#Established relationship

[stargirlygirl]

as bakugou’s housewife, you’re always visiting his agency to bring him lunch or his colleagues some baked goods you made.

he grumbles when eijiro walks into his office holding your freshly-baked muffins and tells him how good they are.

“damn right, they are my wife made ‘em!” eijiro’s eyes widen before he chuckles, wiping away the crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand.

the redhead grins, “there’s more downstairs if you want some.” bakugou grunts out that he’s fine as he keeps his eyes on the report in front of him.

by the time his final meeting for the day is over, he’s in an awful mood. he trudges through the door, flinging his duffle bag near the shoe rack. you jump, your concentration interrupted by the loud noise. you turn around, hearing him stomping into the kitchen. your angry blond has his muscular arms folded across his chest and the deepest furrow in his brows.

“hi, suki!” you smile. he grumbles, lingering behind the island bench. you turn back around and stir the sauce for tonight’s spaghetti. the next few minutes are silent except for the bubbling of the tomato sauce and bakugou’s loud sighs and groans.

“how long are you gonna stand there huffing and puffing, mr big bad wolf?” you say cheekily.

your husband grunts, “don’t call me that.” he stalks up behind you, his calloused palms gripping your hips tightly.

you hum, “then spit it out. what’s got you in such a bad mood?” you squeal as he smacks your ass, flinching and immediately turning to face him. he’s so close his chest ghosts yours.

you stare up at him with wide eyes as you exclaim, “what was that for?!”

he smirks, all snarky, “you shouldn’t waste your time on those extras. you’re my wife.”

you gulp and sigh, “is that what this is about?” tch. “i was being nice, babe, because i’m your wife.” he rolls his eyes, his hands still on your hips. you shove him back with both hands on his pecs, taking the pro hero by surprise. he stumbles back slightly, glaring at you.

you turn the stove off and set the pot down on a silicone mat to let it cool. all the while, bakugou burns holes into you with his intense stare.

even though you’ve been together for a long time now, he still finds it hard to put his feelings into words and to say those words. the distance between you makes his heartache. he closes that gap, cuddling you from behind. you tell him to get off but he won’t budge.

the rest of the night is spent reassuring him that no, you’re not mad at him and yes, you love him more than anyone else (especially eijiro).

[sailorsoons]

Posting my original review here now that I have access to it and god Kae I still want to kiss your brain

This right here is my favorite thing. This broke me today. This? This scrambled my brain. I don’t know who I am right now. Where are we? What year is it? I needed this fic in a way I didn’t know that I previously needed and now I want to dig my claws into it and never let it go because what?

The contrast of soft-spoken in control Minghao and trying to keep it together but being kinda a brat Vernon is ……

This actually made me sit down on my couch and stare at a wall for a minute. It was like so hot but also insanely intimate and I just. Would like to open an window and scream ferally into the wind.

None of what I’m talking about makes any sense I’m sorry this is not a coherent review with specifics lmfao I am down bad.

every day is a sunday 💫 minghao x reader x vernon.

footnotes: when your biases release a song, you write the goddamn smut. ⓘ mdni. porn with no plot, mentions of female anatomy, pet names (v: 'babe', m: 'pretty', 'sweets', 'good girl'). v: riding, unprotected sex. m: exhibitionism, praise. not proofread. word count: 1.4k.

your thighs feel like they're on fire.

you've been riding vernon for the better half of the past hour, your knees pressed on either side of his thighs. between the three of you, vernon was usually the one who gave in first. there's no sign of that tonight.

your movements are getting erratic, desperate, and the two boys in the room can tell. vernon shoots you a lazy grin from underneath you, his gaze half-lidded as he merely rests his arms on the back of the couch.

"what's wrong, babe?" he practically coos. it's almost cruel, the way he's kept his hands away from you this entire time. "you're gettin' sloppy."

"vernon," you hiss, your tone edged with annoyance. your hands dart out to grasp his shoulders as you try to better control your thrusts. "can you just— please—"

vernon chuckles, the sound breathless and low. "please what?" he taunts.

"hansol."

vernon's gaze flicks past you.

you can't see him, but you can imagine how minghao looks from where he's seated across the room. one leg over the other; arms crossed over his chest. that clench of his jaw.

"what?" vernon huffs, the word practically whined out as you punish him with an intentional roll of your hips. "i was just asking."

"you're being mean," minghao accuses.

when you hear the sound of minghao's chair scratching backward, you could almost cry with relief. you're not sure, yet, what reprieve the other man might offer; the mere thought of it coming is victory in itself.

you keep your stuttering pace on vernon, your cunt fluttering around his dick in a way that usually has him finishing quick. but he's just a little bit distracted, caught between muffling his moans and watching minghao approach.

when you feel minghao's lithe fingers press into your ass, you let out a low whimper.

"need some help, pretty?" minghao asks, his voice deceptively soft and sweet for what he's offering. his words are barely above a murmur, spoken as he presses his chest to your back.

you give a jerky nod of your head, your body still moving mostly on its own volition in your pursuit of getting vernon to finish. all the while, the boy below you looks like he's holding his breath, his hands now clenching at the couch cushions.

"please," you breathe. "please, hao."

"so polite," minghao teases, but he's already maneuvering to get a better hold of you. you pause to hold yourself up by your shaky knees. vernon's cock slips out of you, the leaking head just barely pressed into your entrance.

once minghao's a little more certain with his hand placement, he wastes no time.

minghao practically pushes you down onto vernon. your greedy cunt swallows him right up, his tip sliding straight home into one of your sensitive spots.

you gasp. vernon lets out a keening whine.

minghao lifts you up then thrusts you back down until vernon's dick is spearing you once again. you try— you really, really do— to match minghao's pace, but he seems dead set on manhandling you like you're nothing more than a doll that's meant to get vernon off.

vernon's knuckles are white where they're against the cushions. his head is thrown back against the back of the couch as minghao works you down onto him with brutal efficiency.

"fuck," vernon gasps, his chest begin to heave. "that's so— fuck—"

minghao drops you back down onto vernon's lap with punishing sharpness. you feel vernon fill you up, the sensation of which draws a moan from you.

"you were taking your time," minghao grouses. "and i was feeling a little more impatient than usual."

despite your fucked out state, you vaguely register the feel of minghao's clothed hardness pressing behind you. you arch your back enough to give the other boy some friction.

minghao responds with a soft sigh. "always so considerate," he says, not once ceasing in the way he's guiding your bouncing on vernon. "but let's get hansol to finish first, hm?"

vernon's hips begin to twitch underneath you, his control slipping with every drag of his thick cock against your walls. he bucks up, a string of cusses falling from his lips.

"there it is," minghao says a little too smugly.

minghao shifts from behind you, just enough so that he can lean forward and have his lips right over your ears. you can feel his eyelashes fluttering against your skin as he whispers conspiratorially, the words still loud enough for vernon to hear.

"why don't you do that thing with your pretty little pussy, sweets?" minghao prompts. "milk him dry."

somehow, you manage to nod. your body complies unquestioningly— your warm heat clenching around vernon's hardness.

"christ!"

vernon lets go of the cushions and finally touches you, his hands landing on your hips. minghao lets out a tut of disapproval.

"come on, 'sol." there's just enough unquestionable authority in minghao's words that you know vernon will comply to whatever the man commands. "reward her for being a good girl."

another lift, another thrust. vernon's teeth sink into his lower lip as one of his shaking hands delves between your bodies, finding your clit. he begins to draw tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his own movements uncoordinated with the pace that minghao has set.

your breathing grows more ragged, the onslaught of sensations beginning to take its toll.

vernon's cock, twitching inside you with every buck of his hips. minghao's guidance, which has now gotten faster to meet vernon's impending climax.

"doing so well for us," minghao tells you, his fingers pressing just a little tighter against your skin. you can just imagine what he's seeing— the way your tits bounce, the way vernon's throbbing dick is completely sheathed, the way the pair of you look so, so gone.

"hao," you choke out.

vernon pinches your clit, drawing out a surprised moan from you.

"don't moan his name while you're fucking me," vernon chides, his voice hoarse. "you'll have time for that later."

the thought of that, of a later, makes you dizzy. you give a whimper at the warning before practically slumping against minghao, giving him more carte blanche to move you as he deems fit.

whether or not he cares to admit it, minghao is beginning to get a little desperate, too. his hold on you slips for a brief moment and he lets out an annoyed huff before grasping your ass even tighter.

he knows he has to get the two of you to finish soon if he wants to have any fun himself.

minghao presses you down again, leaning forward until his teeth have caught on your earlobe. your breath hitches in your throat and even vernon groans, knowing what's about to hit.

"need you to come for me, pretty. can you do that?" minghao murmurs. "he's not gonna finish 'till you do, and i really want some of that pussy for myself. i've been dreaming of fucking his cum right back into you, sweets. wanna make a mess of you—"

the absolute filth of minghao's words sends you careening over the edge, your orgasm temporarily blindsiding you. your walls flutter around vernon, so tight that it's almost like you're pushing him out.

minghao holds your body up as waves of pleasure wash over you. vernon has absolutely given up on all pretenses of being cool at this point, his hips ramming up against yours as he abuses the tightness of your cunt.

vernon climaxes with a drawn out whine of your name. his release spurts into you, overflowing enough that there's a rim of white at your entrance as his thrusts grow weaker.

you can feel the gentle press of minghao's lips against the top of your head.

"such a good girl," minghao says, his hands moving up and down your arms as he settles you just enough so that vernon is bottomed out, stemming his own cum.

you lean against vernon's heaving chest. he reaches up to shakily run his fingers through your hair. "what he said," vernon breathes, and you huff out a laugh.

you're still catching your breath when you hear the unmistakable sound of minghao's belt clinking off.

you finally deign to glance at him, and you're treated to the sight of his lips curling into a smirk around his next two words.

"my turn."

[aventurineswife]

Hi...

I know you have multiple asks and all but I just wanna hear what Dan heng, Dr Ratio, Aventurine, and any other hsr boi who's good at comforting cuz my brain is so fried after tackling an exam

Maybe a voiceline thing (it can be small if u want)? I just wanna hear comforting things they say fr a s/o who's tired after an exam for tonight =and still has more work and their body aches? I'm so self inserting TTATT) ..

If u don't want ppl exploiting this method (cuz I feel bad doing this but I can't help), don't answer this ask but just make the post pls? I could use the words right about now (u write them so accurately as well)

-🍮

“You’ve Done Enough for Today”

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Voicelines, Comfort, Fluff, Established Relationship, Romantic Undertones, Protective & Caring Characters, Gentle Reassurance.

Warnings: Mentions of Stress & Exhaustion, Mild Academic Burnout Themes, Slight Touch of Guilt (if overworking is a concern), Aventurine's Voiceline Has a Slight Playful/Mischievous Tone.

A/N: So sorry to hear that! 🫂💖I hope this cheers you up, just know you're enough!! (For others, please do not exploit this idea, as my works are already scheduled for a specific time, and I cannot keep adjusting them.) Thank you, I try my best to write them as accurately as possible 🫶💖

You’ve done well to get through today. Rest your eyes for a moment—I'll stay here with you. Pushing yourself beyond your limit will only slow you down later. Let me handle things while you regain your strength.

