#He’d do anything to make you feel better

[ryuucam]

HANDS OFF !

˓𓄹 ࣪˖ what’s their favorite part of your body? multi-fandom scenario

contains nsfw (duh), oral (both receiving and giving), handjobs, boobjobs/paizuri, marking (a disgusting amount tbf), lots of spit, nipple play, breeding, bondage (m! receiving YES!!!) sub!character but idk if anyone minds actually, ass slapping + ass play, last part is shorter bc i had no more ideas ..

notes writers block is so real u guys .. also i just spent 20€ on hsr somebody sedate me!!!! please!!!! (gallagher and sunday are almost in all of those i need a lobotomy)

he likes your HANDS, likes the way they’re smaller and softer than his. loves when you run them through his hair, even when you pinch his cheeks (even if they end up red and swollen after).

he’s the type of person that loves holding your hand during sex. it doesn’t matter if he’s being rough, or if it’s just gentle lovemaking, you best believe your hand is getting held tightly by his. it’s comforting, grounding, it shows you that he’s here, no matter what, and you can trust him to take care of you. when his hands are busy doing other things (such as keeping your legs open or restraining you from squirming so much), he likes having your hands holding onto his shoulders, or cupping his face, anything’s fine as long as you keep touching him.

handjobs are his guilty pleasure. sure, they may be nothing over the top, but he thinks there’s nothing as arousing as having your small hand (or hands) wrapped around his cock, doing your best to bob them up and down, even if the amount of precum he’s leaking makes everything so sticky and wet. he just sits back, enamored with the little huffs and puffs you let out every once in a while, struggling to grab his whole cock. but that’s what makes you so charming to him, how cute you look when you’re so intent on nursing on his dick, how you whine at him to just help you out. he’s not a mean man, but just this once he’ll just sit in silence watching you.

kaeya, ayato, alhaitham, kaveh, neuvillette, lyney, childe, kinich (genshin impact) welt, sampo, luocha, jiaoqiu, aventurine, gallagher, phainon, anaxa (honkai star rail) chigiri, kunigami, nagi, itoshi sae, kaiser (blue lock) byakuya, nagito, kokichi, rantaro (danganronpa) mikey (lazy ass), chifuyu, ran (lazy ass n2), nahoya “angry”, kokonoi (tokyo revengers) dazai, ranpo, fukuzawa, tachihara, odasaku, jouno, nikolai (bungou stray dogs) deku, aizawa, sero, mirio, dabi (my hero academia) hinata, oikawa, iwaizumi, matsukawa, semi, kenma, yaku, akaashi, suna (haikyuu) whitney, syndey, wren, brian (degrees of lewdity) gojo, shiu, nanami, sukuna (jujutsu kaisen)

he likes your THIGHS, and likes napping on them even more. regardless of how much he likes to laze around, the soft skin always lulls him into a deep sleep. and when he’s not sleeping, he’s tracing countless patterns on them as he talks about his day - or listens to yours. he bites you sometimes, then licks and kisses the skin better. call him a freak, but he’d die for your thighs, no questions asked.

have you guys ever seen those memes that are like “i’d be happy to die crushed by my gf’s thighs”? that’s him. point blank. he spends hours and hours between your legs, overstimulating you to the point of tears, and the more you cry and try to close your legs the more he enjoys it and keeps going. he starts by kissing your legs, inching closer and closer to your core, leaving numerous hickeys and bite marks all over your inner thighs. when he starts sucking and licking your clit, his hands squeeze the fat of your thighs, further bruising the flesh. you can’t even get mad at him, really, because the massages and creams and who-knows-what he gives you during aftercare makes up for it.

when you’re not feeling like having full on sex, you both agreed on letting him fuck your thighs. it’s a win-win, really, since he gets off and you can lay down and rest (as much as you can while having your boyfriend rutting in your legs from the back, to be fair). the slick coats your skin, making it easy for his cock to slide in and out of your thighs. his tip peeks out from the front, red and throbbing while he overstimulates himself. he groans in your ears, about how “you feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart, you’re such a doll for letting me fuck you like this”. well, you can’t really resist him when he’s like this, so when his cock doesn’t go down after the nth orgasm he’s had, you just tell him to fuck you properly. he can’t wait.

diluc, albedo, xiao, gaming, zhongli, kazuha, thoma, wanderer, pantalone, childe (genshin impact) caelus, dan heng, dr ratio, moze (honkai star rail) isagi, bachira, rin, sendou (blue lock) makoto, kiyotaka, gundham, hajime, shuichi (danganronpa) mikey, kazutora, inui, mitsuya, souya “angry” (tokyo revengers) atsushi, tanizaki, chuuya, tecchou, sigma, mark twain, poe (bungou stray dogs) kaminari, tokoyami, shinsou, monoma, tamaki, hawks (my hero academia) kageyama, yamaguchi, hanamaki, sugawara, goshiki, fukunaga, bokuto, atsumu (haikyuu) kylar, robin, doren, mason, alex (degrees of lewdity) choso, ino, gojo, geto (jujutsu kaisen)

he likes your BOOBS. a worrying amount, actually. he feels like a teenage boy all over again, but he can’t help the way his eyes always drop down to your cleavage (regardless of the shirt you’re wearing, or lack of thereof). his hands are always grabbing your chest, squeezing the fat like they’re stress balls, and he won’t stop unless you whine enough or he’s satisfied (very unlikely). he could spend his whole life tugging and circling on your nipples, sucking on them, biting your tits, anything, really. and obviously your boobs end up swollen, bruised and overstimulated, but can you really be mad at him, though, when he looks at you like a kicked puppy?

a while ago, one of his friends showed him a video of this dude fucking his girlfriend’s tits, and the thought hasn’t left his head ever since. not to say he doesn’t like your pussy, or mouth, but there’s just something so lewd, so messed up about sliding his cock in and out of your boobs. he’s lucky to be dating a cutie like you, honestly, since you let him do just that. he’s a freak, he knows it, but your tits are just so soft, so warm and tight and wet that his dick slides against them so well. sometimes you’re sweet enough to take his tip into your mouth, licking and suckling on it, spreading precum all over your lips. he’s a meanie, though, cumming all over your tits and face. other times, he just rubs his cock all over your chest, pace quickening against your nipples. and no matter how many times he cums, his dick always gets hard again when he sees your doe eyes and pretty tits. be patient with him, yeah?

having you ride him is definitely one of his favorite positions, since it’s a win-win for both of you: you’re taking all of his cock (or at least, you try to), and he has your tits bouncing right in his face. yeah, having you twitch and squirt all over is length is nice (well, more than just nice, but you get my point), but he’s so mesmerized by your boobs. as stated above, he’s no better than a teenage boy, and just a handful of tits is enough to get him going and cumming deep inside you. sometimes he grabs your chest, sucks on your nipples hard enough to bruise them, but when you get sick of all the marks and spit, your best bet is to just tie his hands up. all he can do is whine, “c’mon baby, don’t be so mean. just wanna touch you” and “you’re bein’ so mean to me, i’ll be good, yeah?”, but you know him well enough to know they’re all lies. well, all the more reason to take control for once, no? he does deserve a little punishment every once in a while.

venti, kazuha, ayato, ororon, wriothesley, capitano, dainsleif (genshin impact) caelus, luka, gepard, jing yuan, boothill, moze, blade, gallagher, sunday, mydei, phainon (honkai star rail) isagi, aiku, reo, ness, nagi, rin itoshi, sendou (blue lock) mondo, nagito, kazuichi, korekiyo, kokichi (danganronpa) baji, kazutora, ran, shinichiro, izana, inui, hakkai, draken (tokyo revengers) dazai, ranpo, akutagawa, chuuya, fyodor, nikolai, jouno (bungou stray dogs) deku, shoji, bakugo, todoroki, sero, tamaki, monoma, shigaraki (my hero academia) kuroo, fukunaga, kageyama, tsukishima, osamu, kita, bokuto, sakusa, iwaizumi (haikyuu) kylar, robin, eden, sydney (degrees of lewdity) toji, gojo, higuruma, choso (jujutsu kaisen)

he likes your ASS. it’s a classic: who doesn’t? he likes laying his head on it, likes groping it when you’re wearing short, or skirts, or… never mind, he’s always touching it. whistles when you walk by, slaps it when he passes by you. call him childish but he could care less.

most of the time, he’s fucking you from behind, just so he can see the fat of your ass recoil and bounce when it hits his pelvis. he’s so rough, but he just can’t stop when you’re wrapped so tightly around him, not when the room is filled with the squelching sounds of your cunny. when you whine too much, he just slaps your ass, leaving big, red handprints on it, but he knows you don’t mind it. you won’t mind if he sticks his thumb inside your puckered hole, right? he doesn’t care about that “embarrassing” nonsense you keep on blabbering about, just let him take care of you. you seem to cum harder when he’s playing with your hole, anyways.

kaeya, dottore, tighnari, alhaitham, itto, zhongli, pantalone, childe (genshin impact) sampo, jing yuan, gallagher, mr reca, mydei, boothill, anaxa (honkai star rail) leon, gundham, kaito, k1bo (danganronpa) sae (canon), aiku, kunigami, barou (blue lock) baji, nahoya “angry”, draken, rindou, kakucho, mitsuya (tokyo revengers) kunikida, tachihara, jouno, mark twain (bungou stray dogs) bakugo, kirishima, aizawa, mirio, overhaul (my hero academia) bokuto, ushijima, hinata, yaku (haikyuu) bailey, sirris, mason, wren (degrees of lewdity) geto, shiu, gojo (jujutsu kaisen)

[yandere-writer-momo]

Cleaning out my drafts and stumbled across this horror piece. Minors DNI please.

Yandere Head Canons: The Dollhouse Husband

Yandere Living Doll x GN Reader x One Sided Neglectful Toymaker Husband

TW: yandere themes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, obsession, neglectful husband, unhappy arranged marriage, murder, horror, and gore (mentioned)

His face was beautiful, just like your husband’s, yet he wasn’t your husband. No, this adonic doll was an imposter. A crude imitation of your distant beau. A creation your husband, Jonathan, made out of cruelty so you’d stop clinging to him and your desire for him to love you. A doll he crudely named Johnny. The nickname you affectionately called your emotionally constipated husband.

A marriage that was arranged since the two of you were young and yet your husband would not lie with you. No… he’d rather play with his toys. Jonathan told you he had made you this doll to play with so you’d leave him alone…

“What’s wrong dear?” A smooth voice whispered in your ear as lanky arms wrapped around your body to pull you closer to his. His skin felt like ice and you didn’t even feel a heartbeat… was this man undead? He wasn’t human, but you weren’t even sure if he was even living. “Is my appearance not to your liking? Your husband did his best to make me exactly in his image.”

“…” you frowned at his words, your words died off in your throat before they could even be uttered. How could you forget that your toy maker husband built you a living doll to be a crude imitation of him all because you expressed a desire for more attention. Yet it felt as if you were not worthy of having the real husband. Only this doll. A doll that would do anything you asked of it to an almost unhealthy degree.

Everywhere you want, Johnny followed. If you were in the garden, so was Johnny. If you were in the tub, Johnny would wash your hair and back for you. It didn’t matter that you were disinterested in this lifeless mockery of your husband, the doll would follow you.

