Not for danger.

For you.

“Did you see it?” he asks, voice carefully controlled, almost hopeful. “I stopped the plane from crashing. Not a single casualty.”

You hesitate. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe the words don’t come quickly enough. Maybe you simply don’t react the way he expects.

And the change in him is immediate.

The air grows heavy, charged with something unspoken. His smile falters, just for a second, before slipping away entirely. The city lights flicker across his face as disappointment settles in, fragile and terrifying in equal measure.

Imagine the most powerful man in the world stepping closer, uncertainty creeping into his posture.

Then, slowly, he kneels.

Not out of humility.

Out of reverence.

His gloved hands hover near you, as if afraid to touch without permission. When he finally looks up, his expression is raw—eyes shining with unshed tears, desperation barely contained beneath the surface.

“Tell me I’m good,” he whispers, voice trembling with need. “Please.”

The plea hangs in the air, fragile and suffocating.

Because you know he doesn’t just want praise—he needs it. Your approval is the axis on which his entire world spins. Without it, the adoration of millions means nothing.

Imagine him resting his forehead lightly against your hand, seeking comfort like something lost and wounded, despite the unimaginable power he holds.

“I’ll do anything to deserve it,” he murmurs. “Anything you want. Just… don’t look at me like I’ve failed.”

And in that moment, it becomes terrifyingly clear:

The world may belong to Homelander.

But Homelander belongs to you.

There are two undeniable facts that can be gleaned from working with Dr. Ryland Grace. First: he's a genius, a brilliant mind that shines like a beacon, despite what he'll tell you if asked. Second: he talks way too damn much sometimes.

Ryland talks quite a lot, despite what you might think of someone whose whole face and posture screams, "I have social anxiety!" If he wasn't a toned, muscled hunk with a picture-perfect aura of messy hair? He'd be the definition of a dork that gets shoved into a locker by a school bully on the daily.

You idly think about the analogy as you side-eye the scientist in front of you, heaving a tired sigh as he descends into another tirade that has frankly nothing to do with your current problem. It's an interesting theory, you'll give him that, but the ship's clock states it's two in the morning and there is literally no correlation between "getting an astrophage sample from Tau Ceti-E" and "how everything on Earth somehow has a link to tuberculosis". Especially since you really need him to pay attention right now. Unfortunately, he has a really annoying habit of getting so caught up in whatever he's talking about when he's sleep-deprived that he literally won't hear you unless you yell. And you really don't feel like yelling right now.

Before you can even consider the theory he threw your way, Grace has already moved on to another digression. Your head feels like it's full of lead.

Grace is a nervous talker. Grace is also an excited talker. And a delirious talker. Honestly anything that has to do with anything could send him into a rant; you were around this man on the Earth, and you don't recall any instance of him going off that much. Back then, just looking at him a little funny would make him shrink like a wilted plant. Perhaps being in space and having only two creatures to talk to has that effect on a person.

"Grace." You feign a cough to draw his attention to you and the cargo you're holding, which is growing heavier by the minute. No luck, the man is miles away.

Right now he's articulating wildly, flipping between scribbling on a whiteboard, gesturing with his hands in your general direction, pointing at the mess of a laboratory, then back at you. All the while going on and on about how if you try hard enough- you can classify astrophage as a disease that is also fuel, and algae, and-

"Grace-"

"-and that's how you can basically turn these little buggers into paste. I wouldn't recommend it, though, unstable alien life form and all that-"

"Grace, can you pa-"

"But! Stay with me here. What if we could catch more of them and basically soup-ify them for more storage efficiency? Hypothetically that would solve some of the fuel problem-"

"Doctor Ryland Grace!"

It comes out a little rougher than expected, and Ryland startles, whipping his head to look at you fully at the sound of his full name. Finally he settles those bright blue eyes on your form, a bashful half smile tugging his lips. It's worth noting that his gaze dispelled much of your irritation.  However it did nothing to make the metal box in your hands lighter.

"Right! Sorry, I...kinda forgot what we were talking about there," he chuckles and gestures vaguely in your direction, drawing a broad circle in the air. "What was-OH! Right! Petrova line collector! How is that going?"

"Fine and dandy," you grumble, glancing at the heavy object full of slides that's taking up both your hands. You've asked Ryland to clear the space for it seven minutes ago, trudging into the lab with a solid fear that you'd throw your back out; those seven minutes have already passed and you didn't get any closer to putting the very valuable and very heavy equipment down. "I'd show you but I've got my hands full over here. Do you mind?"

Rocky is currently asleep, so as the resident pilot turned part-time engineer you were given the task of assembling the sampler for Tau Ceti-E's Petrova line. Not to brag, but you think you've done a damn good job, if only this advanced bacterial projector weren't so bulky. It's just a prototype, and the three of you have been racking your brains over how to make it lighter and more efficient (a struggle made even more difficult by Rocky's need for rest, as he's the ship's chief engineering mastermind. Plus, you can't think straight when you haven't slept for 27 hours and Ryland's yapping your ear off when the situation is sort of urgent).

You don't have time to consider the fact that you're probably a little out of shape if you can't balance a metal rectangle weighing roughly 30 kg, because Ryland is scrambling to toss everything that cannot break or shatter off the desk, clearing out the space. You think that you've never seen a man move faster.

"Right! Shucks, sorry, sorry. Just put it down he-" BLAM. You wince, not expecting the sampler to make such a noise when you set it down on the white surface of the table. But you're annoyed and frankly out of damns to give. The way Ryland scrunches his whole face at the noise makes you chuckle. "Ooohkay! Well then! Yeesh, maybe a little gentler next time?"

"Sorry, my hands were in the middle of withering and falling off, I haven't considered that." The groan that escapes you makes Grace shoot you an apologetic look. You're both tired, and you did just haul a container full of microbe capturing slides down to the lab. You stretch, flexing the muscles of your bare arms, trying to restore circulation. Beside you, Grace falls silent, looking from you to the whiteboard. The tips of his ears flush a light shade of red.

"Not to be a Doubting Debbie, but I would reckon you have enough strength in you to snap a piece of rebar clean in half, not just drag a sampler up here." The phrase makes you pause and shoot an inquisitive stare his way, eyebrow raised. Grace is not looking at you though, and you can clearly see a blotch of red spreading from his ears.

