NO MORE SHAME / NO MORE FEAR / NO MORE DREAD

a kiss on the top of the head.

a kiss to hair.

a kiss on the forehead.

a kiss on the space between eyebrows.

a kiss on the temple.

a kiss on the cheek.

a kiss on the eyelid or the undereye.

a kiss on the nose

a kiss on the ear.

a kiss on that space where jaw connects.

a kiss on the corner of the mouth.

a kiss on the cupid’s bow.

a kiss on the lips.

a kiss on the chin.

a kiss on the jawline.

a kiss on the back of the neck.

a kiss on the underside of the jaw.

a kiss on the throat.

a kiss on the side of the neck.

a kiss on where the back of the neck turns to shoulder.

a kiss above the collarbone.

a kiss along the collarbone.

a kiss on the space between collarbones.

a kiss on the shoulder.

a kiss on the bicep.

a kiss on the forearm.

a kiss on the elbow.

a kiss on the outside of the wrist.

a kiss on the inside of the wrist.

a kiss on the back of the hand.

a kiss on the palm.

a kiss on a finger.  ( which one? )

a kiss on the side of the ribs.

a kiss on the shoulder blade.

a kiss on the space between shoulder blades.

a kiss along the curve of the spine.

a kiss on the upper back.

a kiss on the lower back.

a kiss on the sternum.

a kiss on a pec / breast.

a kiss under the breast.

a kiss on where the sternum ends.

a kiss on the stomach.

a kiss on the navel.

a kiss on the hipbone.

a kiss on the ‘v’.

a kiss on the front of the thigh.

a kiss on the back of the thigh.

a kiss on the inner thigh.

a kiss on the knee.

a kiss on the calf.

a kiss on the ankle.

a kiss on the heel.

a kiss on the foot.

a kiss on a toe.

a kiss on an nsfw body part not listed here.  ( where? )

PETRA P -> PETRA K

PYOTR A -> PYOTR K

PHIL -> PHIL + TIMELINE: SECOND GENERATION

"Shit, Kieran."

It's hard not to be doubtful of Kieran when his mouth is wrapped around his cock like that—when all that sharp, effortless confidence folds into something quieter. It doesn't match the man who commands every room he walks into, who speaks and expects the world to lean closer just to listen.

Hands hover at first, uncertain, as if touching might shatter whatever this is. Fingers curl slowly, finding home in strands of hair, not pulling, not guiding, just needing contact, to touch him. Zachary is trying his best not to buck into Kieran's mouth; he doubts he'd like that very much.

He glances down, jaw tightening slightly, studying him between moans—trying to read him like he always does, like he always fails to. Because this should feel easy. It used to feel easy. Before the community, before the strange, almost reverent way people look at Kieran, like he's something more than just a man.

But here, now, it's just them. Or at least, that's what he tells himself.

His grip shifts, thumb brushing along Kieran's temple, and his head tips back just slightly, breath uneven as he lets himself sink into the moment despite the lingering doubt curling at the edges. Kieran moves like he owns the space, like he owns him, and maybe that's what unsettles him most—how easily he lets it happen, how natural it feels to give in.

This is, admittedly, part of why Kieran is doing something that rarely appeals to him. Zachary Key's been respectful, open-minded. He accepts Kieran; he's kind to the other woman. He deserves some sort of reward—or, if that phrasing makes your skin crawl, an affirmative act that solidifies in his mind that he's made the right decision by leaving his life behind and living with Kieran's little community.

Sex is also a great way to render someone dizzy and confused. Kieran likes pleasing his partners mostly because it comes to benefit him in some way—either due to their feelings for him after the fact or the strokes to his ego in the moment. He feels more like a man when he's taking care of someone like this. He's got it in his head that he's meant to provide for others in this grand, transcendental way.

So sex helps.

Kieran doesn't mind keeping Zachary to himself. In fact, he prefers it—and he suspects Zachary does, too, given everything he's revealed to Kieran about his sexuality. Kieran can't help that, on top of it all, he's attracted to Zachary in a way Cain's never managed to catch his eye. The sad old fuck would probably wither and die with jealousy were the women to report this scene back to him. That's why the women aren't here.

