the den of dreams and debt

minors dni // please check pinned post

[frothingmoth]

♤♥ 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐇! ♧♦

"୨♧ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝 ♧୧

THE BASICS:

❤ any pronouns · 23 · neurodivergent ❤ writing preferences: teratophilia · favorite characters · random drabbles · x afab!gnc!reader (flexible upon request) ❤ current writing fixation: jujutsu kaisen ❤ prone to occasionally rambling about my scientific theories on fictional monster genitalia. oops ❤ requests: open!! (reply not guaranteed) ❤ please take a look at my RULES / FAQ !!

Writing schedule is pretty irregular as of now. Please be patient!!

TAG GUIDE:

♦ #thegoods — a tag for all of my writing goodies <3 ♦ #mothfroths — you ask, i answer!! ♦ #paperwork — any posts regarding basics, boundaries, rules, navigation, etc.

MASTERLIST:

LOADING...

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 @𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡. 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝.

[frothingmoth]

His Reflection on a Snugstone

Summary: Monday Prompt: Family / "Your magic is so kind." It was selfish. More so than anyone would believe. He didn’t care about the result, or the fanfare, or the way it made his heart squeeze when he saw his inventions being used to better the lives of the little guy. All he truly wanted was to prove his torch hadn’t gone out. Because if that fire, that star constantly singing his palms as he clung to it with all his might, ever did flicker out? Who would he be then? aka: olruggio thinks about his snugstone invention and what it really says about him.

Pairing: qifrey x olruggio

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

Hi! I love your writing it’s so good🤍 I hope you’re doing well ! I have a little request…

Softdom!Geto mindfucking reader by reinforcing f!readers mind to just fully relax into him and surrendering their mind and body to the pleasure 🫡

Smut, porn with plot, overstimulation praise + sweet talking

I LIVE!!

i wrote the first ~60% of this according to the prompt almost immediately after getting this ask, disappeared from the face of the earth for three weeks, and then finished the last third today. it should be noted the last third went completely off the rails so i do hope it's still to your tastes dear anon

you can read the post here :3 pls let me know what you think!!

[frothingmoth]

♥ 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 ♥

Summary: suguru geto loves his independent go-getter wife, but he's only willing to let self-destructive tendencies go so far. when two, stubborn souls butt heads about whether or not it's time to take a break, usually the one with the ropes has a good chance of winning!

Pairing: suguru geto x workaholic!reader

Content Warnings: fem!reader, smut, hurt/comfort if you squint, pwp, overstim as discipline, praise, softdom!suguru, moments of harddom!suguru, talking you through it, dubcon (implied presence of a safeword), "you can take it," brat taming adjacent (reader is less of a brat and more of a stubborn overworked girlboss with no sense of self-preservation), scolding, body worship, sugu just wants his pretty wife to chill tf out, bondage + bondage terminology, reader struggles with self care (skipping meals / not taking breaks / etc.), mindbreak / dumbification, teasing, suguru’s a little mean when he’s mad, oral (f receiving), fingering, use of femme pet names, biting, suguru accidentally breaks himself too and goes feral, i fear he gets a little ooc atp, unprotected/raw, making it fit, full nelson, doggy style, creampie, whiting out, blacking out, reader goes nonverbal, aftercare

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: i hope this is at least similar to what you were picturing, anon!! i've never done a request before 👉👈

“You can give me one more, can’t you?” You were pretty sure you’d heard those words about fifteen times in the last two hours. 

Your husband—Suguru Geto, a beautiful man with a kind smile and evil, evil hands—had you spread pretty on his lap, his knees tucked under yours to keep your thighs pinned open for him. He was careful not to tie the pretty, purple ropes around your arms too tight, but after this long, you were convinced there’d be red marks ingrained into the plush of your skin in ringlets. The diamond-weave arm-binder tie he’d wound you up in was designed to distribute pressure and ease any pinching, as he’d been happy to inform you while he kept a knee pinned to your back and roped you up, but one could only handle so much restraint for so long. Your continuous writhing and wriggling certainly exacerbated the agitation. 

It’s not like you were resisting! Not anymore, at least; you’d given up on wrestling your way out of this after the fifth or sixth orgasm he’d wrenched out of you with his expert fingers. No, at this point, it was simply a biological reaction to a sensation you couldn’t pinpoint as pain nor pleasure. The need not to escape, per se, but to work the building energy out of your body by any means necessary. 

Whatever the reason for your squirming, it didn’t deter your dear husband in the least. He knew you had an easy out if you really wanted it; one, simple word spoken, and everything would come rushing to a halt. In fact, you had a sneaking suspicion your jerkiness only fueled his greed for your pleasure, if the way his aching cock jumped against your lower back had anything to say about it. 

At first, you’d thought his mouth was the real villain. He’d sank to his knees after every few climaxes to clean up the mess between your legs, those pretty eyes of his—glittering the same amethyst as the ropes he’d bound you with—staring up at you with equal parts amusement and devotion. He’d start with a firm press of his tongue to the base of your slit, draaaagging a path all the way up to your poor, throbbing clit, before lowering back down to pull another languid stroke along your folds. Once he’d drank up everything along your thighs and lips, that mean tongue of his would dip in to gulp down the rest in lecherous slurps. You could never be sure whether the low moans he let off were meant to torture you with the vibrations, or if they were genuine responses to how much he enjoyed your taste dripping down his throat.

But even if he had you squirming and crying for him to stop teasing every time he used his mouth to work you up again, that tongue of his couldn’t compare to the brutal dexterity of his long fingers. 

Suguru had memorized every sweet spot on and in your body a long time ago. He often knew you better than you knew yourself, working his fingers along the soft spots of your thighs and making you gasp until the stimulation had you wet enough for him to slip in knuckle-deep without resistance. Tease that he was, he’d usually use his extensive knowledge of your body to dodge those spots on purpose until you begged for mercy. He’d work you up slowly every time, savoring the sweetness of your need until it exploded from the slow-cooking pressure. Then he’d have you watch as he drank you off of his fingers, sometimes even sharing the taste with you from his own lips. He’d often give in to your cute begging after making you cum two or three times, finally sinking himself into your heat and reaching a pinnacle of pleasure in sync with each other. 

There was almost a comedy in the way he always did all the work. Suguru had always preferred to be in control in most aspects of his life, and your pleasure was no exception. But his strict nature didn’t temper your own need to approach your life with a hands-on attitude. Part of what had drawn him to you in the first place was how determined you were to take charge of your own narrative, after all. 

Of course, he also recognized the danger of this little habit of yours. You struck your story while the iron was hot just like he did, and he admired your ambition, but you lacked the discipline to know when to let the heat simper and to catch your breath. He often found you burnt out and overworked, forgetting to take breaks at best and forgoing entire meals at worst. It was a chore to pull you away from your passions when the fire consumed you like this. He often needed to use a touch of conniving forcefulness—a cut wifi signal here, your favorite meal’s scent wafting under the door there. On the worst days, he’d physically remove you from your workspace and drag you toward your basic human needs. 

When he’d been especially busy for the last two days—a tension headache of his own creeping in and separating him from his work—he’d been hoping to slip into bed beside his already-sleeping wife. Instead, he’d walked in on you, hunched up at your desk with terrible posture, dressed in the same clothes as the day before, surrounded by nothing but empty cans of some caffeinated garbage and a few wrappers denoting quick snacks. 

You’d been scruffed before you knew what was happening.

It started in the shower. He’d stripped you with a fervor, wrestling you under the hot water and replacing any protests on your lips with his own tongue. He’d caged you against the shower wall with his imposing figure, one hand pinning your wrists to the wall while the other slipped between your legs. One of his thick thighs pinned your legs open while he worked you to the brink faster than ever before. He’d made it his mission to target all of your weak points first until you were seeing stars in record time, spasming around his long digits in the way he could never get enough of. He didn’t stop even when his fingers pruned, when his joints ached, when his knuckles rubbed raw against your greedy pussy. He didn’t stop until you were squirting all over his thigh and collapsing against him as your body gave out.

“There we go,” he purred, offering the first words he’d spoken since he found you in such a sorry state. “There’s my pretty girl. What were you thinking, sweetheart? Did you even eat a single meal while I was out? And those chunks of garbage you call ‘snacks’ don’t count.”

You could barely wheeze out a response as he cleaned you and scolded you in equal measure, limp on the shower floor where he’d lowered you to sit against the wall while his devoted hands dragged suds over your skin in methodical strokes. 

Perhaps it would’ve been better if you hadn’t caught your breath. Foolishly, you’re interrupting his gentle tirade with a mumbled protest of your own, “Th’deadline’s soon, Sugu. I gotta keep workin’ on it tonight—mmph!” You didn’t get much further when he stuffed two of his non-soapy fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue in warning. Your stubborn streak got the better of you, and you’d gnawed on his digits in retaliation just a little, trying to justify your actions around the thick intrusions clogging your words. 

He’d left you in the shower soon after with the curt instruction to dry off. Guilt warred with indignation; you may be his wife, but he had no right to tell you how to live. You were a grown woman with a job to do, and if he didn’t like it, then maybe he shouldn’t have married someone with such a strong work ethic. But as you dried off and entered the bedroom, steeling yourself for an unpleasant conversation—perhaps even an argument—he’d pinned you face-down in the sheets before you could blink. You felt the ropes before you saw them, and equal parts dismay and arousal flushed through your body when you realized exactly what kind of fight you’d be having—and losing.

And here you were, two hours later, as boneless and tear-streaked and pliant as he wanted you, reaping the consequences of your own foolishness. Your lack of self-preservation had put you in the jaws of the most dangerous predator you’d ever met in your life. And yet, not a mere inch of you could pretend to want to escape anymore. 

“So good f’me,” came your husband’s sultry purr against the shell of your ear, low and breathy in the way he knew you loved. Soothing, almost, if not for the blissful cruelty of his hands. “My pretty girl, all sweet an’ needy. This is how my wife should be treated.” 

He leaned in to lick a stripe up the side of your neck, letting out a low trill of amusement when the motion made you hiccup and clench around him. Mumbling into your pulse point, “She should be loved. Revered. Pleasured… Worshipped.” 

Suguru’s sharp canines bit into your skin just enough to leave stinging red brands behind, sucking your flesh between his lips and adding another purplish mark to the menagerie he’d littered you with. His free hand kneaded at your chest, groping the swell in slow pulses before giving the peak a little pinch. His lips were over yours again before you had a chance to moan. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he groaned into your mouth. “You’re doin’ so well, my wife. Isn’t it better like this? Letting your husband ruin this perfect body with pleasure, instead of ruining yourself with all that work and exhaustion?”

The last remaining slivers of your sanity wanted to bark at him, to remind him how he had no room to talk, to spit right into his mouth and make him check himself. But those slivers dissipated with another quick tap-tap-tap to your pulsing clit, and suddenly you were lolling your head forward and drooling and letting out some garbled sound of need.

Suguru only cooed, tugging you back against him to rest on his chest with your head tucked into his shoulder. “Shhhhh,” he soothed, though the hand orchestrating your downfall didn’t slow in the slightest. He pet tenderly over your skin in broad strokes, soothing your frayed nerves while he kissed far too sweetly at your temple for all this bullying. 

“It’s okay, sweet girl.” Suguru’s tongue trailed lightly up your cheek to collect an errant tear, reaching up to turn your head just enough to drink up the drool on your chin, too. “I’m here. You’re doing so well. It feels good, yeah? This is where you belong.”

He’d done well to alternate back and forth between focusing on your clit and your g-spot, giving each tender area a break between each climax just enough to prolong the amount of rounds he could force out of your pliant body. But even with his calculations, you were reaching your limit.

He hadn’t even cum once. 

“S.. Sugu,” you managed to mumble. It took conscious effort to roll your eyes out of your skull to look at him, half-lidded and teary and fucked out beyond repair. He hummed in response all the same, kissing along your cheek before pressing his forehead to yours with a patient smile. “What is it, my sweet girl? Tell me what you need.”

Your hands, bound squarely against your back where your arms had been pinned, reached out just enough to graze against his cock throbbing against your tailbone. He flinched at the contact and creased his brows.

