#GIVE ME SOMETHING INKI!!!!!! ANYTHING

[yangjeongin]

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[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

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“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

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thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[sobbingscripter]

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋💙་༘Morning Glow˚˖𓍢ִ💙.ִ࿐

Tags: [mlw][mdni][AGED UP!Damian Wayne][somnophilia][oral (m! receiving)][palette cleanser][drabble][established relationship]

Word count: 1196

Having a boyfriend is the human equivalent of having a skateboard.

You take it outside, you show it off, sometimes you fall off when you're riding it and sometimes, you end up on your knees.

The nice thing about having Damian, however, was his uncanny love for experimentation. A love that granted you consent to do whatever you wanted to him, within reasonable bounds, of course.

Damian sleeps soundly, brows furrowed into that perpetual little frown he seems to have constantly, lips tugged downwards and his arm tossed over his forehead. One muscular thigh peeks out from beneath the Egyptian cotton, while the other thigh remains raised, spread obscenely wide.

Steady breaths leave him, his broad chest heaving, the golden locket around his neck resting limply to the side of him, and you sit up just a bit, your movements quiet and precise, as you carefully move his hair away from his forehead, leaning down to press a kiss against the flesh.

He doesn't stir, simply letting out a heavier breath, a relaxed sigh as he shifts his hips, and your eyes lower.

It might be a bad idea.

But if boyfriend ASMR taught you anything, it's probably not.

You shimmy beneath the covers, positioning yourself between sinewy thighs, and you carefully peel down his boxers, just enough for your hand to pull his still soft cock out from beneath the fabric. You've seen it soft before, but there's something so sweetly intimate about seeing it now.

And a little bit terrifying because it looks like it's nearly half a ruler's length.

You wrap your hand around him, feeling the warmth of his flesh and your gaze darts up at him from beneath the covers, watching the way his breaths deepen and you're so gentle when you tongue at his slit. Tasting the taste of precum that seems to leak at even the slightest sensation.

Damian's brows twitch just a bit, his hips shifting but he keeps his legs asplayed, which is a big bonus because he would most likely, be able to crush your skull.

Soft, pouty lips wrap around the flushed head, and Damian's brows scrunch, his hips lifting the tiniest bit and a shaky breath leaves parted lips.

But he stays asleep.

You can feel the cutest twitches against your tongue, and you take him just a bit deeper, feeling the way warmth oozes onto your tongue, and he gasps softly, brows pinching and lips tugging into the most adorable little frown as he tries to figure out the warmth. All without waking up.

You feel the way he hardens in your mouth, cock stiffening to the stature of a board against the roof of your mouth and you watch the way his arm moves from his forehead, instead, resting above his head. And his face buries itself in his bulging bicep, a poor attempt at hiding the blush that overtakes his features but the way his ears burn a bright red almost makes you coo.

"I love you more when you're not calling me a degenerate." You murmur softly, head tilting as you drag your tongue up the side, wet muscle tracing the veins that bulge beneath the surface before your tongue curls around his tip.

You feel the way his hips twitch, desperately trying to get more of the warmth and you give in easily.

Manicured nails carefully feeding yourself inch by inch, while your free hand cards and scratches at the tufts on his pubic bone. Inky strands in a neat little trail that makes you drool whenever you catch a glimpse and you feel Damian hit the back of your throat.

Your eyes nearly bulge, and you nearly gag, but you tuck your thumb in the palm of your hand, your fingers folding so gently over the pudgy digit and you breathe through your nose.

That's basically all you can do as you bob your head beneath the covers, lips wrapping around his cock so prettily and your thighs clench when Damian lets out that sleepy 'oh' sound, perfect lips forming an 'o' and his brows raise.

Washboard abs dip inwards, the edges of his ribcage poking out the tiniest bit as he lets out a gasp, lashes fluttering but heavy eyelids keep his eyes shut.

Although, you do suppose thats what happens when he gets home at 3AM, sweaty and musky.

You doubt he even showered properly before crawling into bed beside you.

You can still smell the sweat clinging to his skin, alongside the scent of smoke and oud, cardamom sprinkling and tickling your senses just a bit.

The smell is intoxicating and your nails dig into your palm when his hips buck just enough to hit the back of your throat, and make your lungs burn at the sensation.

"Mmfff....—s'good..." Damian's voice is sleepy, a loopy sound, his plump bottom lip wedging itself between his pearly teeth because even in slumber, Damian Wayne will never get caught letting out a whine.

He breathes out your name so prettily, his back arching and his body shifting as his thighs twitch, nearly clamping but just enough to brush at the shells of your ears. Before falling back to their previous position.

"...ssssuck...mo— ah— more..." Damian instructs, barely intelligible and so, so sexy to hear.

To watch the way his chest heaves, sweat prickling at his skin, his brows knitting into a groan and his lips parting to let out those pretty sighs that make you breathless.

"Juss...the...tip, just— fuck— jusst the tip...",

And you follow his instructions, your head lifting and you focus on his pretty, swollen tip. A fiery red mushroom-y head, beads of precum rolling down his saliva-coated base and your tongue flicks at his slit, once, twice, thrice and he moans.

A low cadence that makes your pussy throb, undoubtedly making you leak through your cotton panties and you sigh around him.

"Juss...like...thatt.."

Damian sighs, hand moving on it's own. Undoubtedly preparing to grope at his hardness, through what should be the dampened and slick fabric of his boxers, but instead, muscular, tawny fingers curl in your hair.

And Damian fists the strands, tightly and painfully, his eyes shooting open and he meets your gaze.

Emerald pools burn, full brows arched and creased, a face burning with realisation and his tongue drags across his teeth, coming to a stop at his canine before a breath leaves him.

His grip on your hair relaxes, fingers massaging away the stinging pain of your scalp and his head tips back against the fluffed up pillows.

You raise your head, letting him slip out of your mouth with a wet 'pop!' and he bounces up, reaching just below his navel.

"G'morning." You chirp sweetly, voice just a bit slurred and he grumbles.

His lashes fluttering shut once more.

"Keep sucking, degenerate. The time for pleasantries is long gone."

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[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #43

Stitches

Imagine dis…

I was just cleaning my room when I came across an old stuffed toy of mine. It is full of stitches like an amateur trying surgery for the first time and flopping it. I just remembered sewing my stuffed toy together as a kid. Like I was playing on them too harshly or one of my younger siblings got a hold of it and roughed it all up. So when I noticed my mom had no time to help me stitch my toy, I did it myself and the results varied…

…

John Constantine, aka the Laughing Magician, wasn’t an idiot. A drunk? Absolutely. A smoker? You bet. Had the worst bloody taste in romantic or sexual partners? Well, that’s a given. But an idiot? Not a chance. He knew, better than most, that the world he lived in was held together by nothing more than spit, lies, and a hell of a lot of bloody stubbornness.

But lately, something felt off…

Every time some wanker in a bright-colored cape and spandex punched, both literally and figuratively, through time or ripped an open hole to another dimension, it began as if reality was fixing itself.

He still remembered the bloody heart attack he nearly had the first time he read those sodding reports on time travel and dimension hopping. The second his eyes skimmed over the first few lines, he buggered off without so much as a goodbye, diving headfirst into the mess to sniff out whatever godawful consequences those spandex-clad pillocks had left in their wake. So imagine his surprise when, after dragging his sorry arse across the whole damn world, he found… nothing.

Not a damn thing.

No lingering paradoxes, no dangerous tears leaking out eldritch nightmares. It wasn’t natural. And anything unnatural coming from the bastard that split his soul like some two-bit, overachieving Voldemort, made his skin crawl.

So, like any poor sod with a knack for bad decisions and a bloody inconvenient conscience, he followed the ripples.

And that’s how he ended up standing in the inky void between worlds, a cig hanging off his lips, watching some scrawny teenager go to the fabric of reality that was torn apart by yet another one of those bloody spandex-wearing tossers, with a needle, like the universe had personally pissed in his pint.

The kid sat cross-legged in the void, stabbing his bloody needle through the fabric of space-time, and from the looks of it he was fueled by nothing but caffeine and a serious dose of spite. The thread he was using was bright blue, flickering with silver and white specks. Like tiny stars in each thread. Each stitch yanked the frayed edges of existence together, a bit rougher than necessary, like he was pissed off at the whole damn universe.

Constantine blew out a long stream of smoke, taking in the mess around him with a grimace. A sorry bloody sight, that’s for sure.

The kid had already clocked the audience, rolling his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. He didn’t even bother with a glance, clearly unimpressed.

The kid introduced himself as Danny, then stretched out another few feet of thread and got back to stitching, like he hadn’t a care in the world.

The kid, Danny, if Constantine heard right, grunted, clearly unimpressed. He didn’t stop working, shoulders hunched in exhaustion like he’d been doing this for far too long. The whole cosmic janitor routine: they rip holes, he stitches 'em up. Same old, same old.

Bloody typical.

Constantine crouched down, eyeing the erratic stitching with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. This wasn’t normal, not by a long shot.

Danny let out a sharp, humorless laugh, clearly fed up. He jabbed the needle into a particularly stubborn tear with all the force of someone who'd had enough. The sarcasm practically dripped from him. Seems he was well and truly done with his unglamorous role in this cosmic mess.

Constantine felt a prickle of unease, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He didn’t need to ask, but he did anyway.

What happens if you stop?

Danny’s response was all sarcasm and sass, if there was any doubt left, it was gone now. He didn’t even need to elaborate. The answer was bloody obvious if the kid, Danny, ever stopped stitching.

Danny snorted, flashing Constantine a wicked grin, all teeth and mischief. The kind of smile that made his gut twist.

Ah. Bugger.

Constantine didn’t need a bloody prophecy to know what that meant. If the kid stopped, the world wouldn’t just fall apart it would unravel, slow and steady, like a seamstress unpicking stitches, one by one, until nothing was left. And worse? There’d be no afterlife waiting to catch the poor sods caught in the collapse. No heaven, no hell, no second chances. Just the abyss, swallowing everything whole. No way in. No way out.

Now Constantine was scrambling, doing everything in his power to keep the kid from buggering off while there were still holes left to patch. And, just as importantly, making sure those spandex-clad pillocks finally got the memo, no more bloody time travel or dimension-hopping shenanigans.

The kid must’ve clocked what he was up to because, without a word, he handed Constantine a green-glowing bat with “Creepstick” printed on the side. He didn’t think much of it at first up until, after one particularly miserable day, he swung the thing in frustration and accidentally clocked Superman, who had just been reaching out to ask if he was alright.

For a second, Constantine felt guilty. Then he remembered that the Kryptonian had probably punched more holes in reality than anyone else. That guilt? Gone. Replaced by pure, unfiltered glee.

