maybe we're just havin' too much fun

jester - 23 - she/her - minors dni!

[jesterspalace]

welcome to my mtv crib!

the names jester and this is my sideblog where i like to spout my horni shit! my main interests are currently all over the place. i'm jumping from hyperfixations like a flee and i refuse to be smashed or caught.

i might occasionally write but i have commitment issues to everything that comes from my mind. there's a tiny chance i will rework the sipping on the stars fic because i have come to detest it but we shall see.

MINORS DNI!

masterlist

[peppermint-toads]

oh yeah. god forbid johnny is a little curious after hearing your unyielding cries and moans through the wall last night. it’s not his fault he wants to know what all the fuss is about. it can’t be as great as you’re advertising.

and of course he’s rummaging through your drawers to find yours. no he isn’t buying his own when yours is just waiting for him, tucked beneath your nearly folded underwear. it’s already charged up and everything!

it doesn’t take him long to get hard, not when he’s surrounded by all of your things, your smell, your sheets, the underwear he dug through to find your toy. he’s sporting a stiffy in no time at all.

he starts as usual, stroking up and down, gripping harder at the base and thrusting his hips up into his palm. standard procedure.

when he’s nearly halfway there, that’s when he turns the toy on. studying the mechanics before positioning it directly above his tip.

he’s cumming instantly, and harder than he’s ever cum before. he bucks his hips involuntarily, rubbing his bare ass all over your nice, clean sheets.

he doesn’t have time to do anything about it, though, because you’ve just opened the front door, ready to unwind after a terrible day at work.

he does what he can to conceal the evidence, giving the toy a sloppy wipe against his shirt before running to greet you like nothing happened at all.

breathless and a bit red, he asks you about your day.

“you’re being weird, johnny...”

and god if the disgusted look you give him doesn’t make him hard all over again.

“….i’m going to my room.”

you pull your toy out of your drawer and immediately throw it back down. johnny’s cum glistens on the red silicone.

and maybe you smear the leftover cum all over your clit, and maybe you moan extra loud, just to make sure he can hear you.

[jesterspalace]

the sun is warm the world is kind bed is soft man is cuddly life is wonderful!

[angelbumbum]

missionary so i can cup his face and call him a good boy

[completelyandutterlydevoted]

i'm here for you if you ever need a shoulder to bite on

[jesterspalace]

a compilation of ma’am’s brought to you by my good boy 🤭🤭

[vhagars-dementia]

Maekar Targaryen's greatest hits: "OOUGH", "HA🦆HA🦆huh", "eugh🙄", "oh", "Hhhh-" and "idiOT!"

[aquasprings]

because puppyboy yuji was so highly requested…

puppyboy!yuji who’s crushing on you??

the comment just slips out of nobara’s mouth like it’s nothing. “honestly, he’s like a dog.”

you blink. “who?”

she levels you with a bland look. “who do you think?”

she nods her head to yuji, who’s walking past with megumi. he’s all smiles and as if summoned by the universe itself, he looks up, eyes landing on you. his smile softens, he waves.

your heart does an embarrassing little somersault.

nobara leans in. “exhibit a.”

“i don’t see it,” you say weakly.

“if he had a tail, it’d be wagging right now. he likes you.”

“…no, he doesn’t,” you mumble unconvincingly.

“please. he’ll start bringing you sticks if you asked.”

you feel heat creep up your neck. “you’re exaggerating.”

nobara snorts. “am i? call him a good boy, see what happens.”

“i am not doing that,” you choke.

she just hums, already bored with your resistance. “suit yourself. you’re missing out on prime entertainment.”

so, naturally, later, when you and yuji are asked to pick up supplies from storage (extra training mats? you weren’t quite sure), nobara’s words linger in the back of your mind.

he grabs the boxes without complaint, and reaches over to add the ones you had in your arms to his pile.

“i got those,” he says, easy and bright.

“yuji, you’re already carrying like—five.”

he grins. “six isn’t that different.”

your chest does that stupid flip again, and: “thanks,” you say softly. “you’re such a good boy.”

silence.

yuji freezes mid-step, and you immediately regret everything.

“i didn’t mean—i mean, i did mean it, but not like—i just—” you start rambling, heat flooding your face.

he turns to look at you, and oh.

if nobara had been exaggerating before, she isn’t now.

his ears are bright red, eyes wide, and his smile, that usual easy grin of his, has gone all shy around the edges.

“i—what—” he stammers, voice cracking. “wha—did you just….”

you briefly consider faking your own death. “i just meant—”

his expression softens, deepens, turns warm and a little dazed. “say it again,” he blurts.

you blink. “what?”

“th-that,” he says, flustered. “what you just said.”

your pulse is loud in your ears. “…good boy?”

if possible, he gets even redder.

“man,” he laughs nervously, ducking his head. “that—uh—felt really nice.”

your heart melts, reduced to a puddle on the floor.

“it wasn’t, like…weird?”

“no!” he blurts immediately. “i, uh—you can say it again. only if you want to! just—yeah.”

he looks at you with those soft brown eyes, that gentle smile.

nobara was right.

you smile despite it. “c’mon, good boy. let’s drop these off.”

you don’t miss the way his entire face lights up this time “right!” he says, grinning. “i got it!”

yeah. if he had a tail, it’d be knocking things over.

[bonda9e]

[cod-indulgences]

König x afab!reader, König POV, portal pussy, when the fleshlight is a literal one lol, noncon/dubcon (reader is not featured and can't consent), loser!/inexperienced!König, edging, size kink(ish)

König's never seen a portal pussy before. It's one of those things that floats around as a rumor in barracks, someone's girl back home sending her boyfriend to war with her actual own pussy to keep him entertained, but no one König knows ever actually had one.

Which is why it's strange to find this one stuck behind a file cabinet in one of the out of the way storage closets, but König had spotted the edge of the cylinder and drawn it out, curious. The soft little pussy inside it had been a surprise, so he tucked it away and scurried back to his room.

He holds it in front of his face now, breathing softly on the folds. Cute little hole, clit hiding back, not yet awake, and he wonders who it belongs to. No identifying marks, of course, and he hums and palms his cock as he kisses the clit, nuzzling it, imagining what it would be like on a real girl.

He's never eaten out a girl, either, and this would be a good way to practice.

He licks softly- he's maybe a little nervous- and does it again when the tight little hole clenches. He keeps it up, gentle touches, kisses, feeling out how the pussy responds- the way it throbs a little, getting slick from more than his spit, when he sucks at the clit a bit harder, when he drags his tongue up and down in long sweet licks.

The first spurt of slick, of musky-sweet pussy on his tongue, makes his cock leak, adding to the strokes he's giving himself. Delicious, delicious, and König squirms his tongue inside- so tight!- and goes after more of that taste, letting the smell fill his nose, fisting his cock harder at every gush, every pulsing squeeze around his tongue, feeling the little spasms, and- oh!

König pulls away to breathe, panting, and comes all over his belly.

"Amazing," he says to himself, licking his lips, and sets the portal pussy down to clean up. It shines wetly at him, folds swollen and hole slippery from his tongue, so he tucks it back into his pocket- he might get a chance again later.