“Dear? Do you not like me?” The doll asked once more as his porcelain arms wrapped around you tighter. His perfect face remained unmoved, but you swore his tenor voice sounded anxious. “I’m just as good as he is! I dote on you! I take care of you and your needs! I’m made as a perfect replica-“

“But you’re not my husband.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, your eyes filled with sadness. “Your body is as cold as ice and you have no heartbeat… your presence does nothing but make me sink into a larger pit of loneliness.”

“So you desire warm skin and a heart?” The doll asked in a hushed tone. His glassy green eyes admired your form. “If I were to be more human… would you like me more?”

“…yes.” You just wanted the conversation to be over. To bury your head on your pillow and sob until you passed out from the loneliness and pity that consumed you. Were you that unloveable that your own husband gifted you a living doll?

If only you noticed the way Johnny rested his head on your shoulder as the cogs in his mind turned. You’d love him if he had skin and a heart? He’d do just that…

How were you to know that this doll would present you Jonathan’s heart the next day in a heart shaped box with a smile that could only be described as uncanny? Not to mention the porcelain white skin that was no doubt from your husband’s own face that rested on Johnny’s like a mask.

“I have the traits you desire… so won’t you like me now? I’m better than him in every way!” He shouted as he set the box down on the dining room table in front of you. He took his pointer fingers and curved the loose skin around his lips into a smile. “We can be happy here in our dollhouse! Please! Please say you like me now!”

You felt numb as the heart in front you leaked crimson all over the box. Perhaps… this was all your own doing due to your selfishness? Of begging to be loved all your life that only a living doll would pay you any mind?

You let out a shaky sigh before you gulped. The alive burned your throat like it was acid. Your gave a fake smile to Johnny who eagerly awaited the four words he longed to hear for his entire existence.

“I like you, Johnny.”

[emsdevs]

Outfit Advice (Hughes Bros.)

a/n: i was talking to kirby about this the other night and i had to put it out there! enjoy in these trying times 🤧

masterlist | NHL Masterlists | Multiplayer Headcanons

Jack:

If you ask Jack’s opinion on an outfit, I hope you’re not looking for complete honesty. Okay, so that’s not entirely true, but his version of honesty is a little different. He’s gonna tell you EXACTLY what he thinks of your outfit, except this man is a SIMP. The only thing he’ll ever say about your outfit or your makeup or hair is how good it looks because it’s on YOU. Poor guy thinks you can make anything look good, and as unhelpful as it can be, it’s really sweet, so how mad can you be? Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t have a brutally honest brother in the room down the hall.

“Hey, Jacky, does this look okay?”

“Oh my god, pretty girl. You make that look so good. I’ll never understand how you do it. So beautiful, baby. I don’t know how I bagged you,” he kisses your temple and walks out with a smile on his face.

“Luke!” you shout. “What do I need to fix?”

Luke:

Luke, I fear, is brutally honest. Hopefully, your feelings don’t get hurt easily because he’ll straight up tell you if something looks bad. He’s making his way to your closet to give you better options. Actually, he probably knows every article of clothing that’s in your closet. He’d be able to rattle off better options like it was nothing. It’s not even a control thing, either! He just wants you to look good and feel confident, and he’d never let you out of the house knowing you’d catch a glimpse of your outfit in a mirror or something and wish you could go home and change. It’s just one of the many ways he’d take care of you.

“Luke, baby, does this outfit look okay?”

“That top does not match those pants, babe. That one black skirt you have would look good, but if you wear it, you gotta change your shoes too.”

“The tight skirt or the pleated?”

“The flowy one that fans out when you spin.”

“So the pleated one?”

“I guess. How am I supposed to know what that means?” 

Quinn:

Quinn is somewhere in between Jack and Luke. He’s never gonna miss any opportunity to tell you how pretty you are, but he’s also gonna give actual advice. He can tell when you just want a compliment because you know your outfit looks good and when you genuinely need advice because you aren’t sure you like the outfit. He’ll take a moment to hype you up, but then he’ll get down to business with helping you out. Rest assured, he’s gonna be super sweet about it, too. He’s speaking in the softest, gentlest voice, making sure he doesn’t make you feel bad about anything.

“Quinn, does this look okay? Or should I change?”

“You always look so beautiful, honey. How about that light pink dress you have though? The one with spaghetti straps that falls right above your knee? I think you wore it to a team baby shower a while back. That one looked so good on you, and it’ll match the makeup you already have done.” He’s standing behind you while you look into a mirror. His hands are resting on your hips, and he’s speaking softly into your ear, taking breaks every few words so he can plant a kiss on the curve of your shoulder.

“Ooh, yeah, I forgot about that dress! Thanks, Q!”

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[toyourheartandback]

SKINNY DIPPING (18+)

luke castellan x reader

in which luke loves winning

word count: 1.12k

MDNI! warnings: smut, handjob, fingering, swearing, nudity and reader has a female anatomy

a/n: i feel like i’m starting to have way too much fun writing smuts. hope you guys will enjoy it just as i much as i do!

you had made a bet with luke castellan. whoever won capture the flag could make the other do anything they wanted without negotiation or backing out. and that was how you found yourself on the edge of a small cliff, just outside of the protection of thalia’s tree, watching the head counselor of the hermes cabin strip in front of you.

“c’mon, beautiful” he said with a smug smirk on his face as he grabbed the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head, tossing it aside without a care. you let your eyes scan his toned abs a bit longer than you intended as the moonlight highlighted the sharp lines and faded scars. “it’s not like i haven’t seen it before” he drawled, fingers now working at the button of his shorts.

your hands hesitated at the hem of your own shirt. “i swear, if anything happens, i’m cutting your balls off” you warned, voice sharp despite the heat creeping up your neck. luke only laughed, clearly enjoying every second of his victory while his gaze never left you as you reluctantly peeled off your clothes. then you were both bare in front of each other. you could see all those hours he spent training were definitely paying off as the sight alone made your stomach twist, heat creeping in places you didn’t want to acknowledge. luke wasn’t any better, looking at you with unmistakable lust.

you took the hand he offered, fingers tangling together as you stepped closer to the edge. “you okay?” luke gently asked, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. his dark eyes were as soft as his touch. the night breeze ruffled his curls and for a split second you almost forgot to breathe. the drop below wasn’t even terrifying, but the handsome boy in front of you was. then you smirked. “don’t be a pussy, castellan” and before he could react, you yanked him forward, pulling both of you off the edge.

you flew for only a few seconds before the icy water swallowed you whole and a firm grip pulled you upward. “asshole!” luke’s voice was sharp as he surfaced in front of you, his wet curls plastered to his forehead. his scowl would’ve been more intimidating if you weren’t still laughing, breathless from the jump. “oh, come on” you teased, grabbing his wrist as he let you tug him toward shallower water.

his hands pushed wet strands from your face before cupping your cheeks, his touch surprisingly gentle. his thumbs traced your skin, sending a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the water. “you’re gonna be the death of me one day,” he murmured, voice low and serious. your heart stuttered. his plump lips hovered dangerously close, so close you had to grip his biceps just to steady yourself. “you’re gonna be the death of me right now if you don’t kiss me” just as you whispered those words, luke crashed his lips against yours, claiming the space between you in an instant.

the kiss was desperate, heated, like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than he’d ever admit. and gods, you kissed him right back. his tongue slipped into your mouth, teasing, demanding, but there was no real battle. you let him take control, let him deepen the kiss until your head spun. his hands roamed your body, before settling on your ass. a firm squeeze had you gasping, your hips instinctively yanking against his. luke groaned, low and rough, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “you must really like me,” you teased, still breathless, “if you can get this hard in cold water.” a breathless giggle escaped before you could stop it. his gaze stayed dark and intense. his lips found your sweet spot on your neck, sucking just enough to make your knees threaten to give out. “you know it’s more than that,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with something deeper than lust as he pressed himself against your stomach, letting you feel every inch of him.

one of his hands slipped between your bodies, fingers tracing slow and teasing circles on your clit. each stroke sent waves of pleasure rippling through you, your body unconsciously following his lead. your hand found his cock, fingers wrapping around his length and the moment you started twisting your wrist, luke let out a guttural moan against your ear. “fuck,” he rasped, his voice thick with pleasure. the deep and desperate whines slipping from his lips alone had you aching for more. his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. “you’re already making me regret not bringing a condom,” a breathless giggle escaped you, but it was short-lived because just as you captured his lips in a kiss, two of his fingers plunged inside you. you loudly gasped, gripping his shoulders as he pumped them mercilessly, curling just right to hit that spot that had your vision blurring. the water around you swayed violently, mirroring the rhythm of both your hands.

it felt like the world had stopped. all you could process was luke. his woodsmoke scent, his hand gripping your hair, his starved mouth on yours, the warm slickness of his precum as you stroked him, and the way his fingers worked you closer to the edge. “guys!” it yanked you both back to reality just as you were about to come undone. “shit,” luke groaned, his grip loosening as you pushed him away, your brows furrowing in sync. “are you there?” chris’s voice echoed through the bay, and you silently prayed to every god on olympus that your friends hadn’t see you getting fucked by the hermes counselor through the dense trees. “weren’t they suppose to come later?” you whispered, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. “i don’t know,” luke muttered, looking even more spooked than you. “but I’m currently trying to think about the oracle to make this boner go away.” a laugh burst from your lips before you could stop it.

a few moments later, when he looked composed enough, luke finally called out: “we’re down here!”. within seconds, your friends came crashing into the water, completely naked. as they splashed around, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. “you bet I’m gonna get the rest of my prize later,” his voice was low, teasing, but the dark smirk on his face promised he was dead serious. you always honored your bets, but something told you luke would make sure you never stopped losing to him.

[the-travelling-witch]

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀(𝐑)𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑

summary: ever since dating sebek, it seems you have not just landed yourself a boyfriend but also a personal knight

pairings: sebek x gn! reader

warnings: just fluff

a/n: a small blurb to air my feelings for the croc while i wait for my wrists to get better, so i can tackle bigger projects; i wanted to make this a hc-style post but i think i unlearned how to do that

twisted wonderland masterlist

Sebek is your knight in shining armour and, well, he definitely gives the job his utmost dedication. In terms of priorities, you’re right up there with Malleus, Lilia and Silver. Not that he’d ever -willingly- tell you that out loud, but it’s pretty obvious to everyone with eyes.

In terms of gentlemanliness, he brings out the big guns. True to textbook and the teachings of Lilia and Baur, Sebek will carry your bag(s) or textbooks without accepting much protest. He’s a personal guard for the great Malleus-sama, a weight as little as this is trivial to him! It’s best to just accept his service with a smile and a thanks.

The same goes for him holding doors open for you or protecting your head with his hand when you bend down to pick something up. While Sebek usually takes some time to read the room or grasp the context of a conversation at hand, he is very attentive when it comes to you. Not only does he take note of your preferences, he also makes sure you don’t forget or neglect to eat and drink enough. Given his training as a knight, he’s well acquainted with a healthy diet and keeps an eye on if you meet the recommended nutrient intake too. And Seven help the person who has the gall to actually disrespect you, Sebek will raise hell, his weapon and his volume if that’s what it takes to defend you.

