#COMPARED TO THE DEEP URGE

[selcouthself]

was in my kitchen VIOLENTLY reciting Christopher Plummer's Cyrano de Bergerac balcony scene earlier....why wasn't i born fifty years ago....

[blackjackkent]

Tiefling party time!

I really do feel like we could have cleaned up the giant blood sigil left from Rakha's reign of terror before inviting guests over, but what do I know?

Rakha is definitely REALLY nervous about this whole situation. She remembers when Alfira came and what happened to her, and this is way more guests now. The beast is stirring irritably in her brain at the flood of relative strangers and she knows, all too well, that she is capable of slipping tonight just as she did then.

So she keeps to herself, at least at first, which is how she ends up on the beach at the edge of camp with Wyll.

She didn't entirely mean to follow him, at least not consciously... but she's aware that she feels the strain in her head relax when she realizes he's there. Somewhere along the line, of all the members of their little band, he became the point where she feels the most at ease - he answers her questions without judgment. He has guided her first fumbling attempts to stand against the beast's hunger.

Even her trust in Lae'zel, firm as it is, does not quite bring the same sense of... comfort.

For a little while, she stands and watches him silently. He seems lost in thought, staring out at the slowly rolling surface of the river. Finally she takes a step forward; her boot knocks against a small pebble, sending it clattering along the rocky beach into the water, and he jumps, spinning around.

"Agh. Hells," he mutters sheepishly. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice I was gone."

She raises an eyebrow. Why? she wonders. Does he think his presence insignificant? Does he think she thinks his presence insignificant?

"Are you all right?" she asks quietly.

He smiles ruefully. "Oh. I'm deeply proud of you. A touch less so of myself."

She stares at him. Proud? Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not one of them. She has come far enough in the time since the nautiloid to know that there is a battle to be fought within herself - that there is more to her than the beast if she is willing to find it. But she has not come nearly far enough to believe that battle is being won, not yet.

But he says he is proud of her. And the fact makes her feel... strange. Warm. As if she has crossed some milestone she was not aware of reaching for.

Thank you, she wants to say - but then she registers the second half of his comment, and gives him a questioning look. Not proud of yourself? Why?

(A/N: Look at his poor sad eyes. :( Wyll needs a big hug stat.)

"In truth, I don't feel in a festive mood," he says with a slight shrug. "And I didn't want to cast a grey cloud over the night."

She nods, thinking he means the recent revelations about his father - which would be understandable enough - but he keeps talking. "I'm a devil. I love the people from the grove, but I unsettle them deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone nowadays."

His face twists with sudden anguish, and he turns away, looking out at the water. "You don't want a devil at your party," he mutters bitterly. "Horns this sharp will pop the balloons, you see. And the guests won't take kindly to scars quite so monstrous."

Ah. She listens in silence, taking in these new details, filing them away. Wyll's transformation makes him like those who drew the teeth-lings into the Hells in the first place. It makes him look like their enemy. Like many people's enemies.

But not like hers. "You don't unsettle me," she says. It's a blunt statement, matter-of-fact. "You know that." There is much worse in me than anything you have ever shown me. And you have looked at me without blinking.

His head lifts and he looks at her intently for a moment. She can't quite read the expression in his eyes, but his voice is low and heavy with some sudden intensity. "If only half the world had half the heart you do," he says softly.

There would be nothing left living, I think, Rakha thinks with her own surge of bitterness. But she doesn't say it aloud, because she recognizes the compliment, even if she doesn't agree with it. What does he see in her, that he keeps saying these things?

And why does he see so little in himself?

For a moment they both stand there, eyes locked; the air feels suddenly charged with electricity. She finds herself wishing, out of nowhere, that she could show him what Gale showed her the other night - the depth of the Weave, the peace of it. The magic he carries is something very different, something darker, tainted by Mizora... but perhaps he could still channel it as she did...

The thought of the magic connecting them, of the intimacy that went with that bond, makes her feel suddenly unstable in a way that she can't define. For a moment she is almost certain one of those wild surges of magic is going to burst through her without warning and set the whole place ablaze.

But she holds his eyes with hers, and though her heart has suddenly started to thump like thunder... her magic calms, and the beast quiets, and she simply breathes, and waits, and hears the water lap gently against the shore by their boots.

He draws back suddenly, a brittle smile flickering onto his lips, and the moment breaks. "But off with you. This is your day! Have a dance. Enjoy the music."

She looks over her shoulder, back towards the party, and she clicks her tongue with a disinterested expression. No. She feels much more comfortable here with him, and perhaps that was why she walked this direction in the first place. "Can't you tell why I really followed you out here?" she says, with a gruff tone unaccountably laced with a sense of indistinct embarrassment.

He blinks, snorts. "Clearly Mol has put you up to stealing my britches so you can turn them into a flag for her gang." A pause, and then he adds, "Not that I'd necessarily object." His lips twitch in a slight, cautious grin.

She laughs softly. It's a sound she's heard so rarely from herself that it startles her - hoarse, low in her throat... but amused. "Nope," she says. "Guess again."

His grin widens. "Let me think. Why are you really here?" He snaps his fingers, coming to a dramatic conclusion. "You must be Volo in disguise, out here to harangue me for some tales of the Frontiers." He leans back on his heels and shakes his head in mock-sorrow. "What a cruel disguise! My nerves started hammering the second I thought *she* was the one looking for me."

It takes her a moment to parse this joke. She, meaning me. Ah... The idea that she would have that effect on him, after everything she's done... it doesn't really make any sense, even as he's articulating it. "Keep trying," she says, and her voice feels suddenly thick, unwieldy.

He hesitates; she sees his cheeks suddenly darken and his eyes flick away from her, the playful air fading abruptly. "It's a long shot," he says softly. "But maybe you've grown fond of me. Gods know I've grown fond of you."

There it is. Spoken out loud - by him, because she had no words for it. Fond. It feels... inadequate, but also correct. At the least, it encompasses something of the sense of safety and guidance he is able to instill in her.

She remembers the hectic, ferocious night with Lae'zel - which was also built on something of the same foundation. But this is not where this is leading, she can already tell. This is something different, something she has no words for.

"Maybe just a little," she mutters.

He smiles. Perhaps he registers something of her uncertainty, because his tone lightens deliberately. "Then we share a similar affliction, for I've grown fond of you too. Though I can't say I've earned the honor. I haven't even managed to kill one measly devil. I'm hardly a prime catch."

(A/N: We have the option for a persuasion check to ask for a kiss here. It's honestly more verbally direct than Rakha feels just yet, I think - an impulsive kiss immediately without the words would feel more likely - and I checked and it's just the one kiss anyway and then he sends you back off to the party regardless. So we're going with the more slow-burn setup here.)

She snorts dismissively. "You don't need to be the 'Blade of Frontiers' for me. Just be yourself." She respects his cause as one of the things on which she can model herself in the battle against the darkness in her head. But she has little interest in judging him for whatever ideals he has stood up for himself. He has done her that credit in return many times over already.

He shakes his head sharply. "The Blade *is* my best self," he insists. "On my best days, I've even lived up to the name."

There is something else he wants to say, she can tell - but he shakes his head again, visibly putting whatever it is aside in favor of a firm, sudden smile. "Now - you've got a party to get back to," he says firmly. "Don't forget - tonight is about you."

He draws closer for a moment, rests a hand carefully against her arm, and his smile softens. "There will be another time for us," he says, his voice low. And then, before she can respond, he turns and walks away down the beach.

[asimplearchivist]

Isn’t it ironic that I’ve been hella inspired by Explorers of Sky lately but what do I end up spending three hours drawing this evening?

My canon Rescue Team instead 🤦🏻‍♀️

[citrus-writing]

surrender to me

Thinking about how utterly humiliating it'd be to be forced to ride your yandere-

Tw: non-con, dub-con, extreme feelings of guilt and shame, reader is an active participant in their own assault 

--------------------------------------- 

It's bad enough when he pins you down to whatever surface is nearby, taking whatever he wants from you, forcing you to take whatever he gives you. It's bad enough that you're helpless to his advances, that he can so easily overpower you, use you like his own personal toy. It's bad enough that he fucks you so good, hitting that spot that has you nearly screaming, keeping up the relentless pace until your legs shake, and making sure you always cum at least once, though he always always tries for more.

It's worse when he pulls you on top of him. At least when you're underneath him you can say it's not your fault, that you have no hand in what happens to you.

But now, as you straddle his waist, his cock buried deep inside you, he tells you to "ride me, come on, just the way you like it" you feel shame wash over you. He's your kidnapper, he took everything from you, and now he wants you to be an active participant in your torment. Everything in your rebels against the idea, tells you to fight it, to hold onto your pride at any and all costs. But it's not like you have a choice, you know what disobeying him means- you've faced too many punishments to risk another.

Shame eats at you as you begin to move, hesitant and humiliated, but unwilling to disobey. You rock your hips, trying not to shutter with every drag of his length along your walls. You're so wet for him and you know he can tell. You close your eyes, you don't want to see the way he's looking at you, can't bare to see the adoration in his eyes when you fuck yourself on his cock and he can't help but whisper that you're "such a good girl for me".

