nick

21, he/it/they

[ac0n1tum]

"Phosphenes"

(n.) the colours and stars you see when rubbing your eyes. Sometimes they linger.

Poly!141 x reader

There’s a world, just outside of your reach exists a world you should never reach for. There are four men in that world, four soldiers you do not exist to. Different solar systems gravitating around different stars. You do not exist to them, not because you are some guarded secret or an enemy to yet discover. No, you fill a role important enough for it to exist, but not to them. Not yet.

Or: The author selfindulges with poly!141 and an archivist!reader too kind for their own good.

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A/N: This is the masterpost for my Tf141 fic, I originally posted the first few chapters on my ao3, but I'm reworking them and as I do so I'll post them here too

Tags: Fluff, Poly!141, non canon compliant unless it’s very suddenly convenient to me, there's angst but only a little, reader is not referred to by Y/N and will be referred to by they/them, in case of smut there will be two versions of the same chapter one with afab anatomy for reader one with amab anatomy, no beta reader we die like…that’s a spoiler, Ghoap happens, GazPrice happens, the 141 are in love and stubborn, reader is worse.

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Chapter list:

I: Petrichor

II: Orphic

III: Saudade

IV: Whelve

V: Absquatulate

VI: Revery

VII: to be released...

Other content:

Transactional feelings

[ac0n1tum]

“basorexia”

(n.) the overwhelming desire to kiss

Simon Riley x Johnny MacTavish

Synopsis: Johnny was singing, admittedly horribly. Some song Simon didn't recognize, he doesn't listen to that genre, admittedly. He does, however, recognize the twinkle in Johnny's eyes while he goes on and on singing about things Simon doesn't care for. He recognizes the twinkle and then, much worse, he feels something he shouldn't. Simon is straight as an arrow, undeniably so he thought. So why in this drag bar with his brother in arms up on stage, was he feeling heat pool in his stomach? Traitorous flames of arousal licking up his spine from the very bottom as if to mock him even further.

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A/N: Hello little freaks in my phone, happy pride month, sorry for disappearing I promise more phosphenes soon I've just been super busy with work. As an offering to my fellow queers and queer enjoyers: A oneshot inspired by nothing less than Andrew in Drag–The Magnetic Fields. And, it's actually not angst. Rejoice.

Warnings/Tags: No warnings, just some bad Scottish as always when I write Soap. They're both yearners, Simon just wasn't aware. Ghoap fic.

Simon isn't gay. He isn't. He can't be. Scratch that, that's a belief he's been trying to swallow and forget. But he's not gay, he's slept with women, he's liked it. He can't be gay. Right? Right. But there's been that mission. A couple of days ago. Undercover bullshit nobody would explain to him because why bother? They're all just dogs and when Price or Laswell call they heel. They jump. They bark.

But that isn't the issue, never has been. The issue is Johnny. The reason he's awake isn't not being told some detail, some reason. A why as to the what happened. No. He doesn't care. Simon didn't bat an eyelash when they'd told him he and Johnny had to go to a bar to meet with an informant. Hadn't batted an eye when he was told Johnny would have a special role to fill, because he fit it better than Simon. Until the very moment he was sitting at the bar, whiskey in hand even if he hadn't so much as glanced at the glass, Simon didn't care or assume much. He hadn't even read closer into what was happening on the stage of the bar, until a drag Queen stepped out, and the bar was suddenly all too lively. Whoops and hollering, cheering for her jokes as she explained all that would happen and that tonight they had a special performance. A newbie trying it out for the first time. That's when suddenly Simon cared. He wasn't gay, he didn't care, didn't mind all this all. Not until long after he'd gotten what they needed from the informant, Johnny stepped out on stage, dressed up in a blue dress matching his eyes and with a ridiculous blond wig that reached down to his ass. 

Johnny was singing, admittedly horribly. Some song Simon didn't recognize, he doesn't listen to that genre, admittedly. He does, however, recognize the twinkle in Johnny's eyes while he goes on and on singing about things Simon doesn't care for. He recognizes the twinkle and then, much worse, he feels something he shouldn't. Simon is straight as an arrow, undeniably so he thought. So why in this drag bar with his brother in arms up on stage, was he feeling heat pool in his stomach? Traitorous flames of arousal licking up his spine from the very bottom as if to mock him even further. The show was over quickly after that and Simon hadn't said anything to Johnny, not on the way out, not on the way back to base, not before the debriefing nor after. No. He couldn't. How could he? Go and blabber, spill his heart and guts out on the metal table in front of him hoping Johnny wouldn't be disgusted, would see that past gore and anger Simon is just confused and maybe even scared? No, he'd rather die than that. So he didn't. He pushed it all down until the cold shower after, the silence in his room, until nothing was there for Simon to be distracted with and even the ceiling he was glaring holes into seemed to mock him.

Was he gay? Did this make him gay? Simon didn't know and maybe that was worse. Knowing less about yourself, having unanswered questions nobody can help you with. This wasn't some which sports team is better situation. He couldn't ask Price for his opinion, he'd be ridiculed. Couldn't go to Gaz either. What would he even say? 'Kyle, I think I got the hots for Johnny, but only if he's wearing a dress,' because it would be career-ending levels of embarrassing. The only thing left was avoiding Johnny, swallowing down his thoughts and keeping them for nights like these, where he could stare at the ceiling and forget himself in the what if's and the things that could all happen if only he had the heart to say something.

Incidentally, someone else on base was awake too, sat in his room frantically texting Gaz. Johnny had noticed the lingering stare, the way Simon's hand clenched around his whiskey glass like it owed him money. He'd seen it all because god did he have a thing for Simon. Simon who he knew, or thought was straight, so he never approached him. Never dropped a hint. But this felt different, explicitly queer in a way he couldn't explain to Kyle beyond his frantic slur of messages. About that stare, about the unusually tense silence after. Hell, there hadn't even been a single dad joke passed between them on the way back and for the first thirty or so seconds, Johnny almost assumed it was because Simon was in some way homophobic. Thirty seconds, though, was all it took for him to notice the shifting, the way Simon adjusted his position constantly. Not homophobic. No, Simon was just discovering something about himself he didn't know previously. That, too, is put into a message one of thirty by now because Gaz, like a responsible damned adult, had been asleep. Sure, Johnny's spamming took him a minute, but eventually, the other soldier did reply with a simple 'For Chris' sake, go talk to him,' Less of actual advice and more a stop bothering me and fix it yourself. So Johnny, more impulse than control, more action than consideration got up. He didn't know if Simon was awake or not, didn't care to think about it either. He was up, only half dressed, shirt undone and barefoot as he barreled down the hallways.

It's 0237 in the morning when there's a knock on Simon's door, and he has half a mind to explode at whoever disrupted his brooding and identity questioning, not that he was. He wasn't. Had no need to after all. There's an insult on the tip of his tongue when he opens the door, but a pair of striking baby blues kills it before Simon can even open his mouth to lash out. He stood there frozen while Johnny caught his breath, almost wheezing like he had run a marathon when really their barracks rooms weren't that far apart. Though with the pace his heart had going on, it felt the same. "We need ta' talk. And I willnae let ye keep ignorin' me." He finally mustered. As if he could will Simon out of the closet right there and now. And maybe he did. Maybe Johnny managed that much, since Simon didn't respond verbally, but he moved rough as he was with all the grace and finesse of a bull in a fine china store. He had Johnny in his room against the door all too quickly, standing over him as if he didn't know if he wanted to kiss or throttle the sergeant. Because he didn't know. "Wasn't ignoring you. Bloody fooking hell, Johnny, I was just—" when had Simon ever struggled so much with explaining himself? And worst of all? Johnny had that look in his eyes, that stupid look of understanding and almost pity. Something so soft it didn't fit. They had no business being soft anymore, not in their line of work. And yet when Johnny reaches up, movements slow and hesitant to give Simon all the time in the world to pull away he ends up leaning in anyways. Johnny doesn't push much beyond that, just slightly lifts Simon's balaclava over his nose so he could lean up. "Ye were tryin'? Let me help." Simon should say no, should stop this and put an end to this whole mess before he drowned himself in Johnny. He couldn't. Not when Johnny's lips were so damn soft on his own, not half as hungry or demanding as the kisses he was used to. Kind. Gentle.

Maybe Simon was gay, and maybe that would be okay, or just a thought for a different night. Not one where he was holding Johnny to his chest while he lost himself in a kiss he had denied wanting half an hour ago. For now, just for tonight this was okay and it was helping Simon realize something all too vital: he'd fucked those women sure but he'd never felt quite this content. No that sort of love seemed to be reserved only for Johnny, in or out of drag.

[ac0n1tum]

I’m loving your Poly!141 series, I love how you’re showing doe as just wanting to be kind while not expecting anything in return and being genuinely shocked that the 141 would want to return that affection. Do you think doe at this point anyway find any NSFW affection as transactional?

Hello anon!:D I'm at uni right now so this has less than no beta reader it actually has -1 beta reader since I won't even double check this myself. Anywho, I'm not sure if it ever shone through but before dabbling my hand at this which is mostly (MOSTLY) fluff, I was a hurt no comfort angst writer. So while I plan on having doe not see it as transactional but instead as themselves of undeserving and not understanding why anyone would desire them until the boys do their best to teach them, why don't we just for a second dabble in this. Nick presents: about 650 words of spiralling down an abyss but at least there's a cat

Warnings: Descriptions of self doubt, descriptions of using one's body as a means to receive even a hint of attention, descriptions of issues with self worth and self sexualisation in a negative self destructive way.

It's dark, dark and quiet in your apartment. The lights have been off for a while, one room over you assume no more like hope a man is asleep in your bed. One who's shot and killed people, one who's rough around the edges and yet has been so gentle with you. And still a feeling boils in the pit of your stomach, clawing its way to your throat while you stand where you've stood again and again. Hands braced on the drawer in your hallway, the mirror in front of you slightly fogged up from your own breath.

Lightbulb sits with you, her tail swishing back and forth. She's seen this a million times. A million one night stands, a million failed talking stages, a million hookups with shady people from strange bars and a million nights you've stood here and you've felt this way. It's burning deep in the pit of your stomach, that knowledge that your worth goes no deeper than your skin, you're to be touched, to be desired, to be handled and fucked and discarded. That's all there is and ever probably will be.

It boils below your skin that itching feeling of knowing when you wake up the bed beside you is meant to be empty, it will be. He's asleep now, or wondering where you've gone just to put it off as you feeding the cat or something mundane, normal. Not that you stood there forcing down tears and bile over the knowledge that nothing you do or receive reaches beyond this level. It's not done for romance or love or kindness. It's done because they want and you give, they pull and you relent. Perhaps that is exactly why you've been giving these four presents as much as you have. Maybe your mind still hasn't caught the hint. There is still that naive believe stuck to the back of it that if you just give enough, if you let them take enough maybe one day someone will take the burden and pity you enough to keep you. Feel benevolent enough to think you're deserving of something that reaches just below the skin. For just a second you try to imagine what that could be like, what it would feel like to wake up next to someone their arm around your waist a thumb mindlessly stroking over skin not because of lust but because they want to stay right where they are for just a while longer.

He had done that earlier, given you a few minutes of this kindness. Fed into this delusion growing within you that maybe this had meant something more than cheap intimacy, a release he could've gotten anywhere else but you were just the most convenient had given yourself over the easiest. He's not been gentle to be gentle with you but because it's going to ease you into forgiving when he leaves. You'd have anyways, bruises or kisses you'd have forgiven because this is your place isn't it? To give your body for what boils down to superficial attention and validation is all You're still good for.

Lightbulbs meowing pulls you from the spiral, her head pushing against your arm making you finally look up and pet her. She knows and she's trying to help in her own way though her help makes you realize something far worse too. The bedroom door had opened again, his figure filling it out while he looked at you. "Luv' you alright?" All you can offer in response is a weak nod pushing off the drawer to go back and join him. Your struggle isn't theirs, never should be so why break down when you know your role is to go back and be a warm body for him just a while longer.

[ac0n1tum]

“Revery”

“(N.)A daydream or the condition of being lost in thought.”

Poly!141 x reader

Synopsis:It's adorable, plain and simple. He's adorable, you allow yourself to think that while you stand with him in the underwater tunnel watching two rays glide by. There's an excited sort of glimmer in his eyes, and for a moment looking at Kyle and not his scars or his rank or his uniform you could forget he's a soldier. Just for a moment Kyle Garrick is just a man on a not date because this isn't a date and he looks gorgeously alive

Or:Kyle and reader go on a not date date.

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A/N: Hello everynyan (I’m gonna find worse and worse greetings trust me) today I present to everyone here my Kyle agenda: He is the most gorgeous man to breathe and he is a nerd. This is the last at least partially prewritten chapter so I promise even less consistency, however if one(1) person can convince me to write smut next chapter I can and will.

Tags: Undertones of reader struggling with their self worth and loneliness, angst is not the main focus they are cute together that’ all.

