#and i constantly feel the need to prove that to like

[cece693]

GENTLEMAN'S AGREEMENT

pairing: steve rogers x male reader synopsis: You and Steve had been dating for a few months now, and you treated him like a king. Opening doors for him, keeping PDA to a minimum around others, watching your language around him—anything and everything to not make Steve uncomfortable. However, is Steve really that innocent as people think he is? No.

You had rules. Not ones carved in stone, but worn into your bones over years of disciplined self-control.

Rule #1: Never push Steve Rogers.

The man had seen war. Frozen, thawed, time-skipped, and then tossed headfirst into a world of smartphones and sex jokes on Twitter. You weren't about to be the reason he short-circuited. It was easy to keep your touches brief, your kisses chaste, and your compliments confined to respectable territory.

"You look sharp, Cap," you'd say, adjusting his collar with a practiced touch. Never hot. Never devastating. Never do-you-have-any-idea-what-you-do-to-me? Because that would break:

Rule #2: Don't let Steve know you're constantly on the verge of losing your goddamn mind over him.

So yes—your relationship was filled with old-school charm: opening doors, polite forehead kisses, sleeping with a gap between your bodies like it was the 1940s and touching too much would summon divine punishment.

You thought you were protecting him. You thought he needed it.

He proved you wrong on a Thursday night.

Tony had generously given you and Steve a whole floor of the tower after four months of dating ("For the sake of everyone's sanity," he'd said). You came home late, dressed down in a black sweater and slacks, toeing off your shoes by the door when you heard the unmistakable sound of ice clinking into a glass.

Steve rarely drank. But there he was, framed in the warm glow of the living room, shirt unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled, nursing a glass of bourbon like it was his second language.

He glanced over. Smiled. Something lazy curled in that expression, like he’d caught you sneaking into his bedroom. "You always this quiet when you come home, sweetheart?"

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

Steve hums, taking a long sip of his glass before moving towards you. He wasn't drunk; no liquor can affect the captain, so what he says next shocks you: “Y’know, for a man who can bench-press a quinjet, you’re awfully delicate with me.”

“Delicate?" You repeat weakly, "I’m trying to be respectful.”

“Respect is lovely.” A calloused finger traces the seam of your sleeve, causing you to shiver. “But it’s starting to feel like you’re handling me with museum gloves.”

“I just didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

Steve’s grin turns lopsided—too knowing. “Sweetheart, you think I’m going to short-circuit if you let your hands wander below the Mason-Dixon line?”

You stiffened, suddenly aware of the heat crawling up your spine. “Steve, you’re not—”

“What?” he challenged, voice dropping. “Not like the men you're used to? Not dirty enough? Not shameless enough?”

Your breath caught. “No—just…you’re old-fashioned.”

His smile turned sharp. “So are brothels. Doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on inside them.” You choked on air, yet he continued as if he didn't just drop a bomb on you. "Do you think I'm innocent when I spent three weeks in the 40s sharing barracks with hundred-and-ten men who had very creative pin-up collections?"

He takes another step forward; you step back until sunlight-colored hardwood kisses your calves. His palm lands on your hip, grounding. “Or how Peggy snuck a Kinsey Report into my footlocker before D-Day and told me to ‘study hard.’”

That mental image nearly short-circuits you. “You...read the Kinsey Report?”

“Cover to cover.” He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Chapter Six was my favorite.”

Your brain scrambles for the table of contents—Chapter Six covers homosexual behavior in males. Oh. Steve eases back just enough to watch realization dawn across your face. He looks dangerously pleased.

“For the record,” he says, “my innocence was mostly marketing. Howard figured the public liked its heroes apple-pie pure.”

“Howard Stark staged your personality?”

He shrugs. “Gave me media training between weapons demos. ‘Smile, wave, keep it wholesome.’ He’d be livid if he knew I planned on letting my very modern, very adult boyfriend kiss me like he means it.”

The words spark along your nerves. You catch a handful of his Henley, pull him flush. “Kiss you like I mean it, huh?”

“Unless that’s too scandalous for 2025.”

The challenge in his tone flips a switch you’ve been guarding. Your mouth finds his—slow at first, savoring. Steve hums approval, guiding your hips until you feel the warm press of him—nothing innocent about that.

You deepen the kiss; his tongue tastes like bourbon. When you finally break for air, his pupils are blown wide. “Still standing,” he teases.

“I can fix that,” you whisper, and his answering laugh vibrates against your sternum.

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ I GUESS I’M IN LOVE

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!reader

summary: in which reader learns how to love again when mickey garcia wants to be more than friends with benefits

warnings: mentions of sex/sexual acts, alcohol consumption

word count: 1.9k

a/n: the papasito mv had me wanting to write something for danny, so here i am, enjoy😩

You hated to admit it but you were a sucker for a man in uniform.