With renewed purpose, he set his sights on the next offender, the red spandex speedster responsible for most of the timeline’s headaches. The rest of the heroes caught on quickly that he was on some kind of unholy warpath. So when he casually knocked the Man of Steel on his arse with a single swing and grinned like a serial killer who’d just found his next victim, they did the smart thing they got the hell out of his way.

Some of the ones with super-hearing overheard his next target: one of the Flashes.

Constantine knew damn well he wasn’t getting into any afterlife, but for fuck’s sake, if they didn’t stop tearing holes in the bloody universe, none of them would have a place to go. No heaven, no hell just the abyss waiting to swallow them whole. And he wasn’t about to let that happen on his watch.

…

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: I tried using Constantine POV throughout the entire prompt and as you can see that I over did at the Brit slang.

PPPS: Though, how did I do?….

[ysaefinn]

Pairing: Dilf!Satoru Gojo x gn!reader x Dilf!Suguru geto

In a marriage you pick up each other's slack.

It's a partnership first and foremost, spouses don't have to necessarily operate as a merged unit but it should always be them against the problem.

Suguru is an extraordinary cook, nothing short of an artist with his tools and ingredients. An alchemist with spices and sauces, and a surgeon with knives. Two big calloused hands coming down on the freshly put-together batch of dough, effortlessly kneading away at the mass, shaping it so ~so~ easily into whatever shapes he desires. It's a little odd to think this but there's something...~sensual~ about it, maybe it's the casualness, maybe it's because it almost feels like a subtle reminder of what he can do, that you are yet to see his physical abilities meet their limit. Regardless, the display coupled with the golden rays of the sun, shining on his unwavering gentle smile, reflecting on the silver strands of his contrasting inky locks, giving the illusion of crystals meticulously woven in each strand. Suguru puts angels to shame.

Satoru rests on the other side of the coin. According to the silver-headed man, brute force is the only way around a car engine, you can't possibly get a vehicle to start moving without giving it some maintenance with your fist. Lifting heavy parts and maneuvering them requires a lot of strength and stamina, both are qualities that Satoru has managed to retain throughout the years. Rough fingers easily popping small pieces on and off, inserting rods and poles with a swift push of his hip. The black engine oil that seeps out is quickly nipped in the bud with a rough thumb shoved into the leaking hole. And once the problem is solved he runs his whole hand through his pure white hair and cracks his typical joke of turning into his husband before giggling to himself every time. It's very sloppy and messy the way he goes about things, but as long as it gets him where he needs to be, he won't be changing the way he operates.

It doesn't make Suguru the happiest man in the world watching his husband beat a non-living object somehow to death, he couldn't even entertain the thought of going about things the way his husband does. But that's what Satoru's here for! To take care of the things Suguru would rather not and vice versa, –since the white-haired man doesn't have the patience for marinating chicken or baking food for hours–.

Because in a marriage you pick up each other's slack!

–

"That's my baby.." you finally reach your peak with a drawn-out whine, coating Suguru's entire hand in the process, the man wastes no time licking his finger clean from your slick while running his other large hand up and down your tummy "you're doing so well, sweet thing" he moves his palm around your waist before squeezing at your flesh gently and you shudder in response "making us so proud like always, sweetheart". "Satoru, focus on keeping those pretty wrists together, we're working on being braver and not hiding our face, right?".

Right, this was a lesson.

By the time your vision clears from your orgasm, Satoru has finished wiping off the juices you left on his face from your earlier climax, and he takes the chance to kiss your drowsy self rough and messy catching you completely off guard. He's ripped away from you just as quickly by the hair.

Suguru's hands are more than capable of being cruel and unforgiving when it comes to you.

"Be gentle" Suguru scolds, an icy cold tone –almost unrecognizable– "they're still sensitive" and he's back to cooing sweetly again, Suguru is only ever this mean because he knows his husband can handle the heat.

The silver-haired man falls back with a grumble "Ugh, you never let me do anything" he whines childishly, earning a playful raised brow from his husband. "That's only because you don't know how to be gentle" Suguru counters "You brute.." A warm heavy hand rests on your head before petting you like a well-loved kitten, as if the smallest of sudden movements can hurt or distress you. "You have to be gentle with them. They can't handle how rough you get at times, Satoru".

Oh he doesn't have the slightest idea.

You can definitely without a single shadow of a doubt handle Satoru when he gets his hands on you. Unlike his husband, Satoru listens to your requests of a rougher pace loud and clear and gives you exactly what you wish for –something Suguru has never approved of. But on the other hand, he is much softer and more intimate with you when his head is between your thighs. Suguru however, would rather watch you squirm and whine and cry from that same angle. Now that is what you can't handle.

And it makes sense because in a marriage you pick up each other's slack!

"Can't handle how rough I get?" Satoru scoffs before looking back at you and lovingly rubbing your thighs "Seems Sugu doesn't know the first fuckin' thing about what you can and can't handle sweethe–A-ah!" Suguru interrupts his husband's sass by yanking him by the hair again and pulling him in for a kiss. All teeth all saliva.

Satoru pulls away to catch his breath, lips bitten and swollen crack into a smug grin. "Daaww you mad? Jealous that you know you hold yourself back? What kind of boyfriend are you Sugu~?"

It's really all in good fun –it would be at least, if this didn't question his dedication to caring for you to a degree– but his jaw still clenches and his eyes narrow as if challenging the man. He is undoubtedly bothered, yet still chooses the high road to ensure you continue to be in the spotlight. Classic.

The long-haired man releases his grip and moves over to scoop you up in his arms, he slides his hands from your waist down to your thighs before spreading your legs wide open for his husband. You jolt back and sink more into his plush chest, clearly still overstimulated from the previous peaks they forced you to reach. Suguru coos before kissing your cheeks sweetly and whispering something about not being shy or trying to hide from them.

"Use your mouth for something useful for once" he gestures to your aching core "come on, don't keep them waiting".

And Satoru gets into position without another word– for now–, moving forward and placing your legs over his shoulders, he pecks your left inner thigh before looking straight at you, –Azure flames shocking your senses, a strange cold sensation washes over you– sending shivers down your spine. It doesn't pass unnoticed, your men exchange fond looks.

It's like your little reactions are bonding moments for them.

But as long as Satoru's in the room, it wouldn't last.

"See? Very responsive. There's clearly a favorite~" Satoru purrs, and his husband rolls his eyes "Giving good head doesn't make you a better lover, Satoru" he scoffs, but still refuses to derail "But keeping our baby needy certainly makes you a terrible one, doesn't it sweetie?" Again, a noticeable softness in his tone when he turns to address you. "Now come on, get on with it"

"I want you to admit it first"

Suguru sighs "...you are good with your mouth".

"Just picking up your slack. That's marriage after all!"

[connorsui]

Bound by Diamonds - Sylus x reader

Genre/warnings: pure fluff, established relationship between the both of you, teasing, sweet kiss, darry ring (a literal soulmate ring), no warnings …unless you want to say no to his proposal..

Synopsis: Sylus carefully plans the perfect moment to present you with a lifelong promise.

Note: the most expensive darry ring is well over 150 grand in U.S currency …that is the equivalent of $5 dollars in Sylus money

w.c: 2,119

VIP: @zanyssins (I thought u might like this ...)

The night felt like something out of a dream, the kind you didn’t want to wake up from. The streets were alive with the hum of the city, the faint glow of the streetlights illuminating the sidewalk as Sylus guided you toward the restaurant. His hand was warm, steady, wrapped around yours with a casual but firm grip that spoke of his protectiveness—a gesture you had come to know well over the years.

Sylus, as always, had made sure every detail was perfect. The air held a cool crispness, carrying with it the subtle scent of rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. His steps were confident, exuding the quiet authority that made heads turn as you walked into the grand entrance of the restaurant. You caught a glimpse of the way people shifted in their seats, straightening as he passed, their gazes following him with a mixture of respect and curiosity. There was no denying Sylus held power, not just in your life, but in the world beyond it. He had a presence that commanded attention, but with you, it was softer, more intimate.

The host greeted you with an almost reverential nod, leading the two of you through the dimly lit space. The restaurant itself was an oasis of luxury—high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that sparkled like clusters of stars, and soft music playing in the background, barely audible but creating a calm ambiance. Sylus had arranged for a private room, of course. He always did when it came to moments like these. Privacy was something he valued when it came to you.

As the waiter opened the door to your secluded table, your breath caught in your throat. The room was stunning—glass walls on three sides that offered a panoramic view of the city below. The lights from the skyscrapers stretched out endlessly, flickering like tiny diamonds in the distance. You could see the entire skyline, the towering structures glittering against the inky black sky. It was the kind of view that made you feel like you were floating above the world, a private escape far away from the chaos below.

Sylus gave your hand a gentle squeeze, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he led you to the table. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, that signature teasing note dancing in his words.

You turned to him, catching the way the city’s lights reflected in his eyes—those mesmerizing crimson eyes that never failed to draw you in. They burned with intensity, as if every emotion he felt for you was captured in their depths. You smiled softly, feeling your heart flutter as you nodded. “It’s far greater than beauty… it’s stunning.”

Sylus’s gaze never left you, a smile playing on his lips as he leaned closer, his voice soft and intimate. “And yet, as stunning as this view is, it pales in comparison to the radiance you bring into my life. To me, you are the true masterpiece—more breathtaking than any cityscape, more precious than anything im bound to give you”

He countered smoothly, pulling out your chair with the kind of grace and charm that was so uniquely Sylus. “Tonight, let me show you just how much you mean to me,” he said, his eyes holding yours with a deep, earnest gaze. “Because you deserve to know that, no matter where we are or what we’re doing, you are the center of my universe.”

Heat flushed your cheeks, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “Please, if you keep talking like that you might as well make me believe in total perfection ” you teased, lowering yourself into the plush seat. The cushions were soft, molding to your form, and the table was adorned with a single candle flickering in the center, casting a warm, romantic glow over everything.

Sylus took his seat across from you, his long fingers playing with the edge of the menu, though his attention never wavered from you. “It’s not about being perfect, sweetheart,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the flame of the candle reflecting in his eyes. “It’s about being honest”

There was something in his tone tonight—something deeper, more deliberate. You could feel it, the way his gaze lingered on your face, the way his fingers tapped idly against the table as if holding back some secret. But for now, you let it slide, content to fall into the easy rhythm of your usual banter.

For a while, the two of you talked, slipping effortlessly into conversation like you always did. You told him about your day, about the little frustrations and victories at work, the mundane details of life that seemed so much more interesting when shared with him. Sylus listened with the same rapt attention he always gave you, his eyes softening as he watched you speak, a small smile playing on his lips.