Taglist: @joyfulllittlething @c4s4nova @apodyopsisphilia @emm11ii

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

You had been expecting worse after letting Soap know who you are, expected him to be at your desk bright and early the very next morning but no. Instead it was quiet for a long while, the ever same routine. You sneaked your gifts into places where the four would find them, Ghost came by like clockwork to bring you a gift bag. He looked tired every time he did so right after you found yourself stocking up on the tea he drank in their communal kitchenette. 

It stayed like this for almost too long, so long you fell into a sense of security. One that was shattered by a pair of striking brown eyes and a chocolate melting smile to go along with it. 

Gaz wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't. Ghost was tolerated because realistically, what could you do against him? Gaz wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be this close, this happy to see you. "Can I help you, Sergeant Garrick?" Your voice shook more than you'd like it to. Trembling with a sort of nervous energy you couldn't quite place. "This Friday when's your shift over, doe?" Kyle asked, smoothly ignoring the way your hands were trembling the slightest bit around the coffee mug you'd been holding. "At 5:30, why?" You had a feeling you wouldn't like the why. Whatever he'd planned in that stupidly pretty head of his you didn't like. "I'll pick you up at 5:45 then, doe. Wear something pretty alright?" Gaz didn't tell you and that feeling got worse. And then he left and you couldn't even curse him out for that slightly condescending prick comment telling you to wear something pretty. No, all you could do was stare after him, then down at your hands and finally grab your phone texting your friends about this rather unexpected development.

After an appropriate freakout from your friends, a good thirty minutes of debriefing on the situation and multiple suggested outfits, none of which you'd take because apparently your friends all decided that wherever Gaz would take you it'd be appropriate to dress like you're on your way to the club, you settled on working again.

 It doesn't stop the thoughts from circling, the files you settled on sorting doing nothing to distract you from the myriad of issues your brain came up with concerning whatever it was Gaz just invited you to. Not a date, that much you decided then and there. For one, you were miles away from his league, realistically at least. If he hadn't chosen to be a soldier Kyle could just as much be a model for Calvin Klein. That train of thought has you shun your own brain right after, imagining that wouldn't ever be appropriate. Safe to say Gaz could have anyone on this base, man or woman, eating from his palm. Your brain simply couldn't agree with the concept he'd settle for a mousey little archive worker whose name he didn't even really know nor ever bothered to ask for. 

Secondly you weren't meant for their world. Since the beginning that's what kept you from them and them from you. You weren't part of their world, only read of it in files left open or reports skimmed over to know where you'd put them. No, you with your one bedroom apartment in the city and a cat called Lightbulb in lieu of her not being very bright weren't part of their world. They shouldn't ever drag you in, you shouldn't let them.

A small whisper in the back of your mind begged them to become part of yours.

Your thoughts do nothing to stop the marching of time, nor do they aid in the anxiety that plagues you all week up until Friday at 5:40 pm when Kyle showed up. Your nails had long been bitten down to the nail bed, a habit you should really fix. He looked good, you have to admit but you don't say it out loud, not when the sergeant is already walking towards you with that self assured smile. "There you are, doe, looking cute just like I thought you would." Kyle greets and you resign yourself to this fate. A fate that had you walk beside Kyle, his hand splayed on your lower back as he guided you through the base, and yet his touch didn't feel invasive once. He wasn't pushing or shoving you, his hand wasn't wandering lower or gripping where it shouldn't. It was there more like an anker grounding you, like Kyle had even the slightest idea of how anxious you had made yourself about this and wanted to help. 

He guided you to the parking lot and to his car, a sleek black E63 AMG that put your horrid twingo build in 2004 and held together by threads and dreams to shame. Kyle held the door open for you and slowly convincing yourself this wasn't a date got hard. It wasn't. It could be. You shouldn't think like that, even if you desperately wanted to. "Cap told us you're doing this to be nice." Kyle spoke to you so easily, like there wasn't a respectful distance you should've kept but hadn't. "We appreciate it, doe." He continues while starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. "You four constantly do your best. I thought someone should recognize that and do their best for you too." You explain, and Kyle doesn't laugh, not in the way the Captain did. He smiled, a warm one that reached his eyes and showed he had dimples. God the things you'd do just to keep him smiling, keep the Captain laughing for just a little longer. That and different things. Thoughts you have to lock away in that cage you made in your mind. Why would they ever want you like that anyways? "When's the last time someone has done their best for you?" He finally asks, eyes firmly on the road even if just for a second Kyle has felt the desire to glance in your direction to catch your expression. Not that he'd expected the look you ended up wearing, nor did he end up catching it. No Kyle missed it, how there in that car for just a second you looked lost and miserable, reminded of the loneliness you'd put yourself into all by choice. It lasts no longer than his question had taken to be spoken. "You're doing your best for me right now, sergeant Garrick. I'm sure you have a busy calendar so taking me out like this must've been quite the hassle." It's said in a lighthearted tone, Kyle doesn't know you and doesn't need to listen to you whine either. Not tonight, maybe not ever. 

"Where exactly are you taking me anyways?" You ask and he finally does look at you, weirdly excited. "The aquarium. I didn't think you'd enjoy dinner or the movies, you sit so much at work already." Kyle says, then turns back to the road, easily focused again. "I also thought you might look really cute getting excited over little sea critters." He admits and maybe the voice you've been very diligently beating to the back of your mind gets louder, demands to be let out and let Kyle know one too many inappropriate things. You don't let it, you wouldn't ever let it. 

The drive is over before you can embarrass yourself by saying anything else, lest the voice wins and gets to escape its enclosure again. It's close though, when Kyle not only opens the door for you but also guides you, his hand returning to rest on your lower back. He doesn't say anything about it, doesn't push either. Just a touch, one you don't know where to place. You don't know how to feel about him paying either, not that he gives you time to think about it. Because in truth Kyle was definitely excited about being here himself. He's handsome for sure but you discover he's also a nerd. To every animal he recognizes, he gives you a fact, to every enclosure he has a comment on how close or not close it's decorated to the natural habitat of the critters inside. It's adorable, plain and simple. He's adorable, you allow yourself to think that while you stand with him in the underwater tunnel watching two rays glide by. There's an excited sort of glimmer in his eyes, and for a moment looking at Kyle and not his scars or his rank or his uniform you could forget he's a soldier. Just for a moment Kyle Garrick is just a man on a not date because this isn't a date and he looks gorgeously alive.

 He's holding your hand while dragging you further, fingers intertwined. There's a war of thoughts in your head and you're not quite certain just the metal bar will be enough to beat them down. The two of you keep going through the aquarium slowly, Kyle making sure of that. He takes his time at every enclosure or aquarium, takes an extra moment to give you time to snap a picture. 

It's 10 minutes to closing when you two leave the aquarium, Kyle leading you back to his car while he's quoting some stupid dad joke he's heard Ghost say and you giggle. Something about two goldfish in a tank, not that you can focus much on his words after his Simon impression, giggling so much you have to hold your stomach. "I prefer when you don't sound so emotionally dead I'd get more intonation from a rock." You wheeze out and in turn, Kyle also starts laughing. Infectious and warm and it does something to you. You've seen three of the four laugh, smile, be happy to be around you and it makes that damned voice in your mind practically purr from being validated. You prefer them like this. "I'll tell Lieutenant Riley you said that, he'll probably not like it." Gaz says, finally managing to open the door for you so you can sit. For the most part the ensuing car ride to your flat is filled with comfortable silence. He parks right in front of the door of the complex you live in and gets out with you too. "Did you have fun? I hope this was a welcome change of scenery; and a good thank you for what you do for us." Kyle asks and as he does he hugs you but you could swear, just for a second you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. "Yeah—yes, this was great. I loved it lots. Especially the facts you kept giving. I didn't know soldiers were that knowledgeable in fish." Your little quip earns you a huff of laughter and then before you can react, even say much of anything Kyle leans down just a little, his lips making contact with your temple. "I'm glad. I'll see you at work, little doe." He doesn't give you the time to properly process what just happens. Kyle is back in his car driving off, while your mind finally catches up and you turn a bright red. 

There, all alone in front of the apartment complex you're left to spiral. There's no way a not date ends with a kiss on the forehead. You're not sure what that means, for you or for Kyle or for the game you've been playing with these men. All you know is that you will see Kyle at work, and you'll see the rest of the 141.

[ac0n1tum]

“Absquatulate”

“Like Ghost said months ago, you flee at the first chance given.”

Poly!141 x reader

Synopsis: Soap isn't any better himself, helpless as he is in being a dog. The secretaries call him that, a nasty dog. He's not, though, really. He's not a mutt; he's not slobbering spit all over your hand whining and begging for something. He's a golden retriever or a more than a little stupid Collie. Big and boisterous, and he'd lay there on his back if someone were to offer him a belly rub. You don't, but you smile, and it's the same for Soap. He's not a nasty dog; he's not a mutt. He just likes to see the people around him even slightly entertained.

Or: Doe and Soap finally meet, but Soap doesn't know.

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A/N: Hello friends freaks and foes, today's agenda is: Soap is a dog but in the kindest way possible. That's it. For every 141 man I have an agenda and I'm making everyone read it.

Warnings/tags: brief description of Soap and reader injured but not in a graphic way, bad Scottish(I'm still trying) Soap's attempt at flirting. No other warnings apply.

Taglist:  @joyfulllittlething @c4s4nova @apodyopsisphilia @emm11ii

Masterlist

Previous chapter

Next Chapter

A few days after the office encounter with Price, you deny yourself all thought of it lest that traitor of a voice squeals up again with nasty ideas; you find yourself in the base's infirmary. Workplace accident: nothing major, nothing traumatic, just a sprained ankle from slipping while grabbing a case of files. The nice medic gave you an ice pack and told you to sit while he'd grab an incident form, so you did.

As luck would have it, you even got entertainment in the form of a very loud Scott being rather displeased with the poor nurse sitting at the front desk. "Lass, ye cannae do this to me. Got work t'do." You recognise him as Soap immediately; not a chance in hell you'd not see that unkempt mohawk and not recognise Soap. Not to mention he was acting his very Sunday best trying to talk the nurse out of something, but to the misfortune of you, or fortune that traitor voice sings, and you want to beat it back with a stick; she remains firm and sends Soap over to sit next to you. It's then you notice that the sergeant is limping just a little, taking strain off his left leg. "A stab wound has nae killed me yet; it won't do it if I do ma work." Johnny grumbled, and you couldn't help the small giggle over it. Same idiot as always. "Maybe you should listen to the nurse; she knows best after all." You shouldn't talk to him; Soap doesn't know you after all, only about your presents, but you can't help yourself. Allow yourself the fun while you cool your ankle. Your comment makes Soap regard you for a second, and if this was a sappy little love story, you'd compliment his eyes. This is not, you beat that thought down with a lead pipe. His eyes really are pretty, though—enough. "Ach, she's just over-worrying, hen; she does it all the time." Johnny finally settles on just laughing and leaning over a bit more to you. "Just a tiny scratch; it cannae be as bad as she's making it oot to be." He continues, and it leaves you baffled, then smiling, chuckling and finally shaking your head at Soap. He's a moron, but at least a cute one. "Oh? Then why do I remember you saying it's a stab wound? Those aren't scratches, are they?" You ask back, and Soap groans out, but he doesn't look annoyed. Not really, anyway.

"Yer as bloody bad as the Cap'n hen." He huffs out, and it makes you laugh, honest and warm. "I'm sure the word you're looking for is compassion, Sergeant MacTavish." It's easy to tease him, you decide. A light-hearted sort of thing that you don't really feel about Price or Ghost. They're imposing; they command respect with every breath, and you're happy to give it to them, really. Soap feels like a boy in the grade above you in school; you should respect him, but it's less commanded to take him so very seriously. "Yer a mean little one, luv." And Soap isn't any better himself, helpless as he is in being a dog. The secretaries call him that, a nasty dog. He's not, though, really. He's not a mutt; he's not slobbering spit all over your hand whining and begging for something. He's a golden retriever or a more than a little stupid Collie. Big and boisterous, and he'd lay there on his back if someone were to offer him a belly rub. You don't, but you smile, and it's the same for Soap. He's not a nasty dog; he's not a mutt. He just likes to see the people around him even slightly entertained.

"Well, luv what they do to ya? Cannae be a stab wound too, nobody in their bloody mind would stab a pretty thing like you." Okay, maybe he is a little bit of a mutt. But no more than he should be. "Sprained ankle. Tried to reach for something and slipped. Not too bad; I'll live." You explained, and Soap made an actual thoughtful expression. Like he cared. Maybe you wanted him to care; maybe it was funnier, though, that he didn't recognise you. "Workplace safety is nae what it used t'be. Letting a pretty thing like you hurt yerself." Or maybe he was just a terribly bad flirt that makes you cringe and then giggle. Full, honest laughter, warm like with a friend. You'd missed having someone to laugh with like this. You'd never admit that. "You're gonna come save me next time, big boy?" You tease back, and maybe this time it's Johnny beating a voice back into the cage in his mind. "Yeah, I will, hen, I'll be yer personal Batman, signal n' all." is what he finally settles on. Soap's stupid little joke causes two things in you: one, you laugh at the absurdity of it. It was bad and cheesy and, at the point of being horrible enough to be good again. Like a deadpan dad joke delivered into uncomfortable silence at the breakfast table you can't keep yourself from giggling about. And secondarily, you start to feel just a little guilty. Guilty over not letting Johnny know who you are, of him being the only one left in the dark. In the beginning you had no issue with it, sure, but now it seemed to mean a thing to do to this glorified teddy bear of a man and his stupid lopsided smile you definitely didn't and shouldn't find eerily cute.