And, living in the big, beautiful city of San Diego, California meant that you had more than your fill.

With servicemen constantly cycling between deployments and training, you never had trouble finding a guy or two to fool around with before things even had a chance to get serious.

Not that any of them minded. After months at sea, they were just as insatiable as you were, never thinking past the night in front of them.

It was practically a fact: Navy men were notoriously disloyal, always chasing flings, and you had the firsthand experience to prove it.

When you’d first moved to San Diego, fresh out of college and still a little naive, you’d fallen hard for a naval aviator.

And it hadn’t ended well.

He’d promised to keep in touch when he was inevitably stationed somewhere else, and for a while, he did.

But the texts got shorter, as the days went on. Less frequent. Until one day, they stopped entirely.

You found out why soon enough via a blurry Instagram post where he had his arm slung around some new girl, down in Florida.

You’d sworn then and there to never fall in love with a military man again.

And it was going pretty well for you.

Until you met Mickey Garcia.

You’d met him at The Hard Deck - an aptly named bar always buzzing with chatter of swaggering servicemen.

He was surrounded by a gaggle of aviators, laughing loud like they owned the place. And in San Diego, they practically did.

In spite of that, every few seconds, he was glancing your way, lingering on your legs for far too long. God bless the Californian heat for letting you show them off.

You could tell that he wanted you.

And how could you not want him?

Broad shoulders, a neat buzz cut, and the Navy service khaki uniform hugging his body. He looked disgustingly good in it and your eyes drank him in from across the floor.

You bided your time, watching him play pool for a while before heading over with your own friends, sliding up to the table next to his.

When it came to your turn, you fumbled clumsily with the cue stick, missing shots and laughing with false embarrassment as your friends jeered. And like a moth to a flame, he took the bait.

With a smirk and a quick nod to his boys, tossing his own cue to one of them, he stepped up beside you and asked, “Ma’am, you need some help there?”

You didn’t need his help. You’d been playing since you were twelve.

But you had a read on the guys at this bar, they couldn’t resist a pretty girl pretending not to know her way around a pool table, so you let him move closer and asked more about him

You quickly learned his call-sign, and the meaning behind it, when he slid his arm around your waist and leaned in so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear as he adjusted your aim.

He was all over you and you craved more.

Fanboy.

You were determined to make him a fan of you.

And it didn’t take long.

He bought you a drink, leaned in close to say things, he definitely didn’t need to be so close to say, and let his knee brush against yours with almost every word.

Even after you’d sent him back to his friends, with a playful order to “go be social”, he kept drifting back, always finding a reason to restart the conversation.

Eventually, the conversation stopped restarting, it just never ended.

He barely got the sentence out before you slid off your barstool, purse in hand, and slipped your fingers through his.

He grinned like the cat that got the cream, letting you pull him out of the bar like he was a lost kitten; only you could take him home.

Out in the car park, your eyebrows had shot up in surprise when he’d clicked his car keys and the headlights to a red Mustang had come to life.

Clearly, you were worse at profiling than you thought because this car did not match the image of Mickey Garcia that you’d built up.

He opened the door for you, guiding you down into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver’s side.

Sitting back against the headrest, you were about to give him directions to your place when he cut you off with a sly grin, turning the key in the ignition.

“I’m actually living off-base while I’m stationed here,” he’d explained, “I’m sure it’s quicker than heading to your place. Five minutes, tops.”

That was a refreshing change.

Most of the guys you’d been with insisted on coming back to your place, citing how you couldn’t get on base to theirs. Made you wonder how many of them were actually telling the truth versus those that just didn’t want you to know where they were staying.

You found yourself more and more curious about him. Mickey was honest and upfront. It felt treacherous to the image you’d come to know of a naval aviator.

For example, his call-sign. He hadn’t introduced himself as Fanboy, like some of the others you’d been with, who’d insisted you use their service-given nicknames, even in bed.

Despite that, you still couldn’t remember the blonde lieutenant from a few months back’s call-sign or even his real name, which told you everything you needed to know.

Mickey was different.

He didn’t disappear the next morning.

He stayed.

And kept coming back.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Until you lost count.

It becomes a rhythm: drinks, laughs, soft touches that linger too long to be accidental, late-night drives with the windows down and your legs propped on his dashboard, his hand resting dangerously high on your thigh.

A rhythm so steady, you almost forget how this all started with your personal vow to stay away from military men.

And then there’s tonight.

You’re back at The Hard Deck, dressed in something you only ever wear when you know he’ll be there.

A dress casual enough to pass for effortless, but short enough to make Mickey’s eyes drop from your smile to the curve of your thighs the second you walk in.