“ — I would love for the both of us to have some peace together …alone” you smiled, leaning back in your chair, “I know everything has become so demanding these days – so, having something cozy as a cabin would be sweet”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his wine glass. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you want a getaway?” His smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Because you know I’m always game for spoiling you.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips. “You spoil me enough as it is. Sometimes I think you’re trying to make me a little too used to luxury.”

He chuckled, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Only the best for my love. Besides, why wouldn't you think you deserve it. You deserve everything.”

His words were so sincere, so full of warmth that it made your heart swell in your chest. You looked down at your glass for a moment, trying to hide the way your pulse quickened under his intense gaze. “You’re too good to me, Sylus.”

His eyes darkened slightly, a more serious expression crossing his face. “I don’t think you realize how much I mean that,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Before you could respond, the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine Sylus had chosen—a rare vintage, no doubt, something he’d picked specifically for the occasion. He poured two glasses with expert precision, and Sylus raised his in a silent toast.

“To you,” he said, his voice soft, reverent. “To us.”

You clink your glass gently against his, taking a sip of the rich, velvety wine. It was perfect, of course, just like everything Sylus planned. But as the conversation continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was on his mind, something unspoken.

It was in the way he watched you—his eyes never leaving your face, even as you spoke about the most mundane details of your day. He was always attentive, but tonight, it was different. There was a weight in his gaze, a quiet intensity that seemed to hum between you like a current of electricity.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table in that familiar, thoughtful way. He reached into his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate, and your breath caught in your throat when you saw the small, black velvet box in his hand.

Your heart pounded as he set it on the table between you, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows over the velvet. “Sylus…”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted gently, his voice barely above a whisper. His crimson eyes were locked on yours, filled with a tenderness that took your breath away. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment, the perfect time, the perfect setting, but I realized…that each moment I have tried — my mind couldnt conjure the right words out of my mouth …the right sentence ..or the right feeling ..everything felt out of place ..but tonight is different–this ring is different”

He slid the box across the table, his fingers brushing yours as he did, sending a spark of warmth through you. “This is a promise, sweetheart. A promise that no matter what happens, no matter where life takes us, I’m yours. Always.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you opened the box, revealing a stunning diamond ring nestled inside. It wasn’t just any ring—it was a Darry Ring, a once-in-a-lifetime promise. You’d heard of them before. The kind of ring that symbolized true love, loyalty, and commitment. Sylus had chosen this for you.

“I… Sylus..” you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked up at him, the tears threatening to spill over.

Sylus stood then, moving around the table to kneel beside you, his hands gently cupping your face as he smiled softly. “You don’t have to say anything, love. The only thing I would ask is for you to please stay with me”

Your breath hitched as you nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks as you threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Yes, I’ll stay with you. Forever.”

He pulled you closer, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering kiss. It was soft and gentle at first, but as the moment deepened, it became more passionate, filled with all the love and promise he had for you. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that perfect bubble of intimacy.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were sparkling with a mixture of love and mischief. “A promise ..more of a bound between our souls, don't you think?”

You smiled through your tears, the weight of the ring on your finger a beautiful reminder of his commitment. “gods, you say the most ..its perfection is what it is”your voice still tinged with emotion.

Sylus stood, helping you to your feet, and pulled you into a close embrace, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pressed another tender kiss to your lips. This kiss was soft and full of promise, a sweet punctuation to the heartfelt words and gestures that had defined your evening.

He guided you towards the glass walls of the private room, where the breathtaking view of the city seemed to sparkle even more brightly now. The air outside was crisp, carrying the faintest scent of blooming flowers from the terrace. Sylus led you to the private terrace he had arranged—a cozy space adorned with plush cushions and blankets, perfect for a serene escape under the stars.

The terrace was illuminated by a soft, ambient light from string fairy lights that twinkled overhead. The city lights below glittered like a field of diamonds, their reflections mingling with the soft glow of the lights above. Sylus settled you into the cushions, his hand gently brushing against your cheek as he sat beside you, pulling you close.

“This is where we’ll end our evening,” he said, his voice tender and filled with affection. “Just the two of us, surrounded by all the stars of the night.”

You nestled against him, feeling the warmth and comfort of his presence as you both sank into the soft cushions. Sylus’s arm draped around your shoulders, pulling you into a snug embrace. The peaceful quiet of the night was punctuated only by the occasional distant murmur of the city below and the soft rustling of the wind.

As you looked out over the city, Sylus’s gaze never wavered from you. His eyes were filled with a love so deep it seemed to shimmer in the gentle light. “In a world full of fleeting moments” he murmured, his lips close to your ear, “this is one I want to hold onto forever with you”

You turned your head to look up at him, your heart swelling with a profound sense of happiness. “it almost feels surreal…”

Sylus’s eyes softened even further, his expression a blend of affection and admiration as he pressed a final, soft kiss to your lips. “It's a reality I wish to keep you in”

The night stretched out before you, filled with the promise of many more moments like this. As you lay together on the terrace, wrapped in each other’s arms, the city lights below and the stars above seemed to echo the love and commitment you had just sealed with a kiss. In that perfect moment, you knew that no matter what the future held, you had found something truly special—a promise of forever, made in the glow of love and a diamond ring.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧

Note Part two: I wrote this while listening to Mario Kart Rainbow Road Music! Also a darry ring is a fancy French ring that once you get it — you must sign both of ur names that this relationship is forever and ever and you can't get a second ring for another relationship!

[songbirdseung]

𝑮𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑵   𝑳𝑨𝑩 he usually says yes to everything you ask, gives you what you need, makes you happy, all that. so? what's gonna happen when he says no to you asking to dye his hair brown again? SCREW BLONDE JAKE, I WANT BABY BROWN IKEU

“Oh come on, Jake! It’s just hair.”

You were currently straddling your boyfriend’s lap on the couch, halfway through your third movie of the night. Well, until you got sidetracked by the lead actor’s hair transformation. Chestnut brown. Soft. Shiny. Exactly like Jake’s when he first debuted.

And now, you were tugging at his hoodie with your best pleading look, completely derailing the movie marathon in pursuit of a very important cause: bringing back Golden Retriever Jake Sim™.

“Exactly,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “My hair. My choice.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, hands moving up to run through his inky black strands. “Don’t give me that bulls-”

“I’ll have to get permission to do that,” he interrupted, deadpan. “From my team.”

“You’re a grown 22-year-old man,” you snapped back, tugging lightly at his hair in protest.

He just laughed, leaning back into the couch like he knew you couldn’t do anything about it. And maybe he was right.

But you were not the type to give up that easily.

You loved chestnut Jake. You missed it. That warm, golden hue that made him look like he walked straight out of a puppy adoption commercial. Your golden boy. And sure, he looked criminally good in black, but there was something nostalgic soft about the brown.

So. If you couldn’t convince him with logic, charm, or whining... then maybe it was time for drastic measures.

Cut to: you, standing in the bathroom with a bottle of his fancy shampoo in one hand, and a box of drugstore chestnut brown dye in the other. A genius plan, if you said so yourself. Sneak it in. Let it work its magic. He’d look in the mirror, gasp in horror, and then grow to love it. Right?

Right.

Except...

You left the bathroom door open.

And Jake, apparently, came home early.

You froze just as you were unscrewing the dye bottle, about to pour a little bit into his shampoo when you heard that familiar lazy, teasing, amused voice.

“Whatcha up to, pretty baby?”

You stiffened.

Slowly, you turned your head, and there he was leaning on the bathroom doorframe with one eyebrow arched, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just walked into a live betrayal scene.

It didn’t even faze you. You just blinked at him. Looked back at the bottles in your hands.

And internally sighed: Oh great. I failed.

Jake cocked his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “Is that... is that my shampoo?”

You didn’t answer.

“And is that...” he squinted, taking a lazy step into the bathroom, “a box of hair dye?”

Still no answer. Just you, staring like a raccoon caught in the fridge.

“Y/N,” he dragged out your name, clearly enjoying himself now. “Were you seriously about to dye my hair behind my back?”

You offered him a sheepish shrug. “Maybe?”

He laughed loud, belly-deep, like he couldn’t believe the audacity.

“Do you hate me or something?” he asked through laughter. “Because this feels like sabotage.”

You placed both bottles down on the counter and held your hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, yes, fine. I miss your brown hair. I was trying to... help?”

“Help?” Jake repeated, stepping closer, hands sliding around your waist. “You were trying to ambush me. In my own home. While I was defenseless.”

“You would’ve looked so cute, though,” you pouted, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Don’t you miss it just a little?”

He hummed, pretending to think. “I mean... I could go brown again. Eventually.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?!”

Jake smirked, leaning down, his lips brushing your ear. “But now I’m definitely not doing it. Because you tried to poison me with hair dye, Y/N.”

Jake leaned in to kiss your cheek, grinning. “Nice try, pretty baby. But you’re gonna have to earn chestnut Jake back the right way.”

“And what’s the ‘right way?’” you asked, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“Oh, you’ll see,” he winked. “But just know... payback’s coming.”

[luxcuriousao3]

Based on this post by @dante-mightdie . One line of dialogue taken directly from it so all credit for that goes to them!

Warnings: misunderstandings, mentions of murder (no violence or murder actually happens), pregnancy, no smut, ~1200 words

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed your declaration was nerve wracking, and you drummed your fingers against the dashboard of Simon’s car. You’d been coming back to the pub you met him at for three weeks straight since that damn test had turned up positive, wanting—no, needing—to at least tell the man who’d knocked you up about his baby growing inside you. You didn’t expect anything from him, not really. He was a stranger, a ruggedly attractive man you’d gone home with after one too many drinks. Not that you’d regretted hooking up with him, he was as good in bed as he was hot—or at least you hadn’t until you’d missed your period.

You’d nearly given up on meeting him again when you walked into the pub today and saw him in the same corner booth he’d sat in last time, nursing a pint. He hadn’t smiled when he’d seen you, but his eyes had locked onto you and not strayed as you strode towards him, nervous but determined. When you’d asked to speak to him in private, he’d raised a single brow, letting the silence stretch on for so long you were sure he’d say no. But then he’d just gotten up and walked towards the door, holding it open for you and clicking his tongue when he turned around to see you frozen in place. Like a misbehaving child being scolded, you’d scrambled towards him, whispering a stuttered thanks and then following him to his car, cheeks hot.

The car in which you now sat, still stifled by silence as Simon just stared at you, face blank and giving nothing away. You swallowed thickly, a shaking hand pressing against your belly, a habit you’d unconsciously picked up over the last few weeks. Simon’s dark, penetrating eyes tracked the movement, lingering for a long moment before he suddenly reached over you, ignoring your surprised flinch to grab your seat belt and buckle you in. Before you could ask what he was doing, he’d thrown the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot, making you grip the handle above you for dear life.