It's a medic who saves you from your troubles by finally handing you the incident form, but you can't help it. Johnny had spent the last twenty minutes talking and laughing with you, so maybe he deserved a little hint. "Are the heating patches I left in your office last week good? I know they're a different brand than usual… I couldn't get those, so I had to get these ones. I hope they're good." You stay just long enough after to see if Johnny catches on, watching as the cogs turn inside of his head, and then you're gone. Like Ghost said months ago, you flee at the first chance given.

You suppose the seeking part of this game is over now, and it's turned into a game of catch instead.

[ac0n1tum]

“Whelve”

(N.) to hide something deep within

Poly!141 x reader

Synopsis: "The boys know, little doe. They know, don't worry, luv. Wouldn't be a good Captain if I didn't tell them or worry about them half as much as I do." Price finally answers, and you swear he's choking on a full belly laugh at your expression. You want to see him laugh. You want to see him happy. You want to see all four of them happy. You want to—Stop that train of thought and kick this voice right to the other in a cage locked away at the back of your mind.

Or: Price meets reader and they talk because for once, you won't be allowed to flee.

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A/N: Welcome to Nick's personal John Price has unfair amounts of sex appeal agenda. It's unfair, it's unjust, I need him to also pour whiskey for me even if I don't drink any. I apologize for stopping the a chapter every two days thing, I have to like do adult stuff and work and get my degree I suppose. Take John Price as an apology for that and the slight angst from last chapter.

Tags: Mentions of alcohol, fluff, a slightly sexual undertone from readers thoughts, no other warnings apply.

Taglist: @joyfulllittlething @c4s4nova

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By the grace of some deity, whichever one was still willing to help them, Price and his ragtag band of idiots make it back to base in one piece, not entirely with the mission accomplished but at least with a good wad of intel he could give Laswell whenever they met for debrief. Right now Price was busy chasing off the other three, telling them to shower and sleep and destress before they'd have an actual debrief tomorrow morning.

The Captain himself? Right to his office, where he planned on Bourbon and paperwork, a cigar maybe, just to instead find you red-handed with the last little cleaning kit, placing it on his desk. "Well, isn't that a nice welcome?" The gruff voice makes you freeze and slowly turn around, looking at the Captain like he was a ghost. And then you melt a little because he's back and alive, and a little traitorous voice in your head tells you these feelings are stupid. That you have no reason or right to care as much as you do. You ignore it. "Well, do you wanna tell me what you're doing in my office, little doe?" You still hate that nickname. Price can probably tell from the way your eyes narrow just a little, but you relax quickly. Don't lash out at him; you could be mean to Soap and Gaz but never to the Captain. "I think with that question you know exactly why I'm here. I saw the state of Kyle's cleaning supplies. Got all of you a kit. Thought that'd only be fair." You offer in return, and there's that urge to dash and flee, but Price was blocking the exit, bastard man that he was. "Mhm, you have. Sit." The Captain ordered, pointing towards the chair in front of his desk. You swallow. Fleeing is not an option; insubordination towards a captain, even as a mere archive worker, was a serious offence. So against all instincts you sit, prim and proper, straight like a candle on that chair and wait, all while Price seems to have all the time in the universe to saunter around the room and grab a bottle of Bourbon and two glasses. He finally sits but doesn't speak, so neither do you, and you wait and watch with bated breath as he pours the drink.

A traitorous voice in your mind, a different one than usual, is screaming about the unfairness. That a simple act should not have this much sex appeal.

You silence it with a heavy swallow, and maybe Price interprets that as nervousness, so finally he speaks. "Calm down, little doe. I just want to talk; you're not in trouble." He doesn't look at you as he speaks; you are busy chasing away thoughts that add a traitorous little 'yet' at the end of Price's statement. "I just need to know why you do it. That's all." He continues, pushing one of the glasses over to you. "I—" Strange. Why were you doing it? Why can't you just tell? Why don't you know? Staring into the Bourbon isn't giving you the answer either, so instead you raise the glass carefully and nip on the amber-coloured drink. It burns in your throat, and before you speak, you have to cough just a little. "I guess I saw you four—that sounds creepy—I'm not a stalker, I swear, but it'd be more difficult to not see you four because you guys are like massive presences?" You stumble through that more than you did your first biology presentation in high school. Price has the audacity to laugh, but the politeness to hide it in a cough and then reduce it to a smirk against the rim of his glass.

Sex appeal, that voice screams, you beat it back into its cage where it's left to gnaw on the bars. "Yeah anyways—I saw you guys, but after a while I also saw that you're all struggling. All four of you. In idiotic, stubborn ways you won't speak up about. Lieutenant Riley's old knee injury; bet he hasn't told you about it making problems. And I doubt you told any of them about your muscle spasms, Captain. But I guess I just saw and thought that you four keep on risking your lives and doing everything in your power to keep as much of the peace as you can. You deserve kindness." Price doesn't laugh, and he's not smirking anymore either. He just listened. You can't for the life of you remember the last time any high-ranking officer on this base ever listened to you talk for so long. Even if you insulted him. Oh god. You insulted Price and his men; the thought of the potential fallout fills you with such dread it makes you pale, then blush, then hide, or at least try to hide by finding sudden interest in the contents of your glass.

"The boys know, little doe. They know, don't worry, luv. Wouldn't be a good Captain if I didn't tell them or worry about them half as much as I do." Price finally answers, and you swear he's choking on a full belly laugh at your expression. You want to see him laugh. You want to see him happy. You want to see all four of them happy. You want to—Stop that train of thought and kick this voice right to the other in a cage locked away at the back of your mind. "Honestly, I won't scold you for doing this. Just for the fact that Johnny hasn't gotten to see that cute little face of yours yet. He's a bloody menace about it; Simon has to hold him by the scruff of his neck when they pass the archives." Price continues, and slowly you relax. That wasn't a scolding; none of this was. Price was just messing with you.

"So—why am I sitting here, Captain?" You ask after a moment of watching Price swirl the Bourbon in his glass just for him to make a gruff noise. Some sort of chuckle. The bars of that enclosure are getting weak. "Company. I have a nasty stack of paperwork to fill out n' now that I know you're our little doe, I'll keep you a wee bit. It's past your hours anyways, isn't it?" All you can do is nod back weakly and then shift on that chair. Looks like you'd be here quite a while longer.

[ac0n1tum]

“Saudade”

Why do you catch yourself so concerned over men who don't even know your name?

Poly!141 x reader

Synopsis: "Sod off, you bloody therapist." Price decides that that was his answer to Kyle, but instead of pushing his friend away, he drags him against his side, arm wrapped around the other man's waist. "I'd kill for a batch of those brownies right now." John adds quietly, content with holding his sergeant to his chest for a while. Ensure he's alive and well while he fantasizes about what you're doing on the other side of the world.

Or: The author finally finds use in the fact that the 141 are soldiers.

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A/N: Silly, aren't we?

Tags: Descriptions of wounds, Descriptions of each of the 141 injured or potentially dying(they don't! I still need them.) A little fluff to sweeten it up again. There's a cat.

Taglist: @joyfulllittlething @c4s4nova

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You keep your game up, the hunt going, as best as you truly can. For one, because it's entertaining to you. The challenge behind it, to be sneaking about and not let yourself be caught by men trained to spot when something is amiss. On the other side of the bargain, you also keep this up because you found it strange that your little acts of kindness were so appreciated. As if nobody before thought to show compassion to the men saving the world as their daily job.

So you keep it up. And it's adding another level of challenge too, one that's self imposed. Simple gifts don't feel right anymore so you personalize a few of them. Self-knitted socks for Soap. You had taken to knitting in your break time to keep busy and not go stir crazy in the stuffy archives. A batch of brownies you baked last night when you couldn't sleep for Gaz, with a note to let you know if the team had any preference for other sweet baked goods. Ghost and Price got variations of the same little present, really. Wooden boxes you had spent time carving little details into, one for cigarettes and one for cigars.

The details were clumsy, unpracticed hands making woodworking all the harder, but they were your work, and you allowed yourself a semblance of pride over it as you left them for the two. All these things, as homemade and meaningful as they are, take time.

Time meant the inevitable would happen, and suddenly all four were gone. Off on a mission you'd never be privy to know about, for the first time in a way you actively noticed. Off to save the world, and here you were sitting in the archives, sorting files you had no permission to read. They'd gone on missions before in the last few months, but you'd never noticed as much or found yourself so lost in thought when it happened. Wondering. How are they doing? Are they fine?

For some strange reason, the thought of Gaz with a bullet in his side, of Soap stood on a landmine with one foot frozen for eternity to not blow up waiting for someone to rescue him, of Ghost with a knife in his gut, of Price barely winning a fight, muscles blocking in the worst moment possible, those images your mind conjured up left you feeling uneasy.

Silly, you try to scold yourself. They are soldiers; they know how to handle themselves. Silly, you try and fail to scold yourself and send those thoughts away. Silly, you scold yourself wondering just why exactly it was you cared for them. You hadn't spoken much more than three sentences with these men in total. Sure enough, you had watched them. And you'd decided to be kind to them. So now about seven or so odd months into your game of cat and mouse, why do you catch yourself so concerned over men who don't even know your name?

All four of them were miserable. Price's patience had run out two days in because the intel was faulty, and they were forced to retreat to a safe house, both Soap and Ghost nursing wounds from barely missed bullets. So now they were stuck, hundreds of miles away from base, trying their damndest to salvage the mission. In short, they were miserable.

Enough so that when Gaz caught Price on his second cigar that afternoon, unlike before, he decided to join his captain, sat down next to him at the windowsill, and looked outside. "Do you think our little doe is keeping themselves entertained while we're gone?" He'd murmur after a while, and God, Price hated how easy it was for Gaz to speak about something so irrelevant, something that would finally distract him at least a little.

"Probably. Keeping themselves busy by finding increasingly more ridiculous things to give to us, Johnny is still wearing those damn socks." The captain murmured half into his beard in an effort to not sound too fond of you. "It's sweet. It means they care for us enough to put in the effort. Don't pretend like you weren't wolfing down those brownies, Cap'." Kyle reminds him, a soft-spoken tease and a gentle reminder that Price was allowed to feel fondness. He was also only a person at the end of the day, and even if Ghost would vehemently deny it till he died, all four of them craved affection and attention like yours. Lonely bastards is what they are, the lot of them, even if they had each other.

"Sod off, you bloody therapist." Price decides that that was his answer to Kyle, but instead of pushing his friend away, he drags him against his side, arm wrapped around the other man's waist. "I'd kill for a batch of those brownies right now." John adds quietly, content with holding his sergeant to his chest for a while. Ensure he's alive and well while he fantasizes about what you're doing on the other side of the world.

You, in your blissfully peaceful life, were trying and failing to figure out how to embroider. You'd already gifted Gaz a fresh set of cleaning supplies, but they'd been unpersonalized, store-bought. So here you were in your living room, the big orange golden furball of a cat you called your own curled up next to you, swiping at your threads occasionally while you suffered. Embroidery was not as easy as you had yourself convinced it was.

Eventually you manage four sets of cleaning supplies for gun maintenance. Each of them had a folded-up rag in there, with 141 and a little image embroidered. A cartoon ghost for, well… Ghost, a couple of bubbles of soap for Soap, a cigar for the Captain, and a very crude image of Gaz's cap for him. You'd made little woodworking projects again too to have four boxes to store them in.

And all the while you were sitting there, on your living room floor, desperately trying to convince yourself you did this because the four of them would need to maintain their guns, of course. That this was a convenience to them after the mission. That you only did this to make their lives easier. Not because you cared, not because you actually wanted to do nice things for them to show them affection.

No. No, absolutely not ever. That'd be silly, wouldn't it? You do not belong to their world; you are not part of it; you should never become part of it. Slowly the lines are blurring, and you find yourself unable to even tell how far you're into their world and how far they've snuck into yours. And maybe in between all the convincing yourself how silly you are, how naive you have to be and how stupid for you to find such feelings for men who were definitely not good for you, you admit all to yourself and the softly purring cat besides you that maybe you do miss the four of them, maybe just a little.

[ac0n1tum]

“Orphic”

(adj.) mysterious or enticing

Poly!141 x reader

Synopsis:"Go on then, little doe. I know you're gonna run off at the first chance given." He was right, and you hated that. You hated the nickname given to you more. You wanted to tell him off, curse Simon out for calling you that, but you also liked living a tad too much to do so.

Or: Reader gets caught and a nickname. Their little game of cat and mouse is on.