He finds himself playing with it, idle, like he might flip a coin between his fingers or click a pen. The clit is firmer now and satisfying to rub his thumb over, feeling the way the rest of the pussy grows wetter, but he's sitting through two meetings for upcoming missions that he needs to be present for. He actually finds it helps him focus.

He ducks into a bathroom after the first meeting and pulls it out. The pussy is swollen and slippery, throbbing when he dares to slip a finger inside, feel the way it squeezes on him. So tight, he doesn't think he could fit his cock inside!

He's never done this before either, and König carefully draws his finger out, feeling the way the pussy clings to him, before pushing back inside with two.

The pussy clenches, shuddering, and he kisses its little clit again. There's a pulsing squeeze around his fingers, and he moves them back and forth, playing with the inner walls, rubbing around the soft, slick tissue. There's a firmer spot he finds, and the pussy gets so wet when he rubs it that he has to pause, and lick the slick away, to avoid a mess.

He only has a few minutes, so König takes his cock out and rubs the head over the pussy, smearing slick around, before he jerks himself off, quick. His come spills over the pussy, some of it sucked inside the clenching little hole, and there's a desperate sort of feeling about it, like the person attached to the other end is shivering, but he doesn't have time to wonder.

König makes it through the day with his little secret, now and then playing with the pussy, a reminder for himself of what he can have later, the wet folds and throbbing clit welcoming his fingers more easily. Two of them pump in and out, soft wet squelches in his pocket, and he keeps an eye out when he passes through the common areas- he doesn't see anyone gasping or moaning, no one stuck red-faced in a corner with their thighs squeezed together, so he figures whoever is on the other end is holed up in their own room.

He's so curious, why leave the portal somewhere it could be found? Was it an accident, did it roll away out of a bag or box? Was it meant to be found by someone else, someone special, a partner who would know the clenching, sweating body on the other side? Maybe the person wanted a stranger to find it, has been walking around with their pussy bare and vulnerable to whoever might pick it up and fuck it.

The thought excites him so much he forgets to be gentle, and his thumb presses down hard over the clit, pussy clenching so tight on his fingers it must ache, and König's cock throbs when there's a sharper spasm, a squeeze drawing his fingers in deeper, and he realizes he made the pussy come.

He all but runs back to his room, and takes the pussy out, looking at it. Dripping slick, flushed and swollen, clit sitting pretty at the top, and König licks it clean, swallowing every drop of cum, sucking at the clit again. Only when there's fresh new slick gushing onto his tongue does he let it go, and pull his own cock out, laying on his bed with his pants down.

The pussy resists him, the tight little hole clenching against the head of his cock, so he uses his fingers to stretch it out more- three spreading wide, feeling all the soft walls and spongy nerves, the wet heat, and when he fits the round head of his cock against it the pussy drools, folds all soft and open, welcoming him, and squeezes the head inside.

He pants, moaning, at the delicious pressure, the way the pussy spasms, straining. He can hold it just like this, swallowing the head of his cock, and he clutches at the cylinder end, pushing down steadily.

Heaven, hot wet slick heaven, pussy quivering around him as he works his length inside. He has to stop and catch his breath halfway down, his bursts of precome slicking the way a little more, and rubs over its clit again, grounding himself with the little firm bud rolling under his thumb-

The pussy spasms, clenching, König moaning as he feels the shuddering waves on his cock this time, the orgasm sucking at him, begging for more, pussy so wet and open, and he howls in relief when he slams it down the rest of the way, a grip around his cock so tight and impossibly sweet he nearly cries. His first time fucking a pussy, and it's perfect, his to play with and enjoy, to sate his throbbing cock inside it.

Looking down, the pussy strains around the fat base of his cock, quivering, and he spits on his fingers to rub the clit again. He wants it again, the deep squeeze and pulse, the hot wet orgasm he can give it, and König fucks the portal pussy up and down over his cock, hard, as fast as he would normally jerk off, keeping his other thumb and fingers pinching on the clit.

The spongy, slippery insides shudder around his cock, and when he grinds it all the way down, clit and folds smashed to his groin, he feels the last resistance on his cock, the end of the pussy, no where else to go- he's filled it up completely, stretched it out, and König moans and shudders as the pussy spasms so hard it hurts, fluids leaking over his skin, musky and tangy and oh, he's coming, his eyes rolled back and his balls tight, shoving his cock deep and deeper into that little circle at the end, where his cock can't go.

He keeps his cock inside after he comes, panting, not ready to leave yet. So hot and wet and tight, shuddering, the pulse in the swollen little clit throbbing on his fingers. Oh, what sweet relief, and König sighs and rolls to his side, tucking the portal pussy up against his belly so it'll stay in place on his cock. He'll take a break, nap a while, and then he wants to see if he can make the pussy come on his tongue again.

[deadlyr0s3]

oh, fuck, the doctor said i'm really sick. you won't believe this, but the only cure is being absolutely railed by you til i can't speak anymore

[francisforever2014]

how it feels to refer to men’s “pecs” as their tits

[tteokdoroki]

What do you think about Yuuji being so engrossed in fucking you that he accidentally let Sukuna out?

🛞 FLIP THE SWITCH ✩  yuuji itadori ft ryomen sukuna .ᐟ

🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 yuuji always maintains a good grip on his emotions. for his friends, for his old teachers, for you. he has to, in order to protect the ones he loves from sukuna. except for the one time he doesn’t. (3.1K)

🏁 safety car ! ⋆ not safe for work ⋆ smut ⋆ eighteen plus only. curses au, sorta canon compliant, characters in 20s, established relationship, dubcon, marking, cheating (kinda?), implied violence, rough sex, unprotected sex, jujutsu sorcerer yuuji itadori, sukuna & fem reader.

── © tteokdoroki ╱ 2026.

i feel like yuuji always does his best to make sure he’s in control around you. he’s pretty good at keeping sukuna in check usually, around his old teachers and his friends — but around you he works overtime. there’s a constant fear that the king of curses will jump out and maim you… it’s all sukuna really talks about. how he’s so excited to taste your flesh, pull you apart maybe even wreck that sweet hole of yours if yuuji lets him slip.

it’s why he keeps his emotions in check too. you never fuck angry, you never stay angry at one another in case sukuna sees a crack in your sweet boyfriend’s resolve and does his best to break free — trickling through the teeny tiny emotional wound before the two of you’ve had a chance to patch things up. sukuna’s always watching though, waiting — he almost knows your body as well as itadori does since he’s seeing the world through his eyes, anyway. you love being full, two fingers reaching for the back of your throat whilst two more play with the gooey mess lathered over your clit. sometimes, you like it soft and tender — on your back while the brat moves languid and slow as if he’s trying to carve his way into the depths of your body and live between each one of your ribs. he might as well enjoy the show.

sukuna’s memorised the way you moan when your flesh is tortured with teeth marks and bitten into. how you gush hot slick when your tummy is pressed down on and how pathetic you look when you stand on the very edge of ecstasy like a thrill seeker — ready to die for the love of it all. you get all teary eyed and helpless underneath itadori’s brute strength and ravaging thrusts. you’re so soft, sukuna aches for the day it’ll be his turn to ruin you and show you real sin. he’d be lying if the thought of you fearful and weak underneath him didn’t make his mouth water. with a pussy so pudgy and ripe for the taking, how could he not? you’re lucky the pink haired brat is so difficult to over turn. 