You hate that it feels good, that even your leisurely pace is making you bite back moans and fight the urge to ride him harder, to make yourself cum, and to feel him cum too. He grabs your hips, guiding you to pick up the pace a little, and you curse that he knows exactly what you like. He knows just how to guide your movements to make you tremble and whimper as he fucks you, he knows exactly what will have you moaning and gushing around him. He knows exactly how to make you his perfect little whore.

It's too much- the absolute misery of the situation is more than you can bear. You're riding your kidnapper, moaning and crying out for him, feeling your orgasm creep up on you too fast. It’s humiliating in a way that nothing else can compare to, nothing he’s ever done to you has been quite so potently horrid. 

You can't tell if he's still forcing your hips into the rhythm or if you've given into it, can't really tell if he's thrusting up into you or if your just bouncing on his cock that hard- but you're so close, and he feels so good inside you, and you want to cum so bad. You should be fighting this, but you’re not. You’re rocking your hips against his and whining his name and begging for more. 

"Gonna cum?" He asks, voice a little bit teasing but mostly breathless at the way you move above him and the way you feel around him. He tells you all the time that he loves you, that you belong to him, that he’d do anything to keep you all to himself. In moments like this, it’s easy to believe that. You nod, desperate for release. "Go on, then,” he encourages, moving his hips against yours to meet you halfway as you move. 

You do- with a desperate cry of his name you feel your orgasm wash over you, crashing down on you and you can think of nothing else but his length filling you up, hitting so deep inside you and stretching you out so wide. It's so dirty; knowing you threw away all your morality and pride for this- you let yourself be used by man you should hate just so you could get off, you practically begged him for it. 

Because no matter how your mind tries to convince itself this isn't what you want, your body knows this is exactly what you want. 

---------------------------

[beloveds-embrace]

tf 141 with a reader who loves jewelry >>

It’s not a particularly visible obsession; all your boys know is that they’ve never seen you without jewelry. Be it pretty, delicate earrings, a lovely necklace that rests in between your cleavage, or a gleaming set of rings and bracelets. They are eye-catching, on occasions, and other times they blend so nicely into whatever outfit you have adorned yourself with.

They don’t realize it, they don’t make the connection until you’ve invited them into your house, and then you are leading them deep, deep into the basement until they are in front of a closed room. The entire thing is suspicious, honestly alarming because Ghost did so much research into you but never knew anything about this- but you look so nervous and hopeful, emotions bared.

They aren’t prepared to enter a room stuffed full of jewelry. A room practically glittering, gleaming like you’ve brought yourself a corner of the starry universe. Rows upon rows, cabinets and closed glass cases. And then you are smiling, stepping into the room and urging them in.

“I… I’ve always loved jewelry,” you clear your throat, voice soft and hushed. You look around, an unmistakable look of fondness and happiness in your eyes. “Necklaces, earrings.. anything that can be put on the body to adorn it more than clothes could. Ever since I was a child, I was, well, obsessed with collecting them. I love collecting them, and every piece here is precious to me.”

Your cheeks turn pink, and you look away from their gazes. “…but you are more precious to me, and I trust all of you. Which is why I feel happy, showing this part of me to you. And…”

You grin now, opening a cabinet with a simple key you put away to pull out four jewelry boxes. “-And that is why I got these!”

You open the first box, showing John a beautiful necklace that holds a single garnet shaped into a delicate teardrop. Garnet, for his birthstone. John, John, John- a man who will always have your heart. John, who treats you like a jewel even more delicate than the one in your hands. You’ve never had anyone hold you quite as he does, so full of love.

The second box is for Soap, for your Johnny. A dangling pair of earrings that would brush across your skin should you wear them, almost as sweetly as his kisses across your body. A stormy blue, much like his eyes.

Third box is bigger- the biggest. This one, you had custom-made. Not cheap at all, but worth every single dollar. Made entirely out of diamonds, the shoulder pieces would drape so elegantly across your shoulders and dangle off your back, like a never-ending embrace. Your most expensive piece to this day, and yet you would so easily swear that it did not compare to Gaz’s beauty anyways. It was based on him, on how you looked at him, on the sheer love you felt for and from him.

The last piece is a necklace. It curls around your neck not like a collar, but like a hissy cat seeking warmth. Three rows of pearls, shiny and pretty, and in the middle sits a round red jasper. You don’t remember when it had been, but you’d read that red jasper meant courage, preseverance, and healing. Perfect for your brave, incredible Si, whom you’ll always admire and adore.

But in your enthusiasm of describing how and why you chose each piece, you are blind to the way they look at you:

In a room full of gems, jewels and stars, you shine the brightest to them.

[lovelyghst]

would i be crazy for saying ghost enjoys (mostly) clothed sex more than anything. well, more for him than you.

like, just being able to get you down to your cute bra and panties, propping you up on his desk so he can thumb at the swollen, little bud beneath the cotton you wear. humming when the fabric starts to get wet and sticky, playing with the puffy thing as he pleases.

you contradict him in every way; pretty, pink lingerie hugging your frame a stark contrast to the black, heavy-duty cargos that hang off his hips and an equally dark, though certainly not loose, t-shirt to show off his broad shoulders. soft skin up against his rough exterior, gentle lips pressed to his scratchy beard. your clothes intricately detailed, light and lovingly cared for, while his are embedded with smoke and gunpowder and an overwhelming need to devour you whole. you’re far too sweet for him, he thinks.

he drinks in your sounds, the soft little hums that spill from your throat when your jaw falls lax shooting straight to his dick. his lips even twitch into a smile when your hands fist at his shirt, your hips nudging forward a bit when his knuckles graze your nerves teasingly.

he snickers at your giggles when he has you unbuckle his belt for him, just ‘cause he finds it amusing when your fingers struggle a bit with the leather in your dazed state. a tender grip on your wrist guiding your hand into his boxers rather shamelessly, having you knead him to a full erection before you’re finally allowed to take it out.

he usually hands you whatever you’d like and on a silver platter, without the need to even ask, but sometimes he makes you earn it. he promises it’s for your own good, sweetheart. you can’t complain.

he carefully urges one of your legs up and onto the desk, knee bent with your foot planted right on the edge for better leverage, a more depraved sight. rubs the pretty tip of his cock up against your wet spot, the only intimate bit of him exposed as his fingers are curled tightly around his shaft, guiding his movements.

and he fucks you just like that; your panties pulled to the side, further ruining the perfect pair as he gradually pushes into your sweet cunt.

he’s benign at first—slow and careful as he gives you time to adjust to the stretch, hardly moving much at all as he lays kiss after kiss to your forehead as a means of grounding you—but it isn’t long before you’re crumbling into that world where you’re dizzy, dumb on his cock, and the only noises coming from you are sharp huffs punched straight from your lungs. he isn’t too fast with you, but he’s fucking deep, and big in every sense of the word.

he holds you delicately compared to it all, with his hands at your waist and hips, giving you a faint squeeze in allotted intervals that seem to match up with his groans. similar to that of a cat preparing its sleeping place.

you know that’s what he plans for later, anyways. your pussy always knocks him out.

and sure, he’ll let you hike the hem of his t-shirt up just enough to stare down at his pretty abs, to rake your nails across his navel as he renders you speechless on his cock. he might even have you take it off for him completely if he’s going for multiple rounds with you.

but otherwise, that’s the best you’ll get from him on most days.

perhaps it’s the power dynamic, or maybe he simply feels more comfortable like that; either way, you know it’s fucking hot.

[sweetpascal]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 — 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞

gif by @iamasaddie

pairing: perv!stepdad!joel x fem!reader

summary: it's the first day under your stepdad's care, and boredom hasn't crept in at all. you suggest having a movie night, and to your surprise, he agrees immediately.

warnings: MINORS DNI. age gap [18/52], pervy thoughts, joel is condescending, sweet nicknames (sweetheart, babydoll), joel calls himself 'daddy', overprotective joel (in a bad way), innocence kink, DUB-CON, NON-CON, sloppy thigh fucking, somnophilia, we're starting out soft

wc: 2.9k

notes: DON'T LOOK AT ME.

series masterlist | next chapter

Waving at your mom from atop the porch, you couldn't help but feel the giddiness bubbling up inside. At last, the house would be peaceful without her snide remarks about what you're, how you're speaking, how you're sitting, and so on. The comfort of relaxing in your own sanctuary was something you've eagerly anticipated since she announced her week-long departure. Although it meant seven days of serenity, your stepdad, Joel, would still be around, which was fine by you. Compared to your mom, Joel was the cool, calm, and collected one, making him the favored parent in your eyes.

As her car disappeared around the corner, you dashed back inside and inadvertently slammed the door with too much force. You winced and clenched your jaw, hastily covering your mouth with your hands as Joel stomped around the corner, his deep frown evident, and large hands planted on his hips in a wide stance.

