their minds if they hear you."
"Funny." You paused, tail curling uncertainly behind you. "Not... normal?"
He nodded, something careful entering his expression. "You ever listen to Wainfleet talk?"
"Bald one?"
Quaritch barked a laugh. “Yeah, the bald one. But don't let him hear you say that or he'll yank your tail."
That drew a smile, even if you struggled processing the words.
"Speak—" your tongue was slow and clumsy against the language. "—sloowwwlly." You tapped at your flickering ears. "Hear. Is trying to."
He hummed, tilting his head in consideration. "Yeah, that's right. Alright, I think that's done for the day." He lifted himself up and carefully reached for your hand.
The fourth finger still felt strange against your palm—foreign in the way the knuckle was twice your size. But it was nice, too. Bigger than any of the other males in your clan. No wonder Varang liked holding it. She always liked different.
"You're a quick learner, cupcake. Better than I ever was learnin' Na'vi." His voice carried some old frustration. "My boy, Spider—he tried getting it through my thick skull. An' I could barely string a sentence together."
"Spider. Son." You gave a distant nod. Varang had mentioned him once. He had a son. Wanted him back. No harm to come to him, you remembered that much.
"Mhm." His gaze drifted somewhere past your shoulder, through the woven walls to a place you couldn't follow. For once the mask of bravado slipped, and beneath it was grief of missing someone.
You didn’t really care. That was his business. And yours…
Your lower lip jutted forward in a small pout. Hand reaching out, expectant.
That snapped him back. The grin returned, easier now, and he dug into his cargo pants before pulling out the small bag. "You really like Skittles, huh?" He poured a few into his palm, fingers sorting through the colors before plucking out the red ones. You seemed to really like those. "There you go, little lady."
The taste was different from anything on Pandora, but you liked it. "Mh, good." You nodded. You immediately plopped them into your mouth and chewed. Yum.
He watched you for a long moment—longer than necessary—then bit his lower lip and reached over to tug gently at your cheek. "You're the cutest of the bunch, y'know that? Not so bad when you're like this." His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, voice dropping quieter. "No wonder Varang keeps you around."
"She is, isn't she."
Varang sauntered through. Her body shifted like the dancing of flame, but you knew her enough. You saw her for the fire, not the warmth. You bowed your head and drew your shoulders in. Small gestures for necessary ones.
Varang's mouth was a thin, bloodless line—aimed directly at Quaritch.
She stepped to your side and pressed her hip against yours. You felt the decorative bones pricking your side, stabbing your soft skin. The contact pinned you there while her gaze carved into him. "I told you to teach her."
"And what am I doing?" Quaritch's head canted, dismissive. He wasn't the yielding type.
“Making her weak.”
He scoffed—an amused sound that bubbled into genuine exasperation. His hand found your forearm. “Hm? And how am I makin’ her weak, buttercup?”
Varang hissed.
That surprised you both.
She hauled you back, fingers tight enough to bruise. "You may see. Not touch." Then she stepped closer to him, and the tension in her shoulders melted into something silk-smooth. Run, Quaritch. You tried telling him with your eyes. You are prey. But Varang had a way about her, captivating.
"Besides," Varang murmured, trailing one finger along the freckles of his throat, "you already have me." her lips ghosted over his pulse, and her fingers trailed down to cup the front of his pants. He hissed, a different one—a pleased one. "Do well to remember that."
She turned then, and the sultriness drained from her the moment her back faced him. Her hands found your arm again and you winced as she dragged you forward.
You cast one glance back at Quaritch. His face had gone stony.
Her grip on your arm tightened and you winced, allowed yourself to be turned.
"Varang—" you began, stumbling to keep pace.
She didn’t slow. She dragged you into her yurt, shoving you down onto the woven mat with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. Firelight dnced along the walls, casting her in molten gold as she paced before you.
You breathed slowly, words aching to come, yet withheld under her stare.
She paced forward, steady. You lowered your head, looking anywhere but her—the woven floor, the yurt’s wooden beams, the way ash fell between the light. Her fingers found your chin, and forced your face upward. "See me."
You did. You looked up. "I... I do see you."
That made her calm, just a bit. Her heart gentled and her expression softened into something sweet. She tilted her head, studying you with the intensity of someone memorizing a dying lover, before pressing a kiss against your lips. Her eyes never shut. They watched for your reaction, golden and unblinking, and you knew exactly which one to give.
You closed your own eyes, kissing her back, hands gripping her shoulders. Warmth bloomed where skin met skin—hers fever-hot, yours clammy. "You make me weak," she finally whispered against your mouth.
That gave you pause. She either didn't notice or didn't care.
"Varang." You tilted your head up, felt her lips brush underneath your jaw, trailing heat. Your eyes felt particularly hazy—fatigue, pain, something else entirely. She slowly brought her own queue over her shoulder, and your eyes caught the restrictive tie wrapped around the tendrils.
You glanced, freckles flashing in slight embarrassment. "R-Right now...?"
She gave a nod.
You brought your own queue forward with trembling fingers, a headache already forming. She let the tendrils bond together. The both of you shuddered. Her anger crashed over you first—the frequent memory of the volcano. The screams of her mother, the passive voice of her father: “If it is Eywa’s will, Varang… be like your sister, Varang.” Then her hate followed, the taste of salt and rock.
But underneath it lay something girlishly needy, embarrassingly seeking. A vulnerability she showed no one else. Only you were allowed such a look into her soul.
"Hm."
She walked backward then, pulling you with her until she hit the hammock. It swayed under the combined weight as she settled, then drew you into her lap, tugging at your hair. “Shhh,” She cooed.
Varang pressed a hand underneath the wrapping of your top, lifting it to kiss the skin there. You’d pierce your nipples months ago, and the bone that settled between the nubs made her mouth water. “Such fear,” she whispered against your damp skin. “But you love me. I see it. I know it.”
She licked a broad wet stripe across the sensitive areola, then drew the tight bud between her mouth, swirling her tongue around the piercing and faintly tugged.
You whined, frowning, fingers finding the ridges of her collarbone. "You always question it."
"Naturally." She nuzzled your shoulder, breathing in the ash still clinging to your skin. Her lips switched to its twin, finally fluttering her eyes close to gently suck, saliva coating your breasts. You grinded against her thigh, pressing your face against her shoulder. “Such a needy little thing, come—”
“Tsahik,”
Yepa stood where the privacy cloth was, eyes cast down. He knew better than to interrupt Varang when she kept you to herself. Her eyes sharpened, fingers pausing where they'd been toying with the piercing. Heat crawled up your neck. You looked away, cheeks burning.