regardless of sukuna watching or not — sex with yuuji is always so intense. his mind empties of all thought, except for you, zeroed in on your pleasure. the man pours enough passion into you until your cup overflows and tips over, spilling the secrets of his affections for you like that of wine. blood red like that which courses through his veins and heart that beats purely for you. even if it’s deep rooted and fuelled by emotion, yuuji keeps himself contained in fear of switching out. hurting you. showing you the face of someone he can’t bear to see in the mirror.

though it’s a little more difficult for him when the day has been rough and worn hard on the sorcerer. there’s bruises all over his body, hot to the touch and tender under your fingertips that claw their way into his skin and he’s tired. so, so tired, he feels that he might break into a thousand tiny pieces that only you can slot back together — knowing where each of them fit. the mission today was a bust, nobara with her nagging had pissed him all the way off and people… people died. he knows he can’t erase it, wash the blood from his hands and shower away the weight of improper deaths — but what he can do, is lose himself in the beauty of you. 

soft and safe — supple skin running warm with heat radiating from your body, enough to thaw out itadori’s heart before it has a chance to turn cold and corrupted. he leans into you, hopes that you’ll bathe him in good and scrub the dirt of his crimes from underneath his fingernails. when he said he needed you, you didn’t hesitate to give up your body and your heart to soothe him — letting muscle and bone meld with your own like hot iron smelted down into something more viscous. like liquid lust.

yuuji has your ankles by his ears, sloppy open-mouthed kisses tracing the swell of your calf in a wordless declaration of love. thank you for being here. thank you for letting me use you. the position stretches your pudgy pussy over his thickness, widest as the base where the pink haired sorcerer bottoms out each time — caramel eyes sweet as molten sugar dart down to the slick space between your legs where you shimmer for him, around him, drooling all wet on his shaft that pumps in and out of you deeply. 

his eyes gloss over, darkened, but hardly unsettling — it makes your belly swirl with butterflies, the delicious burn of his girth carvings way inside of you. the pulsating veins brush up against spots you can never seem to reach yourself and his bulbous cockhead pushes out copious amounts of precum along your cervix. marking you from the inside out. it hurts in the best of ways but you can see yuuji losing himself too much to memories outside of just you and him. the day that wreaked havoc on his joy turns his thrusts to a bullying pace and sends the headboard slamming into the wall behind the bed, who wails under every forceful swaying motion. 

“god, y-yuuji…!” you yelp dreamily, a sharp buck of his hips sending you reeling. feeling as though his hardness is far enough inside you to lie between your lungs. 

to bring him back to you, your trembling fingers reach out to touch itadori’s scarred face — your thumb brushing over the damp swell of his bottom lip and tracing the chapped skin there. smoothed over by his drooling. yuuji tilts his head away from where his nose is tucked against your calf, fluttering gaze finding yours before he switches gears pushing behind your knees with a rough palm so that they bend at his waist whilst he lies between them where you’re spread. 

“i know baby, ‘m sorry, i know,” some semblance of the sorcerer that you love emerges from his hazy state, still gliding in and out of you with sloppy ease but this time — close and personal, back where he needs to be. yuuji presses a kiss to your temple, balmy when he gathers enough energy to speak. “fuck, you take it so well, even when ‘m being rough. makin’ me feel s-so good, baby.” he praises, heady need spreading through his limbs like an uncontrolled fire. you feel it too, doing your best to grind up into him and meet your boyfriend’s pace rather than run from it. he needs you today. 

“mmnnn…fuck, yuu!” you gasp wantonly — back arching from the sheets coated in your sweat and other evidence of your tiny together. “f-fuck me, m-more! please!”

you plead wildly, but you’ve no idea what it is that you’re asking itadori for. he does what he can to soothe you, tongue dragging down the side of your face while his rough hands roam free. tweaking the sensitive peaks of your nipples, smoothing down your navel shortly after just to roll your clit from side to side between your sticky folds. he’s relentless, taking frustration out on you that he can’t seem to get out of his head. and you’re such a good girl because of it, cunt suctioning him down — obscene claggy noises echoing between your bodies and tangling with moans that hang in the balmy air. 

“mhm, yeah? you just want me to take it all out on you,” itadori mumbles attentively, a groan so deep and debauched rumbling from the centre of his chest and right through you. the sound is soft, cushioned by sweet nothings and gentle praises written into your feverish skin but contrasts with the manner in which yuuji manhandles you — pulling you up by the backs of your knees off the bed, settling further into your cunt that strangles him so sweetly. “gonna cum for me, baby? can feel you getting so close. so goddamn warm and tight, fuck.” 

his vocal tone, so far gone and dangerous causes your eyes to screw shut and your pussy to gush involuntarily like she has a mind of her own. your shaky arms weave their way around yuuji’s neck to anchor him to you whilst you nod along with his mindless, horny chatter. “y-yes, please…” impossibly, he presses himself closer as you cry and squeal, the knots winding and binding you to hold your orgasm back slowly beginning to unravel before you have a chance to register. sweat drips from his torso to yours, droplets running between the valley of your bouncing breasts. 

he doesn’t say anything in response, gargling on his own gripes and groans — focused on pumping you full of everything he has to give, lining your ripe walls with an early release. with yours just over the horizon, yuuji bucks his hips faster and harder, just barely pulling himself from your snug sex. for a moment, the world stills, the only sounds bouncing off the walls and condensing against them being the souse slap of skin on skin in unequal rhythm — signifying the crescendo of your love making.

you leave tiger’s stripes down the length of his back with your nails, crescent moons at intervals because you need anchor yourself to the earth before he takes you to the heavens. in return, yuuji pants hungrily into your ear — jumbled promises of filling you up sliding over your brain like a dark veil. he’s just as close as you are, you can tell my every twitch and tick of his body against yours … but suddenly the vibe shifts into something more uncertain. almost frightening.

you feel him swell between the thighs, thicker than he was before — having to work extra hard to drive those inches into your ruined, sloppy mound. the higher octave of yuuji’s sweet molasses voice bubbles into something gruffer and sinister as he curses against your bare shoulder, pink hair tickling your neck for only a second. in the next, your boyfriend is lifting his chest from yours to grasp at the headboard — knuckles whitening from the grip on hard wood. 

deft digits press into your pulsating flit, flicking it aggressively from side to side whilst you bow upwards and away from the damp linens sticking to your back. this isn’t like yuuju, to rough you up without notice — to make it spring as he folds you in half and plunge into your rippling walls with violent vigor. it’s only when a sharpened gallon spreads your slit wide on his devastatingly fat cock do you realise who and what is above you. 

the king of curses, balls deep in your pussy that greedily locks around him like he’s yours. 

everything about him is near identical to your loving, doting boyfriend. the one who protects you, makes love to you and cherishes your kisses like they’re made of wisps of sugar that’ll melt in water. now that sukuna’s taken over — brutish and bullying as he bulges within your stomach and spreads your legs wide enough to hit the strength of his hips. the weight of him crushes you delightfully, roughly smacking into you, pressing down on your lungs and heart. you know that at any moment — he could kill you and leave you a mess for itadori to clean up. so even though you should, you don’t hate it. 