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A/N: Chapter two of Phosphenes, bet you didn't expect that huh? We're staying with the fluff for another day but I won't make the same promise forever.

Tags/Warnings: No warnings apply beyond bad Scottish(I tried my best). Fluff and banter happens. 

Taglist: @joyfulllittlething

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For a few weeks, closer to three months, you manage to keep up your game, sneaking about and leaving presents while keeping your head low. Though if you are honest to yourself it wasn't ever meant to last long anyways, was it? You had four of the scariest soldiers on your trace. Hunting you down to personally thank you all while you were busy leaving behind little gestures of kindness.

Bottled water in Ghost's gym bag, because you noticed he keeps forgetting to refill his and complains about it; a stash of snacks in Soap's desk, since he keeps staying late to finish reports; a new cigar or two for Price after every mission since you know he blasts through them. You buy weaker ones on purpose. You could at least try to wean him off.

It's Gaz who catches you in the act of leaving him new, fresh, and clean stuff to clean his guns; the old rag he used was filthy, you decided, so he needed new cleaning supplies. "You!" The sergeant exclaims, and you freeze. You're not meant to be part of their world, never meant for them to figure out you even really exist. "You're the one who's been leaving us stuff, right?" He questions, crowding you a little against his desk, and really you're left stunned. Gaz doesn't sound angry; you at least hope so.

"I am? I can stop if it's inconveniencing you four—" Within seconds, the sergeant looks like a kicked puppy, as if the possibility of losing your little gifts was a fate worse than death. "No, please! That's not what we think, I promise." It's almost adorable how dejected he looks, you think, and then weasel past him anyways. "Well I gotta go." And with that, you're off again, back to the safety of your archives. You don't exist in their world; you're not for them, and they're not for you. That much you understood. They didn't, though.

"I swear. Cute little thing. Dunno where they went after I caught them. Like a little fawn getting spooked and running off." Gaz explains, all chipper and proud of himself, that by sheer chance he had been the one to catch their 'Office Angel' red-handed. "Think they're one o' the secretary birds?" Soap suggests, offhandedly far too busy sifting and sorting through the snacks you had left him. "Nah, they're all too prim and proper. And they don't like us very much, thanks to you, Johnny." Gaz reminded, not too pleased about the reputation Soap had earned the sergeants with his incessant flirting. "Cannae be one of the lunch lasses either. Nothing cute 'bout those. I love them wi' me heart and soul still. But grease s' not exactly a very sweet perfume." Soap huffed, tossing one of the chocolate bars he didn't like over to Gaz.

"They smelt more like old books than grease. Cute lil thing probably works in the archives." He decided, a wicked grin on his face. "Yer gonna tell the Captain tha' too Kyle?" Soap asks, finally looking up to catch that glint in Gaz's eyes. That dangerous sparkle told him his friend had an idea. "Something like that. I'll get our little fawn somewhere we can all thank them, personally. Pretty thing deserve it." Gaz decides, as if he had the power to simply reign over your fate like that.

It's Ghost who catches you next, the cream against pain you kept delivering Price still in your hand as he opens the door to the office. "Captain, about—" He catches himself, catches you, and both of you freeze. "You're the little angel? Kyle was right." Ghost doesn't elaborate; you still don't move.

While Gaz was one of the more approachable sergeants, Ghost was a different story. Not one man on base was as infamously scary as the big, broody sack of emotional unavailability dubbed Simon Riley standing in front of you. "Go on then, little doe. I know you're gonna run off at the first chance given." He was right, and you hated that. You hated the nickname given to you more. You wanted to tell him off, curse Simon out for calling you that, but you also liked living a tad too much to do so.

"So Gaz tattled, did he? Tell him he's not getting anything for that for the next four weeks." You decide, cruel maybe. Or maybe just taunting a little. Messing with them now that you've conditioned these burly men to be expecting little presents and gifts at every other turn. Ghost lets you leave, texting Gaz right after. And if you catch the sound of his phone blowing up with, most likely, very angry messages, you pretend not to hear or giggle to yourself while skipping down the hallway.

You exist to them. At least in their periphery, you now do. What you didn't expect from that outcome is how bastardly Ghost was when he wanted to be. The first time you find a little thank-you note on your desk, signed by all of them, you almost find yourself nauseous. It gets worse from there, but not really.

Apparently Riley didn't tattle about where you worked, or so you hoped. None of them ever showed up at your desk even after a maybe too big present for Price; they don't. Even if Soap is whining in the little thank-you notes to make it up to you personally because you made sure he has a supply of heating patches, your newest idea to combat his freezing tendencies. They don't show up. Maybe because they don't know or maybe because Ghost told them not to. And for the longest time, you're thankful for that.

Until Ghost does show up unannounced, standing at your desk with a small bag that has tissue paper at the top. "From the others. Please take it, or I'll have two very whiny sergeants in my ear." He declares, and you stand there for a second looking at the bag and then at the man awkwardly holding it out to you, and somewhere in your dumbfoundedness, you manage a small "Thank you," and do grab the bag, finding all sorts of niceties inside. Lavender body wash, a mint-scented candle, a pack of green tea, and little honey pearls to dissolve in said tea. "Stay hidden for a while longer, will you, little doe? It's entertaining." You want to be mad at Ghost, mad he called you that nickname again, but he doesn't even give you the chance, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. It leaves you with the bag, the tissue paper, and the gifts standing there at your desk dumbfounded.

You suppose you will indulge Ghost and play this game, just for a little while longer.

[kamislop]

May you pretty please write a smau where Hitoshi accidentally confesses to y/n and we return the feelings? (Ok this is so cliche but I love it sm)

Bed Chem [H. Shinsou]

contents: (kinda) strangers to friends to ?, college!au, slightly suggestive, mentions of drugs and alcohol but i think the most triggering thing about this is talking about school and coursework tbh tina note: hi anon sorry for taking so long to reply!! easter break is approaching so hopefully i'll be able to get more requests done! this is also for my mootie @camgirlallegedly hope y'all enjoy divas mwah

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taglist: @braunrot, @ibbybelle, @spagheettoo, @ac0n1tum, @trilxogyyy, @theemoong1rl, @unexistancial, @skybluesskin, @cowboylikeaya, @simbaruto, @somethingwebs, @jeanmarcosno1, @strwbrrysatoru, @27-awesome-ham-sandwiches

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[ac0n1tum]

“Petrichor”

Sometimes you linger a little too long, a bit like the smell of rain clinging to streets even if the sun is shining again

Poly!141 x reader

Synopsis: 

Maybe you aren't really there to them; you do not exist to any of them, but not because you are some top secret weapon or an enemy lurking in the shadows that they have yet to identify. No, your existence might just be a little too small for these four men.You're not so stupid as to not understand that their world is not yours, you are not a soldier you won't ever be. So you settle for lingering.

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A/N: I’m back from whatever hiatus I was on, and I bring an actual fic with me, not just a oneshot. This was originally posted on my ao3 but I'm rewriting parts so as I do that I'll upload the chapters here too. This will have fluff and angst in equal measures, but not for now. 

Tags/warnings: No warnings apply for this chapter, beyond the fact reader yearns for what they can’t have and the 141 will seek to drag them down into their world with them anyways.

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Maybe you aren't really there to them; you do not exist to any of them, but not because you are some top secret weapon or an enemy lurking in the shadows that they have yet to identify.

No, your existence might just be a little too small for these four men, who regularly pride themselves with saving entire countries, to notice. Maybe you're in the background somewhere, filling a role that is just important enough to exist but not important enough to exist to them. But they exist to you, obviously enough. There's barely anyone on base they don't exist to. Four burly men, commanding obedience with their presence. Four men you get to see from only a distance, even while standing in the very same room as them. A natural distance, one you can't really get past, a distance you've accepted as law.

You work, you watch, you observe. You're not so stupid as to not understand that their world is not yours, you are not a soldier you won't ever be. So you settle for lingering. Watching. Observing.

Observing how after a particular mission Price's hand sometimes twitches while he grabs the documents you just delivered him. How his hand stiffens, his knuckles whiten just a tad before he can get his muscles to do what they're supposed to. He's not getting old; he's adamant about that, really. Just the wear and tear you get when fighting in countless battles. Someone should tell him he is getting old, and that it's okay to be getting old. There's no shame in it, he should know. It's not your place to tell him, or even speak to Price at all. You settle for watching.

Watching how Ghost's left knee does not support him as it's supposed to. A bare half a second of a sway, unnoticeable…controlled. He's the lieutenant; an old injury should not hold him back. The balaclava hides his grimace, not the way his shoulders draw up just the tiniest bit. You're an observer; you notice how they do.

Notice how Soap seems to always be cold, almost freezing. Even in the hottest weather, you've caught him shivering. Caught him tightening his jacket. Maybe he's cold naturally, maybe he feels haunted by memories you don't share, could and would never truly understand. You've never spoken more than three words to Sergeant MacTavish; maybe you never will. That is not your job. Neither is analyzing any of them. But you do. Out of curiosity.

It's why you notice Gaz crinkling his nose at the food slightly. But only particular food, a dish served sometimes. The texture you guess. It was the disgustingly dry fish they served with a mystery sauce of a taste you have yet to identify as anything beyond grease. He looks almost cute, you think. In the way a kid does when they refuse broccoli.

Sometimes you linger a little too long, a bit like the smell of rain clinging to streets even if the sun is shining again. And you find yourself leaving a cream that relaxes muscles in Price's office on one of your tours to deliver some files from the archive. You find yourself watching Ghost a bit closer, figuring out that it's when he kneels to aim he's in pain, so you leave some knee pads next to his locker in the gym room, all accidentally. You catch yourself making sure the blankets in the common room are always there, even during summer, and make sure there's one extra, in case Soap is too late to catch one of the few strewn across the couches during winter. And on those particular days when they serve fish with that horrid texture, you find yourself leaving a few coupons for a few different takeout places behind in Sergeant Garrick's office when you deliver him files from the archives. You catch yourself lingering, like the faintest petrichor.

They figure out what's going on, slowly. Of course they did, men like they were would notice when things were amiss, even if the changes were convenient to them. At first they point fingers at each other, cracking a joke or two at the fact they cared too much and had grown soft towards one another. But then it's quick they notice that none of them left the other what they found, not that they'd ever have the time to in the first place. Price is the first to connect the dots, a little at least. Somewhere there exists someone, out of their peripheral. Someone who cares, and yet they don't know them. It's... comforting, they suppose, and creepy. They all agree it is at least a little creepy, but also almost cute. They don't know who you are, but they're on your case now. They'll find you, find the cute little office angel. Or maybe they won't. How much longer can you linger, how close to a world not meant for you can you get before you're dragged into it and never let out again? You exist to them now, not by name or face nor a real identity. In their minds you're an office angel, and they'll move heaven and earth to figure out just who you are.

[kamislop]

Erwin Smith - Day 10

PROMPT: holidays CW: dad'sbestfriend!Erwin, age gap (Erwin's in his 40s, reader in her 20s), reader wears glasses (it's relevant to the plot i promise), oral (m!receiving), praising, Erwin's a dirty little freak, face cumshot, he cleans you up after a/n: this is inspired by a Kinktober piece I wrote last year (here) and thought i'd adapt it for Erwin. also tomorrow no entry because i'm taking a little breather. i do have some break days scheduled but i'll always make sure to give you a heads up, my lovely readers <3

You started the day with a blast - quite literally - when the branch of a tree outside slammed against your window so hard it jolted you awake with a gasp. It felt like losing 10 years off your lifespan. The wind was crazy, and when you lifted your eye mask up, the only thing you saw outside was white. A snowstorm.

Lazily getting out of bed, you were grateful for modern technology and the feel of warm wood beneath your feet as you ditched your sleep shirt for a pair of sweats, a random long-sleeve and fuzzy socks. You made your way downstairs expecting to smell something delicious your mom made for breakfast, but you were met by an empty space. Almost. A head of blonde hair turned to look at you at the creak of the steps, magnetic blue eyes meeting yours.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Erwin spoke calmly, putting down his book on the coffee table to get up from the couch. “Figured I’d let you sleep in. I’m sorry I didn’t make you some breakfast, didn’t want it to get cold.” You just stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly, hand gripping the railing as you tried to gather your surroundings.

Erwin Smith was one of your father’s best friends from the college days, but you hadn’t seen him in person until your senior year of high school, when he moved back to your state to teach at the same university your dad was, only a couple cities over. You didn’t see him much, anyway, only on some occasions since you had moved out of state for your own studies. Now, you were on your winter break, and your family decided to bring the blond along for the holidays, which you had spent at your cabin in the mountains for as long as you could remember.

“Morning.” You greeted groggily, fixing your glasses up your nose and nodding your head. “Where’s mom and dad?” You asked, stepping down the stairs and padding into the kitchen. “Stuck at the shelter.” Your head whipped around so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Why was he so fucking calm about that? “Don’t worry, they’re fine. Might just take all day to come back because of the snowstorm, though. But they’re safe.” You hummed, going back to your initial task, which was breakfast. “Good to know.”