"I mean, not that I doubt that you could haul it here! Because you did. It’s right in front of me. Yup." He's gesturing wildly again. Uh oh, the lead scientist of Hail Mary is on his way to go on yet another tangent. "But uh. Well. Honestly, you'd think with your brawn we could drag most of Rocky's heavy equipment in here! Or an extra sampler, just in case. Together, we could even…"

"Grace. You're doing it again." There's a frustrated strain in your voice. For all your unyielding love for this man, Grace can't stop talking when the situation clearly demands it. Just like now: you're extremely annoyed and sleep-deprived, and he all but refuses to go sleep with you or focus on the problem. If you don't stop him now, Ryland will not stop shoving his foot in his mouth.

"Right! Sorry, that was weird. Should have probably not said anything at all. What a strange, strange thing to say...I mean. Sorry. It was meant as a compliment- Didn't mean to imply that I view you as a pack mule or anything! It's ju-" he waves his hands again, and the loose cap of the marker he's been holding flies off and hits you in the forehead. That does it.

The next second is a blur. With a surprising burst of energy, you surge forward, clamping your whole palm against Ryland's mouth. He lets out a startled yelp, but a little too late: you're already shoving him with the momentum of your whole body. The movement is a little more abrupt than intended, and the scientist stumbles backward, hitting his back against the wall with a dull thud. Something clutters to the ground, but you don't care to even look back at whatever it was: in your attempt to pause Grace's rambling you've trapped him between you and the wall, one of your legs slotting between his. You’ve literally pinned the man down with your weight. With brows furrowed and palm firmly pressed against his lips, you stare him down. A frustrated noise leaves you and he gawks back, eyes bigger than saucers.

"Ryland. Stop. Talking." It comes out something between a rumble and a growl. "Or I swear I'll make you."

To your surprise, Grace stills instantly. The silence that sets around you finally allows you to focus more clearly on your surroundings, and you sigh with relief as the headache gradually subsides. Lowering your head forward to take a few breaths of air, you try to calm your nerves after the sudden onset. By the time you look up again-

Grace is bright red. Almost as red as his spacesuit. The blush had spread from the tips of his ears to his neck, visible even in the dim light of the room you were in. You're sure his ears would be steaming if he were any redder. What is that about? Just as you're about to break away from him and apologize, maybe check him over for any bumps or bruises your sudden outburst has dealt, you shift your weight forward and Ryland makes a sound. It's muffled against your fingers, but it's there. Somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, hot breath sending goosebumps against your skin. Pause.

Your head is spinning. The lead scientist of Hail Mary is squished against the wall, pressed firmly against your chest, and he just whimpered. You just slammed a man into the wall, and he whimpered. And not the bad kind by the sound of it, either.

All the exhaustion and mild annoyance at Grace melts away in an instant; now there's a wild cocktail of emotions boiling under your skin.

One part of you is screaming that you should immediately let go and apologize profusely, maybe throw yourself out of the airlock for good measure. You did just manhandle Ryland into the wall out of nowhere. Even if you both have been cautiously exploring a more...romantic side of your coexistence, it never went further than a heated kiss or an intentional brush of fingers. Even if the both of you would sneak glances at each other, even if you inched closer with each passing day, this position is compromising every unspoken rule you thought was there.

But another part of you, like a hawk eyeing a particularly plump rabbit, watches the scientist standing before you in fascination. Grace is trying to be deathly still; heart hammering so hard you can feel it through the fabric of his shirt. He's fidgeting ever so slightly in your grasp. So far, he's making no move to shove you off, and to his credit he is being very complacent with the 'be quiet' request. Screw it.

You shift your knee ever so slightly from where it's slotted between his legs, mimicking a movement of pulling away. Your thigh brushes against Ryland's crotch, and the reaction is instant. He lets out a strangled sound, breath hitching and eyelids fluttering shut for a spell. The man is rock hard against your leg. There is a wild excitement pooling in your gut: did your demand affect him? Or was it the fact that you're literally breathing into his face from how close you're standing?

"...did you want me to?" you rumble, fingers easing off his mouth just a little. It's a genuine question, as much as it is an inquiry. You need to know if this is what he wants: after all, he might just be scared mindless of you. Fear and arousal do stand close together in a hormonal mesh of the human's physiology. Grace is silent for a few heartbeats, breathing heavily into your palm. Just as you're about to back away and apologize for going too far, he gathers himself enough to make a sound of approval. A furious nod follows, his tousled blond hair flying in all directions.

There is a cautious, but pleased smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "What's that?"

Ryland strains, licking his lips under your hold. The way his tongue darts against your skin makes you want to sear this moment into your mind forever. "U-uh huuh-"

"Oh, so now you can't utter a sound. How little it takes," You press on, mock-annoyance tinging your voice just enough to make Grace shuffle in anticipation. His eyes are clouded with arousal, but never leave your face, obeying the unspoken command: Stay Still. Shifting again, you give his hard-on an experimental grind with your knee, testing the waters. Grace all but melts, eyes rolling back in his skull. "I'm going to let you speak. And you will use your words proper for once. Was that a 'yes'?"

As you withdraw your hand a little, he makes a pathetic little sound at the loss. To his credit, he does find his voice to answer your demand. "Ye-ah. Yes, that- yeah."

"Nope. Try again, I didn't catch that."

"Yes! Fudging-...y-yes." He pouts, but complies to your demand.

"Hm." You huff, face inching closer to press your lips against the crook of his neck as a reward, feeling Grace relax ever so slightly with a soft gasp. Peppering gentle, barely-there kisses up to the junction right under his ear, you bite down; Ryland's yelp quickly melts into a whimper. So, the man likes it a little rough and is good at following commands when necessary. The thought makes you giddy. "Good boy." The way Grace jolts at the praise is divine.

You spend the next few minutes exploring the hollow of his throat with lips and teeth, still pinning the scientist to the wall with your weight. He's making all sorts of sounds that make your head spin: needy, wanton, muffled against the palm that's pressed snugly against his lips. It's a necessity; you are going to town on the researcher in the middle of the ship’s laboratory, and Rocky can wake up any second. Moreover, the bugger can see through walls, so there are going to be some awkward questions asked about why the only two humans on board are "fighting". Ryland just might die from embarrassment on the spot.