“s-sukuna—!” nonetheless, you whimper — vision blurred in bliss, every inch of your body and all four of your limbs trembling. 

“you don’t look so happy to see me, human,” a cruel grin splits wide on familiar lips — the expression somehow sinister on the face of the man you love so much. sukuna leans in, the black ink lines of his tattoos settle, and crease in concentration as he ploughs you into the bed so hard it screams for him to stop. you feel him grind against your g-spot, tormenting the squishy patch over and over. your quivering hole spews waves of essence, bathing what’s inside and what doesn’t fit. much larger than your boyfriend — you hate to admit. “i’m here to finish the job that brat can’t. he’s too tired to make this hole wet like it’s supposed to be.” 

in a frenzied and weak attempt, you shove hard at yuuji — sukuna’s solid his chest and even though, you like it so much, your hips try to squirm away but to no avail. the curse has you pinned against the bed by his taut abs mashing against your puffy pleasure nub. “p-please, d-don’t!” 

“why not? because you’re scared you might be cheating on the brat?” sukuna leers down at you, predator on prey, and lifts you by the fat at your hips — pulling you back and forth on his erection as though you’re a rag doll. all you can do is moan whorishly, high and loud, because you’re overwhelmed at the weight of him brushing up against your sensitive spots. his cockhead ripe and raw red threatening to fill you with the cum broiling in his plump balls. they clap wetly against your ass the faster he moves. “he’s asleep, little human. he won’t ever know. just let me use this perfect cunt while i’m here. i’m tired of waiting around. let me show you how it’s done.” 

you shake your head ‘no’ but everything else about you is screaming ‘yes!’. everything is so intense, harsher than tbh ever would be if it were your boyfriend. he’d never rough you up like this, wind that hot coil in your gut thrust after thrust. w-wait!” you cry lecherously, your body failing to fall in tune with the curse’s rampant rhythm. even though it’s bullying and harsh, it’s still coordinated enough to make you see stars. “oh god….”

the closer you get the more you succumb to the curse’s charm, falling under sukuna’s spell as he rocks you over the the length of him — your cream catches on the ridges that spiral down his cock. purple and blue veins pulsing with his own impending release, brought forth by yuuji earlier on. sukuna cages you in, chest to chest, your nipples brushing over his sturdy pecs and sweaty black markings before growling against your neck. his teeth brush over the skin, sharper than yuuji’s, but he doesn’t dare leave a mark — only taunting you with the possibility of ripping your throat out.

you keep him close, shaky fingers raking through the undercut he shares with your boyfriend and easing into soaked pink hair — you yank as hard as you can, though you’re sure he feels no pain in comparison to your puny assault. 

“that’s right, pretty human. take it. use it. cum on it like the pretty cockhungry thing you are.” the loss of rhythm and control in sukuna’s lunging hips becomes too obvious to ignore, chasing his own high. like you’re nothing but a pocket pussy for the greedy curse to use after a millennia of sex starvation. you throb at the idea of cumming on him, for him — terrified by the guilt it may bring. though, you no longer fight the reckless sway of your hips up to meet his and you settle into his bruising grip — claws digging into the flesh at your hips. 

your final straw is when the brutish curse lets his thick, saliva soaked tongue lave over your chest — curling around the underside of your boob to taste the perspiration that gathers there. you hiccup weakly at the sensation, throwing your head back into pillows saturated with your boyfriend’s scent whilst you scratch at sukuna’s scalp again. “‘m… fuck! ‘m cumming —!” you announce, convulsing as the words come out and your juices splash between your folds, smearing all over sukuna’s tummy.

he does nothing but snarl like he’s won something, dark eyes lighting up with mischiefs and reward. “that’s right, pretty human. cum for me like you couldn’t for that insolent brat,” sukuna follows suit, barely holding on behind you, lifting you high off the bed as his cum pours into you hotly. thick; potent as it lines the entrance to your womb. you suction around him, pulling what spills out back in and he makes it stick — just barely managing to tug himself from your selfish entrance only to slam it further into you. 

when sukuna is done… there is no kiss to calm you down or praises against your ear to tell you how well you’ve taken him. instead, he draws back just enough to look at you — menacing yet magnificent. ruined by sex, yet pleased all the same. wearily, you blink up at him and blink away tears to avoid the shame unsure of what to expect or how frightened you should be…

sukuna surprises you, brushing back your sweaty hair drowsily — on the verge of collapse as your boyfriend resumes control.

“see you next time, little human.” 

he says carefully, eyes rolling back into his skull against his will. 

a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding makes its way out into the humid air. shaky because of his promise or his threat as he passes out on top of you.

you don’t know how long you lay there, boneless underneath the heat and weight of… what’s now yuuji. his markings long since faded. immense guilt gnaws at your nervous system and you’re afraid that if you talk, you’ll break yuuji itadori’s big heart. he softens inside you, wrapped in the warmth of your orgasm snd his thick cream — that came from him but spoke the claim of the ryomen sukuna. it feels nice, though foreign, you don’t dare admit that you might have liked the trade off.

“wh-what happened?” groans your boyfriend when he finally comes to, lifting a fluffy pink head full of hair from your heaving chest. “did you… did you finish already?”

“passed out when you came with me,” you giggle and brush back his bangs. a sugar coated lie to keep his precious heart safe. “it was perfect. you’re perfect.”

it’s a weak narrative that you device to spin, one that yuuji runs with — believes in because your slick is running down his shaft that glistens with milky white precum and smears lazily over plush folds. he peppers innocent kisses across your wet cheeks, the promise of cleaning you up later hidden behind them. the action makes you shiver, not just because of how loved you feel…but because of how much thrill seeking it is to have a sukuna watch you. make sure you play pretend just right.

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend

[ghouljams]

Date Needed For Easter Reunion. Desperate.

Rating: E Words: 23.6k Tags: Soap x f!reader, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, unreliable narrator, unstable!reader, self-inflicted brainwashing, gaslighting, manipulation, strangers -> ???, non/dub con, cnc, wrestling, Erectile Dysfunction, Catholicism, biting, marking, non-consensual kissing, non-consensual marriage, religious delusion, oral sex (f and m receiving), piv sex, craigslist meet-cute, dirty talk, implied stalking, mild kidnapping, implied past abuse, on the run!reader, Johnny has a traumatic brain injury, breeding kink, unsafe bdsm dynamics, non-consensual sub training, fingering, cockwarming, hand jobs

Summary: You need an escape plan and respond to an ad online looking for a date. John Mactavish doesn't exactly offer you freedom in exchange.

<-Date needed for Easter reunion. Desperate.

[casual encounters]

“I'm a recently discharged, disabled veteran(medical: TBI) who never had time to date but has a very nosey (very catholic) family that asks a lot of questions. My mam just wants to know someone is taking care of me (can take care of myself) so I may have lied to her and told her I was dating someone. Which is where you come in.

You are:

-single

-willing to lie

-looking for a holiday in Scotland

-able to sit through mass

I will pay you in:

-my mam's cooking (it's good)

-free trip to the highlands

-whatever you want to steal from my sister's closet

Date is needed for my family reunion on Holy Saturday so I can reassure people I’m not going to accidentally die alone in my flat.

