marksbear2

[marksbear2]

IM GENUINELY WANNA MARRY U OMGGGGGG

I actually teared up reading this bc it means a lot too me and I had such a hard day today it sucks. And also you made me feel more important and loved today than my partner rn it’s insane 😣 so I’m definitely raising my standards higher bc of u.

And don’t get me started on that fic thank you a million times you made me feel truly special mwa mwa

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @marksbear2

I'm so sorry for posting your fic a day early! I hope you enjoy it!

I WISH YOU THE BEST CELEBRATION YOU CAN HAVE AND I HOPE THOSE DOUGHNUTS WILL BE DELICIOUS.

I wish I could give you a gift or wish you a happy birthday in person.

I hope that the rest of the year will treat you well! And that your family will treat you well.

I love you MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA

[marksbear2]

HAPPY GIRTH DAY MARKY MARKKKK

THANK YOUUUUU

[marksbear2]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAPAAAAA

THANK YOUUUU

[marksbear2]

OMGGGGGGGGGG IS THIS F-FOR MEEEE!!!!! AHHHHH OH MY GOSHH, IM GONNA READ THIS TMRW ON MY ACTUAL BIRTHDAY AND I CANT WAIT TO READ IT LIKE IM ITCHING FOR IT

AHHHH IM ACTUALLY GONNA DIE FROM HAPPINESS RN

Beauty and the man

@marksbear2 X Gastón

⚠︎This is for my love and one of my dearest and most cherished friends, Markos! Happy birthday, my darling!! I hope you have delicious doughnuts! I hope you have a bunch of good gifts and an amazing celebration! Do you know how much relief I felt when I saw a Tumblr notification with your name on my phone after your disappearance? I never felt happier to see that a stranger I followed was still alive. I love you thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much and I'm so happy that I know you! Have an amazing day and treat yourself! MWA MWA MWA MWA MWA ⚠︎ ☢︎︎Minors and girls do not interact☢︎︎ ☞︎︎︎Gastón moved on from Belle☜︎︎︎ ✍︎1163

"You know Gastón, I'm surprised you got over Belle so well. You were so obsessed with her for so long I was thinking there'd never be an end." LeFou shamelessly confessed as he guided his horse through the tall grass of an open field.

Gastón gives his sidekick a brief side glance as his horse gallops a bit further behind LeFou. But he can't decline his words.

LeFou is right. Gastón did move on fast.

And he has a reason for it.

Not only was it because of Belle choosing the beast. But it was also because of Mark.

Mark? Who's Mark?

Oh nobody. Only the most beautiful man known to man.

And why does that matter?

Because Gastón has fallen for him. He himself doesn't understand how he could've fallen for a man when he's been obsessed with the prettiest woman in town.

"Earth to Gastón. Helloo" LeFou waved his hand before the man's face.

The hunter snaps out of his thoughts and looks up. "What." His tone isn't very pleasant. But is it ever towards LeFou?

"I asked how come you got over her so fast?" LeFou repeats his question and kicked his horse slightly to get it moving again.

"Oh you know. Found someone prettier." The hunter said. It wasn't necessarily a lie. A half truth you could say. But he couldn't really tell that the someone prettier is a man now could he.

"Really?" LeFou doesn't seem all that surprised. Maybe he thinks it's just another fling?

If only you knew LeFou.

"So is that why you're so dreamy today?" LeFou teased as he looked at Gastón who is lost in his own thoughts yet again.

Yes. He is the reason. And that's because it's his lover's birthday today and Gastón wants nothing more than to run home and pick his boyfriend up and twirl him around.

Mark has been a tough one to crack. To get him to like Gastón back. Which he did from the beginning but he couldn't tell that to the egoistic hunter.

He also has his ways with the hunter. Ways that made Gastón get some sense in his head.

He was slowly breaking down his shell.

Which scared Gastón but... He liked that he didn't have to pretend around Mark.

But why would Gastón care about his breaking walls when he has the most perfect boyfriend? He makes him laugh! I mean actually laugh! He makes him smile. He gives him butterflies. He loves when they dance together the most.

Even when sometimes they get a language barrier because Mark forgot a word in English or when his Scottish accent was stronger on some days, hell or it could be the Brazilian accent that appears on other days.

But they work through it. They like to talk with body language. Soft touches, light kisses, subtle nods or shakes of the head.

Gastón loves those kinds of days.

He calls them the nonverb days. It's when he enjoys the silent talk he shares with mark. Only their eyes and body talk and their voices are hardly used.

"Seriously Gastón? Where did you go this time." LeFou chuckles as he catches the hunter thinking again. But to be fair? It's unusual for Gastón to be so quiet.

"I'm just... thinking." The hunter said as if it was the most normal thing he does.

"Thinking?! Gastón! Are you sick?" LeFou jokes with faux worry. But it's true. It's unusual for the hunter to think.