“Naughty girl,” he mused through gritted teeth. “Trying to distract me? I have a very important mission, you know. If my wife can still think enough to plot against me, then we’re not done here yet—”

“S’not that,” you whined against his lips. You could barely recognize your own voice in its breathless pitchiness. Perhaps you’d be embarrassed if he hadn’t already fucked all the logic and awareness out of you. “Jus’ need you inside.” 

The hand torturing your folds halted. 

“…Fuck, sweetheart,” Suguru laughed against your lips. Hoarse. A little crazed, maybe. You could feel his cock jump against your fingers as you continued to reach for him in vain, just barely able to graze your fingerpads against his pulsing shaft. “You’re too good t’me.” 

“S’not f’you,” came your jumbled correction. “I jus’ wan’ it.”

It was hard to accuse you of being bratty when your drunken slurring was so earnest. He let his forehead drop into your shoulder with another laugh mixed up in a groan of blissful anguish. Sticky pre dripped over your fingers, coating you in a needy sheen despite barely being able to touch him at all. 

It was a night for firsts, apparently; you’d never once seen your Suguru so sensitive.

You expected him to switch positions. He often liked to have you on your hands and knees where he could glue himself to your back and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, or lay you down face-up so he could watch you fall apart beneath the curtain of his silky hair, veiling you both in a curtain and tunneling your vision. Always looming over you, always consuming your senses until you were trapped in a world of pleasure with him and nothing else.

But perhaps this extended ordeal had snipped at his patience as much as it had burned yours to ash, because large hands found your hips and lifted you up with minimal effort. He lined his tip up with the slick mess dripping from your folds and pushed an inch in without warning, choking a sob out of your lungs just as he hissed into your shoulder.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Suguru growled against your skin, grateful to be able to hide his unsightly snarl from view. “So good. Too fuckin’ good.” 

That ‘too good’-ness didn’t stop him from rutting up in shallow thrusts, chasing an overdue high deep within you. He’d been working you open for hours now, but it didn’t stop the way you clenched around him on instinct alone, fluttering weakly along each inch disappearing inside of you. It took several upward jerks until you felt stuffed full. A quiet, foggy part of your mind recalled how he never quite fit all the way; he surely could if he tried, but Suguru greatly preferred focusing on ruining you rather than chasing his own pleasure, and he’d never seen the point in going through all that extra prep when you already felt so perfect around him.

But he’d apparently shattered his own awareness, too. Tired, frustrated, and wanting his wife since long before he’d returned home, not to mention how long he’d held back in order to carry out his vindication, the leash of self-control he often prided himself on had pulled too taut and snapped! clean in half.

“Fit,” you heard him repeatedly hissing into your skin. One of his large hands slid up to grip and grope at your chest like he was trying to ground himself while the other dug into your hip enough to leave a handprint, keeping you steady with each vicious drive of his hips into yours. “Fucking fit.”

“S-Sugu—?” you tried to coo, a flush of worry dampening the fuzz laying thick over your mind. But he fucked that out of you, too, right alongside your withering sanity. Both of his hands slid up under your arms and snaked behind your head, locking his fingers together against the back of your scalp. He pushed you down and rammed his hips up in sync, knocking the gentle words out of your lungs and replacing them with wanton sounds of pleasure. His name stayed on your lips, of course, but it took on the sweet, needy cadence he loved to drag out of you. 

One particular thrust finally had him slapping flush against your heat all the way down to his hilt. He let out an odd noise between a whine and a curse, his beefy biceps flexing hard against you before going limp and sliding down to hug around your waist. You felt something wet hit your shoulder where his forehead rested, large hands shaking just slightly against your heated skin. 

Suguru would sooner die than let you acknowledge him crying in bed, though. 

Your chest squished against the plush mattress before you registered him flipping you over while still buried inside, your spent legs hanging uselessly off the edge of the bed. He wasted no time in reestablishing a brutal pace, pressing the contour of his muscular form flush against the arch of your spine, hugging you tight to him and panting into your shoulder.

“You’re so p-perfect, my wife,” he rasped, slamming long, harsh drags from hilt to tip with every thrust, like he was marveling at your ability to take him in full. “I love you. I love you. You’re everything. M—mmgh. My perfect girl.”

And surely, he would deny ever having stuttered later when his senses returned, using your own broken state against your recall despite the sly, knowing curl of his lips giving him away. But for now, he hardly had the mind to care. One diligent hand slipped down between your legs and pressed on your poor, oversensitive clit, swirling rapid circles around it and tensing up your body in a rapid surge of overwhelming pleasure-pain. 

“One more,” Suguru hissed into your ear, just a little too commanding to be pleading. “You can give me one more, my wife.”

“I-I can’t—!” you tried to sob, but his free hand tugged your chin to the side to meet his lips, tonguefucking the denial right out of you until you were too dizzy with breathless pleasure to doubt yourself. His ministrations against your sensitive spots sped up until, in defiance with your own exhaustion, another high built and built and built up under your skin from head to toe. Suguru pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, “Cum.”

You were seeing white a moment later. You might’ve blacked out, in fact, because one moment it felt like you were being fullbody tackled by overstimulated bliss, and another you’re blinking awake laying on your back with your arms untied. The lack of binding doesn’t seem to change a thing, though; you can’t lift a finger without your whole body screaming in protest. 

Your husband exited the bathroom with a warm washcloth in hand. He practically glowed with satisfaction as he sank between your legs. His usual voice—soft, warm, lacking the unfamiliar desperate edge from a few minutes ago—met your ears, “Can I clean you up, my love?”

You felt cement clogging your throat. It took all of your strength to muster a nod clear enough for him to see, and you earned a gentle, proud smile in response.

There’s no pleasure to be had when a finger slipped in to gently work the mess out of you. It’s all tingles and discomfort now, but Suguru was careful, moving with slow drags and frequent check-ins to make sure he wasn’t hurting you in the process. It was almost soothing despite the sensitivity, the way he spoke quiet words of praise and pride against your thigh all the while. Once he’d cleaned you out and wiped you down, Suguru carried you back into the shower. He was much gentler with the way he bathed you this time; rather than pinning you to the wall and working you into submission beneath his hands, he ran a soft stream over your skin in attentive reverence, bathing and rinsing you from head to toe in his lap on the shower floor much more thoroughly this time. You were in and out of sleep the whole way through, but he didn’t seem to mind, humming his sweet praises to you like a lullaby. 

At some point, you found yourself in bed—naked, dry, and thoroughly spent—tucked against Suguru’s body as he soothed you to sleep with little kisses to your face and gentle pets down your back. “Tomorrow, we’re having breakfast together,” he informed you too sweetly to sound like the demand it was, “and you’re eating real food.”

A/N: i wasn't sure if you wanted cult leader sugu, sorcerer sugu, or a non-sorcerer au flavor, so i did my best to keep it vague and just focus on the character dynamics instead o////o;

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

Me back with my bullshit in your inbox because I love you and it is physically impossible to contain thank you for existing and sharing your beautiful beautiful work and giving us the pleasure of your company, you’re so lovely I think the word lovley was made specifically for you <3

Even though you sometimes bully Utahime I love you 🙂‍↕️ and all my Extremis powers are for you to use during cuddling hehe

picking you up between my teeth and shaking you around like a chew toy. do you feel the love yet. i’m going to consume you whole

[frothingmoth]

A Lesson in Restraint

Summary: Could anyone truly blame him for being so unfocused right now, when the man he'd longed for consistently over the course of twenty years一the very same man who treated physical contact like the startling singe of a hot stove一had his hands draped over his broader shoulders, long frame bent down just enough to whisper sultry directions against his cheek? He should surely think not. The endurance of such an ordeal would kill a lesser man.

aka: qifrey teaches olruggio how to dance for a party.

Pairing: qifrey x olruggio

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

An Ode to Desperation

Summary: How many times had Qifrey turned away Olruggio’s concern? How many times had he lied to keep the promise they’d made? How many times had Qifrey had to look Olruggio in the eyes and deny his bleeding heart, to pretend like he didn’t want his Watchful Eye more than he wanted air, just to stay safe? It kept him alive. Far more importantly, it kept his promise to his radiant star. Qifrey had to keep telling himself that. It was the only way he could endure the ordeal of being fussed over, of being discovered and forgotten in cycles, of being loved by a man he’d taken everything from. The only way he could stand to dig his fingernails into his palm and pretend Olruggio’s self-sacrificing obsession was a one-sided ordeal. But what happened when that constant, crawling feeling of roots and gnarls in Qifrey’s skin no longer forced him to be patient?

aka: qifrey is freed of his curse. he finally lets his roots grow toward his star.

Pairing: qifrey x olruggio

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

the letter returns to you in your mailbox, soaked with red and full of something. opening it reveals a very tiny sleeping version of me. it is unclear where the blood came from. little me now lives in your pocket forever!!!! congrats on our second marriage my love, there are many more to come 💛

[frothingmoth]

debating whether or not i should share my ao3 stuff on this account. this blog is supposed to particularly be for self-insert stuff while i put my other stuff on ao3, but i can at least share the links?? much to think about

[frothingmoth]

Kinda cracking me up that this is how the title appears 😭

A ????yal ????ush!!!! The rest of you can go home!!!!

LMAO you don't know about YAL USH? it's a new strain i invented in my basement

[frothingmoth]

♥ CHERRY WINE ♥

Summary: when kento nanami finds out you've been avoiding tampons solely because an ex told you to rather than for your own comfort, he is absolutely outraged. but don't worry! your kind, considerate, and dexterous husband-to-be is here to help.

Pairing: kento nanami x reader

Content Warnings: smut and fluff and a smidgen of hurt/comfort if you squint, period talk, tampon use (obvi), afab!reader (gendered language: 'wife' and 'beautiful'), reader is shy and a little uneducated on sanitary products but it is not their fault, very lightly implied domestic abuse (past), raging feminist!nanami, slight munch!nanami, nanami gets his red wings (if he didn't have them already lmao)

Word Count: 850

A/N: jus a lil drabble i wrote for @caramelluxe in a time of dire need. she threatened to blow me up into a million pieces if i didn't post this /silly

You shouldn't have been embarrassed, really. Who would be more familiar with your body than your doting fiancé? He knew you inside and out—your tells, your needs, your weak spots. How was this any different?

Well, for starters, you were being lectured.

"—cannot believe you would disgrace yourself in such a way," your loving partner grumbled between your legs. He knelt on the cold tile before you, dragging soothing lines over your spread thighs with his calloused palms. Crass as it may be, in Kento Nanami's eyes your presence before him paid credence to the nickname 'porcelain throne.' Any seat you took was the seat of royalty to him, even one as… unconventional as this. Your husband did not share the slightest bit of your embarrassment, though, too caught up in his own righteous anger at the way your teachings had failed you so thoroughly.

The sting of emotions, always stronger at this time of the month, crawled up the back of your throat and stung your eyes. "I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't," Kento soothed in an instant, fumbling with the wrapper of the very sanitary product which instigated this whole scenario. "You were lied to, my love. What sort of lover, ex or otherwise, would deny you comfort during a time of suffering over something as arbitrary as your perceived chastity?"

"I—"

"A failure of a man, that's who," your fiancé continued, working himself up all over again. Truly, you didn't think you'd seen your husband-to-be quite as angry as he was when he'd learned of what you'd been taught. As if your comfort—your sanitation—was an afterthought, something to brush to the side for the insecure comfort of the men who didn't know a mere fraction of your body's suffering. "It would be one thing if you chose to abstain, my love, but it's another entirely to force inconvenience upon you. If I had the opportunity, I would—"

"Ken," you interrupted. One of your trembling hands lifted to his cheek, ghosting over the sharp lines of his features. He shut up in an instant. His fumbling hands stilled, expression melting into a softness reserved only for you. Whispering, "Yes, my love?"

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, brows furrowing. It felt so silly to admit. But who better to confess to than the man who loved you more than life itself? Steeling yourself, "I'm… I'm scared. What if it hurts?"

He softened in an instant. "Oh, my darling," Kento breathed, trailing a line of apologetic kisses up the inside of your thigh, "there's nothing to be afraid of. I'd never let you do anything unsafe. You know that, don't you?" When you nodded, he smiled in approval, pressing a kiss to your navel in sync with a chaste kiss of the applicator pressing against your entrance. "Trust me, my life. If you don't like it, I'll take it out in an instant. I promise."