There's not much room for him to go anywhere, between the firm press of your body against his and the grinding of your thigh against his crotch growing more and more insistent. Ryland feels like he's about to explode. His throat is a mess of red bite marks, and you're not letting up your affections for even a fraction, the hand unoccupied with holding his mouth shut palming at his bucking hips. There's a wet patch already where his cock strains against the fabric of his pants.

Your fingers on his mouth feel a little damp from his breath and saliva. The way Grace leans into your touch so eagerly- it makes you wonder if this is the first time in forever since he has been touched like this. Or ever? An idea springs to your head almost instantly.

"Do me a favor, would you?" You slowly peel your hand away from his mouth, capturing his chin and pulling his face just enough to force his half-lidded eyes on you. "Let me see if your mouth is good for anything other than talk."

Before Grace can utter a word, you press a thumb against his lips. They're softer than expected, wet and silky against your touch. Grace keens pathetically, eyes fluttering shut when he understands the assignment. There's barely any resistance when he opens his mouth, letting the digit in with no protest at all. You stare in awe as Ryland presses his tongue flat against your finger, giving it an experimental lap. It's hot, wet, and absolutely obscene. You can't help the breath that hitches in your throat at the sight. So you don't let up, pressing and prodding. Just before he can get accustomed to the feeling of your thumb swiping along his tongue, you shift your hold, slipping the index and the middle finger into his mouth in its stead. The digit that was just in the silky heat of his mouth is now slick with saliva, resting on the man’s stubble as you hold his face.

Grace winces ever so slightly, but welcomes the intrusion with a barely audible groan. Your fingers press deeper, eyes transfixed on how Ryland's dealing with it: face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, hair an even worse mess than before. There's a tiny string of drool coming down the side of his mouth, escaping unnoticed while he's doing such a diligent job of sucking on the digits exploring his mouth. You feel like a rabid animal. You want this man ruined and pleading.

There's an erratic urgency to how Ryland's hips stutter and buck against your touch, grinding down to get whatever friction he can. As much as you want to drag this out for hours, completely obliterating Grace's ability to form a coherent thought or go on another tangent for the next few days, this is but a taste test. And so far Ryland's doing swimmingly. You make an approving sound, fingers hooking the waistband of his pants and underwear, pulling them down just enough to let his cock out of the confines. It springs free, flushed and leaking copious amounts of precome. Grace's whine is loud around the fingers in his mouth.

"Hey. Shush." Despite how crazed you are, you still put on a damn good show of growling at him. Grace starts, thighs trembling, eyes blown wide and unfocused. His glasses are fogged up, hanging on the very tip of his nose. He's so very pliant in your hands, pressed against the wall, completely at your mercy. "Be a good boy, stay quiet. I'll make it worth your while, can you do that for me?"

The poor man is trembling from how hard he is, yet still nods his head furiously. The glasses nearly fly off him in the process, staying on by some sort of miracle. You can't help but feel endeared: now it seems he would bend over backwards to listen to you, when you have his undivided attention.

That's when your fingers finally wrap around his cock, giving it a slow, firm stroke from the base to the tip, thumb smearing the wetness there. Judging by the quiet sob that escaped Ryland's lips, one would think that his soul had been evacuated from this sorry plane of existence. It's a bit of an awkward angle, you're still very much squishing Grace into the wall to keep him from falling. Judging by the shaking of his legs, he would tumble like a ragdoll if you weren't propping him up; in response to your actions, Grace makes a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a whine, barely audible but unapologetically pathetic.

It's a sight to behold, and behold you do, eyes transfixed on his face as you stroke his cock in languid pace. A twist of the wrist here, a circling of your thumb around the overly sensitive head of his cock there, and Grace starts falling apart at the seams. He bites down hard on the index finger in his mouth to keep as quiet as possible, trying to follow the order given to him. You hiss at the delightful pang of pain. There is an undeniable pressure building in your gut: just seeing how Ryland unravels within the constraints he's been put in is enough to kick you into high gear.

Grace's lips are red and slick with spit by the time you withdraw fingers from his mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva following them. He looks like an absolute wreck. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lapping at the line of spit sticking to his skin. His hips are jerking into your hand at mach speed by now, stuttering every time you slow your movements to delay his orgasm; when you hear a broken, barely audible plea fall from his lips- only then you finally decide to pity him.

"Good boy. Doing such a fantastic job," you coo, and Grace seizes up, a broken sob leaving him. "Let go, I've got you, I've got you."

Seems the praise, as well as the obscene hell you just pushed him through, finally do their job: Ryland's fingers dig into your forearms hard enough to bruise, head thrown back against the wall in a silent scream as he spills into your fist. The pleasure hits him like a punch to the gut, sweeping him under the current with a blinding flash of heat. Grace is making a mess of your hand and the floor as he comes, but you don't give a single damn; the sight of him, pulled taut like a bowstring in your hold, filthy wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh...you're pretty sure you've gone irreversibly insane, pumping him through the aftershocks. You don't stop until there is a glisten of tears in his eyes, driving the man up the wall to the point that is bordering on overstimulation.

By the time he softens in your palm, Grace can only be described as a boneless mass. You hold him through it, kissing his bitten neck and blazing-red face, whispering praises to help him come down from his high. You only release him from your tight grasp when his cock is tucked back into his pants and you're sure he won't faceplant the moment you are not leaning your full weight on him. It takes a few good minutes for Grace to come back to you.

"I-...uhm." The scientist's voice is hoarse when he speaks up again, body still wracked with the aftershocks. "That. Thaa-at was-"

His eyes focus enough to take the sight of you in. Now that you are not literally squishing him into the lab wall, Grace can finally admire the sight of you through teary eyes. You're just as disheveled as he is, face blazing with a furious blush, breathing ragged and hands fighting as to not tremble. Like the two of you just ran a marathon instead of humping away in a dark corner of the lab like two lovesick teenagers.

With a steadying sigh, you lean back. Your mind is nearly completely empty, but the mischief of the stunt that you had just pulled is still coursing through your veins like liquid fire. Sneaking a glance at the mess of your hand, you eye the fingers still covered with Grace's release. There is a wild sparkle in your eye that Ryland should honestly fear by now, if only for his ability to feel shame. "Wait. What are y-"

His eyes widen. Breathlessly he gawks at you when you slowly bring up the fingers to your face, the mess that he’s made glistening in the low light of the lab. You put on a show, lapping at the cum staining your hand, mimicking what he did to your fingers not a few moments ago. Staring at your tongue as it sweeps up the streaks of his release, Ryland feels like he is going to either pass out or get another raging boner from the view. Only when you deem the job well done and the molecular biologist flustered sufficiently do you lean forward and kiss him in a slow, hungry motion, letting him taste his own cum on your tongue.