Kieran takes his time. Listening to Zachary moan, feeling him twitch as he struggles between restraint and taking control—these things are worth being a little indulgent. This act is more than a means to an end—but they'll get to the end eventually.

"mm." she hums a laugh with her teeth still perched on the rim, the edge of her tongue tapping invisibly on the crystal. their eyes are locked. do they have that expression in the part of the world we're in now? i'd eat glass just to⸺ "and isn't that just the problem. you are just waiting to disappoint."

dove shifts, and the length of her gown ripples with it. the feeling of silk on her bare skin is particularly lush after she's been drinking, when the body is equal parts half-numb and overly-carnal. making up for its lack of sensitivity with an overabundance of desire.

"anyway, we've gotten over all that, darling. you've disappointed me, and i've disappointed you, and now we're friends."

as though this is how friendship is assembled. by a deficit. the thing left behind when you forcedly remove all other options.

she takes a long sip and surveys the crowd, a group that is generous to call her company. it's hard to filter her disinterest in joining them from the desire to stay where she is — or, at least, continuing to sift will leave her with the distillation of a truth she'd rather not deal with, and so she leaves it unprocessed. dove turns back to rupert and makes a face, nose wrinkling.

"they won't admit it, but no matter what i do, i think they're always a little bit disappointed by my parties." another sip. "i do believe they're still clinging to the hope that one night i'm going to come popping out of a giant cake."

Despite his public-facing persona, the career he chose that renders him open to being coveted and, more often than that, harshly scrutinized, he'd rather not be seen in any way that actually counts. Where he buys his suits, what he feeds his dogs, the car that he drives, the many women he beds and how well he treats them—people can speak of these matters for as long as they'd like.

To acknowledge that he has the characteristics of a parasite—a leech, in particular—as Helen often does—this is less desirable. Dove's generalization, the certainty with which she says you are just waiting to disappoint, has a similar effect on Rupert.

"Quite." This is the way that friends speak to one another, isn't it? Hasn't it always been? Might as well be. Rupert realizes he doesn't have many true friends at all—not Declan, even, and certainly not the men at this gathering. He's not sure if he'd like Dove to be the very first one.

He listens as attentively as is polite, no longer leaning and far from leering. He looks distasteful, but it isn't anything about her personally—it's how right she is about these men, this place.

"You've always been much more than that."

It's as heavy as she'll be able to carry.

his tongue is working to loosen the knot of cables she's been carrying around low, low in her belly since she's had the cheek to loiter around his desk.

pidgeen's learned this fair quick - there's no untangling that nanami. the man is woven up in a fashion that has no stretch. in fact, she's spent a decent chunk of the time she's thought on him wondering why am i fuckin botherin my hole at all!

There is something uniquely gratifying about being pinned down by a woman this way—and it's not just the stability, the obviousness of his new and gratifying purpose on his back. Nanami likes structure; he likes knowing what to do. This isn't all so completely simple—as he's now thoroughly convinced that it's her, specifically, making him so hard that his head hurts (and he likes the hurt, likes that he can do something wholly for her benefit. Yeah, he's good at it, and that counts for something in a world where a man's ego needs to be fed to keep the man alive, but more pressingly: she is gorgeous, she is kind, she has done him the immense pleasure of trusting him with her naked form and her pleasure. For this, he must demonstrate his gratitude).

His jaw brushes against the softest, most sensitive skin of Pidge's thighs and she encourages his nose to tend to her clit, which he's eager to oblige for a moment until he decides his lips and tongue need to take over that particular task.