You opened a cabinet, reaching up for the box of teabags on your tippy toes, before a hand on the small of your back stopped you. “Let me.” Erwin’s raspy voice came from above you, his hand grabbing the box effortlessly and putting it down on the counter for you. “Could’ve just asked for help.” Your eyes narrowed in a glare that you sent his way, but you still fished out a teabag in quiet gratefulness.

That damn man was breaking through your nonchalant facade with annoying ease. The last time you saw Erwin it was quite…peculiar. Peculiar as in both of you getting drunk on your mother’s sangria at a barbecue night on a hot night in July, the smell of smoke from the embers lingering in the small shed you’d sneaked in to make out. Just to never hear from him again after going back for your fall semester. Not like you expected him to reach out, because if your dad had found out, it would’ve raised hell.

“Don’t need help,” you gritted out, putting some water to heat on the stove. “I know.” Erwin spoke calmly from behind you, taking out a chair from the table to sit down. “It’s why you moved so far away, right? To prove you don’t need help.” The audacity of this bastard, speaking to you like that on an empty stomach. “You’re not my fucking therapist, Erwin.” You hissed out, spinning on your heels to face him, your jaw clenched tight.

His blue eyes widened slightly at your reaction, and he raised his hands up in mock surrender. “I wasn’t coming forward as hostile,” he said. “I apologize.” Your nose still scrunched up in an unhappy grimace, but perhaps you had been too hasty to judge. “I…fuck, sorry.” You groaned, pressing your knuckle between your furrowed brows, right above the frame of your glasses. Erwin looked at you for a long second. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help but feel something stirring inside of him as he remembered how you had felt in his hands that night.

He was pretty ashamed of how many times he’d angrily jerked off whenever your breathy moans or the taste of your lips would flash in his mind, whether it was when he was in bed, or in the shower, or worse of all, in his office at the university. Erwin thought it had just been a crazy night, a foolish mistake dictated by the wine, but even in sobriety, he couldn’t get his mind off of you.

And that night had been an uncomfortable itch you couldn’t quite scratch off your brain as well, fingers dipping in your soaked cunt as you replayed it over and over in your head, as if trying to feel his fiery kisses down your throat again, his large hand cupping your breasts over the fabric of your sundress.

That’s where your eyes had fallen to, long digits curled against the backrest of the chair. Erwin noticed. He noticed, and like the idiot he was, he started to mentally lecture his dick, trying to get it to go back to sleep. But it was wide awake now, the tip poking at his boxer briefs now. He could either excuse himself and try to take care of it, or…

“Got something on your mind?” He suddenly broke the silence. You met his gaze, unreadable, and tried to mirror it. “Got nothing to say if you’ve got nothing to say.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Don’t play those games with me,” he shook his head. “I know you have something to say.” You folded your arms over your chest, tipping your chin up in defiance. “Why don’t you go first, since you think you’re so smart. What do you have to say?”

“I say you should get on your knees to get that fucking attitude checked.”

Silence fell in the kitchen. That threw you off the fucking rails, yet you did not dare show it, because he fucking meant it. The rational part of you was screaming to stop, to not give into him, because you knew these things never ended well. But that part of you was silenced by your body, taking a step forward in his direction, before you got down on your knees, looking up at him through the lenses of your glasses, still sitting in his chair.

He stood up with no haste, stopping right in front of you, blue eyes peering down at you in a silent battle. The object of your dispute was unknown to either of you, because the real fight was happening with your own minds. “Fix it, then.” You were the first one to speak. “Since you’re so fucking good at everything.” He knew you were challenging him on purpose, but he really didn’t mind indulging you when his fat cock was heavily sitting in his pants now, the intimidating print on the fabric staring right at you.

Erwin’s fingers worked the button and zipper down with ease, your heart hammering in your chest as he grabbed the waistband and started pulling. When his erection sprung free, your jaw went slack. His dick was long, not the thickest, but it only made the length more imposing. His tip was flushed a faint shade of red, and a bead of pre confirmed that he had been holding back during your whole conversation. Did your argument count as foreplay to him?

The walls of pride you had built around you crumbled the moment your lips wrapped around Erwin’s cock, and you drew in a deep breath through your nose. His hand came to cup your jaw, his blue eyes gentle as he watched you, a groan bubbling in his chest. “Yeah,” he breathed out, “that’s more like it.”

Your fingers encircled the base, and you relaxed your throat to welcome most of his length in, only leaving out the inch covered by your digits. A deep moan built up in Erwin’s throat, his eyes falling shut. You took that as an opportunity to start bobbing your head, slowly at first, working in tandem with your hand. Your hums sent vibrations down his cock that only made him voice his pleasure louder, hips starting to thrust forward to meet your pace.

”F— aah- fuck…” He gasped out, holding the back of your head to fuck into your mouth. You focused on breathing from your nose, the lower half of your lenses fogging up, glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose. He slid them back up with his thumb, and when you looked up, his blissed out face was more in focus now, a flush painting his cheeks a pretty shade of pink. That night had taught you that underneath all that composure, Erwin was straight up a freak. ”Fuck, that mouth— mhhh…pretty fucking lips, taking me so well…”

Your hands rested on his thighs, jaw starting to become sore but seeing him so lost in pleasure was almost hypnotizing. It’s what it had drawn you to him in the first place. You moaned around his cock only to coax more groans and curses out of him, only for his thrusts to become more frantic, and when you felt him throb, you hollowed your cheeks out, ready to swallow. But that wasn’t Erwin’s plan. He pulled out, hot cum spurting all over your face, thick, white ropes coating the lenses of your glasses.

He jerked off the last drops, some falling onto your expecting tongue. He was pretty proud of himself for letting your hair untouched— he was pretty sure you would’ve killed him if he hadn’t. “Seriously!? On my glasses?” You chastised, glaring up at him through the gaps he left. He barely held back a snort. “Sorry, seemed hot to do.”

He gently took your glasses off, walking to the sink as you got back on your feet to clean them. With the same rag he used to dry them, he also gently cleaned off the rest of your face. “I don’t think your attitude can be considered fixed quite yet, but you do need some breakfast in you first.” You cocked your head to the side, confused. “Why? Got plans?” You asked. Erwin simply smirked.”Oh yeah, I’m planning to fix your attitude on the couch, on the table, on the bed…”

taglist: @solelysera, @braunrot, @ibbybelle, @ac0n1tum (bone apple teeth), @trilxogyyy, @colossaltitanrealgf, @themoong1rl , @spagheettoo, @unexistancial

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©perfectly-m1saligned, do not copy, translate or upload my works without credit, do not use for AI training

[kamislop]

More aot bf headcanons pls!!!

AOT BOYFRIENDS ★ QUICKIE

modern!au, established relationship cw: unpretected piv (always wrap it people), creampie, fingering, diery talk, (light) degradation, hair pulling, spanking, nipple play, oral (f!receiving), cum eating, squirting, hickeys, car sex (semi-public?), blowjob, library sex (not very semi-public), cum eating a/n: sorry it came so late, anon!! college and life are kicking my ass rn T-T still, hope you enjoy!! also, there are some characters i've never wrote about before here, hope i was able to give them justice :P

Erwin Smith grunts into the warm skin of your neck, the sweet perfume you had applied just before coming downstairs wafting up into his nostrlis. Yes, you were already 10 minutes late to the very important dinner you had to be at, but his haste was now drowned and forgotten in the way your velvety walls felt around his throbbing cock, squeezing him so tight he could swear he was going insane. He has you up against the wall, the slit that runs along your leg coming in handy to comfortably bunch up your dress, slacks hanging loosely around his hips because he simply didn't have time to take them off because he just has to fuck you before leaving the house. You whimper, thighs trembling in his secure grasp at every frantic thrust. "So sorry darlin'- ahh- I-I'm close, we won't be t-too late... ah- I promise..." He groans, parting your legs further to let your hand sneak between them, fingers rubbing your clit at a choppy pace, since you had to focus on keeping your other arm around Erwin's neck for balance. You could've killed him if he would've made you leave without letting you cum. "You're just so- ngh-! so pretty in this dress, my love..." his teeth nip at your tender lobe, "It would've been...torture...to watch you like this all night and n-not - oh god - be able to touch you..." His words of praise work you up enough to send you over the edge, a loud moan ripped from the very depths of your chest as your whole body convulses against his. Erwin doesn't even try to resist the way your weeping cunt clamps down on his cock, letting you milk him of every last drop of warm cum, filling you to the brim. He's efficient, sitting you down on the couch to recollect himself and come back with something to clean you up. Once you make it to the dinner, as he's opening the car door for you to help you out, he leans over to whisper in your ear, "I hope you know I'm planning a more...thorough session when we're back home, darling."

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Levi Ackerman has three of his digits buried knuckle-deep inside your soppy cunt, your needy whines filling up the tight interior of the car. You were acting like a brat at home, and even on the way to the event you were expected to attend. Now, you were a whimpering mess in the passenger seat, long fingers curled at a deliberate angle to hit your sweet spot each time, ruining you over and over. "Stop squirming around," Levi said flatly, "can't you see I'm focusing on the road?" You can only cry out, hips gaining a mind of their own as you fuck yourself down on his fingers, heels discarded so you could maneuver yourself more comfortably. "L-Levi...please...please!" You gasp out, cruel digits pumping into your g-spot over and over again. You throw your head back against the headrest of the seat, tits almost spilling out the dangerously low neckline of your dress, chest heaving erratically. "Can't have you acting like such a brat in public." He says, his breath starting to sound a little shorter, trying so hard to ignore the way his heavy cock is stirring in his slacks. "This ought to teach you how to fucking behave." You cum around his fingers with a loud cry, leaving your body flushed and your mind hazy with afterglow. As you recover from the powerful orgasm that just hit you, from the corner of your eye you catch Levi put the three fingers he just had inside you between his lips, sucking them clean. Then, as if nothing happened, he lets his hand curl back around the steering wheel. "You better fix your makeup," he murmurs quietly. "As much as I take pride in it, I don't think you really want everyone to see you look like you've just pathetically fucked yourself stupid on my fingers."

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Miche Zacharius brushes his thumb over your cheeck, collecting the mascara running down in watery, black streaks. You were simply putting on your makeup, already 30 minutes fashionably late to wherever Miche's friends had invited the two of you, but when he saw you bent over the sink, wearing that little nightdress, his plans changed at an unpredecent speed. Now his palm is flat against your back, feeling the arch of your spine as you grip the cool ceramic for balance, the angry tip of his cock hitting your cervix and making your legs shake with each thrust. Miche has your hair in a firm fist, goatee scratching the nape of your neck as he presses soft kisses on the flushed skin. He puts more pressure on his hand to push you further down, your body pliable under his touch. "Juuuust like that," he purrs, "yeah, you like that? Look at you taking my cock so well." His free hand sends a loud smack on your ass, a whimper leaving your sweet lips. "Oh?" he chuckled, a cruel edge in his voice, "Baby, did your pussy just squeeze me? Oh you're a filthy, filthy girl..." You mumble something unintelligible in return, and when he doesn't understand, he pulls your hair until your back is flush against his chest, never stopping his hips, driving the whole length of his shaft deep inside you repeatedly. "What was that, doll? Didn't hear ya." A mewl spilled out, the new angle making your sensitive cunt clench around him. "I'm- nghh I'm close, Miche..." you pant out, the scratch of his light beard making you shudder as he nuzzles his face into your neck. The pace of his thrusts grows less deliberate, choppy and erratic. He's close, too. "Good," he rasps, "gotta fuck a good one inside you, pretty doll, so you'll have something to keep you warm..." And when he cums, his orgasm hits with a shaky grunt, folding himself over you as you tremble around him, squeezing out every last drop of his thick release. At least you made it in time for dessert.

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Reiner Braun has a white-knuckled grip around the trunk door of your white Range Rover, sweat beading on his temple as he pistons his hefty cock in and out of your pussy, loud, pornographic squelches filling the way too silent garage of your house. You were supposed to be heading to your parents' house for a nice family dinner, but when Reiner saw the way your sundress fell over your curves as you loaded up the car, every rational thought just flew out of his head. "H-Honey...I- ah don't want to nghh- hit the cake..." Your legs are wrapped tightly around his hips, nails leaving crescent dents on his back through the thin material of his dress shirt. The cake you had baked with so much love and care rattled under the sheer force of his thrusts, his other large hand resting on the small of your back to feel your spine arch so deliciously under him. "Y-You won't... I promise..." he pants, yanking down the front of your sundress until your tits spill out, and his lips instantly close around one of your nipples, coaxing sweet mewls of his name out of your mouth. "So...tight..." Reiner whimpers, cock growing more sensitive by the minute, heavy balls slapping against the plumpy round of your ass. And he doesn't last long, shuddering as he cums, incoherent strings of curses and your name whispered into the warm skin of your neck. When he finally slips out, he's quick on his knees, your brows shooting up your forehead in surprise, but you can't even manage your words out that his tongue is licking one long stripe along your slit, making your head tilt back in raw pleasure. He laps at his own dollops of cum dripping down your pussy, ravaging you like a madman. Your legs are thrown in the air, frantic moans making your chest heave as the knot in your stomach grows tighter and tighter. His tongue draws mean circles around your puffy clit, two fingers pistoning along your abused walls to send you over the edge with a scream. You surprisingly made it to dinner on time, ignoring the obscene mess sitting between your legs that made your thighs slip whenever you'd move around in your chair. At least the cake survived.