"Speak." She said.
Her hand drifted lower, tracing the edge of your loincloth, circling just above your mound while her mouth pressed dizzying kisses along the curve of your cheek. "Forgive me, Tsahìk," Yepa murmured. "We've spotted a new caravan. The windtraders."
Varang exhaled through her nose. Her touch stilled. For one fleeting moment, she looked at you—something almost apologetic flickering behind her eyes.
Then it was gone.
You made a soft, plaintive sound, fingers curling around her wrist. "Stay." The word came out smaller than you meant it to, and you hated yourself for it. Varang despised weakness. You were weakness.
She pushed your hand away with her usual ease. "Others hunt the meat you eat, Y/n." She didn't look at you again, said it in a cooing tone that made it all the worse.
You rewrapped your chest with fumbling hands, tail lashing hard enough snap at the air. You shoved past Yepa without meeting his eyes, head bowed low.
Not fair. The thought curled bitter in your head. She could refuse you. You could never refuse her.
Around you, the clan stirred with new activity. Warriors readied their ikran, voices risingto prepare. Blades were sharpened, the new demon-weapons brandished with eager hands.
You weren't allowed on raids. Varang forbade it.
So instead you sat on the edge of camp and kicked rocks, watching them disappear into the embers of the sun.
"You're not going?"
You froze mid-motion, glancing back.
Quaritch.
Your frown deepened.
"Varang angry," you said quietly. She’s angry, and doesn’t want you near me. Is what you meant to say. But how could you? He was an idiot. Or maybe it was you, for not knowing how to say it.
You moved to walk past him, but his hand caught your shoulder—firm, four fingers pressing and encompassing most of it.
"So?" He snorted. "She throws a hissy fit and what? Law doesn't apply to me."
They do. Your eyes narrowed. You are one of us now. They apply.
But you didn't say it. Instead, you sighed and looked away, fingers tapping absently against the skin where your heart was underneath. "I…" You hesitated. "Weak. Not strong. Varang worry."
A pause.
"Don't tell," you grumbled.
Quaritch gave a slow nod, tail tracing a lazy arc. He leaned forward, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. "You ever use a gun?"
You blinked. "Gun…?"
He lifted one of those compact metal bows from his holster, blocky and compact—nothing like the carved wood your people used. "Yeah. A gun. You've seen Varang use it." He jerked his chin toward the distant yurts. "Come on. I'll show you. Just don't blow my tail off."
Your gaze drifted to Varang's yurt, then skyward where the war party had departed hours ago, her Ska'avum among them. She'd be gone until dusk at least. You pressed your lips together.
"Yes. Okay."
.
.
.
The first shot made you jump, ears pressing flat against your head.
"Yeah! Booyah!" Quaritch's hands landed on your shoulders, shaking hard into your frame. "Clear damn shot. You're a natural at this, kid."
He thrust his palm upward, some human gesture you'd never seen before.
You stared at it, confused.
Then lifted yours suspiciously, mirroring the angle.
His hand met yours with a sharp smack.
"High-five. Well—high-four," he amended, grinning wide enough to show molars. His palm found your spine, a push that was encouraging and commanding. "Come on. Again. Let's see if it was a fluke."
He was close now. Close enough that if Varang were here, if she saw—
You swallowed the thought. No. This isn't about Varang.
You adjusted your stance the way he'd shown you: shoulders angled, weight forward, breath held. The target swam into focus. You squeezed.
Bullseye.
Your tail betrayed you, wagging before you could stop it—then his hand cracked against your ass and you squealed. "Ngh!" The hiss tore from your throat, glaring at him. You almost forgot he was an asshole first, friend second.
He was already moving past you, plucking the gun from your slack grip. "And she calls you weak." A scoff. He studied the target, grinning like some prideful mentor. "Feel pretty powerful, huh?"
You nodded slowly, studying the cluster of holes punched through the painted target. When you glanced back, he was counting the rounds with his usual efficiency.
"Think we'll add firearms to your training rotation." He didn't look up. "No point wasting time on that bow sissy-shit when you've got real stopping power available."
You stepped closer, watching his hands work. "What doing?"
"What are you doing," he corrected. "Grammar, kid. Makes me sound like some kind of assh-shat teacher." He whistled. "Anyway, I’m cleanin’ and reassembling. Maintenance. All this volcanic shit clogs the mechanisms. Messes with the equipment."
This was news to you. You paused. "Varang…knows?"
The question landed betwene you two.
His lips peeled back—too much teeth. "Nah." He didn't look up. "Keep it that way."
A secret. You had a secret now. The thought bloomed warm, and Quaritch must have seen it written plain across your face because he chuckled, low and knowing. "You're a little minx, aren't'cha?"
You didn't know what that was, but nodded anyway.
He dug into his pockets again, fingers closing around the crinkled bag. Your hand shot out before you could think to stop it, palm up, giddy.
He caught your wrist to steady it—the tips of his fingers padded in callouses. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” He shook the bag near your ear, grinning. "Never had much of a sweet tooth myself. Spider did, though." A pause. His jaw worked. "I traded my good socks for this."
The silence came. Then he pressed the entire bag into your palm, closing your fingers around it like it was something precious.
"Just keep it." It came out rough, almost embarrassed. "And don’t let the others see." He looked away.
You stared at the bag. Bright red plastic stamped with the strange alien letters from his world. Red. Yellow. Orange. Green. Purple. You traced each color with your eyes before lifting your gaze back at him.
You didn't know what you were thinking.
You kissed his cheek.
Quaritch actually stumbled back half a step. His ears snapped forward, eyes gone wide and startled as a spooked hexapede's. Before he could recover, you pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. You felt reckless, daring. The power that Varang held, you wield it now.
You skittered backward, clutching the candy to your chest, a shy smile blooming despite yourself.
"Thank you, Quaritch," you whispered.
His lips quirked, just a bit. He tilted his head back, pushed air between his teeth in a low whistle that might've been a laugh. "Yeah," he muttered, but you think it was more to himself than you. "Yeah, alright."
You left then, the bag pressed tight against your chest, tail swaying in wide arcs all the way back to the yurt.
Another secret.
.
.
.
Things were different now. You felt different, you supposed.
This shared secret between you and Quaritch had festered into something physical. It lived in the space between breaths, in the pause before he spoke your name.