By spending enough time with you, he also memorises your routines, almost without actually intending to. Sebek also listens to you intently, taking some matters more seriously than you even, and checks in on you throughout the day, especially when you told him about certain appointments. When it comes to any changes in your mental health, he might not pick up on it as fast as on any physical injuries, but you bet he is just as protective about it. His attempts to cheer you up might be a little clumsy, but they’re so genuine it already makes you feel better just through his effort alone. If he could physically fight your doubts and insecurities, you can bet that he would without hesitation.

At the end of the day, Sebek would try to help you with nearly everything to the best of his abilities, even if what you’re asking of him is outside of his strengths. You want to wear your hair a certain way? He has never tried to do anyone’s hair before but he will try to recreate the tutorial you have shown him, even if his fingers shake. Sure, he has never repotted a plant or taken care of one for longer periods of time, but just tell him what to do and he will follow your instructions. With his earnestness and determination to learn and his drive to help you, his attempts turn out at least decent in the majority of cases. Just don’t tease him when he doesn’t get it quite right the first time around.

For Sebek, his behaviour goes without saying. He’s your partner, of course he wants to support you in any way he can and to consider your welfare and feelings in what he does. Anything else would be ludicrous and inexcusable for someone of his standing. If you, however, show him any kind of affection in return for his attentiveness, he becomes utterly bashful. Tell him how much you appreciate his help or give him a grateful kiss on the cheek and watch him turn beet red as he stutters through his next sentence. In the literal heat of the moment, Sebek might blurt out something nonsensical but please know that your endorsement means everything to him and warms his heart. It may also boost his ego juuuuuust a smidge~

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[capquinn]

OHMYGOD HEAR ME OUT . riding quinn when he’s sore and tired, and you’re worried of hurting him but he insists and he keeps guiding your hips.,!..!.!..

18+ only, MDNI

Ugh the way he’d be trying to be good, trying to hold back because he has no choice — muscles tight, jaw clenched, fingers flexing against your hips like he’s desperate and dying to take over but can’t. Body sore, breath a little shaky, but fuck, he still needs you, still wants you, hands gripping just firm enough to guide you, to make sure you keep moving even when you pause every time he winces.

"S’fine, baby, just need you," he rasps, voice low and rough. But you’re still careful, still so gentle, barely pressing your hands to his chest, afraid of putting too much weight on him, of making it worse.

And he hates it.

Hates the way you’re holding back, rolling your hips so light, like he’s made of fucking glass. Hates that his body’s failing him, hates that the ache below his ribs flares up every time he moves too much, hates that he can’t just flip you over and fuck you like he wants to.

He doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want you treating him like he’s fragile, doesn’t care if every movement pulls at his sore muscles, if the ache shoots up his spine — he just wants you.

You lean down, bracing your hands on the mattress on either side of his head, barely touching him, barely giving him any pressure at all, and it kills him. You’re right there, lips brushing against his, body warm and soft, but you’re still holding back.

"C’mon, baby," he pants against your lips, breath uneven, hands flexing against your hips. "Don’t make me beg."

You start to roll your hips more, these shallow little movements that make his jaw clench, his fingers pressing into your skin, fighting the urge to grab and drag you down onto him. It’s good, but it’s not enough.

"Not like that," he groans, voice ragged, head tipping back, frustrated.

He’s so tired, body aching, muscles sore, and it makes him so fucking needy — his breath catching, his brows pinching together every time you sink down slow but never all the way, and his moan breaks into something breathy and desperate, something dangerously close to a whine.

His hands slide down, wrapping around the tops of your thighs, pushing, urging you to sink down properly, to take him right, to stop holding back.

"Please."

It slips out rough, wrecked, his breath catching on the word, like he’s been holding it in, like he needs this more than anything. And when you finally give in, finally sink down, the full weight of you pressing into his lap, all of him buried deep, stretching you so perfectly, he feels like he’s going to break apart.

"Mm," he moans, chest heaving as you shift, as you squeeze around him, his hands twitching against your skin. "Feels better, hm?"

His fingers tighten, trying to urge you to move faster but every time he tries to shift his hips to meet you, you lift yours just slightly — just enough that he can’t get the friction he wants without making it worse for himself. And fuck, that only frustrates him more.

His hand moves before he even thinks, sliding between you, fingers slipping lower, finding your clit with ease. He presses down, rubbing slow, steady circles — just enough to tease, to make you gasp, to make you grind down against his palm, searching for more. And fuck, the second you do, the second your breath hitches, your moan spilling out soft and needy, your hands pressing hard into his chest for balance, he knows he’s got you.

And just like that, you forget why you were holding back. Your hips roll deeper, harder, the stretch of his cock inside you wiping out every other thought. All that hesitation, that restraint, the softness — gone. Because he feels too fucking good, thick and deep, filling you in a way that makes you ache for more.

His grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging in, holding you there, making sure you don’t slow down, don’t tease him anymore. His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling just right, and the second you squeeze around him, the second you really start to move, rolling your hips sharper, letting him feel every inch of it—

"Fuck," he groans, jaw tight, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. "Just like that, baby. Mm. Don’t stop — fuck."

He looks wrecked, breath uneven, lips parted, brows furrowed like he’s caught between pain and pleasure, but he doesn’t care. His body’s screaming at him, aching with every slow roll of your hips, but the way you feel? The way you finally stop holding back, finally take him the way he needs?

Worth every fucking second.

[theywantedplayer]

masterslist

prompt list

I edited this 10min before my class so it may be shit but idk. I'm trying to come back to writing but I gotta put other stuff first. I just fine it hard to come up with ideas.

“You're so lucky I said yes to this,” you gritted through your fake smile as you watched the other wedding guests on the dance floor.

“Yeah, because you definitely had better plans,” he smirked, taking a sip of his drink.

You and Jack were at one of his relatives' weddings. For some crazy reason, he asked you to be his date—his fake date—and what’s even crazier is that you said yes to a night of faking whatever he told his family you two were. You only knew Jack through your brother, Nico. You always got annoyed by Jack's cocky hockey-player persona; you could practically feel his ego getting bigger the longer he stared at you, smirking. You knew he was a sweet person, and you'd never heard a bad thing about him. Your brother is an honest person, so you couldn't really figure out the exact reason why you hated his guts.

“What did you even tell your parents anyway?” you asked, still watching people on the floor, while Jack kept looking at you.

Why is he looking at me like that? you kept wondering.

You could see his smirk growing stronger before he spoke. “That we’re helplessly in love, that we can't breathe without each other,” he teased, leaning a little closer as he sat beside you.

You scoffed when you heard his dumb words, turning your head to him, a small smile on your lips at his shameless demeanor.

“You’re kidding.”

“What do you mean kidding? It’s true, I'm hopelessly in love,” he shrugged.

But it didn’t seem so careless. There was a weight on his shoulders as he shrugged them. For a moment, when you both stared at each other, the air got thick, and the things around you seemed to slow—but only for a moment. Your heart skipped a beat when he said that to you. He never once broke eye contact, even when he sipped his drink.

God, snap out of it, Y/N, you thought.

And you did. “Whatever, Jack,” you said, shaking your head, resting your chin on your palm as you went back to watching the dancers. But you never felt Jack’s eyes leave you. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you felt his gaze lingering—on your body, your face, your skin, anything. It annoyed you. You already felt like you had enough eyes on you at this damn wedding. Not knowing anyone here and being Jack’s “date” just made more people stare, wondering who you were.

You were about to tell him to fuck off as you turned your head to look at him with an annoyed face.

“Can you no—”

“Wanna dance?” he asked, cutting you off.

Your mouth stayed open for a moment. He took that as a yes for some reason, getting up and holding out his hand for you to grab—not leaving room for a no. But you knew you wouldn’t say no. You just didn’t know how to say yes. So you grabbed his hand and let him lead you to the dance floor.

The music was soft and gentle as the other guests danced, most likely with their lovers, making you more nervous about dancing. Once you both found a spot, Jack’s hands found your waist like it was second nature. You slowly wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, lacing them together.

You suddenly became fully aware of how close you were to him. Your head followed your gaze, which was anywhere but on the man in front of you. Jack never looked away from you. He couldn't if he wanted to. He’d been a witness to your snarky and sassy comebacks to him over the years—your trucker-like swearing—and then the stories Nico told him about you. Your brother's exact words were: “If you wanna live to see tomorrow, don’t piss her off.” When Jack first heard that, he had to piss you off. That’s like telling someone not to push the big red button. And oh, did Jack push your buttons. But yet, he always lived to see tomorrow.

But now, he was looking at a girl who was too nervous to even look at him.

He loved it.

He loved how you sounded when you watched hockey games. He would never admit it to you, but he even started to use some of the chirps he heard you yell at the TV when he went over to Nico’s.

“I'm over here, you know,” he laughed slightly, looking into your eyes, which were focused on someone else.

He didn’t look. Why would he want to look at anything else?

“No shit, I’m dancing with you,” you sassed back.

“Well, it's rude to not look at the person you're talking to.”

“You're talking to me,” you threw back.

There was a small scowl on your face, but you both knew it was harmless. He had you figured out, and you hated it.

…Right?

Jack laughed at your comeback and squeezed your waist softly, pulling you closer to him.

“Y/N, come on, don’t do that,” he said.

You sighed and turned your head to look at him. You couldn't even describe how you felt when you made contact with him. It was a burning feeling in your chest… or was it stinging? You couldn't put your finger on it. It was accompanied by those stupid butterflies in your stomach. You tried to force down your small smile, but Jack already noticed it and doubled it with his own.

Fuck, you thought.

Jack could see the glare that was once on your face disappear into your beautiful features—the face he couldn't look away from all night.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” he asked as you both swayed to the music, the warm lighting covering you both, his brown hair seeming lighter as if it were summer.

You smiled shyly, wanting the blush that crept across your face to disappear into thin air. “Yes, Jack, you’ve said it many times tonight,” you nodded, laughing slightly.

“Okay, okay, just making sure I covered all my bases for the night,” he joked, nodding his head repeatedly.

“Your ass had a checklist?” you asked.

“Yes, my ass does,” he answered as if you should have known that. “I only have one more thing on my list.”

“Ooooo, and what’s that?”

You felt him squeeze your waist again as you asked, as if he was trying to tell you without actually having to say it. But how were you supposed to read this guy’s mind?

He just shrugged and didn't answer as you both kept dancing. Once the song ended, most people were off the dance floor, so you assumed you both were done and started to pull your arms away. But Jack didn’t let you go.

“One more song?” he asked, looking at you, his hands never leaving you for a second.

“Okay, one more song,” you responded, and your hands laced around his neck once again.

You both fell into a quiet dance, Jack’s thumbs tracing circles on your waist.

“You know, I meant what I said before,” he told you, his eyes piercing into yours.

“What, that you can take a glass off the champagne tower without it falling? Jack, I already told you, you can't. That shit’s gonna come crashing down, and when it does, you owe me 100 bucks,” you laughed, gesturing to the tower.

He shook his head, laughing. “No, no, not that. But I still believe I can do it. It’s one glass—how hard could it be?”

“It takes so much skill and balance to even build it. Taking one, just one,” you told him, “can mess up the whole thing.”

“Okay, okay, enough about the stuffed tower. That’s not what I was talking about.”