By the time you finally pull away for good, there is a sense of smugness to you that Grace is sure would kill him. He's still squeezing your forearms with a white-knuckled grip.

"You're gonna be the- hff, death of me. Holy cow."

"That's what you get, mister." You huff a laugh, voice strained. "Told you I could make you shut up."

Grace is trying to brush his hair back from where it sticks to his sweat-slicked forehead. He proceeds to make it even worse in the process. "...does that mean you'll, uh. Do that whenever I run my mouth for too long? Or miss out on sleep. This is an important inquiry."

You can't help but roll your eyes, grabbing his shoulder tightly to pull him away from the wall and towards you. There is no protest from Grace this time, only the warmth of his body pressed against your side and his hand resting timidly on your waist. The astrophage sampler is still on the table where you’d left it, long abandoned, and the lab looks like someone ransacked it. That is a problem for tomorrow though. You guide Grace back to the sleeping quarters, helping him find his footing when he wavers and relishing in the way he presses against you, yearning for your touch. You flash him a weary but smug smile whenever he tries to pipe up about how there is still work for him to do; any protests die down when you squeeze his shoulder a little harder in your embrace, a reminder to listen to you when you demand something of him. Seems he got the memo.

"So...that's a yes? Maybe? What are my chances?"

he's eating that shit up in bed. the first time you use it on him is only because of some banter going on between you. "yeah, you do kinda follow me around like a puppy," you say to Grace, and he blushes — that's the secret indication — and rolls his eyes. "don't call me that. i'm a respectable human being, i teach the American youth and i have authority," he says — but all that false bravado dissolves into a puddle of his own tears and cum when you've got him shuddering and weeping out of pleasure beneath you. he's begging you to move your hips and grind down onto his aching cock that's still obscured by his jeans; gripping at your waist to try and get you to acquiesce; but why should you rush? you've just found out how much he gets off on just being kissed and bitten and caressed. you're exploiting that first.

It's embarrassing how hard he is when he just watches you handle his gun. It's a glock, a semi-automatic 9mm, crafted for target shooting. It's precise when in the right hands, and god, do your hands look like the right hands.

Distantly, he knows you're asking him questions. Wondering out loud about the weight and the capacity (24.9oz and 17+1 - Toji knows it off the top of his head), wondering how it would feel to shoot it.

Click.

And oh, the safety is disabled now. You handle it with ease, shifting into shooting position. You've got a gleam in your eyes that he just can't seem the place, and the way you're choking back a grin has him shifting in his seat. And if anyone else even thought about pointing a gun at him, Toji would end them. Their remains would already be splattered across the floor, blood soaking into the ugly off-white of the rug that he told you not to buy.

But you've got it cocked at him now, finger teasing the trigger, safety off. It's pointed right at his heart, and you're both standing too far away and too close.

And you're innocent to his struggle at first. You don't catch the way his eyes have glossed over or the way his sweatpants have an ever-growing wet spot coming right from where his tip is straining against the fabric. You don't see how he's straining so hard against his sweatpants that you might just be able to see the veins of his cock through them.

What you do catch is the little whimper that he lets out when you take a step closer.

It's quiet, just barely loud enough for you to hear over your own breathing. It comes from the back of his throat, and by the way his ears flush just a bit red, he knows that you heard. Knows that you know what you're doing to him now.

His cock twitches pathetically in his pants.

You're no longer hiding your grin, and the gleam in your eyes has turned somewhat sinister. You take another step. Then another. His eyes never leave the gun in your hands, even when the stain on his pants becomes increasingly obviously. No reason to hide what you already know.

And then you aim the barrel downwards. He watches it, tense, as it comes to point directly at his cock. His pathetic, leaking cock, that gushes out another stream of precum when you press the tip of the gun against his clothed cock.

He shudders, unable to do anything but whimper or twitch, mesmerized by you and the gun in your hand. The air is tense, tension thick enough to cut with a knife, when your voice slices through it.

"This is what turns you on?"

You say it with such contempt, like you're offended by how horny he is right now. He could flip the situation in a second - slip the gun from your hands and pin you down, tell you just how pathetic it is that you're turned on by this - but he won't. He can't, really. Not when you're looking at him like he's nothing more than the dirt underneath your shoe.

You wait for a moment for him to respond, but when you get nothing back, you let out a long sigh, as if he's an annoyance. Like it's his fault you're even in this situation in the first place.

"Pull your cock out."

It's a demand, not a ask. You aren't playing nice, not anymore. You nudge his cock with the barrel, snorting softly when he groans in response. His hands scramble to find his waistband, lifting his hips up just enough to yank his boxers and pants down to his ankles. His tip slaps gently against the black of his shirt, smearing precum on it. He's aching, cock flushed red from tip to balls. You want to just sink to your knees and wrap your lips around him, but you hold back. Right now, you have different plans.

Like running the tip of the gun up the side of Toji's cock, from base to tip. Your movements are slow, languid, and light - enough for him to feel, but not enough for him to get off. He wants to just make you do something, make him feel something, but he's glued to his seat, entranced by the way you handle his gun. The way your fingers look so delicate against the cool steel, yet you handle it with the ease of a trained professional.

Shit, he might just cum untouched.

And then you're straddling his legs, clothed thigh against clothed thigh. The gun is still moving lazily, but the pressure is a little stronger, and the side of the barrel presses into the heat of his skin, ice cold compared to his flushed cock. He gets a headrush from how much more blood seems to flow down, down, down to his cock, and he can't help the way his hips jut up against the steel. He's leaking so much that it acts as lube, slicking up the gun with his essence. It makes the glide against the rough metal a little smoother, and when you bring it to press against his balls just right, it has Toji throwing his head back, unable to choke back the moan clawing its way out of his throat. He can feel the way heat floods his cheeks, embarrassed out of his mind that he's even letting you do this at all, but he's already so close that he doesn't care anymore.

All he can think about is wanting to come across the gun and your hand, staining you with his seed.

And if you keep up your little movements, that dangerous smirk paired with your hooded eyes might just be enough to make him let go.

His eyes are glazed, unfocused. You let out another dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes at him.