You’ve learned, over your more impassioned nights together, that he has a fixation with your thighs and you’re not above using that to your advantage.

Tonight, you’re on a mission.

He’s at the bar when you spot him, nursing a beer and leaning into a conversation with Payback, but the moment he senses you, his focus shifts.

You don’t even have to say a word, just a look and a tilt of your head, and he starts moving.

He slides up beside you at the bar like he’s done it a hundred times before, the grin he gives you still feeling brand new.

“You gonna let me buy you a drink, cari?” he asks, voice low and familiar.

Cari.

Short for Cariño.

That’s something else that was different about Mickey.

He’d started calling you that after what you’d both agreed was the first of many “not-dates”. The nights together that felt suspiciously romantic but neither of you dared to define.

And unlike the ick most guys gave you when they got too familiar too fast, his little nickname for you made you feel warm inside.

You give him a look, smiling coyly, “Have you ever known me to turn down a free drink?”

He chuckles, flagging down the bartender with two fingers before leaning in, his arm brushing yours as he rests it against the bar, “Never. But I like to ask. Makes me feel like a gentleman.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, smirking, “I’m pretty sure that ship sailed the night you left a hickey the size of Texas on my thigh.”

He cringes, eyes flicking away from yours to focus on the bartender shaking up your drink across the counter, “Yeah, right.”

It was subtle, but you’d noticed it more and more lately, how he seemed to flinch at any mention of sex. It was strange.

When you’d first met him, he’d thrived on the crass nature of conversation. He’d whisper the filthiest things in your ear in the middle of the bar, so vivid you’d be squirming in your seat.

But lately, something was different. A shift in the way he looked at you. Like he wasn’t just watching your lips when you spoke but listening.

That threw you off, and you didn’t like to be thrown.

You sip the drink he bought you, letting the citrus-y bite of tequila chase away the unease curling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time as he looks back at you. His eyes are on you, not your legs, not your lips, you. And that was the problem.

Your resolve was quickly crumbling.

You nod, deflecting with a sweet smile, “I’m just trying to figure out if I’m imagining things,” you say, keeping your tone light, “Or if you’re going soft on me.”

That earns a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not going to apologise for it.”

He’s still close, his arm is brushing yours, his eyes are steady.

You set your glass down and lean in just slightly, “Mickey,” your voice is low as you test his name on your tongue.

His eyes lift to meet yours without a second thought.

“Yeah?”

“…What are we doing?”

The words hang heavily between you and you regret them the moment they leave your mouth.

You hadn’t meant to ask. Not really. You’d told yourself a hundred times not to ruin this with feelings but you’d asked anyways and you couldn’t take it back.

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you feel stupid. Vulnerable. Exposed.

But then he sighs, like he’s been waiting for this conversation just as long as you’ve been avoiding it.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “Honestly? I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”

You nod, swallowing hard, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

He notices.

“I just think that we both like being around each other,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “And I wouldn’t mind if things between us got serious.”

“It’d be difficult with me being away all of the time, but… cari, I really want this.”

You should roll your eyes. You should say something flippant and remind him that you don’t do relationships but instead, you only whisper:

“I know.”

A brief silence stretches between you.

Then, he steps closer, shielding you from view of the other servicemen as he slides an arm around your waist, trapping you against the bar, “You wanna get out of here?”

You raise an eyebrow, “To your place or mine?”

He smirks, “To talk, gatita.”

You blink, “Talk?”

The word shouldn’t feel so intimate, but somehow, with Mickey, it does.

His hand brushes yours on the bar, “We can do other things later, but, yeah. Talk first.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath and pulling your hand away, “Jesus, who are you and what have you done with the Mickey Garcia I met at that pool table?”

He looks slightly hurt, but he doesn’t give in just yet. He takes your hand again, “He’s still here. He just wants a little more from you this time around.”

You turn to face him fully, and this time, when your eyes lock, you don’t feel like running. He’s completely serious, holding your gaze and looking with a determination that feels like he knows you, soul and all.

You want to say no, but you don’t.

Instead, you simply nod once.

“Alright,” you say softly, “Let’s talk.”

And as Mickey takes you back to his place, to talk, not fuck, for the first time in a long time, you feel loved.

[rainrot4me]

any thoughts of ftm tim. rain please. ftm tim with a fat t-dick in my mouth. WHO SAID THAT!

GIVE IT TO ME GIVE IT TO ME I AM DROOLING EVERYWHERE PUT THAT T-DICK IN MY MOUTHHHHHHHHHHHH. this is about to be incredibly thirsty.

