"weaponized incompetence" is about falsified incompetence being intentionally weaponized. it is not accidental behavior, it is not being unable to function in the ways that would make you "competent." it is toxic because of its nature as a consciously manipulative behavior and how it is often a tool of the patriarchy. comparing it to anything else is cruel. executive dysfunction and disabilities are not examples of weaponized incompetence.
a person knows when they are weaponizing incompetence. please, please take care and be kind to yourself if you worry that you may be doing it accidentally- that is not weaponized incompetence, and i'm sorry to anyone who has ever felt anxious about that. you deserve better. we deserve better. being disabled is not a moral failure or manipulative behavior.
this is even funnier when you know that “paris green” is a specific green pigment that contains arsenic (very distinctive shade of pale-ish green, common house paint color before yknow. all that research on how arsenic kills you). little birdies crop dusting the marsh with powdered arsenic<3
like i'll say "parents should not be able to unilaterally override their child's consent" and some dipshit will see the word consent and the smoke from the hollowed-out crater that used to be their critical thinking skills will immediately coalesce into a message in my ask box calling me a pedo. no fucking hope for any of you
which I say, by the way, because one of my closest friends was able to be effectively disappeared off the face of the earth and sent into the woods to be sexually abused and tortured into being straight due to parents effectively owning their children as property. if you are a minor your consent simply does not actually matter - whether you get vaccinated, whether you get to go to school, whether people get to hug touch you, what you wear, how your hair is cut, what your hobbies are, whether you get to have friends, and yes, whether you want to be sent to a torture camp in the woods or not - your consent is entirely meaningless because your parents can simply override it, and there's fuckall you can do about it, because you aren't a person, you're just property. the family dog has more protections against being abused than children do
but! if you ever point this out you get called you a rapist
Mermay is here and so am I with a lil snippet of my most unhinged fic up to date (which is going to include a little surprise right after👀👀👀 just saying, buckle your seatbelts bc the collab of the century is coming)
Merfolk Corbeau x Grisham x Reader | CWs for poison/aphrodisiac usage, breeding kink, arguable dubcon and tentacles
Corbeau was a lucky man, truly. To have two pretty little things like that at his mercy.
“Grisham, was it?” He asked, leaning closer to his pretty little prey. He truly was a beautiful man, something about how his fins fanned out around him in orange and white stripes made him seem less like a lionfish and more like an ornamental little pet. One that Corbeau was eager to keep.
Grisham tried to answer, a strangled little moan that sounded vaguely like a yes. Whether to the question or just to Corbeau’s touch was impossible to tell.
“You and your beautiful wife came to the right place for your worries.” He brushed Grisham’s hair away from his face, loving how he leaned into Corbeau’s clawed touch. He cupped your cheek with his other hand, looking at you and Grisham side by side. “No one else could guarantee that you’d get what you wanted with quite the same efficiency as me.”
The tentacle around Grisham squeezed tighter, and Corbeau revelled in the breathless little gasp he got in reply. He let more poison leak from his suckers directly into Grisham’s skin, feeling him relax even more into the touch, completely giving himself up to whatever Corbeau wanted to do with him.
“You want a baby?” He laughed, the sound just a bit too dark as he pressed a kiss to the corner of Grisham’s mouth. “I’ll give you two.”
He leaned closer to you, tracing your bottom lip with his claw, pressing it into your mouth and letting more of his poison leak from it. Feeding it to you directly to make sure you wouldn’t miss a single drop, and from the way your eyes hazed over and your lips wrapped around his thumb like you couldn’t get enough, it was clearly working.
It wasn’t every day that he had a treat like this, his reputation had scared away most of his prey at this point. You had to have been truly desperate to resort to this, and he wasn’t about to let that golden opportunity slide.
Uhhhh...Okay. So....I'm super horny, apparently. I'm also a slut for a lot of Pokemon men (LMFAOOOOOOO). Something about a man bottoming out in you and the ragged, desperate sound he makes because he's been waiting all day to bury himself in you. (Ough...)
Corbeau pushed in slow—achingly slow—because he liked savoring the way your breath hitched, the way your thighs trembled under his hands. But the moment he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, all that elegant restraint simply broke.
A sound slipped out of him—low, ragged, almost feral. Not loud, but deep, torn from somewhere he kept buried beneath layers of polish and perfect posture. His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath shaking against your skin.
“Mon cœur…” His voice was wrecked, nothing like its usual smooth velvet. His fingers tightened at your hips as if he feared you might disappear if he loosened even a little. “You don’t know…how long I’ve needed this.”
Your hand slid up his back, fingers threading into the neat line of his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “Likewise,” you hummed, tilting your neck to give him space. “I kept thinking about you inside me all day.”
He froze—just for a heartbeat—before a trembling groan spilled against your throat, his breath hot and unsteady. “Angel…” he murmured, lips brushing your skin with reverent slowness. “Don’t say such things unless you intend to undo me.”
You smiled against his cheek, your legs tightening around him, holding him fully, deeply, exactly where he’d been craving to be.
“That’s the point,” you teased, squeezing your walls around him. “I love seeing you like this.”
That did it—his next exhale wasn’t a breath at all but a shiver pulled straight from his core, his composure dissolving against you.
“All day…” he confessed, voice molten and cracked. “All damn day… I thought of nothing else. Of being here. Inside you. Lost in you.”
He pressed a slow, trembling kiss to your neck…then your hips rolled up into him and Corbeau snapped. His fingers tightened, grip bruising, and he drove into you with sudden, desperate force—raw, hungry thrusts that stole your breath and tore a groan straight from his chest.
Grisham
Grisham had always been composed—too composed, at times—but with you he shed that tight, exhausted restraint like a heavy coat. Tonight, he was easy in his skin, glasses set aside, a small, unguarded smile touching the corners of his mouth as he guided your hips beneath him.
He eased into you with deliberate care, his breath steady, his touch gentle in a way that spoke of trust rather than fragility. But the moment he finally bottomed out, his composure wavered—beautifully. The sound he let out was low and warm, a breath that slipped free before he could school it back into silence. It wasn’t desperate, not anymore. It was relief—honest, grounding, almost disbelieving.
His forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering shut behind the ghost of a smile. “You’re perfect. Just…perfect.” he murmured, voice softer than he ever allowed it to be in public.
You cupped his jaw, feeling that tiny tremor he tried to hide, and tilted his face up so he had to look at you. “You feel good, too,” you told him. “I’ve been wanting this, wanted you, all day.”
His breath caught, that smile deepening, softening, as though your words reached somewhere fragile inside him. “You… did?” His voice warmed, the tension unwinding from his posture in slow ripples. “That’s… good to hear.”
Your legs tightened around him, drawing him even closer—fully, intimately pressed to the hilt.
“You feel incredible, Grisham,” you murmured, brushing your nose to his. “Stay like this a moment. Just…be here with me.”
