#also he’d himself like to keep breathing

[phoenixmetaphor]

<<< previous . beginning

october november 29 (lol) - crack

heeeeeeeey everyone, i am not dead and neither is this comic!

i got a little stuck trying to figure out how to handle chris draining the aqua ring. i definitely do not want to just… draw a panel by panel recreation of an re puzzle. no thanks 🤣. but it felt like maybe skipping a little too much to not mention it at all.

we shoooooould be timeskipping next time tho. chris has made his intentions clear so hopefully it will be less jarring when i just… go there.

i am going to be so happy once these sharks are dealt with you guys don’t even know.

also I am so relieved to get something posted this month.

[dreamscapeee222]

Do you think you could do something where the reader gets severely hurt and they don't think we'll make it. With arcane characters please (maybe we do or don't make it. Up to you!)

A/n: Up to me, hey? Hehehe

You get severely hurt

Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

Masterlist

Vi

The sight of you slipping away is something she can never unsee. She’s shouting, desperate, her hands covered in your blood as she tries to keep you conscious. "You’re tougher than this!" she yells, but the fear in her voice betrays her. When you take your last breath, her entire body goes still, the fight in her extinguished.

The days after are a blur of numbness and anger. She avoids everyone, finding solace only in the empty spaces you used to fill. Your death becomes a catalyst for her fierce determination to protect those who can’t protect themselves, but every victory feels hollow without you.

Jinx

She’s laughing nervously, trying to brush off how serious your injuries are. “This is just another mess we’ll get out of, right?” she says, her eyes wide and frantic. But when you go still, something inside her shatters. Jinx spirals, turning her grief into a destructive force. She lashes out at anyone who tries to comfort her, building weapons to channel the rage she can’t escape. Yet, in her quiet moments, she sits with the memory of you, sketching your face over and over in her journal. The pages are messy, chaotic, but they’re her only tether to the part of her heart that still aches for you.

Caitlyn

She’s kneeling at your side, her hands steady but her voice trembling. “Hold on, please. Just hold on,” she begs, her polished exterior cracking as she fights to keep you alive. But when your breathing slows, and your hand slips from hers, Caitlyn freezes. She blames herself endlessly. If she’d planned better, acted quicker, you’d still be here. The grief consumes her, but it doesn’t stop her. Every mission she undertakes, every life she saves, is in your name. She keeps something small of yours—perhaps a locket or a note—tucked away, a quiet reminder of the person who inspired her to be better.

Ekko

Ekko is screaming for help, tears streaming down his face as he cradles you. “Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, his voice breaking. When you go limp, he doesn’t let go, rocking back and forth as the realization sets in. After your death, Ekko throws himself into the Firelights, using his grief as fuel. He paints murals of you, your likeness a beacon of hope for Zaun. But late at night, when he’s alone, he lets himself feel the loss fully, tracing the lines of your face in his memory and wishing he’d had more time.

Jayce

Jayce refuses to believe it’s over. “You’re going to be fine,” he insists, his voice trembling as he presses his coat against your wound. He’s already running through solutions in his head, desperate for something, anything, to save you. But when your eyes close for the last time, he crumbles. He isolates himself in his lab, working tirelessly to invent something that could prevent another loss like yours. He’s haunted by the sound of your laugh, the way you’d tease him when he overworked himself. It drives him, but it also breaks him in ways he’ll never admit.

Viktor

Viktor’s hands shake as he works to stabilize you, his scientific mind running through every possible outcome. But as the light fades from your eyes, his resolve crumbles. “You deserved so much more,” he whispers, his voice hollow. He buries himself in his research, convinced that if he’d only been smarter, faster, he could’ve saved you. Your loss pushes him toward dangerous extremes, his inventions taking on a desperate edge. He doesn’t talk about you often, but every time he looks at the stars, he wonders if you’d forgive the person he’s becoming.

Mel

Mel stays composed until your final moments. “You’re going to be okay,” she says softly, her hand brushing your cheek. But when you’re gone, her shoulders shake with silent sobs, her grief breaking through the mask she always wears. In the days that follow, she immerses herself in her work, using diplomacy and power to ensure no one else has to lose someone the way she lost you. At night, when the palace is quiet, she sits by the window with a glass of wine, whispering your name into the stillness as if you might hear her.

See pinned.

[jasvtsc]

just come kiss me and bite me

you were a vampire.

sure, it took some time for dean to get over it and deal with the fact that he fell in love with a bloodsucker.

was it against his morals and family values? absolutely.

did he give a shit? not at all.

and it’s not like you were a real vampire—well, you were in the matter of drinking blood. however, for some unknown reason, you reacted pretty badly to human blood. it made you sick, your throat burning, your fangs itching and your tongue swelling.

a vampire allergic to blood? yeah, pretty pathetic.

that’s why you could only drink blood from supernatural creatures—werewolves, witches, wendigos, hell even fairies. everything unusual and that had powers or whatever, was your dinner. so dating a hunter? a dream come true.

not only were you helpful, hunting down the threat with him but also you got your food intake. you weren’t harming anyone—just those who deserved it. and sure, maybe it was a bit hypocritical, a vamp going after its own kind but then again, you’d do anything to keep yourself alive.

however, there were times were you couldn’t help dean or you had to do something. so he came up with an idea that’d ensure you wouldn’t possibly starve to death.

he learned how to draw blood and now carrying a blood bags whenever he went, he’d take his time in an alley after killing a monster, getting as much protein for you as he could.

and honestly? you found it adorable.

today was no different from the others. you went back to the motel he was staying at after running some errands, and immediately made your way towards the bed, falling on the soft mattress with a sigh. dean watched you, noticing the way you looked even paler than usual, your slow blinking, and the way even your breathing was close to concerning. with a worried frown etched on his face, he helped you sit up on the bed, making you rest against the pillows, and then he grabbed a few blood bags out of the mini fridge.

“here. drink this, baby. it’ll make you feel better,” he said with a soft voice and a small smile, gently threading his fingers through your hair. you nodded and wrapped your lips around the straw, beginning to feed yourself.

dean watched you intently, and sure, he must’ve been disgusted by it, right?

wrong.

he knew there was probably something wrong with him and that he must’ve been insane, but he couldn’t help that he found you immensely attractive like that. not only, but he also got a massive boner as well.

there wasn’t a more beautiful sight to him than the one in front of his eyes right now. the way your skin was getting its less fair color back and the familiar sparkle in your eyes calmed his worries down. however, the way your lips were wrapped around the straw as you sucked, the way the blood trickled out from the corners of your mouth, going down your chin and throat to ultimately drip down between your breasts, and how your fangs were covered in crimson liquid, now in full display, as you let out a soft moan of pleasure with the prettiest blissed out expression he’d ever seen?

yeah, it was enough to make him cum in his pants.

he watched you intently as your chin was dripping with red, the way everything was falling on your slightly exposed chest. he licked his lips, absentmindedly palming his erected cock through the fabric of his jeans. he wanted to whimper because of how badly he wanted to bury himself inside of you right now, in hopes that you’d get that blood all over him.

you noticed him staring and quickly shied away. you turned around, your head tilted down as your hair covered your face—sometimes you felt ashamed that he had to see you like that. you had these thoughts that maybe he found you disgusting and in the end, you felt like you didn’t deserve him. he was too good for a bloodsucker like you. you were a monster—at least that’s what you thought.

as soon as dean noticed your attempt at hiding away from him, he blinked a few times and moved to kneel in front of you. he placed his hands on your knees, rubbing them soothingly with his thumbs, a loving smile on his face as he tried to look into your eyes.

“come on, don’t hide from me, baby. you don’t have to. you know that i love you. you’re my hungry little mosquito,” he chuckled as he moved your hair behind your ears, admiring your pretty face.

god, how could anyone say that you were an evil creature or a monster? you stared at him with those big eyes, looking so innocent despite the blood covering your chin and chest.

“you’re such a messy eater, sweetie,” he hummed, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb and letting you lick it clean. you put the bag away, now focusing on him.

and that only made him want you even more.

soon enough, he stood up and cupped your face, connecting your lips in a needy kiss. you widened your eyes at first and pulled back, trying to wipe the blood off of his mouth in panic.

“dean—”

“stop. you’re so hot right now,” he panted breathlessly, driven by desire. he grabbed your wrists and moved your hands away from his face, pinning you to the bed, and kissing you again.

he groaned into your mouth as you kissed him back, your hands wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. that was enough for him to start grinding his erection against your clothed core.

and in a matter of seconds, he was already thrusting into you, letting out a wave after wave of ungodly sounds, pathetically close to spilling his cum deep inside you.

[thef1diary]

riddle me this: how would dirtbag danny react if you came home after a date with another guy? I can imagine him being so demeaning, pitying you since you thought you needed a safer and reliable guy, opposite of daniel basically

(also I’m the same anon from the beer chugging vid, can I be 👩🏻‍🦽anon <- that’s us after a night with dirtbag danny btw)

Nice Isn’t Enough | Dirtbag!Danny

— hi nonnie! so glad you’re back w more dirtbag!danny filth 🤭 yes you can absolutely be 👩🏻‍🦽anon, your reason made me giggle ngl

warnings: 18+, name calling, lotssss of degradation, dirty talk, thigh riding, cruel cruel danny but that’s expected atp

want more dirtbag!danny? send me an ask with your latest thoughts and click here for the rest of my blurbs/fics

You entered your apartment, kicking off your heels with a sigh, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips. The date had gone well enough—pleasant conversation, a sweet kiss at the door, and the comforting warmth of normalcy. But just as you let out another sigh, the calm surrounding you shattered the second you heard his voice.

“Aw, was it that bad?”

Your head snapped up. Daniel’s voice dripped with condescension, low and smug, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. He’s sprawled across your couch—legs wide and spread, the hem of his shorts inching dangerously high on his thighs with every lazy shift of his body. One arm is draped over the backrest with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He doesn’t look at you immediately, his eyes fixed on the label he’s peeling off, but the smirk tugging at his lips is unmistakable.

“You didn’t even invite him in?” He finally glanced up, his honey brown eyes flicking over you from head to toe, taking in the silk dress that hugged your curves, the faint flush still blooming on your cheeks. His gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, before he raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t go as well as you thought, huh?”

Your heart stuttered for a moment—not from fear, but from the sheer audacity. You blinked, caught off guard by both his presence and the sting of his words. “What are you doing here, Daniel?” you asked, keeping your voice as steady as you can.

He leaned back into the cushions, utterly at ease in your space. “What am I doing here?” he echoed, as if the answer should be obvious. “You forgot about our plans for the night.” He shrugged, taking a lazy sip from his beer, the smirk never leaving his face. “And you’re very predictable with your extra key placement, by the way.”

Your stomach twisted. He let himself in. Like it’s nothing. Like you belonged to him—or worse, like your space does.

“I didn’t forget anything,” you lied, crossing your arms over your chest as if that can shield you from the pull of him. “Because we didn’t have plans.”

Daniel’s smirk widens as your lie hangs in the air. He knows. He somehow knows.

“Didn’t have plans, huh?” he murmured, setting the beer bottle down on the coffee table with a soft clink. He rises slowly with the kind of confidence that makes the room feel smaller. Every step he took towards you is measured, deliberate, and your breath catches in your throat despite yourself.

He stopped just a few inches away, the heat of his presence pressing into your skin, the scent of beer, leather, and something deeper—something rich, masculine, and entirely him—invading your senses.

“So,” he started, voice slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every word. “How was it?” His gaze swept over your face again, lingering on the faint blush still warming your cheeks before noticing the smudge of lipstick from the kiss at the door. “Your little date.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself, refusing to let him rattle you. “It was fine.”

Daniel chuckled softly, a low, mocking sound. “Fine,” he echoed the word like it’s a punchline. “Of course, it was fine. I bet he was a real stand-up guy. Steady job, clean car, probably held the door for you, didn’t he?” His grin widened as he brushed his lips against your ear, “real safe.”

You don’t rise to the bait. Not yet. “He was nice.”

“Nice,” Daniel repeated, almost whispering it like it was the dirtiest word he’s ever heard. His hands found your hips, fingers curling around them, the pads of his thumbs rubbing slow, lazy circles against the silky fabric of your dress. “Sure. Nice. Polite, respectful. Asked about your day.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, each word a carefully placed jab. “Took you to some boring-ass restaurant where the biggest thrill was picking between red and white wine, right?”

Your jaw tightened, and you could feel the heat rising in your face. His smirk only widened, feeding off your barely concealed irritation.

“But tell me something,” His voice lowered, rough and edged with something darker. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you just the slightest bit closer until the space between you is almost nonexistent. “Did he look at you like he wanted to tear this dress off you right there in the middle of dinner?”

You blinked, lips parting, but no words came.

