#Or maybe he didn't and this got him to finally see it

[kidokear]

The new ULTRAKILL update got me wanting to see Gabriel realizing that the war machine that defeated him, the one he considered unbreakable, can be and is afraid of death. That they can feel fear in a very living and human way. See them terrifies out of their code. Feel their terror. Understand that they want to scream but can't.

They are so rattled it shakes him.

[poisonf0rest]

Poison I am on my hands and knees BEGGING PLEADING IMPLORING for some more teacher Rafayel i did not know I needed it until you made me see the light godbless biggest fattest kiss for you MUAH

(I hope you don’t take this as me demanding you to write anything, definitely only if you want of course!!)

teacher's pet?

♱⋅── a/n: 3k of Professor! Rafayel. It's not his fault you're so easy to tease, to rile up, to get you right where he wants you when you're being a brat and not listening to your dear professor.

Rafayel is a world-renowned artist, known for his masterpieces communicating all the rage and depth of the ocean, a devotion so palpable apparently you could drown in it. A rumor second only to his notorious reputation of having the face of an angel and personality of the devil. 

You can vouch that both these rumors are damn near true. 

Linkon University jumped at the opportunity when the Rafayel offered to become an adjunct professor for the senior year art capstone.

From the first day, the entire lecture hall was captivated under Rafayel's siren spell, his voice like sweet poison as he first introduced himself to the class, words a careful balance between arrogant and playful— that is, until you introduced yourself. 

It was barely noticeable, something you almost swear you imagine, but those sunset eyes light up when you say your name, his smile becomes a little less hollow, and something in his gaze arrests you so violently you nearly forget to look away. 

Little do you know Rafayel has been looking for you in this lifetime for nearly seventy years. And finally, finally he’s found you. So what if these circumstances are a little less ideal than usual? 

He’s not letting you go again. 

Professor Rafayel gives you impossible standards to meet, critiques that cut deep enough to make you want to scream, and grades that keep you shackled to his office hours.

He’s careful, though. His feedback is always just shy of unreasonable, his authority unchallenged, his reputation untouchable. And when you come storming into his office demanding an explanation, he just smiles, leaning back in his chair with the air of a predator who knows his prey walked right into the trap.

“Poor thing,” he drawls, feigning sympathy as his eyes slowly trace your figure from behind his glasses. “Maybe you’re just not cut out for this. But I suppose... with the right guidance...”

He lets the offer dangle, his gaze heated and unwavering. You hate that your heart races, hate that you need his approval, his help. Hate that he looks so damn smug knowing just how to make you beg, just how to make you come looking for him instead. 

Professor Rafayel savors every insult you hurl behind his back, every time you grumble to your friends about his impossible standards and arrogant demeanor. He listens, silently cataloging each biting word, each curse muttered under your breath.

And when he finally has you moaning his name, his mouth wicked and merciless between your thighs, he can’t help but remind you of every cruel thing you’ve said.

“You’ve got such a filthy mouth, cutie. Didn't you call me a sadistic asshole last week?” His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he flicks your clit with his tongue again, smirking as you writhe in overstimulation. “I suppose I am... but you love it, don’t you?”

The way you choke on a sob only makes him smile wider.

Private lessons with Professor Rafayel become a blur between you learning and losing your mind. 

Half of the time, Rafayel is a masterful teacher, and his passion for art is as mesmerizing as his paintings. He speaks about color theory with a fervor that none of your other professors have come close to, his eyes alight as he explains the emotional weight of each shade, the way hues can whisper secrets or scream rage. His knowledge is boundless, and his lessons on storytelling through art are so captivating you almost forget to breathe.

But it’s the tales of Lemuria that leave you spellbound, like something out of a fairytale or tragedy. Ancient techniques lost to time, rituals where pigments were mixed with seashells, and spells hidden in brushstrokes. He speaks with such reverence, his voice low and haunting, and sometimes, just sometimes, you catch a flicker of sorrow in his gaze, as if he’s lived through it all.

He shows you his personal collection, paints richer and more vivid than anything you’ve ever seen. Reds deeper than blood, shimmering blues that seem to ripple like water. He teaches you to paint underwater landscapes that feel eerily familiar, scenes of ancient temples swallowed by the sea, fragments of a forgotten and drowned world.

You convince yourself it’s just Rafayel’s eccentric genius rubbing off on you, a byproduct of his intoxicating charisma. But then he watches you with that knowing smile, his eyes gleaming as if he’s waiting for you to remember something you’ve long forgotten.

The other half of the time, Professor Rafayel’s lessons are nothing short of madness. He invades your space, his body always too close, his mere presence overwhelming.

His hands are always on yours when he shows you how to sketch the curve of moving muscle, the delicate slope of a hip, fingers guiding yours with agonizing slowness. His touches linger, featherlight in ways that make you shiver, his breath brushing your ear as he murmurs instructions, his voice addictive and velvety.

You try to stay focused, try to be professional, but his scent wraps around you, warm and heady, and your mind spirals. You spend far too long watching the way his hands move, the lithe grace of his fingers, the gentle strength that could so easily ruin you.

Your paintbrush trembles, your breathing uneven, and you can’t help the way your heart races when his chest presses against your back, his hands guiding yours as he whispers, “Just like that... perfect.”

Your professor knows exactly what he’s doing, of course. Rafayel feels the way your hand trembles around the paintbrush, sees the way your pupils dilate, hears every shaky breath. Rafayel drinks it all in, his smile infuriatingly smug, his sunset eyes heavy with satisfaction.

And when he finally touches you—really, truly touches you—all your remaining morality crumbles.

Of course, it’s punishment when you fail to turn in your twenty still-life practices by the end of the week. 

You’re slammed down on his desk before you can think to protest, paint-stained fingers clutching the wood as he presses you down, his body caging you in. He kisses like he paints, with passion and devotion, stealing your breath and sanity in one fell swoop. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs—touching, gripping, claiming.

You gasp as he pushes your skirt up, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear, babbling nonsense about how dare you wear something so cute, so sinful to his class and how he’s been thinking about ripping it off your slutty little hips all day long. 

“All that complaining, but you’re rather obedient now,” Rafayel teases, his voice mocking as his fingers curl, instantly finding that spot that makes you scream around his fingers. “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d learn faster.”

You curse him, or at least you try, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as he curls them up again, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. Rafayel laughs. “You’re very cute when you’re frustrated.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying his name, apologizing for being a brat, every stroke and curl of his fingers calculated to drive you to the edge, to make you lose all sense of time and reason. And when Rafayel finally lets you come undone, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, he watches you fall apart with that infuriatingly smug smile, as if this was his plan all along.

And maybe it was.

Later, you’ll try to paint again, your mind hazy, body aching. But every brushstroke feels too intimate, every color too vibrant, too alive. You’ll stare at the canvas and swear it’s moving, the paint shimmering, swirling, forming shapes that look hauntingly like his eyes. You’ll feel his presence behind you, his hands warm on your shoulders, his voice velvet-smooth as he purrs, “See? Was that so hard?”

Private lessons were always his trap. And now, Rafayel’s got you exactly where he wants you.

When Professor Rafayel suggests you sketch him nude “for practice,” he’s already won. 

You know it the moment his lips curl into that wicked, knowing smile, the kind that makes your pulse race and your stomach flip. You should have said no. Should have refused, made up some excuse, anything to avoid this situation. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And now you’re trapped, heart pounding as he begins to strip in front of you.

He’s maddeningly slow about it, drawing out each movement with practiced ease, and you’re hyper-aware of every single detail. The way his fingers deftly loosen his tie, the silk sliding from his collar with a whisper that makes your breath hitch. His eyes never leave you, watching every nervous fidget, every time you shift in your seat, pretending to be unaffected. But you don’t fool him. Not for a second.

Rafayel’s hands continued down to the buttons of his shirt, his long fingers working methodically, one by one, exposing more pale skin with every pop of fabric. You can’t help it—your gaze follows the path of his fingers, tracing the lines of his collarbones, the lean muscle beneath his skin.

You swallow hard, mentally panicking if it would be worse to watch him or worse to chicken out now, practically surrendering and acknowledging what watching your professor does to you. Not that you could think at all when his shirt falls open, slipping off his shoulders to pool on the tiled floor, leaving him half-naked, so casually beautiful it makes you ache.

Rafayel’s enjoying this far too much, you realize, noting the smug glint in his eyes as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure. He begins to thumb at his slacks and you whip your head away, your entire body going rigid at the sound of his belt unbuckling, the click of metal on metal echoing through the empty lecture hall.

You don’t dare look, eyes glued to the blank canvas before you as heat floods your cheeks. But your traitorous mind cruelly fills in the details, painting a picture more vivid than any still life you’ve ever drawn. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the pedestal as he positions himself, and when you finally gather the courage to glance back, the sight makes you forget the canvas entirely. 

Rafayel lounges on the pedestal like he belongs there, all long limbs and lazy grace, his body on full display with a confidence that borders on obscene. His skin is milky pale, the delicate arch of his ribs leading to the defined lines of his abdomen, his muscles lean and corded beneath flawless flesh.

He’s every bit the masterpiece you expected, unfairly beautiful even like this, his glasses still perched on his nose, that infuriatingly smug smile playing at his lips.

“Well?” he drawls, arching an eyebrow as he settles into a pose, one arm draped artfully over his head, his body a careful composition of sharp lines and curves. “I thought you were supposed to be drawing, not gawking. Not the best student, are you?”

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you force yourself to look back at the canvas, gripping the charcoal so hard it threatens to snap. You try to be professional, try to focus on the technicalities—the shapes, the shadows, the proportions. But it’s impossible when every angle of him is so utterly mesmerizing, when every stretch and shift only highlights the elegance of his form.

Your strokes are shaky at first, charcoal dust smudging your fingers as you outline his figure, but it’s hard to stay steady when his ocean dual-toned eyes are fixed on you, gleaming with mischief and something far more dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing, each subtle change in his posture designed to make you squirm. When he stretches, his body arching like a cat, you almost drop your charcoal, your mouth going dry at the ripple of muscle, the unapologetic sensuality of it all.

“You’re tense,” he comments, his voice soft, lilting with amusement. “Your lines are stiff. Rigid.” He shifts, his body unfurling as he sits up, one leg bent, his arm resting lazily atop his knee. You make a sound in protest, frowning as you lose your reference. “Heh, you won’t capture the fluidity of the human form like that. You need to relax, loosen up.”

You bite back a retort, teeth grinding as you force yourself to adjust your grip, trying to follow his advice. But then he’s standing, moving toward you without a semblance of shame or modesty, his fingers curling around yours, guiding the charcoal along the paper. His completely bare body is so close, his skin warm, the faint persistence seasalt and driftwood scent of his cologne intoxicating as he presses against your back, his voice low and teasing in your ear.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning back into him, one hand still shading the muscle and contour of his body as the other blindly reaches out for Rafayel’s body, hitting the edge of his abs before sliding downwards ever so slowly. 

“Don’t stop there, I’ll help.” And Rafayel’s hands come to meet yours, encircling the charcoal with one as the other wraps your palm around his dick. “You have to move your hand like this…” Gently flicking his wrist to show you the proper shading technique for the lighter areas, groaning into the back of his neck as you repeat the movement around his base, already leaking down to your fingers. 

“Just like that, nice and fluid.” His fingers guide yours around his shaft, setting a pace that makes his breath hitch, his head dipping to rest against your shoulder as his hips roll forward, chasing the friction. “Good girl.”

You can barely focus, your vision blurring as he curls his fingers around yours, moving the charcoal in slow, fluid strokes over the paper. But your other hand is trapped—held in place by his, wrapped around the velvety heat of his cock, his hips giving the tiniest, most subtle thrusts into your palm as if he can’t help himself.

He’s so hard, so hot, already leaking onto your fingers, and your breath shudders as he groans against your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin.

“You’re sooo tense, cutie. Why is that, hmm?”

“Professor…” His title slips out before you can stop it, your voice trembling, your fingers tightening instinctively around him. His laugh is breathy, wicked, and he nips at your ear, his teeth sharp, his tongue soothing the sting. 

“Remember, it’s just Rafayel when we’re together.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think, not when he’s so close, not when he’s touching you like this, guiding you, molding you. His thumb rolls over yours, smudging charcoal across the page, and you realize you’ve accidentally traced the same curve over and over, lost in the rhythm he’s set. You’re not even drawing anymore, just following his lead, letting him control every movement, every sensation.

“Rafayel.” You repeat, and he swears he loses his mind just a little. 

“That’s it,” he urges, his voice shaking slightly, rougher. “You can be braver than that. This is your art, isn’t it? You decide what to do with it.” Rafayel’s teeth scrape along your neck, and you shiver, your eyes fluttering shut as he ruts against you, his cock twitching in your grip, his moans muffled against your shoulder as he loses himself to the pleasure you’re giving him. 

When suddenly, he pulls away. 

You’re entire body goes rigid. Did you do something wrong? Did he change his mind? Has he finally realized how utterly inappropriate this is and chose to save himself the scandal and embarrassment of being caught with you? 

Mind still racing a mile a minute, it’s Rafayel’s gentle touch on your tense shoulders that has you breathing again.  “On second thought, maybe I’m not in the right condition to teach you. Maybe you also need to…” Rafayel’s arms come to wrap around you, fingers slipping under your shirt as lips trace the shell of your ear, and you swear you feel a light nip. “get comfortable.”

The charcoal hits the ground with a hollow crack. 

Your back hits the wall of his office with a muffled thud, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. This was supposed to be a professional meeting, it was supposed to end with you getting that damned A back on the last assignment. But not like this. Not this.

It’s reckless, dangerous, stupid. But Rafayel’s hands are already beneath your shirt, those stupidly gorgeous and talented fingers caressing bare skin, and each heated touch makes it harder to remember why you were fighting in the first place.

“Wait,” you gasp between kisses, your voice trembling as his mouth trails down your neck, “People might see...”

“Shh, it’s okay, cutie,” Rafayel laughs, his voice a low purr that vibrates against your collarbone. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide with desire, a wicked grin playing at his lips. He’s already ruined you, already got you drunk on his touch, and yet you’re still worrying about silly, inconsequential things. That means he’s not doing enough.  “No one will know.”

Not that he’d mind. In fact, the thought of someone catching you like this—of someone realizing that you’re his, completely and irrevocably—only excites Rafayel more. After all, he didn’t lock the door. Anyone truly could just walk in, and his cock jumps at the thought. 

Teeth grazing your pulse, Rafayel’s tongue soothes the sting as his fingers tease below the waistband of your jeans. “You’re so cute when you try to be good,” he teases, his voice mockingly sweet. “Too bad you’re not really the model student you pretend to be.”

Your protest dies in your throat as his hand finds your clit with practiced ease, stroking slow and deliberate through your panties, drawing out a needy whimper that you can’t quite swallow. His mouth is on yours again before you can think to be embarrassed, the kiss possessive, consuming, swallowing every last protest you can think of. 

“See?” he whispers against your lips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You don’t really care who hears, do you?” Rafayel then curls his fingers, thrusting deep in as you scream, clawing at his shoulders and desk as your knees go weak.

God, you hate him. You hate the way he knows your body better than you do, the way he unravels you so easily. You hate the smug look on his face, the cocky confidence as he drives you to the edge. But you hate yourself more for how desperately you crave him, how much you want him, consequences be damned.

Because he’s right, nothing matters here. Not anymore. 

Nothing besides your dear professor.

[sugardaddy-glucoseguardian]

Amazing yes

- Danny is visiting Gotham and the big ass lizard man is throwing a tantrum in the middle of the street. Danny who is used to his rogues doing the same shot when they wanna play fight just body's croc. Everyone is confused, croc is snapped out of it and instantly goes, fuck it. And throws down. Bats show up to croc and some feral meta out of towner rolling around throwing punches and snapping teeth at each other while growling.

- Danny is sick and tired of the smog in Gotham, between not being able to see the stars and Sam complaining about the pollution he wanted it fixed. Together with Sam, Tucker said nah fuck that, they went to Dr.Pamela Isley in Robinson Park. Ivy is very amused by the young adults that come into her park complaining about pollution.

She's actually intrigued when the girl has the same pull to the green she has. The flowers in the garden tilting towards her when she got angry.

- Danny HATED clowns. Freakshow made it an ingrained response. You can't control him if you aren't conscious. So when he goes to Gotham to visit Jazz at GU he sees the Joker and it ON SIGHT. No warning, just Joker monologuing in the street to some Bats and a crazy out of towner comes sprinting from an alleyway and just takes him out at the waist. Full body collision before Joker can even react to being tackled and point his gun the feral little shit is already punching his face in.

The Bats aren't sure if they need to rescue this civilian from the Joker or the Joker from the civilian. By the time they move to at least separate the two, the Joker is beaten black and blue and unconscious and the random guy is growling with bloodied fists hunched over his body like a wild animal defending its kill.

- Selina Kyle was expecting her haul tonight to be diamonds, maybe a ruby and this cute cat sculpture she saw yesterday. Her plans are completely derailed when a small whimper comes from the alley below her.

Quickly circling back she sees a little girl, probably 12 and softly glowing... melting. She quickly hurries down to her, she looks terrified and in pain.

"Hello, my name is Catwoman, can I ask what happened sweetie? And how can I help?" The little girl has green tears running down her face and Selina watches as she seems to shrink before her eyes, 10, 8, her eyes scream fear and Selina has no idea what to do. She presses the panic button Bruce gave her for emergencies.

"I-it hurts. Please, I don't wanna die, please it hurts, i don't wanna go again!" The little girl sobbed and Selina had a horrific realization.

This little girl was gonna die and there was nothing she could do to help her.

So she stayed and whispered comforting words and held her in her arms, smaller and smaller she shrunk, 6, 4, 2 she seemed to stop there. A sobbing glowing 2 year old with melted feet and dripping hands.

Bruce landed behind her. She could tell he didn't know what to do either. Finally Selina pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and the baby stopped crying, looking up at her with eyes far older than her tiny body and she collapsed into herself, all that was left was a small gemstone with swirls of blue and green cradled in her arms.

Selina sobbed. And Bruce held her as they mourned a child they never knew.

(Oops sorry was gonna go cute and it got away from me, I'm thinking dani will reform with Selina and Bruce taking care of her core and she eventually grows as a normal child instead of the forced growth she was originally created with. Also since she was actually 2yrs old that's how old she'd be when she reforms)

- Jazz moved to Gotham for an internship at a local therapy office, her goal being to gain experience and move to Arkham. Her liminal abilities have made her an empath. With low levels of compulsion. She was walking into work and some girl was just standing outside the building staring.

The emotions that rolled off her were, nervous, scared, angry, confused, excited, scared, determined. Jazz approached and carefully moved into her line of sight. She had shoulder length black hair, deep dark eyes, pale skin and looked to be of some possible asain desent. She was beautiful but looked at Jazz with the blankest eyes and emotionless face she's ever seen.

"Hi, my names Jazz and I work here. I don't know if you have an appointment you're working yourself up for or something, but I know therapy can be a scary experience for a lot of people. I can walk you through it if it'll help?" The girl opens her mouth then hesitates.

"How?" She whispers and Jazz feels relief and confusion though nothing shows on her face or body language.

Jazz assumes the question is how she knew? "Ah well, you looked like you needed some encouragement, you've already down the hardest part, you're here and looking for help." Again no expressions but emotions zap through the air, more confusion, weariness, and the breiftest hint of hope.

The girl slowly raises her hands and Jazz takes half a second to recognize the sign language.

Can you understand me?

She smiled and quickly thanked herself for learning signlanguage in highschool.

Yes! Can I help you get in?

She nodded and they walked in together. Jazz ended up staying for Cass as her translator and the relief pouring off of Cass was so strong she thought she was gonna cry just from being in range. Hopefully Cass gets the needed relief she's looking for in therapy. And maybe Jazz gets a friend out of it too.

- Jason is sick and tired of his siblings prodding making jokes that cause he was dead for a good chunk of his teen years he never got to sleep around or even go on a date.

So he tells himself he's gonna go to a bar, pick someone up and have a one night stand and get this shit over with so his siblings leave him alone. The bar was crowded and loud and Jason hated it.

The wall he was leaning against was sticky and the alcohol in his hand was only half drank. He couldn't relax and he felt so uncomfortable, this wasn't a stake out where he had something to focus on, he was supposed to be chatting and dancing and making out with someone. He knocked back his drink, annoyed with himself.

He left.

He came back three more times in the next week, each time he was just as uncomfortable and no one approached the dude who glowered in the corner of the room. No one except Danny.

Danny was a bartender and trying to make ends meet. Alcohol was easy to serve and he was strong enough no fights made it past a single punch before they were thrown out. He'd been watching the guy come and go for several days now and each time the guy looked like it physically pained him to come in. Danny wondered what the hell he was trying to do clearly forcing himself to come to a place he definitely didn't enjoy.

On the fifth time the guy ordered and moved to his wall Danny decided he wanted to know more. Curiosity killed the cat but you can't kill what's already dead.

"Hey man, what's with the face? You look like you've been dragged here against your will." Danny joked as he slid up next to the guy on his lunch break. The dude glanced down at him, clearly doing a once over of his body, top to bottom, and Danny raised a brow. Really? Dude was here for a lay and decided the best way to do that was to stand in the dark and glare?

"Wanna hook up?" He asked, well more like hurriedly demanded. Danny raised the other brow. Not that he wasn't interested but the guy looked like he was gonna throw up. Danny glanced at his drink, he knows he'd only had the one but the man was so clearly out of his comfort zone Danny felt like maybe the hookup should wait till the guy actually wanted to instead of looking like he was forcing himself.