“S-Simon, what— what are you doing?” You asked, doing your best to keep the tremor out of your voice. Simon just grunted. “We have— we have to talk about our options—”

“What options?” He asked, voice flat and deadly. “Ring options? Mortgage options? Paint swatches f’the nursery?”

You shut up, tears stinging your eyes at his mocking. You weren’t going to ask him for any of that, but it still hurt to hear him be so cruel. You turned away to look out the window, the light from the streetlamps the only thing penetrating the inky darkness of the night. Shadows crawled out from the forest, making a shiver run down your spine.

“Just take me home,” you whispered, dejected. “Please…”

“I am,” Simon answered, still in that same emotionless tone.

You didn’t know if you believed him.

Your gut feeling was proven right when he parked the car in an abandoned lot, wooded and secluded and a perfect place to murder the mother of his unwanted child before disposing of your body. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat as he climbed out of the car and walked around to your side, opening the door and holding out his hand for you. You stared at him, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in the headlights. He huffed in what could have been amusement but was probably annoyance, reaching over you once again to unbuckle you before scooping you up and carrying you deeper into the lot.

“See that tree?” He asked, nodding towards a sturdy looking oak. “That one branch stickin’ out’d make a good place ta hang something from.”

Oh my God, you thought, feeling dizzy and nauseous. Is he going to hang me and make it look like a suicide?

“There’s a pond down there,” he continued, and to your minor relief, walked right past the tree. When you reached the pond a minute later, he finally set you back on your feet. “S’dangerous. Fully grown man could drown in it.”

You flinched, your breathing picking up. He’s going to drown me instead. Simon turned to look back up the hill he’d just carried you down, his back facing you. It was now or never. If you wanted to live, you needed to run.

“Gonna have to build a fence ‘round it. Not too high though, don’t want ta mess up the view from the house—”

You didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying, already halfway up the hill by the time he cut himself off. A gruff, angry “hey!” had you moving double time, nearly clawing at the ground just to get to the top faster.

You didn’t make it.

Strong, thick arms wrapped around your middle and lifted you in the air, and you screamed, shrill and terrified.

“No! No! Let me go!” You begged as you flailed in Simon’s firm grip. It was useless—he was so much stronger than you, so much larger than you, and his hold on you was unbreakable. He didn’t say anything as he carried you back down the hill, towards the pond, towards your death, and your shrieks turned into sobs as big, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. You were hyperventilating, now, animal panic wrapping its hands around your throat and squeezing, cutting off your air. Or maybe those were Simon’s hands? You didn’t know, you couldn’t think straight through the fear. All you knew was that you didn’t want to die.

“Thinkin’ we could name the baby John, if it’s a boy.”

The words filtered through your panic after an indeterminate amount of time, and you slowly came back to yourself, the blackness leaving your vision. The first thing you noticed was that you were cradled in Simon’s lap, face tucked into the crook of his neck as he murmured softly in your ear. The next thing you noticed was that one of his hands was rubbing your back soothingly, while the other rested on your belly. You let out a confused, snotty croak, and his voice quieted, before he pulled back a bit to look down at you.

“You back with us, love?” He asked, but then gently shushed you when you whined. “Shh, s’alright. Try not ta get all worked up again, hmm? S’not good for the baby.”

“But— but— but you don’t want it,” you whispered. Simon blinked at you, the slightest of furrows appearing between his brows. “You’re g-gonna kill me…”

“Am I now?” He tsked. “That’s not very nice of me.”

You whimpered, squirming in his lap and trying to get free. His face softened minutely, and he started rubbing your back again, still not letting go.

“Shh, shh,” he repeated. “S’alright, love. M’not gonna hurt ya. Was just makin’ a shite joke, yeah?”

It took another few minutes of you struggling (and failing) to escape, and him cooing gruff reassurances at you, before you gave up.

“You’re not gonna kill me?” You finally sniffled, scrubbing at your wet, red-rimmed eyes. Simon’s lips twitched into an almost-smile, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You relaxed, practically melting into him as your heart rate started to slow. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe Simon really wasn’t dangerous.

“I’d eat my gun ‘fore I hurt ya or our baby,” he vowed.

You stiffened again.

“You have a gun?!”

[kissingraine]

Small excerpt for Grendel King cus....🫣

Bury a Friend — Grendel King x f!Reader

• The jungle reeked of blood and ash, barely making you flinch anymore as you sat down in a small clearing filled with luminous viridian blood and your own crimson one. Lungs punctured and streaks of blood trailing down your nostrils. Pretty sure you're on the brink of sleeping forever. But you're not. You won't. Your hands are scratched raw from digging—stone and bone barely give a shit about human skin. You'd wrapped your best friend's body in the tattered flag of your wrecked camp, stubborn fingers with bleeding nails tying each corner like it mattered. Like it'd hold her together and she'd wake up again.

• But you know better than anyone that she won't. That it's partially your fault you couldn't have protected her better, a sinkhole forming in your chest and threatening to swallow you and your surroundings. It did. For a short moment, you drowned in that inky darkness. Moving on instinct and watching through your eyes like a camera lens as if your life was a tragic movie.

“You cannot carry her weight to the stars,” a deep, bone-rattling voice emerged from behind your crouched form.

He'd never met anything so vicious. Fury so bright it could burn an entire galactic system. Your strength is undeniable in the midst of four bodies that were once his proud warriors. He was warned by his council of an ooman's indomitable will. He just didn't think you could go this far. Then again, he's been collecting fleshy champions for so long he shouldn't be surprised. Still, he is.

• The alien steps closer and you bare your teeth, lips curling and eyes wide with murderous intent. “Decide now.” It continued to say in that warbly tone that came from his metal wristband. Turning, you find the Grendel King standing half-shrouded by the smoke—towering and brutal. Mandibles flaring, but his eyes—those terrible, intelligent crimson orbs—watched you with something like curiosity. Or maybe adjacent pity.

“She's going home,” you say hoarsely but filled with wrathful conviction. “Even if I have to walk the whole damn way. She's going home.”

A long silence and he steps forward, claws clicking like he's unsure how to react accordingly. Because this isn't protocol. He bent, reaching for the second ooman's body until you intercepted. Fingers broken but a grip so tight it incites his instincts. They're screaming. Kill this one. Don't even think about bringing her onto your ship. Keeping her.

You blink, tears having flowed continuously that a vessel popped and now it's spreading across the whites of your eyes. His tongue flexes behind sharp mandibles, wanting to taste.

“I will do it. Then, you can do whatever you want with me.” Insisting, you let go and hoist up the body before you even as your bone creaks. Straining from the weight of a body going rigor mortis. He chuffs but follows you, spinal cape rattling as it trails behind. A charge, just until you've said your mortal goodbyes. Not because he wants to see if you'll snap at him again. Certainly not.

[iamespecter]

My phone's battery keeps dying (I think something's wrong with it) but I cooked a little bit more on this Doctor!Caine and Patient!Pomni idea.... and this may or may not become bigger than The Amazing Digital Roadtrip.....

My mental illness cannot be contained!!!!!!!!!!!! Also these designs are subject to change because yes ✌️

Things I've come up with last afternoon while going crazy from the lack of dopamine are:

- Abstraction is currently determined to be a terminal illness

- It's contagious via skin-on-skin contact, and can be inherited through genes

- it can even bloom late in life, but that doesn't mean everyone that the patient has touched before is immediately affected

- The physical symptoms are inky black "cracks" forming along the skin, physical degradation, loss of saturation and many more

- Depending on a lot of factors, this illness can be aggressive, or at most be dormant.

- Once it reaches the patient's brain, it is too late

- But the progress of abstraction can also be delayed through amputation, depending on where the "source" is

- It only really affects "organic" stuff

- Which means AI robots are immune, and can touch the patient as much as they want without risk of infecting themselves

- Kinger is the CEO/Founder of the AI Association that focuses on the research about Abstraction, and how to cure it

- He is also, strangely enough, kinda immune? idek he seems fine except he's a bit cuckoo

- Because of it's contagiousness, people who suffer from the abstraction illness are GREATLY FEARED by others

- People who have the illness have to wear a lot of protection (such as gloves, face mask, etc.) in order to even interact with the outside world

- They also need to have their AI Doctor/Nurse with them AT ALL TIMES.

About the main pairing:

- Pomni is the only daughter of Kinger and the late Queenie

- She used to be more upbeat early in her life, until Queenie passed. She then became depressed, and it only got worse as her illness began to show and she became cynical as a result, believing she'll die early, and alone

- Caine was named and created based off of the image of Pomni's imaginary friend during her childhood, in order to ease her into accepting Caine as her personal doctor

- This did NOT, in fact, ease her into accepting Caine as her personal doctor because what the fuck.

- Pomni hates AIs for being unable to save Queenie.

- She also thinks that her new doctor won’t be able to save her, and that her dad’s efforts to delay her situation are fruitless.

- Part of her still clings onto hope. However, said part is also dying.

- Caine is a test prototype of a model that’s supposed to handle (and even possibly cure) the symptoms of abstraction, so there’s defo a lotta pressure on his shoulders

- Especially when he gets assigned to SPECIFICALLY THE DAUGHTER OF THE CEO WHO OWNS HIM

- He’s also one of the first AIs to not only be psuedo-sentient, but also self-evolving; in order to be able to adjust to patient needs and wants.

- He can “manifest” anything physical as long as it’s within the size limit of his own physical manifestation. For example, if Pomni is hyperventilating; he can manifest a pair of artificial lungs that pump oxygen in order to give her breathing space. (You know what that means)

- Not only is he able to float, he is also able to carry Pomni like she weighs like a couple of grapes because this is not me being self-indulgent and thinking he should carry her bridal style all the time (lie), this is me saying “it’s for emergencies when Pomni is too weak to even stand or walk”

- Pomni hated Caine A LOT at first because she hated having to be co-dependent on this walking life support so yes this is an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers kinda story (except it was one-sided "enemies")

- As the story progresses, Pomni clings onto the hope of not just surviving, but also living again; as Caine learns what it means to be not just existing, but alive!!! because me and my homies love stories about positivity and hope amongst shitty situations!!!!