Even the brightest stars need time to rest. Your exhaustion is not a weakness, love—it is proof that you are striving for something meaningful. Let me hold you for a while, if only to remind you that you are not alone in this.

Overexertion dulls the mind, and that would be a shame, considering yours. Come, lie down—I’ll read to you. A brilliant mind deserves respite, not just endless strain.

Exams, deadlines, stress… a cruel little game, isn’t it? But even the best gamblers know when to step away from the table. So, let’s make a deal—you take a break, and I’ll personally make sure nothing falls apart while you do. Sound fair?

[killerplink]

🔥HEATWAVE🔥

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Words: 3,1k

Plot: It's too damn hot outside, and the only thing keeping you from melting is Dick—lazy mornings spent tangled in sheets, trying to avoid the heat, but failing miserably.

CW: established relationship, 18+, smut, overstimulation, creampie, lazy mornings

It's too fucking hot, even with the AC on.

The sheets stick to your skin, damp with sweat, and the air is thick—stifling in a way that makes it impossible to get comfortable. The weak breeze from the fan does nothing to help, just pushing warm air around, and every time you shift, your body practically glues itself to the mattress.

But the real problem? The real reason you're burning up?

Dick.

He's right next to you, bare-chested, hair messy from sleep, tanned skin glistening with sweat, and somehow still wrapped around you like he isn't overheating, like he isn't also suffering in this heat. His arm is heavy over your waist, one leg hooked between yours, his breath slow and deep against your shoulder, and fuck, it's making you crazy. Every inch of you feels too sensitive, too warm, too needy, because the way his body presses against yours is unbearable in the best way.

You bite your lip, shifting just enough to feel the hard press of his morning wood against your ass. Yeah, that's not helping.

You should be trying to cool down, should be avoiding touching him, but you don't. You can't. Because despite how hot it is, despite how sticky and unbearable it feels, you want him.

And that's how it starts.

A slow, teasing grind of your hips back against him, just enough to see if he's awake—if he'll react. He shifts slightly, lets out a quiet sigh, but doesn't wake up. So, you do it again, rolling your hips back a little harder this time, letting the curve of your ass drag against the outline of his dick through his boxers.

That gets you a reaction. A low, sleepy groan against your shoulder, fingers flexing where they rest on your hip, his grip tightening slightly. But still, he doesn't wake up.

So, of course, you push further.

You let your back arch, pressing flush against him, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, feeling the heat of his dick through the fabric. You're barely doing anything, barely moving, but the friction is delicious—all lazy, teasing pressure against your already aching cunt, making your breath hitch as a slow, lazy pulse starts to build between your thighs.

And then? Dick grunts, low and rough, and suddenly moves—hips pressing forward, grinding himself right against you, a slow, unconscious rutting motion that makes your breath stutter.

Oh, fuck, he's still half-asleep.

But his body knows exactly what it wants. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you back into him, his hips rolling in a deep, lazy grind, chasing that friction in slow, unconscious movements. His dick is so fucking hard, pressing against you, and the sleepy, needy little sounds slipping from his throat are driving you insane.

Your panties? Already ruined. Sticky and damp against your cunt, making every little shift so much worse, and when you drag your ass back against him again, the way he shudders against you almost makes you whimper.

"Mmnh... baby..."

His voice is rough, thick with sleep, and fuck, that does something to you. You don't stop.

You should, you should probably let him wake up properly, give him a second to adjust, but you can't—not when he's already moving against you like this, not when his cock is pressing against you so perfectly, not when every slow, sleepy grind makes your clit throb with desperate, aching heat.

"God, you're so needy," he mumbles against your skin, voice still sluggish with sleep, but there's a hint of amusement there—because he knows.

"Mmm," you hum, rolling your hips back again, pressing right against him, letting your ass grind slowly against his dick. "You're the one humping me in your sleep, baby."

That gets a low chuckle from him, but it's cut off by a sharp inhale when you push back again, dragging your soaked panties right against him. His fingers dig into your waist, gripping you tighter, his hips pressing forward a little harder this time.

"Oh, fuck, baby..."

And that's when he snaps. One second, you're teasing him, and the next? He's rolling you onto your stomach, pressing his weight over you, his dick grinding against your ass in slow, desperate rolls. His lips are on your shoulder, trailing messy, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, lazy and wet, his hands pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them.

"I—" you gasp when he ruts against you again, hard, pressing your soaked panties right up against your swollen clit.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he murmurs against your skin, voice all slow and lazy, thick with sleep and arousal. "Thought you wanted this."

You do. Fuck, you do.

But you can barely breathe, barely think, because the heat is unbearable, the air thick and heavy, and the way his cock presses against you is too much—sticky and messy, his boxers damp with sweat and precum, making every slow, teasing grind feel filthy.

"Dick, please," you whimper, rocking your hips back, desperate for more.

"Please what?" His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties, dragging them down over your ass, peeling the damp fabric away from your needy cunt. "Tell me what you need, baby."

You don't hesitate. "Fuck me."

That's all he needs. He groans, low and desperate, before shoving his boxers down just enough to free his cock, the thick, flushed head pressing against your entrance. He doesn't tease, doesn't wait—just grips your hips and slides in, slow and deep, punching a gasping moan from your throat as he stretches you open.

"Ohhh, fuck," he groans, forehead dropping against your shoulder, hips rolling in slow, deep thrusts, dragging his cock through your soaked, messy heat.

It's slow. So slow.

Not because he's teasing you—because he can't go any faster, not in this heat. Every shift, every movement is sticky, your bodies damp and sweaty, sliding against each other in a way that makes it so much worse, so much better, so much hotter.

And God, the way he's fucking you—deep, slow, grinding against you with every thrust, letting you feel every inch of his cock as he moves—it's driving you insane.

"You feel so good," he groans, mouth hot and wet against your shoulder. "So fucking wet."

He's right. You can hear it, can feel the way he slides against you, the sticky, messy friction of it, the obscene little squelch every time he fucks into you.

It's so fucking hot. Too hot. But you don't care. You just take it. Take every slow, dragging thrust, take the heat of him, take the way his hands grip you, holding you down as he fucks you slow and deep and messy.

He's not rushing. He can't. Not in this thick, unbearable heat, not when every shift, every grind of his cock inside you is so much—sticky and heavy, your bodies sliding against each other, sweat pooling in the dips of your back, making every movement smoother, every slow push inside you feel slicker.

And fuck, he's deep. So deep you can feel the hot press of his cock stretching you open, every slow roll of his hips sending a hot, aching pulse straight to your clit. He doesn't pull out much—just enough to make you whimper, just enough to let you feel every inch drag against your swollen walls before he presses back in, slow and thick and perfect, grinding himself deep inside your cunt.

And you need it. Fuck, you need it. You push back against him, hips rolling, greedy and desperate, wanting more—wanting it harder, faster, wanting him to ruin you. But he doesn't let you.

His hands tighten on your hips, holding you still, keeping you pinned beneath him as he grinds against you, slow and deep, pressing the weight of his body over yours, letting you feel him, letting you take it exactly how he wants to give it.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice thick and wrecked, forehead pressed against your shoulder.

He drags his dick out so slow—just the fat tip stretching you open, making you clench—before rolling back in, filling you up again, pressing himself as deep as he can fucking go.

And then it happens.

The pleasure doesn't just hit you—it takes you, swallowing you whole, ripping through you in deep, melting waves that leave you trembling. You gasp, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your thighs twitching as your body locks up—hips jolting back against him in frantic, desperate little rolls, grinding onto his cock, trying to chase it, trying to sink into it, trying to drag him in deeper even as your muscles go taut.

"Oh, fuck—"

Your cunt squeezes down hard, pulsing around him in fluttering, greedy little clenches, sucking him deeper, milking his cock in helpless, uncontrollable aftershocks. And fuck, the sound—so filthy, so wet, the messy squelch of his cock grinding through the slick, dripping heat of you as he keeps moving, keeps fucking you through it, stretching you open, dragging out every aching, shattering wave until you're left gasping, raw and sensitive and so fucking full—

You whimper, pushing back against him, grinding yourself onto his cock, desperate for more, for everything, as your climax rolls through you. And he feels it. He groans, deep and wrecked, hips jerking forward, pressing deep into you as his cock twitches, thick and hot inside you.

"F—fuck, baby—oh, fuck—"

And then he spills. His cum pours into you in thick, hot pulses, filling you up deep, the heat of it overwhelming, too much, making you gasp, making you clench around him again. His breath is ragged against your shoulder, his hands tight on your hips as he grinds into you, slow and desperate, working his cum deeper, fucking it into you, making sure you take all of it.

And fuck, you do. You can feel it, thick and hot, sticky inside you, making your cunt feel full, wet, messy, your walls still fluttering around him, milking every last drop.

He doesn't pull out—not yet.

Just stays inside you, cock still buried deep, his hips rolling in slow, lazy grinds, fucking his cum deeper, pressing it further inside you, stretching you open with every slow, messy push.

Your head falls forward, body still trembling, breath shallow as you try to recover. The heat, the mess, the way his body stays wrapped around you—it's overwhelming in the best way. You feel him shift slightly, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles over your hip, grounding you.

"Shit, baby," he breathes against your shoulder, pressing a lazy kiss to your damp skin. "You feel so fucking good."

You shudder, whimpering softly, loving the way he still moves inside you, the way he's still grinding himself deep, still filling you up, still making you take it.

Still making it so much worse. Still making you want more. And he knows it. Feels it.

Feels the way you clench around him, still soaked, still needy, your cunt fluttering with every slow, grinding thrust, milking him for everything he's worth, even when his cum is already leaking out of you—thick and hot, slicking up the mess between your thighs, making every slow push easier, deeper, wetter.

"Still want more, huh?" he murmurs against your ear, voice low and wrecked, thick with heat as he presses into you, hips rolling, cock stretching you open again, making you gasp.

And you do.

You want more. You want him to keep fucking you, keep filling you, keep ruining you until you can't think—until all you know is the slow, grinding press of his dick stretching you, fucking his own cum deeper into you, making you drip, making a mess of you.

You nod—whimpering, desperate, rolling your hips back against him, taking every deep, thick thrust as he grips you tighter, holding you open for him.

And then he gives it to you.

Not faster, but harder—a slow, deep grind turning into a filthy, pounding rhythm, his hips snapping into you, making you shake, making the bed creak under the force of it, his cock pressing so deep you can feel the thick, heavy drag of it in your fucking stomach.

And then—fuck—his hand slides around to the front, fingers slipping through the mess between your thighs, dragging over your swollen, aching clit.

Your whole body jolts.

The second he touches you, you know you're done. His fingers are slick—so slick, slipping and sliding through the mess between your thighs, rubbing your clit in slow, lazy circles, and fuck, fuck, fuck—

It's brutal. Instant. Your whole body jerks, legs kicking out, muscles locking up as your vision blanks—pure static, pure sensation, pleasure tearing through you so violently that your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out, just a wrecked little gasp, a high, broken cry that barely makes it past your lips—

And he just keeps fucking you.

Deep and slow, grinding through it, forcing your cunt to take every aching pulse, every fluttering, milking squeeze, every little aftershock that leaves you twitching, shivering, your thighs trembling so bad that they almost give out.

Your walls squeeze down tight, so tight, sucking him in, gripping him, dragging him back in every time he pulls out even an inch, so fucking wet that every thrust is sloppy, messy, obscene, making the filthiest little squelching noises that make him groan against your shoulder.