"What have I told you about slamming doors in this house?" he asks, eyebrows raised, head tilted, waiting for your response. He gestures impatiently when you hesitate. His tone is stern, and his expression suggests he is not in the mood for games.

"Sorry, Joel," you say meekly, your lips curving into a small pout, your heart pounding in your chest while his stern expression remains unchanged. Tears begin to fall before you can hold them back. With a soft sniffle, you turn away, embarrassed, to wipe them off.

You hear him let out a deep sigh from as you try to hold in your little cries. You hear his slow, heavy footsteps as he approaches. Then, you feel his big hands rubbing up and down your arms before turning you around to pull you into his chest. He hushes you softly, tutting quietly when your cries turn into whimpers.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, bending down to kiss your head softly. "No need for tears. I ain't mad at you, silly girl." With a curled forefinger, he gently lifts your chin. He dabs at your tears and plants another kiss on your forehead, the sensation of his scruff against your skin causing you to close your eyes.

"You're not?" you ask shyly, sniffling quietly as you begin to calm down. "But you seemed angry at me, Joel. It was very scary." Fidgeting with the buttons on his flannel shirt, you remain too nervous to meet his gaze, especially given the close proximity.

Joel's lips form into a grin as he realizes the storm of emotions that you're feeling. Now that the two of you will be alone for one whole week, he finally has enough time on his hands to break you down and put you back together repeatedly. He's finally going to be able to mold you into his perfect little dream girl.

"What can Daddy do to help you feel better?" Hm? Tell me," he says softly, urging you to gaze into his eyes, which you did. Hearing what he called himself made you laugh, which made his grin grow wider. "What's so funny, huh?" Poking you in your side, he laughs when you squirm.

"Mom said I shouldn't call you that," you say, releasing a soft sigh and returning to your button fidgeting. "She says that I'm old enough to use your name, and she thinks it's weird." Your voice carries a touch of sadness that Joel picks up on. He clenches his jaw at the thought of your mother's judgment over something so inconsequential to her.

Joel lifts your head gently, placing his finger under your chin. He gazes into your shining eyes, your eyelashes stuck together from the heavy tears that are beginning to dry. His other hand grips your hip, causing you to make a small noise. Being this close to him, looking up like this, felt so wrong. It was an uncomfortable closeness, especially from an outsider's perspective.

"Alright," Joel says with a playful sigh, bringing a smile to your face. "Fortunately, we have the entire house to ourselves for a whole week. I might not be as young as I used to be, but I'll do my best to keep up with whatever you want to do. Does that sound good?"

You hum loudly, swaying your hips from side to side in Joel's embrace while resting your chin on his head and jutting your backside out to gaze up at him more comfortably. He swallows hard, stifling a strained groan. You remain unaware, preoccupied with thoughts about how to kick off your week. Suddenly, as if an invisible light bulb shined brightly atop your head, your expression lights up.

"Movie night! With snacks! Oh, please, Daddy? Pleeeaaase," you whine, stretching out the last word as you pout and make puppy-like noises. Joel rolls his eyes and gives your backside a gentle pat, a familiar gesture from your private moments together. Now, he can express his affection openly, without hiding it from your mother in the same house.

"Get your butt upstairs and get ready," he motions with his head, signaling you to hurry. With a delighted squeal, you leap up, press a kiss on his stubbled cheek, and scamper up the stairs, slamming your bedroom door shut. A muffled apology comes through the door, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

The market was unexpectedly bustling. Each cash register featured a lengthy queue of customers eager to check out. Amidst the commotion, you found yourself drawing nearer to Joel, clutching the back of his shirt as you attempted to match his brisk pace.

"Make sure to stay close to me, sweetheart. We don't want you to get lost, okay?" Joel had repeatedly told you during the drive and now.

You nearly regret wearing such a pretty outfit on a hectic day. Dressed in a simple summer dress with delicate straps, sheer thigh-highs, and petite wedges, you find yourself wishing you had planned more wisely. But Joel's constant compliments, calling you pretty and ain't you a peach made it worth it.

As minutes passed, you inadvertently drifted away from Joel. You had both wandered through the candy aisle when the array of lollipops, gummy bears, and jellybeans captured your gaze. Standing there, like a child in a candy store, you were practically quivering with excitement at the thought of your stepdad purchasing anything you desired. While reaching for a small bag of gummy worms, you were jostled by someone, prompting a gasp to escape your lips as the bag slipped from your grasp.

A hand reaches down, picks it up, and extends towards you, presenting the bag. You tentatively accept it from the man, turning to face him and feeling a wave of discomfort at his unkempt appearance. He gives you a once-over as he licks his bottom lip. The sight of his thinning hair and prominent belly does little to ease your unease.

"I apologize for that, sweetheart," the term makes you recoil as it feels off when he utters it. When Joel says it, it elicits a sensation of floating and tingling. "I wasn't paying attention where I was going, but you certainly are a pretty sight. Are you here by yourself?" His unsettling stare compels you to want to shield your skin and escape to a distant place.

You sweep the aisle with your eyes, searching desperately for Joel's familiar broad form. Your heart and thoughts are calling out to him, wishing he could sense your distress telepathically and come to your aid against this nasty man. Gripping the candy bag closer to your chest, you watch as he edges nearer, feigning interest in a label just over your shoulder.

"My, uh, my stepdad... he... he, uh..." You couldn't bring yourself to form words as the man's fingers adjusted the fallen strap of your dress. Whimpering quietly, you pressed yourself harder into the shelf, closing your eyes tightly and silently hoping that this man would just go away.

Before the man could approach further, a large shadow loomed over your closed eyelids. As you opened your eyes, you were confronted with Joel's broad back, his masculine scent overwhelming your senses. His hands were balled into fists. Peering around him, you caught sight of the man's eyes, wide with fear, his expression betraying his predatory intentions. As your gazes locked, Joel once again shielded you with his frame.

"I suggest you walk away right now before you find yourself picking up your teeth from the ground," Joel warns in a low, menacing tone that you've never heard before—not even with your mother or step-uncle. It's terrifying to hear him like this, yet there's comfort in knowing he can protect you should things turn violent.

The man dashes out of the aisle, abandoning his basket of groceries without hesitation. Joel remains in front of you briefly, ensuring the man doesn't come back to check if you're alone again. As he turns to face you, the anger in his eyes and the scowl on his face grow more pronounced. He presses you against the shelf, invading your space in an intimidating manner.

"What the hell did I just tell you before we came here?!" he exclaims, almost shouting, his brows furrowed and his voice booming. "I ain't the one you should be playin' games with, little girl." He points a finger at your face, leaning in until his breath skims across your skin. "Repeat it," he commands in a deep, rough voice.

"I… I…" Overwhelmed by the situation, you burst into tears and cling to Joel, burying your face in his chest once more, sobbing uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry, Daddy! I didn't mean to get distracted! And then that man, he wouldn't leave me alone!" Joel struggles to understand you through your sobs, but he hushes you gently, enveloping you in his strong arms and softly patting your back.

Joel pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture of exasperation at your naivety, so oblivious and innocent to the world around you. As your cries subside to hiccups and faint squeaks, he gently eases you away from his chest, indifferent to the tear stains on his shirt.

"Listen to me, and listen well," he says, his tone stern yet his large palms gently cupping your cheeks. "Men like that are the ones that wanna take you away from me. They wanna keep you locked away and keep you for their own. You're not smart enough to be left alone, sweetheart, because you get put into these situations and you don't know how to act. That's why when Daddy tells you to do something, you do it. Is that understood? Nod your head." He notices your eyes glazing over as you listen to him speak. Mimicking a nod, you snap out of your trance and return the gesture.

"I don't want anyone to take me away from you, Daddy," you whisper, the thought of being separated from Joel filling you with terror, and tears swiftly gather at the edge of your eyes once more. "It's scary."

Joel tuts at you, lowering his head to kiss your tear-stained cheeks. The salty taste of your tears on his tongue had a warmth spreading throughout his lower half. "I know, babydoll. I know," he murmurs, giving your butt a series of gentle pats as he kisses your forehead. "Daddy's here now. Get your snacks so we can leave."

That evening, you change into your sheep-patterned sleep shorts, a light white camisole, and cozy thigh-high socks. As you spin in front of the mirror, Joel's voice faintly calls you downstairs to start the movie. Laughing with excitement at the prospect of a movie night free from your mother's watchful eye, you clutch your beloved stuffed plushie and head out of your room.

Joel lounges on the couch, clad in sweatpants and a casual t-shirt. A bowl of buttered popcorn and assorted snacks are spread out on the coffee table. Beside him, a beer for himself and, thoughtfully, your preferred strawberry kiwi juice. The sound of your footsteps hurrying down the stairs reaches him. He contemplates reprimanding you, yet as you appear, the words dissipate unspoken.

The cool air made your nipples turn into peaks that poke through your thin top. The thigh-highs squeeze your thighs and makes them look extra plushy and grabbable. He takes a deep swallow and sips his beer, his gaze fixed on your appearance. You extend your hands, silently inquiring about your look. Joel scans you from head to toe once more, giving a nod of approval as his jaw tightens.