Gastón gives his sidekick another side eye. Ever since the battle with the beast and Gastón's and LeFou's argument beforehand, LeFou has been more bold with his words. No longer afraid of how Gastón sees him.

It's..a relief but also an annoying change for the hunter. He no longer has the sidekick who used to boost his ego. But that's good. Gastón can't afford getting pampered like that anymore.

"I just..." Gastón sighs as he looks around the field. They're not far from his lover's home.

"I wanna go and celebrate the birthday of the most beautiful living being I've ever seen." He said with honesty.

LeFou looks at him surprised. Celebrating someone else's birthday?

"Go." He said. Gastón looks at him surprised. "What?"

"Go. You obviously actually want to celebrate. Don't let me hold you back." LeFou said with a smile. He couldn't believe that the hunter is actually... trying to be a good boyfriend?

"Thank you LeFou," Gastón said and with no hesitation he turns his horse around and rushes home.

As soon as he reaches the small cozy building he hops off his horse.

Mark is taking care of his little garden blissfully unaware of the man that's ready to tackle him.

However Mark's dogs do notice the running man and start barking. Only then is the gardening man aware of his situation, but it's too late to turn around and look at what his dogs are barking at because he's suddenly lifted into the air and spun around.

He yelps in surprise and grips onto the arms that are holding him up.

Once he's finally on the ground again he turns to look at Gastón.

"Gastón! You almost gave me a heart -mpf-" he's rudely interrupted by the hunters kiss.

It doesn't take long before they both melt into the kiss and hold onto each other.

Mark is the first to pull away. But that doesn't stand right with Gastón so he whines softly and chases his boyfriend's lips.

"What's got you home so early?" The interrupted gardener questions as he fixes his hunters hair and the collar of his jacket.

"LeFou let me go home to celebrate your birthday." Gastón confessed as he buried his neck in his lover's neck.

"awwwhat! You told LeFou about us?!" Mark's short aw fades into confusion with a mix of panic. But he'd be lying if he said he's not feeling happy/excited about being known.

"No. No I just.. mentioned I found someone prettier than Belle. Nothing too specific." The hunter confessed.

That's... disappointing. But better safe than sorry I suppose.

"Well... You're home. That's what matters." Mark said as he rested his head on Gastón's that is still hidden in the Gardner's neck.

Gastón's arms are tight but comfortable around Mark. Their bodies fit like perfect puzzle pieces.

Suddenly, Gastón starts to sway them. They sway slowly at first. Just slight tilts to side to side.

The gardener smiles as he catches on. He moves In time with his lover. Their bodies start to move more.

And eventually they're slow dancing around the small garden.

Not necessarily slow dancing but... they're dancing and it's slow. So...

But not a word had been shared. Only eye contact.

The music is the sound of their breathing and the wind in the trees.

Sometimes a soft noise from the dogs fills the air as the couple keeps dancing.

"Happy birthday, beauty." Gastón whispered as he leaned in for a kiss.

"i love you."

[marksbear2]

OVERSTIMULATING YOUR ALIEN BOYFRIEND !

pairing — mark grayson x gn!reader.

synopsis — what the title says 👅 stumbled upon this on twt and immediately thought of mark grayson. [ the link is porn btw so yeah fair warning ]

warnings — uhh porn with no plot :p

a/n — first post really nervous, i don't really write nsfw a lot so yeah mb if this is bad :( i just really had to get it out there LMFAO. i need him so bad it's actually insane. mark grayson get out my head challenge : impossible!

thinking about mark grayson being a good boy for you <3

jerking him off after a particularly stressful mission, his small moans turning into full blown whimpers and whines as he tries not to blow his load right then and there because he's a good boy, he knows better.

"baby please, please"

please just let him cum already! why are you being so mean to him, he's your sweet boy isn't he? :(

and when you give him the permission he'd been aching for, begging for, he blabbers small thank you's over and over in his whiny voice as he reaches that sweet relief, painting your hand in his sticky hot release.

he breathes heavily, eyes fluttering shut, practically panting as he tries to calm down from that intense orgasm- wait wait no, don't touch him there he's still all sensitive!

he groans, his eyes snapping open when he feels the familiar rhythm of your hand stroking his pretty cock :( he lets out embarrassingly loud noises, he can't do this again! but god it feels so good he can't help himself from bucking his hips up into your ruthless hand, wanting more.