*

You stare at the man across the table from you and try to catalogue his features. If you don’t break him down piecemeal then the weight of his good looks might cause you to buckle. Two eyes, electric blue. Staring at them too long forces your gaze to wander away from them to other parts of his face. Two lips, pink and quirked into a crooked smile, showing off slightly discolored teeth. Coffee, you think, glancing down at his steaming cup. Your eyes drift up to his again, and again you find them drifting away. One bold pink scar at his temple, star shaped and cutting through his closely shaved hair in a single jagged slice. Your eyes linger on it until he reaches, almost sheepishly, to touch the thing.

“Aye, let’s get that out of the way first.” John agrees with your silent staring. You shake your head and focus on his eyes again, on the slight crease between his brow that speaks of unease.

“Oh, no it’s-” you hesitate on the words, “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to, we can just ignore it.” He stares at you and you tack on, “I’m sorry for staring.”

“Nae the first person to stare, willnae be the last.” He hums. It feels like a reminder of sorts. For him you’re sure, but the familiarity of his tone makes you feel oddly… included. 

“Does your-” You stop yourself from asking if his family stares, that feels a little too personal in a way that you can’t be with a stranger, “-Does your family already think you have a girlfriend?” You ask instead. John laughs and it’s so deep and throaty that it catches your breath in your chest. 

“Aye, been tellin’ them I had you for a while now.” He nods, “Been dyin’ tae meet ya, but I kept putting it off.”

It’s your turn to nod. You understand that. It’s easier to keep a lie going than have a new one to tie together.

“Y’are a bonnie thing,” John mumbles, his lips catching against each other, his tongue weighted and his brows drawn low, he swallows before enunciating, “so sweet Ah cannae believe someone else hasnae sunk their teeth intae ya.” 

You’ve held his gaze too long, the violent blue shivers and shakes, with the strain of staring back at you. You feel your left eye twitch and jerkingly look down at your folded hands on the table. The color of your knuckles looks thinner, strained by the clench of your fingers against the wood. Anything to keep the anxious shaking at bay. Impatient to get away from the public eye, but grateful for the chance to meet a stranger with so many witnesses.

Your brain tries to latch onto John’s… compliment, and you brush it off. The doctor had said traumatic brain injuries make people impulsive, make it harder for them to police what they’re saying and doing. You can’t hold it against him if his inside thoughts roll off his tongue into the outside.

Actually, you feel sort of bad for taking advantage of the guy. You need him more than he needs you. The quick escape he offers isn’t one you take lightly, and this ruse is more reliable than anything else. It’s just… he seems nice. The way he fusses with his jumper reminds you of a puppy trying to walk with shoes on for the first time. He’s big and uncoordinated in a way that you should find endearing. His hands shake, his fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as a way to divert the energy. He squeezes his fingers into a tight fist when he notices you staring.

“Another gift from the bullet that had me discharged.” He huffs, “Makes mah mam worry seein’ me shake, made mah captain worry too.” The words are bitter in his mouth and you meet his gaze against your better judgement. “S’why they tossed me, cannae have a trigger finger this itchy.”

“Your mum must love you a lot.” You offer, the words feel hollow in your mouth. What’s that like, you wonder, having a parent that cares enough about you to worry over something like the tremor in your hands? 

John smiles, turns his gaze down to his fist and spreads his fingers out onto the table. It’s warm. The sort of expression that people with normal families have.

“Ah ken,” He shakes his head, “but she’s getting older, cannae have her running down to London for every doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh,” you frown, “that would be annoying.” Though you can’t say you aren’t envious. Had your family ever done the same for you? It was always a fight just to stay home from school, you know wouldn’t drop a thing for a doctor’s appointment much less driven across the country. 

“Ahm a grown man, dinnae need mah mam fer mah PT.” John insists. “Mah sisters are bad enough with all their badgerin’ me.” He sighs. “They mean well, Ah s’ppose, shouldnae fault them tha’.”

“Well,” you falter. It’s more than just taking advantage of one guy, you’re conning an entire family just to get yourself out of a situation of your own making. He should find someone else, someone better suited for dealing with a family that so clearly cares about him. But he’s not going to, you need this. You plaster on a smile and tell him, “It’s good you’ve got me, we’ll convince them you’re doing better than ever.”

John’s eyes flick to yours and you get the distinct impression of someone looking through rather than at you. It sends a shiver down your spine and you scramble to explain yourself before John can call your bluff. “I’ll make sure to tell her how capable you are, I mean.” You supply. John nods, his smile cut by his teeth in a way that feigns sincerity better than your mother ever could. 

“Gonna have to convince more than just mah mam and sisters,” he reminds you, “Plenty of kin for ya tae meet.” You must make a face because his smile grows to a size you’re sure must hurt his cheeks. “Got more than 50 people comin’ tae the reunion, more than that cannae take the time off for travel.”

You sit back in your chair with a rush of breath. Fifty? Fifty people. Fifty strangers you have to lie to for a whole day. Fifty names you’ll have to pretend to remember. Jesus.

“Jesus.” You mumble.

“Aye,” John hums, “it’s His doin’ that Mactavishes are a fertile brood.” The way he purrs it makes your stomach clench. You’re missing the context that haunts his voice, and you shake off the feeling in favor of changing the topic.

“So how long is the reunion?” It’s inelegant but it gets the job done. If John notices he doesn’t show it, immediately humming and bobbing his head like he’s trying to think. He crosses his arms over his chest and you’re struck by how big this guy is. Not uncoordinated then. John’s biceps strain against the bulk of his jumper, his broad chest squeezed between the trunks of his arms in a way that makes him look bulky. His shoulders roll back to a broad, square set that makes his neck seem thicker. You should get the impression that he’s putting on a show for you, but there’s no flex to his musculature, just the unquestionable presence of strength.

Strength that always seemed to haunt the silent wishes of every other man in your life, now personified and stripped of the authority to use it.

You swallow down the interest that slides to settle warm between your legs. 

“I can drive up Friday night, then the reunion is Saturday, and Mass on Sunday.” He counts off eyes roaming around the shop. He- 

Well, you don’t know how to describe it. John’s mood seems to change as quickly as the wind, his bright bubbling air turning teasing then wistful or purring and now this serious tone. Business-like where you would have sworn he was flirting with you. You glance at the scar on his temple, the pink seam of it seeming more obvious with each symptom that adds itself to the list. You wonder if he’s also forgetful, impulsive, if he’s prone to short tempers. You wonder how his vision is, and the thought of him driving suddenly makes you very nervous.

“I can drive.” You tell him quickly. He blinks at you and you find the air changed again, his expressions more open than you’ve seen even in children --perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not his mood changing so much as it is an openness that you’re not used to, you tell yourself he wears his heart on his sleeve, and find the thought somewhat relaxes you-- a gentle parting of his lips and soft raise of his brow that says you’ve caught him off guard.

“Ya wouldnae prefer flyin’?” He asks, and you cringe. You had mentioned in your emails that you were looking at flights, and he’d generously offered to compensate you. At the time you’d been eager to snatch up the opportunity, but now? Now the thought of leaving this man alone, with his shaking hands and poor vision, to drive for hours up to Glasgow felt wrong. You were already taking advantage of his need for a body to get yourself out of trouble, you couldn’t let him die in a road accident too. 