"Holy fuck, baby—"

He keeps rubbing, keeps fucking you, keeps pressing deep, slow, grinding thrusts into you—until your body gives up.

Until your orgasm floods through you, sharp and overwhelming, white-hot pleasure ripping through your spine as you clench around him, your thighs trembling, your whole body shaking as you cum with a gasping, broken moan, walls pulsing in greedy, desperate waves.

And fuck, it's so much.

So intense, so deep, dragging out for what feels like forever, your breath catching in your throat as he works you through it, fucking you through it, forcing you to take every second of it, forcing you to keep clenching around him, milking his cock, keeping him buried deep inside your spasming, dripping cunt.

And he groans, voice wrecked, hips jerking against you, grinding deep as your orgasm drags him down with you—

No—

Not yet. He grits his teeth, forces himself to hold on, even when your cunt is squeezing him, even when it's too good, too tight, even when he aches to cum again.

Because he's not done. He won't stop—not when you're still trembling, still gasping, still too sensitive to take it, and fuck, that's exactly why he doesn't stop.

He keeps fucking you—hard, deep, slow and messy—rubbing your clit in slick, sloppy circles, overstimulating you, keeping you right on the edge.

And you whimper, your body writhing, hips jerking, trying to escape the unbearable pleasure, but he doesn't let you.

"Take it," he grits out, voice thick, hand tightening on your hip as he slams back inside you, sending a shudder through your spine, making your whole body jerk.

And you do. You take it. Take every slow, deep, brutal thrust, every slippery drag of his fingers over your swollen, aching clit, every messy grind of his cock rubbing against your raw, twitching walls.

And it builds—again.

Faster this time, sharper, meaner—your orgasm ripping through you so fast, so hard, it makes your vision black out. You don't just cum—you break.

It's deep. So deep. It rips through you like liquid fire, white-hot and unbearable, tearing the breath from your lungs, making your whole body jolt as your cunt clamps down so fucking hard around his cock it's painful.

Your hips stutter, shaking, back arching as pleasure wracks your spine in brutal, unrelenting pulses, dragging you under, drowning you in it, forcing you to take it—

And he feels it. Feels the way you grip him, tight and wet and throbbing, your walls spasming around his cock, milking him, making his rhythm stutter—

"Fuck—"

His voice is wrecked, his grip tightening, his cock twitching inside you, thick and heavy and right there, rubbing up against that sweet spot so perfectly that it feels endless. Like you're caught in it, like you're floating in that raw, overwhelming pleasure, like every slow, deep grind of his hips drags you right back into it—until you're gasping, squirming, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes because fuck, fuck, it's so much, too much, but you still want it—

He's barely holding on. You feel it, feel the way his cock twitches, the way his thrusts get harder, rougher, the way he's practically grinding himself into you now, rutting deep, chasing it, chasing the way you're pulsing around him, squeezing him, milking him—

And then—fuck—he breaks.

He slams inside you, deep and hard, hips jerking, body shuddering as he cums again, groaning wrecked against your shoulder, voice thick and hoarse, cum flooding inside you, spilling deep, so much, too much, so fucking hot you whimper, your cunt milking him, sucking out every last drop.

And he just—keeps moving.

Grinds against you, fucking his own cum deeper, spreading the mess between your thighs, rubbing your clit through every aftershock, making you twitch, making you whimper, making you shudder in overstimulation.

And fuck, it's not just good.

It's too much—too wet, too deep, too fucking full, his cock still buried inside you, his cum still thick and hot, seeping out in slow, sticky dribbles, slicking up the mess between your thighs. He's still grinding against you, fucking it deeper, slow and lazy, like he knows how wrecked you are, like he knows you can't take it, like he wants to see how much more you can handle—

And you love it.

You whimper, thighs still shaking, cunt still fluttering around him in weak, clenching little aftershocks, overstimulated and fucked raw, but he doesn't stop. His hips keep rolling, smooth and easy, spreading his cum deeper, making sure you feel every last drop of it, making sure you take it, letting you feel the heavy, slow drag of his cock pressing against your swollen, spent walls—

And it's filthy. So filthy.

Your skin is damp, sticky, your body trembling, oversensitive, your breath ragged, but he just kisses the back of your neck, lazy and so satisfied, his voice warm and wrecked when he finally groans, "Fuck, baby... you're perfect."

And you just melt. Completely. And you whimper, exhausted, fucked out, and so full of him you can barely move. And fuck, you can't even breathe. You're both a mess, sticky and sweaty and shaking, chests heaving as you collapse onto the bed.

"It's too hot for this," you mumble breathlessly, and he chuckles, lazy and spent, pressing a slow, messy kiss to your shoulder.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough and satisfied. "But totally worth it."

[priceoftheduchess]

thinking about bf!simon who loves gaming. mario kart, skyrim, fallout, halo, etcetera. and his sweet little dove girlfriend!reader who loves knitting and crocheting. she has baskets of yarn and years’ worth of old needles she’s collected over her decade long hobby. she’s constantly doing it, but she loves doing it most while her and simon are relaxing in the living room.

and recently, simon has gotten into dark souls. so, here he is with his little dove, his fists shaking as he grips the controller and his jaw clenches as the ‘YOU DIED’ screen taunts him again. his baby doesn’t even notice, humming to the music she’s playing from her phone on the side table — and crocheting simon another jumper for their upcoming winter. simon is two in-game deaths away from real-life suicide attempt and attempted arson on his own console. but his dove catches his eye and pokes her tongue out at him, her way of a greeting. he’s still fuming when she speaks up.

“isn’t it so nice to relax like this together?”

relax?! how are you relaxing?! simon is actually fighting for his life, but he nods, his fists still shaking as his controller lets out a noise in protest.

“yes, dove. so relaxing.” he dies again.

‘YOU DIED.’

“oh, no, baby! it’s okay! second times a charm!” she comforts, kissing his cheek as she sees the death screen for the first time.

he nods, his eye twitching.

twelfth 2nd times a charm, dove. that’s right.

[sailorsoons]

Reposting my original review here now that I have access to it!

Hello it’s me ur girl here to tell you all that this fic absolutely rotted through my brain like some sort of wildfire. When Jo commits to the bit to write smut mY GOD IT ACTUALLY BLOWS MY BRAIN EVERY TIME. I need this Seungcheol in a way that is dangerous to the world economic structure and my mental health. Like I’m sorry but I just know this would fix me. I KNOW IT WOULD

.Also this is one of those times where you can tell how in love with Cheol Jo is because the way she right him even in a pwp is so loving it’s like …. stop looking into my brain and putting to pen exactly how I see him.

Anyway this is literally so !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What are the Vibes? || CSC

(banner and title by @sailorrhansol lol thanks bestie)

What are the Vibes? Seungcheol x afab!reader || pwp || established relationship kind of implied NSFW - minors DNI

wc: 1.2k warnings: language, kissing, fingering (f. receiving), vibrator use (f. receiving), piv sex, bossy seungcheol makes a frustrating rule in bed but it's all in fun

summary: Seungcheol always gives you what you need. Today, he's gonna make you ask for it first.

author's note: once every two years i blink and a pwp appears. this one is a gift to hali, who writes what i ask for every time and deserves to receive nice things too <3 the babygirl is just for you, babygirl. ily and thank you for typo check!!!! <3

Straight into smut, so putting the whole thing below a read more!

When Seungcheol presses your favorite purple vibrator against your already nearly-shaky fingers, your intuition sparks, warning you that you’re in for it. Maybe it isn’t intuition. Maybe you just know him - know what kind of mood he’s in from the set of his jaw and the flash in his eyes.

You’re already one round in; he’s already made you come on his fingers once and then again on his cock, your ankles on his shoulders. You were ready for him to come deep inside you, leaning over you far enough to make your hamstrings sting with the stretch, but he’d backed away, slipped out of you, left you whining and empty.

“You do it,” he tells you, as your fingers close around the silicone. “Give yourself one for me.”

He stretched out next to you, stroking himself lazily, like it didn’t bother him at all to stop in the middle. You’re caught for a second on all his rounded places - the swell of his shoulder, his biceps flexing as he works his cock slowly, the rise of his cheek with that smirk that means trouble, the ass that could launch a thousand ships.

“Go on,” he tells you, and you take a shuddering breath as your thumb finds the familiar button by muscle memory. The first setting barely registers - you’re already overstimulated and it just feels like the physical representation of noise when you’re going to need a melody if you’re going to come like this. But when you dip the fingers of your spare hand towards your opening, already sore in the best way and still messy and slick from earlier, Seungcheol’s hand whips out and grabs your wrist lightning-quick.

“Nope,” he murmurs darkly, rolling so he’s halfway over you. He releases your wrist and uses his new proximity to kiss you sweetly, lingering lovingly, at odds with his entire demeanor. When his lips leave yours, he whispers, “Outside only. Inside is mine.”

You let out a huff - part frustration, part amusement. But Seungcheol doesn’t often play games like this with you, and it’s thrilling in its novelty. You obey, sliding the toy closer to your clit, trying to work yourself back up slowly. Satisfied and trusting you to follow his rules - whims, really - Seungcheol moves back to his spot next to you, eyes combing over your prone body.

You try all your normal tricks, but long minutes pass and while it feels good you can tell it’s not climbing - the pleasure isn’t tightening or spooling or triggering that snap that you always know is a warning sign. You huff again, this time all frustration. It isn’t going to happen - not with only external stimulation.

“What is it?” Seungcheol asks, low, and there’s something teasing in it. It’s like he expected this, and now he’s pleased to be right.

“I can’t,” you complain. “I need…” You trail off, shy, even after all this time.

He knows what you need. He’s going to make you say it anyway. He waits you out, like a saint with all the patience in the world.

“Need you,” you try pitifully, hoping he’ll let you get away with it.

“I’m here,” he says innocently, and you make a noise of complaint, nudging at his shins with your toes in protest. His smile grows; he’s enjoying teasing you.

“You know what I mean,” you protest. The toy buzzes valiantly in your hand, but you’re barely even pressing it against yourself anymore - it isn’t doing much for you at this point. Your body knows what it wants. Nothing but Seungcheol will do.

“I guess if you want something, you’ll have to ask for it,” he pretends to muse, trying to fight off a satisfied smile.

You whine wordlessly, frustrated. “Seungcheol,” you scold.

His smile only grows, dimples deepening. “What do you need, babygirl?”

You want to stomp your feet and bang your fists in protest. “I need you, please, this isn’t enough - I’m not gonna -”

“What do you need?” he asks again. You nearly sob with frustration; it’s clear he won’t be giving you anything unless you ask.

Frustration and desperation dance together behind your ribs, and you hear yourself beg, “Anything, Cheol, even a finger, please - just something, I need you.”

This must be the magic phrase that Seungcheol needed to hear today, I need you, because his smile splits across his face. “Just a finger?” he teases, but he’s circling the tip of his pointer around your spasming hole and it’s already six billion times better than it was a second ago, your body responding with a hearty clench and a new rush of fluid. “That’s all you want? Are you sure?”

“I mean,” you gulp, trying to breathe at your body chases that tantalizing fingertip, hips canting like you might catch him off-guard and slip him inside, “That’s not all I want, but if that’s all you want to give me right now, then I’ll take it.”