He waited for your hesitant nod, smiling into your skin. "Good. So good for me, my wife."

Flustering, "I-I'm not your wife y—HIC!" You didn't get to finish your rebuttal before his coral lips wrapped around the sensitive button at the top of your mons. You certainly didn't get to protest about it being filthy, about him doing too much, when he shot waves of pleasure up your spine in rhythmic pulses with every flick of his skilled tongue. You blinked the stars out of your eyes when he pulled away with a wet pop, kissing around your navel and thighs again in praise. "You did so well, my love," he assured you.

Confused, you blinked down at him, only to see the applicator in his hand, slightly bloody and—more importantly—empty. A little string hung out of you, but beyond that, you could only notice the difference if you focused hard on the sensation. "I… It's in?" you breathed, startled at the mere simplicity of it.

Hazel eyes crinkled as he laughed—fond, not mocking—and kissed your belly button, reveling in the warmth of your skin. "It's in, my love. Do you feel okay?"

Your fear dissipated easily under his lips. "I.. Uh, yeah," came your dizzy words, honestly a bit stunned at how simple it was. Breathing an airy laugh, "Thank you, Ken."

"It's my pleasure to serve you," he purred into your inner thigh, massaging gentle circles into your abdomen with one hand as the other ghosted over that sensitive bundle of nerves. "It always will be."

A glint of something mischievous flickered in his gaze when you awkwardly shuffled to stand, strong hands sliding down to pin you in place. "Uh, Ken?" you began to ask, but he silenced you with a devoted drag of his tongue over your folds, cleaning the sanguine excess off of you. Reveling in the way you gasped and keened into him.

"I think my beautiful wife deserves to be rewarded for being so brave," he keened, emphasizing his earlier misspeak with doubled intention. Circling your clit with the pad of his thick thumb, grinning warmly at you from between your legs. "Don't you?"

A/N: i KNOW nanami is secretly a freaknasty pervert. i just can't prove it...

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

♤ RED CARNATION ♤

Summary: when your highschool sweetheart kills a village of innocents and goes missing, you're stuck wondering if there was anything you could've done. but, two years after you've finally accepted the truth, he comes to you in a moment of need. will you help him, or will you let him rot like you pretend to believe he deserves?

Pairing: suguru geto x gnc!sorcerer!reader

Content Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort but the comfort is also kinda ouch, pet names ("sweetheart" + "my love"), grieving a living person, challenged morality, bittersweet, catharsis, arguing, detailed descriptions of injuries and first aid treatment (both reader and suguru but suguru's is worse), reader is a little petty but it's very deserved, reader is also kind of a badass, flirting, conflicting emotions, guilt, shame, open ending, dialogue might be kind of unrealistic/a little too poetic to feel natural, this is basically just my way of yelling at suguru after having to relive jjk 0 so pls give me some grace, not proofread (smth smth 'no beta we die like men')

Word Count: <4k

A/N: hey so i realized i don't just have to write smut. like i can write whatever i want actually and nobody can stop me. when was somebody gonna tell me this

Suguru Geto, the love of your life, had become no better than the monsters he swore to defeat.

You partly blamed yourself at times; if only you hadn’t been transferred temporarily to Kyoto for a long-term mission right when he needed you most. It’s not as if you could’ve done much even if you were there, though. Suguru was so good at downplaying his pain—soft smiles, a few teases, and sweet nothings against the shell of your ear always turned the worry in your brain to malleable mush.

It was impossible for you to imagine him, soaked in blood without a hint of remorse, like the report had described. You’d read it about a hundred times—many of which were through the creases in that paper you’d crumpled more than once—and it still didn’t make sense. Your gentle, playful, loving Suguru, taking the lives of those he swore to protect? It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. 

But he never came back to explain himself, did he? You’d hoped on more than one occasion to see him at your door. Maybe he’d be in tears, explaining how he had to do what he did to be a hero. Or maybe this was the cruelest prank he’d ever pulled, and he was waiting with a mean smile to jump out at you the moment you believed it. He never showed up once, though, never even sent a letter. 

You’d gotten a few phone calls a couple months after the incident, but by then, your mind had accepted the bitter truth like an acid-coated pill, and your heart had wrapped itself in a blanket of bristling thorns to defend itself. You knew better than to invite the voice of a sweet talker—you knew better than to think you’d say no if he asked anything of you. So you didn’t give him the chance. 

Two years passed. Every report of the curse user Geto’s fiendish activity served to add a layer of callousness to your decaying perception of him. Gone was the boy you once loved in your mind’s eye; he was crueler now, the crinkles at the corners of his kind eyes hidden behind a splatter of blood, his fond smile sharpened into the snarl of a starving wolf. You were sure you wouldn’t recognize him if you ever saw him again.

Another of those layers had added itself to the fortress walls skirting your psyche after your mission tonight. You’d limped home, injured and exhausted, bruises blooming on your knuckles from where you’d knocked the frenzied dogma clean out of one of Geto’s loyal followers, along with a few of his teeth. A small band of curse users had formed out of adoration for Geto’s cause—his cult, more like—and you’d dispatched and detained every single one of them. It brought you some sort of twisted sense of comfort, like a bitter taste of well-earned revenge, to personally drive splinters into the cracks of Geto’s facade of a “grand plan” from afar. 

The moment you cracked open the door to the hallway of your run-down apartment, something felt wrong—familiar, in a dangerous way—and a quick scan of the lobby area revealed a trail of alarmingly fresh blood leading up the stairs toward none other than your apartment. You followed it in a rush, panic and dread doing laps around your mind and stomach with every step. The grotesque trail of crimson droplets led to the bathroom. 

No. No, it couldn’t be. He didn’t know where you were. He couldn’t have found you—

There he was.

Suguru Geto, your former lover, the most dangerous curse user, sitting in a pool of his own blood on the bathroom floor. 

His eyes were cold at first as they lifted from a dissociated stare at the soaked tiles below. But he softened the moment you came into view, a bittersweet smile on his cracked lips as he spoke, the pain and exhaustion so obvious in his features.

“Long time no see, sweetheart.”

You blinked. You’d known it was him the moment you entered the apartment building, of course; you could never forget the trace of his cursed energy for the rest of your life even if you tried. And you did try. But it was still terribly jarring to see him there, real, after merely hearing of his misdeeds and never seeing him again. Never getting the closure you deserved, left to warp the picture of him in your mind into an unrecognizable beast—a curse in his own right.

He was taller now—even on the floor, you could tell. Broader, too, filled out in muscled shoulders and a solid torso, no longer looking like the gaunt shell of a person you had last seen before the incident. His hair had grown out some, too, currently hanging down around him in messy, bloody strands. But his eyes were the same, and so was that soft, knowing smile he reserved only for you.

You tried to speak. Nothing came out. You tried again, and you failed again. Cotton flooded your throat, creeping up, up, up and weighing down your tongue. Finally, you turned to leave without a word. But instead of letting him bleed out on the floor of the bathroom like you should’ve, you returned with a first aid kit in hand, quickly squatting down beside him to start dressing the grotesque gash dragging up across his abdomen. Shallow enough to not pop any organs, deep enough to present a very real risk of blood loss.

His dark eyes traced your every movement with something between curiosity and exhaustion, that familiar, crooked smirk playing at his lips even as he winced when you pressed alcohol-soaked gauze to the wound.

“Missed me that much, huh?” His voice was hoarse but teasing, deliberately light—like he could pretend this was just another of your witty banters, like he hadn’t vanished from your life and reappeared almost two years later bathed in blood on the floor of an address you’d never given him. "You always took such good care of me, my love."

A beat. His smile faltered just slightly when you didn’t respond, the silence louder than any curse you could’ve hurled at him. His fingers twitched up, brushing against your wrist—featherlight, testing, like he feared you might pull away.

"…Still giving me the silent treatment, sweetheart?"

Your brow twitched. After you blocked his number the first time, Suguru had called you from various burner phones, each attempt spaced out just enough to make you drop your guard enough to answer—or, perhaps, a part of you wanted it to be him. But every time, his voice would sound through the speaker, and you’d hang up and block him before you could cave and respond. It seemed he was still holding that particular jab close to his chest.

“…I have nothing to say to you,” you gritted out quietly. Your voice came out hoarse and tired, thick with an exhaustion you couldn’t quite feel at the moment. You tried to keep your demeanor cold and disinterested, but your trembling fingers and jerky movements belied the torrent of emotions you couldn’t name simmering beneath the surface.

He watched your every twitch and wince, cataloguing every minute change in your expression with practiced ease. He knew every tell—had memorized you long ago.

"Bullshit."

You scoffed. You didn’t respond in words, though, merely focusing on patching him up rather than making the wound bigger like part of you wanted to. You stitched him shut in harsh jabs and pulls—feeling a bitter sense of satisfaction with every wince he tried to hide—dressing the fresh seal with bandages around his torso once he was well-cleaned and treated. The movement of wrapping your arms around his waist in rhythmic pulls, face nearly pressed to his chest in order to reach, had your nose scrunching in disapproval, contrasting sharply against the flush on your high cheekbones. He smelled exactly the same, even through the sanguine tinge now coating your bathroom.

His fingers flexed when you finished tying off the bandages, catching your forearms. He tried to catch your gaze, too, but you yanked away from him before he could. Your eyes stayed glued to the floor, expression tight with emotions you couldn’t even begin to explain, let alone process.

You were a little firmer under his hands now; you’d always been an incredible fighter, but there was more muscle rippling beneath your smooth skin, promising droves of potential. You’d evened out a little, too—nothing major, just a little more fullness and stability in your silhouette, lacking the awkward tweaks of a body not quite finished maturing. Most everything else was the same, though; especially the way you pouted and squirmed under his gaze.

“You don’t deserve to be looked at,” you spat, but it was weak. Baseless. You didn’t believe it in the slightest even as it left your lips, and you knew he didn’t, either. “You don’t deserve to be here, in my house, calling me old nicknames and acting like you didn’t—…” Your words choked before they could finish, and you cursed the lead ball lodged in your throat, distantly acknowledging the irony of you being the one unable to swallow around a disgusting lump for once.

He still reached out to hold you again, his fingers digging into your arms—not enough to harm, just enough to hold—and agreed with you. More sincere than you ever could’ve been.

"I never deserved you to begin with," he whispered, his voice thick with something you couldn’t identify. Whatever it was made your stomach do a backflip. "You were always too good for me, even back then. But that never stopped me from wanting you."

“That’s not true,” you whispered brokenly. You tugged away from his grip again, though you didn’t fully pull out of it this time, knowing he’d just grab you harder if you tried to back away now—knowing you’d let him. “It was never about deserving. We loved each other, and that was enough.” Unable to stop yourself from adding a bit of that bitter venom sludging through your veins like molasses, “But it clearly wasn’t enough for you.”

His grip loosened just slightly—not releasing you, but letting the tension ease like the slow release of a held breath.

"You were always enough," he promised, fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin just like he used to when you couldn’t sleep, when he’d pretend he wasn’t sinking deeper into a pit of his own despair. "But this world wasn’t. It still isn’t."

A pause. His thumb brushed over the pulse point in your wrist—slow, deliberate. You didn’t know if he was challenging or begging when he breathed, "Tell me I’m wrong."

“You are wrong,” you bit back, and it was the first thing you’d said since finding him in your bathroom where you sounded like you actually believed it. “This world is a complex mess of beauty and ugliness, and you decided to blind yourself to the good parts to justify your meltdown.”

You glared at him now—right at him, the challenge in your eyes boring holes into his defenses—and huffed, slow and dangerous. “I won’t call the higher-ups. But I’m not entertaining you, Geto. The moment you can stand, I want you out.”

His hands were on your cheeks before you could pull away, cradling you like the most precious thing he’d ever held. You hated the way you nuzzled into his touch on autopilot, the way your nose found the center of his palm like it belonged there, the way your lashes slipped shut with a gentle sigh even as your brows creased with conflicted tension.

“Don’t tell me to go,” Suguru protested. But it wasn’t the command you’d come to expect from the vicious cult leader you’d been told he turned into. He was reverent—pleading, like he might actually bleed out on your bathroom floor if you turned away from him. "I'm just as weak for you as I was before," he laughed, voice humorless and rough with emotion. "Even more so, maybe. You're like an addiction I can't shake, no matter how hard I try."