"Hm, how about we start with names? Like hi, my name is Danny Nightingale what's your name?" The guy blushed from his chest to the tips of his ears. His shoulders curled in and he sheepishly answered, "Jason, names Jason Peters.. Sorry, didn't mean to jump you like that, im... trying to.." He trailed off, looking mortified. Danny giggled. Jason was cute ok?

"Well how about this Jason, ypu clearly aren't the type to pick up one night stands and I'm not sure why you think you need to. But if you wanna get laid that bad, pick me up tomorrow at GU and take me on a date. I'll see if we can get you laid." He smirked leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek and walked away.

He hopes he will take him up on it.

Write below a Batfamily meets Danny Fenton story but choose the wildest relationship that you can think of that isn’t adoption or a romantic relationship

For instance:

- breaking into a building for a drug bust but they got the wrong building number and broke into Danny’s apartment.

- gets met over and over because Condiment King of all people continuously kidnaps him for plots

- was brought to the GCPD for wrestling Killer Croc at 3am high as a kite over a new fear gas drug that’s been making its rounds through Gotham.

- accidentally smacked the coffee out of Danny’s hands while catching a perp.

[modernquackfare]

How about Simon having a wife that is a toymaker and makes plushies. Wife!reader comes to the base and gives each of the tf 141 a plushie that looks like them. All of them gets one… except Ghost

Needles to say, he’s very upset, all day, that he didn’t get one.

Only when he gets home, he sees plushies of himself and the reader on the bed

A/N: okay omg i'm so so sorry this has taken forever but I've lost my draft three times 😭 luckily i wasn't TOO far along writing/had it copied but HERE U GO <33

Ghost x Fem!Reader - Toymaker Wife

For such a special day, you come prepared. It's the first time you're setting foot on Spec Gru's European base, thanks to your husband's insistence on security and containment—whatever that means. After much begging and many strategically missed video calls, Simon finally extends an invitation.

It's a cold, concrete world, Simon tells you. Nothing like you, love, or so he says. Does he think being a toymaker for work is synonymous with an inability to handle a few more military men than you already have? It's hard to believe that anyone on base could be more threatening or deadly than Simon himself.

Or Ghost, as they call him here. It's a little funny—reminiscent of middle schoolers that roleplay wolves named Luna or Rebel, but he'd have your head if you ever say such a thing, regardless of how true it might be. You've considered making him a wolf-ear headband just to prove a point and laugh at his furrowed expression. You're sure that his friends, those large men and women in the photo he let you keep, would find it equally funny.

"Sergeant Gaz, Captain Price, Sergeant Soap…” You count, knocking each handheld plush into your bag. It feels just a little childish, showing up to a military base with a pack full of toys-but in your defense, they're the product of your profession and adorable. Each is handmade to recreate the likeness of every member of Task Force 141. They'll probably like the gifts, if Simon's description of each's personality is accurate. Soap's boyish charm, Gaz's calm demeanor, and Price's warm, but dry sense of humor—that's something you can work with.

***

"It's—is this a mini me? This is braw, you've nailed it, lass." Soap lifts his plush into the air, as if holding a newborn babe to the sun. "Down to the scars. I'll be."

You can't help the ripple of a laugh when beside him, Gaz similarly examines his miniature self. "Not bad," he breathes, wiggling the doll's arms as if to make it dance. "Not bad at all. What a handsome fellow."

Soap lifts his doll, moving its head as if it were speaking for him in a poor attempt at ventriloquism "Finely crafted, maybe. Handsome? Well, that's up for—"

"Well, pass yours on over then, let's see that Yule log you call a mohawk," Gaz sneers back, matching Soap's doll's movements with his own.

It's a successful introduction, you think! Simon watches on in silence, loving warmth evident in his eyes as he does. He's not dragging you away and shipping you back home, so things must be going well—as silent and distant as he's being.

"Do you like them?” You ask, hands folded in your lap.

Price fidgets with his, admiring the tiny boonie hat that you've included, small strips of Velcro lining the bottom to adhere the hat to the head. "Never thought I'd ever be the owner of my own doll," he murmurs. "Got the hat just right, didn't you? Spot on."

"Aye, but don't leave it lying about," Soap grins, making his doll trot on over and speak in pitched up tones. “That hat of yours might just disappear. I've got hair too, Cap'."

"Yeah, hair that needs covering."

"Oh, bolt, ya dobber."

Amidst the light chatter of your newfound friends in Simon's comrades, you glance over at the man. There your husband stands, arms crossed tight against his chest. He's got that look—definitely pouting under that mask of his, as much as he protests, saying that it isn't pouting, it's brooding. The others seem to take notice of your wandering gaze, though, and suddenly all eyes are on Simon and his very obvious lack of a personalized doll.

"Don't look so solemn, Ghost," Gaz grins cheekily. "You've almost got me feeling bad for you. You're the one with the dollmaker for a wife, mate.

Simon doesn't respond. His dark gaze, gentle brown eyes hardened into rocks, finds Gaz. Shut it, he seems to say without even opening his mouth.

That grey cloud seems to follow him throughout the day. Convivial conversation with his other friends on base falls flat when the spotlight falls on him, his responses limited to a scant "Hmm," or "Uh-huh," or even a quiet look that verges on a glare. He'll pull away when you reach for his hand, casually enough to pass off as an accident or fault of imperceptibility. As if you didn't know him better—that his reflexes and peripheral vision weren't as sharp as blades.

"Stupid anyway," he mumbles to himself, catching your ears. "Stupid toys."

You frown. He knows better than to speak this way—you've discussed it before, about how much you treasured your work and hated having it dismissed by words like stupid and childish. “I don't think they're stupid," you interrupt, never too intimidated to speak up against him.

Simon immediately softens upon realizing that you've heard him. “It's not—that's not what I meant. You know I don't think they're stupid."

Right, but he's acting strange all day. Still, you can't find it within yourself to probe. "Something is, though. Right?"

"The way they play with them,” Simon immediately speaks, shoulders stiff. "Just…grown men, playing like children."

"Ah," you hum. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to believe it—but you don't ask. It's not as if it's even remotely big enough of an issue to need addressing, after all. You just hate to see Simon so withdrawn. At least, more so than usual.

***

Simon is absent from dinner in the mess hall later on, after giving you an extensive tour and dropping you off at one of the on-base cafes. That's how you know something's off. He would never normally give up an opportunity to share a meal with you, even in a noisy, crowded cafeteria like the one on base.

"Wasn't hungry," he only shrugs when you find him in his on-base unit, boots kicked up as he nurses a neat whiskey. Oh, he's pouting.

You can't help yourself. "Aww, baby," you coo, lingering closer. "Are you feeling alright? You've been gloomy all day…"

"Mmph," he shrugs, gaze flickering up to yours—and he can't help how he all but melts at the love in your eyes. "Just…tired. Go'n and get your shower done. Wanna snuggle."

And how could you say no to that? Your growing suspicion had been that Simon was feeling left out, or forgotten, not receiving a doll of his own. Little does he know, you giggle to yourself.

***

You're in the shower when Simon emerges from his brooding, lurching off the couch and trudging towards the room, where he'd made his bed with clean sheets and set up fluffy pillows for his wife's arrival. The bitterness of being left out of her sweet benevolence has largely faded. She is his wife, after all.

He nudges open his bedroom door, set on his dresser to shed the heavy layers of the day, the mask, and finally exist as Simon for the rest of the night. With you. No doll could ever distract him from you.

He's pulling a hoodie over his head when tiny figures catch in the corner of his vision. A hallucination? No. Dolls.

You and him, smiling and snuggled together. You in your favorite sundress, rosy cheeks and cute face. Him in his mask—which is removable, he discovers on closer inspection. Simon gently tugs off the cloth skull mask, curious to see his own likeness rendered in doll form.

"Handsome bugger," he mutters, thumb brushing over his doll's small face. Blond with stern brown eyes, but smiling. Soap was right about the scars—each placed with perfect accuracy. The one extending from the left corner of his lip up his cheek. The one across his eyebrow. You even got the one under his chin, tucked under the plushie's soft, round face.

On the right hands of both dolls, he realizes, there is a hidden circle of Velcro. So they can hold hands in any orientation. It's such a you thing to do that it hurts.

When you emerge from your shower, all three are gathered in the living room, watching TV. Simon with his legs up on the coffee table, and your miniatures holding hands in his lap. It's hard to help the beam that curls up on your lips—and why would you want to?

"Looks like someone's found the kids," you coo, swaying over and plopping down beside him. “I'm glad you like 'em. Did I do you justice?"

"More than," Simon rasps, scooting close, flush against your side. "They're better than that git, Soap's, that's for sure."

His words coax laughter out of you as you press your head to his chest and scoop up the two little toys into your arms. "Careful, Si. They might hear what you said and tell him.”

"They can go on and tell the whole base, for all I care. Your skill went as far as it could go, it's his face that's the problem." Simon snorts, tugging you close and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Better believe I'm showing this one off tomorrow. Might have to keep it in here, though. I'm not risking a theft."

"You say that every time," you laugh, snuggling close and shutting your eyes for the night as he wraps an arm around you—warm, solid, and safely his.

Request Archive

[pythonmoth]

cw: post-traumatic stress disorder. simon is a veteran. simon has a prosthetic leg. one talking snake. fluff. brief mentions of war. author likes Nickelback, so it will fit here one way or another.

Never Gonna Be Alone

Simon Riley x f!Reader.

Last | Next

The next time Simon sees you, he makes a fool of himself.

Tommy convinced him to buy speakers, because his phone can only do so much. They're supposed to be the best, better quality or something. He wasn't sure he believed that, but he can't connect them so that's already looking grim for him.

Riley's staring at him from the couch in the living room, belly up, and Simon's trying his best to set it all up. Really, its ridiculous. He can shoot guns, blow up in pieces and survive, but he can't set the stupid speakers.

He probably should've checked the instructions, but they're inside the box in the kitchen and he's not going to move, and Riley's nearly falling asleep so he won't disturb his daemon either.

Anyway.

It takes him ten minutes to hear a dinging sound from them.

"Right. Okay, buddy, I think I got it. Let me see if it works..." he mumbles, sitting next to Riley, and finally connecting his phone.

He didn't check the volume, because of course he didn't, so when the song starts it's too late.

Fucking Burn it the Ground by Nickelback blasts through the speakers, at 8am on a bloody Sunday. It makes him flinch so hard he drops his phone.

Riley whines, howling at him to turn it off but Simon is too busy being embarrassed and, instead of taking his phone back like a normal person would, he dives for the speakers.

Ouch, Riley sends through their bond. Simon can feel Riley's pain in his own ears.

Finally, he manages to find the button and turns them off. Face heated, he smacks his forehead with his palm. "If they didn't hate us, they surely do now. Sorry, Riley".

He reaches out to scratch under his daemon's muzzle. Riley's eyes are annoyed, but their bond is filled with fondness.

"Good doggy" Simon teases, flicking Riley's fluffy ears. "Now play dead".

His daemon chomps down on his hand at the teasing.

A knock interrupts their little bonding moment. Instantly, Riley's ears are up, tail swaying, and Simon already has an idea of who might be behind the door.

When he turns the handle, he sees you. He's momentarily stunned by the beautiful snake that's resting on your shoulders, her dark scales glistening with the morning sun, and... there's a big wet spot on your hoodie.

"Hi. You guys are loud" Viper hisses lowly, sliding down your arm until she's hovering over Riley's head, making the dog's tail sway faster. The snake grins, all fangs.

"I apologize, Viper" Simon chuckles, his amusement evident. The way your lips purse when you realize he caught your daemon's name the other day, is just adorable. "Good morning".

"Er... morning. Listen, I enjoy good music as much as everyone, but not at eight in the morning, please?" you grumble, blinking at him. The dark circles under your eyes are much bigger and darker this time. "Also, you owe me a coffee. And another hour of sleep".

Simon can't even feel embarrassed, because Riley's filling their bond with play, pretty, play, pretty. Maybe it's Simon sending the pretty part. Who cares. Simon tries to send a calming tug anyway, but Riley's not paying attention to him, fully focused on you and your daemon.

When you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak, he clears his throat. "I'm so sorry. I was checking these new speakers and I... didn't know how to make them work".

"You don't talk? It's okay if you don't talk" he hears Viper hiss softly towards Riley, now down on your leg and moving closer to his daemon.

"You need help with those? I'm already awake after all" you smile. It's easy to see you're teasing, but Simon's so overwhelmed by Riley's emotions filling their bond that he nearly chokes on them, and he can't think.

"I've... I've already made them work" he manages, waving a dismissive hand at your offer. "It's alright. I'll make sure not to disturb you again".

He sees you falter, but you give him a nod, a small smile on your lips.

Ugh, Riley tugs on their bond, yuck. Or is it Simon? He's not sure.

"I wanna play. Can we stay a bit?" Viper hisses, and Simon's eyes lock with Viper. You're definitely feeling shy, if Viper's tail coiling around your ankle tells him anything.

"Viper, I'm not sure if they—" you start, flustered, but she interrupts you.

"Please?" Viper insists, looking at him. "I won't ask about your leg again, I'm sorry. Please don't be mad".

Viper looks shocked at the sudden affection, but Simon can tell she's pleased. You, however, can't look away from Riley, your lips parted in surprise.

Simon hears you yelp, your eyes wide as you stare at your daemon. Riley whines softly, instantly moving to sniff and nuzzle on Viper's head, trying to sooth her.

Simon suddenly understands the way you keep shifting from foot to foot, why you can't seem to meet his eyes properly.

It takes you a moment, but you manage to turn to Simon. He knows. He definitely know what you're feeling.

"It's okay to be curious. We're not upset at all, truly" Simon reassures you both. Riley growls lowly in agreement, stepping back from Viper. Simon, too, opens the door properly, giving you space. "I don't drink coffee, but... how about tea?"

"She's... we're both sorry about the other day. I don't stop her from asking things, but it wasn't our place to question anything like that, and it was wrong" you mumble, your hand rubbing your left arm. Shy. Shut off.

Gods, he's fucked. He's so fucked.

The soft smile you give him is enough for him to fully admit it is him calling you pretty.

"A bomb?" Viper hisses, currently curled around Riley's middle. She's truly a nosy, clingy thing. "Didn't it hurt?"

Simon can't help but smile when you grunt, clearly embarrassed by her curiosity. "Oh yeah. It hurt a lot. We're fine now".

He's not going to mention it hurts from time to time. He can't worry the pretty snake's head like that. The doctor said it was trauma and not real, anyway. With a low growl, Riley stands up carefully so Viper doesn't fall off of him and takes her outside, no doubt to show her the pond.

That leaves the two of you alone.

"How are you liking the neighborhood, Simon? You're a celebrity around here already" you tease him with a smile, nursing your tea carefully.

He can only scoff. "A celebrity? They're scared of me. But... I like it here. They're not half bad and Riley has space, so that's perfect".

"You know the bad image people have of veterans. It's not right, but it's hard to make them understand you're not gonna kill them in their sleep" you mumble, shaking your head.

Simon nods, fully aware of it. He's also too young to be a veteran in people's eyes, so that's another thing they probably don't understand. He doesn't mind, not really. They haven't bothered him or Riley, so he doesn't truly care.

"You seem okay with having a crazy veteran as your neighbor" Simon mentions, his eyes twinkling.

"Please, if you have turtles in your backyard, how bad can you be?" you say, grinning.

That's all he needed to know.

He guides you to the backyard, showing you what he did with it, tells you how he transported his fish and how he fixed it so the turtles couldn't escape the pond again. He's not even looking at you as he speaks, pointing at his fish, excited to be heard.

Not even half an hour later, you know it all about his fish, what they eat and their favorite temperature. He tells you the carp was supposed to be food, he tells you about the little alligator gar that didn't make it past two years.

He even tells you their names, not that he expects you to remember them all.

He just couldn't stop talking, not when you kept asking and asking, looking so interested.

"Okay. So the little one I had in my backyard is... Lucy?" you ask him again, sitting cross-legged in front of the pond.

"Yeah. The green one" he nods, pointing at the little troublemaker.

Both of you turn at the same time when there's a small splash on the pond. Riley's jumped in, Viper wrapped around his neck as he swims along with the fish. Her giggles make them both grin.

It's not uncommon for daemons to touch each other, but they're usually reserved about it, even shy at first. It's mostly between family, or very close friends, including partners. Probably not your neighbors.

Humans can feel what their daemon feels: touches, licks, nuzzles, scratching, but it's muffled, as if they were touched over their clothes. But daemon's are very sensitive to their humans' emotions, and are completely unreserved about it.

If they like you, or if they can't stand the sight of you, they will let you know.

Unlike humans, who like pretending and learn to mask their emotions so there's no vulnerability, daemons are true to themselves. That's why there are humans who train their daemons to "behave". Like animals, like pets.

Simon, however, is very pleased to see how shameless Riley and Viper are. It tells him you're not one to control Viper on her emotions, and he likes that, because he's the same.

It's hard, sometimes. He might be embarrassed when he tries to mask his happiness for whatever stupid reason, and Riley is next to him swaying his tail, or even when he tried pretending to be okay in front of his brother, and Riley was a ball of sadness next to him.

Hiding his crushes in high school was not easy, especially not with how chatty Riley used to be.

"He told me your hair is pretty. Did he tell you he made you a playlist? We can go out. Want to go play?"

That hasn't really changed, it seems.

"They seem to get along" you hum, leaning back on your hands as you relax, your smile radiant.

"They do" he says, meeting your eyes for a long moment. You just stare back, your expression calm.

Feeling a tug on their bonds, Riley and Viper turn to see you both, but when they realize you're lost in your little world, they both roll their eyes and keep on swimming. Riley's very careful not to move too harshly, and Viper's careful not to squeeze too much.

Finally, Simon breaks the comfortable silence, keeping his voice low. "Are you hungry? I can cook something, if you'd like".

"I'll help you" you nod, your eyes twinkling so much he has to look away for a moment.

"Very well. Lets leave them—"

And then your phone rings.

"I'm so sorry. It's from work. Just give me a moment" you grunt, looking grim.

Simon listens to you speak quickly in a language he doesn't understand, but then you turn back to him, and he knows you're not staying.

"I have to go" you confirm. He nods, standing up and holding out his hand for you. You give him an apologetic smile as you take it, standing up. "I work from home, but they need me to do it quickly. Next time, I'll tell you what I do for a living".

Next time. He likes that.

"Viper, come on" you call out, getting closer to the two daemons in the pond. He watches as you stick out your hand, very careful not to touch Riley as he gets closer, and Viper slides over your arm.

Riley's eyes are on you, and Simon wants to crawl into the tiniest cave and die, because what the fuck?

You grin at Riley and your hand twitches, as if you were ready to touch him, and Simon's sure he's going to fucking faint. But then you're taking a step back and Riley follows quickly, making sure not to get water on you when he shakes the water off.

Simon pretends his face isn't burning as he guides you to the front door.

"Can we come tomorrow?" Viper hisses, her shiny head on top of yours. "Please?"

Once again, you don't correct her, and Simon wants to eat his fist.

"Of course. Any time" he answers, his smile gentle.

When you two leave, Simon turns to Riley, who's now soaking the couch, his tail swaying softly, clearly content.

"You're fucked, buddy" Simon tells him, and Riley huffs, rolling his eyes.

Simon decides to hide his face in his daemon's fluff for the rest of the morning.

They're both fucked.

WELL, I wasn't sure I liked this update, but I've read it multiple times and I'm satisfied w it so that's fine. I love Riley and I love Viper. and, if you didn't notice, the title is also a Nickelback song.

taglist: @kittygonap @rayrayyio @lostintransist @kalieros @catsfatjoint

[killerplink]

✨ANNIVERSARY✨

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: Your three-year anniversary with Dick turns into a night of teasing and tension, with you tying him up and keeping him on edge ✨ ( @angeleyes1376 , finally posting this one, sorry for the delay )

Words: 12k

CW: established relationship, 18+, smut, oral sex, overstimulation, praise, orgasm denial, light bondage, creampie, rough sex, fluff, aftercare

Dinner had been perfect—romantic, intimate, and everything you could have hoped for on your three-year anniversary. The dim candlelight, the hushed murmur of other patrons, the rich aroma of wine and decadent dishes, it all set the stage for a night neither of you would forget.

Dick looked absolutely sinful in a dark suit, the fabric perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and trim waist, the crisp white dress shirt underneath only adding to the polished elegance of it all. You barely ever saw him in something this refined, and God, it made you want to rip it off of him the second you got the chance.

You weren't exactly subtle about it, either. The way your eyes lingered on him, the way your fingers traced the lapel of his jacket, the way you let your foot brush against his leg under the table. And he wasn't any better—his hand stayed on your thigh for most of the evening, squeezing whenever you leaned in too close, whispering things in his ear that had his jaw tightening.

But it was the dress that truly undid him. A deep, dark burgundy that clung to your curves like it was made for you, long and elegant but with a slit up your right leg that had his gaze flicking down every time you shifted. He loved your legs, and you knew that. You wore this dress for that exact reaction, and judging by the way he kept shifting in his seat, it was working.

The wine helped loosen you up even more, warmth buzzing through your veins as the two of you finally made your way back home. He expected you to be tipsy, maybe a little giggly, a little clingy. What he didn't expect was for you to be this hungry, this desperate.