- And then they fuck. Oh yes, they fuck eventually. And they fuck a lot after that

I don’t care this is MY story, MY AU, I will do whatever the fuck I want!!!!! RAAAAAAAAAAAA

I have no idea if I want some of the gang to be AI Doctors/Nurses too but erm. we'll see

[leftoverpages]

Loyalty’s embrace

Pairing 𓅪 Benjicot "Davos" Blackwood x betrothed!reader

Tags 𓅪 jealous and protective Benjicot, small fight scene (no gore), fluff at the end, romance, reader uses she/her but no physical description

Notes: i have been writing for a while without posting anything so this is making me nervous lmaooo

Wordcount 𓅪 1.3k

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The grand ballroom of Blackwood Manor was awash with warm candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. The air was filled with the scent of roses and the clinking of crystal glasses. Lady Y/N stood at the edge of the room, a vision in her resplendent gown. Her dress, a masterpiece of crimson silk and midnight velvet, flowed around her like a river of fire and shadow. The bodice, embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread, clung to her form, highlighting her grace and strength. Across her chest and shoulders, the Blackwood sigil was proudly displayed, a symbol of her new allegiance and her own fierce spirit.

The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, every movement sending ripples of light and shadow cascading over her. The skirt, full and layered, swirled around her feet like a tempest, the deep red contrasting beautifully with the inky black. A delicate gold chain rested at her throat, drawing attention to the elegant curve of her neck.

She stood there as her betrothed, Benjicot Blackwood, engaged in conversation with several lords and ladies. She found herself alone for the moment, sipping a glass of champagne and watching the festivities from afar.

Despite the grandeur, there was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Being betrothed to Benjicot, the fierce and enigmatic heir of House Blackwood, was both an honor and a daunting reality. Their engagement was more strategic than romantic, a union meant to strengthen alliances and secure power. Still, she had hoped to find some genuine connection with him, something to hold onto amidst the political machinations.

"Lady Y/N, you look ravishing tonight," a voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see Lord Cedric, a notorious flirt and known for his less-than-honorable intentions, standing far too close for comfort.

"Thank you, Lord Cedric," she replied, forcing a polite smile and taking a small step back.

He didn’t seem to notice—or care. "It's a shame you're tied down to Blackwood. A beauty like you deserves better," he said, his eyes raking all over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

"I am perfectly content with my betrothal, Lord Cedric," she replied firmly, trying to edge away. But Cedric persisted, moving closer, his hand reaching to touch her arm.

"Come now, Y/N, you can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it would be like to be with someone else," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

Before she could respond, a strong hand gripped Cedric's wrist, pulling him away from her. "I believe the lady has made herself clear," Benjicot’s voice was low and dangerous, his dark eyes blazing with anger.

Cedric paled but tried to maintain his bravado. "I meant no harm, Blackwood. Just a bit of fun," he stammered, taking a step back.

Benjicot stepped between Cedric and Y/N, his posture tense and protective. "Your idea of fun is clearly misguided," he said coldly. "If I ever see you bothering her again, I will not be so forgiving."

Cedric sneered, his fear giving way to indignation. "And what will you do, Blackwood, uh? Throw me out of your pretty little ball?"

A dangerous glint appeared in Benjicot’s eyes. "No, Cedric. I’ll do much worse."

Before Cedric could react, Benjicot’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. The ballroom fell silent, guests suddenly turning to witness the confrontation. Cedric, recovering from the initial shock, lunged at Benjicot with a roar, swinging wildly.

Benjicot dodged, his movements controlled and precise. He landed another punch to Cedric's midsection, doubling him over. "You don’t know to quit, do you?" Benjicot muttered, grabbing Cedric by the collar and lifting him to his feet.

"Enough!" Cedric spat, struggling against Benjicot’s grip. "You think you can control everything? Even her?"

Benjicot’s eyes darkened further. "I don’t need to control her, Cedric. I trust her. Something you clearly don’t understand."

With that, Benjicot shoved Cedric away, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. Cedric, breathing heavily and bruised, glared up at him. "This isn’t over, Blackwood."

"It is," Benjicot replied coldly. "And if you value your life, you’ll stay away from her."

Guards approached then, at Benjicot’s silent command, hauling Cedric to his feet and escorting him out of the ballroom. The guests slowly resumed their conversations, the tension dissipating, but whispers of the altercation lingered.

Benjicot turned to Y/N, his expression softening as he reached out to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, but her composure faltered, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank you, Ben. I didn’t know what to do..."

He stepped closer, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek. "You never have to face such things alone. Not while I'm here."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Instead, she found a depth of concern and protectiveness that took her by surprise. She had always seen him as distant, a warrior hardened by duty, but now she glimpsed the man beneath the armor.

"Why do you care?" she asked softly, her voice trembling.

Benjicot sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know our betrothal was arranged, but that doesn't mean I don't care for your well-being. I've come to admire your strength and grace, Y/N. I want us to be more than just a political alliance."

Her heart skipped a beat at his words. She had longed for some indication that he felt more than obligation towards her. "I want that too, Ben," she whispered.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that made her heart flutter. "Then let's make it so," he said, taking her hand in his. "Together."

As they stood there, hand in hand amidst the glittering ballroom, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her.

Benjicot glanced around the room, the tension in his shoulders easing. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes filled with a tender resolve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice soft and inviting.

Y/N felt her breath catch. She nodded, unable to speak, and he led her to the center of the ballroom. The musicians, sensing the moment, began to play a slow, melodic waltz.

As they took their positions, Benjicot's arm encircled her waist, his hand warm and steady. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he guided her with a grace that belied his warrior's demeanor. They began to move, their steps perfectly in sync, the world around them fading into a blur of light and sound.

The music swirled around them, a symphony of emotions. They glided across the floor, each step a silent conversation. Y/N felt as if they were floating, the dance a magical respite from the political intrigue and uncertainty that had shadowed their engagement.

Benjicot's eyes never left hers, their dark depths reflecting a myriad of emotions. In that moment, she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a burgeoning hope that perhaps their union could be more than just a strategic alliance.

The music swelled, and Benjicot spun her gracefully, her dress flaring out like a crimson and black flower. When they came back together, he held her a little closer, his gaze softening even further.

"I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want us to be more than a political alliance. I want to know you, Y/N. To truly understand you."

She smiled, her heart fluttering with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "And I want to know you, Ben."

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, they came to a gentle stop. The guests around them erupted into applause, but Y/N and Benjicot remained in their own world, their gazes locked.

"Thank you for the dance," Y/N said softly.

Benjicot brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. "The pleasure was mine," he replied.

In that moment, surrounded by the approving smiles of their peers, Y/N felt something shift. The alliance they had been forced into was beginning to transform into something real, something hopeful.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time, she felt truly seen and protected. And perhaps, just perhaps, they could find love in each other’s arms.

[lustlovehart]

Despairing Survival

I recently watched all of us are dead, and your girl is not immune to apocalypse au’s (•̀ᴗ•́)و (And angst. The ending of book 7 has me realizing we're close to the end and it's becoming real sad 😔)

Synopsis: After your sacrifice in the outbreak, he thinks back to the moments in the wretchedness with you, that made hell much more manageable.

Features: Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil, Vil, Idia, & Malleus

Warnings: Overblots are zombies, Meant to be viewed as a magicless au but doesn’t matter too much because non-humans are still not human, Angst, Childhood friends, You die, as usual for my fluff— a little corny, in Malleus's portion you're as old as him, because idk how childhood friends would work if you weren't.

One day you’re living an entirely normal life with him, and the next you know, inky beasts crawl on the floor, desperate to take a bite out of you. It´s whiplash, one moment you´re laughing with the man in front of you, and now you sit trapped in a closet, his hand covering your mouth as monsters drag themselves across the floor.

When he looks down at you, he can't help but feel a sting in his heart. The fear in your eyes reminds him of who you are in front of him, his friend who's been the center of his mind ever since knowing you.

But now, how will he ever come to terms with his inner conflict knowing one of you might not be here tomorrow. Though, what might be worse, is acknowledging the fact you don't return those feelings of his.

He will only ever be your friend.

Both of you have to fight for your lives in NRC as overblots chase you left and right, meeting with other students to get out of the wretched hellscape. Seeing friends you've known for so long become infected from their fight... Having to let them go with tears in your eyes, realizing you will never see them again.

He watches you with every breath, your second shadow, becoming your crutch as the losses become too much. While everyone else sleeps, he looks as you stare down at everyone, opening your mouth to say something to him. As your lip twitches, he'll hold your hand.

"Don't say anything. We have tomorrow, and the day after, or maybe next week." You finally lift your head, looking into his eyes, "We'll talk then."

...

And then, the termination of all infected is brought about. And he's left gasping for air in panic as you step away from him.

A newly enacted bite on your hand.

Even when you put your arm up to stop him from getting closer, he keeps walking toward you.

"You... You won't turn. You can't." you don't smile when you look at him, and neither do you say words. All you can hope is that he understands no matter what he believes, he can't deny reality.

The others stare in disbelief, watching the two of you with trembling breath. He's ready to yell another delusion before you pull him in, your lips on his. It's enough of a distraction for him, your soul welding into his. It feels like an eternity to him, but only because he wishes it to be. When you finally separate, he's ready to take hold of you and never let go. But he doesn't have a chance with you pushing him back into the others.

"Don't die."

Arms desperately hold him back from chasing you. The only fragment of you left is the voice that echoes as you lure overblots to your person, giving them a chance of escape.

He doesn't have the chance to see if you make it, the explosion blowing where you last were to pieces.

Riddle

He looks back at the time you all were caged in the library, only you and him solely being awake. Despite the gravity of the situation, you watch intently as Riddle buries himself in the few books left on the shelves.

A vast majority of them are medical books, but there are some law articles, buried at the bottom of the stack. He can feel your eyes on him as he scans each page, but he doesn't speak, only allowing you to continue staring in the silence.

It reminds him of the way you always peeked over his shoulder when he snuck out, curious to whatever he was doing. The proximity always made him nervous then, and it still does.

"You know, I don't think you have to keep studying anymore, Riddle." you finally break the quiet, Riddle glancing up from the words on the paper. "Who knows when this will be all over... Medical pursuits might as well end here."

"Don't say that, you might as well be saying to let the world die. When this passes over, I still need to pass..." Riddle's sentence falls away when you come closer, turning his head to find you a few inches away.

"I'm not trying to be negative I was just..." There's a certain hurt in your eyes that tells him something, but he isn't so sure until you tell him, "If the world does go back, do you really want to keep studying something you're not passionate about? I mean..." Riddle's eyes are trained on you as you rest your head on his shoulder. "Your mom's not here to do anything right?"

There's a comforting smile on your lips when you look at him. But it falters when he only stares at you in silence. You return your head to his body, following along the page. He's about to blurt his feelings to you before he feels your hand on his, replacing the anatomy book with the texts from the bottom.

"Well then, tell me everything, for as long as you can."

...

Riddle places the book at the root of a tree with your name carved on it. He wishes he had more time to tell you the rest of what he knows.

Leona

He thinks of when you all were trapped on the roof, his body lying on the edge as he looks into the sky, indifference masking his face. Part of his body hangs off the roof, overblots several stories below attempting to reach for him.