You both laughed. You found it funny how sure he was that he could do it.

“Okay, then what were you talking about?” you smiled, cocking your head to the side, looking at him.

God, Jack could feel his heart beating out of his chest like he was about to play the game of his life. But to him, this was bigger. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“About me being hopelessly in love,” he said softly.

He didn’t know it, but your heart was also beating out of your chest as he said those words. But you didn’t want to jump too far and assume it was towards you. Your mouth was glued shut as you looked at him with hopeful eyes, so he continued.

“I am hopelessly in love,” he restated. He took a deep breath before he continued. “With you… I’m hopelessly in love with you. I have been for a long time, a damn long time.” He chuckled slightly after hearing his own words, shocked that he was actually saying them to you.

You softly laughed too, looking away from him for a moment, and you could’ve sworn you saw Jack’s smile falter as you did, making you look right back at him.

“So I am here as your date? Like, your date-date?” you said.

“If you want to be. I mean, you were the whole time in my head,” he admitted, making you laugh again.

“Yeah, and your family thinks so too,” you responded.

“I never actually told them you were my date-date,” he said, his eyes big, waiting for your response.

“What?” you laughed. “You told me I had to act like your date so your family would believe you had a girlfriend!” You were the most shocked. All night, you were pretending to be Jack’s girlfriend because you had to, but you loved it. And now that Jack was telling you what he was doing for you, that what he was saying to you all night was true, it felt like a dream.

“It was the first thing on the checklist, okay!” he said like that would make it make sense.

“You’re fucking crazy.” You shook your head, smiling at this so-called checklist.

“100% it’s crazy,” he admitted, smiling, but he quickly turned serious. “It’s true though. I’m hopelessly in love with you, and I…” He took a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you. You don’t have to feel pressured to say anything. And now that I think back, this fucking checklist is insane, but it helps—Luke helped me with it—”

You smiled as he rambled on and on, but as soon as he started to talk about how maybe you didn’t feel the same, you felt like you had to prove it to him. You tried to talk, but he kept going, wrapped in his own whirlwind of rambling.

You counted to three in your head before you pulled him into a kiss by the nape of his neck.

You kissed him and noticed how he didn’t kiss you back right away. Until you went to pull away—he realized what was happening. He pulled you even closer, crashing his lips against yours. You knew Jack was a ladies’ man and hoped he had the skills of one. And when his hands caressed your lower back, pushing you against him, you knew he did.

When you both pulled away, his hair was a mess on the sides, and his eyes were filled with something that made your knees want to buckle.

“Does that answer your question?” you smiled teasingly, fixing his hair.

Jack shook his head, smiling, his hands roaming your waist and lower back. “I don’t know… I think I might have to double-check,” he flirted, glancing at your lips.

“Okay, okay, big guy,” you laughed. “We’re surrounded by your family and friends. I don’t think they want to see you mack on me,” you said, lightly slapping his chest.

“So you wanna take this somewhere else?” he smirked, cocking a brow.

It was gonna be an interesting night.

[bunni-v1]

I can TOTALLY Smilk and TR taking oral

Like imagine:

Truthless Recluse between your legs, eating you out/sucking you off. He's going slow and steady, savoring the flavors of your juices/precum. . . Till all of a sudden, Shadow Milk comes out of nowhere and pushes TR like "Out of the way! It's my turn!~" then proceeds to eat you out/suck you off like his life depends on it, his tongue mercilessly lapping at your folds/taking his whole cock in your mouth

. . .

Now which sounds better?

For the sake of my sanity reader has a pussy (sorry guys it’s my default).

MDNI

Anywayyyyy, the two of them have VERY different styles of pussy eating, and they bicker about who you like better all the time. It’s hard to chose though, they both excel at what they’re good at, and they both cater to different needs.

Starting with TR, he’s definitely more the type to take it slow. It’s not as though he has any reason to go slow, he doesn’t really care to draw it out, that’s just how he is. Part of it carrie’s over from before he became TR, Pure Vanilla was always the kind to be sweet about things.

Truth is, Truthless Recluse goes slow because he’s greedy. He wants to take and take and take from you for as long as he can. He’ll press warm kisses to the inside of your thighs, dragging them across your dough, because forbid he have to remove his mouth from you. He’ll take his time with one, breathing over your pussy for a moment before doing the same to the next.

His eyes are shut tight the whole time, uncharacteristic for him, but once he gets to the main course they lock onto you. He almost always starts by licking a long wet strip up you. Starting from your dripping hole all the way up to your needy clit. He shudders at the taste, feeling as if he’s in heaven, you are divine on his tongue. Once he starts, he can’t stop himself from taking more.

Another slow lick right up to your clit, then he takes the bud in his mouth and sucks. He sucks and rolls his tongue over the sensitive little nub, relishing in the way you cry out his name. He’ll let you do what you like, squirm and pull at his hair, it doesn’t matter. He’s steadfast in his pleasure, enjoying the taste of you, drunk on it. His dull eyes with peer up at you with unrestrained possessiveness, drinking you in like you were the last thing he’d ever get to see.

It’s very different from Shadow Milk, who is fast and eager. He does not like to waste time with silly little games, biting you once or twice before diving in for the meal. His tongue being forked allows him to do things most cookies can’t, which aides in making his fast pace feel so much better.

Unlike TR with his slow licks and consistent speed, Shadow Milk is like a mixed bag of everything. His long tongue curls deep inside, able to reach your g-spot with little to no effort. It curls around your clit, stroking it until your eyes are crossed. He can take it nice and slow, but equally he can go hard and fast.

He usually is a mix of both, starting fast and rough, leaving you gasping for air then slowing down suddenly to make you beg for more. The whiplash is part of the experience, it’s what makes everything feel so good. Oh, and unlike TR, he uses his teeth a lot. It’s rare he leaves any marks on your pussy, but he leaves light little impressions. It’s enough to make you jump and squirm.

He likes control, and he’ll fight you for it. If you wiggle too much he holds you still, because he can’t make you feel good if you’re running away. He overstimulates you to high hell, making you cum again and again over and over until you can’t think of anything but him. It’s so different from TR, and back to back sessions make your head loopy.

The both of them together is quite the experience. It’s typical that Truthless Recluse is the one eating you out, Shadow Milk not wanting to relinquish that control over the two of you. So you’ll be settled between Shadow Milks legs, back to his chest, while his hands keep your legs open for TR.

TR keeps his usual pace, slow and steady while Shadow Milk plays with other parts of you. He’ll cup your chest as TR hums against your hole, the vibrations making you lightheaded and weak against Smilk. He guides TR verbally through the process, telling him what to do and how you like it. TR doesn’t really listen much, but you seem to enjoy it so Smilk doesn’t reprimand him too much.

He can only take so much of it before he gets bored, though. TR is too sweet and slow on you, the show gets lame fast. So, he grabs TR by the hair and pushes him against you, forcing him to go the pace he wants him to. The rough treatment making the cookie moan against you, causing you to squirm uselessly between them. Smilk makes it worse by swirling little circles into your clit, heightening the pleasure tenfold.

He’ll coo at you so sweetly, praising you and TR for taking it so well. But again, there’s only so much of it he can take until he gets bored. When that happens, he’ll tug TR away so he can take the reins of your pleasure. It’s up to TR on whether he stays or not, but he usually does.

He’ll take Smilks spot behind you and watch the way the other cookie works his mouth over you. He’s not vocal, but you can feel the way he watches your reactions, and you can certainly feel the way he enjoys them too.

If you pick a favorite, they’ll both pout about it — though TR is more a dejected sigh than a pout. They both compete quietly to see who can pleasure you better, and it goes on right under your nose. The way they look at each other while they pleasure you is the dead giveaway, like wild beasts challenging each other for their mate, they glare over your stomach as if to beg the other to try better.

Now, when it comes to you giving them head, that’s a different story. But they use that as the ultimate show of who suits you better :)

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

who will i say goodnight to when you're gone?

pairing: javi x reader

cws/tags: angst, smut, fwbs, p in v, oral

summary: you are javi are just coworkers who sleep together, nothing more

a/n: title is from cornflower blue by flower face

wc: 3.6k

thank you to @almostempty for beta reading!

It’s easier this way.

That’s what you tell yourself.

Your job is your life, whether or not you want it to be, and it would be unfair to subject a partner to that. It’s not just long hours at the office, it’s the constant threat of death, worse, the way it percolates your mind even when you’re sleeping —something you struggle to do these days.

At face value, it might seem like you should date a coworker, someone who gets you, who already stands beside you every day. But who would be there to comfort you when panic comes over you in the middle of the night? Putting two agents in the same room just makes you both a more convenient target. Imagine, they could kill two lovebirds with only one raid.

Some might say you’re like rabbits in the bedroom, but you’re not enjoying the spring weather, sitting in a bed of flowers. Rain is beating down on the windows, adding to the summer humidity, and you only end up on Javier’s uncomfortable mattress about half the time.

Sometimes, it’s the living room couch after a glass of whiskey or three. Other times, you choose convenience and share the cramped shower, maybe on the sink afterwards if there aren’t any clean towels and you have to air dry. Sometimes, when Javier throws the condom in the trash, he sees the cotton balls covered with hydrogen peroxide and blood.

He says more when he’s inside you than he does when he patches you up. You patch him up too, and you can tell he tries not to wince every time even though your hands are gentle. He will clean the wounds you received from others, only to bruise you. Usually, it’s on your hips or your thighs, anywhere below the neckline.

It’s the kindest thing he can do for you.

He doesn’t make you beg because he knows you would. He doesn’t beg because he knows he doesn’t have to. You knock on his door and he knows what you want.

You did this sort of thing often. Sex, they call it. Friends with benefits, casually hooking up after a bad day at work or a drunken night out, better yet, a drunk night in — no need to pretend this is about having fun. This is stress relief. It’s less sustainable than the habit you’ve picked up of a shared cigarette afterwards, but it’s better for your lungs.

It started like a glass of wine after work. If one could be a sommelier of sex, it’d be Javi. A taste, another taste, another, and you learned quickly how every drink goes down smoother than the last. Until it doesn’t.

It was hot and heavy in the beginning. Javier loved when you wore pencil skirts and heels, he loved to shove your skirt up, rip your pantyhose, pull your panties to the side while you’re up against the kitchen counter. He’d run two fingers over your slit before pushing them both inside, making his fingertips slick when he rubbed your clit and taunted you for your wetness.

“Were you like this all day at work? Or did it just take a kiss to make you this wet?”

“All day,” you’d admit shamelessly. “I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who wanted this.”

“You’re right about that. I had to take an extra smoke break outside after you bent over in that slutty little skirt.”

“Did you do anything about it?”

“What do you think?” He’d press his hips up against your ass, still clothed but you could feel how hard he was.

“I think you should do something about it now.”

It was vulgar, it was gossip, it was a tidbit to dish out when you got tipsy with your girlfriends. You’d tell them all about how he fucked like no man ever had before and they’d beg for his number, but you’d never reveal his identity. He was more of a myth than a man.

Office romances are sexy, particularly the fictional ones, and in the books you browse to humor yourself on the occasion that you have some downtime, the characters always seem to get caught or fall in love or both, often both. These are horror stories wrapped up as fantasies. Getting caught fucking in the file room is bad, everyone knows that, but falling in love is certainly worse.