You tried to ignore the way his words made your heart feel like it was on fire. 

“…You ‘shook’ me just fine for two years,” you grumbled. Reminding yourself more than him, perhaps. “You didn’t have any problem abandoning me once. You’re only here ‘cause you needed a place to hide and recover.”

Suguru sucked in a sharp breath like you’d struck him directly in the chest. He swallowed hard, the apple of his throat bobbing with effort unbefitting a man so experienced in gulping down the worst of humanity.

But the way you leaned into his touch, the way your body still remembered him as a safe place despite your protests—the way you didn’t pull away even now, shaky breaths puffing out against his calloused palms—grounded him. He exhaled shakily, leaning in to press his forehead against yours. His pretty eyes fluttered closed for a moment before flicking back open, meeting your proximal gaze like he was trying to see into your mind.

"Maybe that was why I came," he admitted quietly. "But it's not why I'm still here." He hesitated, then—slowly, carefully—brushed his lips against yours. Testing. Waiting for you to push him away.

You didn’t kiss back. 

But, to Suguru’s slight relief, you didn’t pull away from him, either. It was an odd mix of resignation without eagerness, letting him steal the faintest taste of your presence as if you wanted to pretend not to notice.

“…I won’t be your stress relief,” you whispered a moment later, voice wavering with the effort to convince yourself. “I won’t let you sweet talk me into bed with you just to leave a second time after you get your fill. I won’t be your backup plan.”

His jaw clenched at your tone. His hand moved from your cheek to clutch your shoulder, fingers digging in like a steel vice.

"You think I came here to use you?" he asked, his voice dangerously low, thick with genuine hurt. "You think that's all you are to me now? You—"

He didn’t finish. You hissed a sharp sound of pain, wincing a little too hard for it to be in response to his words alone. Your opposite hand flew up to the shoulder Suguru gripped on instinct, wrenching him off and holding it with a grimace before realizing your body had given you away. A little too quickly, you pretended to brush something off of your shoulder as if that’s all it was, moving to awkwardly cross your arms in a huff instead. Prepared to keep denying him despite the glaring reason for concern you’d just demonstrated.

It didn’t work.

His brows furrowed immediately, gaze zeroing in on your shoulder with sharpened focus. Something was wrong.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice dropping into something low and warning, like a scolding mother catching a child stealing candy. "Let me see."

You hesitated. He didn't wait for permission. His hands were already moving, firm and insistent, pulling you into his bloodied lap and peeling your uniform collar aside with a sudden urgency. And there they were—bruises. Bad ones. Deep, ugly purples and blacks blooming beneath your skin, wrapping around your offset shoulder and pitching darker along the visible gap between your joint and its socket. The kind that only came from a fight you struggled in. 

His eyes slowly raised to yours, burning with an intensity you nearly shied from. Wrathful. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you hissed instead of flinching, shoving his hand away and practically tossing your weight backwards out of his lap. You scrambled to your feet, refastening your uniform with trembling hands, turning away from him yet again. “Just a rough mission—against your comrades, by the way, so don’t pretend like you give a shit.”

He stayed silent for a beat, eyes wide and zeroed in on the injury you tried to hide. You’d come home badly injured from a mission, and the first thing you did was patch up your ex—the fucking war criminal—on your floor? No matter how much you’d scolded and rejected and denied him since you found him sitting in your bathroom, you’d still prioritized him above everything else in a heartbeat—your own self included.

He let out a frustrated hiss, pushing himself to his feet as well to follow after you, ignoring the way his wounded torso screamed at him to sit his ass down. 

"It does matter," he ground out, reaching out to spin you toward him by your wrist. He was at least courteous enough to reach for your good arm, but it made his grip no less gentle in his mounting rage at whomever had hurt you. One of his? Oh, he’d make an example of them—

“Fuck off!” you snapped at him, turning to snarl like some feral animal in his face. Your glassy eyes brimmed with unshed tears, brows stitching together in equal parts rage and anguish. “Stop—stop fucking with me, Suguru! I was on a mission to stop one of your cult members from killing innocent people. I got hurt fighting against your cause! We’re enemies now because of you, a-and you don’t just get to be protective of me when you’re the one who left!”

You slammed your fist against the bathroom wall in a fit of overwhelming emotions as you tried to bite back a wall of anguished tears, hissing at the strain on your clearly-dislocated shoulder. Whispering hoarsely, “You don’t… You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just come into my house, into my life, and bleed all over my fucking carpet, and pretend like nothing changed. You left me. You made this decision. Stop trying to make it harder.”

Suguru went silent.

He stared at you for a long, charged moment, expression pinched into one of quiet concern as you wheezed in as many breaths as you could into your burning lungs. How dare he just stare at you like that, like he cared. Like he had any right to worry about you after leaving you in the dust, after abandoning you without a word. You hated him. You hated him.

Why didn’t you hate him?

"My love," he finally breathed, his voice coming out in a resigned sigh. He stepped forward, crowding you against the nearest wall like an injured animal cornering his prey, one hand bracing against your uninjured arm while the other lifted to your aching shoulder. “Deep breath in…”

You felt a brief flash of terror cross your features as he cornered you after your outburst—something he’d surely be haunted by in his sleep—before you realized he was returning your kindness. You did as told, sucking in a deep breath and hissing it out through your teeth. You flinched when he popped! your shoulder back into place on the exhale, swallowing back a strangled yelp of pain at the searing fire spiking and then abating from the painful motion.

“…Thank you,” you hissed, hoarse and quiet, gingerly massaging your relocated shoulder. His smile softened, and you hated the way it made you sag. You told yourself it was just the relief of the pain easing. Gritting out, “Now get out of my house.”

Suguru let out an amused snort at your blatant dismissal, ignoring it for now. His fingers brushed over the bruised skin of your tender shoulder, gently prodding, making sure he'd done it right. Satisfied that you were no longer in severe pain, his hand still lingered on your shoulder, reluctant to move away.

He let out a long, tired exhale, face pinching into something pained at what you assumed was the pulsing reminder of his own wound. Shaking his head, "Not until we talk."

“About what?” you scoffed. Your voice sounded weak and so, so tired now to your ears, the adrenaline keeping you upright quickly fading. You could tell from the brief flash of alarm in his eyes; he could hear it, too. “About how you think murdering innocent people will save us? How you didn’t mean to leave me, but you did it anyway? Or are you gonna try to sweet talk your way into my bed for the night, just to leave after you use me again?”

A pained expression flickered across his face, sharp and raw as the words hit a little too close to home. You could tell he hated how well you still knew him, could still read him like a book. He hated how you were right.

His jaw clenched with a frustrated noise, and his fingers curled against your skin just enough to warn you. "That's not fair, sweetheart."

“You’re not fair,” you countered, only to grimace when he huffed out a gentle puff of laughter at your petulance. The slight grimace of pain immediately after eased your embarrassment, though, feeling a bitter flash of satisfaction knowing you made his wound ache. 

A beat of silence passed. He stared at you expectantly, leaning against the opposite wall and nursing his wound. He was always unfairly pretty, even ragged and exhausted and slick with blood—most of which you were at least pretty sure was his own. You had a feeling he’d be content to stare at you in silence for as long as you and his wound would let him. 

You caved first. You always did.

“Fine,” you sighed after a long moment. The way Suguru’s expression lit up just a little, something like relief and affection and a fondness you hated so much coloring his features. He looked far too much like the Suguru you remembered in that moment, and you heard yourself cutting in before the ache could consume you, “But only because you have to help me clean all of your blood out of my carpet.” He laughed again—and winced again, but the pain couldn’t stop his smile this time—and gave a shrug far too playful for a mass murderer. “Fine by me, sweetheart,” he assured, looking quite pleased for a man who almost certainly needed a blood transfusion. “Just don’t get mad if I move a little slow.” You ushered him to the cleaning supplies with a tone you knew was too amicable for a man like him, and he teased you with words too soft for someone who cut the throats of innocent families. Too exhausted to fight him off as he leaned into you—“For support,” he’d insisted with a cheeky smile—and too drained to feel the guilt you knew you’d be drowning in tomorrow.

And as you worked together to erase the evidence of him stumbling into your apartment building, blindly seeking you out in his weakest moment, you knew the monster you’d pretended to see was fading into the background. 

You knew he was still your Suguru, no matter how much you wished he wasn’t.

You knew he was no longer your Suguru, no matter how much you wished he was.

And you definitely knew you weren’t kicking him out tonight.

A/N: idc if i "talk like a robot." you can pry the emdash from my cold, dead hands

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

♥ LIMITLESS PLEASURE ♥

Summary: There are two things Satoru Gojo wants to break you with. One is the Infinite Void you wouldn’t stop asking about. The other is the most overwhelming night of your life.

Pairing: reader x satoru gojo

Content Warnings: MDNI 18+, afab!reader (no specified gender), pre-established relationship, pet names (pretty, doll, sweetheart), strong language, nsfw, sorta kinda satoru’s POV for the first chunk, i’d say nerd!gojo but it’s just him being as nerdy as he is in canon, reader is also a jujutsu nerd, sorcerer!reader (no technique specified), preaching the gospel of loserboy!gojo, he’s down BAD, he talks a lot when he’s horny, infodumping (there’s like 1.6k words of exposition i’m so sorry this got away from me), OVERSTIM beyond your wildest imagination oml, édging, dacryphilia, technical descriptions of jujutsu (i also happen to be a loserboy nerd oops), consensual hypnosis/paralysis (see: infinite void), SEVERE misuse of cursed techniques, oral (brief), p in v, unprotected, missionary, mating press, full nelson, cérvix kissing (brief), marathon séx, slight choking, FERAL gojo, breaking the bed, he’s mean but it’s lowkey deserved, body worship, praise, reader is kind of a brat and has very minimal self-preservation instincts

Word Count: 6k (almost exactly)

A/N: @tonycries hiiiiii tony!! happy (belated) one year anniversary to the tonycries franchise (and happy valentine's day)!! i hope you don’t mind me taggin you. i wrote this as a gift for you, since i wanted to show my appreciation for you inspiring me to unlearn shame and start writing stuff like this without feeling wrong or dirty. it’s totally chill if it’s not your jam or anything, no offense taken!! but i tried to write it with your tastes in mind ^^ there’ll be a sappier ramble at the very bottom for you hehe

Satoru didn’t know what to do with you. At first, he’d been flattered by your interest in his cursed technique. Not many people cared to learn the intricacies of it past the surface level, and fewer still wanted to know everything about it, including how it felt. Your curiosity made him feel warm inside, made him feel proud for the first time in his life to be the owner of his Six Eyes and the Limitless technique.

He’d explained it as well as he could, answering your questions in earnest. First, he’d described the simple concepts of his neutral, amplified, and reversed techniques: in neutrality, it resembles the concept of a limit in mathematics, forever approaching a point but never quite being able to reach it, repelling any moving object exponentially with its approach until its acceleration was so minimal it was practically zero, but never quite reaching a technically complete stop; in amplification, it’s the same concept of forever approaching a point but not reaching it, but it’s a pull instead of a wall, like it’s forcibly applying the concept of a limit onto a separate object to reduce the space between it and his technique to a mere fraction; in reversal, it’s the same idea, but the object in question is forced to grow the distance between itself and the focal point of the technique exponentially until it falls out of range. He even tried to explain Hollow Purple, explaining how it relies on the theoretical existence of a paradox, and how combining an infinite pull with an infinite push is bound to rip anything it touches to atomic shreds until it’s reduced to nothing in mere seconds.

Now, by this point in the explanation, he was sure you’d be bored, pretending to fall asleep or just outright mocking him like everyone else had in the past. And yes, it would sting, but it wasn’t anything he was unfamiliar with. People just didn’t care, and he was okay with that now.

But you weren’t bored at all. No, you stared at him with wide, fascinated eyes, resting your elbows on the table between you and studying his face like it was the most intricate artwork you’d ever seen. You’d asked questions, and he’d answered in a dreamy haze, almost waiting for the other shoe to drop when you’d inevitably grow tired of his rambling. He was sure it would come. But you just kept probing, asking about every detail you could think of, even stumbling upon questions he himself didn’t know the answer to once or twiceーthings he promised he would get back to you on, because it was unacceptable for him to not be able to answer your questions, even if the idea of you being curious enough about his technique to stump even him made his heart flutter like he was back in highschool, meeting you for the first time all over again.