And Quaritch? Quaritch was all physical.
You couldn't walk past him without a slap to the rear or a pinch to your side, something too boyish for a man his size (and his age, as you liked to remind him). But there it was anyway, that grin splitting his face, the wink that followed. "That's it, baby girl." The words dripped easy, thick as the molasses you once tasted.
The lessons were no different. Or rather—no different in how he touched you now. Instead of sweet candy he'd nudge your lips apart and kiss.
"Say it. Patient."
"Patient."
Quaritch just grinned against your mouth. "Still got that accent. It's cute." Your eyes fluttered shut. You licked away the chapness of his lips, tasted salt and something faintly bitter.
Evening meals were distant, of course. Formal. When Varang sat beside you, eating whatever meal she'd presented—she’d present a kuru, sometimes several, gifts of power and affection—you'd accept with the usual grace. The usual smiles.
And later, after you'd ignored him through dinner and feigned disinterest, Quaritch would return. That all-too-easy smile waiting for you in the dark.
Varang wouldn't know. You were happy with that.
"Stop moving," you grumbled.
You painted the whites and reds against his face in careful strokes, slapping his hands when they wandered.
"It's damn cold," he hissed. But he remained still, huffing through his nose. The pigment was thick, it had to be. Smelling just a bit of crushed minerals, rendered fat, and berries. You had to change the recipe for him, he sweat too much and smeared it everywhere—too impatient to let it dry.
You rolled your eyes. The two of you were tucked beneath the newly constructed yurt. Varang had moved everyone to the RDA base, and Quaritch had been more than eager to accommodate the clan into the facility's sprawling guts. If he wasn't with her, or the strange pink-skins, then he was with you.
"It's cold because you take too long." You swept your thumbs in parallel lines along his cheeks, forming a sharp V that cascaded down the bridge of his nose. The pattern was traditional, though your hand trembled slightly as you worked.
You watched him through your lashes, heat creeping up your neck when you realized he'd been staring back. "What?"
Quaritch clicked his tongue, angling his head low. He pressed his cheek against your palm, the paint smudged just a bit, but you didn’t correct him. "Nothin'... just—sweet is all. You're sweet."
Your fingers drifted to your songcord almost unconsciously, tracing the amber bead you'd added most recently. Inside, suspended in golden resin, a single red skittle.
"I didn't think you'd be so sappy," you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.
"Sappy? Now where'd you learn that word?"
"Lyle." You said innocently. “The bald one."
Quaritch grinned, and his hand found your back—thumb pressing the base of your tail. "Course it was. The bastard—"
"Do you think I am a fool?"
Your tail went rigid mid-sway, ears swiveling before the rest of you caught up. You turned, careful, already knowing what you'd find.
Varang stood at the threshold, stripped of her usual paint and accessories. She looked exactly as she had when you were both girls and the forest still held its green—Vulnerable.
"Varang," you started, placating. "We were almost—"
A hiss tore from her throat. Her nose wrinkled, lips peeling back from her teeth. "Do not." She lifted one hand, fingers curling through the air in a white-knuckled clench.
You'd never seen her this furious. Not even since—
Your ears flattened against your skull.
"You do not ask permission, sky-man." She began to circle Quaritch now, and her hands drifted to the twin buugeng blades strapped at her hips.
Quaritch's expression didn't shift. If anything, it settled into something lazier. Bored, almost. He tracked her with his eyes, then let out a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "And when have you?"
He rose slowly, joints popping, and your handprint still blazed red across his cheek.
Varang faltered as she eyed the paint. For just a heartbeat—her brows pinched into something wounded—but then she shook her head, and the mask slammed back into place.
"Seems to me, cupcake," Quaritch drawled, stepping into her space, "that you and I are too similar."
His gaze slid to you.
Then his hands found Varang's shoulders, turning her to face you instead. "She don't seem too concerned." His voice dropped rough, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "And I bet she'd take both of us sweetly. Hm?"
Varang stared. Her expression smoothed into something unreadable, eerily calm, yellow eyes locked on yours.
"Have you two bonded?"
Your stomach dropped. "No. Varang, we—"
"Nah." Quaritch's answer came quicker than yours, easier. "We haven't. You can keep that if you want." His lips grazed the curve of Varang's neck, breath hot against the delicate skin there. His hands slid lower, palms molding to her waist, then dipping to the swell of her hips. "If it makes you feel special."
He grinned.
Varang twisted free in one fluid motion, closing the distance between you in two strides. Her hand fisted in your hair, dragging you close enough that you could see every fleck of amber in her yellow eyes. "You smell like him."
Then she kissed you.
Hard.
Her canines caught your lower lip, tugging until you tasted copper. A sound escaped you, swallowed just before it turned pitiful..
Behind you, Quaritch shifted closer. You couldn't see him, but you felt the heat of him, the broad wall of his chest almost brushing your shoulder blades. His hand came down heavy on the curve of your ass, grabbing an absolute fistful.
And you, you felt multiple hands now. Varang's fingers worked the braided top, peeling it free until your breasts were bare beneath her palms. They bounced just a bit, purple nipples perking. Behind you, Quaritch's thumbs traced the curve of your ass before lifting the weight of each cheek. He let them plop down, and groaned.
"Fuck," he muttered, voice dropping to gravel. "Won't you look at that." His knuckles grazed the stripes that contoured around the flesh, mesmerized.
Miles…" You turned your head, the syllable half-formed. Instinct seeked his face, but Varang's fist caught your braids and wrenched you back.
Her teeth found your lower lip.
"Not at him." The growl rumbled against your mouth. "Me."
Quaritch's laugh was low, almost lazy. "Think she likes me better. I ain't so punishing." His palm cracked against your rear—only once, but something purple was already forming. "Say my name again, doll."
"Miles—" But Varang swallowed it, mouth sealing over yours, and she shot him a look that could've drawn blood.
"You ain't playing fair," He had that smile, you knew he did even if you couldn’t see it.
Both hands rose to cradle your jaw, now. Thumbs stroking the jaw where tension pooled. She pressed kisses all over—the corner of your lips, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder where your scent glands were located. Marking you with her own scent.
"If you can only win by fairness," she whispered, lips brushing your shoulders "you are no true warrior."
Then she kissed you again
Quaritch's mouth twitched. Without warning, he hauled you back against him, fingers sinking into your hips, grinding you into the hard line of his pelvis. "So you wanna play like that?"
