#and then they can get through all their problems

[majestic-mycelium]

todd and the book of pure evil has a great instance of a person upgrading their aid over time to show this change. curtis is a kid (and one of the main charicters) with a claw grip plastic arm that is often shown to be limited and cumbersome in the beginning episodes. he will throw it as a weapon or have it be used as a focus that is not so casually forgotten. the later seasons have him upgrade to a supernatural mechanical arm like edward elric has and that gave me mixed feelings because for as messy the show was in handling topics it was surprising how detailed the inclusion of the plastic arm was. really felt like it came from an informed with how it was a real prosthetic option in real life.

Every time I read the “Toph is a bad example of a disabled character because of her bending.” I want to Physically leap over a table and then flip that table because NO!!!! You do not understand!!!

Toph’s bending is assistive technology!!! It’s a medical aid!!!!!

Toph’s bending allows her to full access her world the same way my mobility aids do, or my medication does. There are times when due to inaccessible surroundings that her aids are rendered harder or impossible to use. Not unlike my own greatest enemy, stairs. However, when she is fully accommodated she’s able to be just as successful and thrive just as much as an able-bodied person albeit differently. Which is the ultimate goal of assistive technology.

[cumironi]

BOTTOMS OUT, BRAT TAX jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what’s the price that comes from being a brat? stay on the corner? orrrrrrr... getting fuc$ by your boyfriend hard, mean? probably the second that’s why being a brat is your that time of the year.

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, 23 you & 31 them, age-gap, brat tamer, mean, overstimulated, cock-drūnk, dirty talk, hair pulling, titie$/pu$$y slap(s), $pitting / $pit(s) in mouth, chocking, degrading, daddy-kink, very rough, mean praise, matīng presses, MARATHONS, brēeding mention, dūmbifícation, fíngering, cūmplay, swēaring. it might be too rough or disturbing for some people, read on your own awareness.

GOJO SATORU

the first thing he did when he walked in the door wasn’t kiss you. wasn’t hug you. wasn’t talk.

he unbuttoned his sleeves, rolled them up past his forearms, hung his jacket on the rack, and stared at you.

you on the bed. knees tucked under you, hair a mess, some dumb little tank that didn’t even cover your tits right, nipples hard and begging. phone still in hand. watching him like you didn’t already know what you’d done.

“how was work, baby?” you chirped. smug. god, smug.

his jaw ticked. he didn’t answer. just walked forward, slowly, fingers unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. all that pale, lean muscle. eyes like glass, but fire underneath.

you bit your lip. he noticed. always noticed.

“you think you’re cute,” he muttered, pulling the phone from your hand and tossing it somewhere. “think you can spend the whole goddamn week being a brat and i’ll just kiss your forehead and call you princess?”

you tilted your head. innocent. false.

“aren’t i your princess?”

he laughed. once. bitter and dark and mean.

“no, sweetheart. tonight, you’re my fucking problem.”

he grabbed you by the back of the neck and shoved you down on the bed, chest to mattress, ass up. panties soaked. you hadn’t even pretended not to touch yourself waiting for him. he could see it. smell it. the heat pulsing from your cunt was obscene.

“been teasing me for days,” he murmured. voice low. affectionate. like it was all just a joke between lovers. but his hands said otherwise. they yanked your panties down, spread your legs, palmed your ass like he owned it. “flaunting this little hole, moaning when i’m on the phone, fuckin’ grinding on me during movie night—”

a pause. breath tickled your ear.

“you been begging for this, baby.”

you shivered. “i missed you…”

his hand cracked against your ass. smack. you jolted.

“no, you didn’t. you missed my cock.”

he bent down, kissed the welt he left.

“but i missed you, too. fuckin’ brat and all.”

he reached between your legs, dragged two fingers through your folds. wet. soaked, needy, messy. you cried out, hips jerking, but he pinned you down easily.

“so pretty like this,” he whispered, voice soft like silk wrapped around steel. “so dumb for me. already wet and you haven’t even felt the stretch.”

you moaned when he shoved both fingers in. schlick. curling them up, slow, slow, mean.

“you know how many times i thought about this pussy this week? sittin’ in my office, watching your texts pop up—‘miss you daddy,’ ‘thinking about your dick,’—you really thought i wasn’t gonna make you pay?”

you whimpered into the sheets. “i wanna pay… please make me.”

his voice broke, almost tender. “fucking hell, baby. you were made to be ruined.”

he took his cock out, dragged it up your slit, wetting the head with your slick. you gasped when he pushed in—not fast. no mercy, but no rush either. like he wanted you to feel it.

“so tight. always so fucking tight. greedy little hole doesn’t wanna let me go.”

you moaned loud, hands fisting the sheets, body arching, already clenching.

“shh, baby,” he cooed, fucking you slow, mean, deep. every stroke brushing your walls perfectly. “let daddy do the talking now.”

you nodded, face buried in the blankets. eyes wide, leaking. he leaned down, pressed his chest to your back, mouth by your ear.

“gonna fill you up,” he whispered. “make you forget your own name. you’ll be just my sweet little fuckdoll, stuffed full of cum, dripping all over the sheets like a good girl.”

you sobbed. “please… harder…”

he obliged. slap of hips to ass. pace brutal now. no buildup. just hard, filthy fucking, his hand curled around your throat from behind, keeping your head tilted just so he could speak into your ear.

“look at you,” he breathed. “so easy for me. so soft. bet you’d let me do anything. bet i could turn you over, fuck your throat till you choke, and you’d still thank me.”

you nodded, gasping, tears leaking freely now. you loved this. loved it.

“you’re mine,” he said, filthy and reverent. “mine to fuck. mine to break. mine to put back together.”

his hand slipped to your clit, rubbed fast and hard and perfect.

“cum for me, baby,” he whispered. “show me how much this little cunt needs me.”

you screamed.

orgasm ripped through you like lightning, thighs shaking, body convulsing, drool on the pillow, eyes rolled back. you clenched around him so hard he groaned, hands gripping your hips like he’d die if he let go.

“fuck—fuck, gonna fill you—gonna make you my little cumdump—take it—”

and he did. thick ropes of hot cum spilling deep inside you, cock throbbing, buried to the hilt. he stayed there. didn’t move. just pressed his body to yours, forehead on your shoulder, heart racing.

he kissed your neck.

“you’re such a little problem,” he whispered.

then softer

“but you’re my favorite problem in the whole fucking world.”

GETO SUGURU

you were on your knees when he came in.

good girl posture. hands resting on your thighs. no panties. tank top soaked from your own nipples. mouth open, eyes wide, trying your best to look obedient.

geto saw right through it.

he didn’t speak at first. just stared. heavy boots thunking across the floor with slow purpose, like every step was judgment. thirty-one years old, still in black slacks from his shift, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back neat—clean.

too clean for the way he looked at you. like he was about to do something filthy. sacred.

“how many days you think you’ve gotten away with this?”

his voice dropped like honey into a coffin.

“with what?” your lips curled. “being good?”

he knelt, big hands sliding into your hair, curling tight.

“no. playing sweet, sitting here like you’re waiting for a blessing when all week you’ve been acting like the devil’s little cumslut.”

your mouth dropped. thighs clenched.

“don’t play innocent,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “skipping class, mouthing off, posting thirst traps while i’m at work—you wanna humiliate me, baby? want everyone seeing what’s mine?”

“i wanted your attention,” you whispered.

“you got it now.”

he dragged you by the hair, tossed you on the bed like a ragdoll.

“face down.”

you didn’t even blink. flipped, legs trembling, soaked already, thighs sticking together.

he tore the shirt. clean. one motion. your tits bounced out and he didn’t waste time. slapped one, hard, made you yelp.

“no bra? of course not. why would a whore need one?”

you whined. “suguru…”

“don’t say my name like that unless you want me to spit in your fucking mouth.”

you turned your head, open. waiting.

he grinned. “good little slut.”

ptui— his spit landed on your tongue. you swallowed without blinking.

he shoved your legs open. two fingers slid between your folds. he paused.

“…this wet already?”

your moan was so soft it barely counted. “for you. only ever for you.”

his fingers moved slow. filthy. obscene. gathering slick just to smear it around, tease your clit, then slap it. smack. your hips jumped.

“you’re not sorry.”

“no.”

“you want me to hurt you.”

“…yes.”

he bent down, kissed your spine. so gentle it made you ache.

“then i’ll make you scream, pretty girl. and you’re gonna thank me.”

he undid his belt. the sound alone made your breath hitch.

when he dragged his cock through your folds, you shook.

“look at you,” he murmured. “so needy. creaming on my cock before i even fuck you.”

you turned your face, whimpering, “please, i need it—”

he pushed in. all the way.

no warm-up. no slow thrust. just one thick, brutal drive of his hips that made your mouth open in a silent scream.

“fucking tight. trying to squeeze the cum out of me already? greedy fucking pussy.”

his pace was cruel. loud. thwack, thwack, thwack—his hips slamming your ass, hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.

“keep it open for me,” he growled, voice ragged. “don’t run. you begged for this, now you take it.”

your moans went high-pitched. broken. drool soaked the sheets.

he leaned over your back, one hand slipping under to grope your tits, the other gripping your jaw, turning your head to him.

“you know what you are?”

“what?”

“my sweet little altar. made to kneel. to take my cock like worship.”

you clenched. hard. he groaned.