"I hope you're not trying to leave me alone in this apocalypse, Kingscholar." your shadow overcasts him, blocking his view of the stars. He tuts, but he won't tell you he prefers the sight of you over those burning balls of fire in the sky. He sits up, taking your hand and pulling you next to him.

It's similar to the way he would drag you closer to him when you both were younger, shielding you from heat and any danger.

"Don't think I can. You'd follow me into the afterlife and make me die a second time." You don't deny the claim, but he smiles with the way you roll your eyes at him. He watches you ready a retort but sees in real-time when you change your mind on what to say to him.

"... Yeah, I don't know what i'd do if you died." Those words have him look over at you, eyes wide for a moment. He recomposes himself before you have the chance to see it though. "I wouldn't have anyone to annoy while I give into insanity, would I?" despite the dark undertone in your words, you flash him a bright smile.

"... Don't say depressing shit like that."

"Then don't casually hang yourself at a height that could kill you Leona." he never would've let that happen anyway, he can't leave you here.

"Right right, I won't-" he's cut off when he feels your arms wrap around him, a warm embrace that has you bury your face into his neck, muffling your voice.

"Lets survive together."

...

He doesn't know if he should feel sad or angry when he looks at the ruined building. It seems that was the first agreement the two of you have ever broken.

Azul

He remembers holing up in the pool, everyone else talking on pool floats, far from where the two of you were. Azul sat next to you, dry and out of the pool, meanwhile, you sat right on the edge, your legs submerged in the light of the water.

Silence permeates the air, he can tell you're upset at him.

You always did the same when he was younger, turning away from him whenever he said something self-deprecating. You wouldn't speak to him until he said something positive about himself, to which you would turn around and smile. It always did make him feel better.

"If we end up having to run, I do hope you don't slip from the water on your feet."

"Well, maybe you could carry- Oh right you're not too strong in that area are you?" passive aggression is evident, so he understands you don't truly mean what you say to him. Silently, he scoots closer, testing the waters as to what you can tolerate from him. When he's shoulder to shoulder, he finally asks.

"... So what did I do exactly."

"Be stupid." a very vague reply. Typical from how long he's known you. He's sure he can suave his way out of your annoyance. He's ready to put on his charm and apologize all princely to you. He halts when he feels your hand grip tightly onto his. "... Don't disappear by yourself again..." You don't look at him when you say it, it sends a pang in his heart at the sight.

"... I was making sure you'd have-"

"Please, just... Don't leave me again. I... I'd miss you so much."

...

When he looks out at the sea, he no longer thinks home. He thinks about how you're such a hypocrite.

Jamil

He recalls when it was only the two of you trapped in the kitchen together. He insisted on gathering up leftovers for you so that you'd have enough energy for however long you'd be stuck in the school.

But, with how low supplies were, and the thought that there could be other survivors, had you deny him vehemently. The amount of ingredients could only really feed one person, and even then it wouldn't be enough sustenance.

You were always like this... helping when you didn't need to when you needed to care for yourself... It's frustrating, but, he can't deny the feeling of his heart softening when you care for him. It... was nice not having to work.

"You won't be able to find others if you can't even survive yourself." Jamil massages his nose bridge as you block the pantry, guarding the last few cans of food. "So please, let me make something for you."

"I'm sorry, but if there are other people who need it..." you zone out for a moment, allowing space in time for Jamil to take hold of you and hoist you over his shoulder. "Wha—Jamil...!" despite your struggles, his strength has him successfully sit you on one of the counters.

"You can't care for any other survivors if you can't care for yourself." you hiss when Jamil pinches your nose in reprimand. "So-"

"Then why aren't you eating for yourself?" your question has him quiet. "... I'd be fine with you eating the food if it's for you." ... Your naivety for survival has him frustrated, but the way you look at him has him soften. He's thinking of a reply but stops when he feels your fingers brush his hair behind his ear, a cold can on his lips.

"I'd be fine with anything as long as you don't die."

...

He shouldn't have listened to that sweet voice of yours. If he hadn't, maybe you could've dodged that bite in time.

Vil

He muses on being stuck in the theater room with you. It wasn’t the best place to be in during an outbreak, but it was the only place you could go to really. Vil places a blanket that had been left behind on your body, your head resting on destroyed couch cushions. It’s not the best, but all he could really provide you with.

He pauses for a moment looking down at your slumbering body, your inhales audible through the room. Typically, he would tell you about such a bad habit, but in the moment, he thinks he wants you to stay like that. It helps him remember that you’re there next to him in the hell that is reality.

The soft smile on his lips falls when he realizes what he’s about to do for you. But, it doesn’t fall because of his sacrifice, no… That’s really the only thing that has him ready to go through with it. The part that has him frowning is the cruel joke that you will no longer be there in his life, nor will he be there for yours.

He takes a few more seconds to absorb you, before standing up and turning heel to the door. Of course, he’s stopped by your hand pulling on his clothes. He should reprimand you for that, but the way you look at him holds him back.

“Where are you going Vil?” Your voice is still hoarse from the night you spent crying away. But it has him stiffen. “… You’re not leaving right?”

He should tell you the painful truth. Yes, he is. All because he needs you to live on, no matter the cost. He’s not going to let himself die, but if he must for your sake…

“… Don’t.”

“… It’s really not that simple—” you tug his shirt, his lithe figure falling on top of you. He thinks his acting skills always coincidentally fail whenever you’re involved because he’s sure you can see the way his perfect eyebrows furrow at the sight of you below him. He knows that the longer he looks at you the harder it’ll be to do what he has to… “It’s for you—”

“Nothing should be for only me… Vil…” say that one word, and it’s over for him. “Stay.”

…

A part of him wonders why you couldn’t listen to your own demands whenever he looks around his own dressing room.

Idia

He thinks you might’ve been his biggest nemesis, especially with that hero moment you pulled on him. He hates it so much, that he should be envious... You're basically a main character now...! Which...

Which means... you should come back right? To him?

Idia mentally replays when you both were stuck in the computer lab. The stuff in there wasn't nearly as high-tech as his own, but to him, it was better than being stuck in the gymnasium. A majority of the computers inside were wrecked, and unusable. A single screen worked though, Idia's fingers clicking the keyboard as you lean over him.

With the way he slams the table tells you something went wrong.

"There's no wifi...!" he leans back in the chair, burying his face in his hands. You can tell he's in distress, anyone would be. "How are we gonna get out—?!" Idia feels your hands pull him from his conflict, your eyes staring deep into his.

... You can't expect him to function properly when the friend he's been in love with for years is in kissing distance. His hair grows bright, the feeling of your hands on his face only making it flare even more.

"We'll get out." His lips part... Usually, this is where two love interest kiss right— He's cruelly reminded, however, that he's only a friend to you. Nothing more than the boy you played video games with. "Idia."

"Y-Yeah...?"

"Let's leave together, and play every game there is to play."

...

You never did get to play those games. And for once, Idia doesn't think he wants to play them anymore.

Malleus

He dreams of you. Specifically, he always finds himself in the gardens. It's a grotesque sight, overblots banging on the exterior, trying all manner of force to get in where the both of you stand. He's looking around, thinking of any way to get out without putting you in harm's way.

His face is stoic as he does it, an attempt to keep you calm while he thinks. Yet, you know him, if anything, despite his face, he's the one that needs to calm down. Coincidentally, you're one of the few who can do that.

"Stay here, I will go out and—" Malleus is interrupted by the feeling of your arm hooking onto his and dragging him far away from the view of the dead. "Wait, what are—" Despite questioning your actions, he doesn't attempt to stop them, he never has.

The feeling of you dragging him away is the equivalent of sneaking into the castle and bringing him out of his lonely solace, unknown to the senate. It's the only time back then, he would converse with anyone other than Lilia and the elders.

He will never stop you from dragging him away, not in reality, and not in his dreams.

"We're staying here until you make a plan that has us both put in danger." you shut the door of the garden shed, hiding you both from the hungry beasts that bang on the botanical garden's glass. Your arms are crossed as you look at him, and even with these circumstances, he can't help but think you make everything much livelier.

He knows the unfortunate answer to his feelings about you, but he will always imagine himself indulging in his deep rooted love.

But he still can't ever let harm come to you.

"Forgive me, but I can't." He takes a step closer to you, "I'm not letting that happen." He lets his words ruminate, your silence suffocating when he turns to leave. He's stopped when you pull him back, your arms hugging him from behind.

"It would be too lonely without you, Malleus."

...

Once again, he's the one who's left to be alone. And... He really thought you were the one to change that.

mmm... Reader and them having a Su-Hyeok (Former bully) and Nam-ra (Class President) dynamic instead... Being a halfbie desperate for human while (Insert Twst Character) desperately keeps you tethered to him because he's so in love... Sorry, my sadness from that series combined with book 7 hit hard 😔

[chilkstuff]

I think I saw this on a hc fic with mc and the housewardens (it legit made me cry) but I can’t remember where or who posted it (and I’ve been looking for that post for so long 💀) but the hc was where Grim’s magic pen started to get ink spots on it (because he kept using his magic) and he notices a little too late. But grim doesn’t overblot, instead it’s yuu who does.

Idk, I like the idea since both grim and yuu are connected in some ways, and grim is basically yuu’s “familiar” it would be yuu who has to deal with it, to transform into a inky mess.

But can you imagine? Yuu and grim finally snapping together, Grim on the floor crying or yelling as ink starts to form, everyone trying to calm him down until they see yuu approaching him, and they think “oh, the perfect will snap him out of it, they’ll calm him down.”

So yuu kneels down and gentle picks up grim who’s yelling, maybe scratching yuu a bit but eventually gives into yuu’s hug, and everyone thinking crisis avoided. But then they start hearing yuu’s words like “I know we’re both tired, but we’ll get through it together” or something and then suddenly, ink starts to leak from the both of them as grim and yuu hug each other tighter, and before anyone can do anything, it’s too late.

… like just imagine fr fr, and like if this is really grim’s overblot look, then like, ob!yuu would literally have a cool ass chimera grim as they both full on destroy everything in their path, I know that’s bad,,, but like cmon, who wouldn’t want a pet chimera.

[skmhlml]

Note: next I’m thinking of doing a sassy Enderman. Playing Minecraft while doing this. Big mama is a cave dweller 😈🙏

𝑬𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝑭!𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓

Ask: Do you think the Enderman would absolutely love to look F!reader in the eyes while doing the devils tango just to read all their thoughts on the situation?

Warning: jaw dropping, dick throbbing, cock sucking, mouth drooling, grandmama kicking headcannons.

(divider made by @sisterlucifergraphics)

He craves understanding—deep, primal knowledge of what’s yours, what’s his, and how tightly he can entwine the two until there’s no difference.