As I type this, I am working on a Masky + Jeff t-dick headcannon thing so keep an eye out :)

── .✦

Little afab Tim was the classic “messy kid that you can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl at first glance” appearance. Shaggy haircut, scraped-up knees, always coming home muddy and bruised because he just needed to burn off that restless boy-energy.

Was nerdy as hell—obsessed with horror movies, superhero flicks, comics, anything violent and grotesque because it let him live out fantasies of being the tough, strong hero, even if everyone around him kept telling him he was supposed to be a “nice girl.” Always compared himself to the big strong main character that always saved the day.

Loved to act out cop and robber or cowboy and rebel roles with friends—a plastic knife tucked in his belt, running around yelling “I’m the bad guy!” and it just felt right, like the aggression belonged to him, and no one could tell him to sit still or be soft.

Had a couple neighborhood boys he hung around who accepted him as one of the guys, which helped him survive, but still went home to parents who forced him to wear skirts for family photos. That made him burn with shame.

When he got older, he fell into video cameras and storytelling—documenting everything, creating worlds where he could be the character he wished he was. Masky, in a sense, was the grown-up evolution of those childhood roleplays: an identity that could be harsh, unbreakable, male.

Teen Tim would put on sports bras under giant hoodies, trying to flatten his chest while avoiding locker rooms, telling everyone “I’m just shy,” but really wanting to disappear. If anyone feminized him in childhood, it felt like being punched in the gut—but he didn’t have language for it. He only knew he hated hearing “young lady.”

He’d definitely draw himself as a boy in school art projects. Comic heroes, video game characters, action dudes—he’d design them to look like him, but male, an escape hatch.

As any media and internet rampant child does, Tim found transitioning and symbolic metaphors for such in film. The first real time learning what it meant to be trans was a film festival entry that gave a really poetic presentation on transitioning and the elements of that. He dove deeper, looking up buzz words and researching what a binder was—and it kind of all went from there.

There’s something heartbreakingly real about Tim using Masky to finally live out the fantasy of being strong, unstoppable, respected as a man—even if it came at the cost of everything else.

Tim, by the time Marble Hornets starts, is probably only recently living openly as a trans man. He’s legally changed his name, maybe started low-dose T, maybe hasn’t even gotten top surgery yet—or decides not to get it at all—depends on how he feels.

He still feels raw and exposed, especially on camera. He’ll check angles obsessively so nobody catches sight of binder lines or any slip-ups. Those “behind the scenes” takes where he’s adjusting his hoodie? That’s him making sure nothing is showing.

The anxiety is off the charts: not just because of the Operator, but because he’s still working out how to be seen as Tim. Correcting people on pronouns, bracing for slips, constantly hyperaware of his voice, his shoulders, the way he takes up space on the crew.

Alex and Brian (Hoodie) respect him, and Masky becomes a tool to reclaim his masculinity. He makes Masky hyper-masculine on purpose: broad, terrifying, unstoppable. In the mask, he doesn’t worry about being read as “not man enough”—he is a man, no questions.

During the stress of the Operator, that old dysphoria flares. He feels like his body is betraying him again, that he’s too fragile, too easy to break. So he pushes harder—taking risks, doing dangerous stunts, trying to prove he’s strong enough.

Physical dysphoria + mental decay go hand in hand. The constant Operator interference makes him doubt his reality, and he hyper-fixates on his body: “Why do I still feel like a scared little kid?”

The Operator, in a twisted way, makes him more determined to be Tim. If he dies, he wants to die as Tim, no one else. That fear fuels him to correct people sharply if they misgender him, even as the tapes keep rolling and the world collapses.

If you look at his movements during the series—hunched, guarded, tense—it’s partly the dysphoria talking. He’s so aware of how every part of him is being recorded, judged, preserved on film.

There’s also a deep resentment. He’s just started to live his life as himself, to be free, and now this monstrous creature is tearing it away. There’s a special kind of rage there, one that burns through every Masky appearance.

Tim grows up with this sense that “being a man” means being big, being loud, being dangerous. When he’s younger, people treat him like a “tomboy,” calling him “feisty” or “wild,” but it never feels right. It feels like they’re letting him be “like a boy,” but not a boy. That cuts deep—so by the time he transitions, he’s determined to go all the way.

In his head, real men are fearless, aggressive, capable of hurting if they have to, and respected because they can instill fear.

So once the Operator takes him and he becomes a proxy, that deep-seated idea comes roaring forward. Masky is built on it: a brutal, cold, unstoppable force. When Tim kills or threatens or screams at victims, it’s cathartic—he feels powerful, like no one could ever misgender him again.

He channels every drop of dysphoria-fueled rage into becoming someone terrifying, because if you fear him, you can’t question him.