“oh, fuck—yeah. you love that, don’t you? being used. being my soft, pretty thing to ruin.”

you cried out, “yes! fuck, i love it—please, harder—”

he grabbed your throat from behind, pulled you up, your back against his chest, still fucking deep, brutal, fast. your body jolted with every stroke.

“then take every inch. show me you mean it.”

he grabbed your jaw, forced your mouth open, spit into it again. “swallow.”

you obeyed. always.

“that’s it. my dirty girl. my pretty.”

his pace faltered—then slammed in harder. faster. pounding. like he wanted to break something.

“gonna fill you,” he gasped. “fuck you till it leaks down your thighs. i’ll knot you if i have to. keep you plugged all fucking week.”

your second orgasm hit so hard your legs collapsed. you shrieked—“SUGURU—”—body shaking, pussy clenching, squirting mess over his cock and thighs.

“fuckfuck— ohhh my girl—take it—take it all—”

he shoved in, one final time, and came. deep. thick. endless. flooding your cunt until it was dripping, running down your thighs.

he stayed buried. chest to your back. lips to your ear.

“my perfect little thing,” he whispered. “my brat. my problem. my heaven.”

you sobbed. smiling.

he kissed your temple.

“…round two’s in the shower. don’t you dare rinse me out.”

NANAMI KENTO

you knew what time he got off work.

you knew he’d take the train.

you knew how long the walk from the station to your shared apartment took.

and still, you were spread on the couch with your ass in the air and your vibrator buzzing so loud it was practically greeting him when the door opened.

“welcome home, daddy,” you purred, glancing over your shoulder, thighs slick and shining. “miss me?”

he didn’t speak. didn’t breathe.

nanami kento closed the door with the click of finality, set his briefcase down gently, and rolled his sleeves with the precision of a man preparing to kill. slow. methodical. focused.

you didn’t even blink. just arched your back more.

“you couldn’t wait,” he said, voice like death in a silk tie. “again.”

“i needed to come.”

“and not a single fucking thought for who you belong to.”

you moaned at the tone. his belt was already off, folded in his hand.

you whimpered, “make me remember.”

he did.

three cracks across your ass with the leather before you even finished exhaling. you yelped, jerked forward, vibrator falling out of your cunt—he kicked it across the room like trash.

“don’t you ever take what’s mine without asking.”

you turned your head, breathing fast, face flushed. “i’m yours.”

his voice dropped lower. colder.

“then act like it.”

he yanked you off the couch by your hair, not cruel, just firm, dominating, until you were on your knees before him.

“open your mouth.”

you obeyed.

his cock was hard already, heavy and thick, flushed red at the tip. he didn’t stroke it. didn’t tease. just shoved it past your lips and down your throat in one smooth, brutal thrust.

glrk—glgk—mmph!

“quiet,” he muttered. “you gag, you make a mess, i’ll make you clean the floor with your tongue.”

his hand in your hair. his cock down your throat. his voice in your head.

“disobedient little holes like yours need reminders. rough ones. you think acting like a filthy little brat will earn you soft touches?”

your throat fluttered around him. tears spilled from your eyes.

he pulled out. you gasped—air, finally—only to be slapped across the face with his cock. once. twice. precum smeared your cheek.

“no. you get discipline. and when you take it well, then—maybe—you get to hear me say how much i love you.”

you whimpered. “please, daddy—i love you—”

he bent down, grabbed your jaw, squeezed until your lips parted wide.

“and i love you,” he whispered, cruel and tender. “which is why i won’t stop until this body forgets how to lie.”

he flipped you over the couch, pushed your head down into the cushions, shoved two fingers into your dripping cunt, slow and punishing.

“look at this mess,” he hissed. “you soaked my furniture. like some heat-addled bitch waiting to be bred.”

you keened, trying to fuck back on his hand. he pulled away.

“don’t move.”

he lined up behind you. one hand on your hip, the other fisting your hair. then he fucked into you.

slap—slap—slap—

no warning. no easing. just cock, thick and deep, pounding your pussy open like it owed him something. your cries echoed in the room, each one sharper than the last.

“say it,” he snarled, fucking into you harder. “say what you are.”

“your slut—daddy—i’m your hole—fuck—i’m yours—”

“louder.”

“I’M YOURS—”

he yanked your hair, bit your shoulder, hand sliding around to rub your clit in tight cruel circles.

“you come without permission, i start over.”

you sobbed, trembling, pussy spasming around him.

“please—please please let me—”

he licked your ear. breath hot.

“beg prettier.”

your voice cracked. “daddy, please let me cum—i need it—been so bad, need your punishment—need your cum in me—please mark me—please—”

he groaned, deep and low. “fuck.”

his pace stuttered. faster now. rougher.

“cum for me, baby,” he hissed. “make a mess. cry for me. scream.”

you shattered.

your orgasm slammed through you like a train, thighs trembling, gush of slick coating his cock, your whole body collapsing forward into the couch cushions. sobbing. raw. ruined.

but he wasn’t done.

“stay there.”

he pulled out. flipped you over. shoved his cock between your tits and started fucking them while you whimpered, barely conscious, still twitching.

“look at me while i do it,” he ordered. “eyes on mine.”

you blinked, tears spilling, lips parted. he jerked himself with one hand, using your tits for friction with the other, voice shaking.

“i love you so fucking much,” he muttered. “you drive me insane. make me mean. make me need to ruin you.”

he came all over your chest and neck, thick spurts painting your skin like ownership.

he collapsed forward, kissed your mouth so softly it made you ache.

“you’re my everything,” he whispered. “my brat. my problem. my love.”

you nodded, dizzy. “i know.”

he cupped your cheek.

“and next time,” he said, already smiling, “if i catch you touching yourself again…”

he kissed your temple.

“…i’ll tie you up for three days and make you watch me cum on other things.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

you slammed the door.

he kicked it open.

you were already halfway to your bedroom, huffing, rolling your eyes, making that smug little face that said “what are you gonna do about it?”

toji didn’t say a word.

he didn’t have to.

his heavy boots hit the floor like thunder. you didn’t even get a chance to shut your bedroom door before he was there—six foot something, broad, scarred, tired of your mouth and twice as tired of not fucking it shut.

he caught your wrist, yanked you back, threw you face-first onto the mattress.

“oh, we’re doin’ this again?” he muttered, pulling your shorts down without an ounce of gentleness, thong snapping against your thigh as he ripped it clean off. “you really don’t know when to quit, huh?”

you were soaking. dripping down your thighs. and he hadn’t even touched your cunt yet.

“fuck you,” you spat.

he laughed. loud. mean. dragged a hand through your hair, grabbed a fistful and yanked your head back.

“no, sweetheart. not tonight. i fuck you.”

he shoved two fingers into your mouth, watched your eyes widen as he fucked them in deep, slow, choking you just enough to blur your vision.

“this is what you’re good for. being used. being bent over and stuffed full ‘til you’re cryin’ and leaking. that what you wanted, princess?”

you moaned around his fingers, drooling down your chin.

he spat on your ass. spanked it with his free hand, making you jerk.

“talk back to me again this week and i’m fucking your ass next.”

you whimpered. clenched. because yeah, you wanted that too.

he yanked his belt off, undid his pants with one hand, shoved them down, cock already rock-fucking-hard, vein thick down the shaft, leaking.

“been walkin’ around like a tease all week. no bra, no manners, no fuckin’ sense,” he grunted, dragging his tip down your slit. “you want me to be mean to you.”

you nodded, barely able to breathe.

“yeah? you like when i fuck the brat outta you?”

you didn’t even answer. your eyes were already fluttering.

he shoved in with a grunt. balls-deep.

no warning. no mercy.

“FUCK—!”

your scream echoed off the walls as he filled you to the goddamn brim, hips flush, his palm between your shoulder blades pinning you down like he was staking a claim.

“tight little cunt,” he growled. “so fucking wet for me. already stretchin’ like a good girl.”

he pulled back and slammed in. again. again. faster now, fucking you like it was his full-time job.

you sobbed, hands clawing at the sheets, body jolting with each brutal thrust.

“what happened to all that attitude?” he taunted, leaning over you, chest to your back, lips on your ear. “gone all quiet now that you’ve got cock where your mouth used to be?”

you cried out, “toji—ohmygod—!”

he bit your neck. hard. left a mark.

“you’re mine. say it.”

“yours—fuck—i’m yours—!”

he laughed again, rough and satisfied.

“yeah, that’s what i thought. all that mouth and now you can’t even breathe without my dick stuffed inside you.”

his hand reached under, fingers to your clit—he didn’t stroke. he rubbed. hard, cruel circles, timed to each thrust. you were soaking him, wet squelches with every pump, your whole body on fire.

“cum like my fucktoy, baby,” he hissed. “i wanna feel you milkin’ my cock. wanna see you ruin these fuckin’ sheets.”

you screamed when it hit—legs shaking, vision blurring, whole cunt clenching tight around him in messy, gushing waves. you collapsed. sobbing. drooling. wrecked.

but he wasn’t done.

“nah, sweetheart. you don’t get to finish before i do.”

he grabbed your hips, pulled you back onto his cock, used your spent, twitching body like a toy. loud, brutal slaps of skin. balls slamming into your soaked cunt. groaning like he was at war with himself.

“fuck—gonna fill you—make you walk around leaking all night—fuckin’ dripping down your thighs like a good little cumdump—ugh—take it—take it, take it—”

he came inside you so hard you felt it. thick spurts, hot as sin, flooding your walls until it dripped down your ass.

he pulled out slow. stared at the mess. smirked.