You only fucked in the office once, and fucked is a bit of an exaggeration as it was only a blowjob, preceded by a wager-less bet.

“What’s this?” Murphy asked, plucking the book from your purse.

Before you could snatch it from him, he read the title aloud, “Loving Is A Full-Time Job.”

“It’s nothing. It’s just a stupid book a friend recommended to me.”

He turned it over, skimmed through the reviews on the back. “Warning: there’s a lot of inside-her trading in this one.”

You were halfway between disgust and amusement, though you should’ve been thoroughly embarrassed. Regardless, you let him know, “I’m on page 104 and there hasn’t been anything inside her thus far.”

Of course, you’d only fed his appetite, and he flipped to the page you’re on.

“Read it out loud,” Javi chimed in. “You’ve piqued my interest.”

So, he did. He read out the scene of the financial advisor getting sucked off by his colleague while he’s taking a phone call.

“Totally unrealistic,” Murphy remarked. “No way they wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

“Nah,” Javi said. “You just don’t have a good poker face. I guarantee you I could pull it off.”

“Maybe you can invite one of those ‘CIs’ to the office and try it out,” you said, patronizingly to hide the arousal you felt at the idea.

You assumed the discussion had ended when Murphy left the room and returned the book to you.

“Is someone a bit jealous?” Javi taunted.

“No, I am not jealous of your whores.”

“You sure? You really looked like you were enjoying that book earlier. Were you thinking about performing a scene with your sexy coworker?”

“I think you’re projecting, Javier.”

You could see the mischief in his eyes, daring you to do something.

“We would one hundred percent get caught even if we tried.”

“No. I’m great under pressure. I can keep a straight face. Swear.”

You glanced towards the door and saw no one in the hallway. “Are you serious right now?” you asked.

He said nothing, just pulled out his chair, letting you climb under his desk. You grimaced at him, but you’d made your choice already.

“You owe me,” you said before unbuckling his belt.

“You want me to do the same for you? Because you know I will.”

“No, I don’t want to risk getting in trouble twice, thank you very much.”

“I figured. You can’t seem to keep quiet whenever I—” he cut himself off with a groan when you took him as far as you could without gagging.

“What were you saying?” you asked, pulling back with a string of spit still connecting your lips to his tip.

He made the mistake of looking down to see your pretty face when your lips found their way to his cock again. He bit his fist to hold back the groan you could hear in your own head, pulling it from a memory, which only served to make you want him more.

As much as you would’ve loved to see Javi break, you knew you shouldn’t try. Murphy’s the only one who re-entered the room — and seemed relatively unbothered by your absence — still, you didn’t need him to see this.

Only Javi gets to see you like this.

It was glorious to see him come like this — for you — despite his victory. It was miserable to sit on the tiled floor for over an hour, particularly when you were so close to the man you wanted more than anything else.

In the parking lot, you learned he wanted you even more than you wanted him, and sprawled out on his couch, he proved it to you.

“Just made me want you more,” he murmured. “Seeing you like that.”

“You wanna see me like that again?”

“No, I need to make you feel good.”

With that, he yanked your pants down along with your panties. While one hand stroked your g-spot, the other was clamped over your mouth because his tongue does dangerous things, and you couldn’t get another noise complaint.

It was routine like any other, the typical progression you learn as ‘bases’ in adolescence. Unlike baseball, it did not last nine innings. He took you over the edge quickly, not sparing any time. When you opened your eyes, he was already ripping the foil packet with his teeth.

You passed a cigarette back and forth in silence until your feet hit the floor and you gave him the classic, “see you at work.”

After a typically stressful day, you knock on his door and are greeted by only his voice, not his face. You have a key to his apartment. He doesn’t need to let you in, you can do that yourself, but it still strikes you as rude. Are you really a guest in his home anymore? 

You made yourself look sort of presentable, a bit more fuckable, in the traditional sense. Before walking down the steps to his apartment, you changed your dress into one that’s easier to pull up or down, prepared to let him take you however he wanted. 

But, when you open the door, there’s a cigarette in his left hand and a glass of whiskey in his right. There is nothing left of him to hold you.

He’s shirtless, his pants are on, but they’re unzipped. Your skin is a bit dewy because it’s hot outside, but his sweat is unmistakable. You’re looking at him and he’s looking at you, but he notices you noticing first. Though, what is there to notice about you?                                 

Your mouth opens before the words come out.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, pivoting on your heels.

“Why?” he asks.

What angers you most is that he’s asking for an explanation when he already knows the answer. 

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here right now.”

“There’s no one else here.”

“I didn’t think you’d invite me in if there was.”

He nods, so you nod back. This time you’re looking into each other’s eyes, and seeing each other, deeper than before, but something is still missing, something that you do not find until much later in whatever' ‘relationship’ you have with him.

“Goodnight, Peña,” you say as you leave, really intent on it this time.

But if you didn’t want him to know, you wouldn’t have given him the hint. You call him ‘Javi’, maybe ‘Javier’, but you don’t call him by his last name, not even in the office.

“So that’s how it is, huh?” he calls after you. “You’re pissed at me?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not happy.”

“Are you really going to make me say it? You know exactly why I’m leaving.”

“I thought we knew how to talk to each other. I don’t hold shit back from you.”

You scoff, turn your head to the door like it’ll open and the wind will carry you away. 

“You just slept with someone else,” you say, gesturing to his body, only looking him in the eyes because that’s the one place that seems untouched.

“And? I didn’t know there was an exclusivity clause in this deal.” Deal, he calls it with a finger pointed between the two of you, almost accusatory now.

“There isn’t. I don’t care if you sleep with other women.” Except you do. “I’d just rather you shower in between.”

“I can go shower if you care that much.”

“I don’t care if you shower or not.”

“You just said that you did.”

“I said that I’m not having sex with you because—”

“Because you’re mad at me — unjustifiably, by the way.”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m just a human-fucking-being.” You should leave, but you don’t. “What if you came over and I had obviously just had sex with some other man? Wouldn’t you leave?”

“No. I wouldn’t give a fuck because I know I’d fuck you better.”

You’re seething, one fist strangling the strap of your purse and the other balled into a fist. You think about hitting him, but you wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t. He’s right, he hasn’t technically done anything wrong. 

“Fine.” You stomp towards him and he stubs out his cigarette, like he’s making space in his hands for you.

You stand in front of him, look down, and say only one word: “shower”. You point towards his bathroom, and he goes along with it. He rarely submits to you. It’s not really his thing, he’d say. But, he returns with a towel around his waist and his skin dewy with something new. Plus, a condom between two fingers and a face that pisses you off even further. Cocky, per usual.

You can see the smart remark before it comes out of his mouth, and you shush him. “You don’t speak, you don’t touch me, you do exactly as I say, or I’ll leave. Got it?”

“I thought you wanted to show me how you could fuck me better.”

“I never said that. Those were your words. This is for me. Not for you.”

“Have at it,” he says, dropping the towel before falling back onto the sofa.

You could taunt him for being hard but this isn’t about him. Not at all. This is about finding some way to hurt him the way he’s hurt you — really, if you plan to even the score, you’ll have to make him do it all himself.

But when you walked in, he was satisfied, worn out, in an unusually peaceful state. Now, he’s won again. He gets to have you, to know that you still want him even when he wants other women.

You suck on his collarbone, the nape of his neck, up to the point just below the neckline of the shirt he’ll wear to work tomorrow. If you were braver, you’d mark him up higher. But he’s not yours, no one else can know about this. Except for that woman. Whoever she may be. If she comes around in the next few days, she’ll see the bruise, she’ll know.

His moans are shameless. You suppose, no matter how hard you try, you can’t make him feel the same insecurity. But he leans his head back, exposing more skin, almost daring you to do it. He doesn’t know that you prepared yourself a bit for this, but you shove two fingers in his mouth and drag them over your slit so you can act like you’re not already as wet as you are.

You sink down effortlessly, take him all inside you, set your own pace. You only touch him to dig your nails in, to bite him, to put your hands around his neck just to see if he’d let you choke him. But you don’t dare squeeze.

There were two possible outcomes in your mind: one, you would make sure you came first, and immediately retreat from him, leave without a word, or, two, you could make him come first and keep going until the point of complete overstimulation, you could make him beg and cry. But, his stamina is too good, and you end up at a standstill, you’re both holding back, waiting for the other to break. Your breath is heavy and ragged but you bite back every moan until one slips and it’s his fucking name, a sob. He lifts his head, which had lolled back long ago, says to you softly, like he’s not breaking the rules if he’s quiet, “let me help you.”

Javier Peña always gets to be the hero. 

It’s so goddamn genuine. It’s your own battle you’re fighting against no one, but he tells you that you’ve won. That it’s fine to give in, that you’ve done well at whatever it was you wanted to do.

You just nod — it’s your turn to stay silent because, as you both know, every word you say can and will be held against you.

He flips you over so gently, gracefully, has you crying through languid thrusts.

“Just let go.”

“No, you first.”

“I will, baby, I will.”

Baby, baby, baby. He doesn’t call you that because he’s not allowed to — that is one of the few rules. It’s not the word itself, but the way he says it. It’s not ‘my love’ or ‘my wife’, but you can hear devotion creep into his tone and it’s dangerous. It feels like he’s reserved the word for you, like it belongs to you just as much as your own name does.

“Mm-mm. You first.”

“Baby, I need to see you come first. I need to feel it. Please.”

Please. That’s it. Politeness — you wouldn’t have thought Javier had it in him. When you come, you know you’ve won.

You cling to him for dear life as you cry out his name, and he insists, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

When you put your clothes back on, you notice he looks more worn out than he did when you arrived and that’s good enough for you.

“Are we good now?” he asks.

“Yes. See you at work,” you say.

Which is how it always ends.

You file it under ‘things we’re not going to talk about’ — it’s a simultaneous, mutual action, but you don’t say a word to each other about it because we’re not going to talk about it.

What happens in the bedroom — proverbially — stays in the bedroom because it would be too complicated otherwise.

Until the night he shows up at your doorstep, looking more disheveled than ever. The word ‘please’ only gets halfway out of his mouth before yours shuts him up.

You want to take care of him tonight. You drop to your knees, silently offering. But, he pulls you up to your feet.

“You don’t want me to—”

“I want to kiss you.”

It’s not that you never kiss. You just don’t kiss like that, like wanting, like longing — still needy, but with an adoration you cannot face.

Maybe Javier kisses because it’s the one form of intimacy that doesn’t force you to look the other person in the eye. Eyes are the window to the soul, they say. Javi’s eyes contain a softness that you cannot find outside of warm summer nights that exist so far in space and time that you can barely reach the memories. He holds hope in his entire body — hope isn’t usually a pretty little thing that Emily Dickinson said it was — it’s hardened and stubborn, it is the fucking metal bars that keep him here in Colombia despite it all. But, there is something kinder hidden, a flicker, something you haven’t seen in the mirror since you were a child. It’s something more than hope.

Taking care of Javier is letting him give himself to you, listening to every noise you make and repeating whatever he did to hear it the first time so he could hear it again. It’s making you come twice, the road to each orgasm drawn out, leaving tears in your eyes when it finally hits you. It’s pretending not to hear him say your name after a muffled whimper when he finally lets himself come.