The moment you meet his eyes—those swirling, luminescent galaxies of violet and void—you’re caught. Not just in the usual “don’t look or he’ll aggro” kind of way, no. You’re ensnared in a far more intimate trap: his ability to see into you. Your fear. Your desire. Every pulse of lust, every flicker of resistance. It’s like a psychic thread between you two, and during sex? It becomes something transcendent.

He’s not gentle—never truly gentle, not with a body buzzing with teleportation energy and a need to own you from the inside out. Every movement is a claim. Every thrust, deep and aching, is laced with barely restrained hunger. But the moment he tilts your chin up, long fingers curling under your jaw, and forces you to look into his eyes—it’s over.

And that just makes him go harder. The more conflicted, flustered, needy you become, the more possessive his touch gets. He’s obsessed with the push and pull of your psyche—of watching your mind crumble beneath the pleasure he gives you. He doesn’t need you to say anything out loud; your thoughts, screaming in raw, electric pleasure, are so much better.

His eyes glow brighter when you’re on the edge, and you swear you can feel him inside your mind whispering things.

He doesn’t let you look away, either. Tries to lock your gaze until the exact moment you fall apart—wants to watch your thoughts spiral into incoherence when you cum around him, overwhelmed by the weight of his body and the power of his stare.

He doesn’t just want to fuck your body—he wants to own your soul.

Beneath that smooth, tall, void-like body lies a nest of tendrils—inky black, shifting with an eerie sort of grace, like smoke made solid. They emerge from his lower abdomen, twitching and writhing in anticipation the moment he has you exactly where he wants you: bare, pinned, and shaking under his gaze.

The first time you feel one of them coil around your thigh, it’s curious. Looking in your eyes to see your reaction…Teasing. Cold. But it warms quickly, pulsing with heat and need—mirroring his own arousal.

Then there’s two. Three. One wrapped around your throat, holding—not choking, but commanding. Another stroking between your thighs with obscene precision, as if it’s memorized the way your body reacts.

And when he finally slides one inside you, it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt.

His eyes squint and tilt to the side in adoration.

It’s flexible, not like any human cock, and it moves inside you, wriggling and curling with impossible angles—designed to hit every spot you didn’t know you had. He watches your mind shatter in real time, those glowing eyes locked onto yours like a predator cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every little synapse firing off in your overwhelmed brain.

Your thoughts scream:

This shouldn’t feel good—what is that? What is he doing to me?”

“More, more, more—please, fuck—”

He drinks it in…

And just when you think you’ve reached your limit? Another tendril slides in. Stretching you, curling up into you like it’s rearranging your insides to mold to his shape. Two working in tandem, pulsing, moving in rhythm. One curling around your nipple, teasing. Another lashing gently at your clit, flicking and stroking with hypnotic precision. It’s overwhelming—a symphony of sensations that shouldn’t even be possible.

He’s not speaking, but his mind presses against yours with words you feel more than hear:

“Let me in. Let me break you. You don’t need to think anymore, just feel me—fill you—own you.”

And you do

You unravel under him, your body not just fucked but conquered. Your mind isn’t safe either—he’s crawled into your thoughts like a virus. By the time he’s done with you, you’re trembling, twitching, ruined. Barely human anymore yourself, molded by the hands—and tendrils—of something older, darker.

[favefandomimagines]

Dress (j.b)

Summary: nothing goes together more than both Joe and his girlfriend feeling extra possessive

AN: this was PURELY self-indulgent but i think all the thirsty joe girls are gonna like this one lol also, possessive!joe is like my fave thing

SMUT soooo 18+ MDNI, oral, f!receiving (my first time writing anything spicy so be nice)

The suite was buzzing with the quiet chaos of glam prep — curling irons hissing, the soft thrum of music, the rustle of fabric. But Y/N was calm. Centered.

Sitting at the vanity in a silk robe, her bare legs crossed, she held her phone in one hand, scrolling idly, while a stylist gently dusted highlighter across her cheekbones.

Joe had texted her twenty minutes ago.

“Miss you already. Don’t forget to eat.”

It made her smile. He was never one for long, dramatic texts. He spoke in short, quiet declarations. The kind you felt in your bones. But they always came with a tenderness that made her heart twist.

She glanced at the dress hanging nearby.

It was bolder than she usually went for — deep, inky black with a dangerously high slit and a back that dipped low, almost scandalous in how little it left to the imagination. When she tried it on for her stylist a week ago, it didn’t just fit — it transformed her. Made her stand taller.

And tonight, she wanted Joe to feel it. To see her, and not just admire — but want.

She knew he did. He always did. But lately, there was a deeper pull between them. Something unspoken but heavy in the air.

As her team finished and filed out, she stood slowly and walked over to the mirror.

She let the robe slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Her fingers smoothed down her sides, over the soft black silk that now hugged her like a second skin.

The moment she slipped on her heels, she heard the door open.

He’d seen her beautiful more times than he could count — on red carpets, magazine covers, even curled up in sweats on their couch with her hair in a messy bun and an old hoodie of his.

But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for this.

He froze in the doorway.

She turned slowly, her hair in waves down her back, lips glossy, eyes locking on his.

“Hey,” she said, almost shyly.

Joe just stared.

“Okay…” she teased. “You’re either speechless or regretting your entire life with me.”

He blinked. “No. I just—” He stepped closer, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “You look… goddamn.”

She smiled slowly. “Is that a good ‘goddamn’?”

He walked right up to her, his hands finding her waist. The slit in the dress parted with the movement, revealing her smooth thigh.

His breath hitched.

“That’s not even fair,” he murmured.

She tilted her chin up. “You said I could wear whatever I wanted tonight.”

“I thought you’d pick something cute,” he said, brushing his hand over her exposed back. “Not something that’s gonna make me start fights.”

Her lips curled. “Jealous already?”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “You walk into that room and I know exactly how it’s gonna go.”

“How?”

“Everyone’s gonna look at you,” he said, voice low. “And I’ll want to break every camera in that building.”

She kissed him softly, hands on his chest. “But I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” he echoed, like he needed to say it aloud.

He stared at her a moment longer, then reached for her coat — reluctantly. “Let’s go before I change my mind and keep you here.”

||

Joe didn’t know what was wrong with him.

No, scratch that — he knew exactly what it was.

Y/N. In that damn dress.

He wasn’t one for PDA. Didn’t like giving the media anything they didn’t need. But the way her body moved in that gown, the way her hand fit into his, the soft floral perfume curling around his senses — it made every self-imposed boundary start to crack.

He didn’t want to just stand beside her. He wanted to hold her. Pull her into his lap. Kiss that gloss off her lips and dare anyone to say something.

And that scared him a little.

She laughed at something a reporter said, her head tilting just so, the curve of her throat exposed and glowing under the lights. He wanted his mouth there. Now.

Jesus.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the heat building in his chest.

They still had the whole night ahead of them.

The MET ceremony had gone off without a hitch. There were performances, speeches, and they were doing a good job at keeping themselves under control.

But the way Joe kept brushing his hand against her hip, the way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve — yeah, she was feeling it too.

At the afterparty, things got tense.

She leaned into him, whispering, “I’m grabbing another drink. Want anything?”

He shook his head, deep in conversation with Justin, hand resting lightly on her lower back.

She smiled, gave his hand a squeeze, and walked away.

It took two minutes.

Two minutes for some European-accented F1 driver to slink up beside her and flash a grin that screamed, I’m used to getting what I want.

“You are too beautiful to be alone,” he said smoothly.

She offered a polite smile. “Not alone. My boyfriend’s over there.” She pointed toward Joe.

The driver glanced over, not impressed. “He is lucky, then.”

Y/N’s smile dropped half a degree. “He knows it.”

But before she could say more, a strong arm circled her waist from behind.

Joe didn’t hear what the guy said. Didn’t need to.

He saw his body language. The lean. The smile. The look in his eyes.

That was enough.

Joe was across the room in seconds. He slid his arm around Y/N’s waist, pulling her against him, his lips brushing her ear as he said, “Everything good over here?”

Her smile curled, amused. “Jealous?”

He leaned in and kissed her — not hard, not showy, just firm. Possessive.

“I’m allowed,” he muttered. “You’re mine.”

Her eyes darkened, lips parted slightly. “Keep saying things like that and I might drag you to the nearest bathroom.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

||

Y/N didn’t expect the tables to turn so fast.

Joe was talking to Jalen and another actor, sipping his drink, when she approached — the model. The one with legs for days and a body that didn’t know the word no.

She laid a hand on Joe’s chest. Smiled like they were old friends. She laughed at something he didn’t say. He didn’t even remember her name.

Y/N watched from across the room, drink halfway to her lips, as a flash of mine surged in her blood.

She didn’t hesitate.

Crossing the floor, she slid her arm around Joe’s bicep and pressed herself into his side like she belonged there — because she did.

“Need another drink, baby?” she purred, letting her lips graze his jaw.

Joe blinked at her, surprise morphing into something darker. His arm slipped around her shoulders as he turned fully into her.

The model’s eyes narrowed. “Oh. The girlfriend. Right.”

Y/N smiled. “That’s right."

The model muttered some form of an apology but Joe wasn't listening.

Joe didn’t move. He just looked down at Y/N's arm still wrapped tightly around his bicep like she’d staked a claim.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “That was…”

“Too much?”

He turned in her arms, hands cupping her jaw gently. “No. That was hot as hell.”

Her lips quirked. “Yeah?”

He kissed her — not rough, not needy, but with the kind of slow reverence that made her knees weak. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more than I do right now.”

“You sure?” she teased breathlessly. “You were practically vibrating when that driver wouldn’t back off.”

He grinned. “I was two seconds from ending up on TMZ.”

“Please don’t get in a fight in a velvet suit.”

He laughed against her lips. “You make me crazy.”

“I know.”

He kissed her again — deeper this time, hands sliding down her back. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

||

The second the suite door shut, Joe’s restraint evaporated.

He turned and pushed her gently against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip.

“You liked seeing me jealous, huh?” he asked, mouth brushing her ear.

“You liked me getting jealous,” she fired back, hand sliding under his shirt. “Your ego’s still growing.”

“You’re the one who walked across the room like you were about to fuck someone up.”

“I was.”

He groaned, kissing her like he meant it. Tongue, teeth, all of it.

Her fingers clawed at his shirt. “Take this off. Now.”

He did.

Her dress followed — the soft slide of silk over her skin made his breath catch. No bra. Lace underwear.

“Jesus, baby…” he whispered, hands sliding over her breasts, her waist, down her thighs. “You’ve been torturing me all night.”

“You could’ve just taken me into a bathroom.”

“I’d rather take my time.”

She wasn’t sure how they got to the bed — one second she was against the wall, the next she was beneath him, legs parted, his mouth trailing fire down her stomach.