He coos annoyingly, but rolls closer, pushing that single digit into your heat. It’s barely anything but your eyes nearly roll back just from sheer relief - this is what your body wanted, this is what it will take to push you over the edge.

“That’s not all I want to give you,” he promises, barely louder than a whisper, and then adds a second finger, wasting no time in curling them into that spot on your front wall that he knows so well.

It takes only seconds for your body to respond, clamping down on his fingers, the muddled buzzing from the vibrator suddenly coming into perfect focus - sharp and targeted. You hear yourself wail, but the room’s gone fuzzy as his fingers piston into the spot that keeps your muscles clenched for so long that you think you sail right past a first orgasm straight into a second one. You click off the vibrator and toss it to the side, reveling in the feel of his fingers stroking along your sensitive walls, pushing lightly against that spot that makes your toes curl.

Seungcheol whispers praises into your ear, fingers finally slowing, ending with a nearly-awed, “You just got so wet.”

You can feel it, inside and out, but the orgasm has chased away any shyness and now you can finally say what you mean:

“Hurry up,” you tell him, tugging at his arms to get him in motion faster. “Get up here and fuck me.”

He lets out a sound that’s partly a laugh and partly disbelief, but he doesn’t hesitate at all before rolling over top of you and pressing his tip against your entrance, pushing to the hilt slowly but without pause. When he bottoms out, a soft sound of satisfaction rumbling from his chest, you clutch at him, holding tight to his shoulders, wanting to keep him here - right where you wanted him all along.

He nips at your jaw playfully before pulling nearly all the way out, then sheathing himself smoothly once again.

“Yes, please, just like that,” you breathe, eyes fluttering closed.

He gives you a devilish smile and repeats the motion. “All you had to do was ask,” he says with a grin.

--

thank you for reading!!

[fizzyapplecandy]

Ateez Fake Texts

The one where you make them food

OT8 X Fem Reader

Established relationship, fluff, a bit suggestive (San and Woo)

Hongjoong

Seonghwa

Yunho

Yeosang

San

Mingi

Wooyoung

Jongho

[hitlikehammers]

unforeseen complications 🩸 steve/kas!eddie

“What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t try to sit up again, knowing Eddie wants, more like needs to press against Steve like this because…they’d pushed the boundaries. Eddie had needed more blood than normal, because they’d skipped out on more than one quick snack-time. And Steve does feel the hit harder for it. It’s not a foreign feeling, though: the aftermath, beyond what his own body needs to recover— “We can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, kas!eddie, established relationship, angst with a happy ending, as in: eddie angsts about his new vampiric tendencies while steve has none of it, true love, blood drinking (just a little), terrified eddie (that he did steve any possible damage), long-suffering steve (who knows it’s all completely fucking FINE and also they’re dumb in love forever)♥️

for @steddielovemonth day eight: "I'll take care of you." "It's rotten work." "Not to me. Not if it's you." —Euripides

Steve is groggy, his head’s a little fuzzy and unevenly weighted in that way he can already tell will make him dizzy when he opens his eyes and tries to lift it—so he doesn’t, not just yet—but normally he sleeps this part off. Normally the side effects aren’t as sharp as this is already shaping up to be, because his body keeps him blissful conked out long enough where it’s all a little more of a dull roar that he can ignore while he gets through the day and slides slow back to normal.

And it’s not like it gets this intense that often; it’s in extenuating circumstances. Sometimes one’s they create for themselves, sure, but usually it’s some world-threatening shitfuckery that pushes the limits this bad. Like…at least eight times out of ten.

At least.

So it’s weird that he’s waking up before he’s due to shake off the worst of it, when said worst-of-it is still clinging to his skin, his eyeballs, the linings of his veins.

He tries to make sense of what he can feel through the fog: weight, mostly. Something heavy that’s not just his own body rebelling against regaining consciousness too soon. There’s…something on top of him.

Heavy.

Shaking.

There’s a sound, maybe, like…breathing but that’s shaky too and—

Oh.

Oh no, it’s not just shaky.

The weight on top of him’s fucking crying, and trying real hard not to be found out for it.

Steve would goddamn know what that sounds like, specifically. From a whole-ass lifetime of experience in his godforsaken family.

And Steve knows what his own fucking boyfriendsounds like in distress, so—

“Eds,” Steve doesn’t even have to push to open his eyes and sit up too fast because there no dizziness, no nausea he can’t work through when Eddie in need is on the other side of it; “what’s wrong, what happened, I—”

The hand on his chest is firm but awkward, because Eddie is still splayed over his chest, doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving at all.

“Lay back down,” Eddie’s voice is muffled in Steve’s skin; “save your strength, you’re still,” and yeah…muffled, but too rough, cracked down the middle; “you’re…”

More than cracked, fuck. Shattering.

“What’s wrong?” Steve doesn’t try to sit up again, knowing Eddie wants, more like needs to press against Steve like this because…they’d pushed the boundaries. Eddie had needed more blood than normal, because they’d skipped out on more than one quick snack-time. And Steve does feel the hit harder for it. It’s not a foreign feeling.

And the aftermath, beyond what his own body needs to recover—

“We can’t keep doing this, Steve.”

—is also not unexpected. Pretty fucking routine now. Steve’s even practiced enough to swallow down the urge to sigh.

Because, considering that Eddie is skin-to-skin, blanketed on top of Steve under about seven blankets, more than Steve even knew they owned as he shudders through something suspiciously close to sobbing while the tone of the words screamheartbreak: Steve would have every right to be concerned when it sounded a whole hell of a lot like his boyfriend was trying to break up with him.

The first time was a fucking doozy, sure. Second time even, that sucked too.

Now though, with it being fairly fucking routine for…close to a year, now, especially after rough runs like last night?

Steve’s kinda learned to take it as the sign of affection he’s come to understand it stems from, deep in Eddie’s too-soft, too-tender chest, always having been ready to feel so fucking much—Steve wishes he’d known it sooner. Maybe they could have felt less alone, together.

Whatever. They’re here now.

Though it’d been a pretty free-and-clear couple of months—Eddie had only crumbled so far as to have shaken in a corner in Steve’s arms for close to probably five hours one of the three or so times they’d had to stretch too much time between regular feedings—because when Eddie came back, when he appeared in Steve’s living room dripping the black sludge the Upside Down seemed to specialize in best—trembling and stammering and…be-fanged.

And Steve had just looked at him, gaped a couple minutes—which he stands by being wholly fair and justified—and then did the only genuinely sane thing he could have done, given the givens.

He’d pushed Eddie toward the nearest fucking bathroom, under some hot water, and cleaned him the fuck up.

And didn’t think—yet—about how warm it made Steve: the sight of Eddie’s naked frame under the spray as it slowly siphoned off the goo.

Nope. Not the time.

He was sick, though, that was clear, but Steve…he can’t explain even now how he knew to be cautious in letting anyone in the Party know that they’re friend, this singular lost member of their family had somehow crawled back to the land of the living. Because yeah, it could have been the fact that Eddie was cool to the touch. Paler than he’d been before. Barely had a heartbeat but was definitely alive enough to insist he was pressed into Steve’s heat every night, in Steve’s bed; to keep shaking, to wretch more of the black slime up until it was just dry heaving, and…

There were plenty of reason to have caused the hesitance. But it wasn’t any of that.

It wasn’t even how, after Steve slit himself on an envelope, Eddie had scurried to his side, made to lunge then cowered back, cried like he was in pain before saying the first words Steve had gotten out of him yet:

Please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Stevie, please—

And Steve wasn’t immune to what spending every fucking night wrapped up in another body. A definitely not unattractive body. A body belonging to a personality that Steve was getting pretty interested in getting to know better—literally and…intimately, y’know, Steve crossed the bridge of being totally shocked by that after he’d less-than-half-mourned Billy fucking Hargrove for the sake of his and and literally no other reason—but. Yeah.

He’d have given Eddie anything, at that points while he was hoarding and harboring him, safe as much as selfish in this house. He’d have—

What Eddie wanted was the blood from his papercut. And…well.

The fangs make…wel, they made a lot more sense all of a sudden.

Eddie fought it when Steve dragged him to the couch and offered his wrist because the guy was sucking kinda pitifully, like, way too desperate on Steve’s fingertip and not in a sexy way—and Steve would actually really like to reach the point of it being a sexy way someday, specifically with Eddie, he’d already stopped trying to deny that to himself—so he pulled his hand away, cupped Eddie’s cheek (warmer, more color in it), brushed by accident against his jugular (a real pulse, and racing, but overtaxed, like it needed…more to work with and yeah, if Steve hadn’t made up his mind already that would’ve done the job, flat out)—and when Eddie whimpered, Steve pushed his advantage of having a full blood supply, dragged Eddie into his lap, tore his own bloody strips from above the veins he could see under the heel of his palm straight down and Eddie gasped, cried out, tried to scramble away—

But Steve shoved his wrist to Eddie’s lips—knew it was maybe dirty pool but…he wasn’t stupid. If Eddie needed blood, he…he needed blood.

And Eddie was reluctant, at first, didn’t try to pull away once he realized that Steve had got him in a pretty solid hold from the waist down, and he just was not strong enough right now, not yet but he could be, if he’d just—

Steve hadn’t been worried, but if there’d been reservations, like, if Robin had had any idea he was doing this and voiced her innumerable concerns: if Steve have been worried, Eddie’s presence of mind to even think to resist, to look at Steve like he was in pain to avoid the blood waiting on offer, specifically for him, it’s all he would need.

But seeing that Steve hadn’t even thought to be worried, he ultimately caught Eddie’s frantic eyes, leaned in and brushed his lips to Eddie’s, tasted his own blood as he whispered:

It’s for you, I want you to have it so that you’re okay, and his hand had braced on Eddie’s chest where that heartbeat was struggling, but wild, and he didn’t even dare to blink until Eddie’s tongue lapped accidental at the blood steaming down.

And the rest is…history.

Eddie had tried to set his own limits, but Steve’s old hat at being the victim of the Upside Down’s bullshit, or Russian spy craft at that; he knows when the blood loss is actually a concern. He keeps his hand to eddie chest, makes his own call when that pulse is strong enough to ease his wrist away.

Steve hadn’t been a fucking lifeguard, after all. He does know some things.

And so that had been…that.

They’d told the others, eventually, but just that Eddie was back. It was enough to prove Steve’s fears in and of itself—they already suspected Vecna, Eddie as a sleeper agent or some shit, two guns trained on him in an instant: and that’s without the blood…thing.

So they keep that to themselves. It’s definitely a contributing factor to how they end up in dire enough straits that Steve’s laid up a little after just some casual bloodsucking until eddies heartbeat finds its strength of rhythm again.

It’s not a big deal. Steve’s had so many migraines worse than this ever is.

Except for when it gets to how Eddie reacts. How he falls apart for fear, for Steve.

That’s the worst pain Steve’s ever known, every goddamn time.

“You were cold,” Eddie’s voice shivers as he raps into Steve’s chest hair; “to me, you were cold to me.”

“You’d just fed, and you were hurting for it,” Steve reasons; it takes Eddie time to warm back up when they spread the feeding out too long. “You’re still not evened-out,” he reasons; Dustin would have a good science-y name for it, but they…they can’t risk it.

Steve won’t fucking risk it. Risk Eddie.