"i can't, oh god i- i can't!" he whimpers, his body seemingly moving on it's own to chase that release again despite his words.

praise him, coo at him and he's all putty in your hands in an instant, willing to give you whatever you want, even if it renders him to an overstimulated pathetic mess, anything for his sweetheart.

his back arches off the bed, leaning into your touch, eyes all glossy as he loses himself in the pleasure you give him. another loud groan of your name rips from the back of his throat as he cums again.

he nearly cries when you don't stop jerking him off, are you trying to milk him dry? mindless babbles and sounds leave his pretty mouth as you use his previous load as lube, gently kissing his tears like you aren't the one overstimulating him.

he squirms and twitches under your touch, giving up on controlling his noises. the pleasure he feels bordering on painful but it only adds to the bliss, it feels so good he swears he sees stars, the only thing on his mind is you.

and when you pinch his nipples and tease them with your tongue, he knows he's done for.

his tears don't stop and neither do his moans of your name, just like your hand against his cock. he makes an effort to not scream your name when he cums for the third time in the span of such a short time by biting down on his bottom lip, he bites down so hard it draws blood. the muscles on his abdomen clenching and unclenching and you swear you've never seen a sight so beautiful.

your boyfriend looks so good like this, it's actually downright unfair how pretty he looks all blissed out like this.

the strongest man on the planet all pliant and needy under you is sure an ego boost.

and absolutely none of that helps with your own growing arousal.

his body writhes harder when you kiss him, everything feels so intense, even the kiss. with his brain turned almost all to mush he tries to sloppily kiss you back, all tongue and teeth accompanied by his soft whimpers which make you giggle.

and normally he'd laugh with you too if he wasn't all flushed and sweaty and acting like a dog in heat. his eyes still glossy as his chest heaves with the uneven breaths he takes.

and to no one's surprise he's still somewhat hard, viltrumite genes do wonders to your libido it seems.

"can you give me another one mark?" my god are you fucking crazy?! let him breathe!

but how can he deny his baby? especially when you look at him like that, but he's not even sure he can cum anymore and-

"please?" you bat your eyelashes at him.

and yeah, he's a goner.

it's gonna be a long night.

© digitald0rk 2025. please do not steal my work, thank u. interactions, like and reblogs are highly appreciated. tysm for reading and i hope you have a good day / night >:3 want more? click here ★

[marksbear2]

Hi~ I wanted to ask if you write for hulk or red hulk?

This is not a request, only a question. Have a nice day/night. 💕

I right for both actually :DD I absolutely loveeee hulk but I hate him in marvel rivals. I also love red hulk to.

[marksbear2]

taking requests from spn??

Yes I am!!

[marksbear2]

MARK NINE MORE DAYS

How are you feeling???

Are you excited??

IM SUPER EXCITED I FORGOT TO ANSWER UR LAST QUESTION BUT YES ME AND MY BROTHER HAS RHYIMG NAME\

Im feeling great and I hope it’s a good birthday. I’m also getting donuts instead of cake since I don’t like eating cake I never finish it

[marksbear2]

Taunt Me.

a mini LifeQueen crackshot suggested by my friend after we saw LW and JQ are the same height ingame.. also inspired by a goated queenie when i played weaver

suggestive writing towards the end cause ik they’d be freakin it.

warnings: inappropriate use of petal platform and life grip

Odessa has always been the tallest person in Junkertown. It’s part of how she took the title of the Queen, after all, having won the tournament for the city on her own. Standing at seven feet tall, she’s untouchable, and she knows that.

Well, she thought she did.

‘It’s hot outside. Painfully so,’ Niran thinks. The sun feels like it’s screaming, heating up skin and forcing it to sweat, only to evaporate it moments later. That’s how it always feels in Junkertown, but it’s not a problem. He’s used to the heat of the moment.

While his team is busy leaving him behind as they push the payload, he steps up to the gates, waiting for that scratchy console to turn on.. if it does at all. He knows the residents here aren’t the most polite.

CRRRCHK—

“Who goes there?” Asks a gruff, heavy and masked voice from behind the door.

“I’m here to see the Queen. I’ve heard lovely stories,” he starts. When the door doesn’t budge, he huffs. “I’m also wanted in twelve countries at the moment, and this was the closest place I could hide out,” Niran finishes smoothly, deciding he’ll overshare for some pity points.

He knows he’s succeeded in the imaginary charisma roll as he hears the door’s massive lock click, the weighted barrier lifting in front of him, showing him the scrappy entrance to Junkertown.

Rusted metal walls, old bus windows used to filter in natural lighting - it’s nothing like his old bunk with Satya, but it’s not an unwelcome change. Dull colors from scrap can actually look quite nice if you work for it, he thinks, his eyes roaming over each and every building he pauses by.

He’s completely unaware of the enemy team charging him, mostly their Reinhardt cackling as he starts flying for him.

A loud shout pulls Niran from his admiration as a voice cuts through the air like a machete, and his heart tells him he’s just found himself a new challenge.

“Time for the RECKONING!”

The massive, muscular woman of Niran’s dreams, holding onto an axe made of electrically charged scrap, flies in front of him and meets Reinhardt in the middle, her forehead slamming into his as she shoves him back, Niran now a safe distance away from the fight.

His heart thuds heavily in his chest as Odessa charges in, his eyes wide for a moment before he pulls himself together and tosses his healing blossoms to her, the glowing flowers hovering over her wounds and patching them up.

He didn’t realize she’d been nearby, or on his team at all, really, but he’s thankful for it.

Odessa turns to him once she’s taken care of the enemy ream, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Y’alright?”