He undresses before getting into your bed because he doesn’t want to carry whatever sweat, blood, and guilt that stained his clothes.

Rarely would you see him like this, so vulnerable — only when you were atop him, and though you’d always see a second sense of release whenever you ended up in that position, he would insist it isn’t his favorite.

Javier’s favorite position is the one you spend most of the night in — missionary, the type of sex you’re supposed to have on your wedding night when you lose your virginity to your soulmate, the love of your life, and maybe Javi sees it that way.

It’s not like that, it can’t be. You’re coworkers, you’re sleepy and he’s exhausted. He needs you to help him sleep. And this time it has nothing to do with an orgasm. When he decides he should stand up, he lingers by the bed.

You’re both too scared to be the one to ask, so no one asks, instead, you tell him: “stay”.

It’s quiet, like maybe you can get him to believe no one ever said it. But not weary, you’re strong even in your weakness. At your most vulnerable, you are commanding.

So, he does. He resigns himself to the fact that he is powerless in the face of such sincerity. He needs to sleep, so he does — entangled with you, naked still.

In the morning, you want to say, “Let me go make some coffee” or “Get back in bed” or “I love you”, but none of those words have the chance to leave your mouth before Javi reaches the door.

“See you Monday,” he says.

You see him before that, though, in a dream, then a nightmare, then a memory, and a glimpse of him getting into his car and driving away.

And, as promised, you see him on Monday. His fingertips that ran along your skin fumble over the keys on his typewriter, he holds the phone between his head and his shoulder — where you should’ve left a mark, his lips that kissed you only days ago wrap around the last cigarette in the pack. There is nothing left for him in his desk drawer. He stubs it out in the ashtray next to him. If Javier knows one thing it is how to light a flame and turn it to dust before your eyes. 

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

I loved your defiant darling for your nightwing x reader x star fire series

Can I request maybe a darling who after being kidnapped starfire maybe tries to do their makeup or their hair because they think their depressed after being kidnapped

ᴘᴀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙɪʀᴅ

ɴɪɢʜᴛᴡɪɴɢ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x sᴛᴀʀғɪʀᴇ (ʏ)

I shall return 🙌

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

The room smelled like vanilla and something floral, sweet in a way that clung to the air, thick as honey. It wasn’t yours. You didn’t own anything that smelled this soft, this saccharine. Your things smelled like detergent, like soap and the fleeting ghost of fresh air from when you could still crack open a window and decide how much of the world you wanted to let in. Here, the air was controlled. Stagnant. Even the artificial light was curated, warm enough to feel like a sunset but never dim enough to invite the comfort of darkness.

It was a prison dressed in soft linens and foreign perfumes, and Kory had the audacity to hum while she rifled through her little acrylic containers of makeup.

“You are looking most sad,” she said, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror, half-lidded and unreadable. “Dick worries.”

It wasn’t a question.

She picked up something small and glossy—a tube of pinkish-gold—before setting it down and reaching for something darker.

“I do not believe the sadness is good for you,” she continued, tone light, like she was discussing something as inconsequential as a rain forecast. “Your body is unhappy. Your shoulders are tense. Your lips are dry.” Her eyes flicked back to the mirror, assessing. “This shade would be very nice on you, I think.”

You didn’t respond. It was easier not to. Easier to stare at the mirror with the kind of dull resentment that made your bones feel old, aching under the weight of fury that had nowhere to go.

Dick had tried to talk to you earlier. He had that damn patience, the kind that stretched and stretched like old elastic, never quite snapping. He’d sat on the couch, all loose limbs and easy charm, something bright in his eyes that never matched the sharpness of his mind. He had always been too good at talking. Always been too good at getting people to listen.

“You can be angry,” he had told you, voice softer than you wanted it to be. “But you have to understand that we’re doing this for you.”

And Kory—Kory, who was strong enough to tear through metal like paper but touched you like spun glass—was here, running a warm hand over your temple, brushing a stray strand of hair away before pressing something cool against your cheek.

Foundation. Or concealer. Some liquid thing meant to even out your skin tone, to smooth over imperfections, to make you presentable.

“You will feel better when you see how beautiful you are,” she assured, her smile unwavering, her fingers too gentle, too warm. “When you look good, you feel good, yes?”

The laugh that tore from your throat was sharp and humorless.

“Kory,” you said, flat and dull, staring past her to your own reflection. “I’ve been kidnapped.”

Her expression didn’t change. Not really. A flicker of something, maybe. Something too brief to catch before it smoothed back into certainty.

“I know,” she said, voice still light, still sweet. “That is why you are sad.”

Not because your freedom had been stolen. Not because Dick had taken away your phone and Kory had melted the lock on the door and their eyes were always on you, tracking your movements, patient, unwavering, like you were something fragile.

You let out a slow breath, something cold curling in your chest. “I’m not playing along with this.”

She hummed again, pressing her thumb against your jaw, tilting your face a little more toward her. “You do not have to. I will take care of it for you.”

The thing in your chest coiled tighter.

Her grip was light, but you knew, in the same way you knew how fire burned and ice numbed, that it didn’t have to be. If you jerked away, if you tried to move, she could hold you still like it was nothing.

But she wouldn’t.

Because she thought this was love.

Because she thought she was taking care of you.

Because she thought sadness was something that could be brushed away with mascara and foundation and the careful sweep of blush over your cheekbones.

Kory was still talking, something about color palettes and how your undertones suited golds and warm shades, and you wondered if she actually believed this would help or if she just wanted to make you easier to look at.

You let your eyes drift back to the mirror, to the way her fingers moved, precise and delicate, like she was painting something that belonged to her.

The air still smelled too sweet.

And when the door creaked open and Dick stepped in, blue eyes scanning, assessing, always watching, the thing in your chest curled so tight it hurt.

[ghostgirl-22]

Can’t stop thinking about Patrick teaching Art how to jerk off and it evolving somewhere down the line into Patrick edging Art mercilessly. Art’s all whimpers and blushing up to his ears and needy whines arching up at the slightest bit of attention and Patrick’s just eating up every bit of it

You really cooked with this anon <3 (she says 100 years later)

CW: 18+ NSFW Explicit

—-

Patrick isn’t even sure how it happened. But somehow he got control over Art’s orgasm. Maybe all those late nights jerking off together, evolving into Patrick helping him. And then into Patrick literally helping him through it. And now it’s the only thing Art knows. Now the only way he can come is with help, with permission. On the phone when he can’t do it in person. All it takes is “Please Patrick, can you help me?” And the blood rushes immediately to Patrick’s dick.

It’s one of those nights. He does it in person.

Just landed in Palo Alto an hour ago, and Art’s already whimpering, scooting closer to Patrick, legs spread wide with Patrick settled between them, still fully clothed. Art in his boxers and a t-shirt, he’d been so eager, just waiting.

He’s seeking Patrick’s mouth for a kiss. For validation while Patrick jerks him roughly. He’s arching up, probably a handful of heavy strokes away from the end, and Patrick decides to take his time.

“It feels so much better when I do it, huh?” Patrick says softly in his ear. “You’ve been waiting for me all week.”

”Mmm,” Art moans, helplessly.

“I don’t understand it when you whine,” Patrick whispers. “And if i can’t understand you, i have to stop. Do you want me to stop?”

He loves to make art talk when he’s close. Loves it when he’s got Art’s pretty cock all lubed up, swollen purplepink and leaking, twitching, in his heated palm. Trying to make him talk like normal when he’s an absolute mess of a human, tongue tied and incoherent. Art, who’s usually so good with his words, so articulate, tone so crisp and clean. Stammering, stuttering for him. God it gets him so fucking hard.

“n—no,” Art whines. “Please. P-please.”

“aww i know… i know it’s hard to make that brain work right now but i don’t understand.” Patrick smiles, he’s slowing his movements watching as Art jerks his hips helplessly. “Please what? You’re so smart, can you use complete sentences for me?”

“Patrick,” Art whines. ”F-fuck.”

Patrick pulls his hands away and leans in, bracing himself on either side of the bed and bracketing Art’s hips. Art jerks upwards into nothing. Frustrated. Skin flushed all the way down his bare chest. Patrick cups his chin and art licks his lips and moves closer, lips parting automatically, searching for a kiss.

“thats not a complete sentence.” Patrick says, pulling back just before their lips touch.

“P-Please d-don’t stop.” Art stammers.

“see was that so hard?” Patrick gives him a kiss and is overwhelmed right away by art’s tongue. He’s all apart. Needy. Moaning into Patrick’s mouth while he’s kissing him. He sounds like a fucking whore. Patrick can feel his own cock pulsing.

“Holy shit,” Patrick breathes against his lips. “you’d probably do anything for me right now, huh?”

Art nods, mouth still open, tongue darting across his wet lips, pupils blown wide. Patrick pushes him down so he’s flat on his back and crawls up the length of his body.

“I wanna hear you.”

“Yes, please— Patrick please. I’ll d-do whatever you w-want.”

“You little slut,” Patrick walks his fingers up the length of his pretty cock. So much fucking pre-cum spilling out it’s like he’s already finished. “God, you need it so fucking bad, don’t you? can’t control yourself.”

“Mm need you.” Art whispers, arching into the barely there touches.

”Tell me you’re a slut,” Patrick sighs. “Tell me you’re a fucking slut.”

“Mm a— imma s-slut,” Art stammers. “Patrick. Wanna fucking come so bad. Imma fucking s-slut.”

Patrick presses himself up against Art’s bottom, knowing Art can feel it through his jeans. “Mm you feel what you fucking do to me. Hm? You feel how crazy you make me.”

Art’s got his eyes closed, breath catching. He’s grinding his hips and moaning. “F-fuck oh fuck, yes,” he whispers.

“Oh god. Look at me,” Patrick breathes, gripping onto Art’s dick properly. He knows it’s an impossible ask. Art’s mouth is all wet, he’s drooling, aching. Grinding his balls, his ass, along the friction of Patrick’s cock while Patrick slides his grip up and down the slippery length of his.

“Come on. I don’t want to stop but I need you to look at me when you go off sweetheart.” Patrick whispers.

Art’s eyes flutter open for just a minute. He’s breathless. Chest heaving. “Oh-oh— m-my god,” he stammers out riding the feeling… he’s so goddam close and he shuts his pretty eyes again. He’s shivering, pleading when Patrick pulls back, sitting up on his knees.

“‘m sorry, s-so sorry, s-sorry Patrick f-fucking please,” art whines.

Patrick undoes his zipper and slips his hand inside to soothe himself for just a minute. “Shit,” he whispers. “You make me crazy when you don’t listen. I said I need you to look at me.”

“yes, yes okay, P-Patrick please,” Art is still whining, hips stuttering, helpless, breathless. His eyes are wet now filling with tears. God he’s so fucking pretty, so fucking desperate. “I’m sorry.”

“You wanna come for me?”

“Y-yes, i want to s-so so much. ”

Patrick stares at him, runs his messy fingers through all of that thick golden hair, art follows the touch. Turning his cheek to rest on Patrick’s palm, to kiss his hand, his arm. Tongue kissing him, wet. Patrick realizes in a detached way that he’s shivering at the feel of it.