He cranes his neck, keeps his eyes closed to make sure he doesn’t aggravate the feeling of being off-balance, but he needs to press his lips to Eddie’s temple, test the heat.

“Close though,” Steve smiles into the skin, then kisses with intent. He…he loves that he can give this to Eddie. He doesn’t think Eddie gets that part, thinks Eddie only sees it as taking, rather than a gift for Steve in return just as strong.

“Steve,” Eddie moans, shakes his head as more a messy swirl of matted curls; “we can’t.”

Again: it stopped being convincing months ago; but Eddie does sound particularly distressed.

Steve brings a hand to run through that unruly hair, careful. Gentle.

“You weren’t moving,” Eddie finally whispers; “I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear,” and Steve knows his limits, knows that Eddie didn’t hear or see even with his enhanced senses now because he’d been frantic, and his own heartbeat and shot quick to pounding after being so weak—it always sets him off kilter for a second or two.

Steve cradles Eddie to his chest rig he re, so he can hear clear the heartbeat Steve knows is steady now, strong.

They’ve both evened out. They’re both okay.

“I can’t risk you,” Eddie breathes into the space where the beat hits hardest; “I can’t lose you.”

“So,” Steve nods, tucks Eddie under his chin a little tighter; “losing me by design instead is your solution,” he sucks his teeth, hums as if he’s actually consider such fucking nonsense:

“Yeah, cool, makes sense.”

He thinks the sarcasm drips just the right amount.

“Stevie,” Eddie whines, like it hurts, and Steve never wants that. But he might…need for it to, a little at least, to get the point across.

“We’ve been through this, Eds,” Steve breathes low; “I’m not actually looking to kick the fucking bucket here,” he knows Eddie won’t appreciate the levity but he can’t help it, pressed the curve of his lips to eddies scalp. “I’m much more interested in making sure you’re not ell enough and strong enough and safe enough,” and he reaches, then, to lift Eddie chin, to turn him, to look, to see:

“To stay with me.”

And like clockwork, Eddie’s eyes widen, darken, narrow and Eddie scrambles up, takes Steve’s face in both his open palms:

“Always,” he hisses; “nothing could make me want to be anywhere else, not ever.”

And Steve knows it. Knows he means it

“But Steve—”

And because Steve knows? He’s happy to cut this the fuck off at the stem, nip it in the bud, press a the same fingertip eddies sucked the blood from so many nights ago, that first time that started the rest of Steve’s whole goddamn life—

Steve’s more than happy to press that fingertip to Eddie’s lips, to shut him the fuck yo when he needs it.

“I grew up not knowing what love was,” Steve says simply, and eddies eyes flash red—only when he’s incensed do they do that, and Steve not-so-secretly finds it hot as fuck. “Except for knowing that what I got wasn’t it,” he shrugs; “or else, not the kind it was supposed to be. Benign neglect,” he flinches a little as other, harsher memories buck their heads and he knows he has to say something because Eddie sees him, Eddie will draw it out himself otherwise and…

“Until the times it wasn’t,” Steve murmurs and, well.

At least he gets another sexy-as-fuck flash of crimson in those eyes he adores.

“But I knew what I did have wasn’t right,” Steve’s quick to press on; “so even though I kinda started from zero on the learning curve, it wasn’t,” he bites his lip and it’s not even weird anymore, to revisit the journey even if it started less-than-happily.

Because Steve knows the ending. And how it’s not even an ending at all.

“I knew I was looking for something that sat at the opposite end of the spectrum from what I did know. What I had been taught,” and he grabs for eddies hands and gathers them under his chin to rest on, to just…look his fill of this impossible man he’s fallen for, that he’s more than happily given his life to all the ways he knows how.

“And once I unlearned the bad shit, and started finding the real deal?”

He waits for Eddie’s eyes to glitter just so, waits for his head to tilts just the tiniest bit before he leans up:

“Love is this,” Steve breathes against Eddie’s lips with real fucking meaning:

“Love is exactly this.”

“Nearly fucking dying because your freak-ass boyfriend has to drink your goddamn blood and—” Eddie tries to deflect but is pretty fucking shirt with it. Not least because there are tears running down his cheek. Not least because Steve knows now. What love is.

He’d just spoken on the truth.

“Not even close to fucking dying at all,” Steve reminds him with a playful eye roll and a squeeze of his hand; “save maybe how much it killed me when I thought I’d lost you before we had a chance,” and honestly: Steve hates thinking about how all of this was almost never know, never had, never felt.

Yeah: that fucking kills him, just to think.

“So add that into the love-column,” Steve grins a little, imagining the upgraded version of a ‘YOU RULE’ board; “this is love because you’re breathing,” and Steve kisses the little divot above Eddie’s top lip; “you’re safe,” and then he kisses, nibble Eddie’s neck;“your heart beats when there’s enough blood for it to move around,” and Steve’s not strong enough to resist nipping at the heady pulse between Eddie’s collarbones.

“You’re as alive as anything or anyone in every way that could ever count,” Steve breathes; “you’re here. With me.”

Then he leans back again, looks Eddie in the eyes:

“You care enough—”

“Love.”

Eddie’s tone is this sharp, unquestionable thing. It’s thrilling every time it comes out.

All the more, said around that one word.

“I love,” Eddie’s hands hold closer, more dear at the sides of Steve’s face again; “whether it’s enough or not, whether it ever could be, I fucking love you—”

“Then you love,” Steve picks back up, pecks Eddie’s lips because he can; “enough to check that I’m okay, when we do this, and it’s just a little more of a challenge than normal.”

Eddie looks like he’s about to choke on something.

“Challenge?”

Ah. About to choke on that word specifically; that tracks.

“I like a good challenge,” Steve reminds him, reaches to pinch his cheek, delights in how blood—Steve’s blood—rushes to the surface; “fills the gap from all the sports-playing.”

Eddie’s mouth moves around silent words for a few seconds and then:

“Normal?”

Steve doesn’t even try not to laugh. With glee, even. With wonder.

“Wild, ain’t it,” he asks, kinda fucking joyful; “who’d have ever thought Steve Harrington would find a love this big,” and he runs his hand over Eddie’s arm, shoulder to wrist; “this perfect, for everything he is, not what he’s gotta twist himself in knots to try and become,” and Steve’s voice gets lower, more earnest, more genuinely fucking grateful for…all of it.

For his Eddie.

“Who would have thought Steve Harrington would fall into a love that held his whole fucking heart in its hands,” he brings those hands to his chest, where they clutch automatic; “to do with what you would, to take as far as you liked,” and his voice goes low—they don’t know what’s been done to Eddie beyond the obvious, what life and death mean for him;

“To keep as long as you decided to want.”

Basically, Steve isn’t too concerned about the whats. He’s more concerned about Eddie having no shred of doubt, that Steve wants whatever it means, to be something they share. He wants whatever it means to mean the same for both of them, if it can. However it can.

Whatever it takes.

“Steve,” Eddie shakes his head, face ruddy, tear-strewn and mouth agape.

“I don’t deserve you,” he exhales, then breathes in, sharp and shaking; “and you deserve so much more than this.”

“Let me make the decision,” Steve says, sure in it. Maybe for the first time in his life, he has no doubts for anything involving what he feels for Eddie, and the truth of what Eddie feels for him.

“And since I made that decision fucking months ago already, I’ll save you the suspense,” he turns Eddie’s chin on the tip of a finger, one more time.

“There is no more than this.”

And Eddie blinks; blinks.

And then his strings are cut, and he collapses full into Steve again, this time gathering him in by every limb he can tangle, gasping and grasping and needing and desperate and kissing every inch of Steve he can reach.

“Fuck, I love you baby,” Eddie moans deep from the center in his chest: “forever.”

It’s a true thing. It’s a promise.

It’s an acknowledgement of what they don’t yet know, but can agree with all they are to share, together, equal.

For always.

“I know,” Steve tells him simply, pulse pumping only joy; “and I am always gonna know. I’m always gonna be here, to make sure you never forget.”

And Eddie’s face falls for half-a-second, before it steels with resolve, before his hands lace with Steve’s and smack them flat to Eddie’s heaving chest.

To Eddie’s pounding heart.

“Never forget here,” he vow sir; “it’s never a matter of not loving.”

And Eddie’s scared, still, in his eyes; Steve knows.

It almost means more, that he’s promising it all, nonetheless. With his whole goddamn heart.

“I know,” Steve reminds him the best way he knows; pressing closer, tighter to that beat.

“And I’m always gonna be right here.”

Eddie nods, closes his eyes and holds Steve one breath closer to that pumping blood:

“Right here.”

And that?

And that suits Steve more than fucking fine.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[dreamlydrawsshit]

[reiyaus]

fem reader intended

fratboy! gojo who's basically the typical fraternity student. passing all his classes yet still hosting a party any chance he gets.

fratboy! gojo who rejected the position of frat president, instead handing it off to his friend Nanami. claiming that if he were to lead something so big, he'd lose all the freedom he has.

fratboy! gojo who hooks up with some sororities every now and then, never taking their moments to heart. it gives him the reputation of a playboy but it didn't really matter to him.

fratboy! gojo who doesn't really remember the faces of every girl he spent the night with, often ignoring them in the halls whenever.

fratboy! gojo who hosts another part after finals to celebrate, inviting your friend over, who ends up bringing you as a plus one.

fratboy! gojo who doesn't notice you at first or bother to even look at you, a regular college student with no affiliations to any sorority/fraternity.

fratboy! gojo who runs into the sight of you leeching onto your (very drunk) friend, face buried onto your phone. but what really caught his attention was the sound coming from your device.

fratboy! gojo who sneakily tried peaking over your shoulder and gasped when his suspicions were confirmed: you were watching pokemon card unboxings. his favorite thing in the world, on top of partying.

fratboy! gojo who immediately struck up a conversation with you, not noticing how shocked you looked at the fact that someone this popular noticed you. not that you minded though.

fratboy! gojo who opened up his phone and started bombarding you with pictures of his own card collection. until you opened up about how you knew almost nothing about pokemon, and only watched out of boredom.

fratboy! gojo who takes this as an opportunity to start teaching you the basics of card trading, unconsciously inching closer to you everytime he hears your laughter.

fratboy! gojo who doesn't even realize that this is the first time he's gone without flirting with a girl- but instead bonding over shared interests.

fratboy! gojo who ends up asking for your number, only for the "sake of continuing your conversation". and he means it, he's actually excited about speaking to you more. not just to hook up.

fratboy! gojo who ends the night with a new friend, and blossoming love over pokemon cards. he might even start throwing less parties just to see you.

a/n: part two for this.... maybe?

[lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom]

Nightmare

KANG DAE-HO X READER

Summary- Dae-ho wakes up from a nightmare, with you being the only one by his side to calm him down.

Warnings- Mentions of PTSD, Nightmare, ECT.

A/N- Thank you, @tomgregtruther101 @errruvande @momoko-world @thethreeeyed-raven for encouraging me to write this!

Word Count- 1,223

A low mumble awoke you from your slumber. Typically you were a heavy sleeper, but when it came to Dae-ho it was different. You could have slept through a firework show. Though, the second your beloved got up to use the bathroom- you're up with him.

It bothered the sweet man at first, he hated waking you up. After some reassurance that you didn't mind, he warmed up to the idea. This night, however, was not like many.