“that’s what you get for runnin’ your mouth.”

you turned your head, dazed, voice hoarse.

“i hate you.”

he leaned down, kissed your forehead soft as anything, voice like syrup over gravel:

“love you too, babydoll.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

he didn’t knock.

he didn’t text.

he kicked the fucking door in like he owned the place—and you.

and he did.

you didn’t even flinch from the bed, lounging like you hadn’t been a little menace all week. phone in hand. pussy bare. your cunt glistened under the city lights pouring through the window. thighs spread. one finger buried inside you.

he saw red.

“you’ve got a lot of nerve,” he growled, voice thick with something ancient, brutal, blood-soaked. “you touch what belongs to me and don’t even ask?”

you slid your finger out, sucked it slow, gaze steady.

“you weren’t here.”

he crossed the room in two strides, hand around your throat before the second breath left your lungs. pinned you to the mattress, his claws—yes, claws—digging just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“and that gave you the right?”

you gasped, breath caught between fear and heat.

“no,” you whispered. “i needed you.”

“that’s better.” he released your throat only to slap your cheek with the same hand. not hard. just sharp. humiliating.

“you need me. like a filthy mortal needs breath. like a cunt needs cock. like a god needs worship.”

his other hand dragged down your stomach, slow, possessive. past your navel, between your thighs. he spit on your pussy. watched it drip down.

“look at that. already wet. already messy. pathetic little shrine all ready for my cock.”

you whimpered. hips lifted. he slapped your pussy. smack.

“not yet.”

he stood at the edge of the bed, peeled off that black robe he always wore like he was royalty—chest marked in thick black lines, tattoos like scripture, four arms rippling with power. his cock hung heavy, long, thick enough to hurt. twitching already.

“on your knees.”

you scrambled. didn’t dare disobey.

he gripped your hair with one hand, used the other to stroke his cock, and before moving to hold your chin still.

“mouth open. tongue out. beg for it.”

you moaned. “please, daddy. i need it. need to choke on you.”

“then take it.”

he shoved into your throat, all at once. no easing. no mercy. just a brutal, choking thrust that had your lips spread wide, nose buried in his pelvis, drool leaking instantly.

glk—glrk—hhhk—!

“such a tight little throat,” he snarled, hips rolling into your face. “feels like you were made just for me. every hole on you’s mine.”

he fucked your mouth like it was a hole in the wall. used. owned. you gagged. he laughed. sweet, cruel, delighted.

“look at you. tears running, drool soaking your tits. and you’re moaning around it. you like being treated like a toy.”

you nodded, eyes glassy.

he pulled out with a pop. your spit hung in strands from his cock to your lips.

“on the bed. ass up.”

you obeyed, body shaking. he grabbed your hips, yanked you back to the edge, slapped your ass until it was glowing.

“i should tear this pussy open,” he hissed. “should split you on my cock ‘til you scream. but you’d like that too much, wouldn’t you?”

“please,” you whimpered. “please hurt me. i want it.”

he growled. bent down. bit your shoulder—hard.

“you’re fucking sick.”

he lined up. shoved in.

balls-deep. in one thrust.

your scream split the air. your hands clawed at the sheets. he was so fucking big. so full. you could feel him in your guts.

“there it is,” he moaned, hips jerking. “tight little cunt squeezing me like it’s trying to keep me.”

his pace was savage. slap, slap, slap—his hips brutal, body hard against yours, hands gripping your arms, claws biting into your skin.

“you thought you were in charge,” he snarled. “thought you could make me come crawling back by acting like a brat.”

“yes—yes—fuck—”

he leaned over, mouth at your ear.

“you belong to me, whore.”

you sobbed, clenching around him.

“my hole. my cumdump. my little fuckthing. say it.”

“yours—! please, kuna—i’m yours—i’m your little toy—”

he grabbed your throat from behind, dragged your back against his chest, never breaking rhythm, fucking you upright while you trembled and cried.

“gonna fill you up. fuckin’ ruin this cunt. make you drip my seed down your legs all week.”

“yes! please! i want it—want your cum—”

“good fucking girl.”

he slammed in deep. held. came. groaning. loud. thick. endless. his cock pulsed and pumped you full, hot liquid spilling out around the base.

he bit your neck again. sucked a mark. kissed the bruise he left.

“…you ever touch yourself again without permission,” he growled, low and sweet, “i’ll tie you up and make you watch me fuck someone else.” he would never, but still.

you whimpered, ruined.

he laughed.

“but don’t worry. you’re still my favorite. always have been.”

his hand cupped your cunt. felt the cum leaking out.

“let’s do it again.”

SHIU KONG

you’d done it again.

talked back. wore that skirt with no panties. flirted with some other guy at the bar just to see if he’d look.

you didn’t make it past the hallway.

shiu slammed you up against the wall so hard the picture frame fell off its hook. his breath hit your neck like smoke before fire, hands already pulling your shirt over your head, teeth scraping your jaw.

“think i didn’t see you?” he growled, mouth against your ear, voice dark and deadly. “batting your lashes, giggling like some fuckin’ club bunny? touching his chest?”

you gasped, but you were smiling.

“you jealous?”

his hand wrapped around your throat. tight.

“no. i’m furious.”

he grabbed your wrist and dragged you through the apartment like a criminal to sentence. your knees smacked the floor when he shoved you down in front of the couch. you didn't even protest. you wanted it. you lived for it.

his belt hit the ground. next were his pants. his cock was already hard, thick, twitching.

“open.”

you licked your lips. “yes, sir.”

“say it louder.”

“yes, sir.”

he slapped your cheek. not with his hand—with the head of his cock. smack smack smack. precum smeared your lips. your thighs clenched.

“good little bitch. show me who owns this pretty fuckin’ mouth.”

you opened wide. tongue out. obedient.

he shoved in deep. you gagged. glk—glrk—guhk— he didn’t stop. one hand held your hair, the other cupped your jaw, forcing you to take every inch until tears blurred your vision and spit dripped down your chin.

“that’s it. choke on it, princess. this what you wanted, right? some attention from your daddy?”

you whimpered around his cock. he laughed.

“you don’t even need to answer. your cunt’s been dripping since the bar.”

he pulled out with a wet pop, gripped your hair, yanked you to your feet and threw you on the couch. not placed. not guided. threw. you bounced on impact, legs splayed, skirt riding up to show everything.

“no panties,” he muttered, kneeling between your legs. “you wanted me to snap.”

you nodded, panting.

“say it.”

“i wanted you to lose it. i wanted to be punished.”

he grabbed your thighs and spread them wide. stared at your soaked cunt like it insulted him.

“fucking slut. god, you’re perfect. look at this pussy—so soft, so wet, and all of it mine.”

he didn’t even finger you. just leaned in and bit your inner thigh. hard.

“you wanna play games, sweetheart? fine. but i don’t play fair.”

he stood. lined up.

you whispered, “please be rough.”

his voice dropped to something cruel and sweet.

“oh baby. you don’t have to ask.”

and he slammed into you.

your scream lit up the room. no warning. no prep. just raw stretch and heat and cock, thick and punishing, shoved into your tight little hole like he was trying to fuck his name into your guts.

“there you go,” he hissed, holding your hips down when you tried to run. “now you’re quiet. now you’re mine again.”

his pace was vicious. brutal. thwack—thwack—thwack. the couch shook. your body rocked. tears streamed. and he didn’t stop. his hands roamed your body like they were memorizing every bruise he left.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growled. “cryin’, wrecked, full of cock. you make me crazy, you know that? i see you flirtin’, smilin’, and all i can think about is how you beg for my cum when you’re stuffed full.”

“shiu—shiu—please—”

“please what?” he slapped your clit. you squealed. “please more? please harder? please daddy use me like the cumdump i am?”

“yes—” you sobbed. “please ruin me—!”

he fucked harder. faster. one hand grabbed your throat again, squeezing. the other rubbing your clit mean and fast.

“then take it. take every fucking inch. milk me for it, baby.”

your orgasm ripped through you. back arched, vision gone white, mouth open in a silent scream, cunt clenching tight.

“that’s it,” he panted. “cum like a good little bitch.”

he didn’t pull out. couldn’t. he was already snarling, pounding into your spasming pussy like he was trying to breed you.

“gonna fill you up,” he moaned, voice ragged. “gonna leave you dripping for days—fuck—gonna make your body remember who owns it—”

and he came. hard. deep. thick.

cum painted your walls, leaking instantly around his cock. he held you there, pulsing inside, trembling.

and then—he kissed you.

soft. messy. possessive.

“you fuckin’ drive me insane,” he whispered. “but i love you so much i’ll keep breaking you every time you forget.”

you smiled through the tears, body ruined.

“…then i guess i’ll keep forgetting.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he didn’t even loosen his tie.

you watched him walk in—black coat soaked from the rain, briefcase in one hand, that cold stillness around his shoulders like he just left the courtroom but brought the executioner’s gavel home.

you were already waiting on the couch. bare. innocent. dangerous.

legs crossed. vibrator buzzing in one hand. nothing else on but gloss and guilt.

he saw the shine on your thighs. the fake innocence in your eyes.

and he smiled.

a soft thing. terrifying. like a man about to pass sentence.

“you’ve been playing again,” he said, setting the briefcase down.