“Mm fuck. I think I wanna stretch your little virgin ass,” Patrick whispers, not sure what he’s saying. He knows he’s breaking. That even he can’t take much more of this. “I wanna split you in half and make you come on my big cock.”

“Mmm yes,” art moans. Still kissing all over Patrick’s hand.

Patrick takes his spit, lube, covered hand and pushes Art’s hair back off his forehead, crawling on top so he’s right up in Art’s face again. “I’m gonna let you come, okay? Say okay.”

“Okay,” Art breathes, pulling his knees up more and jerking his hips in another desperate attempt to seek friction.

”Good boy,” Patrick sighs and Art’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I need to see you. Keep your eyes right here. Say you will.”

”I will.”

“Good boy.”

Art swallows again.

Patrick grips Art’s cock again. Art seizes up right away. Struggling to keep eye contact as Patrick slides his palm up and down, slowly at first.

“Fuck,” Art whispers, a litany. Hips jerking. He starts pumping into the touch. Fucking into it more, and more. Faster and faster. Oh he’s beautiful. All blissed out and open wide. It takes no time at all before he’s spilling, sticky white heated liquid covering Patrick’s palm.

“Good, that’s it,” Patrick whispers. “Feels so much better huh?” The relief of it all over him as more and more pumps out. Patrick doesn’t let up at all, keeps gripping him, jerking him, as he slides his own dick out and rubs up against his ass, along the thin fabric of Art’s boxers.

“Fuck… one day I’m just gonna fucking… watch you fall apart on my cock.” Patrick groans, burying his face against Art’s throat, his nose buried in the soft delicious scent of his golden curls.

Art’’s trembling, moaning with the overstimulation of it. These pitchy whiny noises that just make Patrick come that much faster. “Oh fuck yes,” Patrick gasps collapsing on to his chest. He feels Art tangle his fingers into Patrick’s hair.

“You like it?” Patrick asks, minutes later, sated and warm against his bare chest.

“Mmhm,” Art hums lightly.

“Say thank you,” Patrick tries, knowing he doesn’t have much leverage to control him anymore.

“Mm,” Art considers it and Patrick smiles and presses a kiss to his pert little nipple.

“Say thank you and I’ll do it again before you go to sleep.”

”Thank you,” Art says softly. “Thank you so much.”

[sturnsblogs]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆More than best-friends‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Chapter 7: Distance

Chris tried to convince himself he was fine.

That night, after Avery had made him choose, he laid in bed staring at the ceiling, his thoughts running in circles. He told himself he’d done the right thing. He chose his girlfriend. That’s what he was supposed to do, right? That’s what a good boyfriend does—he prioritizes his relationship.

So why did it feel like he had lost something?

He hadn’t spoken to you in over a month, and now he wasn’t allowed to. The silence, once just an ache in the background, had turned into something suffocating. Every time he unlocked his phone, his fingers hesitated over your contact. He still had your number memorized, still knew exactly what he would say if he got the chance. But he wouldn’t.

Because Avery would know.

And he couldn’t go back on his word.

So instead, he distracted himself. He spent every free moment with Avery, texting her constantly, answering her calls the second his phone buzzed. He made sure she had no reason to doubt him. And it worked—at least on the surface.

Avery was happy. She was glowing, smug in the knowledge that Chris had picked her. She would randomly grab his hand and squeeze it, kiss his cheek out of nowhere, make little comments like “See? Things are better now.” And Chris would nod, forcing a smile, pretending he believed it too.

But the guilt gnawed at him.

He hadn’t realized how much he depended on you until you were gone. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed those late-night conversations, those inside jokes, those moments where he could just be himself without worrying about saying the wrong thing.

With Avery, everything felt like a test now.

One wrong move, one hesitation, and she’d look at him like she was waiting for a reason to doubt him again.

And then, one day, he saw you.

It was a random afternoon in June, and Chris was walking through the parking lot after grabbing lunch with Avery. She was talking about something—he wasn’t really listening—when his eyes landed on you across the lot.

You were laughing at something, your head tilted back slightly, the way you always did when something genuinely amused you. And just for a second, everything else faded.

Chris stopped walking.

Avery noticed immediately.

Her grip on his arm tightened. “Chris,” she said sharply.

He didn’t respond.

You hadn’t seen him yet, but that didn’t stop the wave of emotions that crashed into him all at once. He missed you. He missed you so much it physically hurt.

Avery followed his gaze, and when she saw you, her grip turned vice-like. “Seriously?” she snapped.

Chris flinched, snapping out of it. “What?”

Avery scoffed. “You’re staring at her like a lost puppy. Are you kidding me?”

Chris clenched his jaw, looking away. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” Avery pulled him forward, her nails digging into his wrist. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

Chris hesitated, glancing back once more.

And that’s when you looked up.

For the first time in over a month, your eyes met.

His breath caught in his throat.

But before he could say anything, before he could even process the look on your face—surprise, sadness, something else—Avery tugged him forward, breaking the moment completely.

He let her.

Because what else could he do?

That night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Chris lay awake, staring at his phone, his fingers hovering over your name. The urge to call you, to hear your voice, to tell you everything—he could barely breathe past it.

He sat up, raking a hand through his hair. Screw it.

Before he could overthink it, he grabbed his hoodie, shoved it on, and slipped out his window.

The walk to your house felt like a blur, his heart pounding harder with every step. He knew this was wrong. He knew Avery would lose her mind if she found out.

But he couldn’t not see you.

When he reached your house, he didn’t hesitate. He climbed up the way he had so many times before, slipping through your window with ease.

You were sitting on your bed, scrolling through your phone. The second you saw him, your eyes widened.

“Chris?”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Hey.”

You stared at him like you couldn’t believe he was really there. “What are you doing here?”

Your expression hardened. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know. But I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You were always the person I went to when things got bad.”

You looked away, exhaling shakily. “That’s not my role anymore.”

Chris’s stomach twisted. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You met his gaze, and for the first time in over a month, he saw it—the hurt. The anger. The betrayal.

“You already did.”

Chris felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs. His breath came out shaky, uneven. “No, I didn’t. I—I didn’t have a choice. Avery—she made me, she said—” He was scrambling now, desperation creeping into his voice. “She said if I loved her, I wouldn’t pick you, and—” He exhaled sharply, raking his hands through his hair. “I didn’t want to, I swear I didn’t want to.”

You shook your head. “But you still did.”

Chris took a step closer, his hands shaking. “I had to. She said I already lost you.” His voice cracked. “But I didn’t want to. I never wanted to.”

You stared at him, your arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold something together. “Chris…”

“Please.” He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t do this. I—” He inhaled sharply, his eyes glassy. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

You exhaled, closing your eyes for a moment. When you opened them, you looked tired. “You should’ve thought about that before you left me.”

Chris clenched his jaw. “I didn’t leave you. I was forced to—”

“No.” Your voice was firm. “She might’ve given you an ultimatum, but the choice was still yours.”

Chris looked away, his breath uneven. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You let out a small, bitter laugh. “And look where that got us.”

Chris swallowed hard, shaking his head. He was losing you. He already lost you.

But he couldn’t accept it.

“Please.” His voice broke. “I don’t care about any of it anymore. I just need you.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

But then, you shook your head. “You should go, Chris.”

Chris opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You turned away.

And that’s when he knew.

It was over.

For the first time, he didn’t just feel like he lost you.

He knew he had.

A/N- I teared up just a bit.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @chrislilcumslvt @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @mylittled0ve @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo

CHAPTER 6

TAGLIST TO MASTERLIST

[noirsdoll]

-> delayed gratification

pairing: jimmy x gf!reader

words: 1.3k

cw: necrophilia, gore/mutilation, implied snuff, referenced abusive relationship, oral sex, missionary, dead dove do not eat

notes: wanted to try something new!! jimmy takes you out back and buries you… while having some fun of his own

read it on ao3

Scarlet splatters over your skin like a fresh Jackson Pollock. Jimmy smears a big glob of it with his thumb, ruining his masterpiece and feeling all the better for it. 

It’s hard to ruin what’s already laying in disrepair, limbs contorted at odd angles like you’re a Barbie doll that’s been long forgotten about. Ivory bone bursts through flesh like a parasitic birth, red meat still drips that sickly-sweet juice. A delicacy, where he’s from. The taste of iron darkens on his tongue. 

It brings him pride, seeing you like this. Eroded and constricted, swallowed whole and forced to suffocate along the way. You knew what you were getting into, it’s hard not to look both ways before jumping off a cliff. 

He’s such a bad, horrible thing. If he says it himself it negates the responsibility. If he says it to you it’s an admittance, an apology. You’re red and everything else is green— Merry Christmas to him, he guesses. He’s still got one last gift he’s saving for you. 

Your skull’s hollow when he knocks you around. Your head thumps against the thick grass. Not a word out of you, bloody mouth and an even bloodier neck. Red crescents dug into your skin, your flesh purple and muddied. He nudges your stomach with the toe of his boot and you flop onto your back, your eyes glazed over, losing their spark like wet kindling. 

Thick trees surround him like four walls that are closing in. He knows better than to pay it any mind. You gaze up at the stars, the night sky. He digs and digs, staring at you, through you, what’s left of you. Sometimes he wonders if he should have stopped, if stopping is what would have made it all okay. 

Then a part of him— the right part— gets a kick out of seeing you like this. Defeated, reduced, broken farther than you could ever get yourself. He poured an accelerator over your matchstick and watched you burn up. 

It’s his own form of entertainment— taking someone’s shitty life and making it even shittier. It’s his specialty, his service to you, the one you paid for with dividends. This was the final result, there was no other option. Did you think he would change? That the right words or the right position would shift that innate urge inside him to beat you bloody?

People like him don’t change. They sit and they dwell and they rot and they lash out at anything like an angry whip. 

He plants two hands on your side and tries to slide you into his makeshift hole that isn’t even deep enough to qualify as a kiddie pool. You don’t move, unfortunately. He’d put his back into it, but that’s work and Jimmy has half a mind to just leave you here and let someone else do the rest. 

Even in the afterlife, you’re still being a nuisance to him. In your glory days you were still never good for more than cheap fuck and a baggie he could slide out of your purse when you weren’t looking. Your tits were decent at least. Actually, your tits are still decent now, greyed out from the lack of blood but still there, not yet rotting and— Jimmy has stumbled onto his greatest slippery slope yet. 

Looking around like there could possibly be someone else in these woods, his hand slinks down and underneath the worn sleep shirt that you were wearing when he… yeah. You’re too cold and it’s more like groping a frozen silicone doll than an actual girl. 

His hand delves lower, deeper— and he’s not sure what he was expecting, but you’re drier than the Sahara, pussy lips stiff like old lunch meat but he can do whatever he wants to now. Even more so than he already has.

A part of it is curiosity. Maybe he’ll have timed it perfectly for rigor mortis to come squeeze him tight— if that’s even how it works. He didn’t pass biology in school, or any course for that matter. More about stringing himself along and wading in his swamp of a life till he made it to shore.

Anyway, it’s time for your gift. He bets you’re thanking him for this in the afterlife. There’s something cruel about not letting you actually get to experience this, the one thing you’ve begged him for.