The door barely shuts before you're on him, your lips crashing into his, your hands tugging at his suit jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He barely gets the chance to let it fall to the floor before you're kissing him again, hot and messy, your tongue slipping past his lips as you suck on his tongue, dragging a low, helpless groan from him. You taste like wine, like heat, like pure desire, and fuck, he's already hard, his cock straining against his boxers, already leaking just from the way you kiss him.

You're insatiable tonight. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, pulling him closer, your body pressed flush against his. You can feel him—every hard line of him, every bit of tension coiling in his muscles as you kiss him like you'll die if you don't. And then, before he can get a grip on the situation, before he can take control like he always does, you push him.

He stumbles back onto the bed, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as you climb over him, straddling his hips, grinding against his cock through the thin fabric of your lace panties. He groans, hands flying to your ass, gripping you tight as he pushes up against you, seeking more, needing more.

You look fucking wrecked already. Your face is flushed, your lips swollen from kissing, your hair a little messy from where he ran his fingers through it. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and you grin as you tug at his tie, loosening it, slipping it from around his neck with slow, deliberate movements.

"Let me tie you up, baby," you purr, your voice low and teasing.

His breath hitches, his body going still beneath you. His lips part slightly, his chest rising and falling faster now, and you can see the gears turning in his head. He's never let you do this before. He's always been the one in control, always been the one to take the lead.

You lean down, brushing your lips over his jaw, then lower, down his neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin as you whisper, "What do you say, my love?"

His eyes flutter shut for a brief second, like he's weighing the idea, but then you grind down on him again, and whatever argument he might have had dies in his throat.

He nods, his voice coming out rough, needy. "Yeah."

That's all you need. With a pleased hum, you slide the silk tie around his wrists, tying them together with practiced ease before securing them to the cool metal bars of the bed frame. He shifts, testing the restraint, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard, his cock twitching beneath you.

You take your time with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, dragging your fingers over his firm chest, his sculpted abs, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He's breathing heavily, watching you, his blue eyes dark and hooded, half-lidded with need. His lips are parted, and you know he's already wrecked, already desperate, but he's trying to be patient. Trying to let you take your time.

And fuck, he looks so good like this—tied up, shirt open, chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. Yours. Completely at your mercy.

You press your lips to his collarbone, soft, lingering, and then you work your way down. Slow, wet kisses across his chest, your tongue flicking over his skin, over the hard muscle of his stomach, down, down, until you're kneeling between his thighs. You can feel him shudder, his muscles tightening beneath your lips as you press kisses lower, right above his belt, your breath hot against his skin.

His cock twitches beneath the fabric of his slacks, straining against the material, and you grin, nipping softly at his skin before finally unbuckling his belt. You undo his button, drag his zipper down with aching slowness, teasing him, making him wait. And when you finally tug his slacks down, freeing him from the fabric, your breath catches because fuck.

You've seen him like this a million times before, hard and leaking, thick and heavy, but it never gets old. Never stops making your mouth water, your cunt throb.

You lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to the flushed head of his cock through his boxers, and he groans—low and needy, his hips jerking up, desperate for more. You hum, dragging your tongue over the damp fabric, tasting the precum seeping through, and his head drops back against the pillow.

When you finally pull his boxers down, his cock slaps against his stomach, thick and heavy, flushed so dark it almost looks painful. Your pussy clenches at the sight, at the way it twitches when you breathe over it, at the way his thighs tense like he's trying so hard not to beg.

And then you lean closer, tongue flicking over his slit, licking up the warm precum that beads at the tip, and his whole body shudders. His breath catches, a deep, broken moan spilling from his lips as his hands flex uselessly against the tie restraining him.

He needs you. Needs to feel more, to bury himself in your mouth, to grip your hair and thrust deep, but he can't. And the realization—being completely at your mercy, unable to do anything but feel—only makes his cock throb harder.

And when you press soft, teasing kisses along the thick vein running down his length, he groans again, his hips shifting, straining toward you, toward the heat of your mouth. But you're not done teasing him yet.

Your fingers wrap around the base of his dick, stroking him slow, teasing, watching the way his breath stutters, the way his abs tense, the way his wrists flex against the tie holding him in place. He's so fucking hard, leaking all over himself, all over you, and it's delicious—the way he's at your mercy, the way his whole body is reacting to every little thing you do.

You hum, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the thick head, swirling your tongue over his slit, tasting the salt of his precum again. His moan is deep, raw, his hips jerking, but you pull back just enough to keep him from getting what he wants.

"Fuck, baby—"

His voice is wrecked already, strained and breathless, and he groans when you drag your tongue down the length of him, tracing that thick, pulsing vein, teasing the sensitive spot just beneath the head.

His whole body shudders beneath you. He's so fucking gone for you, for your mouth, for the way you're touching him like you own him. And you do because he's yours.

You hum against his skin, your fingers stroking him slow, teasing, and he's moaning again, deep and broken, his thighs trembling, his head thrown back against the pillow. He's already losing it, already unraveling, and you love it.

"So fucking pretty," you murmur, kissing along the underside of his cock, sucking softly at the base before licking your way back up. "So perfect for me."

His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven pants, and fuck, he's never been this turned on in his life. Never been this desperate. His hands flex against the tie, his muscles tight, straining like he wants to touch you, to fist your hair and guide you deeper, but he can't. He has to take it. Take whatever you give him.

And then your lips wrap around his cock, sinking down, slow, wet, deep—and he moans, his back arching, his hips trying to thrust, but he can't, he fucking can't, and it's fucking killing him.

"Jesus—fuck, baby—"

His moan cracks when you hollow your cheeks, sucking him in, your tongue flicking over the slit, dragging along the underside as you bob your head, slow and steady. His thighs shake, his fingers twitch, his whole body tense with pleasure, with need.

And when you take him deeper—fuck, so deep he can feel the tight clench of your throat around him, so deep you're swallowing him—he whimpers, his head dropping back, his jaw clenching so fucking tight it aches.

He's losing his fucking mind. He knows it. He can feel it. And it's so fucking good.

Your throat flutters around him, holding him there, swallowing around his cock, and he swears he's about to fucking die. His stomach tightens, his abs clenching, his breath coming out in sharp, ragged moans.

And fuck, you love this. Love the weight of him on your tongue, love the way he sounds, the way he's falling apart just from your mouth, just from your touch. Your pussy clenches, aching, dripping, needy—but this isn't about you. Not yet.

This is about making him beg.

Your lips wrap around the head of his cock again, sucking just right, stroking him slow and tight, and he moans, hips twitching, stomach tensing. He's close—so fucking close, his whole body wound up so tight he can feel his orgasm building, that sweet, hot pressure coiling deep in his gut, in his spine, in his balls, ready to snap—

And then you stop.

You pull off him completely, letting his cock slip from your lips, throbbing, slick, so fucking hard it twitches against his stomach, leaking all over himself. His breath comes out in a broken, desperate moan, his head dropping back against the pillow as he whimpers.

"Fuck—baby, please—"

You just smirk, licking the taste of him from your lips, watching the way his chest rises and falls in uneven pants, the way his arms flex against the tie holding him down. He's suffering, and it's so fucking beautiful.

So you do it again.

You take him back in your mouth, sucking slow, deep, pumping the base with your fingers, feeling him throb, hearing the way he groans, deep and wrecked, his whole body trembling beneath you. And just when you know he's about to cum—just when you feel him tense, his moans getting higher, his cock pulsing, ready to spill—

You stop again. And again. And again.

By the fourth time, he's gone. A complete, desperate fucking mess. His skin is damp with sweat, his stomach tight, his thighs trembling, his cock so red and swollen it looks like it hurts. His abs flex with every ragged breath, his jaw clenched so tight it aches, and his voice is a wrecked, broken plea when he gasps—

"Baby... please. I'm so close."

You hum, crawling up his body, straddling him again, teasing him with the slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His dick is hot, aching, trapped between your soaked panties and his stomach, every little grind making his breath stutter, making his moans crack, his hips jerking desperately for more.

And then—slowly, torturously—you peel your dress off.

The straps slip down your shoulders first, and his breath catches, his eyes glued to the way your tits spill free, soft, perfect, bouncing slightly as you move. And then you tug it down, down, until it pools at your waist, and you lift yourself up just enough to push it off completely, tossing it somewhere on the floor.

You're left in nothing but your panties. Your soaked, slick panties that are currently pressed right against his throbbing, neglected dick.

"Fuck—"

His head falls back against the pillow, his abs tightening, his whole body shuddering when you grind down on him, teasing him with the wet heat of your pussy. The lace is soaked, clinging to your cunt, barely there, and every roll of your hips makes his cock throb, makes his breath stutter, makes his muscles strain against the tie holding him down.

And he can't fucking take it anymore.

He lifts his head, mouth latching onto one of your nipples, sucking hard, desperate, his tongue flicking over the peak, his teeth nipping gently, just enough to make you gasp, to make your hips jerk, to make your pussy throb against him.

"Yeah, like that," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him there, arching into his mouth as he groans against your skin.

And he doesn't stop. Doesn't hesitate.

His tongue swirls, slow and teasing, before he sucks again, harder, his lips wrapping around you, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder. And then he moves to the other, giving it the same treatment, licking, sucking, worshiping you with his mouth, all while your hips keep moving, keep grinding, keep rubbing your soaked panties over his throbbing, desperate cock.

And he's losing his fucking mind.

Your moans spill into the room, soft and breathless, melting into the wet sounds of his mouth on your tits. Every suck, every flick of his tongue sends a sharp pulse of pleasure straight to your clit, making your hips stutter against him, making you grind down harder, needier.

And then, slowly, you reach between your legs, fingers slipping past the damp lace of your panties, tugging them to the side. The second your bare cunt presses against his cock, his whole body shudders. A ragged, desperate moan rips from his throat as his dick twitches against you, slicking up between your folds, smearing precum and arousal all over your slit.

"Fuck," he groans, head dropping back, his fingers curling into fists where they're tied above him. "Baby—"

You roll your hips, dragging your pussy up the length of his cock, coating him in your slick, letting the head nudge right against your clit. And it feels so fucking good, the thick, heavy heat of him slipping against you, the way he throbs under you, the way he aches for you.

"Shit—"

He jerks his hips up, trying to slide inside, desperate, needy, fucking gone. But you just chuckle, pulling back just enough to stop him, smirking when he whimpers.

"You're so cute, baby," you murmur, leaning down, brushing your lips against his, teasing him, keeping just out of reach.

"Please," he gasps, voice raw, ruined. "Doll, I need to cum, please—"

You coo, tilting your head, swiping your thumb over his flushed, swollen lips. "Oh? You need it, huh?"

But you don't let him. You keep grinding, keep rubbing your soaked, needy cunt all over his cock, keep rolling your hips just right so the swollen head nudges your clit over and over again, making your breath hitch, making your stomach tighten, making the pleasure build so fast, so fucking intense.

It's so slippery, so fucking messy.

His cock is drenched in you, soaked, slick with how wet you are, and it only makes you hotter, only makes you grind harder, makes you chase that tight, burning pleasure curling low in your belly, makes you moan into his mouth when you kiss him, wet and slow, filthy, licking into him as he whimpers beneath you.

"God— baby, you're so wet," he gasps against your lips, his cock throbbing against your pussy, twitching every time your clit rubs against the thick, swollen head. "Fuck—let me feel you, please—"

And then it hits you.

So hard, so sudden, it makes your whole body jerk. You cry out, gasping against his lips, nails dragging down his chest as your orgasm slams into you. Your cunt clenches, pulses, gushing all over his dick, soaking him, dripping down his shaft, coating his stomach.

"Oh— fuck—" you whimper, hips stuttering, rolling through it, grinding against him even as you shake.

Even as your legs go weak, even as the pleasure leaves you breathless, your pussy convulsing, fluttering, rubbing slick and soaked and so fucking messy all over his dick. And he feels it. He feels the way your cunt clenches, how you drip for him, how fucking wet you are, how you're making a mess of him.

"Shit," he groans, head falling back, his biceps flexing against the tie, his breath ragged, desperate, his whole body trembling under you. "Baby, please—"

But you're still cumming, still gasping, still grinding slow and deep, dragging it out, making sure he feels every second of it.

Your breath stutters as the aftershocks of your orgasm ripple through you, leaving you flushed, panting, still grinding on his soaked, aching cock. You can feel how hard he is, how swollen, how his whole body trembles beneath you, desperate, wrecked.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his, murmuring breathlessly, "You look so hot right now, baby."

And then you kiss him—deep, slow, so filthy.

Your lips part against his, your tongue teasing, licking into his mouth, tasting the whimpers he lets out as you keep rolling your hips, dragging your slick pussy up and down his throbbing dick. Your tits brush against his chest, soft against the heat of his skin, making him shiver, making his fingers flex.

He groans into your mouth, tilting his head, trying to chase your lips, kissing you back just as deep, just as messy, moaning when you suck on his tongue, when you nip at his bottom lip, when you pull away just enough to breathe against him, teasing, cruel.

"Please, baby," he gasps, his voice shaking, his whole body tightening beneath you. "I need to cum, I can't—"

But then you lift yourself up, and his breath stutters, his whole body tensing, his cock twitching, aching, desperate for you, for your heat, for anything.

And then your hand dips down, your thumb brushing over the swollen, leaking head of his dick, smearing his precum, teasing him, making him jerk beneath you, a strangled moan ripping from his throat.

"God, baby," you whisper, smirking, your voice full of heat, full of control. "You have no idea how good you look like this. Tied, begging to cum..."

His head drops back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, his mind spiraling. Because, fuck—you do something to him. It's not just the way you touch him, not just the way you tease him, not just the way you keep him on the edge, ruining him, making him ache for you, making him need you like this.

It's you. It's how beautiful you are, even when you're making him suffer, even when you're playing with him, toying with him, making him beg. It's the way your lips shine from kissing him, the way your hair is messy, wild, like you've been thoroughly fucked already, the way your flushed skin glows under the low bedroom light. It's the way you look down at him, amusement and heat flickering in your eyes, so confident, so in control, like you know he's yours, like you know he'd do anything for you.

Because he would. And when you finally line him up with your soaked, throbbing cunt—when you sink down, taking his dick inch by inch, stretching your tight, sensitive walls around him—he swears he could die like this.

"Oh—fuck," you moan, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting as he fills you, as your walls clench around him, fluttering, gripping him so tight he almost loses it right there.

"Shit—baby—"

His voice is wrecked, strained, his hands twitching in the restraints, aching to touch you, to grab your hips, to hold you down, to thrust up into you, to fuck you senseless.

But all he can do is watch.

Watch the way your body moves, the way you take him so fucking slow, dragging it out, making him feel every inch as you sink down again, taking him deep, all the way, until your soaked pussy is flush against his base, until your clit rubs against his skin, until his cock nudges against your end.

"Ohhh—"

Your moan is sweet, drawn-out, full of pleasure as you start to ride him, rolling your hips, taking him all the way, over and over again, grinding down so he presses right where you need him.

And he's losing his mind.

Because you feel so good, so tight, so hot, so fucking perfect wrapped around him, squeezing him, milking him, using him exactly how you want, fucking owning him.

And he can't do anything but moan for you.

Your hips move in a slow, steady rhythm, rolling, grinding, taking every inch of him, stretching your pussy wide around his thick, aching cock. He's so hard, throbbing inside you, and you can feel how desperate he is—his whole body tense, muscles straining.

The way he shudders when you squeeze around him, when your slick, ruined panties rub against the base of his dick, adding to the friction, making him groan, making him suffer in the best way.

"God, baby," you moan, your lips parting as you take him deep again, dragging your soaked cunt down his cock, making him feel you. "You feel so good. So hard for me."

He whimpers, his head tilting back, his throat exposed, his arms pulling at the tie holding them to the bed frame, his fingers twitching, aching to touch you. But all he can do is take it.

Take the way you ride him, the way you move, slow and filthy, teasing, rolling your hips just right so your clit drags against his skin, so your cunt squeezes tight, so your ruined panties make everything messier, wetter, hotter.

"Fuck—please," he gasps, his hips jerking up, chasing you, desperate to cum, desperate to fill you.

And just when he's close—just when his cock throbs, when his breath stutters, when his whole body tenses beneath you—you stop.

Lifting yourself up, letting his swollen, leaking tip slip from your fluttering walls, leaving him aching, leaving him empty.

"No—no, please—"

His voice is wrecked, his eyes blown wide, desperate, staring up at you as if you've just ruined him.

You moan softly, rubbing his sensitive tip against your slick lips, teasing him, making him ache, making him need. "Just a bit longer, baby. Please. You're so fucking hot."

And he trembles, his whole body shaking, every muscle in his body drawn tight as he fights the urge to beg, to plead. But then, after just a few agonizing seconds, you sink down again, taking him all in one slow, deep movement, making him moan as your hot, dripping pussy wraps around him again, squeezing him, clenching around him so fucking tight.

"Ohhh—fuck," you gasp, your head tilting back, your mouth parting as you start to move again, rolling your hips, grinding down on him, making his cock throb against your slick walls, making him suffer in the most delicious way.

And then, one of your hands trails up your body, cupping your tits, teasing, playing, rolling your nipples between your fingers, making you shudder, making your walls flutter around him.

The other dips between your legs. Pressing to your clit, slick and swollen, rubbing tight, slow circles that send sparks of pleasure shooting through you, making your whole body tingle, making your pussy clamp down around him, milking him.

"Fuck—fuck, baby," he groans, his head spinning, his breath ragged, his arms pulling at the restraints, his whole body fighting to stay still, to let you take your pleasure, to let you use him.

And you do.

You keep rolling your hips, keep riding him, fucking him, moaning as you play with yourself, teasing your tits, rubbing your clit, sending pleasure crashing through you, building higher, higher, higher. Until—

"Oh, God..."

You cum. Your body tenses, your walls spasming around him, milking his cock, squeezing so fucking tight as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, making you shake, making your breath stutter, making you moan, high-pitched and wrecked.

And you don't stop. You keep rubbing your clit, keep teasing your sensitive tits, keep grinding down on his cock, overstimulating yourself. Making your whole body shudder, making your cunt gush around him, soaking him, making a mess, making him feel every pulse, every spasm, every fucking throb.

His breath is ragged, his cock is twitching, his whole body is on fire as he watches you, as he feels you, as he suffers through every second of your pleasure, knowing that he can't cum, that you won't let him. And it's killing him. Because you're so fucking beautiful like this. So wet, so needy, so desperate, so perfect. And you're his.

You fuck him harder, faster, chasing that high, needing him to fill you up, needing to feel his hot cum spilling deep inside you. The bed rocks beneath you, the slap of your hips meeting his echoing through the room, wet, obscene, so fucking filthy. And he's falling apart beneath you, his moans breaking, his thighs tensing, his hands still bound, fingers twitching, desperate to grab at you, to pull you down, to feel your body against his.

He's gasping, his chest rising and falling, his cock twitching inside you, your slick making it so easy, so slippery, each thrust sending heat licking up your spine.

And when he finally chokes out, "I'm gonna cum, baby," you fucking shiver.

Leaning down, licking the words from his tongue as you murmur, "Yes, cum for me, my love. Fill me up."

And fuck, he does. His whole body goes taut beneath you, his hips snapping up, burying himself as deep as he can go before he spills, thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, coating your walls, painting your insides in that delicious warmth. You moan at the feeling, at how fucking full you are, how your cunt clenches down, milking him, sucking him in, refusing to let a single drop go to waste.

But there's too much, and you feel it spill, thick and messy, leaking out around his cock, dripping down between your thighs. And you love it—you fucking love it—the way it makes everything even more slippery, the way it drips onto his slacks, the way he whimpers when you keep fucking him through it, even though he's so overstimulated, even though his dick keeps twitching, throbbing, spilling the last few weak spurts of cum inside you.

He whines beneath you, body trembling, head lolling back, but you're relentless, rolling your hips, grinding down, desperate for just one more orgasm. And fuck, you can feel it, so close, so fucking close, your fingers slipping between your thighs, rubbing your swollen clit, gasping as slick gushes out of you, mixing with his cum, coating your fingers, making everything so wet, so filthy.

It crashes over you like a fucking tidal wave, your whole body going tight, thighs shaking as you moan his name, as your pussy pulses, clenches, convulses around him, soaking his cock in even more of your slick. Your head tilts back, lips parted, breathless, overwhelmed, your entire body trembling as the pleasure ripples through you, dragging you under, leaving you spent, sated, ruined.

And still, even as you finally slow, as your muscles go lax, as you collapse onto his chest, you can still feel it—the heat of him inside you, the way his cum still trickles out, messy, sticky, perfect.

Your whole body trembles, gasping against his skin, still shuddering from the intensity of it all. His chest rises and falls beneath you, his breath unsteady, wrecked, and then—

"Untie me, baby, please."

His voice is hoarse, pleading, his wrists flexing against the restraints.

But you just hum, lips curling into a lazy smirk as you murmur against his neck, "I'm not done with you, love."

And then you start kissing him again, soft at first, teasing, before dragging your tongue along his pulse, tasting the heat of his skin, the faint salt of sweat. You feel his body react instantly—his dick twitching inside you, still so hard, still so needy—and fuck, it makes you dizzy, knowing he's still aching for you, knowing you have him like this.

Your lips move lower, your teeth grazing his throat before sucking a deep, dark bruise into his skin, marking him, claiming him, yours. He groans, his hips shifting just slightly, desperate for friction, and you chuckle against his neck, breath warm, teasing.