Niran’s heart flutters at her tone, and a small nod follows as he speaks, “Yes, I’m alright thanks to you. I didn’t even notice..”

Odessa gives him a hearty smirk, her teeth sharp and intimidating, like the rest of her. “Well, I can’t blame ya’, when yer sittin’ in the back and watchin’ the rest of us die the rest ‘a the time.”

“..pardon?”

“Y’know, you sit on a flower petal n’ act like you’re puttin’ work in. No offense.” Odessa continues, shrugging and closing her eyes. “Not like a healer’s gonna do much.”

Niran narrows his eyes, an alarmingly sweet smile pulling at his lips. “You don’t think I can do much?”

Odessa shakes her head, completely unaware of the change in Niran’s demeanor. “Not really, nah.”

She fails to see the flower platform now tucked beneath her feet, but she notices when Niran uses his life grip to pull her closer and shove her by the shoulder, pressing her face against the petal as it raises. He pins her to it like she’s paperwork he can’t wait to fill out.

“You still think so?” He asks, a heated smile on his face as his eyes dance over Odessa’s suddenly pink cheeks. It’s nearly impossible to fluster the Queen of Junkertown, so Niran considers himself lucky.

“Y-yeah, ‘course I do. Just ‘cause you can move yer petal doesn’t mean you can swing an axe,” Odessa huffs, her breath pausing as she feels Niran lean over, his chest pressed to her back as he sighs.

A small touch to her waist makes her freeze, and Niran’s devious little grin is felt against her cheek as he grinds his hips against her backside, letting her feel how much he enjoys her taunts.

“I don’t need an axe. I’d much rather swing your way instead,” he purrs, biting at her earlobe before he reaches over her front, his gentle fingertips trailing over her abs before tugging at the waistband of her shorts.

OH MY GAWD FREAKYY STOP

[marksbear2]

I'm so sorry for bothering you...but I sent a request for a fic about Dean Winchester...and I was wondering if Tumblr ate it or not or if you haven't seen it yet lol

I haven’t saw anything about Dean in my inbox either tumber age it or I’m just blind 💔. But if you like you could send the request again or something different entirely I don’t mind.

[marksbear2]

Hello! Hope you're having an awesome day

I was wondering if you know the tv show/book series Jack Reacher?

Hi, I hope you’re having a great day to yourself. And yes I seen the series but haven’t read the book yet.

[marksbear2]

Hi papaaaa!! If you like to write no pressure and ex Aaron Hotchner x yandere Unsub male reader. I want a thriller and angst type fic. That the reader ends up killing Aaron since if he can’t have him no one else can type vibe. SRRY if it’s too dark.

Aaron Hotchner x Yandere male reader

A different request but a really dark one, I struggled writing this but I hope I met your standards. Aaron is my favorite character so this killed me to write 💔.

⚠️ warnings Psychological Horror, Angst, content Warning: Graphic violence, obsessive behavior, captivity, psychological manipulation, character death, killing. Lovesick. trigger warning do not read if any of this makes you uncomfortable!! ⚠️

The dampness of the basement settled into Aaron Hotchner’s bones like regret—quiet, cold, and impossible to ignore. He sat hunched on the cracked concrete floor, wrists raw from the fraying rope that bound him to a rusted pipe. The smell of mold and iron clung to the air, mingling with the faint coppery scent that soaked into the floor from the dried blood trailing behind him. His breath steamed in the chill, a reminder that no one knew where he was.

No one knew what you had done.

The dim light flickered above, swaying slightly from the chain you’d rigged to hang it just out of his reach. Every now and then, the bulb buzzed, casting long shadows across your figure as you paced, slow and methodical, barefoot on the blood-stained concrete. Your eyes hadn’t left him in hours.

You had waited long enough.

“I told you,” you said softly, almost lovingly, crouching just far enough away to keep him uncomfortable. “All you had to do was stay.”

Aaron didn’t answer. His lips were split, dried with blood, a cut on his brow crusted over. His silence wasn’t new. He’d always had that steel will—stoic, unbreakable. You loved that about him once. Maybe still did. Maybe too much.

You brushed your fingers across his bruised cheek. He flinched.

“You used to look at me like I mattered,” you murmured, your voice cracking slightly. “Now you can’t even look at me at all.”

He turned his face away, jaw clenched tight. That only made it worse. That refusal. That rejection. The same cold distance that started the night he ended things with you, standing in your apartment with that empty, practiced look on his face.

“I’m sorry. It’s not healthy for either of us. I can’t give you what you want.”

But he was wrong. You didn’t want anything he couldn’t give. Just him. Just this. It didn’t have to be difficult. He could’ve said yes. Could’ve just loved you back.

“You told me you loved me once,” you said, standing up, your voice growing harder now, like frost forming on glass. “Was that just a lie too? Or were you lying when you said it had to end?”

“I meant it,” Aaron rasped. His voice was sandpaper. “But it changed. You changed.”