“No, I-” You search for an inoffensive answer, something that doesn’t make you sound like the terrible person you are, “I think it would be better if we arrived together, right? Happy and in love?”

John studies you for a moment before pouting his lips briefly and nodding, he hadn’t considered that you suppose.

“Aye,” He says slowly before he tips his head ever so slightly, “an’ we are happy an’ in love people, aren’t we, hen?”

“Oh definitely,” You agree. There’s something nervous and fluttery in your chest at his tone. Something that squeezes tight and fawns before you can chase the feeling down. It makes him smile, and the wide toothy grin he fixes you with crooks your stomach as quickly as it crooks his lips.

“Then we’ll drive up together.” He agrees. 

*

Despite the short notice you manage to get a hotel booked for Easter. It makes you feel a little slimy, squirms in your stomach oddly, but you plan on dipping out right after mass and leaving John with his family. If they’re as doting as he makes them out to be then he’ll have no trouble finding his way home. Besides, he already offered his car for the drive, so it’s not like he’s totally stranded. You made your peace with the sort of person you are long ago, you shouldn’t feel so bad leaving some disabled veteran in better hands. 

It’ll be a nice little vacation in a beautiful place, you’ll do something touristy, and then start figuring out your new life. You don’t deserve the vacation, but you don’t deserve a lot of things. John does though, for all you’re sure he’s been through, so you make yourself happy to play house with him. At least he’s not bad to look at. You could do worse, and you have.

You’re almost surprised by how short the bus ride to his flat is. He’s so close-by but you’ve never run into him. You recognize one of the patisseries you pass and hesitate to continue the rest of your walk at the prospect of getting a slice of cake. You check your time and decide to stop in for a road trip snack. You can give John this kindness at least. You hope he likes sweets.

Of course your detour leaves knocking on John’s door feeling like a herculean task. You raise your fist and hold it there for what feels like ages, your mind running a million miles a minute trying to spin out all the worst case scenarios.

This is insane. Actually insane. You’re running off to Scotland with a man you don’t know to meet a family that might not even exist --though you did spend a good few hours googling the Mactavish clan and what do you know John’s face is front and center, along with his discharge notice (ouch)-- just to get away from- well, you know what you’re running from. No sense dwelling on it when you’re so close to your new life. You learned your lesson with the Austrian, you’ll get away from John as soon as you’re able to and disappear into the highlands. Maybe you’ll herd sheep.

You knock on the door with your confidence renewed and John pulls it open immediately, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled and his shirt on inside out. His breathing is haggard and you watch him quickly end a call with someone marked only by a skull emoji, the tinny voice on the other end sounds rough and unhappy before it’s cut off. John offers you an apologetic smile and scratches the back of his neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” He says by way of explanation.

“I, um-” you hold up the bag of biscuits, “I stopped for a snack, for the road.” You check your phone. “I’m only a few minutes late.”

“Right.” John shakes his head, blinking his eyes as his brows draw down, like he’s trying to clear it, “Sorry, that- of course you’re not late, why would you be late?” He trails off, muttering to himself as he turns and stalks back into his flat. He seems to remember you and turns back to the door. “Come in, Ahm just finishin’ packin’ up.”

“It’s just the weekend.” You tell him, shuffling into his flat. You keep close to the wall and try not to look like you’re looking around. It’s sparsely decorated. Honestly it reminds you of those “male living space” memes that float around occasionally. The guy has a folding chair set up at a card table and not much else. You try to tip your head to get a glance at the bedroom and catch the corner of a mattress set on the floor. You grimace at the thought. 

You hear him muttering to himself and do your best not to eavesdrop too much. You’re sure he’s stressed about going to see his family, and you’re even more sure that living like this isn’t helping. Maybe his mum is right and he really does need the help. You feel that ever present pang of guilt start to gnaw at you at the thought. Fuck.

You’d read up a bit more on traumatic brain injuries --always eager to go the extra mile for someone else where you couldn’t for yourself-- and the idea that John had been living with virtually no support, his family a hundred miles away and his house barely fit for habitation, makes you really fucking sad. This guy probably lost everything he’d been working towards in the army, and now he’s living in this shitty flat with nobody around to care about him. And you’re taking advantage of his desperation to prove he isn’t the incapable man his mum is worried about in order to get a free trip and a new life. You’re really despicable.

Looking around though it’s pretty clear he isn’t taking care of himself. You don’t see any PT equipment or pictures, there’s not even a second chair or dishes in the sink. It’s like no one lives here. Even you had keepsakes tucked away in your “weekend” bag. John’s got a whole lot of nothing. 

“Sorry,” John sighs, hefting a packed duffle bag over his shoulder, his entrance jolts you out of your thoughts and you nearly crush your biscuits in surprise, “movin’ y’ken?”

“Sorry?” you blink, “Moving?”

“Aye.” John nods, dropping his bag to rifle through it, he tugs a pillbox free and opens the Friday morning tab, shaking the couple tablets into his waiting palm. He takes the pills dry before zipping the bag. “Back up tae Glasgow, be closer to mah mam an’ all that.”

“Oh.” You feel heat burn your cheeks, that explains the empty apartment. Guilt pokes at you again, you’d put him in the same category as his mum, incapable of taking care of himself. God. Are you a bad person? You are. You know you are, but are you this sort of bad? The “tbi automatically means this guy is dysfunctional” kind of bad?

You didn’t think you were before all of this.

“That’s nice.” You cover. John hums as he stands. 

“Isnae nice, means Ah’ll ‘ave ‘er breathin’ doon mah neck, taggin’ along tae the doctor like she’s ne’er seen mah heid on straight.” There’s no anger in his voice, just a gentle exasperation that reminds you of a pouting puppy. You cover your mouth to hide the smile it inspires. John flashes you a grin and you know you’ve been caught.

“Dunna be blate, laugh if ya want tae.” You let out a short giggle and cover it with a cough.

“Are you going to get less intelligible the closer we get to scotland?” You tease. Another smile, and a roll of John’s eyes.

“Aye ya ken mah mam’s gonna love ya, now yer actin’ out.” John grabs you and pulls you against his chest. The action is so familiar and affectionate that it makes you stiffen. Your stomach drops and you go rigid. Something shifts behind John’s eyes and you have to tighten more to keep tremors from running through you. Those bright blues feel electric, a flash of lightning before thunder, an unstoppable natural force that bears down on you with no warning but that quick burst of light. He doesn’t release you, and you can feel the pop of his shoulders as he rolls them, tipping his head to the side just enough to properly look down on you. He clicks his tongue and a shiver rushes down your spine.

“Relax hen,” it’s an unkind suggestion coated in false charm, “it’ll never fit if you’re wound this tight.”

“What- what?” You stutter, fingers shaking to find the right place to push to get him to let you go.

“Ah thought we were a happy loving couple,” John reminds you, “Cannae flinch like this.”

“Right.” You settle your hands against his chest and push. It’s like trying to move a brick wall. He barely budges, in fact you think his arms might tighten their hold on your waist.