Finally, you lift yourself up, slow, making sure he feels every single inch of it as his cock slips free, slapping wetly against his abdomen, still sticky and messy, still drenched in your slick and his cum. A thick trail follows, trickling out of your swollen pussy, dripping down onto him, onto his stomach, his thighs, but neither of you fucking care.

You just watch him for a second, still panting, taking him in. The way he looks beneath you—flushed, fucked-out, so goddamn beautiful—makes your chest ache. He's yours. This sweet, perfect, good man is yours, and it still fucking stuns you sometimes.

But then, his cock twitches again, still so hard, still so ready, and your lips curl into something wicked. You shift, moving to straddle him again, but this time in reverse cowgirl. His breath hitches, and you know why—your ass.

He can't fucking take his eyes off it, his fingers flexing against his palms like he's aching to grab you, hold you, squeeze you. But he can't. And the realization makes him whimper softly, needy, desperate.

Fuck.

The sound sends a hot pulse straight between your legs, your cunt clenching around nothing, so eager to be filled again. You glance over your shoulder, watching his face as you wrap your fingers around his cock, pumping him a few times, smearing the mix of both of you all over his length. His hips jerk, just barely, and he exhales a shaky breath, eyes locked on you.

And then, finally, you guide him back inside.

Your slick makes it so easy, his cock sliding in so smoothly, but the angle—fuck, the angle. You feel him in a whole different way, his length rubbing right against that sweet spot inside you, making your toes curl, your thighs tense. A gasp catches in your throat, and he groans behind you, hands still uselessly bound, forced to just watch as you start to move.

Slow at first, just getting used to the stretch again, to the way he fills you so deep. But then, as the pleasure builds, your pace quickens, your ass bouncing with every roll of your hips, every downward thrust that takes him to the hilt.

And he watches, fucking mesmerized.

Your moans spill out unchecked, desperate and breathless, your body moving—no, fucking yourself—on his cock like you can't get enough. And fuck, you really can't.

"Oh my God, baby, you feel so fucking good," you gasp, head tilting back, mouth parted, pleasure wrecking you. "So deep—fuck, so hard—"

And you keep going, babbling, mindless words falling from your lips between moans, between the slick, obscene sounds of your soaked pussy taking his dick again and again. He's so big, so thick, and every time you drop down, he hits it—that spot inside you that makes your thighs shake, makes your walls flutter, makes you see stars.

Under you, Dick is struggling. You don't even notice at first. You're too focused on how fucking good this feels, how he stretches you so perfectly, how your clit throbs every time your hips grind against him just right. But he's desperate. His fingers flex, his arms pull as hard as he can. He needs to touch you. And then—rip. The tie snaps.

You don't hear it, don't even feel it, too lost in the rhythm, too drunk on pleasure, but then, you feel his hands. Big, warm, rough hands gripping your ass.

You freeze for a second, a shuddering gasp escaping your lips, your walls clenching hard around his cock. And when you turn your head to look back, eyes half-lidded, breathless, the only thing you manage to moan is—

"Dick..."

He just groans, his grip tightening, fingers sinking into the plush of your ass as he spreads you open. "Just keep going, baby," he rasps, voice thick, raw, wrecked. "Take what you need."

And fuck—fuck. That does something to you. So you do. You keep fucking him, moaning louder, rolling your hips harder, pushing back onto his cock like you're trying to take him deeper.

And Dick is losing his fucking mind. His grip is firm, desperate, greedy, his thumbs spreading your cheeks so he can see better, watch the way your soaked cunt swallows his cock, clinging to every inch of him. You're dripping.

Every bounce, every grind leaves a slick, wet sheen along his cock, your swollen lips stretched around him so tight, so perfect. It's a fucking mess, your arousal shining on his length, coating his pelvis, dripping down onto his thighs.

And your ass, God.

Bouncing, shaking, soft and so fucking beautiful. He grabs at it, kneads it, his fingers digging into your flesh, spreading you open wider, watching the way his cock disappears into you with every downward thrust.

And the sounds you make—fuck. The way you moan for him, the way your voice breaks when you take him deep, the breathy, wrecked little gasps you let out every time his cock nudges against your sweet spot—it's too much, too good.

His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight. He's close. And he knows you're gonna ruin him. Your body is a live wire, every nerve buzzing, every muscle trembling as you grind down on him, taking his cock so deep, so perfectly.

You can feel it—feel everything. How thick he is inside you, how the head of his dick presses into that sweet, aching spot with every bounce of your hips, how your slick makes each movement so smooth, so messy.

You're close. So fucking close, you can taste it, can feel the coil in your belly winding tighter, burning hot, unbearable. You're whimpering, babbling, barely aware of the words spilling from your lips.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, baby—"

And then it hits. Your climax crashes through you like a wave, violent and all-consuming, and you sob as you cum, your entire body shuddering, your cunt clamping down so tight around his cock that you feel every throb, every pulse of his length.

You gush around him, drenching his cock, your slick dripping down onto his balls, onto the sheets, making a complete fucking mess—but you don't care, can't care, not when it feels this good, this deep, this intense. Your walls flutter, spasming uncontrollably, and the pleasure is so much, so overwhelming, that your arms nearly give out.

And then—you feel it. The way he shudders beneath you. The way his hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh so hard that you know you'll feel it tomorrow.

The way his cock twitches, throbbing as he groans, deep and wrecked, "Fuuuck, baby—"

And then he's cumming. His cock pulses hard, and you moan as you feel it—the warmth of it, the thickness, the way his cum floods you deep, so deep, pumping against your cervix, coating your walls, filling you to the brim.

Dick moans, a breathless, needy sound, his grip on you tightening as his body jerks beneath you. His abs tense, his thighs flex, his fingers dig into your ass, squeezing as he rides it out, as he gives you everything.

Your body thrums, your chest heaving, your mind dazed with pleasure, but before you can even catch your breath, before you can even whisper his name—

He moves. In one swift, fluid motion, he lifts you off of him, and you gasp, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. His cum leaks out immediately, dripping down your thighs, pooling between your legs, making a mess on the sheets.

"Baby—" you barely manage to say.

But he's already moving you, already positioning you. Ass up, face down. And then, he's inside you again, burying himself deep. You moan into the sheets, your entire body jerking forward, your walls clamping down around him as he fills you again in one smooth thrust.

"Okay," he growls, his voice low, wrecked, dangerous as his hands settle on your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "You had your fun, doll. My turn."

And then he fucks you. Hard. Deep. Your pussy is still so sensitive, still aching from your orgasm, but you don't tell him to stop—you don't want him to. You want more. You need more. And he knows it.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, obscene, wet, loud, mixing with the desperate, wrecked little moans spilling from your lips. His balls slap against your pussy every time he thrusts in, slick and messy from how much you've cum.

He's so sensitive, but he doesn't care. Not when you feel this good. Not when your tight little cunt is still gripping him perfectly, still soaking him, still taking every inch of him so beautifully. His perfect fucking girl. And he tells you as much.

"Fuck, baby. Look at you."

His voice is low, rough with arousal as he watches the way his cock sinks into your swollen cunt. The way you're creaming around him, leaving a messy little ring at the base of his dick.

"Taking it so fucking well, huh?"

Your moans are high-pitched, needy, desperate, muffled against the sheets as you tremble beneath him. He chuckles, dark and wrecked, before slapping your ass. You cry out, shuddering, walls clenching around him.

"Yeah? You like that, baby?"

He does it again, harder, watching the way your soft flesh jiggles beneath his palm. Watching the way your pussy tightens up around him in response.

"God, you're so fucking good for me. My perfect girl."

You sob, grinding your hips back into him as he pounds into you, deep, shallow thrusts that have you moaning into the sheets, completely fucked out, completely ruined. And you love it.

Because you're his. And he's gonna make sure you remember it. Everything is too much—too sensitive, too raw, too fucking good.

Your body is a mess of pleasure, every nerve lit up, every touch electric, your cunt so swollen, so overstimulated from how many times he's fucked you through your orgasms. But he doesn't stop—he won't stop.

Not when you're still so tight around him.

Not when your walls are hot, puffy, gripping him like you never want to let him go. Not when you're still pushing back against him, still desperate for more. And God, you are. You need it.

Even as your thighs tremble, even as you moan and whimper into the sheets, begging, pleading, "Baby, please, I can't—"

But you still arch your back, still spread your legs wider, still take it. And fuck, he loves it.

His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you back onto his cock, forcing you to take every deep, obscene thrust as he fucks into you again, again, again.

The bed creaks beneath you, the frame knocking against the wall. The wet, filthy sound of your slick and his cum squelching with every thrust makes his stomach tighten, makes his cock throb inside you, makes him groan.

His hips slap against your ass, sharp, deep, every thrust forcing more of his mess out of your wrecked cunt, more wetness dripping down your thighs, onto the sheets, onto his balls. And fuck, you're so full. So full of him, full of his cum, full of everything he gives you.

He groans, voice wrecked, low and deep, fingers flexing on your hips. "God, you're so fucking good for me, baby."

You sob at his words, whimpering, because you are. You're his good girl. You take it so well, take him so perfectly, so deep, so tight. And then—his hand slides lower.

His fingers skim down your stomach, and you whine, already knowing what he's about to do, already dreading it, already needing it. And then, he rubs your clit. Your body jerks, and you gasp, shuddering, because fuck, it's too much, it's too much, it's too fucking much.

Your clit is puffy, swollen, throbbing, so fucking sensitive, so messy, slick and sticky from his cum, and his touch is a shock, making you feel like you're going to fucking break apart. You try to pull away, try to close your thighs, but he doesn't let you. He keeps you spread open, his fingers circling your clit, pressing, teasing, forcing you to take it.

And you sob, your body shaking, your walls fluttering around him as you whimper, "No, baby, please, I can't—I can't—"

But he knows you can. And he tells you.

"Oh, doll, I know you can take it." His voice is low, teasing, but his fingers don't slow, his hips don't stop, and he leans over you, lips at your ear as he fucks you deeper, harder. "Be a good girl for me, yeah? Let me feel you."

And you do. You can't stop it. Your orgasm hits you like a fucking shockwave, violent, unbearable, earth-shattering.

You choke a moan, your whole body convulsing, your cunt milking his cock, gushing around him, soaking his length, drenching his balls, making the mess between your thighs filthier, hotter. And he can't stop fucking you.

Not when you're creaming around him like this. Not when your pussy is pulsing, sucking him in, refusing to let him go. Your body is wrecked, trembling, your thighs quivering as another aftershock ripples through your cunt, your walls still clenching down around him, still squeezing him so tight he can barely fucking breathe. And he watches it all.

He spreads your ass, forces you open, and the sight knocks the breath out of his lungs. You're a mess. His cum is dripping out of you, slick and white, coating your folds, smeared on your thighs, sticky and wet and filthy.

Your walls cling to him every time he pulls back, stretched around his cock, slick and messy, gripping him like you never want him to leave.

And fuck, he never wants to.

Not when you look this good, not when you feel this good, this warm, this wet, this tight. He groans, low and deep, hips rocking into you slow, deep, dragging out every second of it, savoring the way you pulse and throb around him.

And you take it. Of course you do.

There is nothing this man could give you that you wouldn't take—nothing. If he wants to fill you up again, you'll let him. If he wants to fuck you until you can't move, you'll take it. If he wants to ruin you, make you his perfect, fucked-out, dripping mess, you'll fucking let him.

Because you belong to him, and he belongs to you.

A whimper slips from your lips, and he leans over you, pressing his chest against your sweaty, overheated back, mouth hot against your shoulder.

"Shhh, baby," he murmurs, voice wrecked, deep, tinged with so much hunger, so much adoration.

His lips press to your damp skin, soft kisses, slow kisses, trailing over your shoulder, your spine, your neck, as he fucks you. His thrusts slow, deepen, rolling into you instead of pounding, giving you a moment to catch your breath, come back to yourself.

But he doesn't stop. Because he's not done with you. His voice is low, husky, a breathless plea against your sweat-slicked skin.

"Can you take more, love?"

You barely lift your head from the sheets, your body trembling, already raw and wrecked. But you still nod, sucking in a shaky breath.

"Y-yeah," you whisper, voice cracking, "I can take it."

A groan rips from his throat. "That's my girl."

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he keeps fucking you, dragging his cock in and out of your swollen, overstimulated pussy. Every thrust is deep, slow, but firm—making sure you feel every thick inch stretching you, making a mess of your insides.

The slick, obscene sound of him pumping into you fills the room, mixing with your soft sobs of pleasure, the way your pussy clenches down on him greedily, milking him with every deep stroke.

He fills you up so completely, so perfectly, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way your body trembles under him, the way you still push back, desperate for more even when you're whimpering, even when you're so fucking sensitive.

And he can't stop watching you.

Your body is glowing with sweat, flushed, gorgeous, every inch of you made for him, made to take him. His eyes drop to where his cock is splitting you open, to the way your swollen, slick folds suck him in hungrily, coated in a creamy mix of his cum and your arousal. It drips down, so messy, so fucking perfect.

"God, baby," he groans, fingers spreading you wider, just to see more, just to watch the way your tight little cunt clings to him every time he pulls back. "You're so fucking beautiful. Look at the way you take me. You were made for this, weren't you?"

You sob into the sheets, but you nod again, arching your back, pushing your hips higher, giving him more.

"Yes," you gasp, "God, yes, baby, I—oh fuck, I love it. I love you."

His thrusts stutter, something breaking in his chest at how wrecked and desperate you sound, how much you want him. How much you need him. He leans over you, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulders, your spine, his dick still stretching you, filling you, keeping you pinned in place.

"I love you too, doll," he murmurs, voice raw. "So fucking much. So good for me. My perfect girl."

Your body shudders under his, but he doesn't stop fucking you, stretching you, pushing you higher, deeper into the heat of it. You can barely breathe, your body wrecked, your mind swimming, but you can't stop, you don't want to stop. The pressure builds again, faster this time, so intense it leaves you shaking, gasping, so close you can barely think.

And then you snap.

A loud, broken sob leaves your lips as your orgasm crashes over you, drenching his cock, your walls pulsing, gripping him so tight he chokes out a moan.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, fingers digging into your hips as your tight little pussy milks him, sucks him in, makes him lose control.

He can't hold back. Not when you feel this good. His thrusts turn desperate, sloppy, pounding into you as he chases his own release, needing to fill you up again, needing to claim you completely.

"Oh my God," you babble, still shuddering, still moaning. "Baby, you feel so fucking good. More, please, give me more."

He groans at your words, at how fucked-out and wrecked you sound. And then he feels it—the heat coiling in his spine, the unbearable pressure, the way your slick pussy is sucking him deeper, milking him, begging him to let go.

"Gonna cum, baby," he pants, hips snapping against your ass, fucking you faster, harder, needier.

"Yes, yes," you moan, pushing back against him, drunk on the way he fucks you, on the way his cock throbs inside you, so close, so fucking close. "Fill me up, give me everything, please."

His head drops forward, a ragged groan escaping his lips as he finally breaks. A shudder racks through him as he slams deep, holding you tight, burying himself as far as he can go.

And then he cums. Thick, hot ropes of his seed flood your womb, spilling deep, painting your insides as his cock throbs, twitching against your cervix.

"Fuck," he groans, voice cracking, hips jerking, fucking it deeper, even as it leaks out around him, even as your walls keep clenching down, milking every last drop.

"Oh my God," you sob, your slick gushing out, mixing with his, soaking his thighs, making a mess of both of you.

Your body trembles beneath him, and then, before you can even catch your breath, you shudder and moan, your pussy fluttering as another orgasm rolls through you. Just from feeling him cum inside you.

Your walls squeeze around him in relentless, fluttering pulses, greedily milking every bit of warmth he pours into you. The overstimulation hits you like a tidal wave—sharp, hot, and all-consuming—each pulse of his cock sending sparks of pleasure crackling through your nerves.

It's too much and not enough, leaving you breathless and squirming, your body caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to keep him buried inside you.

He groans again, deeper this time, hips giving another shallow thrust as if he can't help himself. The movement makes his cum spill out even more, thick and sticky as it drips down to the mess pooling beneath you.

Your cunt flutters around him, still contracting, still hungry for him. It's filthy—the way you're both soaked in it, the way you're trembling, overstimulated and wrecked—but God, it feels so good.

His breath stutters against your neck. "Fuck, baby," he pants, voice wrecked, "you're squeezing me so tight... can feel you milking my dick."

His words send a fresh shiver down your spine, another weak moan slipping from your lips.

"Look at that," he murmurs, voice rough but so fucking tender underneath. "So full of me... making such a mess, pretty girl."

And you can't even answer—you're too far gone, too lost in the aftershocks rippling through you. Your thighs twitch as another small, involuntary pulse grips him, your slick gushing out in a sticky rush. It mixes with his cum, dripping down your skin, leaving you both soaked.

Your cunt clenches so tight he whimpers, digging his nails into your hips, panting, groaning as you keep trembling around him. Even when he's empty, even when he's so fucking sensitive he could cry, he still keeps thrusting, still keeps fucking his cum deeper, because he just can't stop.

His arms tighten around you, holding you close as his hips still, breath hot against your skin. The air is thick with heat and the sound of your ragged breathing, bodies pressed together, sticky and warm and completely spent.

You're a mess. He's a mess. And God, you've never felt so good, his body heavy and warm over yours, chest heaving, heartbeat hammering against your back.

And then, slowly, he moves, pressing soft, breathless kisses to your back, your shoulders, your spine. He doesn't pull out.

Just stays there, inside you, still throbbing, still leaking, one hand soft on your hip, the other smoothing over your spine, grounding you, keeping you there with him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper, a broken, needy sound, your cunt clenching instinctively at the loss. And then you feel it—his cum trickling out of your swollen, stretched pussy, thick and warm as it spills down your folds.

It drips in slow, lazy streams, pooling between your thighs before seeping onto the sheets beneath you, sticky and messy. You twitch at the sensation, oversensitive and spent, body shuddering with every pulse of aftershock still lingering in your core.

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes locked on the way you leak all over the bed.

His gaze darkens, jaw clenching, and there's something filthy about how proud he looks—like he loves seeing you ruined like this, fucked open and dripping with him. But then his expression softens, guilt creeping in as he notices the way you flinch with every tiny movement.

His thumb ghosts over your slick-coated folds, watching how more of his cum spills out with the slightest touch. "Didn't mean to be so rough," he adds, though there's still that lingering heat in his tone.

You whimper again, thighs instinctively trying to close, but he gently keeps them apart, soothing circles drawn into your skin. "I've got you," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your lower back.

Your head spins, body thrumming with a mix of exhaustion, overstimulation, and the lingering warmth of his touch. You're a wreck—leaking, stretched, and completely undone. And God, it feels so good.

He presses a soothing kiss between your shoulder blades, murmuring softly, "Shhh, baby, I've got you. I've got you."

And his hands are already on you, grounding you, smoothing over your hips and up your back, tracing light, gentle circles into your overheated skin. His touch is warm, reverent, pulling you back to him even as he shifts to settle beside you.

As soon as he's on his back, he guides you against him, gathering you in his arms, and you go so easily, pressing yourself into him, your body melting against his warmth, skin against skin. Your legs tangle with his, your breath uneven, chest still heaving as you cling to him. He can feel the way you're shaking, small aftershocks rolling through you, and his hold tightens, protective, reassuring.

"Hey, baby," he whispers, tucking his nose into your damp hair, kissing your temple. "Breathe, pretty girl. You're okay. You did so good for me."

You let out a soft sniffle, your fingers gripping his bicep, and he shushes you gently, stroking your back, slow and steady, coaxing you into calmer breaths. His lips trail down, brushing over your cheek, down to your jaw, his touch featherlight, affectionate.

His hand finds your face, cradling it so delicately, his thumb swiping over your cheekbone before he tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze softens as he takes you in—your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips, the dazed, exhausted look in your eyes, still glossy, still lost in the intensity of it all.

"You with me, baby?" he murmurs, his voice low, coaxing, full of love.

You nod, barely, your breath shuddering, and he tilts your chin up just enough to brush a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"That's my girl," he whispers. "Come back to me."

He watches you, patient, letting you settle in his arms, letting you come back down from it at your own pace. His fingers keep moving, tracing over your spine, your ribs, brushing over the swell of your hip, never stopping, never letting you feel anything but the warmth of him, the love in his touch.

"You were perfect," he murmurs. "So perfect for me."

And the way he says it—so soft, so full of everything he feels for you—it makes your chest ache, makes your body curl even closer to his, like you want to mold yourself into him completely.

He smiles against your temple, kissing you again, his arm tightening around you. "That's it, baby," he breathes. "I've got you."

You blink up at him, eyes heavy with exhaustion, your lashes clumped together from sweat and whatever was left of your ruined makeup.

He chuckles softly, brushing a thumb beneath one of your eyes. "You look so cute."

You groan, rolling your face into his chest, voice muffled when you mumble, "I look like a fucking raccoon."

His laugh is warm, full of affection, and he tilts your chin up so you have to look at him. "No, baby. You're beautiful."

You let out a small, tired huff and slap his chest weakly, pouting up at him. "Don't lie to me."

He grins, shaking his head. "You know I never lie to you, my love."

You narrow your eyes, lips still in a soft pout before you give up, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He lets you, wrapping his arms around you, his palm rubbing soothing circles against your back.

His lips press gentle kisses into your damp hair, and for a while, the two of you just stay like that—warm, tangled up in each other, the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek lulling you into something dangerously close to sleep.