"Watch."

He's embarrassed that he doesn't even try and look you in the eyes. He knows what you want - you want his eyes trailed on that 9mm, pressing against his pulsing cock.

"Cum."

At first, he's confused at the command. No build up, no nothing? But then, he watches your finger tease the trigger and-

Bang!

He comes harder than he's ever come in his life, eyes rolled back, tongue lolling out. Balls clenching, thighs shaking, Toji might have just seen heaven in the stars filling his vision, a constellation of your face filling his mind.

He wonders how sick in the head he must be to have gotten off on that. On the idea that you could have just blown his dick off. He thought that he had loaded that gun already, that you were actually putting a bullet right through the tip of his dick.

How embarrassing that you knew it would make him cum.

clark had heard the way people talk about you before. rude, bitchy, a mean girl. it was easy for the average man to be intimidated by such labels, but clark was never opposed to a challenge. and clearly, it worked out in your mutual favor, as you were now headed on three years of a very healthy marriage, despite clark’s friends—which weren’t really friends anymore since he didn’t leave the house much, except for patrolling and superman duties—constantly reminding him that if he ever needed it, he could just blink twice for help.

but he liked the domesticity of it all, and so did you. oftentimes, you’d just watch. watch his ass in his tight pants as he bent over to clean the kitchen counters, his perfect stray curl on his forehead as he cooked over the stove, his pecs straining under his tight “kiss the chef” apron, his tongue poking against his cheek as he focused on getting the recipe for dinner just right. it’s like he was made for it.

his routine was simple enough, to him at least: wake up bright and early—quietly, of course, so you could sleep—make your breakfast and lunch, greet you with a smile and a kiss, help you prepare for work, drive you to work, go home, begin doing chores once you left, begin dinner exactly an hour and a half before he had to pick you up, eat, clean up, shower, couple time, sleep, repeat.

today, however, there were countless inevitable setbacks to said schedule. first, it snowed overnight, causing crazy traffic which aggregated an hour to his ride to and from dropping you off at work. that, in turn, delayed everything following that by an hour, and soon enough it was time to get you from work, and he’d only just finished washing the pots and pans he needed to begin dinner. fuck.

but he was hopeful. the streets were cleaned and salted down by now, giving him a nice smooth ride to the office. just as he was pulling up, you were stepping out, hopping into the car. 

“don’t kiss or touch me, you smell like sweat,” you huff, kicking off your heels and shrugging off your coat, tossing it into the back of the car. clark simply nodded wordlessly, a blush creeping up onto his cheeks at your tone as he began driving home. the demanding and icy coldness that carried through your voice never failed to turn him on. 

“how was your day?” clark feebly tried to make conversation.

“shut up,” you murmured, not looking up from your phone, which you were rapidly emailing away on.

“noted.”

the drive home went relatively well, no outbursts yet. not that he minded when they did happen, but he naturally preferred the peaceful. as a good husband should, he opened the car door for you, carried your stuff inside, and immediately, you sensed something.

“where’s the food?” you asked, noticing the absence of the familiar smell of dinner awaiting whenever you’d arrive home. 

“well, you see, honey, remember the snow delay in the morning? i’m not trying to make excuses for myself but it really backtracked the rest of my day and i didn’t have enough time to start cooking earlier, but i promise you, i will start right now and it’ll be ready soon—”

“why didn’t you tell me that before we got home? god, clark, don’t be fucking stupid, i could’ve bought something to eat before getting home.”

“w-well, you told me to shut up, so i didn’t want to irritate you by bringing it up. but honey, i promise you, i will start up right now, don’t you worry—”

“so it’s my fault that you’re so fucking stupid that you couldn’t figure out how to get my food ready before i got home?” you interject.

“no! no, of course not, honey, i’m so sorry for making it seem that way—”

“don’t raise your fucking voice at me, clark. bedroom. now.”

“b-but, honey, if you’re hungry—”

“i am hungry, clark, for several different things, and you’re gonna help me out. don’t make me repeat myself.”

“…yes, ma’am.”

with that, clark turned around and rushed up to the bedroom with his head hung low like he was a dog with its tail stuck between its legs. it was adorable, the sight. a man of his size, his scale, reduced to a pathetic mess for his wife and what he knew would anticipate him upstairs. you followed behind him, heels back on and clicking against the hardwood floors—for dramatic effect, duh.

“i can’t believe i chose to marry a man as useless as you, clark,” your voice broke through the tense silence of the room, sending a chill down clark’s spine. 

“i know, i’m so sorry,” clark whimpered—full on whimpered—as he took position, kneeling before you. his hands went for his belt, tugging it off and handing it to you, keeping his head hung low. you took the leather strap from him, wrapping it tight around his neck and tying it like a leash, giving it a nice tug around his meaty neck. 

your free hand went to his hair, your fingers curling in the strands to tug his head up, snapping his neck back to meet your eyes. his bright blue eyes peered into yours, his brow slightly furrowed and a sweat breaking down his temple. he couldn’t be happier.

“i didn’t tell you to speak,” you whisper, before lifting your hand and cracking a slap to his cheek, forcing a moan out of clark. he was painfully hard now, his unearthly big dick straining against his pants. your heel went to his bulge, pressing down against him and making clark’s body jerk and a cry spill from his pretty pink lips. you tugged on his makeshift leash at that, a warning.

“stay still, i wanna play with my toy,” you hum, the stiletto of your heel digging painfully into his crotch. clark’s fingers tightened on his knees, clenching his jaw and letting his eyes flutter shut to try and keep some semblance of control. that earned another tug to the leash. “eyes open. i want you to watch,” you murmur, reaching out to tip his head downwards so his eyes meet your foot on his bulge.

you rotated your ankle slowly, grinding the sharp heel of your shoe in this crotch. clark’s breath quickened, shaky puffs of breath leaving his lips as he tried to keep quiet. “i work so hard. all day, i work so hard, and i deserve to come home to my husband having dinner ready for me. instead, i’m just met with incompetence. how do you think that makes me feel, clark?” another tug to the leash, making clark speak up.

“i-i’d imagine, not so good,” he whimpered, eyes flickering up to yours. 

your foot left his crotch, before you tugged the belt and made him stand up. “strip.”

he did as he was told, soon enough being entirely naked. his cock was fully hard, standing at full attention despite its weight and size. a physics miracle, it was. it was a reddish-purple shade, the bulbous tip leaking profusely. clark swallowed thickly at your blatant ogling, staring at the ground in a feeble attempt at keeping his blush at bay.