“mm,” you hummed, slowly parting your legs, giving him the full view. “not guilty.”

his eyes dragged over your cunt, soaked and glistening.

“you sure?”

“you want to cross-examine?”

his coat dropped to the floor. no hanger. no pause. just unbuckled belt, tie yanked loose with one motion, shirt still tucked as he stalked toward you.

“stand up.”

you did.

“hands behind your back.”

you obeyed.

he circled you once like a predator and pressed his palm to your ass, dragging it down between your cheeks, feeling your heat. your slick.

he leaned in.

“verdict’s in,” he murmured, voice warm like whiskey and holy sin. “guilty. of seduction, disobedience, and fucking filth.”

your moan was a whisper.

he turned you, bent you over the couch, and cuffed your wrists behind your back with actual cuffs—black steel, no fluff, no play. courtroom restraints.

you gasped. breath hitched. he kissed the back of your neck.

“you don’t get to come tonight unless you confess.”

you turned your head, panting, “confess to what?”

he slapped your cunt. hard. you cried out.

“don’t play dumb. you get off on this. teasing me. touching yourself when i’m gone. soaking the sheets in that sweet little pussy like a bitch in heat.”

his cock was out now—long, flushed, angry. the head leaking precum, thick vein down the side pulsing. you whimpered at the sight.

“you been thinking about this cock all day?” he asked, dragging the tip through your folds.

“yes—yes, your honor—”

he slapped your ass.

“try again.”

“…yes, daddy.”

his laugh was low, dangerous.

“better.”

he shoved in with a groan.

deep. slow. endless.

“fuck—tight. still fits like it was made for me.”

he didn’t move yet. just stayed there, cock buried in your soaked heat, stretching you open while his hands gripped your waist like a ruling passed down from the gods.

you moaned, trembling.

“what’s the sentence, daddy?”

“remand.” he pulled out, slammed back in. thwack. “no parole. full use. no safeword.”

you cried out, back arching, eyes rolling back.

his pace was slow and mean.

every thrust perfect. deep. angled to punish.

“look at you. taking it. soaking me. drooling. just a needy little slut waiting for her judge to ruin her in the courtroom and the bedroom.”

you whined, broken, body jolting with every thrust.

“beg me,” he ordered, voice warm and calm and cruel.

“please—please don’t stop—please keep fucking me—”

he leaned down, mouth to your ear, voice pure velvet:

“you want the whole courtroom to hear how loud this sloppy cunt gets? want the bailiff, the stenographer, every poor bastard sitting in the gallery hearing you scream daddy while i fill you up?”

you moaned so loud you swore it echoed.

his hand wrapped around your throat. the other on your hip, holding you still while he started to destroy you.

“i love you, you know,” he whispered, fucking faster now. “but you’re such a goddamn problem. smart mouth. bratty ass. needy little whore. you need this. you need to be put in your place.”

your climax hit without warning—violent, soaking, screaming.

he didn’t stop. not for a second.

“that’s one,” he muttered. “we’re not done. you don’t get a reduced sentence for good behavior. you think i give out mercy? i’m the fucking law, baby.”

you sobbed, body twitching, begging.

he flipped you over, still cuffed, shoved your legs open and fucked into you again—face to face now. slower. deeper. crueler.

his eyes locked on yours. serious. sweet.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, stroking your cheek. “no jury. no appeal.”

you nodded, tears slipping.

“yours. forever.”

he kissed you. sweet. filthy.

and came inside you with a groan like confession. thick, hot, endless.

still buried, still pulsing. still in control.

“court adjourned,” he said.

but his eyes?

still hungry.

[always-just-red]

Multi headcanon request please. The LIs touch their s/os' breast for the first time, but it's an accident. However, instead of getting mad, she gently scolds them "save that behavior for when we're alone".

You always give me such great requests tehe, I had the absolute time of my life with this one. Did mini fics again! Featuring this time: a baking class with Xavier 🍰, a check-up with Zayne 🩺, pottery-making with Rafayel 🏺, casino night with Sylus 🎲, and a VERY serious study session with Caleb 📚

Innocent Little Mistakes

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: In which the boys are all menaces, surprising literally no-one 🥰

Genre: Humour

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, inappropriate touching (but make it ✨COMEDY✨), PDA, slight suggestiveness, established relationships

| Word count: 600-750 words each! | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One more strike and you’re out.

You furiously mix the bowl of cake batter under your arm, all too aware of the chef watching you from across the room. You don’t know why he’s looking at you— you’re not the problem. The problem is beside you, measuring out an ingredient you don’t actually need.

“What’re you up to, Xavi?” you ask with a nervous chuckle, trying not to sound suspicious.

He looks up at you, blue eyes as warm as the oven that’s making everything feel too hot. “Measuring,” he declares with a smile.

“That’s great, sweetie.”

Don’t ask. Just leave it.

Every other couple in the class look sickeningly in love— trading ingredients, utensils, and lingering gazes— all in perfect harmony. Meanwhile, you have a ticking time bomb for a partner. First there was the egg incident: a rogue egg from your table had somehow ended up under the foot of the man one counter down from you, slipping him over and twisting his ankle. Then the man from the couple behind you slipped too: on a butter wrap Xavier had sworn he’d thrown away.

Funny how so many of the things from your counter are going on little, deadly adventures.

You shoot Xavier another wary look. He glances up. Smiles. You smile back. When the cake batter’s done, tipped into the tin and tucked into the oven, you move onto the icing. You whip it up in a minute, lifting a spoon from the bowl and dragging a finger through to taste it.

“Xavier,” you say, nudging the bowl across to him, “mind putting a little more sugar in this? I need to start tidying up.”

“Sure,” he beams.

He can’t mess that up, right? You don’t want to exclude him. With a soft sigh, you start to reorganise your work station: making space for the cake you’re going to decorate. Xavier’s voice interrupts you, sweet like the sugar flowers you’re sorting through:

“How’s this?”

You turn, and the moment you do, something cool scrapes your collarbone. Xavier was holding out a spoon— too close— and it tips at your contact, spilling sticky white icing down past the neckline of your apron and shirt. You feel it, inching down your skin, between your breasts.

You’ve been stunned into silence. Xavier is staring down too, lips parted, spoon still mid-air.

“Don’t just stare!” you find it in you to scold, glancing about for something that’ll help you clean up. “Help me—”

That’s when you feel it: something warm on your skin. Your gaze shoots down and Xavier is wiping his thumb through the mess on your chest. He lifts the icing to his mouth. Pops it past his lips.

“Xavier!” you exclaim on a whisper.

His eyes had fluttered closed, but they open again. His lips are still on his thumb as he looks back at you. “Mmm?” he hums around it, like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

That face is so devastatingly innocent, but you’re not falling for it. You cross your arms and glare.

“You want some too?” Xavier translates.

Before you can stop him, his thumb is on your skin again. “Xavi—!” you protest, but then that thumb is in your mouth, overwhelming you with sweetness. Except… it’s not all sweet. You frown as Xavier’s hand moves away, your nose wrinkling with disgust. “Wha— why is it salty?!”

“Wasn’t it salty already?”

“No! Xavier, what did you…? You can’t just—!”

“Are you okay?” Xavier laughs so lightly it’s almost a giggle. “You look… warm. What are you thinking about?”

He’s leaning against the counter now, cheek settled in his hand. He has the countenance of an angel and he knows what you’re thinking about. His free hand plays with a salt shaker on the counter; it doesn’t look anything like the sugar.

Behind you, someone clears their throat.

…

You walk home from the bakery class a lot earlier than planned, having— and you’re quoting verbatim, here— ‘crossed a line’. Xavier’s at your side, a bowl of icing in his hands that no-one dared take from him, and he hums pleasantly to himself as he lifts a fingerful to his lips.

“You did that on purpose,” you grumble, and it’s the first words you’ve said in a while.

He smiles like butter icing wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Zayne ❄️

“Zayne, c’mon… it’s not that bad.”

Lower half cocooned by the blankets of a hospital bed, you give your doctor a lopsided smile. He doesn’t grace your statement with a response— at least, not an intelligible one. There’s a tiny hum, to let you know you’ve been heard. There’s an even tinier frown, to let you know he was not amused.

So you got a little scraped up by a Wanderer— it happens! With your own frown, you regard the pulse oximeter that’s biting the end of your forefinger. You wiggle it, even though Zayne had instructed you to keep still. The tiny screen flashes and flickers. He writes… something down on his clipboard, and it feels needlessly dramatic.

“How would you rate the pain you’re currently experiencing?” he asks.

“Zero. Zilch. Nada. I feel great, actually.”

More scribbles for the clipboard, which means absolutely nothing good.

“I mean it, Zayne. I’m fine, really. I don’t even know why Xavier brought me here. Like, what’s the point of first-aid training if you’re just gonna dump someone in the hospi—”

“Please be still.”

You’d started gesturing, and Zayne stares across at the monitor on your finger. He sighs, which you don’t think is professional, then reaches to press a button on it, restarting its progress. You’re obedient this time: sitting still as he goes back to his beloved clipboard. That sigh sounded tired.

The oximeter bleeps. Zayne glances up. Makes another note.

“There,” he says, his eyes still trained downwards as he reaches across you to retrieve the device, “was that really so—?”

The words stop in his throat when his hand brushes your chest.