Then, you shiver softly, a little tremor running through you, and he frowns. He can feel your body sinking into his like dead weight, your breaths coming out slower, deeper. You're so close to dozing off, and he almost lets you, but he knows you can't sleep like this.

Not with how sensitive your skin is, not with the way sweat and smudged makeup still cling to your face. You'd be miserable in the morning, and he's not about to let that happen.

So he shifts.

You whimper, clinging to him instantly, your hands fisting at his back, and he hushes you softly, stroking your side. "Let's get you cleaned up, baby."

You shake your head, nose still buried in his neck. "Don't wanna move," you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

He chuckles, pressing another kiss to your temple. "I know, pretty girl. But we can't sleep like this."

You groan, shifting just enough to pout up at him. "Why not?" Your voice is so small, so tired, like a sleepy little kitten, and it makes his heart squeeze in his chest.

He cups your cheek, thumb stroking your warm skin. "Because the sheets are a mess, your makeup is still on," he murmurs. "And I know you hate sleeping like this."

You make a soft, grumpy sound, and even though you can't argue with that, you still murmur, "Can't move, baby."

He smiles, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "No problem," he reassures, voice as gentle as the hands holding you. "I'll carry you to the bathroom, yeah? Slowly, my love."

You whine softly, clinging tighter to him, but when he shifts again, lifting you into his arms with ease, you don't resist. Your head lolls against his shoulder, and he cradles you close as he makes his way to the bathroom.

Once he sets you down, you immediately reach for him again, arms wrapping around his waist as you press yourself against his warmth, looking up at him with big, pouty eyes.

"Can we take a bath?"

And how the fuck is he supposed to say no to that?

"Yeah, we can," he says, voice impossibly soft.

His arm stays wrapped around you as he moves to the tub, only pulling back slightly to turn the faucet on. Warm water starts to fill the basin, and he keeps you close, holding you against him as he reaches for the oils and bubbles he knows you love.

He pours them in carefully, swirling the water with his fingers as delicate foam forms on the surface, the scent of soft florals and vanilla filling the air. His other hand remains steady on you, rubbing soothing circles against your back, keeping you close, keeping you grounded.

"You okay, baby?" he murmurs, looking down at you.

You nod sleepily, your cheek pressed to his chest. "Mhmm. 'M just tired."

He smiles, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. "I know, my love. We'll get you all clean and cozy, and then we can sleep, yeah?"

You hum, nodding again, and he tightens his hold on you, just for a moment, before reaching to shut off the water. You whine softly when he pulls away, even just an inch, your fingers instinctively curling into his skin, not wanting to let go. He chuckles, the sound deep and warm as he presses a kiss to your temple.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," he murmurs, reaching for your makeup remover and a stack of cotton pads.

You blink sleepily as he soaks a few, then hands them to you. You take them with clumsy fingers, swiping them over your face in slow, lazy motions, barely putting in the effort, but it's enough. He watches you, his lips twitching when you pause, your hand growing still against your cheek, clearly too tired to finish.

He huffs out a soft laugh, plucking the used cotton pads from your fingers before guiding you to the sink. "Come on, pretty girl. Let's wash the rest off, yeah?"

You hum in agreement, letting him help you as he always does. His palm rests against your lower back as you reach for your cleanser, and when you start rubbing it over your face, he strokes slow circles over your skin, grounding you, making sure you don't drift too far.

You rinse away the remnants of your makeup, patting your face dry with a fluffy towel, and by the time you look back at him, he's already kneeling in front of you, those strong hands of his hooking into your panties.

He tugs them down slowly, his fingers brushing against your thighs, and you shiver under his touch, even though it's barely anything. His gaze flickers up to yours, checking on you, and when you nod sleepily, he slips them off the rest of the way, tossing them into the laundry basket.

"Good girl," he murmurs, voice soft as he helps you into the tub.

The water is warm, the bubbles thick, and as soon as you sink in, you let out a tiny, contented sigh. He smiles, watching you for a second before quickly shedding his own clothes.

Then, he's stepping in behind you, settling in the water before pulling you against his chest. His arms wrap around you easily, like it's second nature, like he was made to hold you.

You rest your head on his shoulder, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to his skin before murmuring, "Are you mad that I teased you like that?"

He exhales a quiet laugh, lips grazing your temple as he says, "No, baby. I kind of liked it."

You giggle, the sound so sweet, so sleepy, and his heart clenches.

Then, your gaze flickers up to him, those big, drowsy eyes locking onto his. "I ruined your tie," you pout.

His brows lift slightly, then he lets out a soft chuckle. "That's okay," he murmurs. "It's just a tie. I'll buy another one, sweet girl."

You hum, satisfied with that answer, sinking further into the warm water, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. For a moment, it's just the two of you, breathing each other in, warm and comfortable, the quiet sound of water lapping against the tub filling the air.

Then, you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, "Can you believe it's been three years?"

His chest rises and falls beneath you as he exhales slowly. "Honestly? No." His voice is softer now, thoughtful. "I can't believe you put up with my ass for so long."

You scoff, a small smirk tugging at your lips. "Who else is gonna do that?"

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "I don't know," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But I don't care. I just want you."

You tilt your head up, gazing at him with tired, affectionate eyes, your lips parting as you murmur, "I love you so much."

His expression softens instantly, those warm eyes of his locking onto yours like you're the only thing that matters. "I know, baby," he whispers, leaning down. "I love you too."

Then, he kisses you. Soft. Slow. Sweet. His lips press against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten, makes your breath catch in your throat. His hand cradle your face, thumb stroking over your damp skin as he kisses you deeper, his tongue slipping past your lips to brush against yours. A tiny, breathy moan escapes you, muffled between his lips, and he swallows it down, pulling you closer, pressing into you like he can't get enough.

You melt against him, fingers gripping his forearm as the kiss lingers, warm and lazy, unhurried. He hums against your mouth, savoring the way you taste, the way your lips move with his, so soft, so familiar.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are pink, glistening, and he lets his forehead rest against yours, his breath fanning over your skin.

For a while, you just lay there, wrapped in him, your body relaxed, your mind quiet. Your eyelids grow heavier, and before you know it, you're on the verge of sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you lulling you closer and closer.

But then, his voice rumbles through you, gentle and warm. "Let's clean you up, okay?"

You nod sleepily, making a small, clumsy move to sit up, but your limbs are too heavy, your body too lax. He catches you easily, chuckling as he steadies you.

"Let me, baby," he murmurs, reaching for the body wash on the side of the tub.

You hum in agreement, letting yourself relax again as he takes care of you. His hands are slow, deliberate, so gentle as he runs them over your body, washing away the remnants of sweat and slick and him. He murmurs sweet praises between soft kisses, his lips pressing against your shoulder, your temple, your cheek.

"You did so good for me, doll," he breathes, sliding his hand over your arm.

You shiver, letting out a tiny, contented sigh as you sink further into his embrace.

"My pretty girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice filled with nothing but love. "So perfect for me."

Once he's finished washing you, he moves on to himself, making quick work of rinsing off before reaching over to drain the tub. Then, with ease, he stands, stepping out before offering you his hand.

You take it without hesitation, letting him help you up, and the second you're on your feet, he's wrapping you in a thick, fluffy towel, tucking you against his chest.

You sigh into him, pressing your face against his skin, savoring his warmth, his scent. He rubs his hands up and down your back, drying you off gently before leading you to the sink.

You don't bother with your full skincare routine—too sleepy, too relaxed—but you do swipe on some moisturizer and dab a bit of under-eye cream beneath your tired eyes while he steps out, making quick work of changing the sheets.

He returns a few minutes later, already dressed in a pair of soft gray shorts that hang low on his hips, hair still damp from the bath, and in his hands, he's holding a pair of your panties and one of his t-shirts. He smiles as he approaches, eyes warm and gentle.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs. "Let's get you out of that wet towel."

You lift your arms without protest, letting him peel the towel away from your body. His gaze softens even more at the sight of you—freshly cleaned, skin dewy, hair damp and tousled, cheeks flushed with lingering warmth. God, you're beautiful.

He kneels in front of you, holding the panties open. "Step in for me," he coaxes.

You place your hands on his shoulders for balance, and he steadies you as you step into them one foot at a time. He begins sliding them up your legs, slow and careful—until, just before he pulls them over your hips, he leans in and presses a kiss right to your pussy.

"Dick!" you squeak, cheeks burning.

He grins up at you, completely unrepentant. "What?" he teases, laughter dancing in his eyes, and finally tugs the panties up properly.

You huff, playfully swatting at his shoulder, but he just chuckles, standing back up. He reaches for the t-shirt next, pulling it over your head and gently guiding your arms through the sleeves.

It's big and soft, smelling like him—clean laundry mixed with the faint trace of his cologne and something inherently him. Comforting. Warm. Home.

Just as he starts to turn away, you reach out and grab his wrist. "Come here," you murmur.

He groans softly, head tilting back with exaggerated exasperation. "Baby," he pouts, "I thought you were tired."

But he already knows what's coming. You grin, half-asleep and utterly sweet as you grab your moisturizer and dab a bit onto your fingertips. "You have such nice skin," you mumble, dotting some onto his face. "It'd be even nicer if you took care of it from time to time."

He pulls a face, pretending to be annoyed—but still leans down so you can reach better. His nose wrinkles at the cool sensation, and you giggle, smoothing the cream into his skin with gentle fingers. His eyes flutter shut under your touch, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tries not to smile at your concentration.

"Stop making faces," you laugh.

"I can't help it," he mutters, lips curving upward despite himself. "Feels weird."

"But good for you," you counter, tapping his cheek once you're done.

Once that's over, you both reach for your toothbrushes, standing side by side at the sink. He keeps nudging you with his hip, playful as ever, making you shoot him exasperated glances between mouthfuls of toothpaste. He just grins around his toothbrush, utterly unbothered.

When you finally finish, spitting out the minty foam and rinsing your mouth, he wraps an arm around your waist and guides you back to the bedroom. The sheets are fresh, soft, and he's already picked up the clothes you both left strewn across the floor earlier.

He pulls the covers back for you. "Come on, pretty girl," he murmurs, coaxing.

You don't need to be told twice—you plop down onto the mattress with a happy squeal, limbs sprawling out as you sink into the warmth.

His heart clenches at how adorable you are—eyes sleepy, hair a mess, but smiling like that, so content, so soft. God, he loves you. Loves how easily you make his world feel right. He slides in beside you, reaching to pull the covers over you both.

You immediately cling to him, nuzzling into his chest as the warmth of his skin wraps around you like a cocoon. His arms instinctively tighten, pulling you closer, and he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

"Mmm..." you hum sleepily, fingers curling into his side.

He shifts just enough to tuck you under his chin, resting his cheek against the top of your head. You're already half-asleep, breaths evening out against his skin, your body melting into his like you were made to fit there. And God, he thinks you were.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your lower back as you drift off, and for a moment, he just... lets himself be still. Lets himself feel the quiet weight of you in his arms. The way you trust him enough to fall asleep like this—safe, warm, loved.

Three years.

His chest tightens. Has it really been that long? It feels like just yesterday he was meeting you for the first time—those eyes, that smile that hooked him from the start. And yet, it also feels like he's known you forever, like you've been stitched into the fabric of his life from the beginning.

He thinks about everything you've been through together—the laughter, the fights, the quiet nights, the chaotic mornings. The way you hold him when he's had a rough day. The way you light up when you talk about things you love. The way you look at him like he's the only thing in the world that matters.

He's so fucking lucky.

The best three years of his life. And God, he wants more. More lazy mornings, more nights tangled up in fresh sheets like this, more soft kisses, more sleepy grins, more of you. Always you.

His fingers drift along your back, tracing slow, absentminded patterns as his thoughts wander. There are nights—plenty of them—when he comes home to you bruised and beaten, body aching from patrol.

And God, he hates that. Hates how you worry, how your eyes soften with concern the moment you see him limping through the door. But you always take care of him. Always.

You patch him up with the gentlest hands, tending to every scrape and cut with that same unwavering tenderness. And it's not just the care—it's the way you press soft kisses to his bruises like you can kiss the pain away.

The way you murmur praises against his skin��Thank you for keeping me safe, for making Blüdhaven better, for always coming back to me. It's enough to make his heart clench every damn time.

And when he first told you—really told you—that he was Nightwing, you didn't even flinch. Just looked at him with those knowing eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you said you figured.

Like you always knew. Like it didn't scare you away. If anything, you just pulled him into your arms and held him tighter. No judgement. No fear. Just love. Just you.

God—he doesn't know what he did to deserve that. To deserve you.

His lips brush your hair again. "I love you," he whispers, voice barely audible in the quiet room.

You murmur something incoherent in response—half a hum, half a sleepy sigh—but it makes him smile anyway. Because you're here. In his arms. Safe. Loved. His.

And as you breathe slow and steady against him, warmth blooming in his chest, he thinks—yeah. This is it. This is home.

[ashwhowrites]

Tyler Owens x reader

Something with jealousy maybe?

Yum, love me some Glen Powell. I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting ❤️

Jealous

Y/N was nervous to meet Kate. Not because Kate was known to be rude or anything, she was known to be beautiful and nice to everyone. Y/N was nervous because she was in love with Tyler, and Tyler seemed to have a soft spot for Kate.

Y/N has been working with Tyler for under a year and she loved every second of it. She was a photographer and was helping him and his team. Tyler had a charming personality and it worked on her in seconds. His smile and the way he never was afraid of intense eye contact. She was wrapped around his finger and it's been a summer of falling into his bed and shaking in his arms.

If she could change one thing, it would be that they could be together officially. Boone seemed to know Tyler best and she spent many nights asking what Tyler felt about her. Boone declared Tyler was into her but was too nervous to make a real move.

But that didn't make any sense to Y/N. Tyler was never afraid of anything, nothing made him nervous.

Y/N didn't have any issues with Kate until Boone opened his big mouth.

"Ty, you ready to see the girl that got away?" Boone joked, smacking Tyler's seat as he sat behind him in the truck. Y/N, who sat passenger, tensed up at the question. She side-eyed Tyler and hated the fact that he seemed to have tensed as well.

"Oh? Who's that?" Y/N perked up

Tyler was quick to shake his head, "No one. Boone doesn't know what he's talking about."

Y/N didn't like the way Tyler seemed to brush it off. His voice was tight and it made her stomach turn sideways. Whoever she was seemed to put him in a stump.

"Her name is Kate; she's pretty good at what she does," Lily said, as she wasn't aware of what was between Tyler and Y/N. No clue she was adding gasoline to the fire. "Tyler was like a love-sick puppy when she came around, and then she up and left. Back to New York."

"New York?" Y/N gasped. She never thought someone from the city would have Tyler's interest.

"Ignore them," Tyler smiled, looking in his rearview mirror as he shot a glare at Boone. Lily was looking down at her drone. Boone gave an apologetic smile and looked out the window, leaving the couple up front to be the only ones aware of the tension. Tyler slowly slid his hand over to her thigh, giving it a soft squeeze as comfort. But Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of jealousy.

~

"Hey city girl," Tyler said, his southern drawl making Kate and Y/N weak in the knees. Y/N stood against the truck, arms folded as she stared as Tyler walked over to hug the girl.

"I was giving him shit. I'm sorry, I didn't think about it." Boone apologized as he got out of the truck. He liked Y/N and Tyler together, and he felt bad he brought up Kate.

"It's fine, I'm good," Y/N shrugged off, "In a way the heads up was nice. I was hoping she wasn't beautiful though."

Boone laughed as he threw his arm around her, "No way near as beautiful as you. Come on, let's go eat."

~

Tyler eyed Y/N as Boone wrapped his arm around her and led her into the small truck stop diner.

"Oh my, Mr. Boone finally landed on a girl?" Kate smiled, watching as the couple disappeared into the diner. Her question made Tyler tense, his jaw became tight as he scoffed.

"No. That's Y/N, she's our photographer." Tyler explained a fire in his chest at the thought of Y/N being with Boone. She didn't like Boone, right? Tyler knew that they were close but he assumed it was as friends.

Kate eyed him, a smirk growing on her face. "Just a photographer?"

Tyler looked back at her, confused by the look in her eyes. "Yeah, let me introduce you." Truthfully, Tyler didn't care if they met right now but he wanted eyes on whatever was going on in the diner.

~

Y/N was staring out the window, sitting up as Kate and Tyler began to walk towards the diner. "Shut up he's coming!"

Boone zipped his lips as he stuffed his face, Tyler walking in with Kate behind him. Tyler took off his hat as he joined them at the table.

"Kate this is my wonderful photographer Y/N. Y/N this is Kate, she worked with us last year for a little bit of time."

The girls shook hands and Kate took the open seat next to Tyler.