Daniel’s eyes searched yours even though it seemed as if he already had the answer. “Did he make you feel it?” His voice is a murmur now, his lips so close to yours you can feel the ghost of his breath. “Like you couldn’t breathe unless his hands were on you?”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath shallow, but you stood your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words affect you.

“Or,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “did he kiss you goodnight and send you home, like a good girl, with a pat on the head and a promise to call?”

Your hands tightened into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms to prevent yourself from giving into his kiss, but you refused to look away. “Not everyone is like you, Daniel.” The words are meant to be defiant, but they come out softer than you intended, almost a whisper.

Daniel’s smirk returned, wicked and knowing. “No,” he agreed, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze fully. “Not everyone can be.”

The air between you crackled with tension, a push and pull neither of you wanted to admit to but can’t seem to escape. His hands remain on your hips, grounding you, teasing you, as if he’s daring you to break the silence.

“Let me guess,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t even know what to do with you. Bet he touched you like you were made of glass when he kissed you.” His eyes flicked back up to yours, daring, taunting. “Think he’d fuck you like you want? Like you deserve?”

Your cheeks flushed hot, and you hated the way your body reacted to his words, to the heat in his gaze, to the way his voice wrapped around you and pulled you in.

“Daniel,” you muttered, but it's weak, barely audible.

“Am I wrong?” Daniel stepped back, just a little, his hands falling away from your hips, leaving you cold in his absence. He gives you enough space to breathe, but not enough to escape the weight of his presence.

You swallowed hard, the absence of his touch both a relief and a frustration. His words lingered in the air, hanging over you, daring you to deny them. But you don’t. You can’t.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice low and lazy, like he’s already won. “When you get bored of nice… you know how to reach me.”

He turned, ready to leave, the air between you still buzzing with unspoken tension. But before he could take too many steps away, your voice cut through the silence, soft but firm.

“Daniel. Wait.”

He paused, his back to you, shoulders tense as if he’s waiting to see if you’ll take it back. Slowly, he turned, his gaze locking onto yours.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding, every nerve in your body on edge. “You’re right.”

His brow arched, the smirk growing just a fraction. “About what?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Finally, you whispered, “Everything.”

Daniel takes a step toward you, then another, until he’s standing in front of you again. He reached out, his fingers catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, unreadable, the smirk on his face both infuriating and intoxicating.

“Gotta tell me more than that, sweetheart,” he drawled, his thumb brushing over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “Praise a guy, will ya?”

You inhaled shakily, your eyes locked on his. “I don’t want nice,” you admitted softly, the words spilling out before you could second-guess them. “I don’t want to settle, or something safe and reliable. I don’t want…him.”

Daniel’s smirk deepened, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. His thumb lingers on your chin, teasingly light, but his eyes—those dark, relentless eyes—hold you in place. “Yeah?” he murmured, the mockery evident in his tone. “Guess nice didn’t quite do it for you, huh?”

You shook your head slightly, the tension between you crackling like static. “It’s not enough,” you whispered, barely recognizing your voice.

He hummed in satisfaction, tilting his head as if to study you, figuring out just how far you’re willing to go. “Thought you might come around,” he said softly. “Nice is good for a Sunday brunch with your parents. For hand-holding and little promises that don’t mean shit. But that’s not what you really want, is it?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is enough. He sees it, feels it in the way you lean in ever so slightly, drawn to the heat of him, the pull you’ve been resisting for far too long.

“Come here,” he whispered, stepping back toward the couch and guiding you with him. His hands find your hips again, pulling you down onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of him. The intimacy of the position stole your breath, but you didn't pull away.

You hover inches away from his lips, your breath mingling with his, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. His hands grip your hips, firm and possessive, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Your heart raced, every nerve in your body screaming to close the distance, to give in.

But before you do, you pressed your hands against his chest, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. “This doesn’t mean I’m in love with you,” you said sharply.

Daniel chuckled, low and mocking, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Good,” he replied, amused. “Because I’m not in love with you either.” His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. “Why would I want that?” His voice is smooth, dripping with pity and condescension. “Love’s not really your thing anyway, is it? Or mine for that matter.”

Heat creeped up your cheeks, both from his words and the infuriating smirk on his face. You should push him away, should walk out, but instead, you do the exact opposite.

You kissed him.

It’s not tentative or gentle—it’s fierce, all-consuming, a kiss that feels like surrender and defiance all at once. His lips are warm, demanding, and he meets your desperation with his own, his hands moving from your hips to the small of your back, holding you tight against him.

Your dress was already rising, the fabric sliding higher as you shifted against him, your knees pressing into the couch on either side of his hips. His fingers slipped under the hem, pushing it up and over your waist with ease, leaving you bare save for the black lace of your panties.

He pulled back just enough to drink you in, his dark eyes roaming over you like you’re something he owned. Your thighs are bare and trembling against the heat of him. His gaze drops to the lace barely covering you, his smirk curling into something cruel, something wicked.

“Now,” he breathed, his voice thick with mockery, “why don’t you show me just how fucking done you are with nice?”

Before you could respond, his hand was already between your legs, rough fingers hooking under the delicate lace covering your pussy and yanking it to the side, baring you completely. The cool air hits your cunt, making you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes darkened as he took you in.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His fingers slide between your folds, slow and deliberate, parting you with a precision that’s designed to drive you mad. He doesn’t give you what you want—not yet. Instead, he toyed with you, dragging his fingertips through your slickness, barely brushing your clit before pulling away again, leaving you aching and desperate.

A soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips, and he catches it, smirking like he’s already won. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “Already dripping for me, huh? Guess nice really wasn’t cutting it.”

His fingers returned, this time rougher, sliding through your slick heat, spreading it over you, coating you in your own arousal. He pressed the pads of two fingers against your hole, teasing you with the barest hint of pressure before pulling back once again, making you grind your hips in frustration.

Daniel chuckled, dark and condescending, his grip on your hip tightening to keep you exactly where he wants you. “Patience, sweetheart,” he mocked, his lips curling into a cruel grin. “You want to get fucked like you deserve? You’ve gotta earn it.”

Without warning, he shifted your hips, forcing you down onto his thigh—his bare, tattooed thigh—and the heat of him against your slick folds sent a jolt of pleasure through you. He pressed you down, grinding you against him, the roughness of his skin dragging against your clit, making you gasp.

“Yeah,” he groaned, his voice pure sin. “Just like that. Go ahead—ride it. Show me how desperate you really are.”

You don’t even think—you just move, instinctively grinding down against his thigh, chasing the friction, the heat, the overwhelming need coursing through you. Each drag of your slick folds against the hard muscle of his thigh sends sparks shooting through your body, your clit throbbing with every rock of your hips. You’re a mess already, and you know it, but you don’t care. Not anymore. Pride, shame—none of it matters now. All you can focus on is the pleasure building inside you, desperate and raw.

Daniel knows it too, and he revels in it. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, controlling the pace as if he owns you.

“Look at you,” he sneered, voice low and dripping with disdain. His hands slid up your sides, rough and deliberate, until they reached the neckline of your dress. Without hesitation, he pulled the fabric down, exposing your bare tits to the cool air and his heated stare. His thumb brushes over one hardened nipple, making you gasp, before he pinches it roughly, just to hear the sound you make.

“Fuck,” he drawled, eyes flicking between your flushed face and your exposed chest. “Imagine if your date saw you like this—grinding on me like a desperate little slut.” His smirk deepened, cruel and knowing. “Think he’d still ask you out again? Or would he see you for what you really are? My filthy, needy little whore who can’t get off unless someone makes her earn it.”

His words cut deep, filthy and degrading, and they ignite something inside you, something dark and hungry. You can feel the heat of his thigh against you, the pressure building with every roll of your hips, and it’s maddening. He leaned in, lips brushing against your ear, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Bet he’d be fucking shocked, huh?” Daniel continued, his tone dripping with condescension. “Good girls like you aren’t supposed to act like this. But here you are—tits out, soaking my thigh, and fucking yourself like you can’t help it.” His hands tighten on your hips, forcing you down harder, grinding you deeper into him. “Such a fucking pretty mess. Keep going, sweetheart. Show me how much you love being dirty for me.”

Your movements grew frantic, driven by the overwhelming mix of sensations—the rough drag of his skin against your soaked folds, the burning heat of his thigh flexing beneath you, each hard muscle shifting and tightening as if made just to ruin you. He bounces it once, twice, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your core, and a helpless moan tumbles from your lips, loud and shameless.

“Yeah,” Daniel groaned, watching you with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “That’s it. Let me hear how desperate you are.” His hands roam over your body, possessive and rough, sliding up to cup your tits, squeezing them in his large, calloused hands. His thumbs flicked over your nipples, rolling and pinching the sensitive peaks, making you arch your back and grind harder against him.

“Go on dates with any guy,” he murmured, lips brushing against your ear, voice taunting. “But I know you’ll always come back to me for a good fuck.”

Your breath stuttered, every nerve in your body screaming for release, and you whimpered his name. His smirk deepened, a cruel, triumphant twist of his lips.

“You’re so desperate for a good fuck, aren’t you?” he asked, his eyes dark and full of sin. “You want more, don’t you? You want my cock.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, pressing down lightly. “Be a good, obedient slut for me, and maybe I’ll give it to you. I know how much you love it—how much you need it filling you up.”

The promise, the filth in his words, makes a loud whine leave your lips, his name spilling repeatedly. Your hips jerk against his thigh, chasing more, needing more.

“Mm, that’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Say my name. Scream it.”

His thigh flexed again, and you rode it harder, grinding down with desperation, your wetness slicking his skin. You’re close—so fucking close—and he knows it. His eyes burn with amusement and something darker as he leans in, his teeth grazing your jaw before his tongue flicks out to taste you.

“Think he stuck around outside?” Daniel’s voice is a low rumble, thick with arrogance. “He probably heard you if he did. Every little moan. Every scream.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through you, the humiliation and pleasure intertwining, tightening the coil in your pussy.

“He should’ve come inside,” he continued, biting down gently on the curve of your neck, making you gasp. “Wanted to show him how you beg for me. How you fall apart on my thigh. How you’re mine to fuck.”

Your hips bucked uncontrollably, grinding against him with frantic need. His fingers dig into your waist, guiding your every movement, every desperate thrust. He bounced his thigh again, the rough drag of his skin against your swollen clit sending you spiraling over the edge.

“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours, watching every tremble, every shudder. “Such a pretty little slut, using me to get off. So fucking wet—so fucking needy.”

Your vision blurred, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as you cry out his name, loud and broken, just like he wanted. His hands hold you steady, his thigh flexing beneath you one last time, drawing out every shiver, every whimper, until you collapse against him, spent and trembling in his arms.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your body trembling as he dragged every last aftershock from you.

You shifted slightly, your head resting against his shoulder, heart pounding, breath shaky. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, cocky triumph.

“See?” he whispered, lips curling into a smirk that’s both dangerous and devastating. “You don’t need nice. You just need me.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip one last time, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in close, his mouth grazing your ear.

“And you’ll be back, sweetheart,” he breathed, the promise dark and certain. “Because you always come back.”

taglist: @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet @mehrmonga @wobblymug @bokutos-babyowl @evasmlp @mycenterfold @uhhvictoria @kaorisakamotofan @alice-went-away @nikfigueiredo @wonnou @jointhehunt67 @gxuh @67-angelofthelordme-67 @kigieri @lilorose25

[quarterlifekitty]

Imagine all the stretching and fingering and licking König would have to do to get even a quarter of his dick into his sweet silkmoth girl

Follow me to the magical land where this is even possible with their physiology

cw: extreme size kink, borderline micro

The amount of toys in gradually increasing sizes that König has gotten for you isn’t even funny. There’s a dedicated dresser drawer for that. He’s also got a lot of lube, oils for massaging— everything he needs to get you loose and relaxed and wet for him. Little bit of CBD lotion— just enough to have you breathing evenly and blinking a bit slower.

There have been a few times where he tried— and it was just too tight for him to get anywhere. His cock would slip away from your entrance, coming to rest on your mound.

When he started getting closer— he’d just keep his head against your cunt, pulling it away and pushing it back so that it was like your hole was kissing him, leaving warm, sticky strings of your honey on the head of his throbbing cock.

Until one day it can slip in a bit more— only half an inch or so at first, but god it’s nearly enough to have him cumming in seconds. He jerks himself off so he can fill you with his cum for the first time, getting hard again almost instantly with how he watches your cute little pussy struggle to keep in his load.

[capquinn]

can we get a blurb about quinn telling his parents he’s gonna be a dad, pretty pretty please???? i feel like he’d be nervous to tell them but also bursting at the seams wanting them to know. it’s probably hard for him being so far away for most of the year, that he wants them to be involved as much as they can, but he’d also want to respect his partner’s wishes if she wanted to wait to tell people until she was further along in case something happened

The decision about when to tell Quinn’s family about the baby over Thanksgiving weekend had been made weeks ago, but actually doing it was proving to be a whole different story.