His exhale trembled—quiet, grateful, full of the kind of need he no longer felt compelled to hide from you. “All day,” he repeated, softer, more certain now that he could see the desire mirrored in your eyes. “I thought of being here. With you. Like this.”
A faint laugh—real, light—slipped out with his next breath. “I suppose I was looking forward to it more than I realized.”
And when he drew his hips back the first fraction of an inch, feeling your body tighten around him, his smile sharpened with a confidence he rarely let himself wear.
“Shall we?” he murmured, voice rich with promise.
Ivor
Ivor was big everywhere, and your body had to take a moment to adjust to him, which only made him more breathlessly, wildly undone. He held himself back at first, trying so hard to be gentle, to be careful with all that size and strength packed into one enthusiastic himbo of a man.
But the second he finally bottomed out—every thick, impossible inch seated deep—his whole body went rigid, then shook with a stunned, desperate groan that rumbled against your skin.
You tightened your legs around him, pulling him closer, savoring the way he shuddered from the depth of it. “Ivor,” you breathed against his ear, voice warm, coaxing. “You’re so big… you feel incredible.”
He made a sound at that—half-whine, half-growl, completely overwhelmed—burying his face in your neck as if he could hide from the intensity crashing through him.
“Arceus—don’t—don’t say stuff like that yet,” he stammered, gripping your waist like he was afraid he might lift you off the bed without meaning to. “I’m already—I mean, you took all of me, I just—”
You brushed your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, steadying him. “I wanted all of you,” you whispered. “I’ve been waiting all day, too.” You shifted, your walls fluttering involuntarily around him, drawing a breathy moan from you from the feeling.
His breath hitched violently. “You—really?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and blazing with adoration and disbelief.
He rocked his hips the smallest fraction of an inch, and the sensation tore another deep, helpless groan from him. His forehead fell to your shoulder, arms wrapping around you tight, holding you in a full-body embrace that matched the way he filled you.
“Give me a minute, my love,” he murmured again, voice wrecked and sweet and awestruck. “You feel so good…too good.”
Your lips brushed his temple as you smiled, breath warm against his flushed skin. “Then take your time,” you told him, warmly. “I want to feel you like this…want you deep inside me.”
He let out a choked, ecstatic noise that could only have come from Ivor—big, soft, overwhelmed down to his bones—and tightened his hold on you like he never wanted to let go.
Urbain
Urbain came in hot, like always, grinning like he’d just won a tournament and you were the trophy he wasn’t sure he deserved but absolutely intended to pick up anyway. His hands were warm, eager, a little clumsy, like he kept forgetting just how strong he was in his excitement.
He slid into you with a breathy, surprised laugh, like even he couldn’t believe how good it felt. But when he finally bottomed out, his whole body jerked, hips stuttering against yours as a sound tore out of him—low, needy, punched straight from his chest.
“Ohhh—holy—sh—” His head dropped forward, hair brushing your cheek, his grin wobbling into something dazed and helpless. “Damn, okay, I…yeah, I was not ready. Not even close.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your hands sliding up his back. “Slow down, Urbain,” you teased, kissing his jaw. “It’s okay. I like how much you’re feeling this.”
He made a noise—half whine, half laugh—and clung to you a little tighter.
“I was thinking about this all day,” he admitted, voice cracking around another low groan. “Couldn’t focus on anything—meetings, paperwork, nothing. Vinnie threatened to send me home early.”
You giggled, tugging lightly on his hair. “Can’t imagine why. That actually tracks for you.”
Another little thrust—just a tiny one—made him choke on a whimper he absolutely hadn’t meant to let slip. His cheeks flushed, breath hot against your cheek.
“But it’s—ugh—worth it.” His laughter came breathless, boyish, completely undone. “You feel…you feel unreal. Like—like I’m gonna lose my mind.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, loving the way he gasped at the deeper angle. “Good,” you murmured, brushing your lips over his. “I want you thinking about me all day.”
He nuzzled your cheek, grinning again even as his voice dropped into something rougher, needier.
“Don’t move yet,” he murmured, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted the moment to end. “Just…lemme stay here.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, smiling into the warmth of him.
Vinnie
Vinnie led with quiet confidence—the same steady, composed presence he used to keep entire boardrooms from falling apart. Except now, all that calm control was focused entirely on you. No sunglasses, no desk between you, none of the polite distance he kept during long workdays. Just Vinnie—broad, warm, intentional.
He guided you onto the bed with a gentleness that bordered on reverent, a small, tired smile tugging at his mouth like he couldn’t help it. He’d had a long week—hell, a long month—but tonight his exhaustion didn’t make him passive. It made him focused.
When he pushed into you, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since sunrise. Slow, deep, measured. But when he finally bottomed out, hips fitting flush to yours, the sound that escaped him startled even him. A low, rough sigh—almost a groan, almost a prayer—pulled from somewhere warm and tender in his chest.
“…oh, sweetheart.” His forehead came to rest against your shoulder, breath trembling against your skin.
Your fingers dug into his back, a gasp slipping free at the sudden, delicious fullness of him.
“Oh my god, Vinnie—” you breathed, your voice trembling with heat and relief. “You feel so good…you’re so deep…"
His hands slid to your hips, steady and sure, not gripping but holding, grounding himself with the feel of your body wrapped so completely around him. He stayed there, buried deep, soaking in the closeness like it was something he’d been craving far longer than just today.
“I’ve been thinking about this since lunchtime,” he murmured, voice softer than you’d ever heard it, carrying that subtle, tired warmth of a man who loved too hard and worked too much. “Didn’t matter how many meetings Quasartico tossed at me…you were in the back of my mind the whole time.”
You tilted up to kiss along his jaw, breath warm and wanting, your body arching into him in a silent plea. The way you clung to him—tight, trusting, and inviting—was answer enough, and it sent a deep, involuntary tremor rolling through Vinnie’s entire body.
He shuddered against your mouth, a breathy, overwhelmed sound slipping free as he pressed closer, holding you with a tenderness that bordered on reverent. His lips brushed your temple, your cheek, your neck—anywhere he could reach—as if he couldn’t get enough now that he finally had you.
And gods, he hadn’t been able to wait to get home to you.
He lifted his head then, eyes warm and unguarded, his thumb brushing your hip in a slow, intimate circle.
“Let me stay like this for a moment,” he whispered, pressing deeper with a soft sigh that melted into your neck. “Feels like coming home after a long day.”
You cupped his face, smiling up at him through your own pounding heartbeat.
“Then stay. I love when you take the lead like this.”
Philippe
Philippe’s size mattered—not just his height and breadth, but the warmth of him, the weight, the softness layered over solid strength. You ran your hands over his sides as he settled between your legs—palms gliding over the gentle give of his stomach, the firm muscle beneath, the thick swell of his hips. His breath hitched each time your fingers traced him with open appreciation, as though he wasn’t used to being touched like this—seen like this.