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Eren Jaeger has his palm laid out flat on your lower stomach, your knees almost touching your shoulder as he's got you folded like a pretzel, fucking you into the mattress. He might have gotten a little excited when you asked him to zip up your dress, and when he saw the soft expanse of your skin, and that teasing swirl of ink from your lower back tattoo, the dress was no more, now forgotten on the floor. "It's- ngh- It's g-getting late, Eren- ahh!" You whimper out, hair sprawled over the soft pillow underneath, and he's definitely ruining all the precious minutes of care you took to make it look nice with the way he's brutally pistoning his cock in and out of your gushing pussy. “I- fuck- won’t t-take long, promise… god, you feel so good…” Your toes were flexing and curling at each thrust, obscene moans from your mouth and pornographic squelches coming from your pussy filling up the room, along with Eren’s groans each time you’d clench around him. He suddenly grabbed your hand, lips wrapping around your middle and ring finger and sucking. You were too caught off guard to ask why his warm salive was coating your digits, until he released them with a soft pop. “Use them on your lil’ clit f’me, yeah?” He panted. A rebel lock had escaped his man bun, elegantly framing one side of his face now. You nodded, obeying immediately, bringing your fingers down to circle your puffy bundle of nerves, red and sensitive, immediately eliciting a gasp. Eren slipped one of his hands behind your head, pushing it up to meet you halfway in a feverish kiss. “Couldn’t…help myself…so pretty…for me…” Each word was spelled out with a thrust, his mouth swallowing all your cries and moans. Your fingers were rubbing your clit hard and fast, chasing the pleasure that was building in your lower belly. “Eren… * ngh!* Close… ‘m close!” He didn’t change his pace, the head of his cock hitting your spongy spot perfectly until you came with a loud whine, calling out his name like it was the only anchor to keep you grounded. You clenched him, tight, so tight his hips moved erratically until they hiccuped and halted, releasing ropes of cum deep inside you. Once he had you all cleaned up, he helped you back in your dress. “We can’t afford round two.” You teased, shooting him a knowing smirk. “I know, I know,” he chuckled, “but once we get home I’m giving you round two, three, four…”

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Jean Kirstein is gripping your thighs tightly, your legs wrapped around his waist while your arms circle his neck, mainly for balance from his forceful thrusts. The dirty tiles of the bathroom make you hiss whenever he presses your back into the wall, the loud thump of the music muffled inside the bathroom stall. The sequins of your minidress grazed his lower abdomen, his pants barely hanging right below his hips. He had been way too eager to remind you who you belonged to, after seeing the drunken, friendly wink you shot the man who bought you a drink at the bar. Jean wasn’t exactly fucking you as a lesson on loyalty, he knew you had plenty of that, but the way the guy was looking at you, like he would’ve had any right over you just because he offered you a mere cocktail— oh, that really made him mad. So he was making sure to suck extra red and purple hickeys into the thin and sensitive skin of your neck, to smear your lipstick with his feverish kisses, to make your mascara run down your cheeks in tears of pleasure. “J-Jean… nghhh…!” You whimpered out, fingers flexing around the longer strands of hair on the back of his head, tugging at it gently. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hot, labored breath fanning over your face and mingling with yours between frantic kisses. “That- ah- motherfucker…” he panted, “he’ll never get to fuck my pussy like this.” His and only his. “I-I’m yours,” you moaned into his mouth, parted lips and teeth clashing with his. “Only yours, Jean.” It doesn’t take you long to cum, his pelvis crashing into yours, rough skin catching onto your puffy clit. He fucks you through it, only to follow with his own orgasm with a shuddered groan. After the two of you cleaned yourselves up - as well as a very unsanitary club bathroom stall can offer - you aren’t really concerned with the huge line waiting outside the door or the nasty looks you receive. To Jean, the look on the man’s face when he sees your fucked-out expression and the hickeys littering your neck and collarbones made it all worth it.

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Connie Springer is taking his sweet time eating you out, tongue sliding back and forth between your soaked folds, sucking on your clit, two fingers scissoring your wet, gummy walls. It all started when you decided, in hopes to save some time, to shower together before getting ready to go hang out with your friends. You kissed, hands wandered, and now your damp hair was soaking through the bedding, along with the wet splosh of your juices gushing out of your pussy and Connie’s saliva. “We- ah- don’t have time for this, Connie! We have to— ngh!” He cuts you off by curling his fingers, tips pressing into your g-spot. “Shhhh, just wanna take care of you, ma,” he purrs against your cunt, the vibrations reverberating into your core. “Sit back and relax, yeah? You’re distracting me.” As much as you wanted to fight back, you really couldn’t help but want more, need more. If eating pussy was a sport, for all that is holy, Connie-motherfucking-Springer would be the damn world champion. Your toes curl when his fingers start pistoning into you faster, and since you have no hair to grab, you simply put your hand on the back of his head, pressing his face down deeper between your legs, hips bucking up to meet him. He laid his tongue flat, letting you move on it, use him as you like. He loved when you did that. His free hand was grabbing and playing the fat of your hip, your ass, your boobs, every inch of your body he could reach, really, to worship you like you deserved. The heat in your belly had been simmering for a while, growing tighter and stronger with every flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers, and you had no intention of holding back. “Con… ‘m gonna… gonnacumgonnacumgonnacum!” Your words were almost unintelligible towards the end, a loud moan erupting from your mouth, back arching off the mattress as you called out Connie’s name, who kept eating you out through your orgasm, a fat, cocky grin sitting on his lips. Once you had come down from your high, he had sat up, looking down at you with a glint in his eyes you knew all too well. “So?” He asked. “Still want to leave?” You curled your lips ins a stubborn pout, not looking at him when you replied, “Fuck you, just say we’re not going then come back to fuck me.”

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Porco Galliard is making you bounce up and down on his cock in the backseat of the car, the vehicle rattling every time he forcefully made you sink down on him, ass slapping against his thighs. You had surprisingly left early to go to the movies and enjoy a theater date after a month of being eaten alive by work and your own personal lives, but you had managed to arrange plans. Of course, with your absence, Porco had worked up a certain frustration, since by bedtime you were both way too exhausted to get anything done. Ads time lasts almost 20 minutes, and you brought your snacks from home, so he decided to take a little detour into an old, pretty deserted area, to minimize the risk of getting caught. It evoked some sort of nostalgia, when you couldn’t stay at each other’s house so you’d have to sneak in every kind of place even if it was to make out for five minutes; it felt as thrilling as it did back then. Your hands rest on his shoulders for leverage, your forehead leaning against his shoulder, loud moans spilling from your lips. He had also worn a condom, just for efficiency purpose, really, and so you wouldn’t have to sit through the whole movie with his load of cum inside you, as exciting as that sounded. “Baby, hah, you feel so good…” Porco whispered, peppering kisses down your head and the side of your neck, moving your top to the side to kiss your shoulder, too. His free hand was secured around your hip to guide your pace, but he could feel you getting tired, thighs burning and screaming. So he grabbed you on each side, easily keeping you lifted a couple inches, just enough to give him space to fuck up into you. You gasped at the sudden change of pace. “Oh… Oh my god! Too much… ‘s too much, Porco!” You whined out his name, your chest heaving with rapid breaths. “Just cum f’me, baby,” he purred, teeth grazing your throat. “Can you do that, hm? Be a good girl.” And each time he’d talk like that, it’d make you go absolutely crazy, your cunt clamping down around his cock like crazy, juices flowing with renewed arousal. Your orgasm didn’t take long to crash into you after that, and Porco’s thrust became sloppier, chasing his own release and following you soon after, filling up the condom with a warm spurt of cum. Once you moved off his lap, your eyes caught a lonely police car on patrol in the distance, so you urged Porco to pull back up his pants and jump back in the driver’s seat. You drove off laughing hysterically, and barely avoided a fine for public indecency.

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Armin Arlert is once again pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, lenses fogging up at the bottom because of his hot breath, lips parted as he tries to keep his noises down to a minimum, though it’s hard when you’re on your knees, looking so pretty while sucking on his cock. He had been trying really hard to keep his cool during your study session in the library, but you kept fiddling with your pencil between your lips, your arm folded over your chest only pushing up your boobs, making them pop out under the dangerously low neckline of your top. Was it so wrong for your boyfriend to get painfully hard at the sight of his beautiful girlfriend? His cock had been straining against his jeans for hours now, and his continuous shifting on his chair didn’t go unnoticed by you. Still, you waited until there were only a couple people sitting at the large tables, the sun having set for a while now, then grabbed Armin’s hand and led him to the back of the library behind the tall shelves. When he asked what you were doing, you silenced him with a kiss, the dropped to your knees instantly, not caring about the carpet scratching your bare knees. He tripped over his words as he whisper-shouted at you to stop, but you only dragged down the zipper of his jeans, then lowered them down to his mid-thigh along with his boxer briefs - Minecraft, cute - to free his throbbing cock. A bead of pre-cum sat on the flushed tip, but you could tell it had leaked during the torturous hours of denying himself. You immediately wrapped your lips around it, swirling your tongue to collect the pearl of salty liquid, at the same time tying your hair out of the way with practiced ease. As much as he wanted to stop you, every worry faded away once you took all of him, so far down your throat your nose tickled his trimmed pubes. He had to clamp a hand over his mouth to suffocate a loud whimper, the other going to your loose ponytail, feeling your silky locks in his palm to greedily bob your head up and down his length. You smiled when he started to guide you on his cock, your cheeks hollowing to suck him in better. Armin’s cheeks were flushed the prettiest shade of pink, blonde hair falling over his glasses, but from the way his hips had started to stutter, you knew he was close. He almost folded over himself, keeping your head down all the way as he came in your mouth, and you swallowed every last drop of warm cum. You pulled back with a gasp, a string of saliva that connected your tongue to his cock snapping. “How d’ya like it, baby?” You teased, raising back up on your feet. He only took your hand, looking away bashfully. “L-Let’s go back to my dorm. Now.”

taglist: @solelysera, @ac0n1tum (thanks for the brainstorming sesh), @braunrot, @ibbybelle, @trilxogyyy, @colossaltitanrealgf, @themoongirl833, @spagheettoo, @unexistancial

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[obsidianpegasus-deactivated2025]

Say it with me:

I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine. I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine. I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.

It’s okay if I don’t have time to write. It’s okay if a chapter is delayed. It’s okay if my words come out messy. It’s okay if I need to take a break. It’s okay if I don’t update every week, every month, or even every year.

My value as a writer is not measured by how fast I post. My worth is not defined by kudos, bookmarks, or comments.

I am allowed to be slow. I am allowed to rest. I am allowed to write for joy, not for an algorithm.

I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.

And if anyone thinks otherwise, they can wait.

[kamislop]

Laundry [S. Gojo]

wc: 1,8k+

Having Satoru Gojo as your boyfriend wasn't always sunshine and rainbows. Yes, you couldn't have asked for a better relationship, it was like you had found the missing half of yourself, but you also had to deal with the consequences that came with his status, and him often going out on missions. Your anxiety held you in a chokehold every time he'd walk out the door, even though you had no need to worry. He was the strongest, after all.

You liked to have your own space when he was away, saying that sleeping in the same bed as him while your paranoia was eating at you would've only made it worse, so each one had their own apartment. Still, your laundry service was a communal one so Satoru let you use his washing and dryer since you had your own keys to his place. Having a load or two more in the bill certainly wasn't an issue for him.

Between work and other personal matters, you procrastinated doing your laundry until all you had was a singular piece of everything, just enough to last you a shift. Once that was out of the way, you headed over to Gojo's apartment, hoping to get a couple loads done, just enough to last you some days until you'd have more free time.

The doorman greeted you at the entrance, the cozy and expensive vibe of the building never failing to remind you just how different your lifestyle was from his, yet that had never been an issue in your relationship. You took the elevator up to his floor, letting his keys jingle as the ring dangled around your finger, duffel bag full of dirty clothes strapped on your shoulder. No one had been inside the apartment for a couple days, so the first thing you did was open up the windows to let some fresh air in. Next, you took off your clothes, changing into one of Satoru's big shirts that made you feel like you were floating in them, the only clothing item of yours still on your body being a cute little lace panties.

Music softly played through your phone speakers as you loaded up the washing machine, dividing clothes by color and picking the right detergent. You had no idea he had come back, not hearing the key turn in the lock and the door opening over the music. As soon as he noticed your shoes by the coat hangers, he decided to sneak up on you, leaving his dark glasses on the coffee table in the living room. He took slow, calculated steps over to the laundry room, and there you were— bent over the dryer as the washer rattled quietly, scrolling on your phone as whatever song filled the space. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, leaning with his arms folded over his chest against the wooden door frame, a grin playing on his lips as he thought of all the ways - or positions - he was going to ruin you in.