Just a graze, but his fingers hover guiltily for a moment before correcting their course: homing in on the oximeter, pinching it open. Zayne doesn’t meet your eyes as he returns to his writing. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks that definitely isn’t professional.

This is amazing. “Did you just—?”

He gives an adorably slight shake of his head.

You gasp anyway, utterly scandalised: “Doctor Zayne! You took an oath.”

“Stop.”

“Here I am, weak from blood loss! Vulnerable!”

“Stop.”

“What sort of an establishment is this, hmm? What other twisted, sordid things go on behind the—” and it’s at this moment you catch a glimpse of a familiar figure— “ah, Doctor Greyson! Doctor Greyson! In here, please!”

The man had been passing through the ward, though he stops at the sound of your voice. “Oh, hello!” he greets, peering around your privacy curtain, “Zayne mentioned you were in! It’s good to see you. Well, not good to see you here, but— you know what I mean! How are you?”

“I’m shocked,” you witter on, because you’ve no time for pleasantries, “shocked, I say! Just now, this man here had the audacity to—”

A cold hand clamps over your mouth.

You are— actually— shocked. You blink at Greyson, eyes wide; even he looks like he’s seen a Wanderer riding a bicycle through the hospital. After a moment of tense, awkward silence, he does that face you know so well. His ‘nope, I’m not going anywhere near whatever this is!’ face.

It’s not a surprise when he backs out, leaving you and Zayne alone once more. Your doctor’s hand is still over your mouth, breaching all kinds of ethics, and oh, how the mighty have fallen. This feels like victory. When Zayne’s hand finally drops, you’re grinning.

“Had your fun?” he asks quietly, looking back to his notes.

“Have you? Or do you wanna have another...?” You waggle a finger at your breasts.

Zayne’s mouth is a tight line, and he doesn’t dare look up. Something is scrawled on the clipboard and you get the feeling it’s a distraction. Your very important doctor is writing very important things. Definitely isn’t scribbling nonsense. He clears his throat, then stands rigidly, his face sombre.

Did you take your joke too far? Your heart starts to have some kind of episode as he walks away, and the stupid machine you’re hooked up to says nothing about it, which is typical.

But Zayne still stops at the curtain. Glances over his shoulder.

“Ask me later,” he says with a gentle smirk.

Rafayel 🎨

“This is just like that old movie.”

Rafayel hums a familiar, vintage tune as his hands cradle yours, guiding them up and down, up and down, as a wet clay vase spins beneath your touch. Everything about your partner is relaxed: his fingers, lazy and precise, and his head, settled comfortably on your shoulder. The song is so close to your ear that it tickles.

How the hell is he so calm? Your eyes are fixed downwards, brow furrowed with the sort of concentration you’d usually save for disarming a bomb. Your fingers feel clumsy and dangerous. Your head hurts. It doesn’t help that every other couple in the pottery class are stealing less-than-subtle glances your way: isn’t that—?

Yep! The Rafayel. Creative genius, ‘Da Vinci of our time’ Rafayel, and here you are, ever a moment away from destroying his latest masterpiece.

“Raf, stop…” you mutter, because he’s still humming away, distracting you.

“Okay!”

The song stops. You don’t think Rafayel has ever co-operated so quickly. Which means…

“Woahhh,” he sings quietly, privately, and right on cue, “my love… my darling… I’ve hungered for your—”

“Stop!” you hiss under your breath, untangling a hand from your project so you can swat at his face.

“A long... lonely— ah! — tiiiime!”

The vase is already folding over on itself, collapsing into a sad, soggy heap as Rafayel half sings, half chuckles, catching your hand so he can launch a counterstrike. A wet finger brushes your nose and you gasp, wrinkling your face in indignance. Then you wriggle your hand free, going in for another swat. The artist’s head has left your shoulder. The arms around you are suddenly attacking.

There’s a kerfuffle of hands, slick and sticky with clay. Slapping each-other. Trying to outmanoeuvre each-other. One lands on your chest with a thwap!

You both go deathly still.

Rafayel has stopped laughing, his body a marble statue behind you; you think his breath has actually gone. When his hand lifts away from you, it’s like a delusional cat slinking away from a crime: if I move slowly enough, I’m completely invisible.

What isn’t invisible, however, is the crude clay handprint he leaves behind. You stare down at it, mortified. “Raf!” you scold, and oh gods you hope nobody saw what just happened.

“I didn’t—” he begins, and he’s staring down over your shoulder, too. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t just sit there!” You shoo him away, one hand hovering in front of your chest like you’re not wearing anything at all. “I need something to—”

“On it!”

He can fix this. He can fix this. He practically falls off the seat you’d been sharing as he unwraps himself from you, stumbling up onto his feet. His hands are on his hips as he catches his breath; it had taken a lot of effort not to end up on the floor.

With a glance about, the artist spies a nearby cloth. You see the ‘aha!’ moment— the relief in his eyes as he turns towards it, on a mission. Your hero.

There’s a soft smack!

Rafayel freezes, pink creeping into his cheeks.

By the time he looks down over his shoulder, eyes widening at the bright, wet handprint on his ass, you’re already salvaging your clay vase— moulding it back into a workable blob as you hum an old song, completely innocent.

Sylus 🩸

“So… what are we spending our winnings on, sweetie?”

“A diamond as big as me,” you whisper.

“Is that it?”

Hmm. “A diamond as big as you.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Sylus chuckles, as rich and intoxicating as the alcohol he swirls in a glass as he stalls before his next throw. No-one would dare rush him. His other hand toys with a pair of dice, turning them over each-other, making them waltz about his fingers. The ministrations are practiced, experienced, and— glancing around the craps table— you’re not the only one who’s noticed.

One woman is utterly mesmerised. She takes a sip of her drink, swallowing thickly, and you like to think (delusionally) that you’ve never quite stared at Sylus as shamelessly as that. It isn’t her fault, though. Every person at the table is fixated on the man beside you, and it’s not just because they’ve got stakes in whatever he rolls next.

Sylus doesn’t own this casino— as far as you know— but he acts like he does. He places his bets. Smiles when he wins and smiles wider when he loses, as though in on a private joke. Everyone wants to know what it is. You inch closer to Sylus. Ask loud enough for them all to hear: “What do we need again?”

We.

“A nine,” he answers.

There’s a soft clack as the dice go still in his palm. He’s staring down the forest-green battleground you both stand at the head of. “Here,” he says, lifting his hand towards you, “blow on—”

He’s misjudged the distance, because his fingers collide with your chest. One of the dice rolls from his palm, tumbling down past the neckline of your dress and into your cleavage. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch. You look down in slow disbelief. Then you look at Sylus.

His crimson eyes are fixed on where the die disappeared. He glances up with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

Oops? Your gaze is a knife at his throat and he thinks if he’s cute enough, you might not use it. You narrow your eyes and purse your lips. Wanna try that again?

Sylus’s laugh is awkward, but he isn’t a coward. “May I just—?”

His hand comes towards you, and though those fingers were never actually going to commit to that little suicide mission, you still slap them away. “No!”

He pouts, splaying the same hand expectantly. With a sigh, your fingers delve beneath your neckline, fishing around for a second. You present the die with an uninspired flourish, and it’s warm when you drop it into Sylus’s open palm. His fingers close around it. He’s smirking to himself as he turns back to the table.

“Lucky die,” he muses under his breath.  

“What did you just say?!”

Louder: “I said ‘lucky—”

“You’re a dead man, Sylus Qin. D-E-A-D. Dead. You hear me? The moment we get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sylus nods dutifully; he’s not going to argue with that particular judge, jury, and executioner. He tosses the dice across the table and they clatter as they roll— the same, indifferent timbre as the chuckle in his throat. Everyone goes silent when they judder to a stop. Everyone leans in, fractionally.

A six and a three. Nine.

The gathering around you give a tentative applause. No-one really knows what just happened, least of all you and Sylus. You both stare at the dice, eyes wide, as a casino employee slides stacks of chips in your direction. Neither of you move when the dice are passed back, too.

It’s your turn, but Sylus has been throwing for you. He reaches forwards to collect the dice— starts to toy with them idly again, but it’s more pensive than last time. They clack, clack, but his mind is far away from them. Ever so slowly, his gaze inches towards you, pondering a silent question.

He’s not looking at your eyes.

Your arms cross. “Don’t even think about it.”

Caleb 🍎

“A Gelidus Dentis.”

Caleb’s voice makes you jump so much you almost drop your pen. “Huh?”

He’s stood behind where you’re sat, peering downwards. “It’s a Wanderer.”

“Yeah, I know it’s a Wanderer, Colonel Obvious. I meant why’re you talking about it?”

“Because it’s the answer? Duh.” He nods at the open textbook in front of you, and your gaze drops.

You’d practically been falling asleep reading through the practice question: some hypothetical about the aftermath of a Wanderer attack. Somewhere with a cold climate. Victims with ice burns. Multiple lacerations. Blah blah blah— you’ve got the idea.

“Please,” you dismiss as Caleb returns to his seat next to you. “It’s a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord. Easy.”  

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen one of those guys. That’s not it.”

“Oh you’ve seen one? Big whoop. I’ve killed one. Try, like, twenty.”

He tuts sympathetically as he goes back to his own work: some reports that’re definitely way too confidential for a public library. “Then it’s gonna be really embarrassing when you find out that I’m right and you’re wrong, pips.”

You scoff, making a point of writing out ‘Hoarfrost Wyrmlord’ as confidently as you can.