“Got plenty of time tae get ya used tae me, yeah?” He hums, and leans closer. You duck your head to avoid meeting his gaze, or anything else, and feel his nose against your hair. He takes a long inhale and you squeeze your fingers into fists.

Impulsive, you remind yourself, he has a brain injury that makes him unable to control his impulses. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

“Do ah scare ya hen?” John’s voice rumbles so low in his chest that you feel it under your fingers. The question startles you enough to jolt you back to his gaze. 

You’re free of his grasp as soon as you look up. John’s bent to grab his duffle off the floor and you have just enough room to catch your breath.

“Of course not.” You lie. You’ve dealt with far worse than an overly touchy man with a brain injury. Overly touchy men giving out brain injuries, for one.

“Good,” John nods, tugging his bag up over his shoulder, “We’ve got a long drive ahead, no sense gettin’ scared now.”

Right, the drive. You’d almost forgotten about it. At least you can rest easier knowing John’s probably not stupid enough to let his impulses take over if you’re driving.

*

John’s hand is on your thigh as soon as you get out of his garage. He barely moves it when you complain about not having room to shift gears. It’s big and warm and entirely too high on your leg to not be distracting. Your traitorous body reacts to it immediately, your pulse quickening as your cunt throbs. It’s been a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have a man touch you, and it feels an awful lot like the wide spread of John’s fingers across your thigh. 

“So um,” You try to think of anything to talk about while John’s thumb rubs hot against your thigh, “we should probably get our story straight.”

“Told everyone the story already.” John says, and you struggle to find what that might mean. Is his hand moving higher on your thigh? You can’t keep your thoughts straight when he’s touching you like this. “Dating for six months, met in a coffee shop, you’ve been wanting to meet mah folks but time’s never been right.”

“Right.” You mumble, “John, um-”

“Johnny.” He cuts you off, “You call me Johnny.”

“Johnny,” You restart, “could you, uh, could you move your hand?” He gives your thigh a squeeze so tight it almost hurts, and slides his fingers up your thigh to rest just at the junction of your hip.

“Already know your lines,” he jokes, you think it’s a joke, God you hope it’s a joke, “Just gotta ask me if ya want somethin’, hen. Ahm a doting boyfriend after all.”

“Right.” You repeat, your knuckles creak with how tightly you grip the steering wheel.

His hand leaves you and your body reacts to the loss almost as violently as it had the initial touch. A chill crowds the space Johnny’s hand used to be, and threatens to wrack through your spine. You squeeze your thighs together quietly. It’s fine, you’re fine. He said he’d start getting you used to being touched, that’s all it is.

“So what are you into?” You change the topic. 

Johnny is silent for a while, so long that you chance a glance over at him. It makes you nervous taking your eyes off the road, but you lose a moment tracing the strong line of his nose as you watch his profile. He glances at you and you lock your eyes on the road again.

“Art.” He says finally. You nod. Art is good, you like art.

“What sort of art?” You prompt. You can’t fault him a stilted conversation you suppose, you did change the subject rather abruptly.

“Sketching,” he tells you, before thinking better of it, “pencils and charcoals. Never got into painting, too hard to take into the field.”

That must be it, it’s a reminder of his time in the military. You’re bringing up bad memories with such a simple question. You must have a talent for sticking your foot in your mouth if it’s this easy for you to stumble upon touchy subjects.

“That makes sense.” You nod and attempt to end the conversation, “You’ll have to show me some of your sketches sometime.”

The shift in the air is immediate. Even in your periphery you can tell Johnny’s perked up at the idea.

“Really? You’d want tae see ‘em?”

“Of course,” You shrug, keeping your eyes forward, “I like art.”

“Maybe ya could pose fer me sometime,” Johnny grins. “Ah’d make sure ya looked as bonnie as ya dae now.”

You laugh at the compliment, a weak attempt at covering your discomfort. You don’t need any buttering up, the false affection of it rings so hollow in your ears that it’s almost painful. It’s an unwanted politeness, an engagement in the conversation that makes you sick at the thought of engaging with. You don’t need to see yourself in graphite, it’s bad enough seeing yourself in the mirror. 

“Or maybe ah’d draw ya nude,” Johnny muses and you shut your mouth hard enough to hear your teeth click. “That’d be braw.” He hums, looking out the window, “Could have ya spread those bonnie legs and show me yer cunt. Ah’d make sure tae get real close and get a good look, talk tae ‘er real nice ‘til she’s drippin fer me, no fun drawing’ ‘er dry.”

Your eyes flick to him, your chest tight. He’s looking out the window, his chin cradled in his hand, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You could almost believe you imagined it, but there were too many words, too detailed, to delude yourself into thinking you’d misheard the rumble of the engine.

You press your thighs together, fix your eyes on the road, try to ignore the man in the seat beside you. What are you supposed to say? Do you say anything? Is he hoping you’ll pull over and open your legs, pull his head between them and let him make good on his desire to talk to your pussy? 

The thought sends a shiver through you. You can’t say if it’s good or bad but it certainly catches Johnny’s attention to see you shudder. His teeth flash in the sun, and you know you’ve been caught.

“Aw hen, ya like when Ah talk like that?” His hand finds your thigh again, too high for you to mistake it as anything but what it is, a promise, “Ya want me tae tell ya how good ah am with mah tongue? Or are ya wet just thinkin’ about it?” He’s leaned closer, his hand squeezing your thigh so tightly it hurts, his shadow taking up too much of your periphery. “Fuck ah can smell it on ya-” His hand jumps to cup your cunt, and you freeze, “-warm, wet, little cunt. Stupid little girl. Should’ve worn a skirt so Ah could stick mah fingers in that pussy of yers and have a taste.” 

Your heart is beating out of your chest, your face burning as hot as the rest of your skin. He’s right, fuck he’s right. You’re aching, barely holding back from shifting in your seat and rocking against his searching fingers, all from a little dirty talk. You can’t open your mouth, can’t turn, can’t even move from the rigid position you’ve found yourself in, too scared that the barest twitch will make Johnny pounce,

And make the car crash.

You can’t be responsible for another death.

Johnny’s mouth opens, his body leaned far over the center console of the car (too far to survive a crash) and you feel his teeth scrape your neck.

Your body moves on its own, your shoulder jerks and you loosen your hand from the steering wheel to push him away. He goes willingly, laughing as he falls back into his seat and his hands leave you.

“Are you trying to kill us?” You demand, you can barely catch your breath, barely hold onto the boiling heat in the pit of your stomach.

“Ach, just havin’ some fun with ya hen,” He placates, “won’t it be easier holdin’ mah hand now that we’ve got that over with?”

You glare at the road and tamp down the heated humiliation that threatens to rise over you. No, you don’t think it will be. Especially not when you catch Johnny palming himself, and just know that’s the hand he’ll grab you with.

You can read the full fic here

[toadstreetltd]

“i’m not blind.” “of saline, genius.” dr park x reader brain worm

you know. he knows you know. you don’t know why he has to be so mean about it, about everything, all the time. don’t know why you even talk in his presence, when all that follows is derision. you’re a bleating sheep, though. a panicked thing making noise on the off chance mercy would be given.