Tyler pretended to look at the menu as he tried to sneak glances up at Y/N and Boone.

~~~

The rest of the night was awkward between Tyler and Y/N. She didn't know what to say to him, not like she had the time to. He seemed so caught up in Kate.

"It looks like he still likes her, Boone." Y/N sighed sadly. Tyler and Kate laughed in the bed of his truck, neither seemed to care about the others in the parking lot.

Y/N moved her eyes to the fire in front of her, sticking her marshmallow into the flame. Before Boone could say anything, Dani and Lily joined.

"Can those two just have sex and get it over with?" Lily gagged. The thought made Y/N want to throw up. She didn't give a reaction as she watched her marshmallow burn.

"They probably have, we just weren't told," Dani said as she grabbed Y/N's stick. "You okay?"

Y/N let Dani take her marshmallow, her stomach beginning to feel uneasy.

"I think I need to lie down. My stomach isn't feeling the best," she said as she stood up. She dusted off her jeans and grabbed her jacket.

"Want me to walk you up?" Boone asked

"Sure," she said with a sad smile. Boone quickly stood up and threw a comforting arm over her shoulder.

"Let's go"

As Kate and Tyler caught up, he couldn't help but notice Y/N and Boone sneaking off alone. He followed their bodies until both disappeared behind a door. Boone had her own room, why was he going in hers?

"You know I think I'm going to call it a night," Tyler said, standing up. Kate nodded and let him go. He quickly went up the steps of the motel, walking towards her door. As he got closer, Boone came out.

Once the door closed, Tyler was fast to grab Boone's arm and yank him into Tyler's room, neighbors to Y/N.

"What the hell is going on with you two?"

"Who?" Boone asked, looking around the room like he was talking to someone else.

"You and Y/N. Since when do you touch her all the time and go into her room?" Tyler argued.

"Slow down cowboy. Ain't nothing like that going on," Boone said as held his hands up in surrender. "But if you keep dragging her along and not telling her the truth of how you feel, someone else might end up walking her to her room."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tyler asked, crossing his arms.

"She likes you, and you like her. Ask her out, dude." Boone said as it was as clear as day.

"I told you I don't know if she likes me more than a hook-up," Tyler defended. Yeah, he was terrified to ask her out and be shot down.

"She clearly does! She's all jealous and insecure in there because she thinks you have a thing for Kate!"

"You are the one who brought Kate up!" Tyler argued, "With your stupid girl got away story...wait she's jealous?"

"Go talk to her," Boone said. Not waiting for a reply before he walked out.

Tyler took off his hat and set it on his bed. Taking a deep breath he walked out of his room and knocked on her door.

The door cracked open and Y/N smiled at the other side. "Hey Tyler, what's up?"

"Can I come in?" He asked, she opened the door wider and let him through.

"Probably don't want to take too long. Don't want Kate to run off on you again," she said bitterly, closing the door.

"Ah, so you are jealous?" Tyler smirked, sitting down on her bed. She rolled her eyes as she stood above him.

"I'm not having sex with you so get off my bed," she snapped. But he didn't listen. Instead, he grabbed her hand and set her on his lap. She tried to fight him off but Tyler held her down against him.

"I don't like Kate," he admitted, "I had a small crush when she first came around but that's all it was. You have nothing to be jealous about," he whispered as he planted soft kisses to her neck.

"I'm not jealous," she argued, hating herself for throwing her arms around his neck. Melting into his lap, his lips danced around her neck. "I don't care if you like her or not."

Tyler hummed as he softly sucked on her neck, he smirked as she let out a soft moan. He pulled away and looked into her eyes, his hands on her hips.

"I like you," he admitted, "only you." His left hand went up to cup her face. His nose nudged against hers, lips ghosting over hers. "What if we take this to another level?"

Y/N felt her heart race as his lips moved closer to hers. "As in?"

"Let me take you on a date, a real date that isn't in motel rooms after dark."

"I'd like that," she smiled, leaning down to press her lips against his. "Sorry, I got jealous."

"Don't be, I like you getting all jealous about another girl," he smirked against her lips, "all hot and mad."

"Shut up, Tyler," she said as she rolled her eyes, kissing him again.

~

"Think they're doing it?" Dexter asked as he and Boone stared at the closed door.

"Oh 100 percent," Boone laughed.

[wchswift]

─── SO HIGH SCHOOL

pairing: dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: As teenagers, you and Dean had a whirlwind romance before everything fell apart. Years later, you reunite—and it’s like high school all over again.

contents! mutual pining, teenage love, soft, flirting and touching, stupid in love dean, mdni 𖤐 18+

word count: 2.8k

𝒟ean masterlist !

Dean was the first and only real love you had.

Well, not exactly real. And maybe not exactly love.

He was the good part of your day. That person you knew would be there. The person who made school possible and tolerable.

Dean was always known for his charm, for his way with girls. For always having them. But the moment Dean joined your group of friends and you two became even remotely close, it was as if something, a connection, that you didn't know could exist, finally made itself present within you.

It wasn't something verbalized, something explicit. But as soon as you had your first kiss, there was no one else. No other girl in school had a chance with him. He wouldn't let you go, and much less took his eyes off you.

Everything felt so real. Even if it was just between the lines.

He was the best "relationship" you ever had. The best moments and the best treatment you had from a boy were with Dean Winchester.

And then just as it all began, suddenly he wasn't there anymore.

One night you two were together in the back seat of the car and the next morning he was gone from town, without any explanation.

And when you were seventeen, that was the last time you saw Dean.

You and Dean were sure you would never see each other again. You were teenagers, it was normal. People come and go from school all the time, it was common to meet people at school and then never see them again, never find out how they are.

This is what you and Dean thought things would be like. Just a memory that would fade in time. Never having to worry about looking each other in the eye again.

But when was anything ever simple in Dean Winchester's life?

A case never ended up being just a case.

The small town didn’t exactly scream "monster hotspot," but something was definitely off. Three people had vanished without a trace in the past two months, all last seen at the same place—a cozy little diner on Main Street that doubled as a bookstore. The place was old-school charming, the kind of spot with checkered floors, the scent of fresh coffee in the air, and a tiny bell over the door that jingled whenever a customer walked in. Nothing about it screamed "supernatural danger," but Dean had learned long ago that the worst things often hid in the most ordinary places.

“Alright, so we got three missing persons, no bodies, and a common location,” Sam said, flipping through his notes. “No signs of struggle, no EMF spikes, no sulfur. If it’s something supernatural, it’s keeping a low profile.”

Dean tapped his fingers against the Impala’s steering wheel, squinting at the diner across the street. “Or it’s just smart. Maybe a witch, maybe something we haven’t seen before.”

Sam sighed. “So, the usual—talk to employees, check out security footage, dig through lore?”

Dean smirked. “Aw, you're so smart, Sammy.”

With that, they climbed out of the car and crossed the street, the bell over the door announcing their arrival. The place was warm and inviting, filled with the quiet hum of conversation and the soft crackle of pages turning. Dean barely had time to take it all in before his gaze landed on someone behind the counter.

He recognized you instantly. There wouldn't be a day that he wouldn't.

You were busy jotting something down, focused on a customer, completely unaware of him—at first. Dean’s stomach tightened, his pulse kicking up. It had been years, but damn if you wasn’t still the same girl he remembered—just sharper, more grown-up, but still you. The girl who had once snuck out of your house to meet him, who had laughed against his lips under the Friday night stadium lights, who had looked at him like he was worth something—until he left without saying goodbye.

When you lifted your head, ready to serve the new customers, that’s when you saw him.

For a second, just a second, your eyes met, and he saw it: the flicker of recognition, the moment your heart probably dropped into your stomach the same way his had.

To this day, Dean always remembers the way you used to look at him. The sparkle in your eyes, the way they seemed to smile, emanating happiness and trust.

Just seeing you made him feel as if he were in high school again.

And now? Now you were standing behind the counter, your apron tied around your waist, a pen tucked behind your ear, looking at him like you weren’t sure whether to punch him or pretend he didn’t exist.

Dean opened his mouth, but for once in his life, words failed him.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you finally muttered, eyes narrowing.

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, Dean—?"

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, Sammy.” Dean snapped out of it, forcing a grin. “Long time, no see, sweetheart.”

"Didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Winchester.” Your voice was calm, even, but there was an edge to it, a quiet challenge. "Guess life’s full of surprises."

Dean exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah… guess it is."

Sam, ever the unfortunate third wheel, glanced between them and shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, we’re actually here about the disappearances. We’re—"

"FBI?" you cut in, lifting a brow. "Do you want me to believe that you two are FBI?"

Dean had to bite back a smirk. Of course you weren’t buying their act. You had always been sharp. Always saw right through him.

Sam hesitated. "We just have a few questions."

You sighed, tapping your fingers against the counter before jerking your chin toward an empty booth in the corner. "Fine. Take a seat. I’ll be over in a minute."

Dean watched as you turned on your heel, disappearing into the back. Only when you were out of sight did he let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face.

“Well,” Sam muttered, “that wasn’t awkward at all.”

Dean ignored him, eyes still locked on the door you had just walked through.

Yeah. This case just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

Only to get better, when you return, you decided to act as if he didn't exist. There was no sign of recognition on your face. No lingering shock, no flicker of emotion. Just cool, effortless professionalism, like you didn��t just have the wind knocked out of you moments ago.

A notebook is in your hand now, the pen twirling between your fingers as you slide into the seat across from them. Your eyes flick briefly to Sam—acknowledging him first, like Dean isn’t even there.

“So,” you say, tone even. “What exactly do you want to know? If this is about the disappearances, let me say I don’t know much. Just that they all came in here before they went missing. We gave their names to the cops already”

Dean leaned in, arms folding as he tilted his head slightly. “You always this helpful, sweetheart?”

The nickname made your eye twitch—barely.

You finally, finally glanced at him, and for a second, all he could see was the fire behind your gaze.

“I try my best, agent.” Your lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Anything else?”

Sam cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you, clearly picking up on the weird energy but too polite, more like too damn confused, to say anything. “Uh—right. But anything else you might’ve noticed? Strange behavior? Anyone bothering them?”

You exhaled through your nose. “Not that I remember.”

Feeling that with all this tension he wasn't going to get anywhere, Sam decided to stop there. “Alright, I think that’s all we need for now, then. If you remember anything else, let us know.”

With a nod, you began to rise from your seat, your body moving almost instinctively as you embraced the end of the conversation. “Sure thing."

As Dean watched you walk back to the counter, he couldn't believe you acted as if he wasn’t even there. However, if you thought that was the end of it, you were mistaken. Now that Dean had found you again, he wasn’t planning to just walk away. Not this time.

“Dude,” Sam muttered, voice low, snapping Dean out of his reverie. “What the hell was that?”

Dean exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s complicated.”

Sam frowned. “Yeah, no kidding. You gonna fill me in?”

Dean didn’t answer right away, just watched as you disappeared through the swinging door behind the counter.

He used to love watching you walk away. Now it just felt like he was losing you all over again.

After a beat, he pushed up from the booth. “I’ll be back.”

Sam sighed. “Dean—”

But Dean was already moving.

The back door of the diner led to a narrow hallway—one he knew you’d taken to get a breather. It was quieter back here, the hum of conversation fading into a dull murmur.

And sure enough, there you were.

Your hands braced on the edge of a small counter, eyes closed, breathing deep. He knew that look. Knew you were trying to steady yourself, get your walls up before he could knock them down.

Too late.

“Still not gonna look at me?”

Your shoulders tensed at his voice, but you didn’t turn. “What do you want, Dean?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folding. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe a little acknowledgment? A hey, Dean, long time no see. Thought you were dead or in jail—”

“Wouldn’t have been surprised.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, a humorless smirk twitching at his lips. “Yeah, well. Didn’t end up that way.”

Silence.

You reached up, rubbing your temple, like talking to him was physically painful.

And hell, maybe it was.

After a beat, you finally turned to face him, arms crossing. Your eyes were sharp, guarded. But there was something else beneath it. Something raw.

“Why are you here, Dean?”

His chest ached at the way you said his name. Not like you used to—soft, familiar, like it meant something. Now it just sounded… tired.

“Job brought us here,” he said, keeping it simple.

You studied him, unconvinced. “And what? You thought, hey, let’s stop by and ruin her day while we’re at it?”

Dean huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, because that’s what I wanted. To see you look at me like I’m a damn ghost.”

You flinched. It was quick—so quick he almost missed it. But he didn’t.

And suddenly, the fight drained out of you. Your gaze dropped for the first time since this whole thing started, fingers tightening against your sleeves.

Dean’s throat worked.

He could push. Could try to get you to really talk, break down that wall you were building brick by brick.

But the way you looked right now? Like you were holding yourself together with nothing but sheer will—

He couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

Instead, he exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Look. I don’t know how long we’ll be in town. But I think we’re gonna be crossing paths whether you like it or not.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Dean nodded, stepping back. “Just… don’t pretend I was never here, alright?”

And with that, he walked away.

He didn’t see the way your jaw clenched, the way your fingers curled into fists like you were stopping yourself from reaching out—

Didn’t hear the breath you let out, shaky and uneven, as soon as he was gone.

You knew this wasn’t the end—couldn’t be. Deep down, you knew that your story with Dean Winchester was far from over. And you knew that the moment he decided to see you again, he would pull you close once more, weaving his way into your heart until you could never imagine leaving his side again.

Weeks passed.

Looking back, you weren’t sure when exactly everything shifted.

Maybe it was after Dean came back to the diner and made you listen while he told you the truth—even though at the time you were sure that the man you once loved was completely insane.

But maybe it was when you started helping with the case, and somewhat believing him—not because you wanted to be a hunter, but because you wanted to be with him.

Or maybe it was just inevitable. Like gravity pulling you back into his orbit, like you never really had a choice in the first place.

All you knew was that, suddenly, it felt like before—like sneaking out past curfew, like warm summer air and stolen kisses in the Impala, like every love song that made your chest ache.

Only now, you weren’t kids anymore.

And Dean Winchester had never been the kind of guy to love halfway.

Which was how you ended up here.

Sitting in a diner, trying to pretend like Dean’s hand wasn’t sliding up your thigh under the table.

Across from you, Sam exhaled sharply through his nose. His patience was wearing thin.

“Dude,” he gritted out, glaring at Dean. “Can you stop touching her for five seconds?”

Dean, the picture of innocence, took a sip of his coffee. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sammy.”

Sam’s expression was pained.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, but when Dean leaned in—his lips brushing your ear when he definitely didn’t need to be that close—you swatted at his chest.

“Dean.”

“What?” He smirked, not even pretending to be sorry. “Just admiring my girl.”

Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like I hate this.

But it only got worse from there.

Dean was relentless.

His hands were always on you—an arm wrapped around your waist, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, palm resting low on your back. He kissed your temple absentmindedly, whispered things that made you flush, smirked when he caught you looking at him like you still had a teenage crush on Dean Winchester.

Because you did.

You always had.

Later, at Bobby’s, the three of you sprawled in the living room—Dean practically wrapped around you on the couch, arms snug around your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

Sam was across the room, doing some research on his laptop, eyes glued to the screen as if sheer focus could block out the absolute nonsense happening beside him.

Dean, completely unbothered, nosed at your temple. “You cold?”

You weren’t.

At all.

But you hummed innocently, just to see what he’d do.

Dean, ever the problem, tugged you closer, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin.

You shivered.

He felt it.

And he smirked.

“You’re shameless,” you whispered, biting your bottom lip to repress a smile.

Dean nipped at your jaw. “Yeah?” His lips brushed your ear, and God, you felt it everywhere.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, meant just for you. “Wanna know somethin’?”

You swallowed. “What?”

Dean shifted, his mouth so close his breath fanned warm against your skin. “First time I saw you? When we were stupid teenagers?” His hands traced higher, fingers barely grazing the edge of your bra. “Damn near forgot how to breathe.”

Your stomach plummeted.

“Dean.”

“Mm?”

Your heart hammered, but you fought to keep your voice steady. “Sam is right there.”

Dean pulled back just enough to glance at his brother—who was clearly tuning you out, laser-focused on not acknowledging this entire situation.

“If he has a problem, he can get up and leave.”

You swatted at his chest, biting back a laugh, but when you turned to face him, his expression shifted—no teasing, no smugness. Just him, looking at you like he was seeing you all over again.

His fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up.

And just like that, you felt seventeen again.

God, what was it about him that made you feel like this?

That made you ache?

Dean’s lips parted, his gaze flickering down to your mouth.

Your breath caught.

He grinned—slow, lazy, devastating. “You gonna let me kiss you, sweetheart?”

You were sure your heartbeat was so loud.

Sam made a strangled noise in the background.

Dean groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, just leave the damn room.”

“I'm living here too,” Sam deadpanned, not directing his gaze towards you.

Dean huffed, shaking his head before turning back to you—his eyes darker now, filled with something deep and warm and completely unshakable.

You swallowed, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

This man knew what he wanted and, boy, he definitely got you.

But God, Dean Winchester was so much. And he had been from the start.

And you were so gone for him.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

lina's notes: I should have posted this a long time ago lol, but it didn't turn out exactly how I wanted and I was a little unsure but I hope you liked it <3

taglist: @lyarr24 @cowboysandcigarettes @blossomingorchids @bettystonewell @rositaslabyrinth @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @freeluigihesbae (if you want to be removed or added let me know <3)

[thecloudsaremyhome]

☆Yandere platonic hybrid bar various x reader☆

Imagine: working at a hybrid bar as the only human working there, To say it was awkward was an understatement the thing is you Couldn't get any other jobs that would fit your schedule having to juggle college and Multiple side jobs is trying to say the least. So you did the next best thing and took on a job a a bartender for the night shift! Easy right?

Wrong it was anything but easy especially on you first day. It was nerve racking to say the least, not wanting to embaress yourself in front of your coworkers and your boss! But sadly you did by accidently trolling whole serving drinks and spilling the drink all over the customer!

Just great well your fucked. But to th surprise of you the hybrid didn't yell or scold you instead he just gave you a soft smile a rubbed. You head while you frantically apologized. Of course just great now you slcailly embarrassed yourself twice in the matter of one day!

Thankfully the hybrid lion just brushed. You off an gave a small chuckle in response to your apologizes telling you that it's no problem at all. Which relives you to say the least. You hope your boss did not see that at all. you don't want to get fired on the first day.

But to your the rest of the night went smoothly before you went home. Welp your first day wasn’t the best but as long as you don’t fuck up anymore you should be good. At least that’s what you tell yourself

This retinue continues for months you get up go to your classes for the day then after you go to work at the bar and work until 12 and go home and eat and you repeat the process over and over for a few months occasionally you would hang out with friends or take the day off but nothing to drastic. Until you got the flu.

Just great so not only you had to miss a week of school but also work. But when you called your boss he didn’t seem mad at all more like he sounded worried extremely worried.

Your boss has always been weird constantly nosing around in your own business and worrying about you. Like a parent would their child but he never ever gave you personal space which was intimidating to say the least since he is a bear hybrid. Maybe it’s in their nature?

You don’t want to ask nor do you want to know.

So for the rest of the week you were mostly lying in bed trying to overcome the flu. Ubknowest to you the bar was especially tense without you around. Not that you’d know or realize that anyways.

But when you returned to work the next week ti say your coworkers were very clingy would be an understatement. Especially half of the customers who were regulars at the bar were also very demanding to say the least always requiring your presence it was strange.

But when one day a fox hybrid came in and started to make moves on you which clearly made you uncomfortable. But when you rejected him he still perused you.

Finally one of the more intimidating customers had enough a rino hybrid approached you and the fox hybrid and told the fox hybrid to leave which clearly upseted the fox hybrid then things started to get violent….

Leaving you with a beaten fox and the furious rino hybrid left you terrified.

After that you were constantly on edge and it’s not like you can quit, you really need this job and it pays good so.

What would be the problem in staying a little longer..?

[moonydustx]

Hiiii!! I love your writing and was wondering if you’re still accepting requests? If so could I have one where reader is dressed in a similar outfit to Nami’s purple Zou outfit and there’s a big party happening and reader gets self conscious bc no ones talking to her during said party so she leaves to go back to her room that has a balcony and as she’s staring down at the party Law comes in to see why she left so she like tells him she feels ridiculous in her outfit and it turns out that Law was jealous that other people got to see her in such an outfit because he likes her so much that he was staring people down so no one would take her attention and he confesses how he feels under the stars on the balcony? and maybe there’s smut🤭🤭🤭 You can skip this request if you want!! I know i wrote a lot 😅

hello, anyone there?

Sorry for the delay in responding to your request and sort of answering your question, yes, I still accept requests, but I've been working kind of 10 hour days + responsibilities at home, which hasn't given me much time to write.

I made some small adjustments to your suggestion, I honestly hope you don't hate me.

•••

my reach

info: what sensations can a pirate life bring? After a victory, a celebration can mean many things.

warnings: text not proofread, will possibly have some errors as English isn't my first language. a kittle bit angst, F!reader have some insecurities, smut, doing in open skies, a little dirty talk.

For those who haven't reached Zou, this is the reference dress.

You didn't know what was echoing louder at that moment: the drunken voices, the singing or your thoughts. It was a party, you should have been happy or at least a little confident.

After so many fights and disputes, the alliance between the pirates had finally worked out and apparently you would finally have some time of peace. What didn't need many more reasons than this for Luffy, captain of one of the allied crews, to suggest a huge banquet, a party that would probably last for days and no one would question it. The good thing about having other crews together was that the reduced number of women - in the heart pirates it was the large number of two, you and Ikkaku - increased, even if not so radically, just enough to fill the fingers of one hand.

"You really didn't like it?" Nami turned you in front of a mirror, forcing you to look at yourself once more. "It suits you so much."

"I think it looks amazing." Robin added with a simple smile. "And it's a banquet between friends, there's nothing to worry about."

"I agree, but after being so stressed with so many events, I think we deserve a more dressed-up day." Nami added, adjusting one of the straps on your dress. "And also a little alcohol, a little flirting, seriously, being a pirate can't be just that and besides there are so many different people here."

"But don't you think it's a bit much?" Your voice wavered a little and you had to dodge the pillow Ikkaku threw in your direction.

"Don't listen to her. We've been underwater for so long and in our uniforms that I think she's lost her common sense."

"Don't talk nonsense." You shot back, laughing. "Okay, a little alcohol won't hurt." About the flirting part, you don't know how safe you would feel with that.

The main deck of the ship was something almost impossible to cross. Some people walked around each other, singing songs that were almost impossible to decipher, others toasted and competed over how many mugs they could down at once. You just went with the flow, keeping up with the others' hurried steps.

It wasn't long before a drink occupied your hand and you got lost in some almost frivolous conversations. The stress you had recently experienced seemed to prevent everyone from thinking about anything more serious and, to be honest, not even you wanted to get caught up in problems at that moment.