“Gelidus Dentis,” Caleb lilts in a sing-song voice as you flick to the back of your textbook.

You’re gonna shove your correct answer right in his face, you just need to find it. It should be right… here! Section Three. Question Twenty-Two. The Wanderer responsible is most likely a—

Fuck.

“I told you,” Caleb sings quietly again, signing his name on the bottom of a page, then turning it over.

“It was a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord.”

“It really wasn’t, but it’s cute you still hide your mouth when you’re lying.”

Your hand had lifted subconsciously in front of your lips, and you throw it back down on the textbook. “Oh, shush!”

“You shush!” The measureless galaxies of his eyes are back on you.

You slap his arm gently. He slaps your arm gently. You try to slap at his face, which means he tries to slap at your face. Soon enough, you’re both flailing your hands like two cats determined to bop the other.

Caleb’s paw lands on one of your breasts, and he doesn’t have time to regret it. With an indignant gasp, you give his chest a firm smack!

He stares at you in disbelief. You clear your throat, brushing down the fabric of your shirt as if the matter has been settled. Then you pick up your dropped pen. Okay! Question Twenty-Three: You’re called out to answer a distress signal from deep within a tropical rainforest...

“What was that?” Caleb asks.

You sniff. Say under your breath: “Tit for tit.”

“Come again?”

“Tit for tit,” you shrug. “That’s the saying. That’s how it goes.”

From the smile on his face, Caleb’s delighted. “Uh… I don’t think that is how it goes, pipsqueak.”

“Oh yeah? Hope you’re ready to look like an idiot, then.”

With a hmph, you reach for a spare piece of paper. Fold it in half. Write something brief on the outside, then on the inside. Caleb watches your pen move, quietly enamoured. There’s a click as it retracts. You hand the paper over.

Caleb’s face wrinkles, but he still handles it like it’s sacred. “Totally official dictionary!” he reads from the front. Then he opens it, continuing: “Tit for tit. Noun. If Caleb cops a feel in the library, then I get to… hey now—” he frowns— “this doesn’t seem very legitimate.”

“You dare question the authority of the Hunter’s Association?”

“I do,” he nods. “I do dare. Yeah, you see… look at this.”

He scribbles something down in your dictionary, then passes it back to you. You raise an eyebrow but relent, reading the new addition out loud: “Deepspace Fleet. Proper (awesome) noun. Has absolutely every right to question the authority of the Hunter’s Association.” You toss the paper down. “Whatever.”

Caleb sniggers victoriously as you try to get back to your work. When he doesn’t stop, you give his chest another slap. The sniggering dies out. The space between you goes quiet.

Then he reaches— smacks one of your breasts back. You look up, eyes huge.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I think I’m gonna like this little arrangement.”

[wosospacegirl]

Capi Mami - Alexia Putellas x barcelona femini

Summary: Alexia swears she’s not the team mom… and yet she’s the one confiscating phones, doling out granola bars, and keeping this locker room from imploding.

Word count: 1.5k

This is part of my 1k commemoration blurb! <3

a/n: a single mama who works two jobs

Masterlist

..

The locker room was a mess. Water bottles were scattered across the floor, shoes were everywhere, and a few jerseys had been tossed carelessly on the benches.

The younger girls were in full gossip mode, laughing and talking over each other, completely oblivious to the chaos they had created.

Vicky was sitting on one of the benches, animatedly chatting about some TikTok challenge, while Salma and Jana were having a loud conversation about the training session they had just finished.

Pina’s laughter echoed through the room as Esmee said something dry and hilarious.

Y/n and Sydney were livestreaming on Instagram–very much against team rules–talking about their training routine and casually throwing shade at the referee from their last match.

Marta walked in first. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the scene. She shook her head with a sigh and muttered, “What is this, girls?”

She took one step and nearly tripped over a bag lying in the middle of the floor.

“Okay,” Marta said angrily, lifting the bag into the air. “Whose bag is this—and why do I have a bunch of stickers glued on my locker?”

“Do you like it?” Vicky asked brightly, the only one acknowledging Marta’s presence.

“I hate it,” Marta replied flatly. “Take it off.”

Vicky rolled her eyes and continued chatting. The others kept pretending Marta didn’t exist.

“You might want to clean this up before Alexia gets here,” Marta warned, but the girls barely looked up.

Marta rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before walking out.

She walked down the hall to find Alexia stretching on a bench, prepping for another round of training. Marta couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Tus nenas están causando problemas,” [Your girls are causing problems], she said with a teasing smile.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Qué?” [what?]

"They’re making a mess in the locker room again. And I’m pretty sure I saw Y/n going live on Instagram ranting about the ref being bought."

Alexia sighed, her expression shifting from confused to fondly exasperated. "You know what they’re like," she muttered, standing up. "I’ll handle them, and then I’m confiscating Y/n’s phone."

The moment Alexia stepped into the locker room, her gaze swept across the chaos. Water bottles, jerseys, shin guards, and random clothes covered the floor. Not a single head turned.

Alexia didn’t speak at first. 

She simply stood there in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. After a long pause, her voice finally cut through the room.

"Nenas, qué es esto?" [Girls, what is this?]

Y/n jumped to her feet, face paling at the tone. The room fell silent in an instant.

Vicky, Salma, and Pina all sat up straighter. Y/n very discreetly hid her phone behind her back while nudging Sydney to sit properly and kick a rogue boot under the bench.

“Hi, Ale!” Vicky greeted sweetly, putting on her most innocent baby voice.

“Mi reina!” Pina chimed in, springing up and reaching for a hug.

Alexia sidestepped her without missing a beat. “What is all of this?” she asked, gesturing at the chaos with one unimpressed sweep of her hand.

“Nothing! We were just… talking,” Jana said quickly, voice shrinking. “It, uh… got a little out of hand?”

Alexia’s eyes scanned the room like a laser. Her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is this how we treat a shared space?” she asked. Her voice didn’t rise, but the warning in it was sharp.

“No,” they chorused, voices barely above a whisper.

“Is the locker room where we throw our stuff around like toddlers?”

“No.”

“Should I start labelling your bottles and jerseys like you’re in daycare? Or can we act like professionals?”

“We can act like professionals,” they muttered in unison, chastened.

Alexia took one slow step forward. The shift in the room was immediate–every breath held, every eye on her.

“I don’t like doing this,” she said quietly, the calm in her voice somehow worse than yelling. “But this? This is not okay. I expect better from all of you.”

Y/n shifted awkwardly, guilt written all over her face. “Are you mad at us?”

“I’m not mad,” Alexia said, her pause deliberate. “I’m disappointed.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have. The silence that followed was thick.

“We’re sorry, Capi,” Y/n said, her head ducked. “We didn’t mean to mess up. We just got carried away.”

Alexia’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “You should’ve known better. I trust you girls. Don’t make me regret that.”

“We’re really sorry, Alexia,” Salma added quickly, voice sincere.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” Alexia replied, crossing her arms. “I better not hear another complaint. Understood?”

“Yes,” they all said, truly meaning it this time.

“Clean it up,” Alexia ordered, turning to walk out. “And next time? Think before you act.”

As soon as the door shut behind Alexia, Sydney let out a dramatic exhale. “I really thought she was gonna make us run laps again.”

“My feet still hurt from last time,” Y/n groaned, flopping back onto the bench.

“Obviously,” Pina snorted. “It was yesterday, genius.”

“We are never doing this again,” Vicky said, voice solemn like she was making a blood pact.

“Nope,” Jana chimed in, hand raised like she was swearing an oath. “From now on, we will clean up before she walks in.”

“We should actually stop throwing stuff the second we get here,” Salma added thoughtfully.

Y/n suddenly sat up, panic dawning on her face. “Wait. Do you think she saw me go live?”

“Yes,” everyone said in eerie unison.

Y/n groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so screwed.”

“You two are a disaster,” Jana muttered, nudging Sydney.

“We are not,” Sydney defended. “The world just needed to know how rigged that ref was.”

“You need to stop,” Esmee said, already starting to clean up the bottles.

Sydney shot her a look. “You’re just mad you didn’t join the live.”

“No,” Esmee said dryly. “I just don’t enjoy being yelled at. Call me crazy.”

Their chatter continued as they cleaned, a little more subdued now. Just outside, Alexia leaned against the wall, listening. 

A soft smile tugged at her lips.

Y/n leaned back on the bench, phone in hand, muttering just loud enough for the others to hear, “One day, I swear, I’m gonna figure out how to get away with this. Maybe I’ll just block the older girls on Instagram and on Twitter–problem solved.”

A few of the girls snorted in laughter.

But then…

A voice, calm and deadly precise, cut through the moment.

“You think I’m gonna let that happen?”

Silence.

Alexia had stepped into the room like a shadow. Everyone froze. Y/n especially.

"Phone. Now."  Her palm was out, her stance unyielding.

Y/n clutched her phone like a lifeline. “Ale… come on. Please.”

Alexia didn’t budge. “Now. You’ll get it back after training–if you survive it.”

A dramatic sigh escaped Y/n, but she reluctantly handed it over, placing it in Alexia’s open palm like a guilty child surrendering contraband.

Alexia smirked, tucking it safely into her jacket pocket. “You really think I don’t hear everything? I’m always watching.”

As she turned and walked off, Vicky whispered, “She’s got ears like a hawk.”