Varang pulled back with a hiss, chest rising. She looked at you—just once—then stepped forward. She wore seduction in her hips now, curling her lips, tasting her skin. "Only if you think yourself capable."
"Hm. Challenge accepted." His attention dropped to your chest, dismissive for just a moment before he took another look. He pinched a nub. "Fuck, baby girl. You had these the whole time?"
He flicked the other with his thumb, feeling the bone piercing. Your body jerked, a gasp wriggling out. “O-Oh…” His mouth went lower, descending a hot trail while his hands lazily hooked your loincloth to the side. His calloused fingers found your clit, the rough pad of his thumb circling.
"Miles, please…" Your head fell forward, brows pinching together, and the sound that left you was barely coherent.
Before you, Varang sank to her knees.
You'd never seen her like this—all that fierce pride folded into something softer, reflective of her soul. Her palms smoothed up your thighs, reverent. When she looked up at you through dark lashes, blinking slow, you blushed.
“You beg for him,” She undid your loincloth properly now, throwing it over her shoulder to the fire nearby. “Now you will beg for me” She simply lowered her mouth and licked—a long, flat, possessive stripe from your entrance to your clit, pushing Quaritch’s thumb aside with the force of it.
He only grunted. His fingers traced your ribs, mapping each curve, each rise of skin. Up, then down. Feeling. Always feeling. He nudged your legs apart. Varang needed room, afterall.
She took it.
Varang nudged her face, nuzzling the purple flesh and mouthing your pussy. Suckling the flesh. When she looked up, her eyes were hazy with peace—and if you dared to call it—love. You watched her tail sway behind her. A soft huff escaped you.
She spread your pretty pussy lips with her thumbs, then spat. You watched the silver strand descend, sliding down your slit in complete arousal.
“So pretty,” she cooed. “You like this, yes?”
Her finger brisked along the opening, pinching your folds together. They were undeniably swollen, plump. She always liked how engorged they became when you were aroused. Like a dumpling. She thought.
She pressed one fingertip to the left lip, and watched it bounce back. “Varang.” You pushed your hips forward, pouting.
Both chuckled. “What did I say?” Quaritch mused. “Spoiled. Absolutely spoiled.”
He lifted you—just slightly—and chucked his loincloth aside. You glanced down.
Your mind emptied of everything but his cock.
Your hands flew to his forearms, fingers digging into the muscle there just as your legs kicked in a brief instinctive pedal. “Wait—wait!”
He went still, swallowing. “Somethin’ the matter?” He glanced over your shoulder to look at Varang, who now leaned back on her hands, head cocked into something teasing.
He settled you on his thick thigh instead, tracing numbers over your stomach.
You dragged your gaze back down, helpless. It was… big. Long, thick, veined with ridges that made your mouth water and your lips tremble all the same. The head was a broad, blunt crown, flushed a deep, violent purple, and below, his balls were heavy and full.
A low, involuntary sound escaped you as you gave a tiny, shameful shuffle, the slick heat of you grinding against the muscle of his thigh. You bit your lower lip until you tasted the copper hint of blood.
“Well… it’s…”
“She’s never taken a man.” Varang’s murmur was matter-of-fact. Her eyes shifted to you, her smile softening.
For once, he seemed surprised. “What? But you and her have—”
“I have never allowed a man to touch her.” Varang’s scoffed, as if the idea was ridiculous. “Any who’ve tried I’ve killed myself.” She leaned forward now, before going on a crawl. Her eyes, now heavy-lidded, inspected his cock.
She bit her own plump lip, then leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. Her eyes fluttered shut as she did it, and above you, Quaritch hissed—no doubt pleased.
“It doesn’t bite, Y/n.” Varang stroked your trembling thigh, her touch gentling, before she turned back. She opened her mouth, suckling the broad head, wetting it thoroughly, then licked a long, torturous stripe from root to tip. The sound was obscenely wet.
“Ngh, fuck…” The groan was torn from Quaritch’s chest, you never thought you’d hear such a sound from him.
It felt right, strangely.
He buried his face against the junction of your neck and shoulder, his arms locking around you, binding you to the solid wall of his heat. His breaths came in uneven puffs. His large, warm hands splayed across your stomach, fingers pressing in rhythmic, almost absent-minded taps. “Not so much now…” he managed, voice strangled.
Varang only scoffed around him, the vibration earning another jerk of his hips. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper, her cheeks hollowing. “This is not for you,” she shot back, pulling off with a wet sound. “So weak. Cannot even last.”
That earned a guttural grunt. He fluttered his eyes open, the yellow within them hollowed by the black of his pupil.
He turned his head and bit the shell of your ear. “You listenin’ to her?” he hummed. You felt his pout. “So mean to me. But you ain’t, darlin’. You’re good. All good and sweet stuff.” He nuzzled, then placed a softer, startling kiss on your cheek.
You both watched, mesmerized, as Varang returned to her work. Your own hands reached and took what she couldn’t. He groaned then, thighs bouncing, dragging against your clit.
“Ngh,” You whined.
Finally, she withdrew with a slick, echoing pop. She slowly unraveled her tongue, giving one last lon lick from across his shaft.
“There.” Her cooed. “Nice and wet for you to sit on, my beloved. A proper throne.”
“T_Thank you, Varang.”
You thought it was so strange, how someone like Quaritch could be so… gentle at times. His hands found the back of your knees, planting a squeeze against the delicate hinge. Then, he pressed your cheek against his.
“You ready, buttercup?”
You felt the vibration of his voice against your back, rumbling from his chest to your bones. He was like that, of course—all consuming.
Your eyes found themselves downward before you managed the smallest nod. “Y-Yes.”
It was all he needed. “Good girl.” The praise sent warmth all around your body. “Knew you could.” He pat your thighs.
Then he lifted. It was an easy strength he had, lifting as if it were nothing. He shuffled, bringing your knees to your breasts, cocking his head to the side to see. Instinctively, your hands flew behind you, fingers searching for the anchor of his shoulders.
You felt it first, the wet head jutting against your cunt. The broad slick head grazing your slit, parting it just enough to make it audible. Your pussy clenched, and you drew in your breath.
“Shh… relax.” He cooed. “I won’t move until you want to.”
He began the slow work of getting you used to it. His hips rolled in a shallow, circular tease, moving his hips so his dick coated itself with your slick.
Then, with a controlled shift, he gathered both your knees in the vice of one formidable arm, the other hand wrapping around the base of his shaft.