For Quinn, the excitement of telling them had been almost overwhelming at first, a buzz of energy thrumming beneath his skin every time he thought about the moment. He could picture their reactions so clearly: Ellen’s face lighting up with joy and then tears, Jim’s steady pride breaking into a wide grin. He’d played it over in his mind again and again, letting the thought carry him through the quiet moments of doubt.

But now, as the reality of actually saying the words settled in, the nerves crept in too. It wasn’t that he doubted their reaction — they would be thrilled, he knew that. They adored him, a love larger than life itself, their pride woven into every word they spoke about him. A love so steadfast it felt unshakable. And over the years, that same love had effortlessly extended to you, not just welcoming you into their family but embracing you as if you’d always been a part of it.

However, the weight of the moment, of what it symbolised, suddenly felt heavier. This wasn’t just a fleeting piece of good news to share. It was life-changing, not just for him and you, but for them as well. They were about to become grandparents, stepping into a new chapter of their lives, and he couldn’t shake the pressure of wanting the moment to be perfect.

The confidence he’d carried on the flight home for the weekend was slipping, giving way to a swirl of emotions he couldn’t quite name. He’d been eager, almost impatient, to share the news, to feel the weight of it lifted and replaced with their joy, their pride, their unwavering support. He wanted them to share in the excitement, to feel connected to this life-changing moment despite the physical miles that often separate them. He needed them to know that their place in this new chapter, as grandparents, was as important to him as the one he was stepping into.

But now, standing on the brink of saying it aloud, a sudden wave of nerves hit him, sharp and unexpected. The enormity of it all — the love, the hope, the vulnerability wrapped in the words — made his throat tighten.

It wasn’t just an announcement. It was a shift, one that would ripple out and reshape everything. Parenthood, after all, was still something the two of you were learning to grasp.

The first evening back home unfolded in the warm glow of Ellen’s kitchen, the scent of roast chicken and fresh-baked bread filling the air. The house alive with warmth — the crackle of the fireplace, the low hum of laughter, and the familiar cadence of Jim’s voice as he spun a tale about the neighbour’s runaway tractor. He gestured animatedly, earning chuckles and interjections from Ellen, who corrected him at every exaggerated turn. It’s a familiar, comforting scene — the kind of moment Quinn usually soaks in without a second thought.

But tonight, his mind is a thousand miles away.

You can feel the tension humming beneath his relaxed posture, the subtle way his fingers tighten around yours every few minutes, like he’s trying to ground himself. His gaze keeps darting to his parents — catching the glint of Ellen’s wedding band as she leans forward in her chair, the crinkle of Jim’s eyes as he laughs at his own joke.

He wants to tell them. You can see it in the way his lips press together, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate breath as though he’s rehearsing the words in his head.

We’re having a baby.

It’s right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the perfect moment. 

Quinn shifts in his seat, his free hand sliding up to rub the back of his neck as he leans forward slightly. You can feel the faint tremor in his grip as he laces his fingers tighter with yours, like he’s steadying himself for something big.

Jim’s voice carries on in the background, the rich cadence of his story weaving effortlessly with Ellen’s laughter, but Quinn’s focus isn’t there anymore. His gaze is fixed on the table, the firelight catching in his eyes as he takes a deep, deliberate breath.

You recognise the signs immediately. The way his shoulders draw back just slightly, the faint movement of his lips like he’s practicing the words in his head. It’s coming — you can feel it in the subtle shift of his energy, the way his knee bounces once under the table before he stills it with a hand.

He glances at you, and in the flicker of his gaze, you see everything — the love, the nerves, the overwhelming weight of what he wants to say. 

Your expression softens, and you give his hand a gentle squeeze, a quiet I’m here. You’ve got this.

Quinn swallows, his throat working against the knot of emotion rising there. 

“So, uh,” he starts, his voice low and hesitant, barely cutting through the warmth of the room.

Ellen turns toward him, her smile easy and expectant, and Jim sets his drink down, his brows lifting in quiet curiosity.

It’s right there. The words are sitting at the edge of his lips, just waiting to fall out. We’re having a baby.

But they don’t.

Quinn falters, his mouth opening slightly before he closes it again, his jaw tightening as he drops his gaze to his lap. His hand squeezes yours, and the quiet pressure feels like an apology.

Ellen’s eyes flit between the two of you, a flicker of concern crossing her face. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks gently, her voice laced with the kind of maternal intuition that always catches him off guard.

He looks up at her, his lips curving into a faint, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Nothing,” he says softly, shaking his head. “Just... it’s good to be home. That’s all.”

You watch as Ellen’s concern melts into warmth, her smile returning as she reaches over to squeeze his arm affectionately. 

“Well, we’re glad you’re here, too,” she says simply, her love for him evident in every word.

Quinn nods, his gaze falling back to his lap, and you can see the frustration flickering just beneath the surface. He’s upset with himself — not because he doesn’t want to tell them, but because he does. Desperately. He just… can’t.

You lean into him slightly, your shoulder brushing his, and when he looks at you, you offer the smallest smile. He exhales slowly, his grip on your hand relaxing just a bit, and when Jim launches into another story, the tension eases from Quinn’s shoulders — if only for a moment.

The second opportunity comes the next morning, when the day feels impossibly slow and golden, like it’s giving Quinn every chance in the world to speak up. The two of you lie in bed longer than usual, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains as you talk quietly, voices still hushed with sleep.

“We can’t leave without telling them,” Quinn says suddenly, his voice quiet but resolute, like the realisation is finally settling in. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought, the weight of his words pulling his shoulders just a little tighter. “I just… I want to do it right, you know?”

“I get it,” you reply, turning your head to look at him. His profile is soft in the morning light, his jaw flexing slightly as he wrestles with the thought. “You want it to feel special.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his lips twitching into a faint, almost sheepish smile. “Exactly. And every time I think about actually saying it, I freeze. Like, what if I screw it up and it’s not as perfect as I want it to be?”

You can’t help the way your heart squeezes a little at the vulnerability in his voice, the honesty of it catching you off guard in the best way. Sliding a little closer, you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. The movement pulls his attention, and for a moment, his eyes flicker to yours before settling back on the ceiling.

“Quinn,” you say softly, your voice laced with affection, “they’re going to love it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, the words settling over him like a quiet balm. His jaw flexes again as he chews on your reassurance, his hand absently dropping to your abdomen. It’s such a natural gesture, like he doesn’t even realise he’s done it, his palm curving gently over the barely-there swell. 

The corners of his lips twitch, like he’s debating whether to believe you. Then he lets out a soft laugh, low and self-deprecating, his free hand coming up to rake through his already-messy hair.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is easy,” you insist, squeezing his arm lightly, your gaze steady on him. “It’s you, Quinn. They’re going to be over the moon no matter how or when you tell them.”

His eyes flick to yours then, something unspoken passing between you — a quiet thank you, maybe, or just an acknowledgment that he’s holding onto your words a little tighter than he lets on. His thumb brushes a slow, thoughtful circle against your skin, and you can feel the tension in his shoulders ease, if only just a little.

“Don’t worry, you’ll tell them today,” you murmur. There’s a quiet encouragement in your voice, a steady belief that seems to seep right into him. Your fingers trace lazy circles over the back of his hand where it rests on your belly.

Quinn nods, his lips twitching into a small, tentative smile. It’s not the full-blown confidence he probably wishes he had, but it’s something — a flicker of determination breaking through the haze of nerves.

“Yeah,” he says softly, the single word carrying more resolve than hesitation. “I will.”

He sounds ready. You believe him. So does he.

And so the morning unfolds beautifully. Ellen, with her usual warmth and efficiency, packs coffee and snacks into a little canvas bag, insisting with a bright smile that everyone take advantage of the clear weather to walk the trails. There’s a lightness to her tone, a sense of simple joy that seems to catch on everyone as they prepare to head out.

Out in the forest, the world feels peaceful, quiet but alive. The rustle of leaves underfoot mingles with the occasional chirp of a bird or the soft swish of wind through the trees. The trail is dappled with sunlight, patches of golden light breaking through the canopy above. Quinn walks beside you, his shoulder bumping yours every now and then as the two of you amble along.

He’s quiet at first, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, but there’s a softness to him that doesn’t feel like nervousness — it feels like he’s soaking it all in. The crisp air, the sound of his parents chatting a few paces ahead, the steady rhythm of your steps beside him.

“You good?” you ask softly, nudging him with your elbow. Your breath fogs slightly in the cool air, and he glances over at you, his lips quirking into a small smile.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low but steady. And for a while, it feels like he means it.

At the overlook at the end of the trail that feels perfect, too. The sunlight glints off the trees, the breeze is cool and gentle, and his parents are close, their laughter light as Ellen unpacks the thermos of coffee. You can feel the moment hanging there, just waiting for Quinn to take it.

He squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles. You glance up at him, catching the way his jaw tightens just slightly, his lips pressing together like he’s rehearsing the words in his head.

“Now’s a good time,” you say softly, tilting your head toward him. Your voice is quiet, meant just for him, but there’s an encouragement in it that you hope will nudge him past whatever’s holding him back.

Quinn nods, his shoulders straightening a little as he draws in a breath. 

His gaze flicks over to his parents, who are standing a few feet away, cups of steaming coffee in their hands as they admire the view. They’re relaxed, happy. Completely unsuspecting.

For a moment, it feels like he’s going to do it. He takes a step forward, clearing his throat softly, and both Ellen and Jim glance over at him. 

“What is it, Quinn?” Ellen asks, her voice warm, a smile playing on her lips.

You watch as Quinn’s hand flexes at his side, his fingers twitching like he’s trying to grab hold of the words before they slip away. 

“I—” he starts, but then his gaze falters, dropping to the ground for a fraction of a second. He hesitates, just long enough for the nerves to creep in.

Jim’s brow lifts slightly, his smile curious. “Everything okay?”

Quinn freezes, his jaw working as if he’s wrestling with the weight of the moment. You see the exact second he decides against it — the subtle shift in his stance, the way his eyes dart back to the view like he’s searching for an escape.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice low but steady. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

There’s a beat of quiet, and then Ellen laughs lightly, her attention shifting back to her cup. 

“Good,” she says, clearly not noticing the undercurrent of tension. “Come have some coffee before it gets cold.”

Jim watches Quinn for a second longer, his gaze thoughtful, but he doesn’t press. He just claps a hand on Quinn’s shoulder as he passes, squeezing lightly. 

Quinn exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging just slightly as he turns back to you. His lips twitch into a faint, sheepish smile, and he shrugs like he’s trying to laugh it off. But you know him too well to buy it.

You don’t say anything, just lean into his side a little, the warmth of him grounding in a way words wouldn’t be.

“Just… not yet,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You nod, giving his hand another squeeze, a quiet reassurance passing between you. 

“It’s okay,” you murmur, your voice just as soft. “You’ll know when the time’s right.”

He breathes out slowly, his gaze flickering back to the view for a moment before settling on his parents again. And even though the moment passes, and the group begins to move again, their laughter breaking through the quiet hum of the forest, you can feel it. The way his hand tightens slightly around yours. The way his shoulders stay just a little too tense as you walk.

He’s still building up to it, you know that. But he’s getting closer.

Back at the house, the moment arises again, this time while everyone is lounging in the living room after lunch. Quinn sits beside you on the couch, one hand cradling his coffee mug, the other resting on your thigh. His parents are across from you, their chairs pulled close to the fire, and the warmth of the room feels almost tangible, a gentle weight of familiarity and love.

He’s relaxed now, leaning back into the cushions, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s soaking it all in. His hand tightens slightly on your leg, and you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flicker with something you recognise — nerves, anticipation, resolve.

Ellen catches his eye and smiles, tilting her head slightly. “What’s on your mind, Quinn? You’ve been out of sorts today.”

Your heart skips, and you sit up just slightly, willing him forward with the quiet encouragement in your expression. 

This is it. He’s going to say it. You can feel it.

He clears his throat, straightening a little. “Just... uh,” he starts, his voice steady but hesitant. He glances at you, then back at his mom, and his lips twitch into a small, uncertain smile. “Just thinking how I’m gonna miss this when we leave,” he finishes, his tone light but not entirely convincing.

Your shoulders relax, a mix of understanding and disappointment flooding you as you press your knee gently against his. Quinn glances at you, his jaw tightening as he picks up on your unspoken it’s okay. Next time.

Ellen smiles warmly, tilting her head in that soft, motherly way. “It’s not long until Christmas,” she reminds him, though her voice carries a faint wistfulness, like she’s reminding herself too.