“No,” Jana said with a grin, “she’s got mom-radar.”

From across the room, Alexia called out, “I heard that, too.”

As soon as she left, Vicky whispered, "Okay… maybe we should behave."

"Maybe," Jana said. "But I doubt it’ll last."

After cleaning everything, the door opened again. Alexia stepped back in and surveyed the room.

"Well done," she said. "Now get ready. Training’s going to be tough."

As they moved, Alexia pulled a small bag from her backpack and began tossing sandwiches and granola bars at them.

“Eat,” she ordered, hands on her hips. “No one’s stepping onto that pitch with an empty stomach.”

“But we already had lunch,” Y/n mumbled, catching hers mid-air.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You’re serious?” Vicky asked, halfway through peeling the wrapper.

“Sí,” Alexia replied, voice firm but laced with affection. “You need it. You’ve all been dragging your feet since drills this morning.”

Y/n took a bite and sighed. “Okay, you’re right. I was kind of sluggish.”

“You always try to avoid eating before training,” Jana chimed in, smirking. “No more excuses.”

“I’m eating, aren’t I?” Y/n grumbled around a mouthful.

Alexia gave her a knowing smile. “Good. You need the energy to keep up with the rest of them.”

“Okay, mamí,” Y/n teased, raising an eyebrow.

Alexia paused mid-step. “What did you just say?”

“Mamí,” Y/n repeated, grinning now. “You act like a mom. You scold us, you take our phones, you pack our snacks. You’re literally parenting us.”

“I am not,” Alexia scoffed.

“You are,” Vicky said through a mouthful of granola. “This is full-on mom behaviour.”

“Keep calling me that and I’ll ground you,” Alexia warned, but her lips twitched, threatening a smile.

“See?!” Y/n pointed dramatically. “Mom threat.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she watched them finish the bars and sandwiches, making sure every last bite was gone.

Once the wrappers were tossed and silence settled back in, she straightened, captain mode back on.

“Alright. Let’s go. Hydrate, boots on, and meet me in five. We’ve got work to do.”

She turned, but not before one last glance over her shoulder at the girls–her girls. 

Their chaos, their charm, their energy. They might not be hers, not really, but her love for them was unmistakable.

Strict? Always.

Soft? Only when they weren’t looking.

..

a/n: Just really wanted to write something platonic haha

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

JL, summoned the ghost king for something: Can you help?

Danny, going THROUGH IT and suicidal: No

Danny: *snatches the blood blossoms Constantine was trying to threaten him with and just starts eating them to kill himself*

Constantine, breaking 500 different magic rules to get this kid to stop eating poison: Wait! No! Stop that! The Realms will kill us all if they think we killed you!

Danny, coughing blood: sounds like a you problem

[himasgod]

I, umm, hey uhhh,,, can I get uhh, uhmm…

Could I perhaps get a Leona, Azul, Jamil, Rook and Malleus with reader who can’t help stop staring at them because reader thinks they’re captivatingly beautiful?

Platonic please :3 Okthankyoubye-

(scurries away and bonks head)

LEONA, AZUL, JAMIL, ROOK AND MALLEUS X READER

Where you can't stop looking at them because they're captivatingly beautiful

You weren’t trying to be weird about it. You really weren’t.

But there he was again, standing under the shade of an old tree with the sun casting a gentle halo around his dark hair, and something about it just froze you in place.

Malleus Draconia looked like he’d stepped out of a fairytale—tall, otherworldly, and still as stone, like a statue carved from night sky and obsidian.

And you were staring. Again.

Malleus turned his head slowly, eyes curious, catching your gaze without the slightest flicker of discomfort.

"Child of man," he said, voice deep and smooth, “You gaze upon me often. Is there something you seek to understand?”

You flinched slightly, caught, but you didn’t look away.

“…You’re just… really beautiful,” you admitted, barely above a whisper. “It’s hard not to look.”

There was silence—long enough that you started to panic.

Then, unexpectedly, a soft laugh rumbled from his chest, low and warm.

"Is that so?" he mused, “Most avert their eyes, yet yours linger.”

You could feel the heat creep up your neck. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

“There’s no need to apologize.” His voice was gentle now, almost amused. “You remind me of the fae children from long ago in Briar Valley. They, too, used to look at me with wonder, not fear.”

He looked upward, towards the sky.

“It is a rare thing… to be seen not for what I am, but simply for how I appear. You have an honest heart.”

He turned his gaze back to you, eyes soft.

“You may look as much as you like, if it brings you peace.”

You blinked. “Really?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Truly. After all… beauty is meant to be admired, is it not?”

You didn’t mean to stare at Jamil. It just… kept happening.

It was like your eyes had a mind of their own, always drifting back to him—when he was tying his hair with practiced ease, when he danced through the kitchen like it was muscle memory, when the sun filtered through the dorm windows and turned his bronze skin to gold.

He wasn’t loud or flashy. He didn’t demand attention. But maybe that was what made him so easy to admire—quiet, composed, and captivating in a way that made your heart still.

So of course you were staring.

Again.

Jamil looked up from his textbook, narrowed eyes flicking toward you. “What?”

You jumped a little. “What—what do you mean ‘what’? I didn’t—”

“You’re staring,” he said flatly, though there wasn’t real anger in his voice. “You’ve been doing it for five minutes.”

You swallowed. “Sorry. I just… think you’re really beautiful.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you immediately wished the earth would open and swallow you whole.

Jamil froze.

“…You really say stuff like that out loud?” he asked, almost incredulous, looking anywhere but at you.

“Well… yeah,” you mumbled, fidgeting. “I mean, it’s true. I didn’t think it was weird until you made it weird.”

His lips twitched slightly. “I made it weird?”

You shrugged, a little defensively. “Sorry for appreciating art.”

Jamil let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He turned back to his book, but you caught the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“…You’re weird,” he muttered, eyes scanning the page again.

“You already said that.”

He didn’t look up. “Yeah, but it’s still true.”

You weren’t trying to get on his nerves.

But Leona was lying under a tree in the courtyard again, one arm draped over his face, hair splayed out like molten gold across the grass, and the sun was glinting off his earrings like they were little pieces of treasure.

So yeah—you were staring.

A lot.

“…You’ve got a problem or something?” he muttered without even lifting his arm. His voice was rough with sleep, low and edged with annoyance.

You blinked. “Uh—what?”

“You’ve been lookin’ at me for ten minutes straight. I can feel your eyes burning a hole in my face.”

“I wasn’t—! I mean—okay, maybe I was.”

Now he peeked at you with one eye, clearly unimpressed.

“You’re just… really beautiful,” you blurted out. “Like, annoyingly so. It’s distracting.”

A beat of silence.

Then he groaned and dropped his arm back over his eyes. “Tch. You’re seriously wasting your time, herbivore.”

“I’m not wasting anything,” you shrugged, plopping down next to him in the grass. “You’re just aesthetically pleasing. Like a lion basking in the sun. It’s art.”

Leona grumbled something under his breath that sounded like “ridiculous,” but he didn’t get up. Didn’t tell you to leave.

After a moment, he muttered, “If you’re gonna stare, at least shut up about it so I can nap.”

You grinned. “Got it.”

And even if he didn’t say it, you noticed the tiniest flick of his tail. Like he didn’t mind the attention as much as he claimed.

You didn’t mean to make Azul self-conscious.

But you’d been staring a little too long while he adjusted his gloves—again—polished his glasses—again—and ran a hand through his neat waves of silvery-blue hair—again.

“...Is there something on my face?” he asked tightly, stilling with a wary glance.

“Nope.”

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

You blinked. “You’re really pretty.”

Azul sputtered. “Wh—? That’s—that’s not the point!”

“But it’s true,” you said casually, tilting your head. “Like… annoyingly flawless. Your hair always looks like it was done by a professional stylist. Your skin’s like porcelain. Your whole aesthetic is ‘dangerously beautiful businessman’ and it works.”

His face was rapidly turning pink.

“You—you can’t just say that kind of thing!” he hissed, pushing his glasses up. “Do you know how embarrassing—”

“I mean, you didn’t deny it,” you smirked.

Azul looked like he was about to melt into the floor from sheer secondhand embarrassment. Floyd, passing by, cackled and said, “Oooh, shrimpy’s got a fan~!”

“Floyd, leave.” Azul snapped.

But later, when it was just you and him, and the noise had faded, he let out a breath and asked softly:

“…You really think that?”

You looked at him, sincere. “Yeah. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Azul looked away, but his voice was a little less tense when he replied.

“...You’re something else.”

There was no helping it.

Rook Hunt wasn’t just beautiful—he was unfairly beautiful. The kind of beauty that made you stare a little longer than you should. The kind that made you forget what you were even doing.

So when he caught you staring across the courtyard—again—you weren’t surprised when he smiled and practically glided toward you.

“Mon ami!” he greeted dramatically, taking your hand as if you were in a ballroom. “Your gaze—so intense! So poetic! What have I done to deserve such attention today?”

You laughed, letting him twirl your hand before letting go. “You’re just… really pretty, Rook. That’s all.”

His eyes lit up like you’d just given him the greatest gift.

“Ahh~! What a flatterie exquise! And so earnest! You pierce my heart with your words!”

“Rook,” you grinned. “It’s not that deep.”

“Oh, but beauty is that deep, mon ami,” he said with a dramatic flourish. “To be so moved by someone’s appearance that you cannot look away—c’est magnifique!”