You felt his hovering presence when it was already too late, large frame enveloping you with its warmth. Long digits curled perfectly around the curve of your waist, chest fitting against your back like the piece of a jigsaw puzzle. "I see you've made yourself at home." The words were almost growled against the skin of your neck, muffled into your soft hair and spoken in a way that bordered between a prayer and a threat. You arched into him instantly, air stolen from the nest of your lungs when the swell of his clothed erection snuggled its way over the softness of your ass.

"Satoru, you're home." You gasped out, a mixture of bliss and relief in your voice. "How was the miss-" "Shhh," he cut you off, "we can talk about the mission later. You can't just be looking this pretty and expect me to sit and talk." His lips left warm kisses laced with labored breaths on the side of your throat, down to the juncture with your shoulder, hollowed cheeks sucking a reddish mark. You rubbed back into him, bracing yourself on the edge of the dryer as your ass nuzzled his achingly hard cock, needing free from its denim cage.

"Oh, so fucking needy for me already, aren't ya?" Satoru slipped a hand between your bodies, but instead of pulling down his pants, his finger hooked into the flimsy lace, pulling it to the side to let his thumb slide between your soaked folds. "Oh, fuck." He growled, lips pressed against your shoulder as he collected your slick, pushing it all the way up to your needy clit, rubbing slow circles against it. You threw your head back into his chest, mouth shaped like a small 'o' to let out choppy moans. "I- nghh, 'Toru...need you..." You whined out, rolling your hips into his hand, chasing friction with shameless greed.

His finger didn't stop, his free hand leaving your waist to finally release his throbbing cock, flushed tip angry and leaking precum when he freed it from the constraint of his boxer briefs. Long digits wrapped around it, pumping it once, twice, listening to your moans like they were the only song he wanted to listen to for the rest of his life. He had relieved himself to the thought of you countless times during his mission, but now that he was home, he could finally fill you up again and not some sad paper tissue or the shower wall.

His thumb stopped circling your clit, and when you protested with a frustrated cry, he shushed you promptly. "It's okay baby, don't worry," he turned you around, making you face him, "I just want to look at you when I'm inside you." Before you even knew it, Gojo put his hands behind your thighs and hoisted you up on the dryer, settling himself comfortably between your legs. Your hand reached out for his shirt, tugging him closer to kiss him desperately. He smiled against your lips, your mouth granting his tongue easy access to tangle with yours. A chill ran down your spine when he pulled you in, hips colliding with yours, and you felt his length teasing your sensitive flesh through your underwear.

You were growing restless, and unbelievably needy, so you decided to take matters into your own hands– literally. You moved your panties to the side with one hand while the other wrapped around his cock, feeling the veins protruding under your palm. Satoru took in a hiss of air at the contact, a raspy chuckle forming in his throat. “So impatient, baby…go on, take what you need.” You rubbed his tip along your folds to lubricate it, whining out soft moans when it got caught on your tender clit. Satoru busied himself with peppering your neck with wet kisses, hands cupping your breasts and playing with your nipples. Once you finally lined him up with your entrance, he wasted no time.

He bottomed out in one cruel thrust, the slap of his pelvis against you a loud plap you heard even over the music. You almost screamed out, but you were so wet that the stretch didn’t even sting, though it did come to you as a surprise since you two hadn’t seen each other in a while. Gojo groaned, your walls clenching him so impossibly tight already. “Oh, looks like she missed me too, mh? Hugging me so tight.” His hips picked up a slow, warm-up pace, a hand grabbing his shirt from behind his back, pulling it up and off his body, letting it fall on the wooden floor. His jeans hung just below his hips, the coarse material brushing up against your skin.

"Put your arms around my neck." He suddenly said, ducking his head lower. You did what he asked without protesting, albeit curious about why he did. Then, his hands grabbed your thighs one more, biceps flexing as he held them. "Now hold tight." All the words in your head were wiped away in an instant when his thrusts became faster and deeper, filling up every square inch of the space inside you, and you could feel everything. Your moans reached his ear, and they only made him want to fuck you until the whole apartment complex knew you were his.

"Sa...toru...f-fuck! Yes! Right there!" You cried out, nails leaving red crescents into the skin of his back. He leaned forward a bit, and the head of his cock hit right up against your spongy spot, the one that made your eyes roll back into your skull. He held you close with one arm, the other reaching down to abuse your little clit with his thumb once more. The moment the rough pad of his finger made contact with the small bundle of nerves, you exploded - quite literally -, squirt coating his lower abdomen now.

"Oh, goddamn, look at her!" He laughed, pupils dilated so wide they almost eclipsed the pale azure of his eyes. Your pussy was enough to make him go nearly insane. He rubbed your clit even faster now, coaxing splashes and loud moans, turning your brain to mush, the only thought in your head being just how good Satoru feels inside of you. You were getting dangerously close to your orgasm, and so was he. "You're ready to cum, baby?" He purred right against your ear, holding you flush against his chest as his hips kept snapping. "Cum all over this cock, come on baby, please..." His voice almost turned into a whine, since he was just as desperate and needy as you were, and that's what did it for you.

Your climax clashed into you, sopping cunt squeezing Satoru's cock so hard that he didn't even worry about holding back, letting his own wave of release free, thick, white ropes of cum spurting inside you, coating your walls and filling you up to the brim. He let both of you ride it out, thrusts growing lazier and shallow, both his hands now cupping your ass to hold you. You let your head rest against his shoulder, and you felt his lips kissing your hair. "You did so good," he whispered, "I missed you so much."

He left only to come back with a damp towel to clean you up, then carried you bridal style to the bathroom so you could shower together. An hour later, you were snuggled up on his couch under a soft blanket, a lit candle releasing its sweet scent from the coffee table, your favorite show playing on tv. Gojo was right next to you, letting your cocooned form lay against his side as he wrapped his arm around you. "So you want the boneless wings?" He asked, scrolling the food delivery app. You nodded your head, humming, "Extra sauce." His eyes flitted to you, a stupid smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't worry, darling, that's my job." You elbowed his ribs, making him huff out in feigned pain, his laughter joining yours only a second later. These were the moments that made up for all the time he spent away from you.

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[ac0n1tum]

After hours in the office

Erwin Smith x Miche Zacharias x fem!Reader

Synopsis: "It's okay, he just doesn't exactly know how to ask." Miche continues, his voice a low crooning sound against your ear. "I do know how to ask, Miche, thank you." In contrast to Miche's voice Erwin still sounded stern, but somehow almost out of breath like he was holding on by the barest of threads. Or: MMF threesome with Erwin and Miche after a successful mission A/N: Poor Erwin he'll have to rewrite all that paperwork. #justiceforthepaperwork. As always minors and ageless blogs interacting will be blocked if I find you! Warnings/Tags: M-M-F Threesome, unprotected sex, fucking your superiors, degradation, praise, They're like the kink version of good cop bad cop, incorrect correct use of a desk. Taglist: @perfectly-m1saligned @braunrot

"Good job out there soldiers." It was rare that Erwin had reason to praise his scouts so openly and without any regrets. They'd all made it back safe and sound, ignoring a few minor wounds at least. But that didn't mean the tension was any less high, he could tell. One look at Miche confirmed it, both of their bodies still charged and brimming with adrenaline. So when they all cleared out, slowly but surely you felt a hand wrap around your biceps. "Stay a minute, soldier." For a moment your stomach tied itself into uncomfortable knots. You couldn't remember disobeying any of Erwin's orders, maybe you'd been too slow, maybe too sloppy, maybe one of your actions had- "Erwin you're scaring the poor thing." Miche's voice cuts you out of your spiral, brings you back to the present and has you all too suddenly aware of the warm body pressed to your back and the not too subtle bulge rubbing against your thigh from the front. 

"It's okay, he just doesn't exactly know how to ask." Miche continues, his voice a low crooning sound against your ear. "I do know how to ask, Miche, thank you." In contrast to Miche's voice Erwin still sounded stern, but somehow almost out of breath like he was holding on by the barest of threads. "Listen darling, Miche and I need a hand in my office, why don't you come along and help us?" Surprisingly Erwin's tone held none of the order you usually knew from him. This was purely your own choice, and maybe it was a dumb one but you found yourself nodding anyways. You'd help them, one way or another. 

They barely make it to Erwin's office and Miche manages just about to lock the door before Erwin has you stood between them again, close enough that your tits subtly press against Miche's chest while your rear gives relief to Erwin's bulge, letting him grind against you for even the smallest amount of friction. "Look at her Commander, isn't she so pretty like this, all flushed." The praise felt weirdly objectifying from Miche's mouth as he talked about you like you weren't even there, both of his hands on your waist to hold you still for Erwin who didn't even bother with responding. He made a grunt in acknowledgment just to pull Miche in, kissing him above you in a way that was not entirely romantic, more pornographic in nature. All teeth and tongue, need and want and barely any self control. All you got was permission to watch, standing between the two being grinded up against while they kissed and slowly undressed you. 

"Did so well out there darling." You'd been so distracted by Miche's hand trailing into your panties you hadn't noticed Erwin resting his head against your shoulder, speaking right into your ear while he greedily palmed your breasts, toying with your nipples and rolling both of them between his index and thumb. "Did everything I said, such a good girl for me aren't you? Deserve a nice reward." You'd heard his voice in the past, shouting and commanding or quiet and solemn but never quite like right now, husky and right up against your ear, constrained with need.

"Slut's already all wet. Dripping down her own fucking legs at us making out." Miche cut in, mercilessly  thrusting two fingers into you, the palm of his hand rubbing slow agonizing circles against your clit. The sensation had you bite your lip to swallow a moan, overwhelmed from the way the two treated your body like their own little stress toy. Not that you were complaining, or had the brainpower left to complain for that matter. "C'mon doll, move that arse of yours." The demand has you stumble forwards guided by Erwin's hands until Miche's warm but firm body was replaced by cold wood and scattered papers, Erwin's desk being misused to bend you over it. He'd have to rewrite all the documents on it but to hell with that. Right now his concern was all about getting you out of your pants, nearly tearing the seams while he did so. "Look at you, pretty girl. So wet n' ready for us." You weren't given the chance to moan in assent, distracted by Miche's hand going into your hair and pulling your head up by it, clicking his tongue in faux disgust. "Fucking slut, we've barely touched you and you're this wound up? Needy whore." His words were punctuated by the click and fall of two belt buckles and the rustling of both Miche's and Erwin's pants being shoved down with urgency. 

Before your brain had time to understand much of the situation the tip of Miche's cock was pressed to your lips demanding entry you all too willingly gave, hollowing your cheeks for him while he took and guided your head, finding out just where you'd gag and keeping his thrusts barely shy of that point. "Dirty girl. Bet you dreamed of this before didn't you doll? Being used by your superiors. You're getting spit all over Erwin's work, don't you feel ashamed?" His words were cruel sure and you wouldn't admit it but they made your knees weak. Not as weak as Erwin's hand made you, resting on the hollow of your spine, just above your hips while he rubbed his length through your folds almost reverently. "Be nice to her, Miche. Such a pretty thing for us aren't you, darling?" You'd have responded if you could, but all that Erwin got was a wet moaning sound muffled from Miche's cock being in the back of your throat. "Fuck, Erwin, make her do that again." Some of the derogatory edge in Miche's voice was lost but you weren't given a chance to focus on it, not with Erwin lining himself up to thrust into you in one long languid move. His hands found purchase on your waist, clamping down like he was afraid you'd leave if he didn't hold you down while he fucked you on to Miche's cock, as if you could or wanted to. They were both chasing their own orgasms, almost forgetting all about you again while you writhed and moaned beneath the two. 

Miche was the one to ultimately break first, gentleman enough to pull out and instead make the mess all over your face, and part of Erwin's poor abused documents as well. "Eyes up, princess. Look at your commander." Miche chided, surprisingly quickly regaining his footing enough to force your head back so Erwin could watch your eyes roll back with every other thrust, cum still dripping from your chin. It did him in, in ways he never thought he could be done in, slamming home again and again fucking you through his own right into your orgasm, whispered praises spilling from his lips as he crashed over you, barely catching himself on the desk to not hurt you. "Good girl. Such a perfect girl for us. Took it so well." You don't remember much after the last words of praise, your body and mind turned into what felt like goo, but you certainly didn't complain waking up nuzzled between the two, Miche's arms wrapped around your shoulders with his face hidden in your hair while Erwin pressed the both of you close enough to his chest you could barely breath. Right then you decide, just maybe you could get used to this particular kind of overtime help.