Quinn nods. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Not long.”

The following morning unfolds in the quiet, unhurried way that comes after a weekend of family time, everyone savouring these last hours together. The kitchen is warm and familiar, filled with the smell of coffee and the soft sounds of Ellen moving around, flipping pancakes on the griddle. Jim leans against the counter by the sink, drying dishes, while you’re perched on a stool at the island, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. Quinn stands a little apart, leaned back against the counter with a piece of toast in hand, his damp hair sticking up in every direction, evidence of a quick shower.

The conversation drifts easily — something about Jim’s plans for the yard that afternoon, Ellen’s pancake technique, a joke about Luke’s questionable cooking skills. But Quinn is quiet, and not in the usual, thoughtful way. His eyes flick between his parents, to you, and back again, a pattern he’s been repeating all weekend. You know he’s been carrying the weight of the news, the excitement and nerves tangling together, keeping him from saying it despite countless opportunities.

And then, just like that, it happens.

“We have something to tell you,” he says, his voice steady but quiet enough that it cuts through the easy flow of conversation. 

The kitchen stills, all eyes turning toward him. Ellen pauses mid-flip, the spatula poised over the griddle, while Jim straightens from his spot near the sink, his brow furrowing slightly.

“What is it?” Ellen asks, her voice soft but expectant, her gaze darting between you both.

Quinn shifts slightly, his toast forgotten on the counter behind him. His hand brushes over the back of his neck, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to back out again, if the nerves will win one last time. 

But then he glances at you, his expression searching, and you nod gently, giving him the encouragement he’s been looking for.

“We’re having a baby,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush but steady, sure. His voice catches just slightly at the end, but his eyes stay locked on his parents, watching as the meaning sinks in.

For a moment, the room is silent. Ellen stares at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, her hand coming up to her mouth. Jim’s towel stills mid-fold in his hands, his gaze flicking to you as if for confirmation. And then Ellen gasps — a sound so full of joy and disbelief it feels like it fills the entire room.

“Oh my God,” Ellen whispers, her voice trembling as her hand covers her mouth. Her eyes dart between Quinn and you, wide and shimmering with emotion. “A baby? You’re having a baby?” She looks at you then, as if she needs your confirmation to believe it’s true.

Quinn nods, and the soft, tentative smile that had been tugging at his lips finally breaks free. It spreads wide, unstoppable, lighting up his entire face. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and steady but filled with something raw and achingly real. “We’re having a baby.”

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, the world feels suspended, as if the house itself is holding its breath. Then Ellen moves, her emotions bursting forth as she crosses the kitchen in a blur, her arms outstretched. She pulls Quinn into a fierce hug, her laugh bubbling up through a flood of tears.

“Oh, Quinn,” she says, her voice breaking with joy. “A baby. My baby’s having a baby.” Her hands cradle his face for a moment before she hugs him again, tighter this time, as if she can pour every ounce of love she feels into him.

He laughs softly, wrapping his arms around her as his chin rests against the top of her head. “Thanks, Mom,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

When Ellen pulls back, her focus shifts immediately to you. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, rounding the island with tears streaming down her face. “A baby. Oh, I’m so happy for you.” She pulls you into a tight hug, her warmth and joy washing over you in waves. “You’re going to be incredible parents. Both of you.”

Jim moves forward more slowly, his hand landing firmly on Quinn’s shoulder as a wide smile spreads across his face. 

“This is incredible news, son,” he says, his voice steady but with an unmistakable quiver of emotion. “Congratulations. To both of you.”

Quinn exhales then, properly exhales, like the weight of all his nerves and hesitations has finally lifted. 

For the rest of the morning, the kitchen hums with joy. Ellen flits between the stove and you, her emotions spilling over every time she catches Quinn’s eye. She can’t seem to stop smiling, crying, or imagining the tiny new addition to the family. 

“How have you been feeling?” she asks, her eyes searching yours with a mother’s concern. “If you need anything, you’ll let me know, right?”

Her hand briefly brushes over your arm, the gesture warm and reassuring, and you nod, assuring her that you’ve been well, that Quinn has been attentive, that everything is as it should be. It’s impossible not to smile at the way her joy bubbles over, filling every corner of the kitchen like sunlight.

Quinn, for his part, has shed every trace of hesitation. He talks easily now, the nerves replaced by an earnest kind of excitement. He shares the small details — the due date, how you found out, how ready the two of you feel — and every word seems to deepen the pride in Jim’s expression. He stands quietly nearby, his presence grounding and constant, his smile unwavering.

When it’s finally time to leave, the hugs linger. Ellen pulls Quinn close, whispering something through her tears before letting him go to hold you just as tightly. Jim’s hand finds Quinn’s shoulder again, squeezing it once in a way that says everything without words. There’s an unspoken promise in their goodbyes, a warmth that stays even as the front door closes behind you.

Quinn doesn’t say much as he helps you into the car, his hand brushing over your back as he opens the door. But as he settles into the driver’s seat, he glances back at the house one last time, his expression soft, a little dazed. When he turns to you, his smile is quiet, content, the kind that makes your heart ache in the best way. 

As you drive away, the crisp Michigan air shifting through the windows, his hand finds yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in that familiar, absent minded way, and you realise that for the first time all weekend, there’s nothing holding him back. The weight is gone, replaced by something steadier — joy, contentment, and the simple knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be.

[readngandweepng]

rambling about a dom ftm low-honor arthur with a sub top reader.

gn amab top reader. pretty much just a bunch of unprotected sex so some talk of pregnancy and a little bit of public sex. mostly proofread. also this IS supposed to be consensual, even if it's not blatantly stated.

just thinking about low honor arthur who, after a quick cat and mouse game, has your wrists tied to the headboard of a hotel room you’d been staying the night in. he still has his hat on his head as he rides your cock, rolling his hips with a crude grace befitting of him. his walls squeeze around you with the periodic drop of his hips, and even though you’re tied up (and well. this is arthur’s doing after all) he’s still got a hand pressed against your chest to keep you held down. 

his groans can only barely cover up the wet squelching sounds coming from his cunt as he humps your cock. you’ve already cum once—or maybe twice now, you’re not really sure—but a wave of euphoria washes over you anyway as the coil in your stomach snaps, his pussy having successfully milked another one from you in what felt like no time at all. 

for a moment arthur keeps rutting on your cock, until finally the ache subsides and he’s pulsating around you, his rough motions slowly coming to a stop. while you manage to keep your eyes open you can see arthur setting his hat down onto the table beside the bed, his hips raising off your aching cock. foolishly you think he’s giving you a break, but you know better. this is arthur; he wants to be filled to the absolute brim. as expected, he sits on your dick again, evoking a long, breathy groan as his head falls back. 

“jus’ sit tight and let me use this cock o’ yours, all right?” he reminds you gruffly at the sight of your twitching arms, his hand residing on your chest keeps its hold as if you’ll break out of the restraints. not that you’re trying to, and he knows that, but the feeling of holding you down is evidently making him as wet as it is making you hard. 

he leans over you, his hands now gripping the headboard that shakes against the elegantly-plastered walls. you weakly buck your hips in an attempt to meet his determined bouncing but it’s futile when he squeezes around you. your mind goes blank, and now arthur’s lips are at your ear as he groans, muttering a nonsensical mix of praise and whatever else. he’s so slick that you slip out of him for a moment before he takes you again, humping your cock until once more you cum inside of him with what little you can and he immediately follows before stopping and leaning back. 

his chest is glistening with sweat as it rises and falls with his now evened breathing. he groans as he falls forward again, this time resting his body against yours, his lips back to your ear to kiss beneath it. he unties your hands with a dirty smile before he closes his eyes. you follow suite in slumber, only occasionally waking up to the feeling of arthur’s hips moving in his sleep, and the thought of arthur riding your aching cock again in the morning has your head fuzzy and your dick twitching with an exhausted but enticed delight.

thinking about how if you were fucking him without a condom he would lock his legs around your waist when you’d try pulling out and make you cum inside of him, just for the hell of it. afterwards he’d give you a faux scolding, talking about how irresponsible you ought to be to do something like that, only to flip the both of you over and ride you ‘till you cum inside of him again and again until he’s really had his fill. 

i also like to imagine the confidence that low-honor arthur has; if he wanted you, kissing up your neck and pulling you flush against him works well enough, but sometimes he likes to lay flat on his back, stripped naked with his legs spread, giving his pussy a good slap before taunting you with some sort of challenge. if he’s up for it, he might rub his clit, making you watch as pumps his fingers into his cunt. if he cums, he’ll spread himself open to entice you with the sight of his gushing cum. most of the time he’ll let you have your way, fucking into him at whatever pace you desire so long as your cum ends up in the same place, nestled deep inside him.

you’d fuck arthur while he’s bended over where after you’re done, you’ll pull out and watch as he spreads his legs, pulling at the folds of his pussy to show your cum oozing out of him like honey. he might even sit on your face and have you lick him clean too.

now arthur wouldn’t actually want to get pregnant.. however that doesn’t stop him from wanting to get fucked like he does. he’ll loll his head back and let you fuck him like you're trying to breed him, splitting his pussy open on your cock and filling him up to where his legs feel like they’re permanently spread apart to give you room to slot yourself back into him. arthur will lay back and listen to the sound of your cock pounding into his wet cunt and only when your old cum is forced to seep out of him in favor of a new batch will he close his legs, making sure his belly is kept full with just you. 

(and god knows if he let it happen he wouldn’t be caught dead without a big belly, always walking around camp barefoot having to stick to just doing chores. he’d be popping out kids left and right without a care in the world. abigail would faint if she saw arthur’s belly growing again months after already just having one kid. thinking about it, abigail or dutch would probably have to give you and arthur a different version of The Talk if he doesn’t wave it off or else he might really find himself bedridden with child more times than he can count)

arthur doesn’t need to be pregnant to have the whole camp know what you’re up to when you go out at night. you’ll return the next morning with bags under your eyes alongside an arthur with a little pep in his step. although you’ll be lucky if he’s considerate enough to actually leave camp; he may even offer an innocent night bath at some lake where he’ll strip his clothes directly in your line of sight, sauntering into the water with a not very innocent smirk on his face to pair. you might actually get a bath in, but it probably won’t do you any good when he just lays you on your back on the grass and rides you anyway. 

as much as he loves being on top of you, arthur also likes being flat on his stomach. he’ll moan and groan more than usual, especially if you’re at camp he’ll be egging you on to take him harder and will reach back to grab your legs and fuck himself on your dick if you slow down or try to pull out. he likes having you press him against the dirt or grass so that afterwards he can really see the mess you made painted on his body (as well as use it as an excuse to bathe together). 

he’ll talk a lot during sex too, but it’s mostly just muttering about your dick or calling you names. he’ll call you a whore as he bounces on your cock while leading your head to his chest to suck on his nipples. arthur would also leave marks on your body where everyone can see and will revel in the comments unsuspecting people will make that want to know who left them. (john will roll his eyes because dear god does he know who left them.)

of course i have to add how much arthur would love clothed sex. he likes it fast and dirty, and the time it takes to undress is simply one minute too long for him. he’ll ride you through your jeans if he has to, he’ll hump and grind against your cock until the front of your clothes are soaked.

among things like a game of chase i think a form of foreplay for arthur would be something like poker. especially if you’re bad at it, he’ll play any type of game with you if he knows he’ll win so he can have his way with you. if you want he’ll even hunt you down like a wolf, stalking you in the woods until you’re so eager you can hardly stand it, and then he’ll strike; knocking you down so fast you won’t even know what hit you until your belt is unbuckled and arthur’s on your dick looking down at you like he just caught his prey. 

one of arthur’s favorite things is having you eat him out, he’ll keep his legs around your head to make sure your mouth stays on him. he wants everything you’ll give him, your tongue diving into him stretching him out. he wants to feel you suck and spit on his clit, your teeth nibbling on him and pulling his lips apart to dip your fingers into his cunt. if his legs aren’t shaking by the end of it he’ll make you do it all again till your jaw is aching and your face is covered in his slick.

last thing i think arthur would actually like getting caught having sex. he likes the thrill of fucking at camp where someone like micah or john can hear, but even more so would love getting caught and walked in on. even if he's wanted, he'll ride you in a hotel room with the door cracked open, moaning just a bit louder than he usually would. arthur will have you bend him over somewhere in the woods, and isn't afraid to make direct eye contact with any passer by who sees. he'll shoot anyone who's truly a threat of course, but if he were to hear or see someone touching themself as they watch you, he'll cum on the spot with his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

[childrenofcain-if]

Hello beautiful Author!! I hope u are doing well! So basically I am a religious follower of your blog and uuugghh!!! This story is so beautifully crafted like the script the writing style the plot even the characters seem larger than life. Honestly u have my tremendous respect and admiration.... Also I am totally in love with cedric!! angsty adorable and hot. So since today is my birthday I decided to treat myself to a snippet ... Can u please write a fluff scene where in the future after marriage yk after C achieved his dream how would M!C react to find out that F!MC is pregnant. What kind of dad would he be and how would he handle the news especially if it's a girl. (PS: I love you okay? U rock!!! ❤❤😘)

the morning started like most mornings did in your household. the sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your manhattan penthouse, muted by the heavy curtains cédric insisted on keeping drawn just enough to keep the room from feeling exposed.

he was already in the kitchen when you woke up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he frowned at his ipad.

it was a weekday, which meant cédric was doing what cédric did best: handling things.

the man could command a room full of board members or negotiate a multi-billion-dollar deal, but he always took his mornings slow, like it was his personal rebellion against the world which demanded his attention. the smell of coffee hung thick in the air, and you could hear him muttering under his breath—half in french, half in english—as he skimmed over some report.

he looked up when he heard your footsteps. the cold glint in his pale green eyes softened the way they always did when he saw you.