His hesitation faded when you asked why his Six Eyes were necessary for his technique, allowing himself to grow excited at the prospect of someone else finally understanding the ins and outs of his abilities with him. Someone he knew was smart, someone he could brainstorm with, someone who would get it. He rambled to you in a delighted stupor about how his eyes worked, insisting how, no, he didn’t literally have six eyes, and if anyone said some stupid shit like that to him one more time he was going to smack their head off of their shoulders. He explained how it’s more like ‘two eyes with three layers,’ but that’s a much less catchy name, so he kinda gets it, y’know? At your behest, he described the aforementioned ‘three layers,’ describing them as simply as possible. The top layer, so to speak, being the enhanced version of what he imagined would be “normal people vision”; the middle layer being what he called “atomic vision,” which was the primary layer responsible for his control of Limitless due to the molecular precision it provided him; the bottom layer, being his “cursed energy vision,” which allowed him to understand people’s cursed energy, potential, and techniques inside and out at just a glance.

He fell in love with you more and more by the second then, when you bombarded him with more questions, as if you wished you had Six Eyes of your own just to be able to see every inch of him and understand him to the deepest parts of his core. The very idea of someone wanting to know him as intimately as he was forced to know everyone around him, just by being able to see, made his heart feel like it could burst out of his chest at any moment. He could’ve sworn it was the happiest moment of his life, actually, when you thanked him for explaining so thoroughly, as if he shouldn’t have been the one on his hands and knees begging you to marry him just for this show of devotion.

That’s when things started to get tricky. Your curiosity wasn’t sated by his words alone; you wanted to feel it, to know what his technique was like in practice. And, sure, he was the strongest sorcerer alive, and he couldーquite literallyーuse his technique harmlessly on you with his eyes closed, but he had to admit it made him a little nervous. Not because he could hurt you, no; he didn’t think he was even capable of making himself hurt you if he tried. He couldn’t dream of it. But he was worried about how far your curiosity would go. What would he do if you wanted him to hurt you, just to make the experience “authentic?” Sure, he appreciated your nerdiness and enthusiasm, but he didn’t want to get into an argument over something like this.

To his relief, you were content to feel the push and pull of his amplification and reversal at their minimum outputs, gently tugging you back and forth as he re-explained some of their functions, just to make sure you understood. He vehemently refused to use Hollow Purple on you in any way, and thankfully, you agreed; you’re curious, not stupid.

But then you asked him about his domain expansion. He was content to describe it to you, admitting he honestly didn’t understand exactly how it worked himself, since he’d never felt the effects of his own domain. He just knew it funneled infinite possibilities into the mind all at once, and paralyzed its target through a forced freeze response via extreme overstimulation. But you weren’t content with just that; no, you wanted to feel his domain, too.

That was a hard no. No matter how much you begged and pleaded and whined for him to show you, no matter how many times you insisted in that sweet voice of yours, “I can take it! I’m a sorcerer, too, Satoru. It’s not as if you’d be doing this to a civilian. I’ll be fine,” he just couldn’t risk it. That one could actually hurt you if he wasn’t careful. And he would never forgive himself if he hurt you. No, not just hurt you; he would be risking damage to the very thing that made you you if he gave in.

You’d left it alone then, when he shut you down so firmly, and he thought that was the last of it. Sad to reject your wishes, but not willing to risk your safety for something even he couldn’t perfectly control.

And then you brought it up again. And again. And again.

After a month of your endless nagging, he finally caved.

“Satoruuuuu,” you whined, nuzzling so sweetly into his neck, leaning your weight against his lap as you straddled one of his powerful thighs, “I wanna see it~.”

Satoru, who was already in a lusty haze and just about five seconds away from ripping your clothes from your body like they’d personally slighted him for existing, let out a breathy chuckle into your ear. “You’re gonna hafta let me take my pants off if you wanna see it, baby,” he purred into the side of your face, kissing a sultry line up the curve of your throat and along your jaw.

“No, not that,” you whined, and he cooed into your skin with a playful lilt to his airy tone. “I wanna see your domain.”

Satoru paused his trail, body freezing all at once, large hands gripping your hips just a fraction tighter. This again? Were you really trying to use his lust against him to get him to cave? No wonder you’d been so needy this morning.

“I already told you no, doll,” he hummed into your cheek, resuming his reverent trail of kisses along your pretty features. His favorite painting. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Please?” you whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath against your skin.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeaaaaaaaaー”

Your back was hitting a velvety mattress before you even registered the familiar crackle of jujutsu surrounding your body, hazy eyes flickering open in alarm. A quick glance around the room allowed you to realize you’d been teleported to Satoru’s bedroomーmore specifically, right in the center of his silken sheets, with his snarling face inches from yours, cerulean eyes shimmering with unspent energy. When had he taken his blindfold off?

“Fine,” he seethed, and you could feel the hammering of your pulse against his hand, only realizing he had your neck trapped under one of his large palms when the thundering of your heartbeat roared against his skin. “If you’re not gonna fucking drop it, then I’ll have to make sure all your questions are answered, hmm?”

…

That was three hours ago.

You can hardly make heads or tails of where you are anymore. Not necessarily because of the way Satoru has been ravaging you for all three of those long, exhausting hours, though that certainly doesn’t help your case. You’re no stranger to the way he goes into a frenzy when pushed enough, taking you over and over and over for hours until he’s shooting blanks. Desperate for you.

No, you’re quite sure it has more to do with the way he’s decided to make this particular marathon into a pop quiz.

The first two hours had simply been a ‘demonstration’ of his Six Eyes alone, showing you just how much he could see by trailing little kisses and kitten licks along the most sensitive parts of your skin with frightening accuracy. He found secret spots you didn’t even know you had, driving you over the edge before he ever even reached your legs, sparking the end of his tongue with raw cursed energy to send your nerves into overdrive at the very crest of each languid swipe.

You were already a mess by the time he decided it was time to move on to the ‘next lesson,’ left in ruins by nothing but his tongue and that evil little buzz working you over. Cheating, almost, using the extra boost to make you drench his tongue in his favorite flavor with each practiced swipe over your clit. Always getting his fill before moving on to his next favorite activity.

“An’ which one am I usin’ now, doll?” comes a breathy growl against your ear, shaky and sultry and utterly crazed as your beloved Satoru, normally so careful with you even when he’s jackhammering you into the mattressーso fragile, so pretty, he just has to be carefulーdelights in the way you can hardly even manage a broken whine.

You feel the wet warmth of something sliding up the side of your cheek, and only when his broken gasp shudders against your skin at the salty taste do you realize you’ve been crying. Your mind can hardly process his words, perception tunneling to the feeling of the slow, burning drag against your tender walls, crying out messy squelches of exhaustion as he tries to tempt out your nth orgasm tonight.

“I-I don’t knooow,” you sob, and the hiccup of your shaky whine makes his cock twitch out yet another filthy sheen of pre inside of you. So mean.

He has the audacity to let out a little ‘tch’ of disapproval next to your ear, clicking his tongue and leaning back to get a better look at you. The look in his eyes betrays his teasing facade, shimmering with adoration bordering on obsession. Reverent. Hungry.

“C’moooon, pretty,” he purrs, bringing one of his large hands up to grip your jaw just enough to force you to look at him. Gently running the pad of his thumb over your kiss-bitten lips and slipping between them, pressing down on your tongue like he’s trying to prod an answer directly from your throat. “You can do it. Where’d my smart lil’ doll go, hmm~?”

Shuddering at another of your choked sobs, Satoru takes it upon himself to offer some semblance of mercy, pouting down at you in mock sympathy. “My poor sweetheart, can’t even think straight. How ‘bout this? I’ll make it multiple choice, ‘kay? Is thisー” you feel something swell inside of you, hit with the indescribable sensation of being stretched even fuller but losing the sensation of his body heat, “ーneutral, amplified, or reversed?”

You choke at the feeling, his words going in one ear and out the other as your eyes roll back into your head. You could’ve sworn you lost the ability to feel the burn in the stretch an hour and a half ago, but it’s back with a vengeance, tearing through your lower half just enough to get your attention. To mock you, much like Satoru is doing now.

At your garbled whine, he lets out an exaggerated sigh, safe from the way you try to clench around him for just a moment. “Come on, doll. Don’t tell me you weren’t really listenin’ to my explanations before? You’re gonna make ‘Toru so sad~.”

“N-No!!” your lips are gasping out before your mind can catch up, the bolt of adrenaline in your veins at his words just enough to make you sink your nails into his biceps - or, try to, rather - and lurch upward, eyes widening comically. “No, no, ‘Toru, I-I was listenin’, I swearー”

“Then prove it,” he hisses a mere inch from your lips, a feral grin splitting his face and glinting his sharp canines at you in warning. “Answer the question, pretty.”

You wrack your brain through the thick fog surrounding it, desperately trying to piece together a cohesive thought. You don’t feel the give of his skin under your nails, and he’s stretching you just a little more than usual…

“N-Neutral,” you gasp, breathing the answer against his spit-slicked lips, peeking up at him through your wetted lashes. “I-It’s neutral. You’re usin’ahー... S’neutral.”

“Goooood,” he praises, and you can feel him twitch inside of you again as if the very idea of you being able to tell, even now, threatens to break him. And yet, the desperate groan on his lips and the way he slams to the hilt in a sudden, needy thrust only serves to remind you of the worst part of all of this: the smug bastard hasn’t cum even once. Holding out on purpose; taunting you with it. “You’re doin’ so hahー s-so well f’me, pretty.”

His tender lips ghost over your fluttering lids, placing gentle kisses over the skin of your bleary eyes. Gentle. Loving. So unlike the violent creaks of his bed frame, rocking and whining with every slam of his hips against the plush of your ass. “Shhhh, it’s alright, sweetheart. We’re almost done, ‘kay? Next question.”

His invisible barrierーthat evil, vile thing, keeping him just out of reachーflickers off, and you feel a garbled noise choke in your throat at the uniquely odd sensation of your gummy walls snapping flush to his length like elastic, letting simultaneous waves of relief and disappointment sweep through your exhausted body. A shudder rips through his hulking frame hovering above you, and he slams one of his large palms against the headboard hard enough to splinter it beneath his hand. The sound is miles away, as far as the heartbeat in your ears is concerned.

It takes a moment for you to register him sitting up, only able to notice by the growing distance of his body heatーaway from you againーand a needy whine starts to build in your throat on impulse. It doesn’t get the chance to ghost your lips, though; he’s giving you that look you know too well as he lifts your legs, leaning down, down, down to fold you in half with his strong arms hooked firmly under your knees.

The crazed glimmer in his eyes drifts down your body, seeing something you surely couldn’t comprehend if you tried as they seem to settle on a target somewhere around your midriff. He brings a hand around your leg and to his mystery target, drawing a little X over the area beneath your belly button. That same, feral grin from before finds his pinkened lips again, eyes widening and pupils expanding in a way they never do; it’s not as if his Six Eyes ever need to improve their vision, after all, except when he's marveling at you.

“Ready, pretty?” he sings, and in his lusty haze, you could swear he almost sounds giddy, his breathy tone dripping with barely-restrained excitement.

Your lips open to inquire on what he could possibly be asking about, perhaps even to snark a little at how you haven’t been ready for half of the shit he’s done in the last few hours. But only a breathless yelp manages to escape you when you feel what can only be described as the weirdest sensation you have ever felt in your life.

One glance down allows you the sight of a faint, blue glow where his finger rests on the invisible X he’d marked, and you feel the supremely disconcerting sensation of a tiny vacuum forming inside of you. Now, you’ve felt empty beforeーhell, you felt painfully empty mere seconds ago, when he’d pulled out of you to adjust your position and draw on your skin with his fingerーbut this isn’t just emptiness. There’s a distinct pulling sensation tugging at the innermost parts of your fluttering walls, making your exhausted muscles clench and spasm with what you can only describe as confused panic.