Your laugh came out raw, somewhere between broken and unhinged. “No, Aaron. You changed. You started pulling away. You started looking at other people like they were options.”

He didn’t respond, but you saw the tightening of his jaw, the subtle wince. He knew exactly who you meant—that agent. The one who smiled too easily at him. The one whose number you found in his pocket when you broke into his dry cleaning.

“You don’t love me anymore,” you said, your voice soft, trembling now. “So what? I’m just supposed to disappear? Just vanish so someone else gets to love you?”

“You’re sick,” he muttered, finally meeting your gaze. “You need help.”

Your lip curled.

“I don’t need help,” you whispered. “I need you.”

⸻

The days blurred together. No clocks. No sunlight. Just the buzz of that flickering light and the sound of your footsteps echoing through the basement. Sometimes you talked to him like nothing was wrong—told him stories from the time you were together. Sometimes you played old voicemails from his phone. Sometimes you sat in the corner, arms wrapped around your knees, whispering how you were sorry for hurting him.

But you were hurting him. You both knew it.

The man you once loved was a shell now—body bruised, lips cracked from dehydration, sleep-deprived and silent. But even now, something defiant burned in his eyes. He didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. And he never once said he loved you, even when you begged him to say it.

It was unbearable.

⸻

Tonight was different.

Tonight, you brought something heavier down the basement stairs.

Aaron’s head lifted, sluggishly. His eyes settled on the pistol in your hand.

You sat beside him, quietly, calmly, the gun lying between you like a shared secret.

“I didn’t want this,” you said, almost too gently. “I tried to make it work.”

“You did this to yourself,” Aaron rasped. “You want control, not love.”

You smiled bitterly. “I wanted forever.”

Aaron’s breathing grew shallow, eyes locked on the gun. But he still didn’t beg. Not even now.

You reached over, gently brushing hair from his face. Your fingers trembled.

“If I let you go,” you whispered, “you’d forget me. You’d find someone else.”

He didn’t answer.

Your voice cracked. “But if I end it… then you’ll never belong to anyone but me.”

You picked up the gun. Your hand was shaking. Your heart pounded loud enough to drown out your thoughts. You leaned in close, pressing your forehead to his.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Aaron closed his eyes. “I know.”

The silence hung like fog.

Then the sound—a sharp, deafening crack in the concrete tomb of your obsession.

⸻

You stayed there for hours after.

Holding him.

Crying into his chest like a lover in mourning. His blood stained your hands, your chest, your face. But you didn’t care.

Now… no one else could have him. Not the team. Not that other agent. Not the world.

Aaron was yours.

Forever.

And then, in the unbearable quiet, something inside you shifted—fractured.

Your heartbeat thundered wildly, the heat of panic rising through your veins, mingling with the icy dread that seeped into your bones. You looked down at him, the man you once loved, the man you just killed, and suddenly the brutal clarity of it all crashed over you like a tidal wave.

He’s gone.

Not just gone from your grasp, but from the world.

There would be no more arguing, no more stolen glances, no more twisted, desperate attempts to bind him to you. No more whispered promises, no more memories. No more him.

And worse—

You realized that in your desperate need to own him, to keep him from slipping away, you had destroyed everything you ever claimed to want. You’d strangled the last flicker of the person you loved beneath your obsession.

You rocked back on your heels, horror settling deep in your gut. Your breath caught, ragged and desperate.

What had you done?

The basement suddenly felt colder than before—empty, merciless, and final.

THE END

[marksbear2]

Hello! I don’t want to be rude and just request something you don’t watch or part of the fandom so i’m wondering if you watch the series “the sandman”? And if you do i would like to request!

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

I absolutely love Sandman 😸, I personally cannot wait to watch the new seasons. Feel free to request and thank you! I actually love watching shows and series so anything especially that’s on Netflix I watched

[marksbear2]

HIIIIIIIIIIII

How are you??? Are you doing well? Eating well???

I fucking loved that Hannibal fic not gonna lie. I swear you just keep getting better and better!

How are you feeling about your birthday coming up? Any plans? Also how old are you gonna be 🤔

HELLOOOO

Yes I’m eating great I just got a box of donuts actually 🤤.

Thank you for loving it I’m really glad I value ur opinion a whole lot.

For my birthday I’m gonna be at a zoo with my twin then do something with my family bc idk they have this surprise thing. I’m going to be 24 im getting older 😔

[marksbear2]

Hey I wanted to ask if you do like breeding kinks, I was looking through your rules, and I couldnt find anything about it (unless there is, and I'm just blind), I wanted to make an ask with it, but I wanted to ask you if you were comfortable with it first

I’m fine with breeding their actually one of my favorite kinks! Dw I’m comfortable writing breeding

[marksbear2]

Hannibal with a quiet artist reader who asks him to model for him all the time as an excuse to see him? And hanni knows, so he suggests nude portraits to see how he'll react (spoilers: extremely well)

Hannibal Lecter x Artist male reader

⚠️Warnings!!— Suggestive and slow at first, Hannibal jerks off and talks reader through it, nudity, calculated and seductive Hannibal and etc.⚠️

You were subtle. Silent. Thoughtful — much like your art. You arrived at his door every week under the gentle guise of asking to paint him, brushes wrapped neatly, canvas in tow, soft-spoken words tucked behind your lips.