“good morning, mon amour,” he said, setting the ipad down as if the numbers and charts weren’t important anymore.

you smiled at him, but there was a nervous flutter in your chest that didn’t quite dissipate.

“good morning,” you greeted back, making your way to the counter. “we need to talk.”

his brow furrowed, just slightly, in that way that meant his mind was already cataloging possible scenarios. you wondered if he was running through a mental checklist: a problem at work, an overdue bill, a delayed package. he was always looking for answers before you even finished your question.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low and calm, but his hand twitched where it rested on the counter.

you hesitated, suddenly unsure how to say it. for someone who had spent years speaking in boardrooms and drafting persuasive arguments, the words felt clumsy in your throat.

“there’s nothing wrong, per se,” you began, and you saw the tension in his shoulders ease—just a fraction. “it’s just... i’m pregnant.”

the silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. it was like the air had stilled, waiting for his reaction.

cédric blinked. once, twice. then he stepped back, leaning against the counter as if the weight of your words had hit him square in the chest. his mouth opened, then closed again. he looked—if you hadn’t known him better—younger. like a boy caught off guard, unsure of whether he was allowed to feel what he was feeling.

“you’re...?” he started, and then he stopped himself. his hand went to his hair, brushing the dark brown strands back, a nervous habit he’d never managed to shake. “you’re sure?”

you nodded, suddenly shy. “i took three tests. all positive. i was going to wait until we were both home later tonight, but—”

“no, no, now is perfect,” he interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended, like he was scolding you for even considering keeping it from him. he shook his head, and you could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “mon dieu.”

cédric laughed then, a sound so rare and so unguarded it made your chest ache. it was a laugh of disbelief, of joy, of sheer and unrestrained emotion. he crossed the kitchen in two long strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could feel his heart pounding against your ribs.

“je t’aime,” he murmured into your hair. “je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.”

you clung to him, laughing through the tears that had started spilling down your cheeks.

***

cédric’s reaction to the pregnancy didn’t end that morning. over the next few weeks, he threw himself into preparing for the baby with the same intensity he brought to his work. he was meticulous, obsessive even, researching everything from cribs to car seats. he vetoed three potential pediatricians before you’d even had a chance to meet them, insisting that only the best would do.

but it wasn’t just about the logistics. cédric was unexpectedly tender, in a way that made your heart twist. he read parenting books in bed at night, one hand on your growing belly as he absently stroked his thumb over the fabric of your pajamas. he brought you tea without being asked, stocked the pantry with your favorite snacks, and refused to let you carry anything heavier than a shopping bag.

when you found out the baby was a girl, it felt like the world completely shifted for him.

“it’s a girl,” you had informed him, holding the ultrasound picture out to him.

he took it from your hands carefully, as if it were made of glass, and stared at it for a long moment. his expression was unreadable, but you could see the way his fingers trembled, just slightly.

“a daughter,” he said, the words thick in his throat. “our daughter.”

you nodded with a small smile, watching him carefully. “how do you feel about that?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he set the picture down on the table and turned to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made you shiver.

“i’m going to protect her,” cédric said, his voice low and fierce. “from everything. from everyone. she’ll never have to wonder if she’s loved. she’ll never have to fight for what’s hers.”

“i can already see it,” you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood. “you’ll be the dad who scares off all her partners.”

“damn right i will,” he said, his smile returning. “she’s going to know her worth. and if anyone tries to undermine that—” he didn’t finish the sentence, but the murderous look in his eyes said enough.

you leaned forward, cupping his cheek and drawing him back to you. “she’ll know her worth because of you,” you said softly. “because of how much you’ll love her.”

“and her mother,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

he kissed you then, slow and lingering, and when he pulled back, his hands settled gently over your stomach.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “she’s going to be so lucky to have you.”

cédric shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “no,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to your belly. “i’m the lucky one.”

***

as the months went on, cédric proved himself to be everything you’d hoped for and more. he was attentive to a fault, sometimes to the point of driving you mad with his insistence on helping you. ehen the baby kicked for the first time, he was right there, his hand pressed against your stomach, his eyes wide with wonder.

when your due date finally arrived, he was the calmest one in the delivery room. he held your hand through every contraction (even when you almost broke his bones), whispered words of encouragement in your ear, and refused to leave your side, even when the nurses told him to give you space.

and when your daughter was finally born, cédric was the first to hold her, much to your father’s exasperation. he cradled her tiny, wrinkled body in his arms, his expression soft and awestruck.

“she’s perfect,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

you smiled, exhausted but deliriously happy. “she has your eyes.”

“and a head full of your hair,” he said, his voice breaking.

in that moment, you knew without a doubt that he would be the kind of father who would move mountains for his daughter. he would be firm but fair, protective but not overbearing, and endlessly devoted to her happiness.

as he rocked her gently, humming a lullaby under his breath, you realized that this—your little family—was everything you’d ever wanted. and as much as you knew about how cédric wasn’t very good at expressing his emotions, it was clear as day right now that nothing would ever compare to the love he had for the two of you.

[dollishsz]

HUNGRY FOR LIFEE ── .✦

a/n: based off “like a tattoo” by sade and also just a small Drabble I had while playing my playlist so yeah and I also have like a big fic coming!

(Tags: jason Todd x fem!reader)

Darkness had a way of wrapping itself around everything, and Jason knew it better than most. It was his home, his constant companion. But there were moments, fleeting moments, when the storm felt like it was quieting, if only for a brief second.

The kind of moment when he caught the flash of your smile from across the room, like a star breaking through the clouds, pulling him in.

You weren’t like the others distant, cold, indifferent. No. There was something warm about you, something real, like a breath of fresh air in a place that had forgotten what it was like to feel anything other than numb. But that warmth made him feel vulnerable. And Jason Todd had spent too long building walls to let someone like you in, especially someone who made him feel.

He never intended for it to happen. The way his eyes followed you, the way his chest tightened when you spoke his name, the way the world felt a little less jagged when you were close. He tried to bury it, tried to convince himself it was just a passing feeling, but it was a mark that couldn’t be erased.

Your touch haunted him soft, delicate, yet it left an impression so deep that it lingered even when you were gone. He could still remember the feel of your fingers brushing his arm, your hand slipping into his when he hadn’t even realized he was reaching for you. It was a touch that said more than words could ever convey, a touch that both terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

He remembered your laugh too. The sound of it, light and easy, like you hadn’t a care in the world. Something that Jason had forgotten how to do, something he didn’t think he would ever have the right to feel again. You made him want to feel everything—the rush of excitement, the ache in his chest, the hunger for something more than the violence that had defined his life for so long.

But when he was alone, when the world was silent and all that was left was the weight of his past, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still too broken for someone like you. That somehow, even your warmth couldn’t erase the scars that clung to him like shadows.

He tried to focus, tried to push those thoughts aside as he stood in the shadows of Gotham's streets, keeping watch. But his thoughts were always drawn back to you, like a magnetic pull that refused to let him go.

His hands clenched at his sides, the memory of your touch lingering in his skin. It wasn’t just the hands, though—it was everything. The way you made him feel alive again, when the world had always seemed so determined to keep him buried in its darkness. You were like a tattoo on his soul, a mark he could never wash away, no matter how hard he tried.

And as he stared down at the city below, he realized one thing: for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd was hungry for life—for the moments he’d almost forgotten could exist. He didn’t know what he was going to do with that hunger, but he knew he couldn’t ignore it. Not anymore.

Not with you so close.

[transformers-spike]

hey! been reading all your stuff and absolutely love what you do. i got an idea regarding team prime having their first christmas party at the base (june insisted), and they’re each introduced to the concept of kissing under mistletoe

I'm going for something where the reader is already in a relationship with the bot of choice. It's mostly just cute interactions with a hint of spice mid post.

Optimus takes it rather well considering… everything. He’s got a team to lead, a dead planet on his conscience and a homoerotic rivalry with his ex-best friend/murderous dictator who’s obsessed with him. Life could be a lot better right now. But it also could be a lot worse. He’s content watching from the sidelines as his fellow Autobots enjoy a new part of Earth culture. Don’t mind him, he’ll join in once his work is done. For now the best he can do is flash you an encouraging smile as you fail to string out the Christmas lights for the fifth time in a row – you can do it, he believes in you. He tries his best to seem oblivious when you climb the ladder June is holding still (the ultimate wingwoman), keeping a close optic behind the terminal just in case things go south and he has to catch you. When you call his name with the goofiest smile on your face, he beams at you, equal parts pride and cute aggression. “Hey,” you drawl, doing your best to seem as charming as possible while holding on for dear life on the only thing stopping you from plummeting to the ground. “So there’s this Christmas tradition you may not have heard about…” He attentively listens to the explanation, nodding his helm and faking surprise when he hears what mistletoes entail. His spark stutters in his chassis when you ask him, sheepishly averting your gaze, if he’d like to partake in this human tradition. He graciously accepts, hovering a servo over your frame (in case you stumble back in shock) and leans in for you to initiate the kiss. Yes, Miko told him. Yes, she ruined the surprise. No, he won’t tell you because he’s never seen you happier getting to kiss him.

Ratchet is unimpressed. At least that’s what he wants you to believe. He’s so invested in decorating he spends every minute off work painstakingly stringing obnoxiously bright garlands around the railings and holding the kids in his servos to reach the highest branches of the gigantic and possibly illegally uprooted Christmas tree. He’s complaining about the time he will waste taking down the decorations, but everyone in the base knows damn well he’s going to keep them on as long as he can. You don’t even have to bring up the mistletoe, he’s overheard enough from the crappy Holiday-themed movies the kids have been watching to secretly crank up the charm while scoffing on the outside. You’re watching the kids place the final touches on the tree, a mug of eggnog in one hand while helping yourself to some Santa-shaped sugar cookies. You barely notice Ratchet leaning in with a minuscule strand of mistletoe between his massive digits. It takes a moment for you to understand, what with the plant being nigh invisible in his servo. Finally, you swallow thickly and stand on your tippy toes (on the couch no less) to reach his intake. The kiss is the longest he’s ever experienced up until now, and while he has the kissing abilities of a dying fish, he melts into it while you forget how to breathe.

Bulkhead is clearly enjoying himself, watching bad Christmas dramas with the kids, trying to figure out how to remix old carols with Miko adding a rock (and occasionally death metal) twist. It’s simultaneously the funniest and most mind-boggling Holiday celebration anyone has ever experienced, add Wheeljack into the mix and now Ratchet is watching these two like a hawk in case they roughhouse too much and crush the Christmas tree. Miko would actually love to see that, and you and Bulkhead both have to be the responsible adults of the situation and try to keep the damage at a minimum while Wheeljack acts like the world’s worst influence on a teenager. By Primus, Bulkhead is actually tempted to join it, and now you have to reel in two grown adult mechs eons your senior and one 15 year old girl. Primus save you. And yet, beyond all expectations, said 15 year old girl is your wingwoman for the evening, which is simultaneously humiliating and a godsend. When she pulls out the plastic mistletoe from her pocket and holds it over you and Bulkhead’s heads from her vantage point on his neck, a move she’s been planning months in advance, your soul exits your body. The staring contest between you and her robot dad breaks only when Miko urges you to do something at least. The kiss is short and sweet, Bulkhead is screaming inside during the whole ordeal no matter how brief, hoping to Primus he didn’t somehow kiss you so badly during a five second interval you’re willing to break up with him. Nah, you’re blushing so intensely June thinks you’re about to have an aneurysm.