(maybe even praise—no, not praise. maybe the stiff nod he gives the other doctors. maybe you would finally say something smart enough and you would get an eyebrow raise. even silence would be better than the comments—

—the comments.

obviously and thanks tips when you’re just trying to be helpful.

land the plane when he asks you something directly. levels you with that cutting, cold stare. and you fumble. stumble over a long winded explanation. give too much. loop back on yourself until you’re not sure what he asked in the first place.

i can explain it to you. i can’t understand it for you when you ask a clarifying question. begging to be taught, to learn. from him. from the best.)

it would be so much easier if you could just shut up. but dr park doesn’t like it when you’re quiet either. stay silent too long and he’ll needle you out, demanding answers that you hiccup through. avoid him, and there he’ll be. cornering you in supply rooms. hunting you down in the maze of hallways as if he smelled your blood in the water.

even when you finished your ortho rotation, he’d find you wherever you were.

it was an indespensible condition, when he came to the er for a consult, that you were to be in the room. sine qua non. he’d ask about the patient, and you’d defer with shaking hands to your attending. i don’t want them to tell me. i want you to tell me. tell me. tell me how it feels. tell me why. a man used to laying sinew bare, naming flesh, ligaments, and knowing. how it all worked, fit together like a great puzzle. dr park was a man who got his information from the end of a scalpel.

that’s what he did. cut you through. flayed you until you were begging for him to run pleased palms over the warm, wet muscles beneath. you’d name every group, pluck the chords like catgut strings, if he would only nod. just nod.

it’s no wonder you follow him to his car. desperate. on a string. something excited to be chewed and swallowed because it’s all born in the mouth, isn’t it? approval, acceptance, respect. the same place the ruthlessness came from, the ridicule and the scorn. lungs, esophagus, tongue, lips. no wonder you let him drive you, ripping the dead skin from around your ruined nails, to his house. his clean, clinical house. bright white lights. red smoothies stacked neatly in the fridge, labelled for the days of the week.

no wonder you strip down for him as he watches from the couch. exacting. unyielding. let him tell you what article to take off, how and in what order, in the same tone of voice he used to list procedural steps. no wonder you crawl over his white rug to the place between his spread legs. come here. no hands. use your mouth. figure it out. show me your teeth. no wonder you strain your jaw, muscles popping, trying to fit him all in. trying to swallow him all down. make it good. make him shift or fidget or make a sound. any sound. anything but the sharp silence, the twist of his arrogant mouth, the cool pools of his eyes.

and later, in his lap—thighs screaming as the tears fall. the only hands on you being your own, every action performed under his instruction and his instruction alone. how does it feel. why. tell me. he watches you move with the same air as he would have inspecting a detached limb. analytical. precise. thick arms spread like wings on the back of the couch as you seat him fully inside. sweating, sniffling, clumsy mess.

park doesn’t like you quiet, but he hates when you can’t form a sentence. can’t understand you. say it again. louder. stop mumbling.

not moving a muscle to help you. you want to prove yourself? prove yourself.

(and you would. you will. you will. tooth and nail, you will. bite marks in your trapezius, a perfect array of incisors, you will.)

he sends you on your way with a hum and a scowl. cab fare and a morning after pill he retrieves from a glass dish in his bathroom drawer. tells you that next time, he expects better. more effort, killer. how you got through med school with that work ethic, i’ll never know.

your scrubs snag on the torn skin of your shoulder in the cab home.

more effort—you will.

you will.

[arcandoria-archived]

the horrors persist but my friends write beautiful fanfic

[silverlullabies]

(“We’re just best friends,” you insist- both of you, every time- when the lads catch Johnny’s arm slung heavy over your shoulders or when your parents laugh about the way you finish each other’s sentences like an old married couple. You say it easy. Practiced.

You’re just childhood best friends who swapped secrets, who fought over the last slice with elbows and sharp fingers, who fell asleep in a tangle of limbs during movie night with your cheek on his chest, his hand in your hair, the credits rolling blue over both of you in the dark.)

Childhood best friend Johnny who now has you bent over the kitchen table with two thick fingers buried to the knuckle inside you from behind, curled against the spot he found years ago on a drunken night when comfort turned into his hand between your thighs on the couch you grew up sharing. Your slick audible around his knuckles. His cock grinding slow against the curve of your ass, hard enough you can feel the twitch of him through his joggers.

Childhood best friend Johnny who pulls his fingers free and replaces them with the blunt, swollen head of his cock, pressing, catching, sinking, stretching you open on the same table where you used to race him through after school snacks, elbows knocking, mouths full, laughing.

Childhood best friend Johnny fucking you hard and graceless, one fist wound tight in your hair and pulling just enough to arch your spine, the other hand reaching around to find your clit with the pad of his thumb, rubbing in the exact tight circles he knows collapse you fastest.

Childhood best friend Johnny who has your body memorized after years of late night hookups that started with movies on the old couch and ended with you shaking apart on his tongue or his fingers or his cock and neither of you acknowledging it in daylight. Who knows the precise angle to cant his hips and drive up into you until something white hot fractures behind your eyes and your legs give and you’re clenching so hard around him you can feel your own pulse.

Childhood best friend Johnny who catches you before you buckle, who wraps your legs around his waist and carries you down the hall with his cock still inside you, each step a shift that makes your breath hitch, who pins you against the wall of your childhood bedroom.

(The same room where you built blanket forts out of bedsheets and played games until sunrise turned the curtains gold. Your wrists caught in one of his hands above your head, pressed right next to the poster that’s been thumbtacked there for years, curling at the edges now.)

Childhood best friend Johnny who’s hips snap forward, deep enough to ache. He knows exactly when to grind against your clit, when to set his teeth into the tendon of your neck, when to speed up until you’re sobbing his name into the humid space between your mouths and coming so hard your vision dissolves to static.

Childhood best friend Johnny who lowers you onto the bed the two of you used to sprawl across after school, uniforms still on, shoes kicked off, talking shit about teachers and lunch hour drama until one of you fell asleep mid-sentence.

Childhood best friend Johnny who settles between your thighs now, pushing in slow, incremental, until his pelvis is flush against yours and there’s no space left between you that isn’t heat and skin. Forehead pressed to your forehead. Blue eyes half lidded, the color of them almost swallowed by black.

Childhood best friend Johnny who rolls his hips in a lazy rhythm, savoring every flutter and clench of your walls around him, kissing you slow and open mouthed, sliding his fingers through yours, lacing them tight against the sheets. Who murmurs against your lips, breath warm and accent thicker than it gets in daylight, “Look at ye. So pretty like this. Takin’ me so well.”

Childhood best friend Johnny who buries his face into the curve of your neck as he spills inside you because he’s not wearing a condom. Never wears one. Not with you. Tempting fate every single time.

Childhood best friend Johnny who doesn’t pull out right away. Who stays buried inside you and rolls onto his side with his arms still locked around you, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, his heartbeat hammering against your shoulder blade, settling by degrees.

(The same position the two of you defaulted to as kids, limbs tangled, breathing synced, your face pressed to his collarbone like the years between then and now are just a fold in the fabric.

“We’re just best friends,” you tell anyone who asks.

But one of these days the two of your are going to have to stop lying to yourselves).​​​​​​​​​