He's moaning due to the aforementioned headache and, not insignificantly, to bring her attention to the steadiness of his hands, the broadness of them, as he holds her hips. He's got her. Even when he loosens his grip so his hands can travel up her torso, to her breasts so that he can thumb her nipples—even though he can't see or breathe or think anything but she tastes so good she needs to cum on my face I need to make her cum I won't be good until she cums, which is perfectly fine by him.

bad day to be r. zen'in

after that, the memories became intermittent: something pulling his hair; an animal clawing his face. from time to time somebody would moan, or else mumble incomprehensible things in an incomprehensible tongue. please and stop and don’t and aria—which, said so pitifully, sounded more like an imploration than a name.

and then he was awake again: breathing, feeling, thinking, and blinking. lots of blinking. blood streamed down, across, and from his face, staining his vision red. his head hurt. one eye didn’t work as it should, or really at all. lucidity spun and reeled, threatening to leave him again.

while aria rummaged around his pockets, ranta tried to compose a plan—any plan.

he could heal himself, reroute his dwindling consciousness, run the river inward, wash the wounds and dress them—figuratively speaking. and literally. says man to woman: whatsoever you do, i can undo.

he could heal himself.

or he could hurt aria. rather than address old wounds, he could inflict new ones: run the river outward, flood the banks, drown her in her own blood the way she was trying to drown him in his.

it wasn’t a choice he made as much as an instinct he followed. or rather, it was a choice he’d first made long ago—a choice he’d made so often that it had become secondary nature, then primary.

ranta struggled in her grip, straining against aria’s palm with his ruined cheek, his ruined eye. oh, she was stronger than she looked—mindless, relentless, honourless bear, whose head he should have knocked clean off her shoulders when he’d had the chance. but that was his fault, not hers, and he would make up for it now because he, too, was stronger than he looked.

' tanigawa, ' he said in japanese. wait for me to … his words were slurred. when i … you need to …

all he had to do was outlast aria, to paralyze her for exactly as long as it took for her to die.

This is not because her hearing has been muffled by his abilities or her own. Nobody's slammed her head against the inside of a car window. However, Aria's more concerned with what's going on outside of this vehicle than inside of it. Killing Ranta should be easy and effortless. Escaping unscathed and unnoticed by the general public might be more difficult—even when they're potentially more distracted by whatever horrific (and inconvenient!) traffic debacle gave Aria this opening in the first place.

She hears people honking their horns. She even hears shouting. Vaguely, she's surprised to hear anything as well as she does in this incredibly luxurious vehicle.

It's a shame Ranta can't see Aria right now. He might not know she can smile—like he earnestly believes capacity for enjoyment evades her, or her muscles no longer contort that way. However, here she is: smiling down at him.

Aria freezes. Rather—Aria is paralyzed by the strength Ranta directs through his remaining useful eye. Aria cannot twist her fingers or coordinate the blood outside her body through eye movement. These are the only ways she's used her mutation before. No matter how hard she thinks, envisioning the blood daggers hovering in mid-air and how they need to slice through space and stab Ranta through his throat, his temple, his sternum—

"he told you that?"

a beat. there's space for more, an explanation or something, but instead,

"It doesn't make him a bad person. Or me a bad person." (It's all the other stuff that makes them bad people.)

He doesn't like speaking to somebody who won't look him in the eye. He glances lazily around his laboratory, searching for a distraction or an excuse more engaging than l16.

a selection of headcanon questions inspired by key bones in the human body.

skull.   what memories/thoughts do they guard the most from others ?

cheekbone. what makes them smile ?

mandible / jawbone. what are they incapable of saying out loud ?

teeth. what lasting mark do they leave on others ?

hyoid / neck. who taught them to speak up, or stay silent ?

clavicle / collarbone. who/what do they lean on when they're vulnerable ?

scapula / shoulderblade. what burden do they carry on their back ?

sternum. what makes their heart pound hardest ?

ribcage. who/what are they trying to protect ?

humerus. do they use humour as a shield or a weapon ? what from/to ?

radius. who/what do they reach for first in a crisis ?

ulna. who stands by them no matter what ?

carpals. what small habits do they have ?

metacarpals. do they ask for help or clench their fists and bear it ?

phalanges. what is their relationship with touch ?

spine. when do they lose their backbone, what scares them ?

pelvis. what future or legacy are they afraid/excited to be responsible for ?

sacrum. what sacrifices have they made ?

coccyx / tailbone. what outdated beliefs do they still carry, if any ?

femur. what drives them forward ?

patella / kneecap. how compliant/obedient are they, who will they kneel for ?

tibia. who/what keeps them moving forward ?

fibula. do they ever feel overlooked ?

tarsals. what past mistakes stick with them with every step they take ?