It goes from survival to performance: hyper-masculine, toxic, even, but it makes him feel safe. Killing is twistedly validating. It’s the ultimate declaration that he is a man—strong enough to protect himself, violent enough to protect what’s his, and ruthless enough that no one will ever see “weak” again.

There’s an almost childish logic behind it, like he’s still that kid trying to prove he belongs in the boys’ club—except now the stakes are bodies and blood.

At night, maybe he lays awake and wonders if he’s overcompensating, but the next day, he’ll pull the mask on and stomp those doubts out. Because in the mansion, in the field, in the kill, he is Tim. He is a man. No one can argue that. No matter how loud is head is to tell him otherwise.

꩜ .ᐟ

[butterfly-wingss]

Hearth.

part 2

DCxDP Dead on main (this ended up way angstier than i was going for lolol)

Hearth is what makes a house a home. It is the love and care poured into every action that goes into running a home.

The hearth is literally the fire that warms the home. Where the food is cooked, where love is added. It is the very element that fuels Jason’s whole being.

He’s been thinking about it a lot lately. Even now,

Shooting a man in the head.

Crime Alley is his territory, his haunt, his home. And he will protect it.

No child will be abused in his home, no child will run, sell or be sold drugs, no drugs will be cut or otherwise tampered with in his home. He thought he made that very fucking clear with eight god damn decapitated heads in a duffel bag.

But no this dumb ass thought he was above The Red Hood’s rules.

In a breath the shit stain’s riddled with bullets.

Shit.

He needs ecto. He promised Alfie he would go to dinner this month, he was doing better, he was actually getting along with his siblings.

“Hood.” A gruff voice cuts through his panic.

Fuuuuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“What.” He spits out. Holding back every instinct he has to fight, to keep his home safe, to get rid of all this anxiety, to prove he deserves love.

“We are not the law. You can not go around killing people.”

His skin prickles, Batman’s lectures are constantly fanning his flames but oh fuck are they burning bright tonight. “Do you want to know what he did to his kid B. Do you!”

“We are not the law. You should have-“

“Should have what told the police?! Should I have told his bother, a policeman? Or maybe his uncle, who plays poker with a lawyer? Oh no I know I should have told his mother the social worker?”

“You think her teachers didn’t try that? You think her doctors didn’t try that? She’s five B! Five!” he can feel the tears streaming down his face but he wears a mask for a reason.

He keeps going. “She found me, a five year old covered in bruises, arm in a splint, no shoes, came up to me and asked me to stop daddy from-“

“I know.” In that soft fucking voice he uses with scared kids, like Jason was some fucking cornered animal.

“No! I don’t think you do. You sleep easy up on your high horse. You know Arkham is a revolving door. You know the GCPD are corrupt as shit. And you still send people there, you still think people are doing their jobs. They’re Fucking Not! You know they’re not!”

“That doesn’t mean you have a right to kill people without a trial. You are not judge jury and executioner.”

“Yes I am! In the Alley? I am!” Fuck Bruce, fuck his bullshit rules if he doesn’t want him to kill he better get out the fuck out of the way before he ends up with a bullet hole of his own. He could never kill his dad he couldn’t bring himself to

Jason has to grapple away he can’t do this anymore. The flames of his soul are liking at his skin. One more second of this and everything he rebuilt with them is over.

[sereia4skz]

i need bratty 2min please, if possible male at birth reader? (I’m the one who rq-ed the 2min text fic a while ago lol)

drabble | brat olympics

pairing: poly!2min x m!reader

genre: smut

warnings: sub!2min, bratty!2min, plug play, edging, grinding, begging, collars

word count: ~900

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

Minho kicks his feet from where he’s sprawled across your lap, head resting against your thigh like a smug cat. “You’re spending way too much time with the others lately,” he mumbles, voice laced with faux indifference. “I’m clearly the favorite. Don’t need your attention constantly to prove that.”

Seungmin scoffs from the other end of the couch, curled up in a hoodie you definitely haven’t seen since last week. “That’s rich coming from someone who practically cried when you didn’t get his hair the exact right shade of brown last time.”

Minho lifts his head to glare, but doesn’t move from your lap. “At least I don’t steal his clothes like some desperate little-”

“Boys,” you warn, and both immediately freeze.

Seungmin shifts guiltily, hoodie sleeves falling over his hands. “…He started it.”

“Did not.”

You raise an eyebrow and both fall silent again.

But of course, Seungmin can’t help himself.

“I mean, if you’re gonna punish someone, it should be him,” he says sweetly. “He’s the one being mouthy.”

Minho lifts his chin, eyes gleaming. “I dare you to say that again while you’re gagged and trying not to rut against his thigh like a needy puppy.”

You hum low in your throat, one hand sliding into Minho’s hair, the other reaching out to pat Seungmin’s covered thigh. “Cute. You’re both so loud when you’re scared the other’s gonna win.”