"You look very pretty, baby doll," he tells you in a strained voice, motioning for you to come closer as he lays out across the couch, his back against it. "Come cuddle so we can start the movie."

Approaching, he could detect the uncertainty in your body language and facial expressions. "Are… Are you sure we should cuddle? Will my mom be upset?" The naive inquiry prompted a rough chuckle from Joel. Your embarrassment was palpable as he laughed openly at your question.

"Oh, honey," he mocks sympathy and stares at you from his sprawled position on the couch. "You seem to keep forgetting in that little head of yours that I'm in charge of this house, and whatever I say, goes. Now, when I tell you to come over here, I expect you to do it without questioning me."

The commanding tone of his voice brooked no argument. To enjoy the week with Joel, you had to push your doubts and hesitations away, instead of fretting over your mother's opinion on the closeness between you two. Joel seemed to understand better; he knew what was best for you, and as he put it, his word was final.

As you approached where he lay, you could just make out him whispering, "That's my girl." The praise made you blush, cherishing the moments when you're told you're doing well and being a good girl for it. Joel consistently offered such verbal reassurance, never hesitating, even in your mother's presence. She, however, often showed her irritation with his way of praising you.

For god's sake, Joel. She's a woman, not a little girl anymore.

You eagerly lay beside him, your back pressed against his chest, as Joel draped a blanket over both of you and started the movie, "The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent." It was a moment you had anticipated ever since you mentioned to Joel how much the character Javi resembled him. Trembling with excitement, you snuggled closer to Joel, your smile buried in the stuffed animal you held, while his arm drew you in even tighter. A pleasant hum vibrated from his chest against your back.

Only thirty minutes into the movie, Joel heard a soft snore beside him. With furrowed brows, he leaned over and saw your closed eyes and parted lips, your arms clutching your stuffed animal to your chest as you hummed sleepily. Shaking his head, he lay back and pulled you closer, smiling to himself as you unconsciously snuggled into him. When Joel makes sure that you're fully asleep, he inches hips back and lowers the blanket off your body. Your sleep shorts had ridden up your thighs, further exposing your lower cheeks and giving him a glimpse of your panties.

"Fuck," he breathes out, feeling his cock beginning to harden and thicken in his sweatpants. With one hand holding onto your hip to keep you steady, Joel begins to grind his cock against your ass, slotting his covered thickness between your cheeks and breathing heavily into the back of your neck. "Goddamn."

You never once stir as you're so deep in your slumber, unaware of the world around you and what Joel is doing to your unconscious body. He can practically feel his tip leaking in his sweats, the gray color darkening as precum stains the fabric. Erratically, but careful enough to not wake you, he lowers his sweatpants and guides his thick cock between your thighs, the tightness of them closed creating a delicious friction that had his mouth dropping. Joel hikes your shorts higher up your waist, forcing the fabric tighter against the shape of your virgin pussy.

He fucks his hips forward and back, sliding his cock deeper between your thighs and further against your covered cunt. Sweat dots at his hairline and the back of his neck as the warmth in his gut coils tighter and tighter. He hears the distinct slick of his precum staining your inner thighs as he abuses them without your knowledge.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he grunts low in his throat, his hand tightening on your hip to position your body in a better way for him to fuck your thighs. "Daddy is such a dirty man, ain't he?" He fucks your thighs faster and faster, his thighs slapping against the back of your own gently. Surprisingly, the movement and noise doesn't wake you.

As he continues muttering to himself, Joel doesn't realize just how close he was. His balls were heavy with cum, waiting to be exploded onto your unexpected skin. The tip of his cock was throbbing with need and dribbling with more precum. His abdomen tightens when you shift and arch your back in your sleep, briefly tightening your thighs and rubbing them together.

The sudden friction had Joel choking on air before he hunches over your body and watches his cum shoot out of his engorged tip and onto the couch. He's biting down on the pillow as his thighs shake. He just won't stop cumming.

"Holy shit," he grunts quietly, falling back against the couch and swiping a hand down his sweaty face. He breathes heavily, wincing and tucking himself back into his sweatpants. He glances over at the tv, and Javi comes onto screen. He scoffs and shakes his head to himself. He doesn't see the resemblance.

taglist:

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @blueberrypancakesworld @heyhihello-4771 @codenamekitten @chamepagnessimo @idioticcatss @takochansugoi @zjasminelouvre3

!! let me know if you wanna be added to the next chapter !!

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

“I haven’t done this in a long time.” Simon admitted, a deep crimson tinting his cheeks. He looked down at you, and felt his heart stammer in his chest.

You looked so beautiful beneath him. Freed from any clothes, Simon was finally able to lay his eyes on all of you, and he found himself falling in love with each and every inch of you. You were perfect.

“ I haven’t either.” You spoke, your tone slightly nervous. “But I’m ready, I want this with you.”

Simon gave you a warm smile, before slotting his lips against yours. As his mouth molded against yours, you let out a sigh against him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lowered himself down onto you.

Simon let eyes drift downwards, his arms on either side of your head, watching as he slowly sank his length inside of you. A shaky breath escaped his lips, as he felt just how tight you were around him. How perfectly snug you were for him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart, you’re tight.” Simon groaned, letting his forehead fall against yours. “Fuckin’ made for me.”

You let out a soft whimper in reply, your eyes squeezing shut as Simon slowly bottomed out inside of you. He was by far the biggest man you’d been with, and you’d never felt so full in your life.

“Simon.” You cried out, your hands finding purchase on Simon’s shoulders, your nails digging lightly into his tanned skin.

“I know sweet girl, doing so well for me. I’ll go slow, you tell me if you want me to stop, yeah?” Simons breath hitched in his throat, his mind going numb with pleasure as you clamped down around his length.

Your moans were music to Simon’s ears, and he swore he’d never heard a sound sweeter in his life. The moans that were meant for his ears, and his alone. Moans that he was elliciting from you.

Simon had had sex plenty of times before you, but nothing compared to this. Nothing compared to how perfect you felt around him, how your sweet moans had a warmth pooling in his belly, how fucking beautiful you looked underneath him.

He took it slow, his hips thrusting into yours in steady, tantalizing motions. He watched as your mouth fell agape and your eyes continued to flutter shut every time you tried to open them.

Leaning down, Simon pressed his lips against your throat, and began to place delicate kisses across the reddening skin. When you let out a groan, in that moment Simon had an overwhelming urge to mark you. To prove to others that you were his.

His teeth scraped against your skin, before sucking harshly, then running his tongue along the now bruising skin. He pulled back with a smirk, watching as the skin began to turn purple.

Simon could feel his high rapidly approaching, but he’d be damned if he let himself cum before you. He snaked one of his hands down the length of your abdomen, chuckling under his breath at your ticklish giggles. His fingers found your clit in record time, and he began to rub in small circles.

“Oh my god.” You moaned, your own hands now finding themselves threaded through Simon’s dirty brown locks. “Simon.”

The sound of his name falling from your lips nearly had Simon cumming right on the spot, but he used every ounce of self restraint he had to hold off his impending high.

His fingers quickened their pace, rubbing vigorously at your bundle of nerves causing you to cry out, and tug at Simon’s hair. Your legs began to shake around Simon’s waist, and your head fell back against the pillow as your orgasm began to race through you.

“That’s it sweet girl, cum for me.” Simon cooed, peppering soft kisses just below your ear. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your walls clenched around Simon’s length, causing his hips to stutter slightly, his thrusts now sloppy as he desperately chased his own high.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” Simon groaned, throwing his head into the nape of your neck, biting softly at the flesh there. “Where, sweetheart?”

“Inside, I’m safe.” You panted breathlessly, your hands still firmly gripping his hair as Simon rode out his orgasm. His hands balled the sheets next to your head as he groaned into your neck, his cock spilling its seed inside of you.

It took him a moment to compose himself, before pulling his cock out of you slowly, causing both of you to gasp at the loss of contact.

He gently laid next to you, his hand rubbing at your arm soothingly, before placing a kiss to your forehead. A comfortable silence filling the room as Simon smiled warmly at you.

The two of you laid like that for some time, simply staring at one another with soft smiles while attempting to catch your breaths.

“Stay the night?” You asked, biting your lower lip. You gave Simon a hopeful look, not wanting him to leave.

Simon nodded, his smile widening as he pressed a kiss to your nose. “I was kind of hoping you’d ask that.”

[yeyinde]

Ghost has a thing for fucking you when you're asleep—

(—and maybe one day he'll get around to telling you about it, too.)

noncon/dubcon somnophilia. spit kink. brief anal.

He likes you like this. When you're soft, pliant. A malleable little doll under his hands that he can shape to his will. Bend.

You're so small compared to him. Tiny. The difference unmoors the chains keeping his vile, nasty urges at bay, until they spool—horrific and depraved—around him. Unleashes the need in the back of his head that screams, howls, and tells him to own, possess. Claim.