A groan, raw and deep, tore from his chest as he notched himself at your entrance.
Varang watched, transfixed at the sight.
He pushed.
The burn was instant.
Your eyes flew wide, seeing nothing and everything. “Big—it’s big, Miles—” You babbled, already trying to claw away.
He grunted, and his teeth found the end of your flickering ear. “The more you squirm, the more it’ll hurt. Shh… shh, it’ll be okay, sugar.”
You tried to obey—really you did, but you couldn’t help the tears that flowed down in wet fat blobs. “Thats it.” He settled you down slow, inch by inch. “See? Its not so—Fuck!”
Varang pushed your hips down, and naturally you screamed, suddenly impaled. Miles, caught off guard, bucked upward with a startled hiss, his ears pinning flat against his skull. Varang’s giggle was a light, airy thing that quickly boiled over into a full-throated laugh.
“So weak,” she snarled, the sweetness evaporating. She patted your trembling thighs before pushing them wider, folding you open and giving herself a perfect, obscene view of either sex.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Miles breathed.
Your belly was full of him. A distinct, visible bulge swelled at your lower tummy. Your cunt was stretched to a painful pink halo around the thick blue of his cock. You just breathed, glancing down—at her, at him.
“Ngh… j-just go…. Please, Miles.”
The words left you in spent sigh, so fragile.
He shuddered where he held you—and nodded. “Alright, buttercup.” He pressed a single fat kiss to the crown of your head, then moved.
Miles Quaritch did nothing by half-measures. His hands locked around the curve of your hips, fingers biting into flesh as he pulled you down and drove himself up. You swore you could feel the tip bristle against your cervix.
“Oh… fuck.” The curse was low, a rumble you absorbed through your spine. “So fuckin’ tight.”
The force of him made your world condense to sensation. To the deep, stretching fullness, the slap of skin, the dizzying bounce of your breasts. One of his palms slid up to capture a peak—holding it to a squeeze.
And then, because he relished in it, he buried his face against your shoulder, his breath coming in delicious puffs. You could feel every stifled groan turn into a grunt, only to dissolve into a moan.
He likes this. He likes me. You blushed.
Varang shifted closer. Her cool fingers traced the sweat-slicked tension of his balls, cupping the heavy weight before her tongue swept over your clit.
You squealed. “Oh!” You pressed both hands over her head, eyes wide.
“You look so pretty, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice a honeyed smoke against your fevered skin. “So perfect, split open like this.” You heard the rustle of her loincloth, the wet sound of her own fingers working between her legs, the slick rhythm of her thumb on her clit.
Her moan was low, and the vibration of it against your most sensitive nerve sent pure pleasure tearing through your core.
“I love you—” The confession was a needy thing, meant for both, owned by neither. But they knew, you were sure they did. “I’m…ah…!”
Miles stole most of your speech, dragging your hips to meet his punishing pace, folding your body to fit him deeper. The angle was brutal, perfect. “Fuck. Gonna cum inside this pussy,” he growled. “Gonna flood you.”
Varang’s mouth left you with a soft pop. “No,” she hissed. “You will not.”
He laughed, somehow teasing and joyful…maybe a bit disbelieving. “Fuck yeah, I will. Gonna pump this tight cunt full. Gonna fuck a baby right into her.” He was sneering at her, a direct challenge even as his hips began to lose their rhythm, succumbing to a ragged, urgent pounding.
“Thrones do not talk, Quaritch.”
“T-This one does.” A stutter from him, a victory for her.
You could feel it. The ache of release. His balls drew up tight against you. Varang felt it too. Her hand tightened around a ball sack, vise-like warning.
He hissed. “Agh—Shit! Woman, don’t you—!”
And then you clenched. Not a voluntary act, your inner muscles clenching around him in a series of frantic, milking pulses.
A broken yelp escaped you as you came, turning liquid and mindless around his huge dick. Now he was trapped: between Varang’s iron hand and your sweet, convulsing vice.
“Ngh—Christ!” His whole body locked, eyes rolling back in a spasm.
Varang moved, she wouldn’t allow him. She hauled you off him, a gasp torn from your lips at the sudden emptiness, and her fist was around him, stroking, pumping, directing. His release shot in thick, pearlescent ropes across her cheek, her chin, the proud arch of her neck.
She blinked slowly, unimpressed. A single, sticky strand dripped onto her collarbone. She caught it on a finger, flicked it away with utter disdain. “You will not get her pregnant,” she stated, and it was final.
Miles was a spent force, chest heaving. He let out a winded puff, then a low, sated laugh. One eye slid open, crinkled with admiration. “You’re evil,” he rasped, pulling your boneless form against his solid thigh. He nuzzled into your hair, both hands coming up to weigh your breasts, holding you to him as if claiming spoils.
You on the other hand were dazed, trying to remember how to breathe.
Varang scoffed. “Well.” In one smooth motion, she took your wrists, pulling you from Mile’s slackened grip toward her. He yielded with a grunt, shifting heavily on the mat, already feeling exhaustion in his bones.
“Our turn,” Varang said. And she smiled, a true sweet thing.
You blinked. “...Uh… What?”
She laid you back on the woven mat, the fibers imprinting on your sweat-slick skin. Her loincloth fell away. “You haven’t made me come yet,” she pouted. “It’s no fair.”
You offered a weak, sheepish smile. “Let me—Oofmp!”
She pushed you flat, and climbed over you. “Shhh…” Her thigh brushed your cheek, then she settled her weight, the hot, musky scent of her arousal enveloping you. She sank down onto your waiting mouth with a soft, shuddering moan.
Then she glanced over at Miles, already snoring softly. She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and her hips began a slow, commanding grind against your lips.
“Weak.”
A/n- I tried challenging myself to 5000... It was not 5000 it was 8000 . I should be called the slow-burn queen. How people write 3000 or less... I wish for their skills. Anyway—have a Merry Christmas everyone! Remember to drink water and eat well!
Soap just gets so overwhelmed with chasing his own pleasure. He doesn’t mean to neglect you or just keep rutting into you even when you’re overstimulated and on the verge of passing out. But you just feel so good he can’t help himself.
He’ll press your knees to your chest and just jackhammer into you, ignoring the pleas of “s-slow down!” from you. Completely consumed in his own pleasure
Honestly it’s become a bit of a spectacle for the rest of the team, watching how he loses himself in your pussy. Eventually a kind of ritual is made where Ghost sits behind you and helps Soap hold your legs open so he can focus fully on jackrabbiting into you, the plap plap plap filling the room while John and Gaz watch and rub at each other. Soap jostles you so much that you end up rubbing on Ghost too, so most of the time he ends up creaming in his underwear because of the friction.