"Ladies." Sanji's voice came across the entire space, in his hand some appetizers and you tried hard to ignore the fact that he was almost drooling. "You are the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen, I would write poems about you..."

In a somewhat strange juggling act, you saw him try to balance the tray in one hand and, with the other, twist to alternate between your colleague's hands, placing a kiss on each of them. Except for you, to whom he just smiled in your direction and headed in the opposite direction. Even staring at the other women present, that seemed like a common situation so you allowed yourself to ignore it.

With an almost lame excuse, your feet took you to the other side of the ship, where you could see your captain's sullen face while being disturbed by other crewmates.

"A good victory." You raised your glass, toasting first to Shachi, then Penguin and finally Law, who seemed to be immersed in something inside his own mind.

"Look, I don't think we've ever seen you so..." Shachi couldn't finish speaking before getting elbowed by his crewmate.

"Are you enjoying the party?" Law asked as soon as the two left with some excuse that you didn't try to understand what it was about.

"Yes, as much as possible."

You even thought about commenting on how you had become an outcast, even though in the hours before you had been trying hard to achieve the exact opposite result. However, for a flash, you were sure that Law was analyzing you. From top to bottom, inch by inch.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" A smile filled your lips as you saw him startled as he was pulled out of his own mind.

"Dresses. You don't usually wear them." He seemed lost in his own words. "It looks..."

Beautiful? Interesting? God, the milliseconds of waiting before Law finished speaking seemed like a small infinity of possibilities in your mind. A place where he had a certain captive vacancy, but he wouldn't even dream of it.

"It looks different." He pointed out and you could only nod.

Different. Okay, it's not the worst answer but it's far from a good one. The relationship between the captain and the subordinate of the two of you was intrinsically... different. Strangely comfortable, uncomfortably distant. He would always prefer to discuss some decisions with you and to the jealousy filled with tantrums and laughter of some, he would insist that you were the best cook of the crew. On your side, you loved ask him for tips, from books to medicines, and whenever possible, you would insist on having him stitch you up after some battles. You hated scars and he was the only one who could prevent them. It was a different relationship, he occupied a somewhat different place in you, but that didn't need to be exposed.

Apparently, if the efforts to look even minimally pretty that night didn't affect him, it wouldn't make any difference anymore. With an almost invisible smile on your lips, you just nodded and left him there. You started talking to some, laughed with others, but it didn't seem to work. From the idea of ​​alcohol and flirting, apparently only the first part was working. Heavens, Brook hadn't even asked about the color of your panties.

Luckily, keeping the ships close to each other meant that it wasn't difficult for you to reach the empty deck of the Polar Tang. The sound of the party was getting a little more distant. The full moon illuminated the entire night and, in addition to reflecting on the sea, created an almost distorted shadow of your body. Was that what you were then? You let your hand run over your dress, analyzing every stitch. Nothing was out of place, nothing seemed wrong with the outfit. The problem must be you.

"I would invest a good amount of berries for your thoughts." Law's voice startled you, which made him laugh. "Did you need some time to breathe?"

"Yeah, I guess so." You leaned against the edge of the deck, drowning in your own frustrations.

"I still have some berries to invest." He tried to lighten the mood, leaning against your side. "I know my crew too well. What happened?"

"It's just... is that all there is to a pirate's life?" You turned around, frustrated. "Tonight I wanted to feel something different from all the stress we have. Something more interesting than the smell of gunpowder, than the sting of a blade."

"I think there's enough booze there for you to feel much more than that."

"It's not that, Law. Geez, I dressed in a way I've never dressed before. Makeup, heels, perfume and still, I'm an outcast." you said frustrated and saw a smirk escape his lips. "Man, this isn't funny. I mean, not even Brook cared about my panties?"

"About that..." he began, his fingers adjusting his hat that wasn't out of place, just like a nervous tic. "Maybe someone threatened to throw him into the sea before he could even speak."

"What do you mean?"

"And maybe I told Sanji that if he got close to you his balls would sink to the bottom of the sea too. And maybe I said something similar to Killer, but he's more rational so he didn't need that much of a threat. And I definitely punched Kid."

"You punched Kid?"

"He said some really disgusting things." Law spoke with a frighteningly ordinary naturalness.

However, for you none of that was ordinary. You just stood there, still, watching the little confessions that came out of Law's lips. So he had pushed you away from everyone? That wouldn't make any sense. Unless...

"Apparently I was brave enough to do all that, but I've been a coward in hiding what I feel. You don't look any different, you look beautiful and I can guarantee that I wasn't the only one who thought that."

"You just made sure I didn't know that, right?"

"Sorry." he commented still in a frustrated tone, but taking a few steps enough to stop in front of you. "I like you, I really do. It got to a point where I found myself reading more books just to know what to recommend to you, I found myself hating being a doctor because I have to stitch you up every time you get into a fight at the same time I wouldn't let anyone touch you for that." He sighed deeply. The short distance between the two of you made your fingers itch to hug him. "What you said makes sense, we're pirates, we shouldn't only feel war inside us."

"What else can we feel then?"

Your lips touched before his hands even reached your waist. It was hard to know what had given you goosebumps more: the cold wind against your bare skin, the way your body was leaning against the edge of the deck, making you imminent of falling, or the way he had advanced on you. Definitely the third option.

His tongue began to invade your space, tracing delicious routes through your mouth, a fight for space that you had no interest in winning. His hands traced your curves until they rested on your waist. Whoever invented the theory that two bodies occupied the same place would probably be a good spectator for the way the two of you snuggled together.

Law seemed to have no shortage of air since, when he gave you space to breathe, his lips simply slid to the hollow of your neck. Wet kisses mixed with small grunts that would be marked on your skin, drawn like a map just for him, just for Law.

His eyes met yours as his kisses continued towards the neckline of your dress. A loud request - but still silent - to explore you beyond where his lips could reach at that moment.

"We could go somewhere else." You suggested breathlessly and saw him bury his face in your breasts, sighing deeply. "I really don't plan on being naked here."

"Naked? Nah." Without even hesitating, he supported you on the edge of the deck, preventing you from falling towards the sea by slipping into the gap between your legs. "I've been looking at you in that dress for too long to want to see you without it now."

"You've been looking?"

"Tell me, wasn't that exactly why you put it on?" An involuntary sigh escaped your lips when one of his hands slid down the inside of your thigh. "You drive me insane normally, but this... do you want to know what I thought?"

The question was rhetorical since beyond the moonlight, lust illuminated the eyes of the man tied to you. A moan escaped your lips as his fingers trailed over the damp fabric between your legs.

"Shh, we need to be discreet, okay? Can you be a good girl and stay quiet?" His fingers intensified the pressure, small circles under the damp fabric sending your mind into a spiral. "I promise to take you inside, let you make all the noise you want. And then I'll leave you naked, have all my time just for you."

"What if I want to stay here?" The question sounded like a challenge and you could have sworn that behind the fabric of his pants something had pulsed. "You still haven't told me what you thought, about the dress."

"What I thought..." he gently pulled you down from the support and turned you back to him. Your body automatically leaned forward, seeking contact. "The first idea that came to mind was you like this, on my table. All beautiful ready for me."

His hands adjusted the fabric of your dress so that it was to the side. His nimble fingers traced an indecipherable pattern on the skin of your ass, outlining the thin fabric of your panties.

"May I..." He asked, still circling the piece and saw you nod. With a delicacy unfamiliar to you, you felt him pull the fabric aside.

"Fuck." The word came out of his lips involuntarily. The sight made him hungrier than any dish he had seen at the banquet.

"What else did you think?" You asked, hearing the sound of his zipper.

"You're smart, I believe you know very well what I thought."

Silent kisses ran down your exposed back. The cold night breeze made contact with your damp skin, causing shivers. The first touch of his cock against your pussy elicited a shy moan from you as his teeth scraped your skin, whispering a shh once more, even though thrusting inside you had forced him to press his face against the back of your neck. The almost inaudible sounds that escaped your lips were enough for Law to almost explode right there.

He should have stopped being a coward before. It was only the first time and he didn't know how he could consider staying without feeling you.

"I'm sorry." He said, moving slowly. "You deserved better than the deck of a submarine."

"We're under the stars. Do you want something even better?" You said breathlessly, stretching your hand to reach his dark strands of hair. Law practically put his head under your hand, sinking into your neck. "Law!"

"I told you princess, no noise." He thrust harder, watching you press your lips together and hold back another moan. "Such a good girl, my good girl."

"A p-princess, huh?"

"My princess, yes. All dressed up like that I couldn't think of anything better." You barely understood how he could form a coherent thought while he was thrusting torturously and deliciously inside you. "I could call it an angel too. The way this beautiful pussy is squeezing me is definitely divine." His laugh at your moan sounded almost devilish, however.

The thrusts began to intensify and you pulled his hand that was holding your torso to cover your mouth, vainly containing the moans that escaped. You could already be clawing at the stars when you felt him pulling out of you. An almost drastic fall from the sky you were in.

"I want to look at you, beautiful thing." He turned you around to face him, lifting you up again. "I want to see that beautiful face when you cum."

"Then come back here now." You locked your legs around him, feeling his delicious invasion of you.

His lips once again took yours, just as voracious - if not even more so - than the first time. His coming and going grew louder and louder as he felt your voice vibrate against his. Moans being censored by each other.

"Hold on to me." He pulled away just enough to ask and you readily complied.

The abyss was getting closer and closer, the knot in your belly getting tighter and tighter. You stuck your body to his at first for fear of falling, but each time it became even more of a need to merge. Your screams hid in the small gap between the two of you, your skin would surely be sore at the slightest since his teeth dug in there as he filled you with his seed.

"I think..." he supported you back, still holding your waist with one hand. With the other, he lifted the shirt he was wearing. Both your eyes and his were guided to where your bodies joined. "We made a bit of a mess."

"A bit?" Your finger caught some of your mixed cum, bringing it to your own lips. "Delicious mess."

"Keep it up and you won't be coming back to the party." A light laugh escaped him as he heard you grunt as he pulled out of you. "On second thought, we don't need to go back."

"Law, you're the captain of one of the crews that was more than essential to the conquest."

"Well, that's a good idea." He said as he adjusted his own clothes and then repeated the gesture with yours. "Some clueless people will be able to know that you are out of their reach."

"Am I?"

"If your captain says so, I believe you should agree." He pointed out.

Your hands comforted his cheeks, smoothing every inch you could touch. A calm, almost chaste kiss escaped you. Anyone who saw from afar would imagine it was just a simple kiss and would not even be able to consider what you were doing a short time ago.

"I - I mean, I really want to keep you out of their reach. Only within my reach." That was it, in so much time as captain and subordinate, you had never seen Law look so nervous.

"Sounds like a good plan to me, captain. However, I hope it is reciprocal." He nodded, stealing another kiss from you.

Going back to the party seemed different. As soon as Law led you back to the ship, you let go of each other's hands, a small agreement of secrecy silently negotiated between you. However, you could feel him in you, in unconventional - and delicious - ways. Occasionally, you could feel his gaze burning in your direction, with distant care.

"Can I talk to you?" Zoro's voice startled you before you even noticed his hand on your waist. "Would you like to have a drink somewhere more private?"

"I'm drinking..." You pointed to the mug in your hand, but it took you a few seconds to fully understand what he was saying. "Oh, no. I mean, thank you, but no. I'm accompanied."

"Accompanied? So your captain finally stopped being a wimp?" Zoro saw and glanced sideways, not surprised to see that whatever Robin was talking to Law about seemed like a distant subject. "Nami asked me to do this, to see if he would do something."

"Hey, swordsman." You could hear the irritation in Law's voice from afar and it was clear how unhappy he was at that moment. "Is there a problem with her?"

"No, Captain, everything's fine here." You smiled in his direction and waved at Zoro, who just ignored what Law had said and left.

"So..." You started, trying to give your best mischievous smile. Which was much easier after remembering everything. "My drink is gone and I think I'm tired. I'm thinking about going back to Polar Tang."

"Sure, I can accompany you." Law said in false modesty.

You could count on your fingers how many steps you took towards a more empty place before the starry night turned into a room you didn't usually visit. Your body soon found his bed, your dress turned into a pile of fabric on the floor. His kisses finally freed to explore every inch of your nudity.

"I think I need to make it even clearer that you're out of their reach."

[thatguywrites]

Vienna

Max Verstappen x Male!Reader

When Max is overworking himself to the bone in the preseason, and you need to talk some sense into him before he burns out

A/N I'm back after my one week break! I'm gonna try and write more fics to create a WIP list so that that doesn't happen, but I also encourage people to send in asks cause I'm gonna run out of ideas at some point :)

In the bustle of the preseason chaos, you hadn't had much time to spend with your lovely boyfriend. Between the incredibly boring F175, and testing instantly starting in the week following, Max was too busy running around, working out, taking calls, and providing feedback. It seemed the only times you saw him anymore were in the mornings and late at night, when he would slip into bed with you, muttering thanks for the certainly cold dinner you had left him, before he collapsing into sleep.

Finally, one day you managed to have him to yourself for a whole evening, as soon as his morning workouts were done, you would be able to push him into bed for some snacks, and movies, and boyfriend time. But, when Max arrived home, he was clearly still in work mode. Flurrying around the house, taking notes of things about the car that he hadn't told the engineers the day before, before hopping into the sim to do lap after lap in the model car Redbull had sent him.

Your kinder bars, fruits, and Netflix left untouched, you waited on the couch for him to finish. Maybe he just wanted to figure something out. Everyone gets like that; when something nags at them and they just need to get it right. He would be done by dinner.

By the time dinner came, you'd lost hope that he would come to bed naturally. It began to seem that you would have to do something yourself to get Max to eat with you and to finally relax. Walking over to his rig, you placed a kiss on his cheek, pulling his headphones back, "I'll be on the balcony, ok?"

Without looking away from the screen, he nodded, before shooing you away.

Once on the balcony, sitting down, you finally felt at rest. For a break moment you didn't have to worry about Max, or how he was working himself to the bone and you by extension. It was you, and the cool air of Monaco.

You got lost in your thoughts, but it could have been two or twenty minutes before you heard the door behind you open, and Max sit next to you, placing a blanket around your shoulders.

"You looked cold, in just a T-shirt" He said, softly. You noticed you could see his breath. Maybe it was cold.

"Didn't notice"

"Why out so long?"

Your own puff of breath appeared infront if you as you leaned back against your apartment, looking up at the now visable stars. "Thinking. Why were you on your sim so long? Isn't today supposed to be your day off?"

Max looked down, maybe ashamed. A small part of you felt good about that. That he felt bad about hurting you. But the rest of you just wanted to scoop him into a hug and never let go.

"I mean, last year's car worried me. And Lando's improved, and I'm sure Oscar'll be up there too this year, so I'm doing my best now to make sure we end up with the best car." You could feel his eyes on you, a nervous energy in your previous safe space, his warm hands wrapping around your cold ones, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry for worrying you, and ignoring you. I'm sorry that I haven't been prioritizing us at all. I'm sorry that I spent my entire afternoon off working." He pulled you into his arms, resting his head on yours, and pressing kisses atop your hair.

"I didn't want to push you, I know your work is important to you. I don't want to act as if I'm above racing to you, I know it's your life, but I want to be a part of your life too." At your words Max jolted away, eyes wide, with a small pout on his lips.

"No! No, no, no, racing is a huge part of my life, sure, but so are you. I'm sorry I haven't made that clear, I love you. I just worry that I'm not trying hard enough for the world sometimes, that I'll fall behind on track because of it", He trailed off, looking down into the busy streets

"Well, I'm sure the fastest man on Earth, who works harder than anyone else I've ever seen will manage to pose a threat, even if he takes a break for one night, no?"

Breaking out into a smile, Max responded, "Yeah"

Taglist (Comment or DM to be added)

@koalapastries @justaf1girl @spoonfulofmilo @lokisen

[mayasaurusss]

A touch of summer.

Contents: established relastionship, fluff, sfw breastfeeding, blurb (700 words). A/N: I wanted to desperatley write a somthing based on the lake scene in the lastest episode, so I made a poll and asked you guys what genre you would have liked the most, and the results were pretty telling: while 70% of voters decided on a fluff version, 30% wanted to see angst, so I resolved into making both! This is the fluff version: you can find the pool here and the angst version here. Enjoy!!

The gentle lull of the waves rocks her body left and right, so calm and soothing that sleep comes easy to her. Shauna hasn't had a moment for herself in months, and letting the lake cradle her feels appropriate somehow. The weather is warm, the sky is blue and her heart is finally free from the sadness winter brought to it.

She spent so long in the cold that she didn't remember what summer used to feel like.

Her ears pick up on the sounds beneath her: bubbles of oxygen rising to the surface, currents that collide with each other, and in the distance, an infant's laughs. Her body moves before her brain can process the sound, eyes drawn to the shore, frantically searching for him. She finds him under the sun, merely visible from the middle of the lake, looking like a little fat bundle of you as he absolutely laughs his ass off at your peek-a-boos.

She can see his little arms reaching for your face, stopping as you hide your face behind your hands, then clapping his as you reappear once again.

How old is he by now? Several months, at least, but not old enough for him to walk on his own. Something Shauna has always thought, since he was born, is that if they ever come back, she will never know his birthday.

A warmth that she didn't think she'd ever felt fills Shauna's heart: she can't imagine a world in which he's not by her side. And you, so simple and gentle, so patient with her, so lovely, raising her boy at her side.

Back on the shore, you see Shauna swimming towards you and you stand up from your position, but the pain of spending several minutes crouched on the flat stone where you the boy down his too much for your legs to bear, and you fall comically to the ground, his laugh a soundtrack for your embarrassment.

"Hey! Don't laugh, kid!" you hush him down, going for tickling his little belly.

"You've already got all of your mom's attention, just let me get some!".

"What do you want?" A shiver runs down your spine at the familiar voice, following it to see Shauna smiling at you with a hint of smugness behind her lips. Her locks fall to the sides of her neck, darkened by water.

Shit, she got you.

"N-nothing! Here you go!" you take him in your arms, handling him to Shauna as if he was a bag of potatoes.

In her arms, he looks like the most perfect thing in the world. You can only describe the way Shauna's eyes look at her baby as simple, true and pure love. There has never been a love so deep on this earth.

There is something so simply natural in the way she exposes her chest and angles his neck up so her can drink from her. A summer ago, you would have probably made a snarky comment, would have been weirded out by all of this, crunching your nose in disgust; but as you watch her feed her son with such love that it could make you cry, nothing like that crosses your mind.

But the stillness doesn't last long, and just as she tucks her breast back in the dress, she looks at you, a mixture of interest and smugness in her eyes.

"So, you want my attention?"; when she says that, you feel like a total jerk. What possessed you to say such a thing out loud, right to her baby?

But you do: you do want her attention. You want her to look at you, to kiss you as she did before, to have her as she had you during the winter. Maybe you should tell her, what danger could that be?

"No. It was stupid of me to say that. He's your son, he has to be your top priority" you find yourself staring at the burnt yellow grass below, avoiding Shauna's gaze. How fucking embarrassing... But before your brain can spiral into self-hating, Shauna presses her lips on your skin, between your nose and your cheek. She stops briefly to look you in the eyes, so dark you can see your reflection in the summer's sunlight.

"You're mine" she says, bringing her lips to your cheek now, holding her baby close to her heart, "You are both mine".

[andreilslovechild]

A Study on Aaron Minyard and Hatred

I've been in this fandom for years now. somewhere around 5 years or so. and since I've been here there's always been a distinct theme in how people talk about the brother of our beloved main love interest. see people speak about aaron in two ways mainly. the first way is, of course, labeling him as hateful and homophobic and disliking him because he dislikes Neil. the second way is building on his more personable characteristics and having him paired with someone else like Katelyn or Kevin to mellow him out. both of those are all well and good, everyone is entitled to their opinions and all, but I've never quite seen people look at both of those sides at the same time so I want to try and consolidate my thoughts on the matter.

first of all, I personally rarely consider aaron inherently hateful in my own understanding of him. annoyed or disgusted sure, but not necessarily hateful. mainly that hate is focused on three people from what the fandom talks about: Neil, Andrew, and Nicky. I'm using hate a broad term for dislike just for the ease of things right now so don't yell at me, but I think it fair to say the fandom typically pits these three up against aaron in a way that makes aaron look like the bad guy a lot of the time.

if I'm honest, I never really felt he hated Neil more than just didn't care much. at least until he found out about him and Andrew and gave him his version of the shovel talk. maybe a bit when Neil used Katelyn against him. but overall I never quite got it when people said he hated Neil, let alone hated him for "no reason". like id be annoyed too if a guy waltzed onto my college sports team while im studying premed, and turned out to be the long-lost son of a serial killer with a mouth so big it was a wonder hes still alive. plus he was super shady before all that was revealed too, but aaron was still pretty neutral when Andrew brought Neil into the monsters. he even spoke back to the upperclassmen when they freaked out about Neil sitting with the monsters. if you all need me to get the quotes I will, but it's currently like 2am, and I just can't be asked right now lmao. either way, the only time aaron really hates Neil in the books is when he uses Kate against him to get him to go to therapy. which was done for his own good in the long run, and I doubt aaron stayed upset about it for too long. plus we always have to be careful here because we are seeing things from Neil's perspective, someone who is inherently an unreliable narrator in the story.

in Nicky's case, there's a lot to consider. aaron definitely does and says some things (again not finding specifics rn because it's 2am) that are hurtful to him, or offensive. I certainly don't really blame people for reading it as homophobic on a surface level. but that's exactly what it is. surface level. his feelings about Nicky are probably the second most complex in this instance. because Nicky is his cousin, caregiver, friend, whatever you want to call him. They're close, they mean something to each other. but aaron also grew up with Tilda, probably talking with his family over the phone every few months, seeing them maybe once a year or two. when aaron moved to South Carolina he was 13. Nicky would have been 17. aaron probably spent a lot of time with him at first to avoid being alone before he made friends himself. used him as an excuse to get out of being around Tilda alone. which undoubtedly left him susceptible to Luther's preaching. I could make a whole other post on this alone. Still, he would have known Nicky was gay and that it was "wrong". He likely saw only his mask, not the depression inside because Nicky would have wanted to be happy with his cousin. he probably was around when Nicky went to Germany and then came back loud and proud, telling him about a man named Erik and finally standing up to his parents. to us, it's inspirational, exciting even, but for aaron it was like Nicky was abandoning him. He had gotten through Nicky being gone with drugs and staying out of the house as much as possible, but now knowing Nicky was leaving him there alone with his mom for what he assumed would be forever would have hit him hard. he never hated Nicky for being gay. he was angry he had left him, and he had grown up surrounded by the ideals Luther preached and likely his mom did too. with that, plus how uncomfortable it would be to have your cousin being openly sexual around you to an extreme extent like Nicky, I don't blame him really for how he reacted. he was disgusted by the thought of his cousin having sex, not who it was with. I can't remember if his disliking Erik is a canon or fanon thing. Still, he disliked him for taking Nicky away, not because he was a guy. Long story short I don't think aaron ever truly hated Nicky or was truly homophobic. I think he was just a scared kid who learned the wrong words and didn't know how to be vulnerable.