Ruin you—

And you belong to him. Everything. Every part of you is his, down to your goddamn marrow. Your bones are marked with his name, false starts carved into milky bones.

he doesn't really see the problem with taking what is his.

—and so, he does.

His sweet, sweet girl who can barely take his cock when you're awake—too much, too fat—and so he makes do with slaking his hideous, bestial need on your body when you're asleep. When he can fold your knees up to your ears, and fuck you as deep, as hard, as he wants without worrying about you seeing the want rotting in his eyes, and run—

The stretch, you whine. He's too much for you. The biggest you've ever had. It isn't meant to stroke his ego, he knows this, but still. He preens when you add, liquid and pained, by a considerable margin, Simon—

Like this, asleep, you're relaxed. Liquid. 

And with the sleeping pills crushed into your bedtime tea you always (always) take an hour before bed, he can do whatever he wants to do. However he wants. 

Splits you open with his tongue, fucking into you until you're sloppy and wet. Spitting on your cunt and pushing the foamy glob into your tight hole at his own leisure without having a rain of indignant fists come down across his shoulders, disgusted by the degrading action. Don't spit on me, Simon, that's gross—

(but you swallow it like a good girl when he grabs you by the neck, thumb digging into the dent of your larynx until you open nice and wide for him, tongue sliding out like you're begging for it—)

His little hellion awake. But asleep? 

He gets your pussy messy with his spit, fucking it into you with two fingers—another benefit to fucking you asleep is that he doesn't have to bother with building up, can stretch you out on two fingers without those breathy little mewls spilling out, telling him it's too much. Then three with his mouth glued to your clit, feeling your cunt clench down on him as he bullies it with his tongue. The pressure is too much, too intense. You'd be howling if you were awake, but—

You're not. 

The only sound is the lews squelch of him fucking you open with three fingers, sucking noisily at your pebbled clit. 

Music to his ears. 

And if he's in a hurry. Well. Skipping foreplay all together is fine. Just has to spit on his palm, coat it over his shaft, and make you open up for him. Splitting you open on just his cock. All tight—agonizingly so—around him. 

You can take it. 

He knows you can. You take everything he throws at you—knees pushed to your ears, cock bulging out from your belly. Head buried in a pillow as he flattens his body over yours, and ruts into your cunt while he smothers you under his bulk. Indescribably tight like this with your thighs squeezed together between his own. On your side with your leg thrown over his hip, or held high in the air. 

He likes it best when you're on your back, though. Soft and sweet. Little hiccups leaving your slack lips as he forces you to take every inch he has to offer. Bullying his fat cock into your pussy. Over and over again—

Quenching his unbearable lust on you until it's slated on your flesh, cunt stuffed full of his cum.

Or your ass. 

You're wary about him burying his fat length into your ass. It'll hurt, is the biggest excuse you like to give, hands tucked against the swell of your bottom as if that would be enough to keep him away. You've never done that before and taking him in your pussy was already a lot, you couldn't imagine taking him there, too—

It's a problem. Too bad for you, he has always been task oriented. Someone who likes the squash issues under his thumb. 

And that's exactly what he does. 

Starts with his thumb shoved inside your hole when he's fucking your pussy. Then a finger. Two. Likes to lick at your cunt before shoving your knees to your chest, lifting your ass in the air, and devouring it with the same rapacious appetite. Tongue fucking into you, getting you all sloppy and wet, stretching you open so he can seat you down on his cock. All the way to the base. Stretching your rim wide around his girth. Pounding your tight little ass until he cums inside of you. Filling you over and over again until it leaks out, soaking into the sheets below. 

His pretty little doll. All fucked out and messy. 

With you asleep, Simon can take from you—as much as he needs to fill this greedy, gaping maw inside of himself—without burdening you. Scaring you away. 

And he'd rather not have to chase you down like a dog—

It's the perfect arrangement that lets him exorcise himself of the horrible, awful, things he wants to do to you. Quench the bloodlust, the violence, that drums up in the back of his head, ugly and noxious, that leaks poison into his blood. Makes him see you torn to pieces by his enemies, wrenched away by the people who think they know what's best for you. Taken. The urge to claim you is animalistic. Primal. 

This—

This is bloodletting. It's spilling the rot from inside himself so it doesn't fester. Turn septic. Gangrenous. Eating at his tissue until his hands no longer belong to himself, but to the mercy of his monstrous need. 

It lets him ruin you, tear into you like a beast, without worrying about you running from him. Fleeing from this rapacious green he holds deep in the fibrils of his chest. Hewed into his essence, subsumed into his marrow. 

Simply put: he needs this. Just like you need him. Simon. Need him like the air you breathe—

(And sometimes, sometimes, you get this peculiar look on your face before bed. A frisson. Unease, pensive. It splits over your brows, an evanescent tremor. He thinks you might be more aware than you let on. That you know about this hideousness inside him, this putrid greed that sloshes around the edges of his eyes sometimes, trying to bleed in, trickling down over his periphery before he can stop it. 

But it dissolves into complacency before he can chisel into it, leaving nothing behind but a faint stink of stale smoke. Acrid—like doused embers. Burning his nose, his lungs—)

And when he's had his fill—stuffed that chasm inside his belly with your flesh—he cleans you up, and pulls you tight to his chest. Satiated for the time being. Falling asleep with the taste of you on his tongue, locked tight in his embrace. Tenders to your aches the next morning, as soft and supple as he can ever allow himself to be. 

There’s a place for him, he’s sure, when he lies to you, and says that you must have slept the wrong way. That maybe he was a little too hard on you the night before. And maybe if he were a better person, a better man, he might have felt some sense of guilt for it. Shame.

But instead, he coos at you and says:

It’s his fault, pet, but don’t worry he’ll take such good care of you. Licking your sore cunt all day until you grab him by the scruff of his neck, and tell him no more, please, Simon, stop, stop—it doesn’t hurt anymore, please—

He relents an hour before bed and takes you to the kitchen where you sit and drink the tea he made without a word.

Like a good girl—

And then you slip into bed in nothing but his old shirt, curling up against his chest, and whispering—soft and sweet—into his ear, "good night, Simon."

(his sweet, sweet girl.

like you're fucking begging him for it—)

[sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts]

𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒈𝒆

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Marcus Acacius x Wife!reader | WC : 2.7k | Proof read : NO | Navigation | Notifications | asks : OPEN

Summary: After a tough battle, you tend to your husband's wounds in a bathhouse, which leads to more.

Warnings: SMUT, grinding, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), Implied age gap, Scars, Voyeurism, Spitting, both give switch vibes, a gladiator battle is described

A/n: this man in white did things to me but this man in red...UUIUBBYUDGYUTTSVHBBGFRDERFGHNJMKGF

Swords clashed, each metallic strike reverberating through the arena like the tolling of a death knell. You held your breath, chest tight with a mixture of fear and anticipation, every fiber of your being fixated on the brutal dance unfolding before you. Marcus, your husband, moved with the precision and grace of a predator, his muscles rippling under the unforgiving sun. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin, and you could see the intense focus in his eyes, a gaze that seemed to pierce through the very soul of his opponent.

The gladiator facing him was a hulking brute, a mountain of a man with a scarred visage that spoke of countless battles and victories. His movements were powerful, each swing of his massive sword meant to crush and maim. But Marcus was quicker, darting in and out like a shadow, his blade a blur of deadly efficiency. You could see the frustration growing on the gladiator’s face as his strikes met only empty air or the unforgiving steel of Marcus’s sword.

Every clash sent shivers down your spine, and you found yourself gripping the edge of your seat, knuckles white with tension. The crowd around you roared, a cacophony of cheers and jeers, but their voices were distant echoes compared to the pounding of your heart. Marcus was holding his own, but the fight was far from over, and the outcome was anything but certain.

A sudden lunge from the gladiator brought the tip of his sword perilously close to Marcus’s chest. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your lips, but Marcus twisted at the last moment, the blade grazing his side instead of piercing his heart. A thin line of blood blossomed on his skin, a vivid contrast against the tan. The sight of it filled you with a surge of fear and anger, a primal urge to leap into the fray and shield him from harm.

But you were powerless, confined to the stands, a mere spectator to the deadly contest. All you could do was watch, your heart aching with every cut and bruise that marred Marcus’s flesh. He fought on, undeterred by the minor wounds, his resolve as unyielding as the steel in his hand. The gladiator, sensing weakness, pressed his advantage, his strikes growing more frantic and desperate.

Marcus parried a vicious overhead swing, the force of the blow reverberating up his arm. He sidestepped, his movements fluid and controlled, and countered with a swift slash across the gladiator’s arm. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the brute let out a bellow of pain, staggering back. The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, the tension in the air almost palpable.

Your eyes never left Marcus, every detail of the battle etched into your memory. You saw the sweat dripping from his brow, the determined set of his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand as he gripped his sword tighter. Despite the danger, there was a certain beauty in his movements, a deadly elegance that took your breath away.