Their bickering dissolves into sulky glances. But their knees are touching now. Minho nuzzles your leg again. Seungmin leans in, his voice barely a whisper.

“…Who’s your best boy tonight?”

You don’t answer. You just smile, and reach for the drawer that holds their matching collars.

The click of the drawer has them both stilling. Seungmin’s breath catches audibly. Minho turns his head to nuzzle your thigh again like it’ll earn him forgiveness early.

It won’t. You hold up the two collars, black leather with soft silver rings at the front. “Since you two are so eager to prove who's better, I figured we’d do this properly tonight.”

Seungmin's eyes darken. “Yes, sir.”

Minho’s tongue flicks over his lips. “I’m gonna ruin him.”

“You can’t ruin me,” Seungmin shoots back.

You tug Minho’s hair, just enough to make him gasp. “You’re not here to ruin anyone, baby. You’re here to behave. Both of you.”

You gesture for them to strip. Shirts are tossed to the floor. Pants undone in record time, Seungmin already half-hard and flushed, Minho taking his time, like you won’t see how wrecked he already is.

Minho always acts like he’s in control. Until he isn’t.

Once they’re naked, you put the collars on, tight enough to feel, loose enough to breathe. Then you grab the small bottle of lube and the plug bag. “Hands and knees,” you say, and they scramble.

Minho hisses when you slide the slick plug in slow. “You’re so mean,” he mutters, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a moan.

“I haven’t even turned it on yet,” you say with a smirk, flicking the remote. He arches beautifully when it buzzes to life.

Seungmin whines as you prep him next. “Please,” he pants, “make mine stronger, I can take it, I’m better..”

“Oh, that’s what we’re doing now?” You click both remotes on. Seungmin's plug buzzes hard; Minho’s pulses slow and deep. You palm their asses, watching them tremble side by side, struggling not to rock their hips.

You lean close, voice low. “Whoever makes the mess first gets punished next time. The other gets to fuck my thigh until they finish.”

Seungmin moans, immediately squeezing his thighs together. “Fuck.”

Minho pants into the couch cushion, back arching like a drawn bow. “So fucked up- I love you.”

You sit on the couch and spread your legs. “Come here. One on each side.”

They crawl over, desperate. Seungmin clings to your leg like a lifeline, rutting gently, whimpering every time the plug pulses. Minho takes his time, his bratty pride won’t let him look desperate, until you grip his jaw and make him look you in the eyes.

"Beg, Minho."

His lashes flutter. "Please. Let me be your good boy. I’ll win. I swear I will."

Seungmin growls at that. "I’m your good boy. I always listen better. I never talk back-"

"You literally started this whole thing," Minho snaps.

You shove your thigh between Seungmin’s legs and pull Minho down against your fingers. “Quiet. Show me who deserves to come.”

They grind.

Desperate, needy, losing rhythm every time the plugs buzz deep. Seungmin whines into your shoulder. Minho buries his face in your neck and cries out, trembling hard.

You know the signs, his cock’s twitching against your abs. You grab his collar. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m trying- fuck I’m-”

You click his plug to max.

Minho screams, biting your neck as he comes untouched, body jolting against yours. Hot ropes spill onto your chest, his knees nearly giving out.

“Minho,” you coo, guiding him down to the floor. “Couldn’t even last. That’s disappointing.”

Seungmin moans in triumph, still humping your thigh.

“Can I finish now, sir? Please feels so good- I was so good,”

You cup his chin and kiss him. “You win this round. Come for me, baby.”

He wails and grinds down harder, cock twitching, painting your thigh with warm release. They slump into each other’s arms on the carpet, breathless, sweaty, leaking and shaking. You pat both heads.

“Good boys,” you say softly. “But next time, we see who can stay edged the longest.”

Minho whimpers. Seungmin giggles breathlessly, "Told you I could take it best,"

They’re already looking forward to it.

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple @sunfk88

[inamagicalhallucination]

bsd spoilers [look away if u dont wanna be spoiled for the new chapter]

i might expand on this later, but

in the atsushi vs vampire!akutagawa fight, we see a lot of change in atsushi. atsushi's character in the manga is introduced as a character who's scared and unsure but is fighting desperately to prove their worth to deserve life while also kind of wanting to die

although atsushi constantly puts himself in harm to save others, he fights to save himself just as much -- his introduction is him jumping in after dazai (putting himself in harm) but he manages to get them both to safety

he jumps off after kyouka, but means and succeeds in ripping the bomb off and saving her --- its all very proactive

in comparison, when he's fighting vampire akutagawa, his approach is very different