He moved with the gentleness of a man who knew exactly how much power he carried and refused to ever make you bear the weight of it unless you asked him to. Which is why, when he eased into you, it was with painstaking control—one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your hip in a touch so steady, it almost felt ceremonial. He watched your face the whole time, reading every shift, every breath, adjusting his pace to fit you perfectly around the…considerable reality of him.
And when your hands slid up his belly, fingers following the warm curve before flattening against his chest, Philippe shivered, a low sound caught in his throat.
But the moment he finally bottomed out, fully seated, hips flush to yours, the whole of that thick, heavy length buried deep, his composure cracked. A low, devastating groan rumbled through his chest, vibrating against your palms where they still rested on his body. His breath stuttered; his forehead dropped to your shoulder like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.
“…mmh.” His voice was a warm whisper, textured with awe. “You take me so well.”
Your hands slid to his waist, fingers sinking into the plush firmness there, pulling him closer. Philippe’s grip tightened, not hard, but with the instinctive hold of a man overwhelmed by being wanted this completely.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stayed buried to the hilt, letting your body hold him in a way that stripped him of every remaining layer of discipline. Your touch roamed over him—his love handles, his thick back, the slope of his shoulder. Each caress made him melt further, his breath growing hot and uneven against your skin.
“I tried to stay focused today,” he murmured, voice thick with sincerity. “Training. Meetings. Drilling the grunts. I tried.” A soft, shaky laugh escaped him. “But all I could think about…was being right here. Inside you, like this.”
He drew back just a breath, just enough to feel the stretch tug through both of you, and the sound he let out was even deeper, softer, almost reverent. Your hands slid to his hips, thumb stroking the soft curve there, and Philippe groaned—quiet, ruined by how good it felt to be touched like this.
“Let me stay for a moment,” he whispered, kissing your temple with a sweetness that didn’t match the sheer size of him pressed inside you.
His hand covered yours where it rested on his waist.
“I want to relish being inside you.”
L
L moved with a quiet, uncertain grace, like every action was something he relearned through instinct rather than memory. But with you, there was a steadiness beneath the hesitation, a trust he couldn’t explain but leaned into all the same. His hands trembled just slightly when he touched you, though not from fear…from feeling.
He guided himself into you slowly, carefully, brow furrowing in concentration as if he were studying each tiny shift of your body, every catch of your breath. And yet, even with all that caution, he couldn’t hide the way need pulsed through him, even if he didn’t fully understand its roots.
But the moment he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, seated completely inside you, L went utterly still.
A soft, helpless sound slipped out of you, a half gasp, half broken moan, and his entire spine shivered at the sound.
The noise he made in return was soft, fragile, achingly human. A low, trembling breath, like something inside him had slipped free. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks.
“…oh.” The word fell from him in a whisper, almost surprised. “This… this feels…”
Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, your own moan rolling out of your chest in a warm, breathless wave, your hips lifting instinctively toward him. The sound of it hit him harder than the heat around him, harder than the depth of you.
He swallowed hard, hands tightening at your waist, not harsh, simply anchoring himself to you as if your voice, your breath, your body were the only real thing he’d touched in years.
“I’ve been feeling this… pull,” he murmured against your neck, breath shivering. “All day. I didn’t understand it.”
You arched into him with a soft, needy whimper—shy, but unable to hold back, and his breath caught. A shiver ran through him, his chest pressing closer to yours as you moaned again, quiet but uncontrollably warm, sending another tremor down his spine.
“But now…now I see.”
He nestled closer, forehead resting against your cheek as a reverent sigh escaped him, his body finally relaxing fully for the first time all day.
You gasped softly when his hips shifted that tiniest bit, pleasure sparking sharp and bright through you. Your moan at that—sweet, shaky, and surprised—pulled a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest.
“Please…” he breathed, voice cracking under the weight of tenderness and need. “Let me stay here a moment. I’ve been waiting for this…even before I realized I was.”
You answered him with another breathy moan, legs tightening around him, pulling him deeper, your body speaking for you.
And L shuddered against you, holding you close as though he finally understood the gravity of what he felt.
Lance
Lance was careful with you—always careful. Not because he doubted your strength, but because he respected it. The way he respected everything worth protecting. Everything he held dear.
He kissed you with the same intensity he carried into battle: focused, deliberate, full of controlled fire. And when he finally guided you beneath him, cape discarded, armor traded for bare skin and quiet vulnerability, there was nothing theatrical about him. Just a man who adored you with a depth that could split mountains.
He slid into you slow, steady, breath held as though measuring every inch of how you took him. The moment he bottomed out, hips meeting yours, heat sinking deep, his composure faltered. Only for an instant, but enough. A low, quiet groan pressed against your ear, the sound of a man who rarely let himself break.
Your breath stuttered, a soft moan slipping out as your hips tilted instinctively to meet him. His eyes snapped open at the sound—brown, startled, hungry in a way he kept hidden from the world.
“…you feel unbelievable,” he whispered, voice hushed and reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing unsteady. “I’ve thought about this. More than I should’ve, during the League review…during my patrols…gods, you’ve distracted me all day.”
You let out another quiet, needy sound and gripped his shoulders, pulling him deeper. His chest rumbled at the invitation, a deep, involuntary growl earned from your reaction rather than aggression.
Your voice barely made it out, breathy and hot. “Lance… gods, yes…”
His jaw tightened. His control slipped another precious inch. He pressed himself fully against you, enveloping you with his warmth, strength, and the quiet thunder of a man who adored fiercely and held himself to impossible standards.
“Please,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, soft and reverent. “Tell me if I’m too much. I would never wish to overpower you—”
You answered him with a sharp inhale, hips lifting to meet his, a desperate sound breaking from you as he pressed deeper. Your fingers dug into his back, nails scoring lightly along his spine.
He inhaled sharply, breath catching at your boldness.
“…understood,” he whispered, voice suddenly low, thick with heat. “You want my strength. All of it.”
Your soft moan, high and wanting, was answer enough.
Lance’s restraint melted, slow and molten. He held your hips, steady but firm, and nudged his hips the smallest fraction deeper.
“Oh, sweetheart…” His voice was wrecked, quiet, reverent. “I’ve been waiting for this all day.”
Kabu
Kabu always burned hot. But tonight, when you finally stepped back into his home after your time away, he burned quiet. Controlled. Contained. Like a man holding the door shut on a wildfire.
It wasn’t until his hands settled on your waist, warm and trembling with restraint, that you realized just how tightly he’d been wound during your absence.
When he guided you down beneath him, his breath was already uneven. When he slid into you slow and careful, like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred, his control frayed. And when he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, all that pent-up heat spilled out of him in a single, low, guttural exhale.
“Ah—” His voice cracked, deep and raw. “Love…I’ve missed you…more than I care to admit.”