The fight reached its climax in a blur of motion. Marcus feinted to the left, drawing the gladiator’s attention, then pivoted and delivered a powerful upward thrust. His sword pierced the gladiator’s chest, driving deep into flesh and bone. The brute’s eyes widened in shock, a gurgling sound escaping his lips as he crumpled to the ground.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Marcus stood over his fallen opponent, chest heaving, blood and sweat mingling on his skin. The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, the sound washing over you like a wave. Relief flooded your body, your legs feeling weak as the tension finally broke. Marcus had won, with only minor cuts and bruises to show for it.

He turned towards you, his eyes finding yours in the throng of spectators. There was a faint smile on his lips, a silent reassurance that he was okay. Tears welled in your eyes, a mix of joy and relief, and you found yourself smiling back, a bond of unspoken understanding passing between you.

From the dais, the Emperors Geta and Caracalla watched with keen interest. Geta, his eyes gleaming with approval, leaned towards his brother. "A fierce husband indeed," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of admiration. "Such skill and bravery are rare. He has proven his worth today."

Caracalla nodded, his gaze fixed on Marcus. "Strength tempered with wisdom. He fights not just with his body, but with his mind. A formidable warrior."

You smiled at their comments, bowing your head slightly in acknowledgment. But your attention was already shifting, drawn inexorably to the entrance of the arena where Marcus was now standing. He was clutching his side, his face pale and contorted with pain. The sight sent a jolt of fear through your heart, and all thoughts of the emperors' praise vanished.

Without hesitation, you made your way down from the stands, pushing through the throng of spectators. Your only concern was reaching Marcus, your mind a whirlwind of worry and determination. As you neared him, you could see the blood seeping through his fingers, the wound on his side more serious than it had first appeared.

"Marcus!" you called out, your voice trembling with a mix of panic and urgency. He looked up at you, his eyes softening despite the pain etched on his face. You reached his side, gently taking his arm to support him.

"We need to get you cleaned up," you said, your voice firm despite the fear gnawing at your insides. "Come on, let's get to the baths."

With your help, Marcus managed to walk, though his steps were unsteady. The journey to the baths felt like an eternity, every moment filled with silent prayers that his injuries were not as severe as they seemed. The noise of the arena faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic sound of water cascading into the stone basins of the bathhouse.

Once inside, you guided Marcus to a bench, your hands shaking as you began to remove his armor. Each piece fell away with a metallic clang, exposing the blood and sweat-soaked tunic beneath. The sight of the wound, a deep gash along his side, made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to remain composed.

"Sit still," you instructed, your voice gentle yet commanding.

Marcus winced but managed a weary smile. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said, his voice strained but attempting to be reassuring. "Just a cut. It'll heal."

You shot him a stern look, not fooled by his bravado. "You need to let me clean and bandage it properly. No arguments."

He sighed, nodding slightly. "Alright, alright. But I promise, it's not a big deal."

You retrieved a basin of warm water and a cloth, kneeling beside him. The water steamed in the cool air of the bathhouse, the scent of the herbs you had added calming your frayed nerves. You began to clean the wound, your touch as gentle as possible.

Marcus hissed in pain, his muscles tensing under your hands. "I've had worse, you know," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "Remember that time with the boar?"

You couldn't help but smile at the memory, despite the current circumstances. "Yes, and I remember you saying the same thing then too. 'Just a scratch,' you called it, when it nearly took your leg off."

"Well, this time I mean it," he replied, though his attempt at humor was undermined by another wince of pain.

You shook your head, focused on your task. The wound was deep, but thankfully it had missed any vital organs. As you worked, you noticed the fabric of his tunic was too blood-soaked to use as a bandage. You looked down at your own dress, the hem already stained from kneeling on the wet floor.

Without hesitation, you tore a strip from your dress, the sound of ripping fabric startling Marcus. He looked down, his eyes widening in concern. "You didn't have to do that."

"I'll sew it back later," you said dismissively. "Right now, you need this more than I do."

He watched you as you wrapped the strip of fabric around his torso, securing it tightly to staunch the bleeding. Your fingers worked quickly and efficiently, but you could feel his gaze on you, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice soft. "For everything."

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Just promise me you'll be more careful next time," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

"I promise," Marcus replied, his eyes closing as he leaned back against the bench, exhaustion overtaking him.

You finished bandaging his wound, then dipped the cloth back into the warm water to wipe away the remaining blood and sweat. As you worked, the reality of what had just happened began to sink in, the fear and relief mixing into a potent cocktail of emotions.

Gently, you started cleaning Marcus's upper body, your hands moving over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. His muscles were defined, a testament to the countless hours he had spent training and fighting. Each scar you encountered told a story, a silent testament to the battles he had survived. Your fingers traced the ridges and valleys of his skin, lingering on the old wounds that had healed over time.

Marcus watched you, his gaze intense and unwavering. "You always take such good care of me," he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection.

"It's because I love you," you replied softly, continuing to wash away the grime of the arena. "I can't stand seeing you hurt."

As you moved the cloth across his chest, you couldn't help but marvel at his strength and resilience. Despite the wounds and the exhaustion, he was still the man you had fallen in love with, still the warrior who had captured your heart.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The world outside the bathhouse ceased to exist, leaving just the two of you in this intimate space. The intensity of his gaze made your heart race, and you felt a warmth spread through your body that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

Without breaking eye contact, Marcus reached out and gently took your hand, pulling you closer. "Come here," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.

You hesitated for a moment, the propriety of the situation briefly crossing your mind. But the longing in his eyes and the way he looked at you erased any doubts. You allowed him to guide you onto his lap, your body pressed against his as his arms encircled your waist.

Marcus leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, and you melted into his embrace, your hands resting on his shoulders. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate, as if he was trying to convey all the emotions he couldn't put into words.

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely in the moment, a roar of people from the arena outside broke through the haze. You pulled back, breathless and flushed. "We could get caught," you whispered, your voice tinged with both excitement and caution.

Marcus smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "They're more focused on the battle," he said, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. "No one's paying attention to us."

His words made sense, but the risk still lingered in your mind. Yet the way he looked at you, the way he held you, made it hard to resist. You leaned in again, your lips finding his in another searing kiss. This time, you allowed yourself to get lost in the moment, the world outside fading into oblivion.

Marcus's hands roamed over your back, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and steady despite everything he had been through. The warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands on your body—it was intoxicating, a heady mix of desire and love that left you breathless.

"Marcus," you murmured against his lips, your voice a mixture of longing and need.

He responded by pulling you even closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I need you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "Now."

The urgency in his words mirrored your own feelings, and you surrendered to the moment, your worries about being caught dissipating in the heat of your desire. You kissed him again, pouring all your love and passion into that single, searing touch.

Just as the kiss reached its peak, another roar from the arena reminded you of the world outside. With a reluctant sigh, you pulled back, resting your forehead against his. "We really should be careful," you said, trying to catch your breath.

Marcus nodded, his eyes still filled with that burning intensity. "I know," he said, his voice softening. "But I couldn't help it. I needed to feel close to you."

You covered his mouth with your hand, silencing him. The action made his semi-hard cock become fully erect beneath you, the sensation unmistakable. "I'll do the work," you said, lifting the fabric of your tunic and grinding into his hardness. "Sit back and relax."

A moan escaped your lips as the friction between your bodies grew, the rough fabric of his tunic adding to the slickness between your thighs. Marcus grabbed your hips with his large, calloused hands, his fingers digging into your flesh as he watched you with those big, pleading eyes.

"I love this..." he murmured, taking in the sight of you. "But we don't want to get caught."

You nodded swiftly, your breath hitching with anticipation. Moving his tunic out of the way, you exposed his throbbing cock. You spit into your hand, rubbing it onto his length, mixing your saliva with the precum that was already leaking from his tip. The heat of his flesh under your palm made your pulse quicken.

Straddling him, you guided his cock to your entrance, the stretch making your head fall back as his hips met yours. A deep groan left Marcus's lips, the sound vibrating through you. Wasting no time, you began to rock your hips back and forth, starting at a teasingly slow pace to build up the pleasure for both of you.

Your hand gripped his shoulder for support as you moaned, the other hand bracing on his knee. With the extra stability, you started to bounce on his cock, testing different angles until you found that perfect, spongy spot inside you. Marcus had always been adept at finding it, and now you wasted no time in exploiting it.

Faster and faster you moved, the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you becoming almost euphoric. "I'm gonna cum," you panted, your voice trembling with the intensity of your impending orgasm.

Marcus's hips began to thrust up to meet yours, his own climax approaching. "Me too," he groaned, his voice rough with need.

You moved your hand to his other leg, bouncing harder and harder, driven by the twin desires of pleasure and the fear of being caught. As your hips met his with each thrust, the friction and the slickness between your bodies brought you both closer to the edge.

With a final, deep thrust, Marcus's orgasm crashed over him. He growled, pushing his hips as far into you as possible, filling you with his warmth. The sensation sent you spiraling into your own release, your body tensing and then shuddering with the force of your climax.