“look at that. hard and ready to fuck just from me insulting and hurting you. are you truly that worthless?” clark whined at that, his abs and thighs flexing and clenching as his arousal pooled in his abdomen. “i want to hear you say it. i want you to tell me how worthless you are. how you’re so desperate for any kind of attention, you’d cum just from me hitting you—”

“honey—” a groan left clark’s lips, his jaw clenched tight, and before he could control it, spurts of cum shot out from his cock, landing on his abs and the ground below him. his fists were tight by his sides, his nails digging into his palms.

“oh, baby… that’s just sad. i haven’t even really touched you yet! come on, we’re not done yet,” you giggle, lifting your leg up and pushing him to lay down on the bed with your foot on his chest. he let himself obediently fall back, too embarrassed to even speak thanks to his premature orgasm. 

you moved to straddle his lap, one hand pressing down on his chest to keep him flat on his back, your other hand never letting go of the belt. “maybe i should buy you a real leash and collar, get ‘my wife’s property’ engraved on it and make you wear it in public. i bet that’d really make you cream your pants,” you chuckle, and clark nodded quickly at that.

“p-please, whatever you want, i’ll take it—” he whimpered, his arms flexing as he rested his hands behind his head to keep himself from touching him or yourself without permission and landing himself in even deeper shit. 

another slap landed to his cheek, your handprint blooming on his skin. your hand not on his chest moved to reach between you two. you hiked your skirt up around your waist and pulled your panties to the side before taking hold of clark’s cock, teasingly rubbing it up and down your perfectly warm and wet slit.

“i’m gonna have my fun with you, okay? you’re not going to touch me or cum without my permission. i’d rather kill myself than let you cum in me and risk giving birth to a kid as stupid as you,” you huff, shoving two fingers into his mouth, making him moan out once more. you were so mean to him, but it was exactly what he loved about you. he needed it, especially after the constant ass-kissing he received from the public. deep down, he knew the bond you had was more profound than your sex lives, there was genuine love there under all the degradation.

“y-nhhghhh—i understand—” he huffed out against your fingers, closing his lips around them and suckling them further into his mouth. 

with that, you slowly sunk down onto his cock, expertly taking his length and girth and sucking it into your unbelievably warm pussy. your free hand went to his chest, sharp stiletto nails—which clark paid for, duh—digging into his chest as you began to ride him. his eyes were transfixed on your form, his eyes roaming over your face, your heaving chest under your tight blouse, your thighs encasing his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you perfectly, as if he was your missing puzzle piece and perfectly made for you.

your head tipped back, your bottom lip catching between your teeth as his cock deliciously and swiftly slid in and out of you with every movement and gyration of your hips. “at least you’re good for something, a good enough reason for me to keep you around,” you moan out, slipping your fingers out of his mouth to take hold of the belt once again, tightening it and tugging on it, further reminding clark who was in control.

clark remained quiet, swallowing down his noises just like you asked. he was hypnotized by you, pure love in his gaze as you bounced atop him. his hands flexed beneath his head with the urge to reach out and touch you, his fingers curling into his hair and tugging, the pain sending jolts of pleasure through his body. 

“this is what you’re good for, clark. you’re good for being my toy, my slut. i want to hear you say it,” you groan out, your palms going to wrap around his throat and squeezing tightly, making him go lightheaded. 

“i-i’m only good f-for being your toy,” clark panted out. you lifted a hand from his neck, slapping his face around for a bit, making clark let out a harmony of moans. you didn’t even care anymore, he just looked too pretty like this. without warning, you slammed your hips down and kept them there. your clit rubbed against the bush of pubes at the base of his cock, your pussy clamping down tightly on his dick as you came. clark felt the warm gush of slick engulfing his length, making him let out whimper after whimper. 

you lifted yourself off his cock, settling in on the bed by his side. you reached down with one hand, scooping some of your cum off of his cock with two fingers, before shoving said fingers back into clark’s mouth and making him eat it. “that’s it, good boy,” you hum, before reaching down with your free hand to slap the tip of his cock around.

clark jolted and cried out from the painful stimulation, his pretty thick thighs trembling. his balls looked so heavy, so full, it was a shame to leave him like that. “i wanna see if you can cum just like this, without me jerking you off,” you hum, slapping the now purple head of his cock even harder, and soon enough, clark shot his load all over his chest. 

he looked perfect like that, like a glazed donut, beefy form glazed in his own cum. you extracted your fingers from his mouth, wiping them dry on his chest before bringing your foot up and nudging his side with your stiletto heels. 

“i want my dinner ready in fifteen minutes, make haste,” you hum, rolling over to reach for your phone off the nightstand. 

“uh-huh, i’ll get right on that,” clark gulps, shakily reaching for a bottle of water on the nightstand and taking big sips before sliding out of bed, slipping his boxers back on. as clark made his way out of the room, you spoke up once more.

“clark, honey? you know i love you, right?” you inquire, cocking a brow at him.

“of course, honey. i love you, too,” he responds, a genuine smile forming on his pretty lips, his dimples deepening in his cheeks. 

the dynamic was unorthodox to many, but it was perfect for the two of you, and clark wouldn’t have it any other way.

please don't redistribute my works anywhere - wtredprch - want more?

Well, he CAN remember, he just doesn't want to. He was a child the last time he went, and only bits and pieces of the experience stuck with him. An old man poking bony gloved fingers into his mouth, having his teeth scraped with a hook, and being scolded for not brushing good enough.

Yeah. The dentist is not a fond memory for Mike. That's part of the reason he hasn't bothered to go in over ten years. (The other part being that he's spent most of early adulthood broke as fuck; and values groceries over trips to the oral hygienist.)

But with his new job, and the healthcare benefits that come along with it... well, he really has no excuse not to go.

So, he sits in a small room with blue walls and ocean-themed décor, squirming on the weird lounge chair. There's a giant mirror over his head, and he can't help but be reminded of those funhouse mirrors at the circus. The ones that twist and contort your face in an unsettling way.

"Hey, Mr. Schmidt, right?" You make your way through the door, scanning over a clipboard.

Is this the dentist? Mike scrambles to sit up in the awkwardly-reclined chair and hold out a hand for you to shake.