Wheeljack is a menace, and it’s entirely your fault. Mentioning the tradition wasn’t supposed to end up like this, but alas, horny dumbassery always leads to worst case scenarios. Bulkhead told you to go for it, meaning well with his encouragement but sealing your fate for the next 24 hours. Ratchet asked you if you were out of your mind, the voice of reason and simultaneously the bitchiest best friend you could ask for, telling you loud and clear if anything happened it would be on your conscience alone. June put a hand on your shoulder and (half) jokingly said she would ask to be assigned to your hospital room. Truly, you have the will to live of a hamster doing its hardest to die a horribly gruesome death and reach hamsterhallah. What a genius you are. Wheeljack wasted no time getting you under the mistletoe Bulkhead helped string up, and maybe you envisioned it differently when he narrowly bruised your lips going in for the kiss. You tried to keep the sloppy makeout session brief, but from the way Bulkhead was shielding the kids behind not one but two giant servos, you might have overdone it. What you especially did not expect, however, was waking up in the Jackhammer’s passenger seat with the worst migraine of your life and dry transfluid slathered all over your crotch. Now, trying to recall the events of last night with the worst eggnog hangover you’ve ever experienced, you can only wait for Wheeljack to awaken from recharge in the pilot’s seat. You note the traces of transfluid on his lips, and your eyes trail down to your suspiciously bluish hand. Did you fist Wheeljack on Christmas Eve?

Bumblebee is having the time of his life. You got Raf (and his Autobot guardian) some discount Christmas-themed games from the only offbrand Gamestop in all of Jasper as an early present. You watch with rapt amusement as they laugh at the frankly abysmal coding and game design, enjoying themselves to the fullest despite the sub-optimal gameplay, but you almost choke on your spit when Raf actually starts analyzing the code for the game and applying level-breaking cheats in a matter of minutes. Cheesus Christ, that kid can hack into the Pentagon at this point. You move in front of Agent Fowler’s line of sight to stop him from seeing just what kind of threat to national security Raf can become. As the day nearly comes to an end and you’re half sure Jack is scrutinizing Ratchet who’s flirting with his mom who’s tucking her hair behind her ear in the single mom sign for “I will fuck this alien robot”; you beckon Bumblebee closer and hold out the mistletoe over your head and his uh… forehead. You kiss him slowly, holding onto the railing as he leans his face into your lips, beeping happily. Little do you know, Miko saw it and now she’s going to hold out a mistletoe over your heads for the next 5 hours until your mouth grows numb from kissing him. He looks so damn happy whenever he notices the mistletoe, you can’t say no to him, not when Dadimus Prime is watching from the other corner of the room.

Arcee is ahead of schedule. She knows what you’re going to do, and she’s already planning to one up you. Yes, she’s been especially busy giving the kids a lift to put up the final ornaments on the tree in spite of her initial protests, but now you’re fiddling with your fingers stealing occasional glances like you’re desperately hyping yourself up for what’s to come. You have no idea what you’re doing to her looking so shy and cute. She could just eat you up. You’re unsure when you go up to her, Christmas fun fact on your lips and sweating bullets just thinking about what you’re going to do - and your jaw drops down to the Earth’s core when she gingerly holds a strand of mistletoe over your heads. She wishes she could capture your expression and lock it inside her spark. When you kiss, it’s deep and longing, filled with a need to give yourself up completely in spite of being so finite next to her. And she welcomes it, all of it, taking your eagerness and savoring every minute with you. When you pull away heaving for breath, your hair’s a mess and you’re redder than Cliffjumper’s plating. Your eyes twinkle when you look at her, equal parts love and desperation to surrender yourself to her with all the trust in the world. She will protect you until the day she offlines.

[cherryatombomb]

Idiot's Guide to Proposals by Simon Riley

John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

also an ao3!! the second part in the series. no archive warnings apply beyond brief mentions of abuse from ghost's backstory

Ghost loved Soap. Simon loved Johnny. The sky was blue. Scorpions glow under UV light. These were, of course, evident truths of the world. They were just as obvious as breathing, at least to Simon. He thought about these things a lot – mostly the love part, of course. The scorpions were still interesting.  

Right now, Johnny tucked against his side, his mohawk a mess, drool seeping out the corner of his mouth, Simon could only think about how much he loved him. There were signs of aging slightly more obvious, now – a touch of grey in his hair, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and it made something ache within him. Not that any aging had stopped Johnny from being, well, Johnny. He was still as energetic as ever, putting him through his paces near enough every day. He brought excitement to his life every day.  

He wasn’t sure he could ever get sick of it.  

His hands shifted, skimming over his partner’s shoulders. Shirtless, because he was a bundle of heat, but he could never bring himself to complain. Well, maybe in summer, but it was a fucking rarity it ever got warm enough to complain about in England. His fingers traced over the scar on his shoulder, a memory of Las Almas, of the concern that had unwittingly flooded him at the thought of losing him. The beginning of the end, at least of Ghost’s attempt to be distant. He’d never been more relieved that things hadn’t gone how he’d planned.  

His reminiscing was cut off by a sudden, sharp alarm, and a groan escaped the man asleep next to him. “S’too fuckin’ early, Si, you’re a madman,” he grouched, burying his head into the crook of his neck and looping an arm around his waist. Simon’s lips twitched in amusement, running one soothing hand over his shoulders, whilst the other fumbled to turn his alarm off.  

“Running in the morning is-” 

“Nice and peaceful and there’s no idiots to bug you, I know,” Soap cut him off, continuing to grouch. He did him the luxury of pretending he couldn’t feel the small smile pressed against his neck.  

“Exactly,” he hummed, his other hand now moving to ruffle Johnny’s hair. The man reached up to swat it away lazily, only settling when both of Simon’s arms were looped around his back. “Sometimes, you can see the geese flying, too.” 

“The geese?” 

“Yeah. They fly in a ‘V’ formation. You know why one side is longer than the other?” 

Soap lifted his head, eyes still soft with sleep, a mixture of curiosity and suspicion in his eyes. “... Why?” 

“Because there’s more geese on that side.” 

Soap stared at him, his curiosity dissipating into joking frustration, and he groaned once more. Rolling over, he buried his head into the pillow. Simon pretended not to notice the slight shake of his shoulders as he laughed. “You’re an evil man,” He informed him, “Go do your fuckin’ run, I’m going to sleep, like a normal person.” 

A chuckle was drawn from him, and Simon sat up, smoothing the other man’s hair before he pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Then, he drew back, standing and making his way over to the wardrobe. Most of Soap’s stuff was strewn over the floor lazily, clothes crumpled and creased, but he liked to keep his neat. He grabbed a hoodie, trousers, gloves, and his mask, sliding them on. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he made his way out, appreciating the cool air of the morning against his skin.  

His run around the grounds was somewhat brief – the frost that had settled made it slippery in places, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself quite so early. After getting his fill, he returned to base, stopping off at his room to switch out some of his clothes. The bed was empty, the duvet mussed up and thrown to the side, and he smiled to himself as he fixed it.  

After cleaning their room, he slipped back out, heading to the kitchen area, tilting his head at the sound of voices. They were sharing their base with another team for some training exercises, and though he grumbled internally at the amount of new people here, he couldn’t deny that it was useful practice.  

Soap was in the centre of the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal, animatedly talking about... something. There were two others watching – a small, wiry woman, the sniper of the other group, and a tall, muscular blond. Both looked enraptured, laughing as his partner flapped a hand out, only to nudge his bowl precariously close to the edge, nearly knocking it over.  

It looked domestic. It looked almost normal. There it was, another ache in his heart, an almost physical pain. Simon wanted this. He wanted more of this. He didn’t want adrenaline, and fights, and combat, he wanted Johnny, still ruffled with sleep, smiling widely and preparing his own breakfast. He wanted mornings where they could sleep in, and a home with him, together, and all the nice things that came with it.  

The thought threw him off kilter. There was a time, long ago, when he’d given up on the idea of domesticity. He was 7, wide-eyed and innocent, begging his brother to help as they sat in their bedroom upstairs, listening to the shouting downstairs. Marriage was a lie. It shackled you to someone else, and it left you unsafe. Relationships were unsafe. He built walls so impenetrable he figured nobody would ever make a dent.  

Of course he should’ve known. Soap was a demolitions expert, after all. Blowing shit up was his forte.  

Their eyes met, and Simon felt the air sucked out of his lungs. He spun around, and swiftly made a tactical retreat out of the room. What was he thinking? Marriage? He wasn’t a marriage guy.  

... But he couldn’t deny, now that he’d given it a word, how much he wanted it. He wanted it so much it hurt. He wasn’t a marriage guy, but he wasn’t a relationship guy, either, and he’d somehow made it work.  

Finding himself instinctively back in their room, he grabbed a knife from one of their drawers, flipping it around his fingers as he thought. How the hell were you supposed to propose? How did you know what ring was right? Where do you propose? He was fucking useless in this matter. And it wasn’t like he could ask anybody for help – Gaz had been going steady for a while with his partner, but they weren’t anywhere close to being married. Price was married to the job, according to him. Soap was... well, the marriage candidate. He didn’t even know if Alex and Farah were a thing, or if they were just close friends. 

Simon had a very short group of friends. It was fucking awful.  

Just as he was about to give up all hope, he finally remembered the one married person he knew – Laswell. It was perfect. She could help. Definitely. He just... had to ask. And swear her to secrecy, because Soap couldn’t know. It had to be a surprise.  

He placed his knife down, pressed his head into his hands, and groaned. Maybe he was an idiot for thinking this. Things were good as they were – why ruin them? 

But then again... the thought felt so nice. No. He was going to do it. He was going to ask Johnny to marry him.  

He just had to figure out how.  

[n1ght0f-nyx]

hello! I was wondering if you’d be willing to write a Phantom of the Opera request centering around reader’s appreciation for Erik’s hands. I mean… he is a musician and can play pretty much any instrument. Not to mention, he can be so delicate in the way he touches reader while also having strangled men (which reader isnt crazy about but… one step at a time…)

How would he react to them showing him such appreciation? And would it lead to anything more…? if you do decide to do nsfw… how would he feel about reader asking him to (lightly) choke them?

feel free to make this sfw or nsfw as you're comfortable with!

Where Trust Lies

i didnt make it nsfw but it is still suggestive!! erik destler x gn reader warnings/ tags- light choking, not nswf, gn reader, i demand requests!!! word count- 1649 words

Erik’s hands were the first part of him you truly knew.

The gentle curve of his long fingers on the keys of his organ, the quiet strength they showed as he adjusted his scores, the rhythmic flex of his knuckles when frustration gnawed at him—all of it fascinated you. His hands were, in many ways, the truest representation of him: deft, expressive, and disciplined, yet trembling with the undercurrent of a deeper, more turbulent self.

You often found yourself watching them from across the dim room as Erik lost himself in music. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, you let your admiration slip through the walls you carefully built to keep your thoughts concealed from his sharp, all-seeing eyes.

The candlelight barely reached where you sat on the edge of the divan, but it illuminated Erik clearly at his organ. His hands, ever graceful, moved like water over the keys, coaxing out a melody that was equal parts melancholy and tender. You didn’t know the piece, but you felt it—the notes wrapped around you, luring you into his world.

Your gaze lingered on the pale stretch of his fingers. They danced with precision, pressing and lifting as though the keys were extensions of himself. You’d often admired his hands in silence, but tonight, the sight pulled at something deeper within you. Those hands had given life to the beauty in the room: the music, the carefully inked compositions scattered on his desk, the delicate carvings on the furniture he’d restored.

They were hands of creation. Hands that bore the evidence of their toil, calloused but precise, and you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to feel them against your own skin.

You barely realized you were staring until Erik stilled. The final chord hung in the air before vanishing into the heavy quiet of the underground lair. Slowly, he turned toward you, his movements deliberate, and you realized with a flash of embarrassment that he’d caught you watching.

His dark eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding them. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low and clipped. “Are you displeased with the music?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. The music is beautiful, Erik.”

He tilted his head, his disfigured lips pressing into a thin line. “Then why do you look at me as though you pity me?”

Your breath caught. “I don’t pity you,” you said softly, leaning forward. “I was admiring your hands.”

For a moment, Erik froze. His eyes flicked to his own hands as though seeing them for the first time. He flexed his fingers once, and a soft scoff escaped his throat. “My hands,” he repeated, almost mockingly. “They are as grotesque as the rest of me. What is there to admire?”

You moved before you could think better of it, slipping off the divan to kneel before him. His sharp intake of breath made you pause, but you pressed forward, gently lifting one of his hands between yours. “They’re not grotesque,” you murmured, running your fingertips over the calloused pads of his fingers. “They’re beautiful.”

Erik’s breath hitched, and you glanced up to see him staring at you, his face unreadable. You pressed on, letting your thumb brush over his knuckles. “Your hands create so much, Erik. Music that moves people, pieces that live beyond this place. Even this lair—it’s you. Everything you’ve built is because of these hands.”

His fingers twitched under your touch, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched you, something like vulnerability flickering in his gaze.