Your breath left you in a shaky moan, your back arching into his chest. His hands tightened on your thighs, thumbs stroking as though reassuring himself that you were really, finally here. The sound of your pleasure hit him like a spark to tinder, his entire spine shivered, his hips pressing just a fraction deeper.
You whimpered softly—his name, a gasp, a broken moan—and his eyes fluttered shut.
“Careful,” he rasped, forehead touching yours, the heat of his breath brushing your lips. “You’ll undo me before I’ve even begun.”
“You? The man with endless stamina? I don’t believe it,” you teased, breathlessly, but a breathless hum was drawn from you when he pressed kisses to your exposed throat.
“I trained harder than ever while you were gone,” he murmured against your throat, his voice roughened with weeks of longing. “Tried to burn off the ache of missing you. Tried distracting myself with battles. But nothing—nothing—put out that flame.”
Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging in as your hips rose to meet him, wordlessly begging for more.
He inhaled sharply, the heat of his body surging against yours.
“That’s it,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth with a hunger he rarely let himself show. “Let me feel you. Let me know you’re really here.”
You moaned again, louder this time, and his restraint snapped another careful inch.
“Arceus…” He pressed his forehead to your cheek, hips sinking even more firmly into you. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he confessed, voice trembling with sincerity, devotion, need. “Every day. Every night. I thought of this—of you—and it kept the flame alive.”
Your answering gasps and soft, breathy cries spilled into his ear, and Kabu, the ever-disciplined mentor of Galar, shuddered like a man devoured by his own fire.
“Let me hold you,” he murmured, voice molten.
“Let me burn for you again.”
Leon
Leon was all bright enthusiasm and big, golden warmth on the outside, but the moment he finally got you alone after days of both of you juggling obligations, that energy condensed into something deeper. Needier. Focused.
He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, hands bracketing your hips as he pushed you gently back onto the mattress, cape discarded with surprising haste. He hovered over you for a moment, breathing hard—not from nerves, but from the relief of finally having you all to himself.
“Been trying to steal you away all week,” he murmured, a crooked, heated grin tugging at his lips. “Your busy schedule as champion… absolutely unfair. Though, I would know. I had to deal with it for 10 whole years.”
And then he slid into you. Slow, because he wanted to feel every inch. And deep, because he couldn’t help it, not with how big he was. And when he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, his confidence shattered on impact.
“Oh—oh bloody hell—” His breath broke into a low, helpless groan. “You—love, you’re… gods, you’re perfect.”
Your gasp came sharp and needy, your fingers clawing at his shoulders as your body tried to accommodate his size. He felt it—felt you—tightening around him, pulling him deeper, and his whole body trembled.
He ducked his head into your neck, voice muffled and ragged. “Been thinkin’ about this—thinkin’ about you—through every meeting, every bloody interview—”
You moaned softly, your hips tilting up into his, urging him to stay pressed deep. He gasped at the motion, eyes fluttering, foundation cracking further.
“That sound…” he whispered, kissing your jaw with shaky reverence. “Do that again, love. Please.”
You did, half moan, half whimper, and it nearly folded him.
“O-oh Arceus—you’re gonna ruin me…”
He pressed his weight more fully into you, pinning you deliciously while still holding himself up enough to see your face. His hips shifted just a fraction—barely a thrust—and your breath hitched, pleasure sparking bright and immediate.
Your reaction tore a groan out of him, deep and guttural.
“You feel… unreal,” he breathed. “Better than anything I imagined—and I’ve imagined this so many bloody times.”
Your hands slid down his back, gripping him, pulling him even closer. The sound you let out—soft and needy—made him shudder violently.
“Champion Time,” he rasped, voice low and reverent, “has absolutely nothing on this. Nothing.”
He kissed you hard, desperately, as if memorizing you all over again.
“Let me stay here,” he whispered against your lips, hips still pressed deep, trembling with the effort of holding still. “Let me feel you. I’ve waited all damn week for this…for you.”
Raihan
Raihan was already grinning before he even touched you—that half-cocky, half-hungry grin he got when he knew he’d won something.
And tonight? He’d absolutely won. You. In his bed. Finally alone, finally his, finally letting him show you exactly why you chose him over Galar’s golden boy.
“Y’know,” he murmured, sliding his hands slowly down your sides as he settled his weight between your thighs, “Leon’s gonna cry when he finds out you prefer Dragon trainers.”
“Well, considering that you’re the one I’m dating, not Leon, I don’t think it should matter what he thinks,” you rolled your eyes, but your breath hitched when he pressed against you, teasing—just enough to make your hips tilt.
He felt that.
And he liked it.
“Ohhh, baby,” he laughed softly, low in his chest, “don’t get shy on me now. I’ve been waiting all week to hear every sound you make.”
When he finally pushed into you, it was smooth and deep, his breath catching just slightly—because for all his swagger, Raihan felt you. Every inch. Every clench. Every gasp you couldn't suppress.
But when he bottomed out—buried all the way, pelvis snug to yours—his entire façade cracked.
“Fff—damn,” he groaned, the word coming out punched and raw. His head dipped, forehead almost touching your shoulder as he breathed you in. “You’re…oh, you’re unreal.”
Your moan, soft and needy, made him shudder, fingers tightening on your hips.
He lifted his head, pupils blown wide, his smirk ruined into something far more vulnerable. “You feel that? How tight you are?”
Your answering whimper made him curse under his breath. He rocked into you just once—barely a thrust, more like a test, and your sharp inhale nearly undid him.
“Ohhh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dropping deliciously low, “you keep making sounds like that and Leon’s never gonna live it down.”
You swatted his chest weakly, breathless, and he laughed—breathy, unsteady.
“I’m teasing, I’m teasing—” He kissed you, slow but hungry. “—but don’t think I didn’t notice how you react to me. How you open for me.”
Your moan at that, high and desperate, made him swear again, hips stuttering.
“Arceus…okay. Okay. Give me a sec,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours as he held himself still, fighting to keep control. “You feel too damn good. Been thinking about this since Monday.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, back arching, another shaky sound spilling from your lips. His jaw clenched. His breath hitched.
“Yeah… yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, voice thick and reverent. “Every little noise you make? That’s mine.”
He kissed you again—messy this time, needy—and groaned against your mouth.
“I’ve been waiting for this all week, baby. And trust me—” He shifted just a fraction, deepening the pressure until you gasped.
“—I’m nowhere near done with you.”
Brassius
Brassius was already in one of his states the moment he closed the studio door behind you: wild-eyed, paint on his cheek, hair tousled as though he’d been tearing at it while muttering about “the tyranny of artistic stagnation.” But the second he looked at you his entire posture melted into something loose, adoring, and intensely focused.
“My muse,” he breathed, sweeping toward you with theatrical gravity. “At last. I was on the precipice of despair. Of collapse. Of a slump so dire Hassel might have staged an intervention.”
You raised a brow, but before you could tease him, he captured your waist with surprising steadiness for a man who once fell off a ladder for “inspiration.”