[kamislop]

musicianbf!bertholdt

warnings: some points might be suggestive, mainly fluff, no beta'd

you two would meet at a jazz bar/slam poetry reading, the kind of niche place usually performative people go to, but he would be there because he actually enjoys the atmosphere

he woulnd't make the first move, no, either he's forced to talk after bumping into you or you'd be dared by your friends on one too many martinis to not leave on your own

you didn't go home alone that night, but not in the way they would've expected. the moment Bertholdt's teal eyes had met yours, fingers nervously fiddling with his glasses as he held them in his hands, you knew you weren't going to score

instead, the two of you had talked the whole night, walking around the park until you reached your apartment. you gave him your number

almost two years later, you still couldn't believe how that one exchange had turned your lives around. your old apartment had long been forgotten, the scent of cinnamon and coffee welcoming you every time you walked inside Bertholdt's house

one thing about living with him? music played at all times, whether it was from the record player in the foyer - the sound spread better throughout the house - or from his skilled hands moving elegantly over the keys of the piano in the living room

you'd drop the keys on the small, handmade clay bowl by the entrance, tiptoeing as softly as you could towards the practiced notes

his back would be turned, muscles moving beneath his shirt as his shoulders swayed, arms opening and closing as his fingers reached for the keys. there'd be no music sheet, no, he remembers all your favorite songs

he'd never tell you, no, but he knew your schedule— timing you coming back with him playing one of your favorite pieces was never casual

he loved the way you'd sneak up on him, pretending he didn't hear you enter the door, and would slowly run your hands over his back, sliding them up his shoulders and ultimately snaking them around his neck

he wouldn't talk, simply rest his cheek on your arm. slowly, you'd sit on the leather stool beside him as he quietly scooped over, your leg brushing up against his

your hands would join his on the keys, and he would slowly rectract them, only to let them trail up your body, lips nestling on the inches of warm, bare skin at the juncture of your shoulders and neck

after all, his favorite song would always be the one he'd get out of you

taglist: @solelysera @jeanmarcosno1 @braunrot @ibbybelle @ac0n1tum

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[kamislop]

Fornication 101 with my best friend? [S. Gojo]

SYNOPSIS: you yearn for the college experience, and that is to have at least one random hookup at a party. the only problem? you have never felt a pair of hands on your body different from your own. you're as virgin as they come. but worry not! conveniently, your best friend satoru gojo has slept with almost every girl on campus, so who could be a better teacher than him? you thought this was going to be only a theory lesson, you couldn't have expected it to take a...practical turn. WARNINGS: 18+, SMUT, MDNI, college!au, best friend!hornyjo (@braunrot), virgin!reader, oral (f!receiving), fingering a/n: thanks to my lovely friend @avstarxo for this suggestion, it's gonna be a two-part story because i want to try different ways to post so please tell me if you prefer to have a single long story or shorter episodes! wc: part 2 (coming soon...)

“C’mon, why won’t you tell me?” You whined, lips curled in a dramatic pout as you managed your best puppy dog eyes. Satoru, who had been walking around his room, shot a quick glance over you, sat on his bed, and immediately had to look away, groaning in halfhearted annoyance. Why did you have to look so infuriatingly good?

“Honestly, I have no idea why you’re obsessing over this, and why, of all people, you decided to come ask me.” He countered, opening his closet just to wander into it aimlessly, anything just to distract himself from you on his bed in a tiny top and the shortest short ever. On one hand, he was glad you felt safe enough around him to dress like that - he was your best friend, after all - but on the other hand…he didn’t know how much willpower he had left in him to pretend you didn’t affect him in any way.

“Because you have slept with, like, half the girls on campus?” You retorted, letting your arms support your wait by putting them at your sides and leaning back slightly. “And before you say anything, no, I’m not calling you a slut, just stating facts.” Satoru scoffed, briefly looking over his shoulder back at you. Big mistake. Sitting like that, your chest popped out, tits straining against the flimsy fabric and threatening to spill out. Though he had to admit, he wouldn’t have minded holding them for you with his hands, or his mouht…

Stop staring, Satoru!

He snapped out of his thoughts before they could spiral into something even more obscene than what they already were, and went back to looking into his closet. “That doesn’t mean you can come to me to ask about sex advice, I’m not your dad!” Your eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “Well thank fuck??? Why the hell would I ask that to my dad, Satoru!?” You countered promptly, and only then he realized that what he’d said sounded fucking weird. “What I’m saying,” he clarified, sighing, “is that why would you come to me to ask about that? Plus, it’s just a stupid party, and that doesn’t mean—”

“Well what if someone wants to fuck me? Or I want to fuck someone?” You volleyed back at him. He was getting exhausted. Why, for the love of everything that was holy, were you so sure you were going to lose your virginity to some random ass college student at Surugu’s party that weekend? “And that is exactly why your first time shouldn’t be with some drunk rando at a fucking party.” He said, perhaps a little more harshly than he intended, but he meant it, for your safety.

Of course, there was no part of him that was simmering with rage at the mere thought of another man’s hands on your body, hands that potentially didn’t know how to touch, how to please you…unlike him. But that’s exactly why he was your best friend, because you thought he didn’t want to fuck you. Well, let’s say that his feelings had gone past a simple hookup a log time ago, and that he hadn’t slept with another woman since he’d realize that he was in love with you, and so incredibly fucked. He turned around once again, leaning with his back against the closet, pale azure eyes trained on you.

“I’m saying just in case it happens, I want to be ready! I can’t just be at a party and don’t know how to suck dick.” You shrugged your shoulders, as if saying the most normal thing in the world. “You barely know what a dick looks like.” Gojo rebutted, lips curling in a grimace. “Plus, if that guy just slaps his dick on your face and tells you to suck it, then you should bite it off and get. Out.” He pointed his thumb to the side, towards the door. “Way to kill your first time if the guy’s a duchebag.”

You shifted on the bed, sitting criss-cross with your forearms leaning on your folded legs, slightly hunched forward. That way, Satoru had a full view of your tits, perfectly lined by the hem of your top. He bit into the inside of his cheek. Hard. “See? That’s why I came to you, you’re the expert!” You chirped, taking on a saccharine tone on purpose, which only made him roll his eyes. “Come on!” You urged on. “It’s going to happen sooner or later, aren’t you flattered I’m asking you for advice?” Your arms pressed together, squishing your breasts and he just couldn’t hold back anymore.

Satoru took one step, then another, and stopped right at the end of the bed, towering over you. You tilted your head back, doe eyes gazing upwards as he peered down at you. He was torn between taking your face in his hands and kissing you senseless like a damn lovesick teenager or do exactly what a douchebag would do and put those rosy, pouty lips of yours to good use. “Okay.” He simply said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ll teach you, then.”

Your eyes sparkled, lips widening in a radiant smile. “Really? Yay!” You exclaimed, clapping your hands together twice. The smirk sitting on Gojo’s face was anything but reassuring. “Lay back for me, pretty.” He ordered in the gentlest tone you’d ever heard him use, nodding his chin once. You were confused, maybe he wanted to show you something? You weren’t sure, but still obeyed. Once you had scooted back, you rested your back against the headboard, relaxing your shoulders into the soft pillows. “Okay, what now? Are we going to…S-Satoru? Satoru!”

He’d climbed onto the bed, long fingers curling over your bent knees to spread you open for him. His azure eyes were met with the most mouth-watering sight: your shorts were so short they barely covered the sweet spot between your legs, a hint of lace spilling out of the hem. So little fabric that separated your honeyed center from his greedy, ravenous mouth. “For our first lesson,” he began, lowering himself until his head was level with your legs, “I say I’d show how a man’s ought to treat ya, what do you say?” You could only stare at him, lips agape in something between awe and perplexity, because you simply couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that your best friend was about to go down on you.

Your legs twitched when his lips brushed the side of your knee, and Gojo’s eyes promptly met yours. “I’ll stop if you want me to.” He murmured his voice steady and reassuring. “But damn it all, I won’t let another man touch you when I know I can do much better.” Did you want him to stop? Not particularly, no… You had always seen the guy in more of a platonic light because of how close you’d gotten and how safe you felt around him, but he’d always been insanely attractive, and that you couldn’t deny. Also, you trusted him blindly, so if there was a person you would’ve given your first time to, that was Satoru Gojo.

You swallowed, but ultimately shook your head. Don’t stop. Something glinted behind his pale gaze, before his lips resumed their trail of kisses from your knee to your thigh. His fingers hooked into the waistband of both your shorts and your panties, causing you to shiver when they brushed against the bare skin of your hip underneath. Gojo looked up, his mouth only inches away from the warmth that called to him like a siren’s song. Your chest was heaving slightly, pupils so dilated with arousal it almost eclipsed the color of your irises Suddenly, he pulled back, and you couldn’t help the soft sound of frustration that left your lips. And he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“Patience is a virtue, darling,” he whispered, coming to hover over you, “Don’t worry, she’ll get the attention she needs soon. But it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to just dive in like that, right? As much as I’d want to.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “What—” but all your questions when answered when he closed the distance between your lips in a kiss that left you breathless. Your hands came to cup his face immediately, and you felt him smile against you when he realized that you wanted this just as much as him. As you pulled him closer, Satoru began to slide your shorts down your legs, a choked gasp getting stuck in your throat once you were fully bare, a gust of air brushing against your sensitive skin.

“Lesson number one—” his words were dripping with honey as he spoke over your lips, “—a man should always pleasure his lady first, let her ease into what’s coming next.” He took advantage of your parted mouth to slip in his tongue, letting it tangle with yours and as you were distracted by the kiss, his fingers gently slid between your folds, collecting the obscene amount of wetness that had already formed there. Your eyes snapped open, a moan ripped from your chest at the completely new sensation. Of course, you weren’t a stranger to having your own private time, but the feeling of Gojo’s long digit was drastically different from your own.

“Oh, fuck,“ he groaned, unable to come up with something clever to tease you, “baby, you’re soaked. Are you always this wet around me?” A deep flush spread over your face, to the tips of your ears to your neck, making him chuckle. “It’s okay, I’m flattered.” He cooed. Then, seeing you getting incredibly flustered and shy, he decided to ease you by starting to pepper your neck with hot, wet kisses. Your back arched into him, and when he heart that breathy ”Satoru” leave your lips, he let his thumb find your clit, letting the pad of his finger trace slow, languid circles around it.

Your fingers threaded through his milky hair, tugging at it slightly as you stifled another whine. “Let me hear you. Tell me how good I’m making you feel, darling.” Gojo purred, biting into the sensitive flesh of your neck as a lighthearted threat. Every circular motion sent an electric zap through your body, sweet moans spilling from your parted lips under his practiced skill. “You see, quickies are fun, but sex is a ritual. I’m gonna show you exactly how it’s supposed to be, nothing like what you’d risk to find in a room full of frat losers…”

His middle finger pressed around your entrance, and you hissed in through your teeth. Gojo’s lips left your neck, only to go back to kissing down your thigh - on the other leg this time - until his breath fanned over your bare heat. White sparks shot at the corners of your vision field when his flat tongue dragged a long stripe along your slit, a hand grabbing his hair as the other fisted the duvet under you. ”F-Fuuuuck, ‘Toru—” Your angelic chants of pleasure had him grinning ear to ear like a sneaky bastard against your folds, flicking your sensitive nub to hear you sing even more, even louder.

You were getting wetter the more his mouth worked on you, and little by little, he was able to ease in a two-three inches of his middle finger inside your weeping hole. Spongy walls greedily sucked him in, and the stretch was more pleasurable than uncomfortable for you. Your hips bucked into his hand, and Satoru gave your sweet cunt an open-mouthed kiss, lips detaching with a pop. “Greedy girl.”

You looked down at him, seeing his sapphires gazing up at you from between your legs, messy white hair tickling your thighs, lips drenched in your juices— it was the hottest sight ever. Your cheeks felt warm, like the rest of your body. “More…” you begged meekly. He smiled. “Only because you asked so nicely…”

Your head fell back into the pillows the moment he started to devour you again, letting you draw in more and more of his finger, which he eventually started to slowly pump into you. Your moans continued to fill the room, and as you got used to his rhythm, he began to stretch you by adding his ring finger. “You’re taking me so well… You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?” You weren’t sure who Gojo was talking to exactly, and by the fervor and effort he was putting into it, you began to understand that he was eating you out more for his own pleasure, and that his outstanding performance came from his genuine love for for it.

The stretch stung, but you were simply too overwhelmed by all those new sensations that they drowned out the mild pain. Of course, two of Satoru’s fingers were at least three of yours, but you had been able to handle it, for now. For a while, a quiet heat had started to form in your lower belly, coiling into itself tighter and tighter, something that you couldn’t ignore anymore. “Sa…toru…I—” his name struggled to come out in a singular, coherent string, and the breaking point came he curled his digits upward while closing his lips around your clit and suctioning lightly.

The knot snapped, your knees buckled, and your thighs squeezed his head as your orgasm rippled through you in a crashing wave. Moans, curses and calls of his name blended into a prayer, his free hand curling around one of your legs as he let you ride through it, his fingers slowing down to an unhurried pace. Once you came down from your high, he peppered kisses around your flushed, sensitive flesh, until he eventually emerged back up, resting his chin on your knee to look at you.

“So? What do you think of the first lesson?” He asked, a shit-eating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That was…that was certainly something.” You breathed out, afterglow etched over your awestruck face. “You’re certainly a good teacher.” Satoru chuckled, hand caressing his way from your leg down to your hip. “That’s good,” he said. “Because class is very far from over.”

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