Jimmy gets in between your legs like muscle memory, lowering his face to your cunt— no longer flush with life but rather blending in with the dead leaves around you. He spits on his fingers and tries to slide in, frowning as your cunt stays sealed like an iron door, forcing him out.

Sighing, he spits on your cunt, the glob hits your clit and you lay there unaffected. Jimmy leans down and slips his tongue into you, prepping your insides so his dick doesn’t get rug burn.

It’s an odd experience and Jimmy wonders how you would be reacting right now if you could. He’s attentive, circling your soft clit and running his tongue along your walls. It doesn’t taste… bad. The existing flavour of iron sinks its barbs into his throat, refusing to leave.

Deciding you’re wet enough, he tugs down his pants and jerks his semi a couple of times as he stares at you. He’s seen videos of dead girls getting fucked before, a lot of them. Always in the woods, always by guys in masks with blood-slicked dicks. He wonders what colour your blood would be now if he tore you— if it still be that same startling scarlet that it was when he made his mark. 

One hand grabs your shredded throat, the blood is cold and sticky on his palm. Jimmy holds you down like you could possibly run away. His tip pops into your cunt with a bit more work than he’d like but fuck you’re tight. 

He groans out into the quiet, digging his nails into your throat, it gives like thick gelatin. Jimmy thrusts in and out as you gaze up at the sky. You look too fucking tranquil— you don’t deserve that. He digs the thumb of his free hand into your eye till it pops like a grape. Yellowed liquid leaks down the side of your face like cataract tears. There, you’re crying now. 

Jimmy wipes his finger on your shirt with a grimace, fucking you faster cuz his balls are getting cold. His dick’s mean, pushing hard against your cervix but you can’t fucking wail about it like you usually do. 

His hips twitch as he starts to get into it, huffing and moaning. Your pussy’s better like this, as a ragdoll hole that’s too fleshy to be a toy and too cold to be alive. Jimmy might get out his pocket knife and keep that part of you for himself as a personalized fleshlight. Too messy, unfortunately. 

Jimmy’s fucking without a care in the world for how it’s disfiguring you. You’re a heap of flesh already and the last person who’ll ever see you is him anyway. No one’s here to do an autopsy on your exposed trachea and how your arm is fractured in three different spots, how he kicked your stomach in for so long that it’s a completely different shade than the rest of you. The rage got to him, it always does. Especially after all that bitching and moaning that you’re known for. 

Dirt is soiling his pants as he feels his stomach winding tight. He pulls out, spurting cum all over your corpse, covering you in watery ropes. This might be the best you’ve ever looked— completely defiled. 

Jimmy does up his pants and gets to feet. He kicks your body into the shitty hole he made and you roll into it with a thud. Stretching his back, he picks up the shovel and covers you up. 

No one’s gonna find you. Better yet— no one’s gonna miss you. 

[bone-trash]

COD Headcanons #7

Johnny’s being weird

(A Ghoap Teen!AU - Part 2)

Johnny’s being weird. He wasn’t answering Simon’s texts and he’d skipped chemistry (the only class they had together) and when he’d kicked open the side door leading out of the gym at lunch Johnny hadn’t been there either. The fuck was happening?

Simon had noticed Johnny on his first day, how could you not? He was so different than anyone Simon had ever met. First of all, who moved to Manchester? All he’d ever wanted to do was get away from this hellhole. If not for Tommy he’d have probably split at 16.

Johnny was loud and Scottish and played sport and was handsome and yeah Simon had noticed him before they’d been paired together but had never expected they’d have anything in common

Truthfully Johnny didn’t know any cool bands, he came to school chinos his first week, he’d even been sitting with the popular crowd at first too (since he had immediately made it onto the football team) so Simon was shocked to find that he could draw

The green color pencil illustrated mashup of fire and bone and weaponry currently gracing the front cover of Simon’s school binder was testament to that. They’d been talking about what Johnny should draw for the bottom of Simon’s skateboard (currently layered with stickers) when he’d worked up the nerve to finally kiss him

Sure he’d really only shotgunned the last of the blunt they were sharing into the shocked boys mouth and he’d sort of clacked their teeth together in his efforts but Johnny didn’t pull away. And he wore this very attractive flush on his cheeks right up until Simon walked him back to the head of his street.

The weekend had passed and now that it was 3pm on Monday, Simon was starting to panic. Had he really misread the situation so badly?

…

Football practice ran until 6pm. Simon hung back, to the left side of the stands, lighting up a smoke so he’d have something to do with his hands. He figured it wouldn’t go over too well, especially if Johnny really was cross with him, if he made a point to sit with the players girlfriends on the bleachers. He was starting to get looks just being there at all.

Still, as soon as Johnny saw him he smiled bright as anything and Simon felt like he could fly if he kept looking at him like that

Their next kiss is much better. After everyone clears the pitch, Johnny walks right up to him, pushes him up against the chainlink fence behind the bleachers and kisses the breath out of him. He tastes like blue Gatorade. This time he walks Johnny right up to his front door, clutching his sweaty hand the whole way, and is even invited to stay for supper— Johnny’s relatives are in town so he and his sisters had been signed out for the whole school day (Simon feels like an idiot)

Afterwards they go to up to his room (the door left half way open in respect to Johnny’s Maw) to play some first person shooter game Simon’s family could never have afforded. Johnny also has Guitar Hero and Simon beats his high score on Holiday in Cambodia.

It starts to get late and Simon says he really ought to get home to make sure Tommy’s fed (the only reason he’d ever want to leave truly) and Johnny says he understands.

Johnny walks him back to the street and Simon steals another lingering kiss before sliding off the checkered sweatband from his right wrist and shoving it onto Johnny’s. He wears it from then on.

——

Dedicated to @youredyingthatsallthereis because you enjoyed the last one so much!

Just for you Roachie ✌️💀

[dekariosclan]

I’m curious how you think Gale would handle his beloved Tav who has epilepsy? It’s something I’ve struggled with for about 8 years now, and it’s a disability now often recognized.

Do you think he’d make some sort of potion to stop the seizures? Or maybe he’d enchanted a piece of jewelry to stop them? Idk, whatever you think!

For me my seizures typically happen within an hour of waking up, and are trigger by flashing lights and sleep deprivation. My seizures are always grand Mal seizures, which basically means I violently convulse and lose consciousness for a short period of time. If you have any questions or anything, feel free to DM me! I’m happy to help! And thank you for taking time k read and possible write this, I know it’s not easy. :) 💜

@nerbyrobotics, I’m so sorry that you have to deal with such a severe condition, but I’m happy to answer your question because I can’t think of a better or more loving partner for someone struggling with epilepsy than Gale.

You know, one of the reasons I think Gale would be absolutely amazing at caring for a partner with health issues isn’t just because of his loving heart and kind nature—both of which are still very important qualities!—but because he knows what it is like to have a debilitating condition. One where he was wholly dependent on others helping him and offering him assistance during his flare-ups. After experiencing such a condition and the stress and anxiety that goes along with it, Gale would be completely empathetic to his beloved’s struggle and would go out of his way to do whatever he could to ease their burden.

Of course, I think if there were any possibility of Gale curing Tav completely, he would go for it—even if doing so had a fair chance of danger (to him, not Tav). If a cure wasn’t possible, then the next option he would try would be exactly what you said: potions or enchanted jewelry to prevent the seizures entirely—and you’d best believe he’d stay on top of keeping those potions filled and that jewel enchanted at all times.

If prevention was not possible, then Gale would set up some sort of means of proactive protection—for example, enchanted jewelry for both Tav and Gale that would give an alert that a seizure was imminent so they could prepare for it. There would be pillows enchanted to always protect Tav’s head during an episode, and Gale’s mirror image on standby to assist Tav if needed, whether ‘real’ Gale was present at the time or not.

In short, Tav would never be left with the anxiety of being alone, or unprepared, or feeling like a burden in dealing with their health—because Gale would know how awful that feels, and would do everything in his power to give his beloved the security and confidence to live their life to the fullest, while still being fully prepared to help them overcome any obstacles arising from their epilepsy.

Op, I sincerely hope you have someone like Gale in your life to offer you loving support through your health journey, and I wish you nothing but the best in your future. 💜

[lilangelbud]

"Shh, you don’t want them to hear, do you?" His voice was a low, taunting whisper, his lips brushing against my ear as his hand clamped over my mouth. I could feel the heat of his body pressed against mine, the weight of him pinning me to the bed. My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps that his palm muffled. "You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you? So quiet. So obedient."

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking down my cheeks as I tried to block out the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on me. But it was impossible. He was everywhere—his scent, his touch, the way his breath hitched as he moved against me. I could hear the faint creak of the bedsprings, the wet, rhythmic sounds of his body pounding into mine. "You’re mine, you know that? Always have been, always will be."

I wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything to make him stop. But I couldn’t. I didn’t. Because he was right—no one would believe me. He was the golden child, the perfect son. And me? I was just his little sister, the one who’d always been clumsy, awkward, a disappointment. Who would believe me over him?

The first time it happened, I was 16. He’d come into my room late at night, slipping under the covers like it was nothing. "Shh," he’d whispered, his voice soft, almost tender. "It’s okay. I love you. I’ll take care of you." And I’d believed him. I’d wanted to believe him. But then his hands had started to wander, and suddenly it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t love. It was something else entirely.

I’d tried to push him away, to tell him no, but he’d just laughed. "You’re so cute when you’re flustered," he’d said, his voice dripping with mockery. "But you don’t mean it. You want this. You’ve always wanted this." And then he’d kissed me, his lips hard and demanding, and I’d frozen, too shocked, too scared to do anything else.

After that, it became a regular thing. He’d come into my room whenever he felt like it, slipping under the covers like he belonged there. "You’re mine," he’d whisper, his voice dark and possessive. "No one else will ever have you. No one else will ever touch you. You’re mine." And I’d believed him. I’d had to believe him. Because what else could I do? Who else could I turn to?

The first time he took pictures, I’d begged him not to. "Please," I’d sobbed, my voice trembling with fear. "Please, don’t. I’ll do anything, just please don’t." But he’d just laughed, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You’re so cute when you beg," he’d said, his voice thick with lust. "But it’s too late for that. You’re mine, and I’ll do whatever I want with you." And then he’d snapped the picture, the flash blinding me for a moment.

I’d tried to delete it, to destroy it, but he’d just laughed. "You think that’s going to stop me?" he’d asked, his voice mocking. "I’ve already sent it to my friends. They’re coming over tomorrow. We’re going to have so much fun." And then he’d kissed me, his lips hard and demanding, and I’d frozen, too shocked, too scared to do anything else.

The next day, his friends had come over, just like he’d said. "We’re just having a study night," he’d told our parents, his voice smooth and convincing. And they’d believed him, just like they always did. But as soon as they were gone, he’d dragged me into his room, his friends following behind him, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"You’re going to be a good girl for us, aren’t you?" he’d asked, his voice soft, almost tender. "You’re going to be so good for us." And then he’d kissed me, his lips hard and demanding, and I’d frozen, too shocked, too scared to do anything else.

"Shh," he whispered now, his voice soft and soothing, like he was trying to comfort me. "It’s okay. I love you. I’ll take care of you." But I knew better now. I knew what his love meant, what his care entailed. And I hated him for it. I hated him for making me feel like this, for making me want this.