"Uh, just 'Mike' is fine." He gives you a weak smile and a firm handshake before leaning back against the chair once more.

You introduce yourself as a dental assistant, and when he thinks about it, that makes more sense. You look young, probably close to his own age. And... rather attractive, actually.

Fuck. Did you just ask him a question?

"Sorry, I... I'm not sure..." He stutters, doing his best not to squirm under your gaze.

This seems to amuse you, because you try and fail to suppress a chuckle. Shit. Was that the wrong answer?

"You're not sure what flavor of toothpaste you want, Mike?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Mike sputters again, making a complete fool of himself. Before he can get out a complete thought, you cut him off.

"It's okay. Want me to just pick for you?"

He nods.

"Alright then, you look like a watermelon kind of guy. Is that fine?"

Another nod.

You smile and pull on a pair of blue gloves, matching your blue scrubs.

"Something tells me you haven't been here before."

"Am I that obvious?"

"Yes... and no. I read it on your medical record just now." You give him a teasing smile and hold up the clipboard you'd been pouring over when you walked in.

Mike laughs nervously at what he's pretty sure was supposed to be a joke, and watches as you pull up a chair.

"I haven't exactly been going to regular checkups." He confesses.

"Well then, let's see what we're working with. Open up for me?"

He squints as you turn on a harsh overhead light attached to the mirror and angle it down so it shines right in his face. Damnit, what is this? An interrogation?

"Open up." You repeat, not asking this time.

Fuck. Why is that kind of...? Ugh, no. Not even going there. Mike tentatively opens his mouth, still blinking through the interrogation-esque lighting above him.

"There you go. A little wider, now."

Your fingers immediately find their way into his mouth, prying his jaws open further.

Mike's eyes go wider than his jaw when you pull out a hook and start scraping it against his teeth. What the fuck? He's feeling more and more like this is some kind of torture and interrogation ritual.

"I know, hun. No one likes the hook. Just relax." You coo, placing a hand on the side of his face and wedging your thumb between his teeth.

He takes a deep breath and melts back into the chair, letting himself be soothed by your voice. Mike tries to focus on your face above him instead of the horrible metal scraping his bones. The backlighting creates a halo around your head as you lean over him, reminding him of an angel.

You seem to notice his staring, because you smile down at him.

"So, tell me about yourself, Mike."

Mike's brow furrows in confusion. How the hell is supposed to answer that with a mouthful of latex-covered fingers and metal torture instruments?

"Uhhh..." He lets out a strained gargle, the only sound he can really make in this moment.

"Interesting..." You chuckle, still scraping away at his teeth.

"Tell me more."

Oh. You're teasing him. Fuck that.

Mike rolls his eyes, trying to make it clear he's not in the mood.

"Sassy, are we? Careful. I do have a hook in your mouth."

Christ. Are you threatening him now? Is this how trips to the dentist are supposed to go? Mike has no idea. So, he lets out another grunt.

"Your teeth actually look really nice. You brush at least twice a day?"

Mike nods slightly, scared to move too much with the hook scraping dangerously close to his gums.

"Good, good. Your teeth are so straight and bright."

Now you're complimenting him? Mike can feel his brain go fuzzy as he stares up into your eyes. The paper mask you're wearing covers the lower half of your face, sure, but your eyes are... entrancing.

He tries to say a quick "thanks", but with your thumb still wedged between his teeth... it comes out as more of an "Aahhh". And sounds suspiciously like a moan. Damnit.

"Got something to say?" You laugh softly, removing your fingers and tools from his mouth.

Mike takes the opportunity to close his mouth and feel over his teeth with his tongue. They feel... different.

"Just, uh, thanks..." He mumbles.

"Of course, you're doing so well."

Fuck. Are his jeans getting tighter?

Mike tries to subtly adjust himself while you turn to grab something off the nearby table. God damnit. This wouldn't happen if he wasn't so damn touch starved.

You put a little hose in his mouth and explain it's to rinse his mouth out. Or something like that. Mike isn't really listening, instead focusing solely on calming the fuck down.

"Oh, and sorry if I'm talking too much. I just transferred over from a pediatric office, so I'm used to having to distract my patients while I work. You probably don't need that, do you?"

He just gargles a response, mouth filling with water.

"Wait, here, don't swallow that."

Mike can't help but think he'd swallow anything if you told him to. Ugh. His jeans are definitely getting too tight.

You stick a different hose in his mouth, and it sucks out the watery saliva mixture.

"You're fine... I haven't been to the dentist since I was a kid, anyways."

"Really?" You ask, eyes lighting up as you lean over him again.

"Y-Yeah."

"Oh, but your teeth look so nice! Keep doing whatever you're doing, hun." You cup his face in your hands, leaning in close and gently pushing his lips back with your thumbs for a better look at his teeth.

Mike squirms slightly, a little intimidated by your firm grip on his face and intense scrutiny of his mouth. He tries to tug the hem of his hoodie down in an attempt to hide his growing boner. Fuck, he feels like such a pervert.

Of course, his movement only draws your attention down to his... ''problem area''.

You must be pretending not to notice, because your eyes flick back over to the table. As you get up to grab something, you casually bump the door with your hip and it swings shut.

What's that for? Mike is too embarrassed to ask, so he just waits patiently as you make your way back over with a toothbrush.

"Open for me." You playfully tap his lips with a finger, and Mike does as asked.

"Good, good... we're almost done here."

Mike feels a lot more relaxed like this. Your voice is soothing, and he stares up into your eyes as you brush his teeth. It's strange to have someone else do it for him, but hey, at least you're not using the damn hook anymore.

After a minute or so of this, he starts to calm down, the tent in his pants dying down as well. Thank god.

"Alright, gonna rinse your mouth again. If you have any needs or concerns regarding your teeth, now's the time to tell me."

Mike gently shakes his head no, mouth filling with water as you rinse his teeth with the little hose.

"You sure? Nothing else you want?"

Are you... flirting with him? Or is this just how these things go? Mike's head spins as you put the toothbrush back in his mouth again.

"Just gonna brush your tongue... Say 'ahh' for me!"

Mike lets out a weak ''ahh'', that, again, sounds extremely similar to a moan. Fuck.

You slowly brush his tongue, going further and further back. Mike starts to shift in his seat, wondering just how much of his tongue he's supposed to be brushing. He certainty never goes this far, it's almost at the back of his throat... Still, he tits his head back slightly, letting you go even deeper.