It was not uncommon for Dae-Ho to wake up frazzled. He would get something warm to drink from the kitchen, and lay back down. (Praying he didn't wake you). On the much more common occurrence, you would awake with him. In turn, you'd be the one making him something warm to drink, possibly something sweet to snack on. Then the two of you would cuddle until he was fast asleep.

It was honestly comforting for you as well, being able to be his anchor was flattering. He trusted you like no other.

Dae-ho was not Frazzled though, and he didn't wake up to get a beverage.

He was thrashing, hard. His legs slightly kicking, arms jumping up every few seconds. With an impossibly scrunched face, he mumbled again.

"Dae?" You whispered out. The only response you received was a hit to the side, a stray flaring hand had got you.

The mumbling quickly turned louder, now sounding like a cry or groan. It worried you beyond recognition.

"Dae-ho." You pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder. His body jerked away from it. Very uncharacteristic.

A disfigured 'no' left his lips, a struggled sob escaped. He had managed to kick the comforter off of himself, and the bed.

You were now sat on your knees, looming over him. "Dae-ho!" You firmly grabbed both of his shoulders, shaking him.

A loud gasp erupted from both of you as his eyes shot open, you had no time to make a comment. His legs pushed and kicked, separating himself from you. At that singular moment, in his fear struck mind, he didn't seem to recognize you.

He had already found himself against the headboard of the bed, his hands pressing tight against his ears. You had barely blinked in all his movement.

With gaping eyes, a pounding chest, and heavy breathing he looked at you. Almost as if you were the one who hurt him.

"It just me, Dae-ho, its just me..." You spoke as soft and low as you could. You didn't approach any closer, but put your hands up to appear less intimidating.

His eyes just darted across the room in response, body curling further. His lip quivered, face and body drenched in sweat.

"You're okay, you're safe. Dae, you're safe. It's just me... It was just a nightmare, everything is okay..."

He swallowed thick, slowly nodding his head. His gaze now stuck on yours. His scared and nerve wrecked appearance crushed you. It was opposite of the man he appears to show to everyone, only you knew of his nightmares.

"I'm going to come closer, I promise I'm here, I'm real, you're at home. Safe in bed..." You shuffled over on your knees, hands starting at his forearm.

He slightly flinched at your touch, but made no attempt to move away. Your hand caressed across his arm, going to his own hand. You tenderly unravel his tight grip on his head, tangling your fingers in his.

A large sigh left him, his head falling back in frustration. He was now back to reality, though still beat and weary. Water glossed over his eyes. He bit his lip hard, trying to fight away any tears. He thought it would make him seem less of a man to cry in front of you. You couldn't disagree more.

"I'm so sor-" His voice cracked as he tried to speak, a couple tears has managed to escape. You didn't let him finish, his face was pressed deeply into your chest within seconds. He truly didn't know what he was apologizing for, for waking you? For having a nightmare? For his frequent PTSD attacks?

You had quickly taken his frame into your arms. He would have admitted that your knees pressing into his thighs was uncomfortable, but he didn't care right now. You were with him, holding him, and loving him. That's all he cared about.

"Don't you dare apologize, you've done nothing wrong." You cradled his head tight, pressing kisses to the top of his crown.

You managed to twist the two of you around, your back now against the headboard with him in your lap. He was quiet for awhile, you simply rocked him back and forth for a little bit.

His arms found themselves wrapped around your waist. He held onto you for dear life... Almost as if you'd fade away if he let go. You heard his breathing shake every few breaths, but he was calming down.

Continuing to rock, you reached your hands up to his hair. It was half up, half down. The hair tie pulled out of his hair easily enough. You were able to considerably comb through his hair with your fingers. A simple action you knew he loved.

While one hand worked at his soft black hair, another rubbed circles on his back. "Feeling better?"

He sniffled, leaning up to look at you. He couldn't meet your eyes, almost embarrassed. His meek, "Thank you." was accompanied by a nod.

You brushed through his hair, even with him sat up. "Want to talk about it?" You never wanted to pressure him into anything he wasn't comfortable with.

"Just the typical... but you were there, you were who I was shooting... It was like you were the enemy... I just- I can't describe it.. It made no sense-." His voice shook again, so you interrupted him.

"Exactly, baby. It was a nightmare that will never happen... Because I know you would never hurt me, that you would do anything to protect me?" Your tone implied a question.

He nodded furiously, now making direct eye contact. There wasn't a phrase he agreed more with. He looked at you like a loyal puppy.

"See? It was your sweet little mind playing mean tricks on you..." You rested a flat palm to his cheek. Taking in how handsome he looked in the moonlight.

He puffed, now more light hearted, and fell back onto your chest.

"I promise I will keep you safe from all the nightmares and mind games." He was frustrated at your words.

"But that's supposed to be my job..." He said, face conveniently still upon your breast.

You smiled warmly, "Yes, it is. And you fulfill it perfectly. I couldn't be happier. But, you must let me take care of you as well..."

He didn't respond, his internal monologue had a million points to argue back. But he didn't. He embasked in the moment, squeezing you tight again.

You took the silent request, resuming your back rubbing and head scratching.

From experience, you knew he would not fall asleep any time soon. That you'd probably fall asleep before him, no matter how hard you tried to stay up. All you could do for now was whisper how much you love him, play with his hair, and hum silly melodies.

And he was content with that.

A/N- Okay, so erm. I feel like it was rushed (it was), but I also feel that way about all my works. So... Please let me know how I can improve. Also this is my first time writing something like this, so I hope it wasn't terrible. XOXOXOX LOVE YALL

[aventurineswife]

Hello darling and once again thank you for The Herta Voice lines about her S/O, i loved it.

But here I am asking for more Herta content, because well WHY NOT?

(A special mention, if you could, I'd like for you to post this on 9th of February as it is my birthday but welp it's fine if you can't! (And what's possesed me, why am i speaking poetically? Wtf uhm anyway))

The Herta and reader spending reader's birthday :3

Maybe snowball fights, because there's snow where I live in February and perhaps some cuddling by the fireplace and reading a little bit to reader and having them fall asleep in Herta's arms... just like fluff lol

(Feel free to add more or leave some out but like I just need the fluff on my brithday because my grandpa died recently (angst lmao) so my birthday won't feel the same so maybe it'd feel better if I spent it with Herta)

Thank you in advance <3

Whispers of Snow and Starlight

Summary: On your birthday, Herta indulges in a rare moment of fun, agreeing to a snowball fight despite her usual aloof demeanor. Afterward, the two of you retreat to the warmth of her study, sharing tea, cuddling by the fire, and enjoying each other’s presence. As Herta reads to you, you fall asleep in her arms, cocooned in warmth and love.

Tags: The Herta x Reader, Established Relationship, Fluff, Birthday Celebration, Snowball Fights, Cuddling, Comfort, Light Banter, Domestic Bliss.

A/N: First of, happy birthday to you!! 💖 Second of all, I’m so sorry for your loss. It’s okay to feel a mix of things on your birthday—grief and joy can coexist. Take it easy on yourself, and let your day be whatever you need it to be. You deserve kindness, even in hard times. 🫂💖 Also, I'm glad you loved the voicelines!! 💖🤭

The air outside was crisp, the ground blanketed in a fresh layer of snow that sparkled under the pale light of the cosmos. The edge of the universe was rarely this serene, but today was an exception. Snowflakes danced lazily, drifting to the ground as if the universe itself wanted to celebrate.

Inside, the warmth of a crackling fire spread throughout Herta's study. Bookshelves stretched high into infinity, each shelf packed with knowledge that spanned lifetimes. A delicate scent of lavender tea lingered, blending perfectly with the faint traces of parchment and ink.

You sat on the plush rug before the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket Herta had draped over you earlier. She stood nearby, her hair cascading over her shoulders as she poured two cups of tea. Her eyes glimmered with mischief, a subtle smile playing on her lips.

"Another year older," she teased, setting your cup in front of you and settling herself beside you. "And yet, somehow, still no closer to matching my brilliance."

You rolled your eyes at her playful arrogance. "Thanks for the reminder, Madam Herta. Nothing like being humbled on your birthday."

Her laughter rang out, soft and melodic, as she leaned back against the couch. "Oh, come now. You’re lucky to have me. Who else would tolerate your insistence on snowball fights of all things? It’s positively childish."

"And yet you agreed," you countered with a grin.

Her smirk deepened. "Only because I plan to win."

Minutes later, the two of you were outside, the chill biting your cheeks as you crouched behind a snowbank. Herta stood on the other side of the clearing, her black and light-purple dress flowing as she gathered a snowball in her gloved hands.

"You can’t outsmart me," she called, lobbing a snowball in your direction with unexpected precision.

You ducked, scooping up your own snowball and tossing it back. It caught her shoulder, earning a mock gasp of indignation. "Oh, it’s war now."

The two of you laughed and darted around the snow-covered field, dodging and throwing snowballs with reckless abandon. For someone who claimed to find such activities beneath her, Herta seemed to be having the time of her life. Her hair whipped around her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion, and her laughter filled the air.

Eventually, both of you collapsed into the snow, breathless and grinning. The sky above stretched endlessly, dotted with faint stars that seemed closer than ever. Herta turned her head toward you, her purple eyes softening. "I suppose this wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon."

You chuckled, nudging her playfully. "Admit it—you had fun."

She sighed dramatically. "Fine. Perhaps… just perhaps… it was enjoyable. But don’t let it go to your head."

The two of you headed back inside, brushing snow from your clothes before settling in front of the fire once more. Herta handed you a steaming cup of tea, her usual playful smirk replaced by a softer expression.

"Here," she said, pulling a thick blanket around the two of you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Consider this part of your birthday gift. You won’t hear me say it often, but… you are important to me."

Your heart warmed at her words, and you leaned into her, letting her warmth seep into you. "Thank you, Herta. For everything."

She reached for a nearby book, flipping it open and beginning to read aloud. Her voice was smooth and melodic, the words flowing effortlessly as she recounted a tale of cosmic wonder. The crackling of the fire and the rhythm of her voice lulled you into a sense of peace.

You felt your eyelids grow heavy, your head eventually resting against her shoulder. Herta glanced down at you, her lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile. She carefully adjusted the blanket around you, her voice softening as she continued reading, even though she knew you were already asleep.

As the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside, the two of you stayed there, cocooned in warmth and comfort. For once, Herta allowed herself to simply enjoy the moment, holding you close as the universe carried on around you.

Why did Good luck, Babe by Chappell Roan start playing... 🧍‍♀️

[killerplink]

✨DINNER✨

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: Dick comes home while you prepare dinner, but that turns into a different kind of pie ✨

Words: 1,7k

CW: established relationship, 18+, smut, cockwarming, creampie, kitchen sex, overstimulation, rough sex, Dick is once again a menace

Dick comes home from the grocery store, arms full of bags, sweat clinging to the back of his neck from the summer heat outside. But the second he steps into the kitchen and sees you—sees that dress—his brain short-circuits.

It's too little, barely covering your ass, the thin fabric teasing him with every movement as you stand at the counter, slicing through vegetables like you aren't a fucking menace, like you aren't standing there looking like that, completely oblivious to what you're doing to him.

His cock stirs instantly, blood rushing south before he can even think, before he can even drop the damn bags. And when he finally does, when they hit the counter with a dull thud, his body is already moving before his brain catches up.