You always asked politely.

“Would you mind sitting for me again, Dr. Lecter?”

And Hannibal always agreed.

He indulged you. Not because he particularly enjoyed being painted — though he did admire the classical control in your strokes — but because he enjoyed you.

You were different. Quiet without being simple. You didn’t chatter like most, didn’t fill the air with needless noise. You let silence exist between words, like space between stars. And in that silence, he watched the way your fingers twitched when you looked at him too long, how your eyes lingered on the line of his throat, his hands, the corner of his mouth.

You weren’t just painting him.

You were studying him.

Desiring him.

And tonight, Hannibal would test how far that desire went.

⸻

“You’ve grown bold,” Hannibal said, eyes steady as he settled into his high-backed chair. “Three portraits in as many weeks.”

You sat across from him, sketchbook in your lap, thumb pressed anxiously against the paper’s edge. Your voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… an interesting subject.”

“Interesting.” He tasted the word as though it were wine.

“I mean—visually. There’s a certain… tension in your face. Stillness in the body, but something always beneath.”

A smile curled his lips — slow, feline. “You see beneath the surface. That makes you dangerous, artist.”

Your eyes dropped. His voice always made you feel like prey: warm, pinned, exposed.

“I wonder,” Hannibal continued, “if you’re brave enough to paint more than just the surface.”

You looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

He uncrossed his legs deliberately, leaned forward just slightly, voice dipping low.

“I propose something different. For your next piece… perhaps a nude portrait. Of me.”

The room stilled.

You blinked, mouth slightly open, breath catching somewhere between ribs. Your pencil slipped against the page, leaving a faint, accidental line.

Hannibal’s gaze was unwavering. He saw the pulse leap in your throat. Saw how your fingers flexed, how your legs pressed together without thinking.

“It’s important,” he added, “for an artist to be unafraid of the human form. To be… intimate with it.”

You swallowed. “That’s… I… I’ve never done a nude before.”

He tilted his head, predatory interest dancing in his eyes. “All the better, then. I would be your first.”

He let the pause hang, deliberate. Suggestive.

Your voice was a whisper, raw with nervous energy. “You’re not… joking?”

“Never,” he said smoothly. “I think you’d like it. Watching. Studying every line, every muscle, every shadow that light casts on skin. The truth of the body. Wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Hannibal stood, slowly, and walked to your side. He looked down at your open sketchbook, at the dozen drawings of him you thought you’d hidden — his eyes, his hands, his profile in charcoal.

“You already undress me with your eyes,” he said, gently brushing a smudge of graphite from your cheek. “Why not do it properly?”

Your breath hitched.

Your mouth was dry. “If you’re… comfortable.” You said body slightly frozen. You sat there, heart pounding, sketchbook trembling in your lap.

comfortable.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, smile playing across his lips. “Are you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Hannibal peeled off his shirt with a quiet grace, his movements deliberate — the kind that made it clear he was fully aware you were watching. His chest was lean, defined but elegant. Like a sculpture. Something carved, not grown. There was power there, coiled and patient.

He unbuckled his belt. Slid his trousers down. Then his briefs. He stood nude in front of you, unashamed, as if this was nothing more than another evening — as if your pulse wasn’t hammering behind your ribs. Your eyes roamed — helpless, greedy. The way the light fell on the angles of his collarbone, the subtle V of his hips, the long, quiet strength in his legs. You caught yourself staring too long between his thighs.

He noticed.

“Study me,” he said softly, stepping onto the lounge, reclining like a Roman god preparing to be immortalized. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

You nodded, dazed. Sat on your stool like a student at an altar. You picked up your brush.

But your hand trembled. You felt like you couldn’t even breathe while Hannibal just stared at you like you were prey. And then finally you started to paint.

The painting was complete — but you hadn’t looked at it in over an hour. Your eyes were locked on Hannibal instead, the brush long forgotten in your hand. He was still nude, still seated — but no longer as your subject. He had become something else entirely: a predator at rest, watching his prey tremble closer to the moment of surrender.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But the silence wasn’t empty.

It was expectant.

And then, like a wire snapping under tension, he stood and crossed the space between you in slow, deliberate steps.

You froze. Heart hammering. Heat flooding your chest, your throat.

He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t have to.

One hand reached out and caught your wrist — the one still holding the paintbrush. He plucked it from your fingers and set it gently aside. Then he brought your hand to his chest. Warm skin. Slow, steady breath.

“You create such beauty with your hands,” he said, his voice low, intimate, like it belonged behind a locked door. “Allow them something more honest.”