By the end of it you’re entirely fucked out, eyes rolled back into your head, drooling, babbling inane nonsense. Soap will have driven himself to overstimulation too, your cunt overflowing with his cum. It drips out and covers your thighs and the bedsheets below you. By the time he comes for the last time, neither of you can move. He just flops on top of you, still halfway sheathed inside.
what kink would all invincible/mark variants collectively have?
overstimulation
and I don’t mean just the typical overstimulation. I mean borderline painful
mainstream! mark — in good will; wants to make you feel mind-boggling pleasure for days
mohawk! mark — pure evil; wants nothing more than to leave you breathless, senseless, mindless, and completely mind-broken
omni! mark — dominance; as a means to show you who is in charge and WILL remind you about that no matter how much you’re sobbing uncontrollably
sinister! mark — pain; he wants you to feel pain, as much as it. he doesn’t care if it’s “too much”, you WILL orgasm how many times he wants
viltrumite! mark — uncaring; you are simply the carrier for his child, whether or not you can keep up doesn’t matter
no goggles! mark — sadistic; he knows you’re fragile, and he can’t help but “accidentally” push you over the edge, every time.
and so on. variant mayhem, more like variant freakhem am i right
𝄃𝄀⠀⠀pxssessive⠀╲ mark + variants ֤ࣨ🫀𖥔 ݁ ˖
summary mark and his variants have very few things in common, the main one being that they simply can not stop at making you come once.
tags overstimulation (ofc) | the variants being jerks | everything purely consensual | dom & sub dynamics (omni!mark) | viltrumite!mark is lowkey mean as hell | pain kink | ooc sorryy | just a little mix of blurbs and headcanons | mentions of blacking out (sinister! mark) | incubator mention (viltrumite! mark) |
notes uhm this took so long for me to write, i’m so sorry 😭, but i wanted to get it done i loved this request the “freakhem” comment had me crying during vacation. i hope you enjoy and please excuse any typos or grammar mistakes
when it comes to sex, mainstream! mark simply doesn’t know how to hold back— his entire objective is to leave you a whimpering, shaking mess. this is especially clear when his mouth is on your pretty cunt.
unfortunately for you, he could sit there for hours.. strong arms wrapped tightly around your thighs, center nice, open, and pliable to his perfect mouth. mainstream!mark is sucking on your swollen bud, tongue gliding across your slit, even driving the thick appendage right into your fluttering hole.
even when you protest about the ache running through your entire body, mainstream!mark simply can not leave you be until your throat is practically sore from how much you’re screaming his name.
“ma—mark, baby, please— i need to breathe!” there’s tears trailing down your reddened cheeks, coating the old trails from just moments ago. your fingers are gliding in his fluffy locks, stuck between bringing him closer and pushing him away— a silent battle between mind and matter.
fuck, do you look so good like this, mainstream! mark could practically come in his pants— grinding right against your bed whilst he came off your clit with a harsh pop; quickly replacing his lips with his thumb.
“i know you have another one for me, baby.. c’mon i got you.” always so encouraging and sweet, tone dripping with honey as he stared at you with those lidded eyes.
eyes that were so hypnotizing, you couldn’t help but give in to his every command. even if it if your “giving in” was nothing more then a whine and you practically shoving his face into your sex.
mainstream!mark would only giggle, hand gliding across your thigh a simple that’s my girl vibrating against your wetness.
. . .
everyone, and i mean everyone knows mohawk!mark is a jerk that does things for his own entertainment. this is especially true during sex.
the man cares for you, in his own twisted away, yet enjoys showing you just how human you truly are.
mohawk!mark will fuck you for hours, maybe even from afternoon to early morning. he doesn’t care, he will use your body to exhaustion all with the shittiest little smile on his face.
always bouncing between positions (doggy, reverse cowgirl, cowgirl, missionary, standing up) nothing is off the table. the man has even fucked you against the window, simply cause he could. you’re too tired to protest anyway.
three.. five? was that how many orgasms that’s ran through your entire body in the past thirty minutes or so? you couldn’t tell, with the way mohawk!mark was practically bullying your sensitive cunt, hands kept tightly at your knees as he pushed them against your chest.
your voice didn’t even sound like your own anymore, completely foreign to you with the way it sounded so raw and dry— throat abused just as much as your poor cervix. and through a glossy gaze you could see the man responsible, the way his eyebrows were pushed close together, a sickeningly sweet grin pulling his lips.
the moment mohawk!mark caught your eyes his smirk only worsened, shoving himself so deep you swore you saw stars.
“you still with me, babe?”
that gave you assurance, trying to reach over and push at his hips, a silent plea to slow down— only for it to trickle down the drain the moment the man swatted your hand away, leaning over your body as his hips snapped against yours without a care.
“nuh uh.. i’m not done with you, not one bit.”
. . .
oh, sweetheart.. what did you do? you know better, right? getting into a relationship with omni!mark, it was made clear from the start the expectations placed upon you. always obeying, quiet when needed, etc..
he wasn’t too hard all the time, you were human after all; the man made an effort to let little things slide.
only this time, he couldn’t. maybe you mouthed off inappropriately, maybe you looked at him in a way he hated, doesn’t matter— all omni!mark knew is you disrespected him, and that wouldn’t slide.
you needed a punishment, one that really drilled into your pretty little head the importance of your roles.
“i—i’m sorry, f—fuck! i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry!” tears are streaming down your face as you shoved it into the mattress below, weak sobs shaking through your entire body as the man abused your fluttering hole.
with each thrust omni!mark was practically fucking you right into the mattress, thick length dragging across your tortured gummy walls in such a steady rhythm you couldn’t even think.
your mouth hung open once again in an attempt to plead your case, only to cry out the moment his hand pushed at your neck from behind and he thrusted sharply right against your cervix.
“i’ve told you before about your mouth..” you would think the man didn’t love you, how his eyes were glaring down at your body, shoving himself into you relentlessly. “you should be thanking me for giving you so many chances..”
before he could give even get it out, gratitude was falling from your lips, wet gasps escaping between each word. omni!mark couldn’t help the way his cock twitched as a result, pulling you up to his chest in one swift motion while thrusting up into you sharply.
“why do i have to punish you for you to behave?”