Marcus pulled you into his arms, his breath still ragged. "We really shouldn't be doing this here," he murmured, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

You stayed like that for a moment, both of you catching your breath, your bodies still intimately connected. Slowly, you lifted yourself off him, feeling the absence of his warmth inside you as you settled beside him.

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest. "Probably not," you agreed. "But it was worth it."

He kissed the top of your head, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back. "Always worth it," he echoed, the love and desire in his voice making your heart swell.

[yumenosakiacademy]

dub vash may hav absolutely gone balls 2 the wall all the way in but can i jus say tht absolutely No1 can compare 2 knives' og jpn voice in stampede. junya was on a completely fucking different lvl he was Insane no1 can do knives quite like him.

[dontforgetukraine]

Signs That You're Looking at Ukraine Through a Russian Prism

by Mariam Naiem

1. Perceiving Russian culture as apolitical Culture is political. Russia weaponizes its heritage, promoting a 'great Russia' myth to normalize the subjugation of other 'lesser' cultures. Literary classics become tools of cultural supremacy. 2. Perceiving this war as 'fraternal' Russian propaganda portrays Ukraine and Russia as inseparably linked peoples. This concept ignores Ukraine's aspirations for independence and self-determination and imposes the idea that, at the core, we are one and the same. 3. Pushing reconciliation with Russian opposition This narrative ignores the power imbalance. Any dialogue must be on Ukraine's terms, if and when Ukrainians choose. External pressure for reconciliation is unacceptable. Ukraine's agency is non-negotiable. 4. Explaining Ukraine to Ukrainians Explaining Putin's motives, Ukrainian history, Dostoevsky's relevance to Ukraine, and so on implies that you possess superior knowledge of the topic compared to Ukrainians, which is not true. Ukrainians have deep insights into Russia's actions based on historical experience and direct impact. Such explanations, even if well-intentioned, might come across as patronizing or dismissive of Ukrainian expertise. 5. Suggesting capitulation Urging Ukraine to yield? It won't end the war. Russia regroups, and casualties mount later. Ukraine's fight is for survival, severely limiting compromise options. Respect Ukrainians' difficult position and right to determine their future. 6. Whataboutism "Other conflicts exist" isn't a reason to help less – it's a call to help more. Each crisis deserves its own focus. Don't use comparisons to justify inaction on Ukraine. 7. Claiming Ukrainians don't deserve help Questioning a nation's worthiness of aid based on alleged issues can be seen as justifying inaction. It's more constructive to focus on the current situation and humanitarian needs. Consider the actions of the aggressor rather than criticizing those defending themselves. 8. Not my war A nuclear-armed autocracy attacking a democracy is everyone's problem. It's not about values – it's about time. This war isn't yours today, but ignore it, and it'll be at your doorstep tomorrow. Ukraine's front line is democracy's front line. P.S. Consider the Ukrainian perspective and try to imagine their experiences. It’s important to avoid assuming how one might act in their situation. What Ukrainians may need most is genuine understanding and support. The key is to listen and empathize.

[miaoua3]

Scoups spicy headcanons

Pairing: scoups x f!reader

Warnings: sex, mentions of oral, just nasty piece of work tbh lmao, MINORS DNI

Kind of a continuation of my tiktok post

Note:…i need to get dicked down, its been too long…anyway enjoy this

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•his kisses are always soo deep, its just that pace that changes- when he’s desperate, his kisses become fast and filled with urge and need, when he wants to savour both you and the moment, he takes his time

•the type to spread his arms on the back rest of the couch while you sit on his lap and make out with him, will not touch you until you start whining and pleading of him to touch you

•loooves leaving hickeys. not only on your neck, but on your chest, your hips, your thighs and sometimes even your ass cheeks (in a shape of a little heart❤️)

•also likes it when you leave hickeys on him too, it shows to others that you both belong to somebody, except he doesn’t like to hide his while you literally spend tons of time and makeup trying to cover his piece of work

•two words: size kink. nothing gets him going quite like watching and comparing how much bigger he is compared to you, how his big hands can easily wrap themselves around your neck, your hands, your hips, anywhere really

•likes to just let his hand rest on your neck while kissing. not outright choking, but just…lets you feel the heavy weight of it on your thin neck

•a service dom, idk how people came to think that coups is this mean dom who just enjoys inflicting pain on you, like nuh-uh, this man literally lives to serve you, will listen to everything you got to say, if you say ‘a little more of this, a little bit less of that’ consider it already done. your pleasure is his first priority

•which brings me to- he won’t fuck you until you have cumed on his fingers (and/or face) at least two times.

•the mirror that’s facing your bed🤝him, loves nothing more than to fuck you from behind in front of the said mirror, loves just looking at your dazed look, how hard you try to keep your balance, how his hand looks around your neck

•very talkative in bed, from asking if you’re still okay to asking you things like “look at you, so pretty. who’s my pretty girl? hm? is this all for me baby? so wet, just for me? can you give me another one? cmon, my pretty girl, just one more, cum on my dick one more time, i know you can do it” NCHSIDBSIADBAI

•praise kink>>>>>>, idk who convinced yall that he would like degrading you, bro literally LOVES you, he has no reason to talk to you like that, he’s always just like “you’re doing so good, baby, taking this dick. fuck, so good, you’re taking me so well, can you take on more? of course you can, my girl can always take on more, cmon, that’s it” (currently manifesting this man in my life🙏)

•loooves it when you scratch his back unconsciously, just likes to look at it the next morning, wears it like a gold medal

•oh i just know he has a big dick, don’t even try to convince me otherwise, its both long and girthy, it’s always so overwhelming having him inside your pussy

•i always say- having a small dick is no excuse for being a bad partner, the universe gave you 10 fingers, a mouth and a lot of imagination. if you still can’t figure out how to please your partner, then it’s a you problem….lets just say cheol has no problems-with his size, his fingers skills, his tongue nor his imagination, he’s such a good lover, he will literally make you see stars

•speaking of-he asks you to sit on his face and literally to almost suffocate him at least two times a week. he just loves feeling your weight on his face, your smell surrounding him, you looking down on him while he’s living every man’s dream

•loves holding hands while in a missionary, it just makes the atmosphere that much more intimate and romantic, always intertwines your fingers and he finds that so…comforting

•now, he doesn’t enjoy inflicting pain on you (he enjoys leaving a good spank and a little bit of choking), that much is clear, but he still likes seeing you with tears down your cheeks from the immense pleasure he’s bringing you

•is the king of body worshipping. on the nights where he’s feeling extremely loving, first, he takes off your clothes slowly, then he kisses you for a few moments, and then he starts leaving kisses everywhere-from your lips, across your jaw, on your neck, going down to your chest, a few ticklish kisses on your stomach, leaving a few teasing kisses on your clit, looking up while kissing your thighs, on the scars on your knee, all the way down to your ankle. and then the same route upwards, all while whispering soft words of praise to you

•if you ever thought that this man is anything other than an ass man, you are delusional. from spanking you, fucking you from behind, to literally kissing your cheeks better after a few particularly hard spanks and leaving hickeys on it, rubbing it gently in comforting way with a comforting hand, there isn’t a way this man hasn’t interacted with your behind lol

•loves to pull on your hair lightly during the slow make out sessions, but also enjoys it when you pull on his hair while he’s laying between your legs, eating you out as if you were his last meal

•loves how he can just pick you up and fuck you against any surface available, it gets him so turned on knowing that he can carry you so easily and manhandle you into any position he wants you in

•low-key has a breeding kink, he loves watching his cum leak out of you, and stuffing it back in, knowing that he could impregnate you any time he comes inside, it’s always so thrilling to him (plus he really want to start a family with you)

•he’s the aftercare KING, sometimes he spends more time talking you down from the height, cuddling you, cleaning you, kissing you and letting you know how much he loves you than he spend on the sex itself, he’s a natural caretaker so he enjoys taking care of your body and your mind after your sexy escapades

in conclusion: SCOUPS PLEASE I CAN TREAT YOU SO WELL JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE PLS BABY

[theemporium]

baby smut request incoming for a driver of your choice. Reassuring soft sex, with lots of kisses, touched and giggles and just being in that moment

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

Your alarm was going to go off soon. 

Or at least, you assumed it was. You weren’t quite sure of the time and you had no urge to reach over and see, simply happy to bask in the knowledge that the sun was rising and the rest of the world was going to wake up soon. 

But for now, it was just you and him.

“I want to stay here forever,” Charles murmured, his voice was low and a little gruff. His accent was heavier than usual, the sleep still clearly having a hold on the boy but it didn’t stop the way he gripped your hips, pulling you back until you were flush against him. “You feel like heaven, cherie.” 

“You’re so sappy in the mornings,” you teased, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt him slowly ease his cock inside you. It was far too early for either of you to even be awake, but that didn’t stop the deep want you had for your boyfriend. The desire to have him this close whenever you could. “Such a sweet mouth.”