When he eased you down among the half-finished sculptures, his hands were trembling, not with fear, but with sheer pent-up passion, months of artistic agony and longing rolled into one.
And when he finally pushed into you, slow and reverent, his entire body shuddered like a man witnessing the sunrise for the first time after years underground.
But when he bottomed out—deep, flush, and fully seated inside you—he gasped. Not a sensual gasp. Not a controlled gasp. A full-bodied, utterly dramatic, opera-worthy gasp.
“AVANT-GARDE!”
Your moan turned into a startled laugh, which in turn made him groan—long, low, and needy—as if your laughter alone rewired his soul.
“Do not laugh at me, mon amour,” he murmured, breath trembling against your throat. “Or do. Your amusement only heightens the ecstasy of this…this living masterpiece.”
You let out a soft, breathy moan, your hips rolling up to meet his. The sound made him vibrate with emotion. He clutched your face between his paint-stained hands, eyes wide, intense, and absolutely overwhelmed.
“Your voice—your body—every reaction! It is…it is more inspiring than any sculpture! Any Sunflora! Any brushstroke!”
He rocked into you just an inch deeper and you gasped—sharply, involuntarily. Brassius froze, eyes widening with artistic revelation.
“That—THAT—!” he exclaimed, breathless. “That sound! It is the very essence of passion! The audible representation of beauty! Truly, I am blessed by the Muses themselves!”
You laughed again, the action causing your walls to flutter around him with each tremble, and his head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned like a man half-dying, half-transcending.
“My love,” he whispered, voice suddenly softer, breaking through the theatrics with raw sincerity. “I have sculpted you in my mind every night you were gone. Yearned for you. Needed you to bring me back to life.”
Your fingers dug into his back, pulling him closer. He shivered, all theatrics melting into hungry tenderness.
“Let me stay,” he pleaded softly, kissing your throat with trembling lips. “Let me savor this… savor you. I have been waiting for this moment—this closeness—this union—for far too long.”
He pressed deeper, breath hitching as your body reacted with a needy gasp.
“Ah…! Avant-garde indeed,” he whispered, voice breaking beautifully. “My muse… my masterpiece… my inspiration. I have waited all day for this.”
Larry
Larry didn’t come home hot or hungry for sex. He came home tired. Drained. Tie loosened, shoulders sagging, the weight of three jobs hanging from him like wet laundry.
Which is why, when he kissed you—unprompted, firm, and purposeful—you froze. Larry never initiated. Not unless he really, truly wanted it.
“…long day,” he muttered against your lips, voice flat as ever. “Too long. Wanted something to…look forward to.”
Your breath hitched as his hands settled on your hips—steady, warm, and unexpectedly sure. He nudged you backward toward the bedroom with the same no-nonsense inevitability he used to deliver tax documents.
When he laid you down and climbed over you, his expression stayed neutral—but his eyes? Dark. Focused. Hungry in a way that food couldn’t fix.
He slid into you slowly, carefully—like a man savoring a rare meal, not rushing a single bite. And when he bottomed out, hips meeting yours, the breath he let out wasn’t flat at all. A low, quiet groan slipped from deep in his chest. Real. Unfiltered.
Beautiful.
“…that’s—yeah,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at you. “That’s…exactly what I needed.”
You gasped, back arching, voice breaking into soft, breathy moans. Larry’s expression flickered—just faintly, but enough. His brows drew together, not in irritation, but in sheer concentration.
“Easy,” he said softly, unexpectedly tender. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Your nails scraped lightly along his shoulders; he inhaled sharply, hips pressing a fraction deeper. The sound you made—sharp and needy—pulled his mouth into the faintest, most fleeting smile.
“I know,” he murmured, voice thickening despite himself. “Feels good. For me too.”
You moaned again and he shuddered. His hand slid up your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles as he held himself deep inside you, savoring the warmth, the closeness, the rare moment of being wanted without expectation.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as another quiet groan slipped from him—lower this time, surprisingly erotic in its sincerity.
“You know,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t get nights like this. Not often. So…let me have it. Let me stay right here.”
Your breath hitched, and your legs wrapping tighter around him—inviting, needing.
Larry’s restraint cracked.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” he whispered, the honesty hitting harder than any theatrics ever could. “All day. All week. Longer.”
And then, as you moaned again—soft, sweet, wrecking him—Larry finally let himself move.
Grusha
Grusha wasn’t cold with you anymore—not the way he was with others. But he still held himself like he might break if you pushed too hard.
Tonight, though, when you stepped into his room after practice, skates slung over your shoulder, cheeks flushed from the rink, something in him cracked open just a little more. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared. Breathing a little faster. Blue hair falling into his eyes as he reached out and hooked a finger in your shirt, tugging you in with surprising need.
“You look…” he swallowed hard, cheeks warming faintly, “…good.”
It wasn’t about how you looked. It was that you were here. With him.
When he eased you onto the bed and settled between your legs, he moved with quiet reverence, as though memorizing every line of you the same way he once memorized the shapes of the slopes. His hands were warm, steady, sliding down your thighs with a softness he reserved only for you.
And when he pushed into you, slow and careful, breath held, your soft moan hit him like a rush of adrenaline. But when he bottomed out, hips pressed flush to yours, he broke. A sharp inhale, almost a gasp. Then a low, shaky groan, unexpected from someone so reserved.
“Gods…” he whispered, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he tried to breathe through it. “You feel…you feel incredible.”
Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently and a soft mix of gasp and moan slipped from you, your back arching into him. Your body welcomed him so fully he had to grab your hips to steady himself.
He shivered, full-body, uncontrolled. “Don’t—” he whispered, voice cracking, “don’t do that, I—I’m trying not to lose it.”
You smiled, and moaned again, more breathy this time, thighs tightening around him. He groaned in response, a sound you’d never heard from him—deep, unguarded, and helpless.
“I was thinking about you all day when I rode the slopes,” he murmured against your neck. “Every jump. Every turn. Every stretch—felt like I was missing something.”
Another shaky moan slipped from your lips and he lifted his head, pupils blown wide with need.
“…this.”
He thrust barely an inch deeper, and when your voice broke his restraint shattered.
“This is what I was missing.”
He cupped your jaw with trembling fingers, kissing you with the warmth he never showed the world. You moaned into his mouth, breath mixing with his, body tightening in invitation.
Grusha’s quiet gasp hit your lips, his hips pressing flush once more.
“Please…” he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice trembling. “Let me stay like this. Just…for a moment.”
Before he could second-guess himself, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in deeper, and slid your arms up around his neck, pulling him down against you. Your body clung to him—warm, wanting, wordlessly telling him you wanted him there.
A soft whimper escaped you, your hips tilting up to cradle him even more fully.
Grusha exhaled shakily, the breath leaving him in a trembling rush as he settled into your hold, his chest flush to yours, his hands gripping your hips like they were the only solid thing at Glaseado Mountain.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he melted into your embrace. “For you. All day.”