“i—i’m sorry, i’m sorry!”
“i know. i’ll let you know when i’ve forgiven you.”
. . .
do you think sinister!mark just wakes up with a set number in mind and is like.. that’s how long i plan to torture the human i supposedly care for, no matter how much they protest?
honestly that’s what i think. the man has killed millions without batting an eye, you truly think he’s gonna give a damn about how much you beg for mercy? nope, not at all.
on the contrary sinister!mark simply can’t help getting harder at your instance of a break, cock swelling so much inside you swore he grew a few inches.
“tightening up so fucking much.. shit.. ha— did you black out again?”
amusement is practically dripping from every word that escapes his lips, sinister!mark staring down at you with harsh eyes, enjoying the way you tried so desperately to catch your breath— only to track right back to square one the moment he thrusted into you.
he’s giggling to himself, leaning down close, chest brushing against your own as his lips pressed against your ear.
“you black out again, i’m adding two more.”
you couldn’t help but release a sob, pathetically hitting at his arms in a last ditch effort to disclose how much you hated that idea. sinister!mark is laughing at you, shoving himself so deeply there’s a bulge protruding through your tummy.
he’s quick to snatch your hands, shoving them against the mattress as he bruised your poor walls, eyes staring down at you with so many emotions swirling through his gaze.
“you aren’t escaping this.. not any time soon, anyway.”
. . .
viltrumite!mark is.. probably the least caring out of all of them entirely. sex is fun, sure, but his main purpose is shoving his seed into you to get a kid. he’s ruling the planet with the expectation of spreading his power across dimensions, of course he needs someone to keep up his legacy.
that’s where you come in, his perfect little human partner, the perfect little incubator for his objective.
whenever the man has downtime (which isn’t a lot mind you) you will find yourself under his mercy for hours, filled to the brim with his seed so much you’re wondering if your stomach is bulging at this point. he’s quick to shove every drop back in, even having the decency to research which positions is best to get a kid.
“mark.. mark please..” you’re crying at this point, overstimulated and filled to the brim, sweat trickling down your body. however your calls of his name are falling on deaf ears, viltrumite!mark not even focused on you, but instead your pussy.
he’s pulling his hips back, spotting the sticky ring of combined juices around the base of his dick, gaze focusing on the way his seed was dribbling down to your taint.
the man is clicking his tongue, eyebrows pushed close as he gave a particularly hard thrust into your cunt.
“stay in..” viltrumite!mark mutters, as if lecturing your pussy, throughly expecting it to obey his command. his hands are tight on your thighs, legs tossed over his shoulders as he fucked into you.
he doesn’t even stop the moment you reach for his hip, instead allowing his harsh gaze to drop to your features, as if confused on why you were touching him.
“ma—“
“we will stop when i, say so. until then, quit moving.”
. . .
no goggles! mark knows no bounds. his sadomasochism is always shining, especially during sex. when he learned what overstimulation was — or rather learned the reactions he could get from you during it — every single time the two of you have sex, he’s pushing you to the brink; abusing your body so greedily, a perfect toss between pleasure and pain.
even when you beg, cry, sob— the man is only giggling above you, maybe even planting the wettest kiss to your already damp cheeks. it doesn’t help he’s encouraging too, sickeningly sweet words that don’t match the way his hips are slapping against your own without a care for your body.
speaking of, it’s trembling at this point from the aftershocks; running from your head to your toes in an ache you simply couldn’t describe. you were breathing manually at this point, splotches of black invading your already blurry vision.
you’re reaching out for your lover, blindly, hand raising about only to wince the moment no goggles! mark snatched it, linking your fingers, and shoving it to the mattress.
“can’t take it can you?..” the man is muttering, hissing in delight the moment he felt your nails drag across his skin, eyes wildly soaking in the way your swollen lips pulled into a pout, whining for mercy.
yet he doesn’t give it to you, no, he simply can’t— not with the way you look beyond delicious under his mercy.
no goggles! mark tuts, a mocking sound that you would have slapped him for if you were in the right state of mind — albeit the man would probably just ask for another, harder slap —. his free hand is tight on your thigh, angling his hips perfectly to strike your g-spot with each thrust. you’re a whimpering mess, shaking like a damn leaf with no sign of calming down.
“i’m not done, and you’re not done either— i know you got more in you.. fuck, baby you feel so good!”
the little difference between "daddy" and "dad" ???
people have definitely talked about this before but fuck. "daddy" is fun. it's teasing, it's safe. some people dislike it, and that's fine. it's not for them.
but "dad" ? an older man between my legs, playing with me, and i whine without thinking, "oh fuck dad, right there." he hesitates to a full stop, fingers fluttering against my cunt, and my face flushes red. i start stuttering out apologizes, saying it was a mistake, that the word caught in my throat, that i meant to say daddy.
and he shushes me all gently, continuing to rub at my clit, saying something about, "it's okay, baby. you want dad to make you feel good ?" and my legs are spread in front of him so he can watch my cunt clench at his words. and i'd whine and shake my head in denial, and he'd tsk and roll my clit between his fingers, watching my back arch and hips try to buck against his hand. "you shouldn't lie to your dad, baby. i'd hate to have to punish you."
and i'd cum far too quickly compared to normal, as if to solidify proof in what i liked. and he'd start making me call him "dad" all the time. he'd wait until i said it in front of people before shoving his tongue down my throat and reaching around to grip my ass in his hand.
Little bro humping his big bro like a dog 🩵 his poor pathetic dumb puppy brain doesnt even realise hes not inside his big bro, just slapping his cock between big bros thighs 🩵
waking up to older brother fucking your pussy with just the tip of his cock. it's not all the way in so it's not really wrong.
"my sweet little sister's pussy—god i wish i could fuck you."
you can see the outline of him over you—your older brother. his face is a mask of tortured want.
the tip of his cock, pressing against your pussy, parting you just enough. it’s not inside. not really. it’s just… there.
"fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "i wish i could fuck you. just… just once.. it's not…" he whispers as he grinds the head of his cock against you. "it's not wrong. it's not inside. see? it's not inside."
but his precum is slicking your folds, and everyone grind is pushing him deeper. "you're so wet for me. dreaming of this? dreaming of your big brother?"
he moves his hand from your mouth, sliding it down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. "tell me to stop. say it. and i will."
you can’t. your lips part, but no sound comes out. only a shaky exhale.