“I can show you some other sweet things this mouth can do,” Charles retorted, his face buried against your shoulder as he placed soft kisses along the expanse of your exposed skin. 

Your clothes were still probably buried somewhere on the bed, under the duvet. In all honesty, neither of you had put much effort into it compared to usual. Somewhere in the ungodly hours of the morning, you had both found yourselves awake. One kiss turned into two, which turned into more. 

And then, with whatever energy he had in him, Charles had flipped you over and settled behind you, his hands on every inch of your skin until you were a soaking mess between your thighs.

“No,” you whined when you felt his fingers graze along your sides, making you squirm back into his hold. “Stay. Like this. Please.” 

“Always,” he whispered against your skin, his thrusts slow and lazy but neither of you were in any rush. Sometimes, you just needed this. The overwhelming feeling of Charles and his touch and his words with no time limit hovering over your heads.

Even if your alarm was bound to ruin the moment at some point.

“Oh shit,” you breathed out, turning your face into your pillow and burying yourself against it as you felt his fingers dance across your stomach before dipping down between your thighs. “Shit, Charlie, baby.”

“I love you,” he mumbled as he pressed random kisses along your skin, as he buried himself deep inside you. “I love you so much, cherie. You’re so beautiful. So perfect.” 

“Charles,” you whined, your cheeks flushing in response but he didn’t stop. 

“My girl,” he sighed happily, his nose brushing against your cheek as he held you close. “Most perfect girl in the world, so fucking lucky you chose me.”

“I’m the lucky one,” you managed to choke out between soft moans as his fingers circled your swollen clit.

And you could only see a hint of his cheeky smile as your walls clenched around him, your first of many orgasms washing over you as you basked in the morning light.

.

[nuemanfilms]

“NOT EVEN FOR A WEEK?” || S.W.

— Keep it in your pants for atleast a week, please?

Summary; Dean and his teasing about Sam and Bimbo!reader’s constant sex drive proves itself to be right. Win for the older Winchester.

Warnings; size kink, bimbo!reader, WILD sex drive, unprotected, some plot, sweet & dirty talk (it’s sammy?? so maybe a little teasing too), rough sex, riding (kinda), sam manhandling reader, creampie, piv + more!

A/N; hopefully we can get by this election, here’s a distraction <3

xoxo, roro

sdt; @sadisticsammyw

You and Sam had sex probably more often than you should’ve.

Dean teased you both relentlessly for it, it was hilarious to the elder Winchester on how you both couldn’t keep it in your pants for atleast a week. Sam was practically whipped and you were feeding into it.

The dynamic between the two of you was also pretty funny considering how Sam always corrected Dean on the dumbest things, but when it came to you, he would address your wrong answer in the most soft spoken way.

You were both so in love with each other, it was also disgusting.

Dean went out with some blonde chick after the case he and your boyfriend worked. Sam didn’t hesitate in getting a ride over to your shared place. He knew you were waiting for him. You always did.

It was around 9PM, Sam fumbled with his keys to unlock the front door before you opened it yourself.

He took in his old Stanford shirt clad with pink panties underneath that dressed your skin. Dean really was right, you both really couldn’t keep it in your pants.

His lips mouthed at the exposed skin of your shoulder as he sat you down on his length. He wanted to be gentle, despite his natural instinct of taking you how he wanted, he knew you had to adjust.

After you gave him the nod, he was fucking you like he hadn’t seen you in years despite it being a few days.

His hands gripped your hips so roughly to the point of bruising as he slammed you up and down on his cock, listening to your mewls and cries at his established pace. Your fingernails digged in his skin as he forced you to take it. his lips moved from your shoulder to graze your earlobe as he whispered endless sweet words into your ear. Cooing to you on how you could take it, how you always did.

He groaned at the slurred words leaving your lips, “‘S good, huh, baby? You like when I come home to you like this? Fucking this sweet little pussy ‘til you can’t take it? Huh, Sweetheart?” His words were so syrupy and delicious despite the lewd actions. His own fingernails digging into your waist to manhandle and control how you bounced up and down his shaft.

“oh fuck! god- god, yes… Feels so good, Sammy- mmm… fuck!” He let out another deep groan at that, resisting the urge to just cum inside your pretty little cunt right there and then.

You were so small compared to him, everyone was shorter than Sam in general. The man was at a good height of 6’4, and not to mention that he was insanely muscular. When he first laid eyes on you in those jeans, the pretty pink tank top to go with it… he knew he had to have you despite his brother’s obvious attempts to get with you. When he finally had the chance to ask you out, he was surprised at how quickly you accepted.

Fuck, he loved how you stretched around him. Your cunt accommodating to fit his size… it always felt like the first time each time you both made love.

“Good- Good girl, Baby… shiiiit- Can feel you squeezing me, Honey.” He gritted out, he could feel his balls tighten, and by the way you were squeezing him- He knew you were close too.

“‘M gonna cum- Can I cum, Sammy? P-Please- Baby…” you sounded so vulnerable, sounded so pretty even in the state you were in. Your neck was littered with marks and hickies starting to form from his assault on your supple skin. Your eyes were watery as well. How could Sam deny you when you looked at him like that?

“God, yeah, Honey… go on, let go. Let me feel this pussy squeezin’… I’ll fill you up- Don’t worry, Sweetheart.” He grunted, his hips started to form a rough grind up against you. Your own hips struggled to meet his due to the stimulation, so his hands guided you.

Your cry had him spilling inside of you within seconds, his index and middle finger rubbing at your clit to help calm you down.

He looked at you, your mascara smudged, the faint stain of your lipstick on your lips, and he couldn’t have been even more proud of himself. He loved ruining you like this, he loved seeing his girl all spent because of him.

“Did s’good for me, Honey… Gonna get you cleaned up, hmm?

[celestialowlbear]

🌿 ♡ Halsin NSFW Headcanon Drabble ♡ 🌿

Pairing: Halsin x Reader (GN)

WC: ~600

Warnings: 18+, NSFW. Smut. Mentions of marking, possessiveness, some fluffiness. Reader/Tav not described besides having soft skin.

A/N: I’ve been having major Halsin thots and had to get them on a page (hence the bulleted list). Enjoy, my fellow big Druid lovers. 😊

You are like nothing else he has ever experienced in his long life. 

He craves you, an insatiable hunger that burns his body from the inside out, and only you can tame that raging fire within him.

Your lips, your gentle touch, your sounds…

You are the rising sun, the soft glow of the moon, the peaceful breeze on a summer’s day, and life at the onset of spring.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a dead man walking, a specter of some sort, because being with you was heaven, or what he imagined it to be.

Halsin has to continuously control himself around you, at least while others are around.

When the camp was quiet and he had you all to himself, was when he could absolutely and utterly devour you, show you just how much he longs for you.

You let him lose control, wanting it, craving it yourself. 

You want to feel his fingers dig into your thighs, hear his louder and louder moans as you take more and more of him so, so willingly. 

When you are very much warmed up by his tongue and fingers, he finally fills you, sinking himself into you inch by inch, careful to never harm you and checking that it was never too much.

Halsin loves praising you, breathlessly comparing you to everything extraordinary and exquisite in nature and beyond.

His honeyed words spur you both on as his pace increases, the head of his cock caressing that spot so deep inside you it leaves you boneless and seeing galaxies.

You know he still holds back, the bear desperate to claw its way out, the primal urge raging under his skin as he pounds into you.

Halsin always wants your pleasure before his, making sure to get multiple orgasms out of you before he finishes. 

The way your body reacts, the way his name from your lips transforms from breathy whimpers to guttural moans of pure ecstasy is seared into his memories until the end of time, and that will still never be enough.

When you are finally spent, flushed and sweaty and thoroughly loved, is when Halsin takes what is his.

He loves flipping you on your stomach, gripping your thighs and pulling you up toward him, sinking into you with one thrust.

He mounts you, caging you in with his body, his bulging forearms on either side of your head, his lips at your ear, his broad chest pressing to your back.

You love it, feeling protected by him, encapsulated by everything that was Halsin.

The man, the bear, your lover, your mate. 

He is always able to get deeper in this angle, his fingers digging into the grass and dirt beneath you, his hot, growling breath on your neck as he finally loses his control.

Your soft body beneath him, the trust you have in him, the love in your eyes even as he fucks you relentlessly like a beast in heat, always brings him to his end, intense and blinding and all-consuming.

When you bask in the afterglow, Halsin carefully maneuvers you, checking you for any wounds he may have accidentally inflicted in the height of passion.

There’s usually a bruise or bite-mark or two, and you have to convince him it’s fine. 

You can tell he always feels bad after losing a bit of control, but part of him loves the fact that he’s able to see the marks on your body, reminding you and anyone else that you were his.

Then you lay in the grass, gazing up at the stars, your head on his chest.

He loves telling you stories about the constellations, and his deep timbre always lulls you into a peaceful sleep, with him following soon after, content in one another’s embrace.

-ˏˋ⋆ Thanks for reading, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ⋆ˊˎ-