"Damn. No gag reflex, or just used to this sort of thing?" You tease, smirking so obviously he can see it through the mask.

Okay, yeah. You're definitely flirting with him.

Mike just sputters and chokes in response, unable to speak while practically deepthroating the damn toothbrush.

"Sorry, let me get that out..."

When his mouth is finally his own again, free of intrusive fingers and oral hygiene instruments, he clears his throat. There's a familiar tightness in his jeans, and he's sure by now that you've noticed.

"Uhh... I..."

You take off your mask and he can finally see your whole face again. Your smile is attractive, no doubt, but also a little... hungry? You want something from him.

Mike isn't sure he could resist if you asked.

"So, you're sure there's nothing else... bothering you?" You ask, eyes trailing down to the tent in his jeans.

Ah, fuck. There's no hiding it now, huh? Mike tries to at least sit up slightly in the chair, but ends up a squirming mess instead.

"I..." He starts, swallowing hard.

"Are you offering...?"

As if to answer his unspoken question, you stand up from your chair and throw a leg over his.

He watches with wide eyes as you inch up his legs, straddling him and sitting just below his crotch.

"What do you think?"

Holy shit. What kind of a question is that? He "thinks" this is the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.

"More." He mumbles, bringing his hands up to rest on the sides of your thighs.

That's all the confirmation you need, apparently. Before he can even process what's happening, you're grinding against his clothed cock.

Mike moves his hands up to your hips, watching as you remove the blue latex gloves with your teeth. God, that's got to be the most arousing thing he's ever seen, and he's not even sure why. He feels like a victorian man seeing an ankle. Is he really that goddamn desperate?

You brace your hands against his chest and lean in close, even more so than when you were prodding your fingers in his mouth.

Fuck. Mike decides he is definitely that desperate.

"You want this, don't you?" You ask sweetly, hot breath brushing against his lips.

He nods eagerly. Yes, he wants this. More than anything.

"Use your words, hun."

"I want this." He whines, bucking his hips up to meet yours while you grind on him. "I want you."

"I know." You whisper, bridging the small remaining gap between the two of you.

Mike kisses you back in earnest, moaning into your mouth when he finally feels your tongue slip between his lips.

He'd be content to stay like this forever, if his cock wasn't absolutely aching in his jeans. The grinding feels nice, yes, but he doesn't want to cum like this.

When you finally pull away and sit back up on him, he's left gasping for breath. Holy shit. Is this really happening?

"You really thought I wouldn't notice?" You ask, humming happily as you unzip his jeans.

Mike stammers out a response as you tug his pants down, squirming to help you get them off faster. He wishes you'd take the boxers off too, but he's not gonna push his luck.

"I-I couldn't help It... You're so..." He just looks up at you with pure admiration, letting his hands slide down your thighs.

"...perfect." Yeah, that's just about the only word describe you. No other would do you justice, not with how amazing you look on top of him like this.

"And you're already leaking."

Mike whimpers as you grope his dick, palming at it through his boxers. Fuck, you're not wrong. He can see the wet spot growing on his underwear. He tightens his grip on your thighs, desperate to feel you.

"More." He chokes out. "Please."

"Hmm... should I give you more?" You taunt him, giving his aching cock a firm squeeze through the fabric of his underwear.

"Yes!"

Mike is nearly shouting at this point, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He can only pray the room is somewhat soundproof.

"Well, I guess you have been good for me..."

You slowly peel down his boxers, and his dick springs up to slap against his stomach. A steady stream of precum is leaks from the tip, and his back arches from the sudden sensation.

"Fuck... yes... good... so, so good for you..." He bucks his hips up into nothing, desperately pulling you down his lap by your thighs.

He isn't thinking straight at this point. It doesn't matter that you're at work. It doesn't matter you're fully clothed. He needs you on his dick. NOW.

"Woah, woah... slow down, hun." Laughing, you take his hands by the wrists and move them to the armrests.

He doesn't resist, throwing his head back and groaning. He'd let you do whatever you want to him at this point. He just wants to cum.

"Please..." He whimpers, gripping the armrests tightly as your hand inches towards his cock.

"You gonna be good for me? And wait till I give you permission to cum?"

He nods, still bucking his hips up into your hand as you wrap your soft hand around his length.

"Say it." You demand, still just holding it, unmoving as he slips further and further into pure desperation.

"I'll be good f'you. I'll wait. I promise. S'good..."

Mike mumbles a barely-coherent response, half nonsense as he fucks your hand with even more intensity. He's losing it already, and you've haven't even started-

Fuck.

You start to jerk him off at a moderate pace, hand moving in synch with his hips.

"That feel good, hm?"

He just moans a response, too fucked out to form words. His hips stutter and he nearly comes just from the way you're talking to him.

When you take your hand away suddenly, he groans, reaching out to grab your hips and pull you closer. You can't end this for him. Not yet.

Thankfully, you didn't seem eager to put a stop to things. You slide down his lap, resting right up against his cock.

"I swear, if you cum on my uniform, I'll make you lick it all up."

Shit. Mike nearly does just that as you lean down and furiously make out with him. It's the toothbrush all over again, with the way your tongue is punching down his throat. He's never felt this desired before.

One of your hands gently tugs at his curls, and the other pulls his lower back up into an arch as you grind against him. Fuck, If you don't slow down...

"I'm g-gonna... gonna cum..." He breaks the kiss, whining and desperately pushing back on your hips, trying to keep from finishing. He wants to be good for you. He really does.

"Do it." You whisper, moving down to kiss his neck as he whimpers.

"Cum for me."

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

Mike wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling and gasping for air. Shit, he had been suffocating with his face in a pillow.

And... fuck. Probably jutting his hips into the mattress, too.

He doesn't even have to look at his shorts to know they're ruined. Damnit. Another wet dream. At this point, he almost preferred the reoccurring nightmares. Almost.

Hey, his next dentist appointment is in... what, three months? Maybe this time he'd work up the nerve to ask you out.

Probably not.

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Author's note: I'M SORRY. Literally no one asked for this. Probably no one but me has ever gone "haha what if Mike has a praise kink and gets hard at the dentist". But it was so funny to me?? I had to stop what I was working on and write it IMMIDEATELY. I hope it wasn't too deranged.