Hassel
Hassel was already emotional the moment he saw you step into his studio—palette in hand, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair tied back haphazardly as though he’d been pacing more than painting.
“My dear…” he breathed, voice trembling with that familiar, overwhelming affection. But this time, when his eyes went soft and glossy, you pointed a warning finger at him.
“Stop it. No crying, now.”
He froze, caught mid-sniffle, then let out a strangled laugh that was half-ridiculous, half-heart-melting. “Yes. Yes, of course. I shall…I shall restrain myself. This time.”
The moment he pulled you in for a kiss, all humor melted. All nervousness, too.
This time, it was want that drove him.
He backed you onto the couch, kissing you with the kind of intensity that came from holding back far too long. His hands, large, warm, and paint-stained, cupped your hips as though grounding himself.
When he pushed into you, he did so slowly at first, breath catching as your warmth took him in. But when he bottomed out, hips flush, deep and full, he lost the polished teacher composure. A low, guttural growl tore from his chest. Nothing polite. Nothing refined.
A dragon-tamer’s sound.
Your gasp turned into a breathless moan, body instinctively tightening around him, and he shuddered, hard fingers digging into your thighs.
“Oh—oh my stars,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You are…you are divine.”
You let out another soft, shaky moan, nails biting into his shoulders. Hassel choked—half sob, half groan—burying his face in your neck.
“Don’t you dare cry right now, Hass,” you warned again, breath trembling.
“I—I’m trying—” He inhaled sharply, voice dropping to something dark and hungry. “—but you feel too good.”
He shifted his hips just a fraction, just enough to make you gasp louder. That sound hit him like a critical hit—his entire body tensed, breath breaking.
“Oh, my love…” he whispered, voice thick and low, nothing like the gentle instructor. This was the dragon in him. “I left my clan…but you— you make me feel like a tamer again. Like strength still lives in me.”
Your moan came out high and desperate, and Hassel’s control shattered.
He grabbed your waist, dragging you flush against him, thrusting just that inch deeper—and a rough, feral groan tore from his throat. Raw. Powerful. Possessive in a way he’d never dare admit aloud.
“Please,” he begged, breath shaking, forehead pressing against yours. “Let me stay here. Let me feel you—just like this.”
Another whimper slipped from you, your hips rising, clinging to him.
He exhaled sharply, pupils blown wide.
“I’ve waited…” His voice dropped to a trembling, reverent whisper. “…all day… all week… but you—gods, you—”
You moaned again and you squeezed around him, and it hit him like a Dragon Rush to the gut. His entire body jerked, breath catching in a sharp, strangled sound as his hips twitched involuntarily.
He froze. Eyes wide. Face flushed. Breath held like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.
“N-no—wait—” he stammered, voice breaking beautifully. He shook his head hard, squeezing his eyes shut like he could physically fight the pleasure back into line. “Not—not now—if I let go right this second—”
“Hassel…” you gasped his name again, hips shifting, and he slapped a hand to the nearest surface, hard, just to ground himself.
“Later,” he hissed, breath trembling, trying so hard to wrestle himself under control. “I promised—later—just… oh stars above—just give me a moment—”
He inhaled sharply, chest rising against yours, fighting every instinct in his body not to lose it the second you made another sound. That feral dragon-tamer blood surged hot in his veins, battling with the genteel art instructor who cried during student critiques.
You felt him finally steady—barely—his breath coming in deep, shuddering pulls. And then, from somewhere low, primal, ancient, his voice rumbled.
“Right now,” he growled, yellow eyes snapping open, hungry and blazing,
“I need you.”
Steven Stone
Steven Stone approached intimacy the way he approached everything precious and rare in his life: with quiet reverence, steady hands, and a seriousness that made your heart flip.
He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t even especially forward.
He was intentional.
When he eased you back into the sheets and settled over you, his silver hair fell into his eyes in a way that softened every polished edge of his Champion persona. His fingers traced your sides—light, thoughtful, cataloging the shape of you like a stone he was learning by touch alone.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice low, sincere. “More beautiful than any stone or gem I’ve ever found.”
And then he pushed into you. Slow, because he refused to rush something so precious. Deep, because he needed to feel all of you. And measured, because he wanted to hear every shift of your breath.
But when he bottomed out, hips meeting yours, warmth enveloping him completely, his composure broke for the first time all night. A low, breathy groan escaped him. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But absolutely wrecked.
“…oh,” he whispered, voice trembling as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “That… that’s extraordinary.”
Your moan rose soft and breathy in response, your thighs tightening around him instinctively. Steven shuddered—full-body, muscles tensing as he tried to keep control. His hand slid to your hip, anchoring himself as if he might float away otherwise.
Your next sound, a soft gasp, pitched higher when his hips shifted unconsciously, made him inhale sharply.
“Careful,” he breathed, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m not…I’m not as composed as I look.”
You lifted your hips, urging him deeper, and the quiet, broken sound that spilled from his lips made heat bloom through your whole body. He lifted his head, eyes blown wide, pupils dark with something far more primal than his usual polished restraint.
“You’re…” He swallowed, breath shuddering. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. During a meeting. While cataloging a meteor sample. I couldn’t stop.”
Your moan broke through both of you, trembling and wanting; his breath stuttered, hips pressing just that fraction deeper—just enough to make you gasp again.
Steven groaned into your neck, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it.
“Please—” He kissed your jaw, slow and reverent. “Let me stay like this… let me feel this…”
A soft, breathy moan slipped from your lips, thighs tightening around him. His breath caught.
“I’ve waited,” he whispered, almost ashamed of how badly he needed it. “All day… all week… and now you’re here and—” He kissed you again, slow, deep, and desperate.
“—I don’t want to move until you tell me to.”
Guzma
Guzma didn’t ease into you the way some men did. He wasn’t gentle at first. He wasn’t polished. But he wasn’t reckless, either.
He hovered over you on the mattress of his messy, lived-in room—shirt half off, silver hair a wild halo, that familiar scowl tugging at his mouth even as his hands trembled with something that wasn’t rage for once.
“I still can’t believe you’re really here,” he muttered, voice lower, rougher than usual. “After everything I screwed up… after all that crap… you still—” He swallowed hard, throat bobbing.
“—you still want me.”
You cupped his cheek and he flinched, just slightly. Not away. Just because he wasn’t used to tenderness landing that close.
He pushed into you slow, biting his lip like he was trying to pretend he wasn't affected. Then your warmth closed around him, tight and welcoming. When he bottomed out, hips flush to yours and buried deep, his whole façade cracked.
A guttural groan ripped out of him, raw and shocked, like he hadn't expected it to feel this good. “Shit—” His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath shuddering. “You—holy shit, babe—”
Your breath broke into a soft moan, your nails dragging lightly down his back. He shuddered, hips jerking as he clutched you tighter.