He steps behind you, arms slipping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he exhales, already a little gone for you, already needy just from the scent of your perfume, the heat of your skin against his.

You chuckle softly, still focused on slicing, like you don't feel the way he's pressing against you. Like you don't feel how fucking hard he is already.

"Did you find everything, baby?"

His lips ghost along your neck as he hums, voice lower, slower than usual. "Yeah."

But he doesn't move away. Doesn't even try to. If anything, he presses closer, letting you feel the way he's already hard for you, the heavy weight of his cock thick and insistent through his sweats, grinding against the swell of your ass like he can't help himself. And honestly? He can't.

The second he saw you, it was over for him.

You keep chopping, acting completely unbothered, but you're not fooling him. Not when your breathing hitches just slightly, not when your grip on the knife shifts like you're struggling just a little to focus. And when he presses forward, lets his cock slot right against the curve of your ass, you suck in a sharp breath, body going the slightest bit tense.

Oh, baby. You feel it. You feel him.

He lets out a soft, needy little sigh against your skin, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout you don't even have to see to know it's there.

"I want you."

You smile, shaking your head with a chuckle. "After dinner, baby."

But oh, he doesn't want to wait—he can't.

His hand slips from your waist, down, slipping past the hem of your dress, right into your little panties. His breath hitches when he feels it, when he feels just how fucking wet you already are for him, his fingers dragging through your slick folds, teasing, pressing, rubbing slow circles that make your knees tremble before you catch yourself.

A low, pleased groan rumbles in his chest as he teases your clit, lazy and deliberate, making you gasp. "You sure you wanna wait, sweetheart?"

Your breath hitches. "Dick—"

"I have a better idea."

Before you can question him, your dress is bunched up around your waist, your panties pushed to the side, and then—fuck—his cock is slipping between your legs, sliding through your soaked folds, the heavy weight of it rubbing against your clit with every slow, teasing thrust.

And God, he's already so fucking gone for you, already leaking precum all over your pussy, rutting between your folds like a man starved, like he doesn't need air, doesn't need food, doesn't need anything but you.

"Baby, d-dinner," you murmur, a weak protest as pleasure sparks up your spine.

"Oh, my love, you can keep going," he says, all honeyed teasing, like this isn't killing him, like he isn't one second away from bending you over the counter and giving you exactly what you both know you need.

Then he angles himself up, grips your hips, and slides the thick head of his cock inside you, pushing past your entrance and sinking in deep until he bottoms out, stuffing you full. You're so tight around him that he has to squeeze his eyes shut and take a second, has to breathe through the urge to just fucking ruin you right then and there.

Because God, you feel good. And he's already so fucking gone.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp, hands gripping the counter for support as your walls flutter around him, struggling to adjust to how thick he is, how deep he is.

"What are you—?"

His hands find yours, guiding them back to the knife, helping you steady it as his cock throbs inside you, a slow, pulsing ache. "You're not done chopping, baby."

It's filthy. It's unbearable. You try to focus, try to keep your hands steady as you slice through the bell pepper, but his dick is stretching you open, filling you to the brim, the girth of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you, and worst of all—he's not moving.

He just stays there, buried to the hilt, thick and throbbing, leaking hot spurts of precum against your needy walls. And fuck, you can't help it—you clench down around him, your body reacting on its own, desperate for friction, desperate for him to just move, to fuck you open like you need.

A low, ragged groan rumbles in his chest, his hands tightening around yours as he fights the urge to snap his hips forward. "Fuck, baby, don't do that, or this is gonna be over real quick."

But you can't fucking help it. You keep squeezing around him involuntarily, your walls fluttering, and every tiny movement, every little shift of your hips, makes his restraint crumble.

By the time you're done chopping the last bell pepper, your hands are shaking, thighs slick, your breathing uneven, coming out in short, quiet gasps. You're soaked, dripping around his cock, every little flex of him inside you making you throb, making you ache.

Dick's voice is rough when he asks, "Done here?"

You nod, cheeks flushed, legs weak, barely able to stand.

He hums, lips brushing your ear. "Good."

And then he bends you over the counter and fucks you. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes you yelp, your arms barely catching yourself against the counter as he pounds your dripping cunt. He sets a brutal pace, driving into you so deep that each thrust sends shockwaves up your spine, makes you gasp, makes you shatter apart inside.

The sound of skin against skin fills the kitchen, filthy and wet, the lewd squelch of your slick coating his cock, making everything messy, obscene.

"Fuck, baby... look at you," he groans, his voice wrecked, watching how your pussy swallows him with every deep thrust, watching the way your walls cling to him, stretch around him. "Taking me so well."

You can barely breathe, barely think, and when he slips a hand between your thighs, rubbing your clit in quick, tight circles, your whole body jolts. You're already shaking, already so overstimulated from the teasing, and when his fingers press just right, rolling over your swollen little bud, the pleasure hits you like a fucking truck.

You break.

Your orgasm slams into you, stealing the breath from your lungs, making your whole body go tight. Your walls clamp down around his cock, pulsing, squeezing, your cunt spasming around him like you're trying to milk him dry.

But he doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, his grip on your hip bruising as he slams into you over and over, his breath coming out in ragged, desperate moans.

And then he growls, voice rough with need, "One more, baby. One more."

You sob, overstimulated, but the way he fucks you—the way his dick pounds into that sweet spot, unrelenting, ruthless—you don't stand a fucking chance. Your body isn't yours anymore, just a desperate, trembling thing caught in the drag of his cock, the brutal stretch of him splitting you open again and again.

You're helpless. You give in.

Pleasure bursts through you like a live wire, so sharp, so devastatingly good it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your walls clench down hard around him, gripping him in wet, greedy spasms, sucking him deeper, milking him for everything he's got.

And fuck—he feels it.

The way your cunt pulses around him, spasming and clinging to his dick like you never want to let him go. He groans, head dropping to your shoulder, barely holding himself together as your pussy works him, drags him closer to his own undoing.

He swears under his breath, voice wrecked, "God, baby, you're fucking squeezing me so tight—"

And you can barely respond, too lost in the aftershocks, too ruined by the way he keeps going, chasing his own high, and fuck—that's it for him.

His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself deep, so deep it feels like he's trying to claim you from the inside out. And then he breaks, his whole body trembling as he spills into you, thick, hot spurts of cum flooding your cunt in pulse after pulse, filling you up so much you swear you feel it in your belly.

You feel everything.

The way his cock throbs inside you, the way his cum rushes in hot, thick, coating every inch of your insides. The heat of it spreads through you, sticky, overwhelming, leaking out around his cock, trickling down your thighs in messy little drips.

Dick groans, deep and raw, as your pussy clenches around him again, milking him for every last drop, wringing him dry. He doesn't pull out—not yet—just stays there, buried to the hilt, keeping you so full, so stuffed with him that you can barely think.

But fuck, there's too much. It leaks out around his cock, slick and messy, dripping down the backs of your thighs. He watches, panting, dazed, as a thick bead of cum escapes your stretched cunt, sliding down to where he's still stuffed inside you.

And then he grits out, "Fuck, baby... gonna keep you like this all night. Keep you so full, so messy, so—"

He cuts himself off with a low, desperate moan, hips giving a slow, lazy grind just to feel how wet, how slippery you are with his release.

He should pull out. He knows he should. But the way your walls flutter around him, still so warm, still so tight—it's too fucking good. And God, if you let him, he'll fuck his cum right back into you.

He slumps against your back, panting, his cock still twitching inside you, both of you wrecked, both of you ruined.

And after a long, heavy silence—his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged—he chuckles, voice wrecked. "Think you burned the garlic."

You groan. "Dick."

But you can't even be mad. Because fuck, he was so worth it. He always is.

[superbat-love]

Batman may claim to have no powers, but Green Lantern knows better. He’s convinced that Batman’s cape is sentient.

Green Lantern has observed it on quiet nights in the Watchtower, when Batman thinks no one’s paying attention. He releases control over his cape, letting it unravel and float menacingly around him in different directions. It moves on its own, sweeping across nearby surfaces, carelessly knocking over items.

There’s one thing Green Lantern knows for sure—Batman’s cape has a sweet tooth. Every time Batman passes the candy bowl, it’s mysteriously emptied.

Even stranger, it seems to influence other capes. Once, while Batman was talking to Superman, their capes briefly touched, and Green Lantern saw Superman’s cape come to life—swirling and fluttering as though it had a mind of its own. Superman, unfazed, didn’t even react to the way their capes were flapping erratically around them. Green Lantern was relieved he didn’t have a cape.

He told the others about his theory, but they were skeptical at first. They eyed Batman’s cape with suspicion as he was distracted by a mission briefing with Wonder Woman. But even the Flash had to admit Green Lantern might be onto something when Batman’s cape swiped their feet out from under them, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Martian Manhunter nodded sagely and agreed on its intelligence, having felt the minds of four little beings flitting around underneath Batman’s cape. Maybe one day they’d feel comfortable enough to run underneath his cape too.

[fizzyapplecandy]

Ateez Fake Texts

The one with the silly boyfriend

Mingi X Reader everyday texts

Genre: fluff, established relationship, one of the texts suggests an injury, overall lovable Mingi

[fushitoru]

rainy days and brownies

pairing ⸺ college/modern!au: bf!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you wake up for some soft moments with your boyfriend that involves brownies (turned freaky)

warnings ⸺ smut, tooth rotting fluff, some mild angst?, gojo unfortunately mentions skibidi toilet, I think I made gojo gen z here, boob worship, brownies and baking, established relationship, oral (f!receiving), gojo eats pussy like a champ, NOT EDITED, might be incoherent to everyone except me, product of a forceful effort to escape writer’s block, rainy mornings <3, lots of intimacy, art by 3-aem, probably in the same universe as this

general masterlist

Rainy mornings with Satoru means baking.

It’s a ritual the both of you have fallen into. On a day like this, where the air smells like rain, you blearily wake up from your nap to smell the warm distinct aroma of overly sweet brownies.

The slutty brownies were Satoru’s masterpiece. Even if he did overdo the sugar, you can’t admit that your stomach was growling as you rubbed your bleary eyes and frowned while raking a hand through your head. This bed head was going to be a bitch to untangle with the hairbrush.

“AND IIIIIIIIIIIII, WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUU—“

You jumped, caught off guard by Satoru randomly deciding to pay homage to Whitney Houston. Standing up, you headed towards the living room of you and Satoru’s apartment—-not before you adjusted your tank top so your tits weren’t out and the boy shorts you chose to sleep in properly covered your ass.

“WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUU—-“ You cringed at Satoru’s attempt of a high note, grumpily looking at him use his chocolate covered spatula as a makeshift mic. He was in the kitchen—-shirtless, of course—-now bending over to peek at the state of his brownies in the oven. Deciding the brownies weren’t done yet, he closed the oven door and stood up once more, reaching for his phone to undoubtedly scroll through TikTok. Continuing to hum different variations of the chorus, he swiped at his phone, ignorant to your presence behind him.

You think he’s kind of sweet like this. If it weren’t for him, the both of you would never be in this position. You would always be the cold frigid bitch he saw in freshman orientation and occasionally at parties across campus, and he would be the sweet, friendly guy that all the girls would continue to fall head over heels for.