Your fingertips trembled against his skin. He leaned down — closer, so close — and for the first time, you realized you weren’t afraid of him.

You were enthralled.

“May I?” he asked.

You nodded.

He smiled like a man who’d already known the answer.

Hannibal’s hands were practiced. Intelligent. Sensual in the way only a master of detail could be — he touched you like you were already undone, like your body was clay warming in his palms. He cupped you through your pants, slowly, deliberately — watching your reaction, not rushing it. You gasped at the contact, hips twitching forward instinctively.

You weren’t used to being touched like this. Seen like this.

You were quiet — but your body betrayed you. You leaned into his hand, breath shaky, your eyes flickering to his as if pleading for something unspoken.

He obliged.

With a slow, skilled precision, Hannibal undid the buttons of your trousers and slid them down. You kicked them away without thinking. Your underwear followed — soft fabric peeled away by fingers that knew exactly how to tempt, how to tease.

And then you were fully exposed.

He hummed softly, pleased.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, stroking you gently now — long, languid motions that made your thighs tense and your breath catch. “Isn’t it curious, how much we hide from the world… and yet how easily we give it away when someone looks at us properly?”

You whimpered as his thumb circled the head of your cock, his other hand resting against your lower abdomen, anchoring you in place.

Every movement was calculated. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just deliberate, like he was memorizing how you responded to each stroke — your soft gasps, the way your legs trembled, the way your lips parted but no words came.

“You’ve wanted this,” he whispered into your ear. “Haven’t you, artist?” You nodded — desperate, flushed. “Yes.” “Say it.” “I wanted you.” He smiled against your neck. “Good boy.”

The praise shattered something in you. Your hand gripped his shoulder, needing something to hold onto. Hannibal’s hand moved faster now, his fingers tight and slick with your arousal, stroking you expertly. You couldn’t even look at him — the pleasure was too intense, your body betraying how deeply you’d needed this.

“You may come for me,” he murmured, voice velvet-dark.

And you did — with a stifled cry against his collarbone, your body shaking as you spilled into his hand. You felt him watching you the entire time — his eyes on your face, your mouth, your chest heaving as you rode the aftershocks.

He didn’t let go of you until you were fully spent, breathless in his arms.

Only then did he raise his hand — sticky with your release — and bring it to his mouth. And taste it. Deliberately.

“You’re a masterpiece,” Hannibal said softly. “And every artist deserves to be touched by his own creation.”

THE END

[marksbear2]

Got any of that... Chop-Top Sawyer smut? I'll leave the rest to you. TCM 2 is great and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise.

Chop-top Sawyer x male reader

I love tcm 2 like it’s my fav in the whole franchise . I had great fun writing this and hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting!

⚠️ Warnings!!— degradation, knife play, rough sex, obsession, canon-typical violence and behavior, dark tone.⚠️

The air reeked of rust, gasoline, and something… meatier. Lights flickering around with muffled buzzing. Your head was pounding as always. Your eyes were heavy as you just laid on the floor in utter exhaustion and defeat waiting for to be met with the same fate the past victims met.

You’d been down in this hellhole basement for what felt like hours—or days. No sense of time. No clocks. Just buzzing lights, decaying furniture, and that damn music—psychedelic trash looping on a dusty cassette. You’d tried to struggle at first. Tied to a chair. Ankles bound. But that got you nowhere.

“Hey, slick,” came the voice again—grating, giddy, sing-song. “You awake in there, space cadet?”

Chop Top.

That freak with the metal plate in his skull and a bent-up coat hanger he kept scraping against it like he was tuning a radio in his head. He hadn’t killed you yet. That was both comforting and terrifying.

He appeared from the shadows like a roach—skinny, twitchy, chewing at a scab on his lip as he grinned at you.

“Y’know, you’re kinda cute for a normie,” he cooed, jabbing the hanger at your chest. “They usually scream more. Cry. You just look pissed.”

You didn’t answer.

That just made him giggle.

“Aww, don’t be sore, hot stuff. I like ‘em a lil feisty,” he leaned close, breath hot and sour on your face. His eyes gleamed with a feral hunger. “Let me guess—you’re wonderin’ why I kept you alive, huh?”

“Wouldn’t say I’m thrilled to be your pet,” you muttered.

“Pet?” he snorted. “Naw, naw, naw. You’re special. Different. Like… the kinda guy who gets under my skin in the best way. Not like those boring yuppies. You got bite, baby.”

He licked his lips. Then licked your cheek. You jerked away. Immediately repulsed and also very stubborn.

“Ohhh,” he sang. “Don’t tease me like that.” He said in his twisted tone. He only seemed to be even more excited and turned on by the fact that you moved away.

Suddenly, his bony fingers dug into your jaw and forced you to look at him. His eyes weren’t just crazy—they were obsessed. Like he wanted to wear your skin and your soul. Like he wanted you completely. It was a crazed look but also obsessed in a derange way.