“You… you think so highly of them?” he whispered, as though the words were foreign to him.

“I do,” you said, your voice steady. “I’ve always thought so. I’ve just never told you.”

He swallowed hard, his free hand gripping the edge of the organ bench. His breathing grew uneven, and you realized how much weight your words carried. Erik, who was so accustomed to rejection and fear, was staring at you as though you’d spoken something sacred.

Carefully, you placed his hand against your cheek, closing your eyes for a moment. His touch was hesitant, but warm, his thumb brushing your skin in the lightest of caresses.

“Why?” he rasped, his voice breaking. “Why would you say this?”

You opened your eyes, meeting his. “Because it’s true. And because I want you to know how much I see in you.”

Something inside him seemed to shatter at that. His hand cupped your cheek more firmly, and before you knew it, he was pulling you closer, his other hand lifting to cradle the back of your neck.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice trembling. “To speak of beauty in something I’ve always loathed… You undo me.”

You barely managed to reply before he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. His breath ghosted over your lips, his hands anchoring you to him as though you might vanish. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erik’s forehead rested against yours, his breath shallow and uneven. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, one against your cheek and the other cradling the nape of your neck. His eyes searched yours, filled with an unspoken question, as if he were waiting for you to push him away.

But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up to trace the back of his hand, marveling at the strength beneath his pale skin. “Erik,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness.

“Yes?” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, his thumb brushing your jaw in an almost reverent motion.

“I want you to choke me.”

The words hung between you, heavy and electric. Erik froze, his breath catching as if you had struck him. His hand stilled against your neck, the tension in his fingers palpable.

“What… did you say?” His voice was low, laced with disbelief and something darker—a flicker of curiosity.

You shifted closer, your hands resting lightly on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart beneath your palms. “I want you to choke me,” you repeated, softer but no less certain. “I trust you, Erik. Completely. I want to feel your strength—your control. I’m not afraid of you.”

Erik’s expression twisted, his lips parting as though to protest, but no words came. Instead, he stared at you, his brows furrowed, his hands twitching as though he were waging a silent war with himself.

“You… you don’t understand what you’re asking,” he finally said, his voice strained. “I could hurt you. I’ve spent my life as a monster, wielding my hands for harm, not… not this.”

“You’re not a monster,” you said firmly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “And I trust you not to hurt me. I’m asking because I want this—not because I see you as dangerous, but because I see you as powerful.”

His breathing grew heavier, and he closed his eyes, his grip on your neck tightening just enough for you to feel the weight of his hand. When he opened his eyes again, they were filled with something raw and unguarded. “If I do this,” he said slowly, his voice shaking, “you must promise to tell me if it’s too much. I cannot bear to harm you.”

“I promise,” you said, your voice steady.

Erik let out a shuddering breath, and his fingers flexed against your skin. Slowly, he brought his other hand up to join the first, his long fingers curling gently around your throat. The pressure was light at first, almost hesitant, as though he feared breaking you.

“Like this?” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours.

You nodded, your breath hitching at the sensation. “A little more,” you whispered.

His fingers tightened incrementally, and you felt the strength in his hands, the undeniable control he held over you. The sensation was intoxicating, not because it left you breathless but because it was Erik—vulnerable, conflicted, and utterly present with you in this moment.

“You’re trembling,” you said softly, your hands moving to rest over his.

“I—” He cut himself off, his voice breaking. “I’m terrified. I don’t understand how you could want this from me.”

“Because I trust you,” you said again, your voice steady despite the weight of his hands. “Because I want you to see that you don’t have to hold yourself back with me.”

Something inside him snapped then, a low growl escaping his lips as his grip tightened just enough to make your pulse quicken. He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

“You undo me,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

Before you could answer, his lips were on yours—fierce, desperate, and unyielding. His hands remained steady on your throat, a perfect balance of control and care, grounding you in his presence. The kiss deepened, his body pressing against yours as though he couldn’t bear to leave any space between you.

When he finally pulled back, his chest heaved, his hands slipping from your throat to cradle your face. His eyes were wild, dark with desire and something deeper—a fragile kind of devotion.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You shook your head, your lips curling into a soft smile. “No, Erik. You were perfect.”

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against yours once more. “You are either the most reckless creature I’ve ever met,” he murmured, “or the only one who’s ever truly understood me.”

“Maybe I’m both,” you said, your voice light but full of affection.

Erik let out a soft, breathless laugh—rare and beautiful, like the man himself. And as his hands slid back to rest lightly on your shoulders, you knew that this moment, fragile and fierce, was just the beginning of something neither of you could put into words.

[fillesdesiir]

PLEASE YOUR PRINCE / aemond targaryan

aemond targaryen x maid fem!reader (no appearance described) + mentions of masturbation, slight dubcon.

authors note / ( hi, i havent written for this app in two years! nor have I posted but uhhh im bacK? ig? i still don't really know how to work this app but if any1 wants to be friends, just comment also ty for 400+ followers, I didn't even realize I had that many lol ) © fillesdesiir, all rights reserved. do not copy, translate nor steal my work. @/ -sexpistols on wattpad (fanfics only and where I only post tbh)

Aemond Targaryen was selfish. Never willing to share any of his toys nor did he like the mere concept of doing things without any gain. Perhaps this was rooted in being born with a golden spoon in his mouth, he had been spoiled from the day he was born. Or it could have been when he lost his eye and suddenly the world viewed him as a monster. Maybe the urge to prove himself, better himself, no, be better than those who have wronged him is what created the man he was today.

Nonetheless, whatever creature lurked in the depths of his soul, wants you. You were forbidden, a mere servant for the crown but blessed with the beauty fit for a queen. Watching you bend over and clean his chambers made something inside him churn. The way you’d breathe heavily after long hours of cleaning, your breasts rising up and down with droplets of sweat sliding down the valley of your tits left him needy. He wanted you so badly that his hand was no longer enough to ease the throbbing in his pants. His cock red, swollen, and pulsing with the desire to put itself in you. 

You were driving him to madness. The need to take you from behind as you made his bed, sent him over the edge. This primal urge in him had gotten so bad, he found himself in the company of whores on silks street. Aemond was so desperate to pleasure the lust in him, he’d envision whores as you while he fucked them. It was humiliating. You were making a fool of a prince and you didn’t even know it. Aemond felt as though you were haunting him, with your wicked tongue which he wished to see so badly trailing his cock. 

He had gone on like this for months, rutting against his sheets and anything that could ease himself. Aemond could not take it anymore, he snapped. 

And so, one day as you were doing your routine rounds, Aemond made sure to make his room extra messy. He needed to keep you there as long as he could. Aemond was on a mission to expel this entity (you) from his mind. He could no longer be haunted by the mere idea of you. 

When you arrived at his chambers, your jaw fell agape at the state of the room. It was in ruins, papers thrown across the ground, books displaced, his bedding thrown to the ground as well as spills upon spills of wine. Aemond smiled to himself as he watched you walk in slowly with a bucket and mop in hand. He clicked his tongue before speaking, a grin present on his lips. 

“Is something wrong?” He asked you mockingly. Your eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed. 

“Of course not, my prince,” You muttered in response with deep breaths and a rapid shake of your head. 

“I know it is quite a mess. And I’m sure you’ve had a long day, haven’t you?” Aemond teased as he watched you grimace at the mess. You nodded, unsure whether you were allowed to engage with him in such a manner. 

Suddenly, as you began to clean his mess of a room, an idea struck him. 

“Ah, I feel terrible making you clean this all up. Alas it is your job but, I wonder, perhaps,” he paused, “Perhaps you could complete your daily task another way,” Aemond spoke hesitantly, eager to see your response. 

“What is it you mean?” You questioned his idea, curiosity eating at you. The prince had never even spoken to you this long and so his words enticed you. 

Aemond stalked toward you, his chest barely brushing against your own. 

“It is your duty to help me. Please me, is it not?” Aemond whispered against your ear, his slender hand caressing your cheek. Your cheeks flushed and Aemond immediately picked up on the deepening of your breaths. He towered over you and so he had a clear view of your tits, rising up and down slowly, heavily. 

“Get on your knees,” Aemond commanded. A moment of silence passed by, a simple stare-off between the two of you before you shakingly got on the ground. Aemond smiled, proud of your display of obedience. “Now take my cock out,” he ordered with a slow run through the top of your hair. A small gasp escaped from your lips. You were taken aback by his words but as you stared up at him, you found yourself unable to say no.

 Slowly, you unbuttoned his pants which were a lavish leather. Your hands were shaking as you slipped them down right below his arse along with his undergarment. Small breaths left you as Aemond’s cock rested before you. It was long, thick with veins entwined into it. But what truly caught you by surprise was how hard it was. The tip of his cock was flushed red and the entirety of it was pulsating. 

“Now suck. Perform your duties and please your prince,” Aemond whispered sensually. With a nervous gulp, you gripped his cock in your hand. Aemond hissed in as you touched him, the lust coursing through him had left him painfully hard. You stared up at him, looking deeply into his eyes before taking your tongue and licking his cock from top to bottom. When you reached the tip, you swirled your tongue around the swollen flesh before hollowing out your cheeks and taking him whole. Aemond’s head tipped back in ecstasy as you gave him what felt like the best head of his life. 

You sucked him off uneasily at first, nervous about his reaction but slowly you eased into it. Your head bobbed up and down on his cock rapidly causing Aemond to grip the back of your head for support. He grunted loudly from above you, lost in the pleasure of your warm mouth as you took him. His mouth was agape, sharp breaths leaving him continuously. Aemond pushed you down onto his cock deeply with his hand, gripping and pulling at your hair. Salvia dripped from the sides of your mouth as you gagged on his cock, taking him in over and over.

The scene taking place was so erotic, terribly filthy, and forbidden but nevertheless, your thighs were squeezing themselves together. You could feel your own arousal dripping from your cunt, leaving a small puddle on the ground. Aemond moaned and grunted as he began to fuck your mouth. His thrusts were quick, desperate, and filled with need. You had been haunting him for so long with the little moans of stress you’d let out as you’d clean a too-high-up place. With the way your dress would ride up as you bent over to clean his chambers, revealing your thighs. The way sweat would trail down the valley of your tits after a long day's work. You were a parasite that he wanted to be rid of. 

But even now, as he thrusted inside of your mouth, taking pleasure in the sounds of your gags. All he could think about was when he’d get the chance to do something like this again with you. He wanted so badly to hear you moan into his cock, as you were doing so now, every day. Aemond had to have your wicked tongue run its warmth against his cock for eternity. 

He needed you. Craved you. And as his spend filled your mouth, Aemond realized something then. His plan had not worked, you were still haunting him.

[strwberri-milk]

Songs of Sorrow - Ch. 18

Rancher!AU || Boothill x Fem!Reader || Slowburn, Drama

just in case this is triggering for any readers it is outright said that mikhal fully abandoned his wife as bait for boothill!! i dont really know how to tag it but please keep that in mind if thats difficult for you to process!! you can skip up untli boothill asks about susheng!!

Boothill’s body was always made for tough work - he grew up working hard then his time as a bounty hunter simply reinforced the innate strength he felt he always had. He had no idea how much he missed the solid weight of a gun in his hand, spinning the metal around his finger as he brought extra ammo and hides a second piece before making his way out the door. 

He knows that Mikhal is currently his best bet. He’s passing the man’s house anyway on the way back up to town, leisurely strolling up the porch as he pounds his fist against the wooden door. 

Boothill knows that there’s no reason to think that the man would open up for him that easily. Doing so was basically a death sentence right now but that wasn’t going to stop him from getting the answers he needed. He barely lets a second go by before he’s knocking on the door roughly again, his forearm adding to the loud thudding as he knocks insistently. 

“Open your damn door Mikhal,” Boothill hisses. 

“You’re just makin’ things worse for yourself the longer you make me wait. I ain’t in the habit of killin’ women and children but I might just have to make an exception for your sweet little Geryll there. She’s the one who instigated this,” he threatens. 

He knocks on the door again, dangerously close to splintering the wood. 

“Khashin, you’re in there too aren’tcha? Don’t worry - I won’t be hurtin’ you or your baby. Y’all ain’t got a quarrel with me. I know if that dimwit of a husband of yours talked to you he wouldn’t have done anything like this. You’re far too good for him - if anythin’ happens I’d be more than willin’ to take you in if you needed me to.” 

At no response he steps back from the door, looking to the window that sat at the side. The curtains were drawn, definitely a smart move if they wanted to avoid someone looking in but he also knew the back door didn’t have such protection. 

Boothill easily jumps the railing, gun in hand as he begins to circle the foundation of the home. He knew that with there being no upstairs, it’d be very easy to pin down whoever was hiding inside to the basement. There was no way he’d be letting them run out on him, not without giving him the answers he needed. 