“You're always so calm in public,” she teased, arching under his touch. “But in private…”

“In private,” he said, voice gravel, “I want to hear you scream my name.”

He kissed her thighs. Then licked a slow line over her underwear, making her cry out.

“Joe—”

“You don’t know what it did to me,” he murmured against her skin. “Seeing other people want you. Seeing you only want me.”

“Then prove it.”

He looked up, eyes dark.

“Oh, I will.”

He peeled the lace off her like it was wrapping paper, then acted like a man possessed.

Tongue. Lips. Fingers. He took his time — slow at first, then faster, building her until her hips bucked and she was almost crying his name.

She came once. Twice.

And still he didn’t stop.

“Joe, please—”

He pulled back, mouth wet, pupils blown.

“You look so good like this,” he growled, unbuckling his belt. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

The way he looked at her — like worship and hunger and possession all tangled together — had her already breathless.

He flipped her beneath him in one swift, practiced motion, mouth trailing heat down her throat. His hands roamed like he was trying to memorize every inch of her all over again.

Every press of his lips, every slow thrust of his hips against hers still clothed in too many layers, was more intense than usual. He wasn’t just having her. He was claiming her.

“Tell me,” he growled softly, dragging his mouth down the valley between her breasts. “Tell me who you belong to.”

She arched into him. “You, Joe.”

His teeth grazed her skin, making her gasp. “Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” she cried, fisting her hands in his open shirt.

He kissed her then — messy, desperate — as he stripped away the last of her lingerie and finally pressed into her, bare skin to bare skin, in one long, perfect slide.

They both moaned, eyes locking, foreheads pressed together.

He moved slow at first, savoring her. But then her nails raked down his back, and something in him broke.

His thrusts grew deeper, rougher — but still reverent. Like every move said: mine, mine, mine.

Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, anchoring him to her. And when he slipped a hand between them and pressed just right — just so — she shattered.

Clenching around him, crying out his name, a sound that made his eyes roll back and his pace stutter.

He came with a low, wrecked groan, burying himself in her completely, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him together.

They lay tangled, skin hot, breaths slowing.

Joe kissed her shoulder, still panting. “You okay?”

She turned, pressed a hand to his chest. “Better than okay.”

He smiled — soft, private. The one only she got.

“You’re mine,” she whispered.

He rolled on top of her again, grin wicked.

“Say it louder.”

||

The first thing Y/N registered was the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel suite, painting everything in golden warmth. The second was the steady rise and fall of Joe’s chest beneath her cheek.

She didn’t remember falling asleep exactly — just the feel of his arms around her after, the weight of his body covering hers like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t. Now, curled against him in the early light, she didn’t want to move.

His skin was warm. His heartbeat, steady. One arm was slung over her waist possessively, even in sleep.

She smiled to herself.

Mine.

That was the word that echoed in her mind all night. And again now, soft and sure.

She lifted her head a little to look at him. His lashes were unfairly long for a guy. His hair was messy, crushed against the pillow, and there was a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw that she remembered scraping deliciously against her skin hours before.

He looked peaceful.

Until he cracked one eye open.

“You’re staring,” he rasped, voice sleep-wrecked and unfairly sexy for this hour.

Y/N grinned. “I like the view.”

His other eye opened. “Yeah?”

She nodded, kissing his bare chest just over his heart. “You’re very pretty in the morning.”

“I should be saying that to you,” he murmured, fingers brushing gently down her back. “You wrecked me last night.”

“You wrecked me.”

A beat passed. He smirked. “Call it even?”

She snorted softly and tucked her face into the crook of his neck. “Deal.”

Mornings like this? Joe lived for them.

No cameras. No pressure. Just Y/N, warm and sleepy in his arms, smelling like coconut and sex and everything that made his chest feel too full.

He looked down at her, the way her hair was tangled from his fingers, the little marks on her collarbone. She always said she liked when he lost control a little — but she didn’t realize what it did to him when she got jealous like that. Protective. Bold.

He still hadn’t fully recovered.

He smoothed her hair back gently, fingers threading through it.

“You hungry?” he asked.

She groaned. “Yes. But I also don’t want to move.”

“I could order room service.”

She perked up slightly. “Coffee?”

“Always.”

He reached for the phone with one hand, still holding her with the other. She watched him lazily, cheeks flushed from sleep, lips parted in a soft smile.

When he hung up, she propped herself up on her elbow. “Do we have to leave today?”

He shook his head. “Not until tomorrow.”

“Good,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Because I want one more day with you. No football. No cameras. Just us.”

His arms came around her, and he rolled her beneath him, eyes warm.

“You’ve got me, babe,” he said softly, forehead resting against hers. “All day. Always.”

She traced his jaw with her fingertips, brushing along the place where stubble met skin.

“You know,” she murmured, “I think last night made it pretty clear you’re off the market.”

“Oh yeah?” he teased. “You think that model got the message?”

“If she didn’t, I’ll send a louder one next time.”

Joe laughed, kissed her hard, then softer.

“You’re dangerous when you’re jealous.”

“You like it.”

He nodded. “I love it.”

Later, they ate breakfast in bed. Pancakes. Eggs. Coffee. All while tangled in the sheets, legs overlapped, laughing between bites.

He fed her a strawberry. She licked whipped cream off his finger. He watched her like she hung the moon.

They talked about everything and nothing — favorite road trip snacks, movies to rewatch, how much they both hated small talk at events. Relearning their favorite parts of the other. He traced the lines of the tattoo on her ribs while she played with his fingers on his other hand.

And when she yawned and laid her head on his chest again, he tightened his arms around her.

“You’re it for me,” he said suddenly.

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“You,” he said again, more softly. “You’re it.”

Her throat tightened. Her hand flattened over his heart. “You’re it for me, too.”

They didn’t say much more after that. They didn’t have to.

Sometimes love isn’t loud.

Sometimes, it’s the quiet morning after — when you wake up and realize there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than tangled in the arms of the one who knows all of you.

[jwnzlvr]

pretty

kinktober 2024 !! day one : fingering

pairing : park sunghoon x reader

summary : pretty boy fingering you.

wc : 900+

warnings : SMUT (mdni), fingering, teasing, hand kink lowk (highkey), cum eating

notes : first drabble back from the dead !! i hope you guys enjoy this, i really did try my best even with writers block lmao also i love hoon’s fingers they’re so pretty and yummy and MMMM

the cold air of the room made you shiver. you were fully exposed to sunghoon, your legs wide and your panties down. he held a predatory gaze as he looked down at your wet pussy.

“fuck… you need me that bad?” he muttered as he used his index and middle finger to spread your folds. the sight of your hole made him lick his lips. meanwhile, you nodded eagerly at his question.

you couldn’t get the image of his pretty hands out of your head. sunghoon on his own was just so pretty. throughout the whole day, you imagined those hands touching you, fondling you, slowly slipping down your dripping slit to tease you. you’d waited enough.

sunghoon almost grinned at how eager you seemed. his fingers moved up to your clit and tapped it softly. “words. speak up, love.” he instructed with a soft voice. it was smooth like honey, making you leak some more.

“want you so bad, hoonie! i’ve been wanting this all fucking day…” you whined as you looked into his eyes. you felt your need for him increasing by the second. and sunghoon couldn’t be more satisfied with your answer.

his fingers trailed back down to your wet hole, circling it slowly. he spread your slick all over with a toothy grin. his fangs poked out of said grin. he looked so fucking hot. “my pretty girl’s been wanting me all day? poor you, waiting for me for so long…”

he dragged his fingers up and down lazily as he spoke. he took pleasure in seeing your squirming, in hearing your small pleads for him to do something. anything.

“i guess it’d be mean for me to keep you waiting, wouldn’t it?” he asked in general. he didn’t except you to answer him as he moved his two fingers to your hole once again. you were so wet from his earlier ministrations that he slipped in with little resistance.

you let out a small sigh when you felt his fingers fill you up. you looked down at where his fingers disappeared inside of you. the small clench of your pussy around him let sunghoon know how much you loved this.

“you’re so warm, baby… can’t wait to have my dick in you.” he said as he began to slowly drag his fingers in and out of you. along with your small sounds of pleasure, there was a slight squelch. you were absolutely soaking.

his fingers began to speed themselves up after a few seconds. he knew you liked it from the way your sounds became a bit louder and your pussy squeezed him. “you like that?” he asked in a teasing voice. he already knew you did. but he still wanted to embarrass you just a bit.

you nodded once again, small whines being dragged out of you. he smiled and kept his fingers moving. he would occasionally court them just a bit. enough to make you moan but not long enough to make you cum from it.

“hoonie…” you whimper out at his movements. he looked up at you through strands of his inky black hair. he had a proud smile at your current state. your eyes slightly rolling back, your pussy dripping wet, and your small moaning calls of his name.

he didn’t respond to you. his other hand reached up to your neglected clit. with his thumb, he began to rub small circles onto it. the action made you give him a loud whimper. he couldn’t help the small laugh at your reaction.

he didn’t stop his movements. if anything, he only sped up. “too much?” he asked in between his laugh as he watched your eyes roll back completely. he was so mesmerized at how you looked while he fingered you.

you couldn’t even answer his question anymore. the pleasure was too overwhelming. maybe it was the pent up desire you had for him that made you feel like you’d reach your high soon. each movement of his fingers in you or on you made you want to sob.

sunghoon could feel the way your walls began to quiver around his fingers. he knew you so well. he knew you’d cum soon. he didn’t say anything about it, only speeding his movements up a bit more. he was so sure he’d get a hand cramp soon but it was worth it for you. he’d let his hand ache for a while just to see you cum around him.

the increased speed seemed to push you even closer to the edge. it was there, right there. and when he moved his fingers in you to hit another spot in you? it was over.

without any warning, you began to cum around him. a cry of his name your lips as you threw your head back in pleasure. “fuck! so good, so fucking good.” you moaned out as you kept cumming.

sunghoon watched you in awe as you came. the strain in his boxers only increased by watching you cum. he didn’t stop his movements as he fingered you through your orgasm. it wasn’t until you had to push his hands away that he stopped.

sunghoon stepped back from you, slipping his fingers out of you. they were absolutely drenched in your sticky, white cum. he mindlessly put the fingers in his mouth to clean himself off. “you always taste so good…” he whispered around his fingers as he licked himself clean.

you watched in complete arousal as he did that. your eyes began to trail down to his lower part. the boner he was sporting was so obvious and it almost looked painful.

wordlessly, you hopped off of your bed and got on your knees in front of hoon. “thank you, hoon. now… let me return the favor.” you spoke seductively as your warm hands slipped past the waistband of his pants.

he was definitely gonna finger you more often.

➯ kinktober 2024 m.list