It all clicks a moment later when his treacly tip seems to get the same memo, and his hips are yanked forward by some invisible force, pulled with perfect precision to glide through your slicked entrance and slam headfirst into that tugging point. You’re surprised you even catch it, honestly; perhaps you wouldn’t have even realized if it wasn’t for the unnerving sensation. He knows you know it, too, his broken moan cracking off into a hoarse, crazed laugh.

“Blue,” you’re gasping before he can even ask, and his feral expression contorts into something of pure delight. “I-It’s ahnーa-amplified. Fuck, s’blue.”

“You’re perfect,” he rasps against your forehead in response, grinning lips pressing a string of messy kisses all over your face. Worshipping his beloved doll for your diligence even now. “So fucking perfect, pretty. M’gonna marry you, d’you hear me? N-Nah, fuck it, I’ll buy a fuckin’ cathedral an’ I’ll put you on that altar an’ I’ll fuckin’ pray t’youー”

“Satoru,” you’re whining into his ear. Partially to shut up his shameless, senseless babbling, partially because the shallow grinds of his hips against your sweet spots are choking the air out of your lungs, and partially because you might just come undone all over again if he keeps talking.

“Ah, right,” he laughs against your skin, sounding far enough away to make a small tinge of something close to fear squeeze in the very pit of your stomachーor maybe that’s just the feeling of him rolling his hips against you like he can’t bear the idea of pulling out even slightly. “Sorry, hah. We have a lesson t’finish, hmm?”

He leans back just enough to capture your lips in a kiss, if you can even call it that; it’s far closer to a battle of teeth and tongue and spit, messy and hot and so filthy. You bring your hands to slide up his chest, having to physically wrench him away from you so you can breathe after nearly a full minute of him swallowing up the air in your lungs. Even then, he chases your lips like a man starved, trying to push back against your insistence and get just one more taste of your skin. Panting into your slack maw, “Mnhーfuck th’ reversal lesson, pretty. I’ll never use that shit again if it means it’ll push you away from me fer even a fuckin’ second.”

You have just enough mental clarity left to wheeze out a warm, affectionate laugh at his desperation, seeing a glimpse of the needy Satoru you’ve come to know and love so dearly. Comforted, if only for a moment, by the familiarity at his stubborn insistence on being as physically connected to you as possible. He would probably live in your skin if he could; it’s not a trait of his you ever thought you’d particularly find to be reassuring. And yet, here you are, grateful to see this sliver of his obsession instead of the mean teacher act he’s been putting on for hours.

The reprieve doesn’t last long.

He plants a long, affectionate kiss to your templeーsomething you would only recognize much, much later to be an apology in advance.

“Last lesson, doll,” Satoru breathes against your skin, and you can hear the wicked little smile playing on his lips. “The one you’ve been soooooo excited for, yeah~?”

It takes you a long moment to process what he means. You blink your bleary eyes slowly up at him, clearing the fuzz in the corners of your vision to take in every last detail of his grinning face, pulling back just enough to dazzle you with a dangerous, toothy smile. All you can think of is how pretty he is with that flush on his cheeks and the delighted gleam in his crazed eyes and what did he say again?

Right, the last test.

Oh.

…

Oh.

Oh shit.

Satoru apparently spots the realization dawning on your face, because his manic grin widens impossibly further to glint his canines at you all over again, somehow looking sharper than usualーalmost as sharp as the sadistic tinge on the very edges of his crinkled gaze.

“C’mon, pretty, don’t hahーd-don’t run from me now,” you hear him coo somewhere above you, and it’s only then you even realize your body is trying to scramble backwards away from him despite the heady flush of heat pouring out in a torrent of molten need through every nerve in your body. “You wanted this, ‘member? S’alllll yours. I’ll give everythin’ t’you, doll, but that means y’gotta take it all, ‘kay?”

A fresh stream of overstimulated tears slip down your burning cheeks to pool on his awaiting tongue. The rumble of delirious laughter in Satoru’s chest shakes against your body, caged in helplessly beneath his herculean form as he peppers your ruined expression with a flurry of devoted little pecks. You find yourself nodding at his words despite it all. Your compliance earns you a breathy groan and a needy little rut into your oversensitive sweet spot, torturing you all over again with the unfulfilled promise of your nth orgasm of the night, dangling you over the edge of what you’re sure will be nothing more than a weak burst of tingles now.

“Good,” he gasps against your skin, giving the shell of your ear a playful little nip before leaning back once more. “So good f’me, pretty. So perfect.” Those large hands of his lower your thighs gently against the bed, allowing you a brief moment to go completely limp and sink into his plush, overpriced sheets. You feel the fatigue in your bones weighing you down into the cottony mattress, the call of sleep tugging at the corners of your vision in wake of the momentary pause. But the Strongest’s Six Eyes catch the beginnings of your descent into slumberーas they are wont to catch all things involving youーand Satoru is having none of it.

Your perspired back leaves the sheets before you can get too comfortable, only to meet the chiseled slope of your beloved’s front as he props you up in his lap. You can hardly feel him nestled deep inside of you anymore, save for the occasional twitches of his needy cockheadーwhich, infuriatingly, still hasn’t spent inside of you a single time. Call it spiteful, or petty, or whatever other applicable jab at your character, but you refuse to throw in the towel before you see him come undone. And of course, he knows this; you’re sure it’s at least half the reason for why he’s been holding out for so long. Dangling that sweet, euphoric prize right in front of you, keeping you motivated to match his pace in a way only you can.

Bastard.

Greedy hands slide from your thighs all the way up your front, tracing the divots and curves of your body in a slow glissade across your shimmering skin. He snakes his path along your form all the way up to your shoulders, looping beneath your arms in equal parts possession and support for your weakening body. You have half the mind to wonder if he’s simply stalling just to torture you a little more. But then, his fingers trace up the back of your sweat-slicked nape and find each other behind your head to lock into place, and you realize the reality is much, much worse than that.

“Satoru,” you pant out in whatever semblance of a warning you can muster, trying to glare at him over your shoulder. The sight only makes his cock twitch harshly inside you, and you’re hissing through your teeth as he peppers another trail of sloppy pecks on the back of your shoulder.

“Shhhhhh, pretty,” he soothes, “I just needed t’free up yer hands.” And if you can’t tell his words are a flat-out lie from the way your hands were very much free in the previous position, then he gives it away from the shit-eating grin saturating the mischievous tone of his excuse. “It is still a quiz, y’know. I can’t just give it t’you, no matter how good you’ve been f’me, doll.”

He must sense the lag in your perception before you do, because he’s quickly clarifying with another kiss to your skinーalways one more, like he can’t get enough of the sinful taste of your salt on his lipsーwith a gentle coo, “Tell me what m’gonna do, pretty. An’ show me, too.”

And if you were anyone else, perhaps you would’ve been confused. You’d be well within your right to have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, after all, when he’s spent the last three hours fucking every last coherent thought out of your brain in a brutal cadence of bottomless need. But it’s him, and it’s you, and you both know you’ll always be able to pick out the subtler meanings behind his cheeky words even when the last two functioning brain-cells in your lust-addled mind are bumping lazily together to sputter out pitiful sparks of cognizance.

You can feel a toothy smile split his face as you lift a weary hand, trembling and weak but determined to prove something as your middle finger just barely manages to wrap behind your index, the rest of your hand curling into a loose half-fist. “Like… Like this?” you mumble out, inspecting your own digits through glassy eyes and lowered lashes. Voice slurring in your mind’s last hurrah, “It’s, uh… I-It’s infinーmnh, stop movingーinfinite void.”

A large, pale hand snakes along your clammy skin, tracing the contour of your bicep and down your forearm until it reaches your trembling hand. The pads of his fingers slide up the back of your own, slightly adjusting minute details in the posturing of your digits until it’s a perfect replica of his domain gesture. “You get an A plus,” he whispers into your ear, gravelly and husky and starved in a way you’ve never heard him before. Your heart flutters and sinks in simultaneous, contrasting motions, and you’ve never been so sure of your own death date. There is no way he won’t consume you whole by the end of this.

You’re watching with ragged breaths as his own fingers mimic the pose of your hand just on the periphery of your bleary gaze. Ruined as you may be, you’d never mistake the sensation of the sudden surge sizzling beneath his milky skin, sparking and spiking in a rush of cursed energy. You don’t even need to hear those familiar words slip from his plush lips to know what’s about to happen.

“Domain Expansion: Infinite Void.”

The first thing you notice is darkness. His domain unfolds and surrounds the both of you in a burst of splattered antimatter, closing you both into a perfectly spherical capsule and trapping you within the very concept of infinity. The second thing you notice is just how gorgeous it is on the inside, sparkling with endless stars and expanding out endlessly despite you knowing full well it’s a limited space. What appears to be a large black hole rests at a concerning close distance, but you don’t have it in you to be afraid of something so ethereal. You think the word ‘beautiful’ leaves your lips, but you can’t be sure, mind buzzing with the overwhelming presence of his cursed energy stabilizing behind, beneath, inside you.

The thirdーand perhaps most importantーthing you notice is how you are distinctly still capable of thought and movement. He must notice your delayed confusion with the way he’s ghosting a breathy chuckle on the back of your scalp, shamelessly gulping a deep breath of your scent before explaining. “You’re immune to the effects unless I stop touching you, sweetheart,” he reminds you softly, and it feels as if his voice is coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “Did you really think I was gonna tear that pretty mind apart? I love it way too much.”

The words leave your lips before you can stop them, sealing your fate. Damning you.

“But I want you to, Toru.”

Strong arms tighten on your body, the hand he used to summon this space sliding back up behind your head to interlock securely again. “Are you sure?” he whispers against your ear, and from that reverent, desperate tone thick in his trembling voice, you should know better than to double down. Hell, you should’ve known better long before all this started. But you’re quite sure you’ve never needed anything more in your life, and you certainly haven’t come this farーand this many times, for that matterーto give up now. Not when this is exactly what you’ve been curious about for so long.

So, perhaps in the most foolish decision you’ve ever made, you lift a trembling hand to ghost your fingertips against the damp crown of cloudy strands sticking to his skin. Brushing your hand back in a way you know he loves, running the front of those silvery tresses through your fingers until your arm won’t bend back any further.

“S’okay,” you assure him softly, and you can’t help the slight smile twitching on your exhausted lips as you hear him whimper. “I trust you, Satoru.”

“Fuck,” he gasps breathlessly, slumping into you like you’ve just struck him directly in the chest. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death o’ me one day, doll.”

And you’re just barely managing to open your lips to huff out a breathy quip, probably to tease him about something or other. But any thought you had a moment prior dissolves into forgotten mist in your mind as you feel the neutral application of his Limitless flick on again, separating you from the warmth and dampness of his body against you. Your snug walls, having finally adjusted to the stretch, feel the all-too-familiar burn of being pushed to their absolute limits again. And finally, as you feel the distant and invasive and minimal and consuming and confusing feeling of what you think is Satoru pulling out just a little and slamming back into you, you realize you’ve already been swept into the thrall of the void.

It’s impossible to explain how it feels; you’re sure it’ll be a pain in the ass to try to relay this experience to him later, whenーifーyou recover from this. You feel every possible version of your climax slam into you as he uses the lock of his fingers behind your head to press you down into his jackhammering thrusts. It’s faint tingles; it’s a full-body burn; it’s ripping through your trembling thighs; it’s simpering out into little tingles as fast as it came; it never ends. Every possibility overwhelms your exhausted mind, and you’re sure you ascend to some higher consciousness through the fog of your utter bliss.

Your body goes limp in Satoru’s arms, falling into a state of complete relaxation despite your mind going into a level of overdrive surely capable of destroying a regular person’s sanity in seconds. And after what feels like an eternity of thisーbut, you find out later, is a mere ten seconds of exposure to the effects of his Infinite Voidーyou can distantly feel your body touching his again. You’re still feeling the after-effects even as his domain shatters to pieces and his voice comes back into focus. He apparently moved you onto your knees at some point and bent you over, hugging your arms back against his chest with his herculean form draped over you.

“Please,” you hear him gasp into the back of your neck, “please please please please, fuck, I-I’ve never been s’fuckin’ deep, h-holy shit, Iー”

And it’s just as you feel the bulbous tip of his twitching length clash against your cervix hard enough to recoil off the spongy surface when you realize he’s sobbing into your shoulder, drenching your skin in salty tears of ecstasy amid his open-mouthed pants. Reality slowly focuses back into one timeline just in time to feel him fill you to the brim with a harsh jettison of cum stuffing your slick walls sinfully full. You’re sure you’ve never felt Satoru cum so hard during the entirety of your relationshipーand from the way his whole body shakes against you, you have a feeling this is a first for him, too.