he's more not exactly passive, but uhhh passive

he can fight akutagawa back, he knows, this, he could probably find a way to restrain him, but he doesn't. he relies on his words and the belief that akutagawa will somehow be reached; in a way, i think he's trying to prove that akutagawa is still there, his words r for the akutagawa thats trapped inside, but theyre also a reassurance to himself that akutagawa is still alive;; either way, he's solely relying on his words and emotions, and he's not giving up his life, but he's also not fighitng for it

i don't think this makes him weak, i think it shows growth in his character; atsushi needs to save others to save himself, but he's terrified of dying too -- we see him want to run away and doubt himself constantly, but in that moment, he's there, he's not fighting but he's not giving up

i think this shows a. his growth in trusting others --- he's literally fangs to the neck, but he's trusting that if akutagawa is there, it'll be okay --- and the if akutagawa is there thing only works when he fully 100% trusts akutagawa himself to not have any ill intent towards him. he's trusting akutagawa fully. b. his approach to problems, he's not running away or scared, he's taking it head on, but he's also grown into someone who can approach a problem with his words, he's able to see akutagawa's there, he's able to find ways to reach him, and sure in the end akutagawa's lovingly grazing his neck with his fangs, but i honestly feel like atsushi would've continued yapping till the end and would have gotten through to him somehow even if bram hadnt been freed

and then right now [this is where the spoilers come in so seriously look away]

atsushi breaking through the 4th dimensional plain through his bare hands, shows physical growth

he's finally embracing the whole the tiger claws can cut through anything

but he's also physically stronger, more aware of his capabilities, he's trusting himself, he's not second guessing

atsushi vs vampire aku was a show of atsushi's emotional growth

and i think this fight was a show of his growth as a fighter -- he's not magically getting a boost, but he's relying on his abilities without anyone telling him

theres no headmaster in his head in that moment telling him to break the dimension and then break through and save akutagawa --- its all atsushi.

atsushi from a little while ago would have been paralyzed wondering what he could do; and then the part of him that would've analyzed the situation and figured it out, but would have taken the shape of dazai to inform him

like the hallucination says --- this is all information atsushi knows -- but becuz he forever doubts himself and his capabilities, he needs to rely on another face

but this atsushi just goes for it, he analyzes, he understands and he acts, no headmaster, no dazai

just atsushi.

and who do both of these examples of character growth revolve around? akutagawa

becuz from the beginning akutagawa brings out the worst and the best of atsushi

[sloasis]

so so true. do people, including the writers, even like buck. it's funny once to say he did sth dumb or it's ok to say once he made sth about himself but the pattern in s8 was so annoying, especially because it wasn't true. those things did affect him, he lost people and was still trying to take care of everyone else, including a dead guy he'd never met. shouldn't they be like seven years past calling buck stupid or selfish when we're constantly shown the opposite. like chim saying gerrard likes to be around buck so he can feel smart, or eddie with the trials and tribulations, even though none of them even heard a thing about buck's feelings, he was going to CHURCH because he had no one. Idk I hope the writers find something else to joke about because buck as a character can do more

Idek .. the way Buck was treated in s8 was pretty weird , like he was going through so much and for what , not even a satisfying ending where he felt like he was getting back on track to being okay ... He had some really good arcs and scenes don't get me wrong , but he really has just been through so much and he never gets a break :( like I love Buck whump as much as the next person but seeing it on screen over n over again , does kind of feel bad after a while like please let this man be happy !! Let him live with Eddie and go insane about it until he finally realizes what it all means and they kiss !! He deserves that ! He deserves to be silly and have some great moments with Chris that aren't heavy with trauma ( AHEM . Will mention potentially ) he and Eddie deserve to have some fun hang outs again .. he and Maddie deserve to have sweet wholesome talks , he and Chim and Hen need to get up to some teasing and pranking , more Ravi moments too ......... We've just unfortunately not gotten any of that in a hot second :( and s8 ended with him , really having no one , or feeling like he doesn't belong anymore because everyone else has families and children and he's just . Buck . And I really hope in s9 , they prove to him that he DOES belong and he IS apart of their FAMILIES ... He needs to hear that genuinely .