It’s a little scary how easily he falls back into old habits, the adrenaline pumping through his veins making butterflies of excitement dance around in his stomach. Hunting down scum of the galaxy and putting an end to some lowlife’s existence never ceased to excite him and now, like this, he gets the sense that he’s slipping back into that headspace. 

He makes his way to the back door, pulling out his knife to cut through the screen and let himself in. They neglected to pull the glass over the door, heavy boots trailing mud into the usually pristine home. Listening carefully, he makes sure that there are no signs of life before continuing his canvas through the home, gun held steady in front of him as he softens his breath to pay attention to any, and everything in the dark rooms. 

He makes it back around to the front of the house, seeing the missing keys and shoes. They must have made a run for it as soon as he threatened Mikhal’s life, running his fingers through his hair as he kicked at a wall. 

“Dammit!” 

He holsters his gun as he realises that he won’t be getting anything, opening the door to the basement just as he hears a soft sob. The noise stopped as soon as it started, his ears catching the unsteady breathing of someone desperately trying to hide their tears. 

He makes a quick loop of the home again, realising that he neglected to check a storage closet that was far too small for a single person to be in. Still, he opens the door anyway, jaw dropping at the sight. 

“Khashin! Get out here.” 

He pulls the very pregnant woman up from the floor despite the initial recoil from his touch. He leads her to a couch, sitting her down and pouring a glass of water for her. He kneels next to her, gun on the table to avoid her worrying about him shooting her. 

Her tears are never ending, Boothill slowly realising that she must have been left here as a diversion. 

“How long has it been?” he asks her softly, trying to move things along to find you. 

“I - I don’t know,” she cries, head in her hands. 

“Mikhal - he said he knew you wouldn’t hurt me, that I’d be safe - but I don’t - I don’t know why he thought to shove me in there.”

“I need you to think Khashin. How long has it been? If you can’t tell me that, can you at least tell me where you think he went? Geryll?” he tries. 

“They didn’t tell me. Geryll ran over after telling me she was going to go see you then she and Mikhal started talking about how they needed to go collect their money. Mikhal told me to stay in there until you came here,” she manages through tears, hands going to her stomach. 

“I think he’s going to leave me. They’re both going to leave,” she cries, shaking her head in disbelief. 

Boothill scoffs, reaching for the landline to dial Dan Heng’s number. 

“You know Susheng, right? The egg farmers up the way? I’m callin’ one of them to come down here, keep an eye on you. Don’t worry about any of that right now or else your little baby will come out frownin’.” 

He can’t help but feel bad for her, knowing that her marriage was crumbling around her as he talked to Dan Heng. Unfortunately, now was not the time for him to comfort her, knowing that every minute he spent here was another that you were getting further away from him. 

He leaves before Dan Heng gets there, making the drive into town that he’s done millions of times at this point. He’s glad that his car isn’t anything fancy, easily blending in with the others as he parks it somewhere nondescript. His hunt continues on foot, heading right to that fateful lounge that started it all. 

It’s far too early in the day for the doors to be open but he knows that staff are already milling about looking through the window innocuously to gather quick headcounts. Sampo might be amongst the crowd, helping prepare things for the day and wherever he was, you should be near. 

 He’s disappointed not to see the man, beginning to make his way down to where he found you being kidnapped. If Sampo was smart he wouldn’t be housing you anywhere near there after it being compromised by Boothill himself. However, he might be able to find some clues as to where you went there, sneaking into the housing nearby for the staff. He breaks into a few rooms deemed empty, trying to figure out who might have the best chance of knowing where Sampo put you. 

Sampo doesn’t trust easily, something Boothill is cursing as he realises nobody has anything that would get him nearer to you. He’d probably have to break into Sampo’s home himself, unsure of where to head as he makes his way back to his car to regroup. He keeps himself parallel to the main road, not wanting to be easily spotted as he starts to pass the lounge again. 

The doors open and out walks Sampo, looking up to the sky to admire the weather before walking off. Boothill immediately begins tailing him, thanking his good fortune as he follows the man through what seems like an incredibly convoluted path. It’s almost as though Sampo knew he was being tailed but when the two of them reach an abandoned looking cabin and Sampo doesn’t even falter in entering the code to the building. Boothill’s able to make out the code from the positioning of his fingers, taking a mental note of it as he starts planning your rescue. 

He knew if he acted too quickly he’d run the risk of scaring off the businessman, forcing him to move up whatever plans he had for you. He’d have to give it some time, trick him into thinking that his plan was foolproof. He wishes he could just step in right now, take you with him but a poorly thought out plan - while his specialty - would just put you in jeopardy. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧───  ｡ﾟ☆ *.☽ .*☆｡ﾟ ───✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You kept track of time by marking it on your wall, being given a pencil and notebook to entertain yourself. Your guards were kind enough to at least put the radio on for you, keeping the awkward silences to a minimum as at least one of them had to follow you around. Whoever wasn’t actively with you would usually stand at the front door - the only way to leave the house - or patrol around outside to ensure there was nobody there. Sampo would visit with your meals, trying to make small talk with you and update you on the overall progress being made. 

You wanted to ask about Boothill, knowing that it wouldn’t be hard for him to get that information but also worried about what he would tell you. You decided that ignorance was bliss, picking at your meal as Sampo gives you the most recent update on your upcoming trip. 

“So there’s nothing I can say to you to change your mind, is there?” you ask for the nth time, convinced that maybe you could annoy him into letting you go. 

“Nope. Sorry. I need the money you make me and now that I had to pay out that money to those siblings I really need it back. I had plans for that cash.” 

You curse internally, knowing that Geryll sold you out but hearing it from Sampo’s mouth made it sting again. 

“I am going to have to figure out what the new pay split is going to be. Just while I work on making back the money I lost.” 

“I don’t want to hear about this,” you sigh, taking your meal back to your room. 

“If you’re going to try to pretend to be my friend, at least bring me something I enjoy eating.”

Sampo leaves shortly thereafter, leaving you to entertain yourself in your bedroom. You knew that one of the guards was going to stand outside the window, making sure you didn’t slip out as the other stayed on the outside of your door. They were doing this to at least give you some privacy, something you were thankful for. If you knew them better you’d be inclined to hold a conversation with them, feeling extraordinarily bored. You pull out one of the books left for you on a shelf, finding your page as you let the words distract you. 

You’re about to fall asleep, moon high in the sky when the feeling of the book slipping out of your hand jerks you awake. You put it back on the bedside table, about to lay down when a soft thud startles you. You look at the book, expecting to see it on the ground but when you realise that it isn’t you sit up in your bed. 

You wish you had a phone in your room, worried that something got into the cabin. You didn’t have any weapons or any way of getting help due to Sampo keeping your presence here a secret, quietly making your way towards the window just to see the guard outside slumped against the ground. You bite back a noise of fear, covering your mouth as you start to head towards the closet to hide. Another thud sounds just right outside your door, making you jump as it opens. 

You’re about to scream, eyes wide in fear as a figure steps into the room, falling to your knees when you’re faced with the barrel of a gun. 

[morningsharksworld]

Baby, I'm Yours

A/N: Ive been listening to this song for a while due to a hazard edit that I found on tik tok and it just has been eating at my brain. AND I also wanted to test out on writing out his accent just for one fic though.

Summary: Hazard has something on his mind that he wants to talk to you about

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The sky was a bruised shade of purple, the last remnants of twilight fading into night as you and Hazard strolled along the quiet path. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and damp earth, but the warmth of his presence beside you made the chill feel distant. It had been his idea to escape the bustle of the world for a while, though he’d been unusually shy about suggesting it.

“It’s nice out here” you said, breaking the comfortable silence. Your eyes drifted to the horizon, where stars began to prick through the deepening dark. “I’m glad you dragged me away tonight.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and slightly nervous. “Didn’t take much draggin’. Yer always up for a bit of peace and quiet—not that I blame ye.”

You glanced at him, catching the faint blush dusting his cheeks. It was rare to see Hazard flustered, the man who seemed to thrive on chaos and sharp wit suddenly subdued.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked gently, stopping to face him. The moonlight caught the edges of his features, softening the usually sharp lines of his expression. His gaze flickered away, then back to yours, as if he were steeling himself for something.

“It’s... well, it’s nothin’, really” he started, but the quirk of your eyebrow stopped him in his tracks. “Alright, alright. It’s somethin.”

You waited patiently, your silence urging him to continue.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about how to say this” he began, his brogue thickening slightly with his nerves. “But words... they’re not exactly my strong suit.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Figured if I didn’t say somethin’ tonight, I’d never work up the courage.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the earnestness in his tone. “Hazard” you said softly, stepping closer. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Aye, I know. And that’s part of the problem. Ye make it too easy, bein’ yourself. Yer kind, patient, funny... and ye’ve got this way of makin’ me feel like I’m somethin’ more than just... me.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat, your chest tightening at his words. He looked down at his hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on his jacket as if it could distract him from the vulnerability of the moment.

“The truth is” he continued, his voice quieter now, “I’ve fallen for ye. Harder than I thought possible. And I’ve tried to keep it to myself because I didn’t want to muck up what we’ve got. But every time I see ye, every time ye smile, it’s like...” He paused, his voice catching slightly. “It’s like I’m yours already, whether ye want me or no.”

You blinked, his confession settling over you like a wave. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. Then, without thinking, you reached out and took his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“Hazard…” you said, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you. “Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise. “Ye’re... yer no’ just sayin’ that, are ye?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Not even a little. I’ve felt the same way for so long, but I didn’t want to push you or risk scaring you off. You’re ... you’re important to me, Hazard. More than I can put into words.”

A grin spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. He squeezed your hand, pulling you closer until there was barely any space between you. “Well, I’ll be…” he murmured, his voice tinged with awe. “Guess I’ve got to thank the stars for ye tonight.” You smiled, your free hand brushing a stray strand of hair from his face.

His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Then, with a tenderness that belied his usual bravado, he leaned in and kissed you. It was a kiss that spoke of everything he’d been too afraid to say, of every moment he’d spent wishing for this one.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m yours” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Now and always.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but they were tears of joy, of relief, of finally finding something you hadn’t even realized you’d been searching for.

“Baby, I’m yours” you whispered back, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall.

The two of you stayed there under the starlit sky, wrapped in each other’s warmth, as the night seemed to stretch on forever. And for the first time, the world felt right—not because it was perfect, but because you were together.

[scholomancefan]

This is for a prompt for Snowflake_Daze!

"Shen Qingqiu gets a disciple Bing-ge somehow. He now has two disciples, one significantly more traumatized than the other."

Hope you enjoy!

---

“All right, but *why* is Bing-ge here?” Shen Qingqiu hissed at the System.

[╮(￣▽￣"")╭ ]

“You’re useless,” Shen Qingqiu groaned, massaging his temples.

It wasn’t all bad. Luo Bing-ge had arrived out of a mysterious portal colored exactly like the System. Suspicious, highly suspicious! And the System wasn’t telling him anything. 

But Bing-ge also didn’t seem to remember traveling to this world, and no one seemed to have spotted the bright blazing light that had heralded his arrival. As far as Bing-ge knew, he had gone to sleep one day in the woodshed after a hard day of being tormented by the Original Goods and Ming Fan. And then he’d woken up to *this* Shen Qingqiu, and then was quickly confronted by a much better cared for duplicate of himself.

All things considered, he’d taken it rather well!

Shen Qingqiu’s Luo Binghe, who he’d begun to call Bing-mei, had not taken it well.

There was a crash from inside the bamboo house and Shen Qingqiu automatically jerked to look. He couldn’t see through the walls, but he could just *tell* Bing-ge and Bing-mei were fighting again.

Fighting was pretty normal for siblings, so that meant that actually, Shen Qingqiu’s Binghes were getting along great, right? Right??

Shen Qingqiu wanted to believe. But Bing-mei burst into tears whenever Shen Qingqiu patted Bing-ge on the head. That was probably a bad sign.

Bing-ge didn't even like the head pats! The poor boy was so twitchy. Understandable, but it made Shen Qingqiu want to give him all the hugs, which he also didn't appreciate. And then Bing-mei would really start in on the waterworks.

“Do you have any idea the kind of headache you’ve caused me?” Shen Qingqiu groused, already making his way back to the bamboo house. Once the Binghes got started, they wouldn’t stop until Shen Qingqiu intervened. Ming Fan was still on Qian Cao from trying last time.

[User should be grateful for the addition of Anomaly: Original Luo Binghe!]

“Grateful? Why would I be grateful?!”

[Only one Luo Binghe must complete the “Endless Abyss” scenario! User may select which Luo Binghe to keep (¯▿¯) ]

Shen Qingqiu stopped walking. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

Only one Luo Binghe. Only one…