Andrew. good old Andrew. the most complicated relationship in Aaron's life save maybe his mom. I think we all know aaron doesn't hate Andrew. just like Andrew doesn't hate aaron. it's impossible for them to hate each other because they are so irrevocably tangled up and tied to each other's lives. from the second they found out about each other, everything they've done has been for the other in some way. mostly on Andrew's end sure but aaron has also done his share. see out of everyone here I think Andrew is the person that aaron thought he hated the most. he was angry about Tilda, about the drugs, about how Andrew refused to look at him. but deep down he knew he couldn't really hate Andrew. if he truly hated him he wouldn't have stuck around him this long to try and form a relationship with him. he wouldn't have bothered renewing their deal after graduating high school. he may have been stubborn and confusing and made aaron want to pull his hair out in frustration, but I don't think hatred for Andrew truly existed in him. For certain actions maybe, but him overall? definitely not.

Aaron Minyard may have been complicated, cranky, and annoyed for the majority of the times we see him, but he never truly hated anyone. not in the way people seem to think at least. and certainly, never the three people hes accused of hating the most.

[barleyo]

Girlfailure.

Older BF! Toji X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: i hate toji sm, why did i write this :( anyways, to any of you who like this sick fucker, i hope this does him justice

Tags: pwp/some plot, age gap, cunnilingus, fingering, scumbag toji, overly cheesy pet names, etc.

Wordcount: 1.2k

When you came home for spring break, the only two things you could think of were one, how many hours would you have to work to afford the upcoming semester, and two, how badly did you just fail all of your midterms?

The answers to those questions became extremely clear as you crunched the numbers in your head. Sitting at eleven-fifty an hour for eight hours a day, five days a week, you'd just barely scrape by with tuition and textbooks. And as far as midterms went, shit, at least you tried. 

If you were more delusional, you'd say your professors had it out for you, but ever the realist, you knew you simply fucked yourself over this time. Hours of studying in the library, and for what? A fourty-two in calc and a fifty-point-something that your organic chem professor didn't even have the decency to round up? 

Stepping into your boyfriend's— was that what he was?— apartment, you felt the desperate craving for a square root curve on those exams, and dick. Always dick. 

All a financially irresponsible, deadbeat father of an older man could offer a "bright" girl like you was just that. Lots of it too, seeing as how you stuck by Toji. 

He was nice enough to invite you to stay at his place over spring break, for the purposes of having a warm cunt nearby at all hours, and to get you out of the shitty dorm room you stayed in any other night. 

"Oh, smart girl's back," Toji said, lazily murmuring at you from his couch. "Had a nice drive?"

You dropped your luggage at his door for him to bring to his bedroom later. His muscles weren't just for show, so you reckoned he could get off of his fine ass and put his thick arms to work. 

"No." Tired feet shuffled your body over, plopping you over his lap, face down. "Well, yeah, the drive was fine. I just don't feel like much of a smart girl."

He snorted indifferently, hardly registering your words as his greedy hand rested over your ass.

"Teacher's grading you too hard, or are y'just gettin' lazy on me?"

"Tch. Did you even graduate, asshole?" You pushed yourself up onto your elbows. "What do you know, anyways?"

Unimpressed, Toji yanked a bit of your hair. Gentle, but enough to force you to look at him. 

"Don't be a little shit. I did, and even if I didn't, it's the real-life stuff that matters. Bein' a book nerd never did anyone any good." He dropped your hair. "Street smarts and all that."

Street smarts. Jesus, what a joke. You cringed internally, remembering how the soon-to-be dropouts from last semester would claim that's what they had. All well and good to be street smart, you thought, seeing as the path you were going down would probably put you on the street. 

This was just the beginning. Whether you were overthinking or not, you were sure that if you didn't pull through for finals, you'd end up failing out. Maybe you were pretty enough to strip. Could be a back up plan, if only you could lose the "Freshman Fifteen" you quickly gained on campus, compliments of the stress eating and cheap, sugary energy drinks you found yourself addicted to. 

"I'm gonna fail out," you said suddenly, nibbling your bottom lip. "I don't know why I thought I could 'do' college. My dad was right."

Toji hated when you got like this. Not because he cared about your stress or ever-present anxiety. That's actually what he liked least about you, that and the fact that your college was forty, far minutes away. No, he hated having to deal with your self-doubt. No time to throw a pity party. No patience to reassure you.

That's the hard part about dating younger girls. He got older, and as he liked to think, wiser, but they stayed young and emotional. Such a drag. A real bummer for a thirty— okay, thirty-eight— year old man who was simply too old for this shit. 

If he wanted any, though, he knew he had to play the game. 

"C'mon, tootsie, it's not all bad. You're a smart one, yeah? And y'only got a couple months until you're done for a bit."

"Hmph."

Damn it. Women. Nothing he said would be good enough. At least there was something he could do that he knew would help. 

"Oh, I missed that baby. That's real good." You felt his warm breath fan over your thigh as his fingers plunged into you. 

Curl and twist, pump, pump, pump. That's all he could really do for you, you knew it. 

If you could ignore how well Toji made you feel, you would probably see what a bum he was. Living in a shitty apartment at his age, gambling and drinking as if money was no object, smoking enough to stain his couch with the smell of ash. Even knowing what his profession was couldn't quite deter you. 

In a life where everything was so dull, so predictable, you sort of liked the danger of a man like Toji. The risk. The wild ride that was his life. You weren't exactly Mary, Queen of Scots, but the old you would have a few questions about your current relationship with the destitute brokey that was glued to your cunt. 

The you now, through, was holding on for dear life, soaking up every second of slick, wet warmth that Toji could give you. Thick fingers prodded deep, curling against the tip of your cervix. Thick scent from a long gone cigarette lingered in the air. 

He was amused really. He would laugh, if he wasn't so desperate to be in your pussy again. Times like this, when he got a taste of you, made him wish he would go and visit you on campus. He wouldn't though, god knew he wouldn't. Every couple of months was good enough for him, lord forbid he use up his mileage to drive out of the city.

"Stop pushing me away," Toji mumbled, pulling your hand from his forehead. "Brat."

His tongue was sharp and purposeful. There were times when he would be messier, play with his food a little, but he was focused. Just not in the way you wanted him to be.

He set a rhythm for himself, a strict guideline. Every time you sucked in a deep breath, he pushed his tongue down harder against your clit. Every gasp was rewarded with a curl of his fingers. Each squirm was punished by a little nip. 

It worked, bringing you close to the edge, just to deny you. If you had it your way, his tongue would lather you and glide over your clit uninterrupted. Sadly, he was in charge, and as the bastard he was, he wanted things his way. That meant a bullying force behind each pump of his fingers, and a teasing swipe of his tongue to ease the brutality, just a bit.

There was no way he could hold you off forever, no matter how fun that sounded, so eventually, when you hands started to grip his hair too tightly, he gave a loud slurp to your pussy. 

If orgasms were money, you'd be a Vanderbilt, but they aren't. For the time being, you were happy enough just being Toji's girl. 

"Hey, To'?" Your messy hair and smudged mascara were a prize to him, a totem of his raw, sexual prowess. He hummed in response. "So, about my textbooks for next semester...?"

He sighed deeply, dragging from his well deserved post-fuck cig. 

"We'll see. Maybe if my parlay hits, doll."

[malevessel]

Could you make a possession story out of this?

This wasn't exactly my plan. My target was the son. Young, strong, in his 20s. I slipped through the cellar door into his garden. It was the perfect plan.

The mother at work, the daughter at university and the father taking the car to the shop. My prey would be alone, ready for me to take it.

But it seems that it was the son who took the car to the garage so that the father could prepare a surprise for his wife. Sweet. But he had broken my plan. Unfortunately for him, I needed a body now. And now, Richard was the one who was available.

He wasn't my target, though I had looked into him. Ex-marine, family man, car and motorcycle lover, and above all a huge tattooed gorilla. In most cases he would have been the ideal candidate for anyone, but for me, he was the most striking. I liked the son's subtle style better.

Don't get me wrong, for a robbery operation, Richard is perfect, but for hiding from a crazy mobster and his nephew, not so much. However, I didn't have more time.

Richard didn't realize that someone was behind him, and by the time he felt the prick, it was too late. His body went numb and paralyzed.

This was my favorite part. Stripping down a new body and laying it down on the bed to get a good look at it. Looking at his huge cock, maybe this body is the one for him after all. I could see in Richard's eyes how his desperation increased as this stranger, whom he didn't know, gave him the best blowjob of his life. After all, I had to test the quality of "the cream" before selling it.

I flipped him over and began pressing my bare legs against his back. By this point both Richard and I were sweating, which helps lubricate the process. I heard what sounded like screams and gasps from Richard, but he was too wrapped up in the pleasure to care. Everyone resists possession at first, but they always give in to me in the end.

By this time my legs were already wrapped around his, and my cock just slid into his, not even half the size. I stood up a few minutes later with only Richard's head left to be taken. Tears of desperation hung in his eyes. I dipped my head into his and took full control. I did some stretching and finally tested the muscles in his cock, ass, legs and butt, which I moved just like those fitness trainers on the internet do. It was actually fun.

And I got dressed again and went out into the garden, my garden. To finish smoking the cigar that Richard had started. I never liked cigars, but Richard's palate did, and I had no problem with that. After all, I had to act like the loving family man that he was.

Although seeing the potential of this body, I don't rule out being a little more presumptuous than Richard, and maybe I should take the nice collection of weapons I saw downstairs and pay that filthy mobster and his bastard nephew a visit.

[flowery-mess]

nowhere to go

Pairing: frat boy Noah x female reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! / physical violence / punching / knife threat / blood, bruises and other injuries / harassment / I think that's it, let me know if there's anything else

Words: 3,1k

Author's note: grab your tissues everyone. So far the hardest one I wrote for frat Noah❤️‍🩹

frat boy Noah masterlist

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“Thanks for coming man, next time we should start earlier.” Matt said to Noah as he watched him put his shoes and jacket on.

“Yeah, I hate doing projects at the last minute.” him and Matt had a project for a finance class together, they wanted to work on it on the weekend, but Matt’s plans had changed and he needed to finish it on Friday night before he left to see his parents.

“Sorry again man, will never happen again.” Matt apologized one more time, him and Noah did their weird handshake and then Noah left.

It was Friday night, but most of the students were back home at their parents, so there was no party that night.

Noah crossed the main area of the college campus to finally get in his car, do some grocery shopping and go home. He was more than ready to eat some frozen pizza, take a shower and then go to bed.

Due to the spring break the parking lot was weirdly empty, aside from Noah’s black car there were just a few more. He didn’t pay any attention to those other cars, didn’t feel like he needed to.

When his body slid behind the steering wheel, he let out a deep groan. His back hurt from sitting on Matt’s bed the whole day and his brain was tired from all the thinking he had to do to finish the project. He let his head rest for a while, closing his eyes, but he knew if he let himself doze off he’s going to wake in the morning and that was painful to imagine.

He started the engine and made his way to the closest grocery store that wasn’t closed yet. The streets were mostly empty, probably due to the area usually being full of students. It was 10PM already, so he had to drive a bit far for his liking.

His radio was on, but he didn’t really pay any attention to the songs, he was focused on the road.

He checked his rear mirror before he changed lines and noticed only one red car behind him. His attention was back on the road, cursing himself for not using GPS, because he didn’t recognise this part of town.

He turned left, then right and was expecting the shop to already be in sight, but he could swear he got lost and was again on the same main street, changing lines again. Before he did he checked his rear mirror again, noticing the same red car still behind him. He didn’t think much of it, maybe they got lost too.

Taking a few more turns he finally saw the lights “open 24/7”, only one traffic light between him and his target. When he stopped and the red light he looked back in the mirror, nothing else to look at with the empty streets. He noticed two men sitting in the red car, talking and waiting for the light to turn green just like him. When it did, Noah started driving again, not looking back in the mirror or at the red car anymore.

He took the closest parking spot to the shop, took his wallet and left the car. The street was silent, you could only hear cars from a far.

There were two homeless men in front of the shop who didn’t waste any time asking Noah for money. He gave them some change he had in his back pockets and thought of buying them some beer for a minute.

“Hello sir.” the older cashier welcomed Noah with a smile on her face, he did the same and grabbed a cart to start his short shopping list.

Frozen pizza, eggs, bread and milk. Things for dinner and breakfast before he can go to his regular shop to do bigger weekly shopping.

The nice lady packed him the small purchase in a bag, making small talk while doing so. She looked like the type of a woman who lives alone and has a part time job to socialize and talk with people. Noah didn't mind, because he knew how spending time alone can be, so he nodded along and occasionally gave her some answer.

He wished her a safe shift and made his way back to his car. When he reached for his keys he noticed two people next to his black Range Rover. He stopped walking and scanned the parking lot. He noticed the red car still there, but left empty with no passengers.

He really wanted to go home, so he decided to just go and not think twice about it.

“Hey, can I help you?” he asked the two men he saw in his mirror earlier at the red light.

One of them had a cigarette in his hand, the smell hit Noah’s nose immediately. The other one looked at Noah and his face turned into a satisfied smirk.

“Actually yes. You’re Noah right?” the man made a step towards Noah who started feeling uneasy in their company. How the fuck did he knew his name?

“Who are you?” Noah tried to stay calm, maybe it was a misunderstanding.

“Your daddy says you owe us some money.” and then it hit him. I’ll tell them to go after you. His father’s words replayed in his head and he didn’t know what to do.

“He’s not my father, whatever he told you is a lie. I don’t know what he did or why he owes the money, fuck I don’t even know how much money it is! He’s a stranger to me.”

“That’s not what he told us. He owes us money and he told us you’ll pay. We don’t care about your sad story, we want the money and we don’t care how we’ll get it.”

“How much?”

“800 dollars.” Fuck, Noah thought. He expected more, but it was still a lot of money.

“Yeah I don’t have that, so go ask him again.” Noah thought he made it clear, but before he could unlock his car and leave, fist landed on his face. His bag of groceries fell on the ground and his hand immediately went to touch his nose. He tasted blood in his mouth.

“Listen you son of a bitch, you either give us some money or it will not end well for you.” the man pushed him on the side of his own car and his disgusting hands made it around Noah’s throat. He didn’t choke him, but added a fair amount of pressure to make breathing harder for Noah.

“I don’t have the money.” Noah whispered as loud as he could. Another punch followed, this time to his abdomen. Two against one, that couldn’t end well for him. One of them continued holding Noah by his neck while the other was ready to land another fist.

“He said you’ll pay.” of course he said that, father of the year.

Before Noah could argue with him, he felt those hands move from his neck to his shoulders, pulling him down and then knee of the stranger in his face. He gasped for air and saw blood dripping on the concrete under him. He was fucked. Who’s going to help him? That sweet lady from the shop or those two homeless guys? Sure not.

He stood back up, ready to face another hit to wherever they felt good next. He didn’t fight back, that was pointless.

Another punch, this time next to his eye, slitting his eyebrow. He hissed in pain, not sure he could take any more before colapsing on the ground under his feet.

Blood started dripping down his face, blurring his vision in his left eye. He was tired. Tired from all this beating, tired from his father’s actions.

“Do you need more or will you give us the money?” that man yelled in Noah’s face.

He understood him in a way. That man helped his father out in some way, either with drugs, alcohol or actual money and just wanted it back. The thing is, people like his father will never give the money back and that’s something people like those two strangers should know.

Noah’s mind was thinking of how he could escape this situation, but before he could think of something, he heard the sound of opening a pocket knife. The other man put the knife to Noah’s jaw and started running the blade across his cheek.

“I’ll give you everything I have on me, okay?” Noah blurted out in a rush, scared of where this would go if he let them continue.

“Now that’s something I like to hear.” the stranger said happily.

Noah took out his wallet and took out all of his cash and handed it to them. He didn’t know how much it was, but prayed to God that it was enough for him to get rid of them.

“That’s only 200 dollars.” they told him after they counted the money.

“I don’t have any more.”

He saw them look at each other, like they were silently communicating with their minds.

“Listen, we know how stuff like this works and we also know your dad is a piece of shit. We’ll take this and take care of the rest in our way. With your father, not you. But tell your old man this is his warning and he better have the money next time we see him, or he can say his goodbye to you.” Noah didn’t know how to answer that so he just kept staring at them, waiting for their next move.

When they scanned his body, obviously satisfied with the damage they'd done, they turned around, got in their car and left the parking lot.

Noah couldn’t move, he was leaning against his car and trying to stabilize his breathing.

“Are you alright?” he heard another voice and when he turned his head he saw one of the homeless men standing close to his car. He didn’t have the energy to answer, he just opened his car, started the engine and took off.

He didn’t drive in the direction of his apartment, he went back to the campus. His drive was messy and he was glad there were no other cars, because he was sure his driving would’ve caused an accident.

He sat in the parking lot for a good hour, thinking of what to do. His head was hurting and the blood finally stopped running down his face a few minutes ago. It was tears running down his cheeks now, mixing with the dried blood he could taste in his mouth.

He gave up punching the steering wheel or tugging at his hair, the physical pain couldn’t stop the hurt he felt in his heart.

Instead the car was filled with sobs and cries from a boy who just wanted peace in his life. He was better off alone, he just wanted his devil of a father out of his life.

His body worked on autopilot when he got out of his car and started walking in the direction of your dorm. He was glad no one could see him, beaten up with blood all over him. He couldn’t look in the mirror so he took the stairs instead of an elevator.

When he reached your floor he saw the big old clock on the wall and saw it was just a bit after midnight. You’re probably asleep, he should go home, he thought. He actually ran down the stairs just to turn around on the ground floor and run up again. He couldn’t be alone.

—

“Yes mom, I’ll come visit you next month, I’m just busy with school work so I wanted to stay here.” you were on the phone with your mom who just finished her glass of wine and decided it was “I miss my daughter hours.” and called you. You were two hours ahead of her, so it wasn’t unusual for her to call you this late.

“I just saw Jake come home today and felt sad that you decided to stay.” Jake was your neighbour who grew up across the road.

“I know mom, but I’ll come soon. Okay?” you didn’t hear her answer, because there was a loud knock on your door. You checked the time on your phone and furrowed your brows, who could be knocking at your door at midnight. “Wait mom.” you told her and walked to open your door.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight when you opened your door. There was Noah, covered in blood with red eyes, looking like he would collapse every second.

“I have to go mom, I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.” you hung up on her before she could say bye, but you didn’t care.

“Noah what the fuck?” you continued to stare at him, not sure what to do. “What the hell happened?” you whispered.

“I, I-” he couldn’t finish what he wanted to say, his words got lost between his sobs and quick breathing.

“Come inside.” you pulled him in by his hand and he immediately went to wrap his arms around you, and you let him.

You continued standing there with crying Noah in your arms. You gave him all the time he needed to calm down. When you felt his breath slow down a little, you pulled away from him to look at the mess his face was.

“Oh God Noah, who did this to you?” looking at him was painful. When he didn’t answer you led him in your bathroom and sat him on the closed toilet.

“I’m gonna clean you up, okay? You don’t have to say anything until you want to, yeah?” you cupped his face in your hands to make sure he heard you. He gave you only a small nod.

You took a small towel and dipped it into warm water, then took Noah’s face in one of your hands and held the towel in the other one. You slowly and gently wiped all the dried blood from his face. Then you sprayed the disinfection on white cotton pads and said “This is gonna sting.” As you dabbed the pad over the cuts on Noah’s eyebrow and then around his bloody nose, you couldn’t miss the tears forming in his eyes again, then slowly cascading down his cheeks. You tried to wipe them all with your fingers, but there were too many of them.

You put a small butterfly plaster on his eyebrow, but that was all you could do. The rest of his face started to bruise and swell already, you noted to get him something frozen later when you’re done.

“All done.” you grabbed his chin and made him look up at you and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” you asked, not sure if you wanted to know the answer.

Instead of answering you, Noah took off his t-shirt and you saw a red bruise on his abdomen. You had to calm yourself down so you wouldn’t swear again.

There wasn’t much you could do with that one, so you at least sprayed some disinfection on it.

“Do you want to take a shower?” you then asked Noah who still hasn’t said a word. He was communicating only in nods, but you didn’t mind.

“Here’s a towel, you can leave your clothes here, I’ll wash it for you. Call me if you need anything else, I’ll wait in my room.” you wanted to give him space and privacy, but when you turned to walk out of the small bathroom of yours, he reached for your hand and stopped you.

“Stay.” he finally spoke, it was more of a question, a plea.

You got in the shower with him, taking care of him again. You used your shampoo on his bruised body, being careful with your touch to not hurt him any more. You wanted to wash all of his pain away, if only it was possible.

You let him hug you again, only to hear his silent cries again. You had to hold your own tears at this point. Who did this to him?

After the shower you sat Noah in your bed and gave him a pack of frozen peas to stop the swelling of his pretty face.

You sat next to him, not sure what to do now. “Do you wanna talk about it?” you asked him.

There was a silence before he took a breath and started talking.

“He actually sent someone to beat me up and get money from me.” he muttered under his breath, “Who does that to their own kid?” his breath got caught in his throat, before he let out another sob. You immediately knew what he was talking about. His father was always full of promises he never managed to keep, so after that accident you both didn’t take his words seriously. What a mistake.

You laid both of you down on your bed, not big enough for both of you, but you managed. You held him and gave him time to process what he wanted to tell you.

“They followed me from here after I left Matt’s place, then they waited for me in front of a fucking grocery store. He owes them 800 dollars and sent them to get it from me. They beat me up and then pulled out a knife, so I gave them all the cash I had with me.” at the mention of the knife you had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from saying what was on your mind. You were thankful he got to you in one piece.

“They told me he’s a piece of shit and that beating me up was a warning for him. Only if they knew he doesn’t give a fuck about what they did to me. They said they’ll finish it with him, so I hope I’ll never see their fucking faces again.”

“That’s not okay Noah, they can’t do that.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” he sat up to look at you, despair in his eyes. “What do you want me to do? Call the cops? Call him?”

“I don’t know.” you admitted. You wanted to get him out of this situation, but didn’t have a clue on how to do it.

He laid back down and continued talking after a while. “I’m gonna change my number. I was thinking about moving too. He knows where I live, I’ll never get rid of him.”

“Yeah, we can think of something tomorrow.” those weren’t bad ideas, it could help to cut his father off completely. “I’m glad you came here, hate the idea of you being alone in this state.” you admitted and planted few more kisses to his forehead and in his hair.

He laid in your arms, occasionally letting out a hiss when your fingers slid too close to his bruised face.

You felt his body grow heavier and heavier with sleep taking over him. His cries finally calmed down and his breathing became even.

“Thank you.” he whispered in the crook of your neck.

“You don’t have to thank me.” you whispered back. You thought of all the nights when he held you, because you needed it.

You held him until he fell asleep, preparing yourself for round 2 in the morning when the pain of his injuries will become worse.

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This story is a work of fiction, with the plot and characters entirely made up. The appearance and name of the main male character are inspired by Noah Sebastian Davis, but the storyline bears no connection to the real person. Please do not steal or repost this work on other platforms without permission.

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