[crows-in-the-house]

hi hi hi hehehehe x3 saw ur hcs about the brothers with a popular mc and rlly liked ur writing and how u wrote them <3

was wondering how do u think the obey me brothers + datables (pls i need my solomon n barbatos crumbs) would react to an mc who's hands and feet get easily / constantly cold ? not in a cutesy mildly chilly way but in a 'holy shit did they take you out the morgue or smth 💀' typa cold

bonus points that when they sweat, IT'S COLD SWEAT. so now their hand feels like touching a slowly defrosting chicken lmfao (heavy projection on this one, basing off when someone told me my hands felt like the ones of a dead person. greatest compliment ive received)

anyways ty for reading and i hope u have a lovely next 24 hrs <3 may the local street cats never rejects ur pspsps 🙏🙏

Aww thank you! Sorry I've been on hiatus I had uni exams, but now that i have vacations i can finally finish my drafts

(I made only 4 guys tho, cuz all of them at once is a lot hahah)

pairing: Solomon, Barbatos, Diavolo and Mammon

tw: none

Solomon

mortified, he actually freezes for a second

tries to figure out what's wrong with them, tbh tries everything - medicine, superstition, checks out your whole family history up to Lilith

you have to stop him so he does not theorise that it's a curse from the Angels

maybe a better diet will make ur bloodflow reach the hands and feet?

he can make a curse to make it nicer, if u want

not that it's a problem for him ofc, his hands are also weird

in his case they are very boney and rough (bc of using all those wird things in the food he makes) so if you ever were selfcontious about your hands, he's going to grip yours thigly with a shiteating grin and say that now you can be gross together!

Bartbatos

actually concerned, at first he just thinks you must have tauched something cold like ice (or a melting chiken)

won't show that tho

will try to warm up your hands with his breath

his tea parties are more frequent now - when at first he would just do it once a month, to give you space, now it's once a week, so you can wrap your palms over the cup and drink the hot liquid

he secretly wishes to hold them but won't say anything if you won't do it urself

tbh he's also a cold handed person - baing a snake u know? so he's kinda thankful to know he's not the only one

maybe you would want some gloves? he could spare you a few pairs? (he secretly enjoys that option because that means you two will match)

Diavolo

will be concerned but somehow amused

do all humans have such cold hands??? Is it a defensive mechanism? Can you become cold on your whole body? Do you still want to hold hands?

His are probably very hot so he will joke that you two balance each other

He doesn't mind if your palms are very sweaty, he just finds it endearing to learn a new thing about you

Mammon

is the one to tell you ur hands are cold like the chicken (seriosuly???? xd)

and then he's going to panic, while blubering apologies and excuses

but he can get used to this, those are the hands of his human! He will cherish them, however they look and feel like!

(and he's even ready to lick them to prove it, might be gross, but at least it will make you laugh)

(hopefully)

if you want to he will buy you some handcreams that can help! (from shady "organic" sellers and witches)

[casualavocados]

Learn from who? Learn from you?

Chen Bowen as CHEN YI & Chiang Tien as AI DI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME (2023)

[sieglinde-freud]

one thing i never realized bc i always either pair chrom with olivia or make him gay is that not every sibling calls lucina “luce” and its making me crazy. inigo and brady call her “luce” for short. cynthia calls her “lucy” (MY FAV), and kjelle and morgan just call her “lucina.” why did they make this change across supports. “to add personality” you say and to that i say YES obviously but also. potential of telling us more about how close lucina was with each potential sibling? maybe. what im getting at here is chrom!kjelle and lucina maybe suffering the most in terms of feelings of inadequacy and having that slight strain that keeps them from being close. this does not apply to morgan bc i chalk his up to memory loss BUT. you could also say that lucina never let him get close because she’s wary of him. hows that. and if you read closely what im actually saying is that i need an au where all six of them are siblings and not all of them have the brand of the exalt

[torchickentacos]

i will always shout praises of bi4bi but given recent discourse I feel the need to say that I love bi4het too! I just love bisexuality in general in its many forms, and anyone who only likes it when it's 'queer enough' for them is biphobic. Bisexuals should be able to bring their LaMe CiShEt BoYfRiEnD to pride without being made to feel like spectators and outsiders to their own event.

[horny-ex-catholic]

Truly the hottest part of kink play is the trust.

Like. Yeah, hearing my partner say they want me to make them my doll to use and play with however I want is hot as fuck, but the fact that they want to give up all their control to me because they have total unwavering trust in me to take care of them and not cross their boundaries makes me feral

[asvidema]

i know there's like a couple of people who really enjoy when i share oc art or thoughts. i should go back to it for them

[sakusasunaru]

when will we get another akihane song. its all i want orz screaming and crying and rolling on the ground

[clumsypuppy]

reading life changing fanfiction of a subjectively underwhelming source media is a special kind of hell

[girlwithlionmane]

Missed a call from my foster brother yesterday because I was putting the baby to bed and then had to cook dinner, told him I would call him back today

Fully spaced and didn’t call him because my dad came to hang out and I was planning on calling after he left, but he didn’t leave until it was the baby’s bed time because of course he didn’t (yes I mentioned to him that I had a phone call to return)

Feeling like a flop even though it’s not a big deal like I texted him and apologized and asked what other times work for him but :/ I still feel bad