He stops thrusting at some point and just holds you tight against him, releasing your arms and snatching up your limp, trembling body to squeeze you flush against him. Little whimpers escape into your shoulder in sync with the shallow, sloppy grinds of his hips, and you think he manages to force another wisp of an orgasm out of you before he finally empties himself completely, tip twitching as he cums dry.

Your tangled bodies hit the mattress, which you’re pretty sure turned a full 45 degrees at some point along with the rest of your furniture. You’re both panting and gasping and fighting for air, and he’s using the last of his strength to turn you around and cuddle your face into his heaving, perspired chest.

Several minutes of coming down later, just when you’re feeling your body start to sink into the mattress again and drift to a comfortable, thoroughly satisfied sleep, you feel a shallow grind into your painfully sensitive walls jolt you awake.

“Hold on a moment, doll,” rasps a mischievous voice somewhere above you, and you feel utter dismay mix into something hot in your aching core as he twitches to life inside of you, observant gaze catching the way his cursed energy pulses evenly through his veins all over again. This particular, odd rhythm of energy is something you’ve sensed plenty of times within him; but in your utterly ruined state, you only piece together what’s happening when his voiceーnotably no longer raw and scratchy, tinged with the sound of a malicious grinーwhispers into your hair.

“I haven’t even gotten to our lesson on all of the wonderful benefits of RCT.”

A/N:  for tony: hi again!! 🃏 anon here. i’ve been readin your fics for a while now, and i’ve gotten enough confidence to comment under your posts (not with this acc, with my main one ;3) a few times and even talk to you a little!! when i first found your stuff, i was in a sort of denial headspace where i convinced myself i was only reading it bc it was funny, or fascinating, or i just liked your writing. at some point, i realized i was starting to enjoy them in the way they’re intended to be enjoyed, if you catch my drift, and it scared me. without talking too much about it for fear of oversharing, i’ve had plenty of reasons in my life to believe i should be disgusted by my body’s wants and needs. as odd as it might seem to take comfort in smut fics, your works helped me through a really big change in my journey of understanding my body, and reading your fics and seeing how genuinely good of a person you are helped me to dismantle some of that ever-present shame and just learn to enjoy myself for once. i’ve written stuff like this plenty of times before, but it’s always been with the pretense of detachment, like i wasn’t allowed to enjoy my work. so, as my gift to you for being a source of comfort, humor, inspiration, and motivation for me by openly and shamelessly expressing your own enjoyment and desires, i wanted the first proper fic i wrote upon making this step to be in your honor. i… really hope that’s not weird LMAO

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

♥ DOCTOR'S ORDERS ♥

Summary: when his favorite doctor is far too stressed, what is AL-AN to do but try to provide some relief?

Pairing: AL-AN (Subnautica) x scientist!reader

Content Warnings: MDNI 18+, gnc!afab!reader, pet names ("doctor" and "pet"), strong language, nsfw, teratophilia / mechanophilia, body modification / synthetic body (AL-AN's side), OVERSTIM, WAP, tentacle, marathon sex (vague), technically first time (AL-AN), sassy reader -> sad wet cat reader, feral behavior, vibration, p in v, overstuffed/STRETCH, bed breaking, teasing, slight degradation?, begging (both), desperation, dry orgasm (AL-AN)

Word Count: ~3.7k

A/N: i wrote a beta version of this about a year ago as a gift to a friend of mine, and i figured it'd be a great start to this little blog o mine!! so i spruced it up and schlapped it into the tumblr formatting. hope you enjoy ^^ pls lemme know what you think and what you'd like to see next!!

“Fucking DAMN IT!!” 

A scrap of metal is sent careening across the room before you realize your own anger, echoing out a loud clang as it makes contact with the wall of the research base. “Another fucking dud.” 

“I take it your research is not producing the desired informative outcome?” a polite voice comes from the doorway. Soft. Concerned.

“AL-AN!!” you greet, spinning around in your swivel chair and nearly knocking yourself to the ground from the sheer force of the turn. The traction from your bare legs, clad only in a small pair of silky pajama shorts, barely protects you from a meeting with the floor. “No, I’m fine, it’s just—”

“Sending a piece of research to its doom against our laboratory walls is not typically protocol, doctor,” the towering alien continues observantly, ducking to fit through the cramped doorframe and trotting over to the chair to help you readjust in your seat.

Close.

“Your heart rate is abnormally high, as is your blood pressure. I did not do as much research on humans in the database as I did with the intention of ignoring the signs when you are unwell.” 

“I’m fine, AL-AN,” you insist despite yourself, readjusting your oversized pajama shirt and swiveling your chair back around to face your desk. You know he means well, as he always does, but you need to get this done. Running a hand through your hair, “I just need to get this stupid fucking project over with.” 

AL-AN, undeterred in his pursuit of knowledge and having no intention to leave you in such a state, leans over your shoulder to observe the remaining pieces of your project. “Walk me through what you have.” 

You release a hefty sigh. You really wanted to finish this project yourself. You’re a scientist, after all; relying on your giant, encyclopedic puppy of a friend makes you feel like you’re doing some sort of disservice to the doctorate you paid way too much money for. Still, you relent, letting your chair roll slightly back to allow him a bit more room to observe. “If I can find a way to align these pieces, I can create a remote signal to pulse out to Leviathan nests to distract territorial parents long enough to harvest nearby resources. But these stupid fucking circuit panels are making each other spark out, and I just can’t—I don’t—if I—FUCK.” 

Your callous hands twitch, seconds away from launching the surviving portion of your work into the same wall, before his swivel chair is once again turned around to face the large alien behind you. This time, though, it’s not your own doing; you’re suddenly caged in against your swivel chair beneath nearly nine feet of your cybernetic lab partner. You can’t help but stutter in your rage at the sight of the architect towering above you, unwittingly trapped between two huge claws on either armrest of your seat. 

“I have been doing research of my own while you have been working,” AL-AN explains mechanically. You find yourself frustrated by his monotone speech and lack of facial features making it nearly impossible to read him, as you often do. “I have gained knowledge and devices with the intention of helping you relieve the stress you have built up during this time.”

 You feel a familiar heat rise to your cheeks. Surely, the oblivious alien has no idea what he’s saying. But still, the sudden flash of a rather intimate mental image slips past your defenses at his poor choice of words, and you blanch. 

“…Your pulse is inc—”

“WhAT did you mAke??” you interrupt, cursing internally at the involuntary squeak in your voice. You’d think your years of maturation in the field of scientific study would allow you the eloquence to not sound like a prepubescent middle schooler in moments of distress. You desperately try to will yourself to calm down as you await his answer, knowing it won’t be anything even remotely like—

“Pooling the data I gathered from the time I spent within your mind, as well as thoroughly examining the available data about the human species, I have determined you have a considerable preference for a certain pastime from your time on Earth. One you appear to not have been able to engage in since you arrived here.” Despite his lack of a face, you swear you can hear the faintest trace of a smile in AL-AN’s usually monotonous voice. 

You blink.

There goes the illusion of AL-AN’s innocence. 

As if able to detect what you’re thinking through your stunned silence, AL-AN continues. “Architects are a species of scientists, doctor. There is no branch of knowledge we may reasonably leave unaccounted for. Even if the knowledge may seem… personal, or perhaps taboo, in the species we are researching.” 

Well, fuck.

You want so badly to come up with a response—perhaps a playful quip, as you had become accustomed to in your rapport with the architect, who often struggled to keep up with your wit—but nothing seems to come from your lips as they hang slack-jawed in disbelief. 

“Do I have your permission to assist you in relieving stress, doctor?” AL-AN reiterates with the same, comforting, even tone he always seems to speak with. He doesn’t move an inch, floating arms poised as if waiting for unsuspecting prey to trigger a snare. 

“Y..yes…?” you manage, perhaps against your better judgement. A small part of you still thinks, almost hopes, he’s completely misunderstanding the situation. Sure, you’ve wanted this since the two of you first met—maybe it was the lack of companionship out here in deep space, maybe it was that soothing, sultry voice of his, always knowing what to say—but somehow, your desire makes this whole thing feel so much scarier. 

“Affirmative. Please relax, doctor. I will take care of you.” Without any more deliberation, those floating arms reach down to scoop you up into the air, the cool pressure of his organic cybernetics gently digging into your little body. He’s nothing if not efficient, you suppose, as you’re manhandled into the air like you weigh no more than a piece of paper.

Two of AL-AN’s arms, each bearing two, flat, opposable digits at the end, take purchase in your bare thighs. The four-pronged limb supports your back, easily covering the span of your torso while still having room to wrap around across your chest for extra stability. Perhaps if you weren’t busy having a mental conniption, you would make some sort of joke about how it sort of looks like you’ve been snatched up by the claw in a crane game.

“I do apologize for lacking enough knowledge to formulate an appropriate introduction to this activity,” AL-AN laments, lifting his organic claws to tug your shorts down to where your more metallic limbs have your legs in a vice grip. “I was only able to gather details on the actions themselves, both through our reproductive chapter and from your dreams and thoughts.” 

Already a panting mess just at the sheer embarrassment of it all, nearly getting whiplash from how fast he’s upon you, you snap out of your growing trance long enough for mortification to hit you like a truck at AL-AN’s admission. 

“Wait, you did whaAAAAH~!!” 

Your inquiry drowns in the startled moan ripped from your throat as AL-AN runs one of his three-pronged limbs’ thumbs along your neglected clit, circling it a few times before swiftly activating a pulsing function. 

You’re thrashing and squirming against the feeling before you can convince yourself to calm down, body unsure if it should pull away from or push against the sensation. You writhe helplessly in the air, the coolness of the lab doing no favors against your sensitive body. Something about being suspended like this, forced to feel nothing but him on your skin in harmony with the cool air of the lab, has you all but drooling at the quickly-mounting overstimulation. Not enough. Too much. You let out a desperate whine, reaching your hands down to try to assist in your own relief. Much to your surprise, however, AL-AN’s other three-digit hand quickly rises up, grabbing both of your wrists in one fell swoop and holding them hostage above your head. 

“I do recall saying I was going to take care of you,” AL-AN tuts, a dangerous undercurrent lacing his usual, soothing tone, “not help you take care of yourself. I would advise you to try to hold still, pet. I have quite a bit of research to do before I will be satisfied.” 

Through desperate huffs, trying hard to collect yourself, you make a pathetic attempt at a sneer. “Is, hh, that, what this is? Using me, mmh, for more research?” you chide, though your intermittent moans subtract from the believability of your effort to seem miffed. In fact, it only elicits a little laugh from the architect, a cruel little sound so unfitting of the gentle giant before you. Intoxicating

“You indulged me in my species’ most intimate, vulnerable state,” Alan explains matter-of-factly, “when I shared a mind space with you. It is only fair for me to return the gesture.” 

You whine in response, all the spunk in your moment of brattiness draining out of you. The several months of having no time, energy, nor privacy to touch yourself like this, coupled with the idea of all of the time Alan spent sharing his brain space being the equivalent of having constant sex for the architect, has you trying to grind down on his fingers like you’re begging with your body in a way your mouth simply can’t. You opens his mouth, maybe to make another sad attempt at a snide remark, before you feel AL-AN’s pulsing digit enter you without warning. 

You let out a surprised scream, lewdly calling out the alien’s name as the rhythmic buzzing sends hot shivers through your suspended body. AL-AN begins a slow, thrusting pace with his digit immediately, seeming content to simply stare at you and take in the product of his handiwork, suspiciously quiet. Only when the buzzing stops, and Alan retracts his thumb completely, do you realize the quadrupedal bastard is monitoring your vitals.

In a desperate attempt to keep the sensation going, you try to squeeze your legs closed around AL-AN’s hand, desperation mounting. You only achieve a tightening grip around your thighs and chest in response, however, and you’re almost certain you can feel marks forming on your skin. 