To be honest, you don’t really see what he sees in you. You’re like a Disney villain, the witch that entraps him in her webs of insecurity and jealousy, but he remains the valiant prince, fighting to get to you. When he finally has you in his arms, he kisses you into believing that you are his princess instead.

It’s obvious in the way he fought for you—memorizing your schedule, rushing across campus just to walk you to class, pleading with you to grab dinner. And each time, you’d brush him off with sharp rejections, finding excuses to keep him at arm’s length.

But when he finally had you, finally cracked all your defenses—he was never going to let you go. You could see as much; the way he proudly walked on campus with you at his side, across the main quad so he could boast that he got you. You were his, and he was fully, undoubtedly yours. At parties, his eyes would always be on you, raking his eyes up and down your figure in your nurse outfit, conjuring up the hundred and thirty four positions he would fuck you so good in, even if there were prettier girls clinging onto his arms asking for a morsel of his attention. Pettily enough, you would just need to sigh and mumble “This party isn’t fun,” to have Satoru whipped, ushering you out of the frat house while those girls glared at the back of your Halloween costume, angry beyond measure that a nobody like you has the campus sweetheart wrapped around your finger.

Loud booms of the Vine gunshot sound effect snaps you back into the present, where Satoru is snickering at some god awful brain rot. You choose to approach him, wrapping your arms around his waist and smothering your face into his muscular back.

“Hi baby,” you mumble.

“Guess which sleepyhead is awake!” He announces to the world and turns around, and your traitorous heart jumps in its chest while looking into his eyes. It’s stupid. You’re both in your PJs on a morning where the rain thuds against the window pane, blurring both the window and all outside life, suspending you both in this moment. His eyes look affectionately down to you, and he plants a wet kiss on your forehead. “How was your nap, baby?”

“It was good.” You watch him turn around again to peek at the oven, and he hums, upper arm flexing as he grabs the heavy bag of flour, dragging it closer to him. “When’d you get up?”

“Around 7.”

You shoot him a bewildered look as you hop onto the counter, a better space to observe your boyfriend. When he realized that you had woken up, he had left his phone open to give you a kiss, reel playing noises. You peek over and almost snort at what is playing.

“Satoru, why are you watching alligators get chased away by a shovel?”

He looks up from the bowl of brownie batter he was now cleaning—-with his tongue, mind you—-and grins boyishly. “Isn't it crazy how hundreds of years of evolution get destroyed by a shovel?”

”Your feed is not normal,” you shake your head, keeping a stony face as you continue to scroll through his TikTok. In fact, it’s hilarious—-the things he got were weirder than one could dream, with toilets producing heads of men taking over whole cities. You’re not sure what that means about your boyfriend, but you accept it as you watch the nonsensical video.

“Wait,” he makes his way over to you, standing in between your legs. “Is that skibidi toilet?”

“What the hell is that.”

“Baby,” he whines. “You don’t know the lore? I don’t know if I can be with you for any longer.”

Your bite back a grin. “And subjecting me to hours of FNAF backstory wasn’t testament to how much I love you?”

Before he could whine back, you noticed he had some leftover chocolate on the side of his mouth and leaned over to lick it. Humming at the taste, you grabbed his hands and took in his brownie coated index and middle finger into your mouth.

He frowns. “Are you trying to seduce me into forgiving you and giving you more brownies?”

You laugh softly and give him a soft smooch on his shoulder. “No, silly. If I ate any more than half, I would have diabetes.”

He grabs the back of your hips and pulls you closer into him, nuzzling his nose against yours. The physical contact rubs at your nerves the right way, firing off that emotional part of you that makes you think loving him is so easy. How lucky you are that he’s chosen to give you his love.

His god-awful alarm blares—same annoying sound he keeps hitting snooze on for his 7ams—and the moment breaks as he reaches for the oven mitts to pull out the brownies. The aroma hits you instantly, making your mouth water. Satoru blows dramatically on the brownies, pouting and mock-yelling, “Hurry up and cool down! My girlfriend wants to eat you.” You can’t help but giggle. Once Satoru finally decides they’re cool enough, he grabs one and offers it to you. “Make way for the choo-choo train!” he snickers, guiding the brownie through imaginary tracks, a shit-eating grin on his face, before plopping it into your mouth.

You can’t help but let out a soft sigh as the brownie melts on your tongue, its warmth enveloping your senses. Rich, velvety tones of chocolate overwhelm your mouth, with each bite releasing a symphony of deep, indulgent flavors that linger long after the brownie is fully swallowed. “Wow, this is actually good.”

He pauses, brownie and hand held in mid air. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug innocently but stick your tongue out to him regardless.

Popping the brownie in his mouth--but not before sending you a pout---he brushes his hands together to remove the brownie crumbs as he makes his way back in between your legs. The way he settles between them makes you all too aware of the heat of his groin encompassing you. He lazily drags his eyes up your figure, but not before settling on your outfit. His eyes then flick down to watch his hands trace the hem of your tank top, and your eyes follow his hands, a little dizzy by the action.

You’re always a bit sensitive in the mornings, and before this day, you and Satoru’s interactions have been limited to a kiss before he runs for his 7am and then doing college work until 3am, where you’re both too tired for anything particularly frisky. So, yea, you are kind of pent up---and judging by the bulge that’s starting to form in Satoru’s sweats, you assume he is too.

You put your elbows on his shoulder blades to give him head scratches from behind and lean towards his jawlines giving small kisses. You can feel him close his eyes, purring silently like a cat, and underneath your hands, his back and shoulder blades tense and relax as you rake your hands over his scalp.

“This new?” He uses his index finger to snap the strap of your tank top against your shoulder, using his mouth to given open mouthed kisses to your collarbone.

“Mhm,” you hum, a little deliriously at that---he’s begun to trail down, mouth working at the swell of your breasts.

He slowly pulls the collar of your tank down, down down down until your breast pops out. His eyes trace the swing urgently and groans. “I missed these, sweet girl.”

You gasp sharply when he puts it in his mouth, tongue swirling around the nipple. Satoru’s always been a boob guy, joking about his hands being your bra to support “those mommy milkers.” Right now, he’s doing just that; groping the hell out of them and giving them kisses, as if they were God’s greatest creation.

As much as you were enjoying your boyfriend’s boob worshipping, you need more. You were throbbing in want of contact on your pussy, and you made sure to relay just that. “Toru, I need more,” you whined.

“God forbid a man appreciate nice boobs.” He rolls his like the sassy man he is and parts with your nipple like lips after a messy and wet make out session. Your breasts are gleaming with his spit, a string connecting your nipple to his lips. He trails his face down your torso, making his way down to his knees until he was facing your crotch.

You whine and clench your thighs together to draw his face closer to the space between your thighs. He looks up at you and coos, giving your inner thigh a kiss. “I can smell you from here, cutie.”

His statement reminds you that you’re not too wet in the mornings. As soon as you wake up, some of your morning sessions with Satoru require the aid of lube to ensure no pain. Irritation flares at you at the thought that you might need to leave your position to grab some l—-

Oh.

“What the hell. I thought you wet your pants,” Satoru giggles. The finger running through your folds glides messily, as you both marvel to how wet you are. You’re also on another plane; you haven’t felt his touch for weeks, and the feeling overwhelms you as the squelches your pussy makes echo throughout the kitchen.

Satoru gives you a kiss on your neck. “Baby, can I?” You deliriously remember that he’s lightly circling his finger around your entrance and when you finally give him the okay, he pushes in.

Both of you groan at how tight you are. “Satoru,” you moan and proceed to bring him in for a kiss as he pistons in and out of your pussy, curling them just the way you like and making you see colors.

“Pretty, pretty girl,” he groans. “Left my baby so pent up.”

At that, all you can do is nod and whimper in agreement. All that leaves your mouth are gasps of his names and oh my god’s because he’s making you feel so good.

And then, you almost scream as you feel him blowing hot air onto your folds, leaning down to give teasing kitten licks around your clit, but not directly on it. His tongue drags up and down until he finally stops it right next to your clit as if feeling the sensation of your pussy throbbing, echoing your fastened heartbeat skin-to-skin while drooling.

Frustrated, you try to move your hips, but Satoru grabs them to stay in place. He’s so close to the place you want him, but he’s stationed in one place, spit flowing down as his tongue is still and his dark eyes are staring at you as if enraptured by your struggling.

“Satoru, please lick my clit,” you moan wantonly, begging for him to change his position.

But Satoru Gojo wouldn’t be Satoru Gojo without some teasing. “What was that, baby? Avoid your clit? You got it.”

“No,” you sobbed, grabbing onto his hair and directing his tongue to your clit. This time, he relents, sucking the bud into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks, making you see stars.

But soon, his quick and fast lapping turn into lazy licks, and you get frustrated, grinding against air and pussy oozing out wetness as Satoru keeps his tongue outstretched in front of you but not close enough to make contact with your skin, teasing. You hate the feeling of your pussy throbbing and the inner thighs and pussy wet with your slick, lacking the sensation you needed to finally climax. “Oh my god, Satoru, please make me cum.”

“I don’t know baby, you sound pretty commanding to me.” The motherfucker shrugs as if he has nothing to do with your dilemma and starts trailing kisses up your inner thigh. His touches were close to where you needed him most, making you ache for the sensation of his wet laps against you.

“Please, baby,” you beg. “You feel so good, you’re making me feel soo good. I love you so much. Please let me cum.” You’re full on sobbing, hips writhing to get any sensation in.

Satoru, at your display, seems to give in, because he’s coming in once more, giving you a sweet little kiss on your clit. You nearly ascend.

He’s diving in, making a rhythm of dipping his tongue into your entrance and coming back to give sloppily wet laps on your clit. It’s when he groans while his tongue is inside, hot air and vibrations needily simulating your clit, that you come up with a gasp. You roll your hips, Satoru giving you little licks to help you ride out your orgasm.

For how hard you came, you’re bucking your hips frantically, body on a mind of its own as you almost fall off the counter. Satoru has to grip your thighs to prevent that potential injury and rubs soothing circles on the outside of your thigh as you pant, wetness and sweat likely painting the counter beneath you. It’s not until your breath returns back to it’s normal pace that you notice Satoru’s head against your thighs, looking up at you with lovesick eyes.

You’re probably giving him the same look back, you realize, given he made you ascend to heaven and back. He gives an affectionate kiss to your mound, moaning corny shit like “Your pussy tastes sweeter than the brownie.”

And then he stands up, knees popping on the way back up, and despite your fucked out state, you can’t help but giggle. “You old man with the popping knee caps.”

He glares at you playfully, but you know his expression too well to know there’s no real offense in it. “Hey. Rude to say that after I just made you cum your brains out.”

”And you’re about to get the same thing,” you purr, putting a hand on his hard-on. He hisses but looks at you with lust blown eyes as he grabs the back of your thighs to carry you to your shared bedroom.

Yes, rainy days do mean baking with Satoru, but not without intimacy with your even sweeter boyfriend in bed.

general masterlist

comment or reblog to let me know your thoughts! I appreciate all of them <3

a/n lol this was a bitch to write. this might be a word soup or salad or whatever for all readers and that’s ok! I’ve written this primarily at 1am so…

eugh ok im going back to writing ch5 of bridgerton!gojo and fixing the em dashes in this post when i wake up LOL