Cw yuu reader is (voluntarily) used in a study to see how her magicless, foreign world human body would make offspring with different kinds of twisted wonderland races and species. I list them in a way that makes sense to me, humans, then mers and beastmen, and finally fae, so you can read up to the boy you love and imagine the pregnancy and life together after! Feelings are left ambiguous from the readers side, but each boy has feelings for the reader, so you can enjoy your happy family fantasies however you choose <3
After graduation (and still not having a way home) you start getting attention from scientists and doctors and alchemist and such. They're curious, you're magicless AND from a different world? There's things they've been dying to know!
By the time theyve done their most basic and standard tests and gotten all they can get out of you, you're an adult who has settled into a regular life, with a job (aside from the pay you get as the test subject or all this) and they all want to move on to some...other tests.
Offspring. What would children from you be like? Humans aren't exactly their first choice because you're the same, but they'll be used to see if magic passes down through you genetically. But they're curious about others more...
Somehow, your old classmates get word of this and. They all volunteer. All of them. You didn't even agree to this but you're here now, experiencing so many different kinds of sex. It's the humans first.
Vil is especially interested in what your children may become and what they could achieve, fucking you deep and sensually, his cock bumping snuggly against your cervix, feeling you shiver underneath him as he talks about how beautiful your baby would be because of you. Rook is the same, and Cater is similar, more so chatting about how cute they'd be. Jamil, Trey, and Ace come off as possessive, but in a sweet way. You'd be able to just relax at home and not worry about a thing, home with your baby to then relax when he comes back home, getting time for yourself. It may just be a fantasy for one of them (Ace), but that's fine. (Ace doesn't even believe he'll be the one to get you pregnant. What are the odds. He's just excited to get to fuck you like he'd often dreamed of during school honestly)
Kalim and Deuce are just...so noble about it. They have plans for if you get pregnant with their baby. They'll be such good dad's, so supporting and loving and a good role model and-fuck...they don't last long during the 'experiment'. Epel is the same, except with the spirit and drive of a fucking racehorse. You'll be the prettiest, happiest mama, free to relax all day with your baby. He'll do everything, that's a husband's job. Your job is to be safe and warm in your home and nurse your precious baby and play and learn all day until he gets home to do the same, and plow you into the bed when the babies asleep for the night. Silver and Riddle are still so flustered, but they're prepared. Another pair who will be ready if it's their baby you become pregnant with.
If no pregnancy occurs, the next chosen group is the merpeople and beastman.
Floyd's so excited! He gets to see little shrimpy again (you keep acquainted on social media like all of your past classmates, but he's been working away or back home in the sea :( ) and he'd always thought about you like 'that'. Cute, sweet shrimpy below him for him to fuck, taking his dick and his cum deep inside you, taking his dicks and his eggs (this one wasn't in the plans, he stowed away a potion so he could turn and fuck you again in his real form, despite this type of 'pregnancy' not possible of yielding the results the study desires). Jade is similar, but he teases you the whole time. Lots of teasing about what you'll do when you become pregnant. You'll have to follow him wherever his job sends him, around the lands or back home to the sea. Can you do that, little one? Can you handle it~ Azul is nervous! Who woulda thought! Haha, they're all genuine in that they had and still have feelings for you to some extent, but Azul is one who tried very hard to hide them in your days at school. Like Riddle, he'd already have a plan, but when it comes to the act itself, Azul is almost falling apart. You look so...perfect, he hasn't seen you in a long time, and he's going to gather and wrangle his nerves and use this time to its fullest.
Ruggie is just excited to see you again. He catches up with you like a friend, but then he gets playfully flirty, It's friendly, yet intimate. He spends a lot time with his head between your legs just for the fun of it. When everything is done he's cracking a dumb joke while still inside you before helping you sit up. He exchanges numbers with you, properly connecting after all these years, before heading out after friendly goodbyes. Now Jack...Jack is so nervous. He'd signed up for this obviously, and he knows what it would mean if he got you pregnant: a home with you, a baby, lots of doctors appointments for the baby as they grow up to track everything these researchers want. And he's ready for it. And then there's Leona. Sly, mature, happy to see you (as happy as he would openly express), and ready for it. In fact, he makes it known to the researchers that if he gets you pregnant, they'll be knocked down a rung in place of his families royal doctors, having to go through them before they can come around the little princess or prince. He just smirks down at you, waiting, until they eventually respond that his terms are understood.
Leona was the shift in the program. People of high status will have certain terms to agree to in contract. But when it comes to Idia, there's no terms to agree with: Styx is funding the research after all. He's been keeping an eye on you this entire time, because with your foreign worldly status, you're a person of interest to the organization. But he hadn't thought it through about...how he'd actually be...doing it. He's more confident than he was as a teen, but that doesn't mean he's any less flustered by you and his desire. He sure makes do though...
And lastly, the fae. Sebek, a knight of the royal family, still gets flustered when you poke at his use of 'human', ever the same prickly man you expected him to be. He's here because he wants to be, but he also says several times that, if he were not to get you pregnant, that it should Malleus, and he would guard you three with his life. It's awkward, but sweet and noble. Lilia, still kickin and seemingly no closer to 'the end' than he had been the last time you saw him, is quite happy to see you! Malleus and he still talk of you so fondly every so often, and had wondered how you'd been all these years. He even greets you with a kiss, on the cheek of course, but it encroaches on your lips, teasing at the corner of your smile. He's very honest with you (unlike he had been with the research team), he can't get you pregnant! It's just not possible anymore, don't you worry your precious little head about it! So instead, he's here to prepare you for-
Malleus. Prince Malleus Draconia
He hasn't seen you in so long, and seemingly shy in how he admits he often thinks of you. It's a sweet reunion.
And so, if you haven't fallen pregnant by now, and you reach this stage of research? It's over. The trial is over, the scientists will not get a single thing from this. They can try and inquire in the years to come, but there's no guarantee that the king and queen of briar valley will let outsiders intrude and use their little one as a test subject.
Malleus is barely there more than five minutes before you, he, and Lilia are gone. Researchers are left in shock that they've now lost the subject of this entire program. How unfortunate...
Malleus is so happy to see you again. He can't express it enough. He makes it known how much he cares for you, that he does and for long has held a love for you, and even if you don't reciprocate, you have a home here in briar valley, a home in him. You never have to worry about your future. You may be from a different world, but his accepts you, wholly and completely.
He has no need to worry though. You gladly tell him that you've waited this long, you wouldn't make him wait any longer~
It be like that sometimes @420-toffee - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