“Stop—stop makin’ those sounds—” he gasped, but the plea came out strangled, needy. “I ain't—I ain’t used to this—I can’t—”
You moaned again, squeezing as tight as you could around him, and his entire body answered you instinctively, pressing deeper, holding you closer.
“Fuck…” he whispered into your skin, voice trembling. “You’re killin’ me.”
You gasped softly, pleasure tightening through your spine as your legs wrapped around his waist.
The words spilled out of you in a trembling murmur.
“Guzma…I want you. I want you so bad. My big, bad, Guzma.”
He froze, eyes blown wide, breath crashing out of him. “…you mean that?” he asked, voice suddenly smaller, raw beneath all the swagger. “You want me?”
You grabbed his face, made him look at you. “Yes,” you breathed, firm, certain. “Guzma, I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”
Something broke loose in him. Something wild and soft at the same time. He kissed you messily, possessive, grateful, and starving, and groaned again as your hips lifted to meet him.
“Aaaughh—damn, babe…” His voice shook, dropping to something deep and honest. “You feel so good I—I can’t even pretend. Can’t keep my shit together right now.”
Another moan spilled from your lips, and he growled, low in his chest, hands gripping your hips as if anchoring himself.
“Y-yeah—keep doin’ that,” he panted. “Been thinkin’ about this—about you—all damn day. All week. Longer.”
You whimpered, body tightening around him, and he gasped—sharp, near-desperate.
“Fuck, fuck—okay—okay, babe—lemme—lemme stay here—” He pressed in fully, shaking, forehead pressed to yours. “—just a sec. Just a sec. You feel too good. I’ll lose it.”
You didn’t even mean to do it. Your hips lifted, just a small, needy roll into him, your fingers curling in his hair as you breathed his name with a desperate edge.
“Fuck—okay— that’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked as his control snapped. His hips slammed into yours, wild and hungry, all restraint gone in an instant. “You want me? You got me—”
Nanu
Nanu didn’t move when you entered the room. He didn’t lift his head from the couch cushion, didn’t straighten his shirt, didn’t even pretend to look a little more alive. He just cracked an eye open, stared at you for a slow, lazy beat, and muttered:
“…back already? Thought I had at least another hour to nap.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He looked at you again. And then he sighed—long, low, resigned in that very specific Nanu way that never meant no.
“…come here,” he grumbled, patting his thigh.
But when you straddled him, settling your weight over his hips, Nanu’s breath hitched—barely, but you caught it. His hands slid up your thighs, fingers warm but trembling ever so slightly with anticipation.
“Yeah, yeah…that’s good,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “Been thinkin’ about this all damn day, even if I didn’t wanna admit it.”
He guided himself into you with a slow, steady push—lazy in posture, laser-focused in practice. And when your body sank down around him, taking him in deep—
Nanu’s entire façade cracked.
His head tipped back. A low, guttural groan bled out of his chest. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you there.
“…fuck.”
A whisper.
A confession.
A man undone despite himself.
You let out a soft, breathy moan, your hands bracing on his chest as you adjusted around him.
Nanu shuddered.
“Don’t—” he muttered, voice rasping as if scraped raw, “don’t make noises like that yet. I’m not— I wasn’t ready for how good you’d feel.”
You rocked your hips just slightly, instinctive and needy, and he sucked in a sharp breath, his hands immediately tightening.
“Ay, don’t start with that,” he warned, but his voice broke halfway through. “I can’t…I can’t think straight when you—”
You moaned again—soft, high, involuntary.
His self-control went up in smoke.
Nanu grabbed your waist with firm, desperate hands, pulling you down flush against him. He groaned again, deeper now, voice cracking.
“You’re killin’ me, kid,” he rasped, the old nickname (one you vehemently tried to break him of) slipping out instinctively, affection buried inside the syllables. “I wanted to tie you up, y’know. Wanted to take my time. But—”
Your hips pressed down again, and he nearly swore.
“—but I can’t. I can’t wait. I need you right here. Like this.”
Your moan spilled out thick and sweet, echoing in the dim room.
His breath stuttered, eyes squeezing shut.
“…goddamn.” He looked up at you—hungry, tired, overwhelmed. “All day,” he murmured. “Pretended I didn’t want shit. Pretended I was too tired. But I was thinkin’ about this since I woke up.”
You shifted again, just a little, and he groaned so low it vibrated through your bones.
“Stay there,” he whispered, voice raw. “Just like that. Lemme feel you.”
Your breathy, broken moan answered him.
Nanu’s hands slid up your back, pulling you down into his chest as he held himself deep inside you, shaking faintly with the effort of not thrusting up into you too soon.
“You’re everything I needed today,” he confessed, so quietly you almost missed it. “I’ve been waitin’ for this all damn day.”
Ingo
Ingo had always carried himself like a man stitched together from duty and discipline—every breath measured, every movement deliberate.
But tonight…tonight, when you slipped into his quarters after a long day assisting the Pearl Clan, you found him sitting on the edge of his futon, gloves off, coat draped beside him, hair tousled from stress and wind and too much thinking.
He looked up.
And something broke inside him.
“Ah.” His voice cracked, rougher than usual. “You’ve returned…good. Very good. I—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and stood quickly, almost clumsily, as if surprised by his own urgency.
You didn’t mean for this relationship to happen. Neither did he. But the pull between you had always been stronger than logic, stronger than Hisui’s wildness, stronger even than his grief-soaked amnesia.
When he reached for you, his hands trembled. Not from hesitation, but from the sheer relief of touching someone he cared for.
He kissed you with a kind of reverence that felt like prayer.
And when he lowered you onto the bedding, climbing over you with that long, lithe body built from years of movement and structure, he whispered, “Please… allow me this. I have been running on empty for too long.”
He pushed into you slowly, agonizingly slow, as though savoring every fraction of depth like something rare and precious he feared would disappear.
Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping you as your fingers curled into the torn edges of his old coat still clinging to his shoulders.
And when he finally bottomed out, fully seated inside you, hips flush, Ingo’s entire body shuddered.
“O-oh…” The sound that tore from him was low, desperate, utterly undone. “Station… reached,” he murmured, voice cracking. “At last…”
You moaned again, shaky and breathless, and his grip on your hips tightened, not painfully, but like he needed to anchor himself or he’d fly apart.
“Do not—” he gasped, breath hot against your neck, “do not make such sounds yet, my dear. I am… not prepared. I will derail.”
You moaned again anyway—higher this time—and he groaned, a raw sound pulled from somewhere deep, exhausted, starving for affection.
“Ingo,” you whispered, arching into him.
He shivered violently, pressing deeper, as if trying to merge with you entirely. “My apologies,” he murmured, breath trembling. “I— I have missed you, my dear. More than I knew one could miss another soul.”
Your soft whimper made his head snap up, eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed.
“All day,” he whispered, lowering himself to kiss your shoulder, your throat. “While tending to Sneasler. While patrolling the high cliffs. Every moment…I thought of returning to you.”