“Nonono please,” you beg, redirecting your physical energy from trying to trap his hand to, instead, trying to wriggle out of his vice grip. “Please please please don’t stop, why did you stop, please—” 

“Whining will not change the outcome of this decision,” AL-AN states calmly, walking to the doorway and ducking slightly to move into the hall. He continues to carry you, his prized little test subject, behind him, exposed and helpless midair. “I still haven’t presented my gift to you.”

The sound of your feral pleading fills the halls, unable to find any relief as the cold, unforgiving air continues to have no mercy upon your shivering body. AL-AN doesn’t offer a single acknowledgement to the begging, simply carrying you to your sleeping quarters down the hall and to the right. He hardly fits through the doorway into the little room; it was designed for one human to reside in comfortably, after all, and you find his large form taking up most of the space in your quarters. Your back makes contact with your bed before you even register the architect letting you go, four of his hands flying forward to quickly strip you of your pajamas in one swift motion. Before you can even think to process or readjust, maybe to check if his grip really did leave marks, AL-AN’s floating hands are on you, those same pulsing thumbs rubbing circles around your sensitive chest. The two dual-digit limbs once again take hold of your legs, this time using their grip to spread them apart and pull you flush against the alien’s now-kneeling form. 

At this angle, it really becomes apparent just how absolutely huge Alan is. Even kneeling, his forelegs folded beneath your thighs as support, he still barely fits in this little human room. Even his tiny waist is broader than the widest part of your entire body. It’s honestly intimidating, especially in this position. His giant faceplate glows ominously in the dark as he stares down at his favorite little doctor.

Man, you think distantly, drinking in the lewd sight, it’s good he doesn’t have a dick. It would be fucking huge—

…… 

What the fuck is that. 

Slowly, a slit splits open at the base of where Alan’s dick would be if he had one, which he APPARENTLY DOES. A glowing, cotton candy colored tentacle slowly pushes its way out of the opening, thankfully not nearly as large as one might expect in proportion to the size of the alien’s body. Still, it’s certainly nothing to sneeze at; it’s as if it was designed to be exactly as much as you could possibly handle. 

…

Oh. 

“My species does not procreate,” AL-AN explains thoughtfully, watching in earnest as the prehensile appendage drags itself along your dripping slit. You keen desperately at the feeling, arching your back into it as much as your restricted position will allow and barely registering the architect’s words. “So, I did not have a readily-available body part to safely pleasure you with. While you were working, I explored the nearby waters to gather materials to create a suitable appendage just for this occasion.” 

You, through your barely-sane panting, look down at the wriggling tentacle in disbelief. There’s a moment of delay before you fully process the meaning behind his eloquently obscene words. “You, hff, made yourself, hgh, a dick??” you pant incredulously. You want so badly to reach for it, to test its texture and temperature, to taste it and see if it’s as delicious as it looks. But the hands playing with your chest keep you pinned to your mattress. “How did you, mmf, even make one??” 

AL-AN happily obliges the question, his voice pitching up as it always does when he has the opportunity to monologue about his experiments. “Well, for starters, I connected my vessel’s sensory receptors to the attachment, in accordance with the human nervous system, for maximum accuracy. Then, I sampled the natural composition of a lava larva—” 

“Nevermind,” you interrupt. Normally, you could listen to his pretty voice for hours, but it’s currently the only thing standing in the way of your relief. “Don’t tell me, I wanna keep the, mmh, mmagic alive. Just.. Just fhh, just fuck me already.” 

“I do not appreciate the lack of respect for my craft,” AL-AN hums. Maybe if you were lucid enough to think, you might’ve half a mind to detect a teasing tone in the alien’s words. “Perhaps you have had enough.” All at once, in a moment of utter despair for your poor cunt, the architect begins to pull away. 

Your hazy eyes widen in horror, and you scramble against the grip on your legs to grab one of AL-AN’s large arms, desperately trying to pull him back towards you. “Nononono, please, please!! I need this, please, I’ll be good, I’m a good pet, please make me feel good, I’m begging you.” AL-AN pauses for a long moment, and the tentacle twitches. Silently, he resumes his previous position, swirling the tip of the apparently-prehensile appendage briefly around your clit before teasing your entrance. 

“We’ll see how you fare with the prototype, my… pet,” he tests. Satisfied when the nickname sends a fresh, filthy coating of slick down the lewd tendril. “I was going to make more, but I figured one would be a good start to get you used to the sensation.” 

Wait. Start?? 

“What do yoUAAAAH, OHH~,” you moan, unable to contain your volume as AL-AN pushes all the way into you without warning. You suppose, distantly, it would make sense for him to have no decorum in a situation such as this. It burns at first—he really did make it exactly as much as you could take—but the strange, lubricating slime coating the tentacle provides a soothing, cooling sensation against your inner walls, and you recover from the shock far faster than you’re expecting to.

AL-AN makes an odd noise, almost as if a computer’s speaker is glitching. You offer a concerned glance upwards. He did say he wired the appendage to mimic a human nervous system, and it’s not as if a creature of his particular standing would ever have reason to know what this feels like before now. Adjusting to the stretch and trying to regain your bearings through your hazy, desperate mind, you force out a hoarse little question of worry.

“Alan? Are you—” 

Your inquiry gets cut off by a quiet word, one you can’t quite make out. 

“What, hhf, was that?” 

“…More.” 

Without any further warning, AL-AN takes off in a brutal pace, leaning his clawed arms on the wall behind you as his floating limbs pull you deeper with each thrust. You’re babbling something incomprehensibly, the only word the architect is able to understand being his own name. The two of you grab at each other desperately, trying to gain some kind of stability while simultaneously trying to go harder, further, deeper. The entire underside of your thighs, as well as your chest, must be bruised to hell from the sheer force AL-AN produces with his size alone. He begs for you, praising you with every breath, grasping desperately at his own sanity as his voice glitches out in overload. For once in the alien’s life, he’s truly at a loss for words to describe this new discovery.

“Please,” he rasps out. You’ve never heard the architect sound so utterly broken before. You don’t even know what he’s begging for as he repeats the little plea like a mantra. In fact, you think he might not know what he’s begging for, either. It’s just something to keep himself sane with, perhaps, as that sinful tendril shoots violent bolts of pleasure through his body with each thrust into your addictive heat. He drags the appendage down your slick walls over and over again, only managing to separate himself halfway before he just has to ram himself back into you, unable to bear being apart. “Please, pet. I-I need it, I… Please.”

You don’t have the mental faculties left over to be able to process him speaking to you, let alone answer, but your body responds to him in place of your wailing voice and hazy mind. You clench around him in spastic little jerks, drenching him to the hilt and dripping all down your bruising thighs with each mean thrust of his large hips. Time means very little to you at this point, your consciousness tunneling to focus only on that blissful feeling of him stuffing you full over and over, not sure if you can even feel the rest of your body anymore. You could’ve been at this for minutes now, or maybe only seconds, or hours now, and you don’t think you would know the difference. It takes until several hours afterwards to realize your bed is lopsided beneath you now, creaking in protest among the sea of your shared babbles. 

AL-AN has your vision flickering out completely when that terrible thumb of his comes back down to circle around your clit in rapid swipes, vibrating and pulsing against you in a mean cadence like it’s trying to pull something delicious out of you. Stuffed full and burning hot all over, you wonder if you’d even be able to finish your project after this for a few days at least—or, you would, if you could still think about anything but the fire burning through you.

You can’t count the amount of times you’ve gone over the edge at this point. You swear you can feel your orgasms compounding somehow, mind and body alike overstimulated past the point of comprehension. AL-AN doesn’t seem much better off; the poor architect is reaching a similar level of incoherent babbling, movements stuttering as he struggles not to collapse onto you with each thrust. 

You two go like this for god knows how long, your slick creating a wetness to the merciless slapping beneath the chorus of your shared moans. All at once, AL-AN lifts your body from the bed, slamming you down into the new appendage in sporadic thrusts, the pointed tip of it curling against the very bottom of your tight cunt before the alien’s entire body spasms. You can feel AL-AN shaking inside of you, and while nothing comes out of the tentacle, you can pretty clearly feel what’s happening. AL-AN all but collapses to the floor, still stuffed inside of you and cradling you to his chest as he pants desperately. You’re not even sure if the architect actually needs to breathe, but he’s certainly trying to nonetheless. 

After a long moment of silence, the two of you winding down together through your blissful aftershocks, you finally achieve enough mental clarity to speak. “Consider..hff..my..hff..stress..hff..relieved,” you quip hoarsely, gently thunking your head onto AL-AN’s broad chest. 

“Yes..it…appears so,” AL-AN agrees slowly, the glitching of his vocals subsiding with each word. “Vitals.. relaxing. Tension… lowered. Endorphins… skyrocketing.” 

Another, long moment passes. “I believe we will have to work this exercise into our regular routine, with any modifications you may desire along the way,” AL-AN finally manages, voice finally returning to its usual state of calm. 

“I think.. I think I’d..like that,” you agree, and a faint smile tugs at your lips when you feel him twitch inside of you in response. “Are, uh.. Are you going to pull your dick out of me, or..?” 

As if making a point, AL-AN pushes just a little bit more into you, ripping a lewd gasp from your sore throat. Your body twitches hard, and you groan in understanding.

“…Noted.”

A/N: i never actually got far enough in the game to meet the big boy myself bc i am TERRIFIED of subnautica lmao. but he’s still my babygirl nonetheless

plagiarism not authorized.

[frothingmoth]

♤♥ 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 ♧♦

𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

BASICS:

❤ please check the details and FAQs below before submitting an ask to my inbox. ❤ writing commissions are not currently open, but they could be in the future if interest is expressed. ❤ this account will not be associated with any of my mainstream socials, unless i somehow one day break free from my shame (don't hold your breath). ❤ DMs are tentatively open, but i reserve the right to not respond to any messages i receive for any reason. this also extends to any messages in my ask box.

DNI:

♠ MINORS. this is non-negotiable. if i find out you're a minor consuming my content i will GET YOU (see: put you in the timeout chair and block you). ♠ RACIST/HOMOPHOBIC/XENOPHOBIC/ETC. i have no interest in debating my right to exist and i WILL block you on sight <3 ♠ AI DATA MINERS. i do NOT want my content put through the soulless money machine. ♠ PLAGIARISTS. it's hard enough unlearning shame surrounding this area of my creativity. DO NOT MAKE ME REGRET SHARING MY WORK. ♠ HATERS. dude, i'm just gonna make fun of you and then block you. leave it alone. ♠ ENTITLED READERS. i always appreciate engagement with my content, but it is free. unless you are explicitly commissioning me, you do not have a right to tell me what and when to post.

WILL NOT WRITE:

♠ NONCON*. i consider myself a rather freaky fellow (i can even get behind some dubcons like somno or predetermined cnc), but sexualized noncon is an absolute NO. (*an exception is using noncon in horror/angst, where it will be treated as the frightening, traumatizing crime it is) ♠ SCAT, PISS, VOMIT, ETC. the only body excrements i wanna see are blood, sweat, tears, maybe spit, and the secret fifth one. ;3 ♠ UNDERAGE CHARACTERS / READERS. ew.

FAQs:

❤ Can I make a writing request? ❤

sure!! i can't guarantee i'll get to it due to time/interest/energy restraints, but you're always welcome to submit a request :3 you can requests characters (hopefully ones i know), monster types, specific kinks, reader specifications (ex. gnc!reader, amab!reader, stupid pining idiot! reader, etc.), sfw or nsfw, anything you want!! get as specific or vague as you'd like, and i'll latch onto whatever catches my little evil eyes >:3

❤ When do you upload? ❤

this is, unfortunately, very much just a hobby right now. i'll write when i can, but considering my perfectionist tendencies and reliance on sporadic bursts of energy, there is no predictable schedule as of now. sorry pookies </3

❤ Do asks have to be writing requests? ❤

nah, you can ask whatever you want!! i'm a very open person and i love to chat. just don't, y'know, flashbang me with porn or be a generally indecent person or anything like that, and we won't have a problem ^^

❤ Do you only write nsfw? ❤

no i do not!! i can write anything from fluff to angst to the nastiest smut you've ever seen, and everything in between. i'll mostly be using this account for smut with plot, though, unless requested otherwise. i also draw nsfw on occasion, though it's often of one of my own OCs. i'm still debating whether or not i want to post those on this account or not, though ^^;

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