“You want this too,” he whispered. “I see it in ya. You been lookin’ at me, starin’ when I walk around shirtless. You like the metal, huh? Wanna feel it?”

Before you could answer, Chop Top straddled your lap, grinding down against you through the denim, and the sensation hit like fire. You hated how your body betrayed you—your hips bucking upward, your breath catching. He was letting out raspy laughs as he rubbed your back with his hands.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasped, his voice shaking with delight.

He fished out a knife—jagged, stained—and dragged it slowly along your collarbone. Not cutting. Just threatening. His other hand gripped your hair, yanking your head back.

“Don’t worry,” he growled, licking your throat. “I’ll take real good care of you. You’re mine now. Gonna make you scream for me.”

Your heart pounded. Fear and arousal warred in your veins. Chop Top leaned in, metal plate glinting under the harsh light, and kissed you—messy, feral, and full of teeth.

You didn’t resist.. Not anymore.

Chop Top’s tongue was hot and slick, dragging down your neck like he was tasting something rare. He moaned against your throat, muttering nonsense between kisses—half compliments, half cult-speak.

Chop Top’s teeth grazed your neck as his hands roamed with reckless intent, rough and hungry. The knife traced teasing lines across your skin, cold and sharp enough to make you shiver, but never breaking through. His grip on your hair tightened, tilting your head back so you were fully exposed to his wild gaze.

“You’re real warm,” he panted. “Bet you taste even better inside.”

His knife was still in hand. He grinned down at you as he pressed the flat of the blade against your chest, just under the collarbone—just enough pressure to leave a faint red line. Not cutting. Yet.

Your pulse jumped.

He noticed.

“Aww, don’t be shy, sugar. Look at you,” he cooed, rocking his hips against yours again, grinding hard. “Already hard for me? Tchhh, you nasty little boy scout.”

His fingers fumbled at the waistband of your jeans, pulling down the zipper with a metallic snap that echoed in the dank basement. You gasped when his palm brushed over your hip, then lower—pressing into your skin with enough pressure to make you bite your lip.

He reached down and pulled your boxers down with practiced, twitchy fingers—pulling you free with no hesitation, licking his cracked lips when he saw you.

“Ohhh baby,” he muttered, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

Then he leaned down, metal plate glinting dangerously, and took you into his mouth.

The first lick is ice-cold against your heated flesh. Your breath hitches, half fear, half desperate need. He tastes you—blood, sweat, arousal—then smiles wide and slips inside you, inch by agonizing inch.

You gasped—shocked not just by the act, but by how good it felt. Chop Top may have been insane, but he wasn’t sloppy. His mouth was hot and wet and desperate as he sucked you down, groaning low in his throat like he was starving. He was deep throating you as if it was nothing. He was also making muffled noises around your cock.

You tried to resist the instinct to buck your hips, but he liked that—moaned louder, took you deeper. When your body showed that you wanted more you could hear him chuckle around the base of your cock.

“Mmm, yeah, fuckin’ love that…” he slurred, pulling off with a strand of spit connecting his mouth to your tip. “God, you’re like candy. I wanna wear you like a damn coat.” He swirled his tongue around your tip treating it as if it was some toy.

He stood up suddenly, yanked his own pants down halfway—bare, thin hips jerking forward, hard and leaking.

You couldn’t stop the trembling that ran through you—the shock of pain mingled with the overwhelming need for him, for this wild madness that was Chop Top.

He whispered against your skin, “You’re mine now, and I’m never lettin’ go.”

Then he straddled you again, knife still in hand, and lined himself up. Your eyes went wide.

“Relax,” he grinned, lowering himself, “I’m real good at takin’ pain.”

And with a sharp inhale, he sank down onto you.

It was hot. Tight. Raw.

He gasped—but it wasn’t from pain. It was from pleasure. Chop Top threw his head back and laughed, high-pitched and twitchy, grinding down in wild circles. He rolled his hips

“Ohhhh fuck yeah,” he moaned, riding you with a deranged rhythm. “You feel like heaven, baby. Like burnt pie and blood and fuckin’ fireworks.”

Your hands were still tied—but the tension of him using you like a toy, his sweat dripping onto your chest, the knife glinting above—it was overwhelming. His hips slapped against yours, faster now, more desperate.

“Gonna make you come in me,” he growled. “Mark me. Fill me. Make me yours—‘cause I already own you, don’t I?”

You choked on a gasp—groaning loud, hips twitching as your orgasm hit you like a truck. Chop Top yelped, riding you through it, clenching hard, his own release painting your stomach in thick, hot streaks.

He collapsed forward, sweaty and trembling, panting into your neck.

“…Damn,” he mumbled, giggling breathlessly. “Ain’t had that much fun since ’Nam.”

You weren’t sure if you should be afraid—or completely ruined.

Both, maybe.

He sat up slowly, wiping himself off with a rag that was somehow dirtier than the floor.

Then he leaned down and whispered into your ear:

“Round two’s gonna be messier.”

THE END