Another moan.
Another gasp from him in reply.
He cupped your cheek gently—so gently, it nearly broke you—thumb tracing your lower lip as he remained buried deep inside you, breathing hard.
“Please,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “Let me…remain like this. Let me hold you, feel you… before I lose myself.”
Your body reacted with a soft, sweet moan, thighs tightening around him.
Ingo exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I have been waiting for this…” His voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “…all day. All week. Perhaps longer.”
His lips brushed yours.
“And now that I have you… I do not wish to move.”
Adaman
Adaman didn’t walk into your tent. He stormed in. Like a man who’d been holding himself back for far, far too long.
“Finally,” he breathed, already shrugging off his coat, already reaching for you with those warm, impatient hands. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? How long I’ve been thinking about you?”
You barely had time to answer before he pressed you back onto the bedding, his body settling over yours with all the pent-up urgency of a leader who spent the entire day pretending he didn’t want this. Didn’t want you.
But Adaman was a terrible liar.
He kissed you—hard, hungry, and relieved—hands sliding under your clothes with a confidence born from months of stolen glances and unspoken desire.
When he pushed into you, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t tentative. It was a needy, desperate glide that drew a sharp gasp from your throat and a low, wrecked groan from him.
And when he bottomed out, hips flush, and buried deep, he let out a a deep, desperate, shaking groan that melted every muscle in his body.
“Almighty Sinnoh—” He dropped his forehead to your chest, breath trembling. “You—you’re perfect. You’re—gods—better than I imagined.”
And he had imagined it. Often. Too often.
Your soft moan rose up, your legs wrapping instinctively around him, pulling him closer. Adaman’s breath hitched, hips jerking just slightly as the sensation hit him like lightning.
“Don’t—” he gasped, voice cracking, “don’t do that. I’ll lose it. I’ll—oh gods—”
Another needy moan slipped from your lips and he swore, grabbing your thighs and holding you firmly, almost reverently.
“I’ve wanted you since the day we met,” he confessed, voice low and shaking, “but I didn’t have time. We didn’t have time. And then you—” His voice broke. “—you almost died.”
You moaned again, your hips shifting up into him.
Adaman groaned, loud this time, his control dissolving like snow in summer.
“You have no idea,” he whispered, lips brushing your throat, “how hard it was not to run to you every second of every day.” He thrust barely an inch deeper, your breath catching sharply. He growled. “Oh, yeah. That. That’s the sound I’ve been craving.”
Your next moan made him shudder, arms tightening around you. “I’m yours,” he whispered fiercely, “I’ve always been yours. And I’m not waiting anymore.”
He stayed buried deep, shaking with the effort of holding still.
“Please,” he breathed against your lips, “let me stay like this for a moment.”
His voice dropped to a needy whisper.
“I’ve been waiting for this all day. All week. Ever since the moment I thought I’d lost you.”
Your soft, trembling moan answered him—and Adaman finally, finally let go.
not now sweetie, mommy is watching how the massive girlbossification of female characters has led to the belief that weak and vulnerable female characters are badly written characters because apparently every woman needs to be outspoken and witty and snarky and brave in order to be considered “complex” and have any value in a piece of media!!
We're in the middle of the school. Guys, we're done building the classrooms. School thanks to your donations, this is a very wonderful thing Thank you to everyone who donated and participated But we still have a lot of lacking
Hey guys, let's be snug. Why don't we complete donations quickly? Why don't you help us spread this out for fundraising? This is considered an institution. Why doesn't anyone care about her? I'm overloading my energy. Please create posts everywhere. Everything is available in Gaza, but education is still not available please help with posting We're doing a good job, please share and donate now.
The Coastal Initiative in Gaza urgently needs your support to laun… Asma Yunis needs your support for Help the children of Gaza get a safe a
Hey guys, come on, come on, we can do it all together. Please donate and share this post now, and if you can post about it, you guys are our only hope. Come on, come on, please.
we gotta get back to torrent distribution, i just watched someone eat eight grand in bandwidth charges because they ran a direct-download piracy site with local file hosting through cloudflare. torrents were invented literally for this exact reason
i have a file or folder on my pc that i want to share with other people. let's call it gayshit.mp3
unfortunately gayshit.mp3 is 750mb and im not paying for discord nitro so i need another way to send it
i put it into qbittorrent and it makes a torrent file. this is essentially a very small file that points to gayshit.mp3 so other computers can find it. kinda like a treasure map
i send this tiny file to my friend, who loads it into qbittorrent. their computer takes a moment to find mine over the vast expanse of cyberspace and then (as long as my pc is running and the file is still where it should be), it gets copied from my hard drive to theirs
this is the cool part: if somebody else loads that tiny file, they can download it from both of us. if i'm offline but my friend is on, the third person can still get it. this also means that if two people have separate halves of the file, they can download the other half from each other. as long as some combination of people have the pieces between them, they can all have the whole thing.
crucially this does not require a server!!! you can just upload the file to a few people and as long as they keep it, it's still accessible. as long as somebody, somewhere is still connected, it's available forever. the only way it goes away is if everybody disconnects from it.
gentle psa to new comic artists about a problem i also suffered from: slow quiet pacing is totally fine BUT if that's not what you're deliberately going for, you CAN fit more Story Progression on the page. no, more than that. more than that even. i promise if you don't want it to a single action doesn't need to take a whole page to illustrate each of its steps, a lot of connecting magic happens in the gutters i /promise/ if you draw someone pulling up in a car then skip to them walking in the door with groceries we will Understand that they unloaded the car and unlocked the house you feel me
#I am not a comic artist#but I had a similar problem when I was in film school#I call it “the door problem”#in my thesis film I had written that two characters walk out the back of the club into the alley behind the club#and my club location did not have a back alley but did have a side room that we used as the door#but that door opened in#and the location I used for the alley had a back door but that door opened outwards#and I knew it looked weird#I struggled framing the shots#and blocking the actors#and I got really really caught in my own head about how to make this door work#because to me it was really important that you saw every step from club to outside#because even though we had learned in school that you could transition it didn't feel right because it didn't feel like a new scene to me#(this being one of the struggles with a short film. It can all feel like one scene if your script is short!)#AND THEN#when we got into the editing room we just...cut the door transition entirely#initially not on purpose#what happened was that we decided to tighten up the timing by cutting non-linearly to the custom music I had commissioned#which made it much more experimental especially in comparison to my fellow classmates#however it showed me that the story still absolutely worked without needing to show how they got into the alley#the audience can infer the door#so now anytime I can feel myself getting stuck on something when I'm filming I think#“Is this a Door Problem?”#as a storyteller it's always a question of what is the absolute bare minimum you need to convey what you're trying to say#and sometimes that means you just need to already be outside the club
(via @currentlycreating )
Exactly! Film and comics are VERY similar mediums in this way, I love this. We should always be considering Door Problems
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