You rolled your eyes, but he just laughed. “Would you like to paint me? Or write an ode? I would stand still for hours if it meant inspiring art.”

“I was just looking,” you chuckled. “That’s enough.”

Rook smiled, warm and knowing. “Then look, my friend. I shall always face your gaze with pride.”

And with that, he bowed like a prince onstage, basking in the compliment as if it were the spotlight itself.

[bweeeb]

HAWAII SOLUTIONS

Dbf Joel Miller × Reader

Summary: If your dad can fuck someone younger, so can you, maybe his hot best friend?

warnings: dirt, sex in public but without public, age gap, smut, I'm not fluent in English so I apologize for mistakes,

♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧♧

Vacation. My dad said I needed a vacation when I decided to drop out of business school. That’s how I ended up here. In Hawaii.

The beach was stunning, the food was amazing, and nothing beats sleeping in hotel beds—but then there was them. My dad, his girlfriend—Addison, who was disgustingly just two years older than me—and, of course, his best friend, Joel. Fucking Joel Miller.

He was a problem, but not the kind that made me want to rip my hair out—or his.

Addison, now she was a problem. Everywhere. At home—loud, at college—loud, on the plane—loud. That bitch is loud everywhere, trust me. I was always sure she was with my dad for the money, the Gucci bags, and the tuition he paid for. Which was ridiculous. And yet, here she was in Hawaii.

‘You’re too tense.’

Joel said it as he lay back on the lounge chair next to mine on the beach.

He’d been my problem since I was fifteen. Seven years later, I was still here, looking at him like he was some Greek god. Well, I’d be damned if he wasn’t, lounging there while I sat stiffly, watching the way-too-happy couple by the water.

‘I’m not,’

I mumbled.

‘You should hate her less. And him too—he’s trying.’

‘Come on, Joel. Don’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Say that crap. He’s a hypocrite. I could never be with someone the way he’s with her.’

I huffed and rolled my eyes.

‘She makes him happy.’

He said, and I just stayed quiet. ‘Why’d you drop out of college?’

I shrugged without looking at him. That bastard reached over, his thick fingers pressing into my cheeks, forcing me to look at him.

‘Look at me and stop acting like a child.’

‘I’m not,’ I hissed through gritted teeth. He was shirtless under an open blue dress shirt, chest hair trailing down into those red swim trunks, and god, I could ride that nose for hours.

‘There she is, looking at me,’

he teased, and my cheeks flushed. He smiled.

‘Now tell me.’

‘She distracts me.’

I kept it short, especially since his hand was now grazing my collarbone and neck, back and forth in the sweetest little touch.

‘How does she distract you? I thought you liked men ’

' Shut up old man ' I teased him and saw his jaw tighten

' I'm fucking 45 you brat '

' Oh, so you can still get an erection to fuck me?'

' Continue where you were'

‘Everyone knows about him. They talk. She flaunts being with one of us and spending all our money. It bothers me.’

‘You should tell him.’

‘Like he’d believe me. You know him, you know exactly what he’d say.’

‘Unfortunately, I do, sweetheart.’

Joel looked down for a second, then back at me. ‘But you know… you could flip the script.’

‘What do you mean?’

Now it was him who shrugged. I laughed.

‘I mean, you’re 22. Want revenge? Take it. You’re in Hawaii.’

‘He’d kill me if I slept with someone.’

‘ Put the blame on daddy issues,’ Joel said playfully, and I laughed louder.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Watch your mouth, young lady.’

He scolded me, and I stuck out my tongue. He smiled at me.

Oh, I was seeing something all right—or maybe just fantasizing about him naked again.

‘Hey, you two! Come back to the room, let’s reserve dinner. You joining us?’

My dad called out as he walked toward us with his way-too-young girlfriend.

‘Sure,’ Joel answered, removing his hands from me and sitting up.

As they left the beach, I smiled at Joel and stood up, squinting down at him.

‘What?’

‘You shouldn’t wear a shirt at the beach.’ I put my hands on my hips.

‘I do what I want, I’m a grown man, doll.’

‘Well, so am I—grown, I mean.’

With that, I walked over and sat on his lap like I had no damn filter. Joel grunted, not touching me until I rolled my eyes and pulled his hands to my body.

‘You shouldn’t wear a dress to the beach either.’

‘It’s a cover-up,’ I muttered, but smiled right after. ‘But since you insist…’

I pulled it over my head, silently thanking myself for choosing my smallest bikini today. Joel’s eyes dropped to my chest, and I slowly unbuttoned his shirt until he was bare-chested.

‘We should go for a swim’

I suggested.

‘It’s getting dark.’

‘Even better.’

I stood, swaying my hips as I headed toward the water and the setting sun. I heard Joel mutter a fuck’s sake before he ran after me, grabbing me by the waist and tossing me over his shoulder.

‘Joel! Don’t you dare throw me, are you listening—'

‘Too late, sweetheart.’

The cold water shocked my skin, and I screamed. Then screamed again when strong arms wrapped around my waist from behind.

‘I think I want my revenge,’

I whispered, as Joel pressed wet kisses to my salty skin.His tongue circled my neck like I was some kind of delicious ice cream. As my body warmed up, I turned to face him, wrapping my legs around his waist and feeling his hard-on through my bikini.

‘I can’t fuck you. Fuck,’

he groaned, running his hands along my body.

‘Then why’d you say that?’

I whined, clinging to him.

‘Baby girl…’

‘Let’s just… do something. I just want to feel you.’

I pulled his cock out of his shorts, stroked him a few times, and then sank down on him.

‘What are you doing?’

His voice was low, breathless.

‘Mmm.’

I moaned with my eyes closed, clenching around him.

‘I just wanted to feel you inside me.’

‘Ah, baby. We can’t do this here.’

He shifted slightly, which made his cock slide deeper into my slick pussy. Fuck, I wanted him to wreck me right there.

‘Fuck, you’re so tight. Your sweet little pussy. Fuck my life.’

He groaned, eyes closed. Then a shout broke the spell.

‘Hey! What are you two still doing out there?’

My dad’s voice from the shore.

‘Why are you clinging to him?’

Because your best friend’s cock is buried in your little girl’s pussy.

‘I think there are crabs out here!’ I yelled.

‘She got scared,’ Joel added. And just then, a small wave hit us, and his hips bucked forward, driving his cock deeper inside me. The first wave of the night.

‘Alright, better come back, it’s getting dark.’

My dad called again. Joel thrust one more time, stealing my breath with a quiet moan.

‘Ahh…’

I moaned softly, and Joel smiled.

‘Add and I will be up on the deck!’

My dad pointed to the wooden deck overlooking the beach.

‘We’ll be right up!’ Joel shouted, and pulled out, hiding himself quickly. He dragged us out of the water before Dad could see. The cave-like spot beneath the deck was perfect—no view, just the sound of waves.Joel grabbed my ass again and slid inside me as he sat down. I bounced on his dick while he sucked on my nipples.

‘Riding my dick so good, baby.’

‘Oh Joel, I love your dick. Thank you,’

I whimpered, and he laughed in bliss.

‘Yeah, baby, you’re such a filthy little thing, always craving my dick.’

‘I am. Fuck me, Joel. I’m yours.’

He flipped me over, and I arched my ass up for him. Joel slammed back inside me. fucking my ass hard, the sound of his balls slapping against my skin made me shiver with the hard feeling of him.

‘Fuck, you feel so good.’ His hands pulled me to the air to rest my back against his chest and his hand massaged my swollen clitoris, rubbing my wet pussy for it.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

I moaned as my climax hit, and three more deep thrusts had his balls smacking my ass before he emptied himself inside me.

‘You think he heard us?’

‘Probably,’

Joel said, breathless.

‘Good.’

If this was what vacation meant, I had zero complaints.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

[nympheagain]

Perv!Mark Pt.2

Summary: Perv!Mark sees you with your zipper open and has a whole ordeal

Lol got this idea when I realized my pants zipper was open all day 😔😔

Perv!Mark who’s never seen a vagina, not IRL at least. So he’s almost foaming at the mouth when he can see your lacy panties through your open zipper as you sit with your legs spread.

You were probably tired, poor you, so tired you couldn’t even wear your clothes properly! Perv!Mark would never let you get that exhausted. He’d take care of you, real good.

Perv!Mark who was so glad that you both took the subway home. You got off a few stops after him, but he always pretended to get off after you, just to watch you longer, it wasn’t a problem anyway, since he could just fly home.

Perv!Mark who can see the colour of your cunt from the mesh fabric of your panties, who’s already letting his imagination run wild, thinking about how easy it would be for him to just rip them off you.

He’d keep them as a souvenir of course, pocket them when you weren’t looking and sniff them deep as he tugged his hard leaking cock.

Perv!Mark who was so pathetic, so desperate for you that he doesn’t even need to imagine much more other than the sliver of your panties peeking out from your trousers, you wouldn’t even have to take them off, he’s thinking, maybe he could just slip his dick right through?

Then he’s imagining fucking you right there on the subway, just bent over in one of the carriages, fully clothed as he fucked you senseless. It wouldn’t be very hygienic, he knows, but he’d hold you by the throat and keep you close to him, keep you nice and snug and safe.

As for everyone else, well, he supposed they could just watch.

Perv!Mark who’s so engrossed in his fantasy that he almost doesn’t realise when you’re getting off at your stop, smiling sweetly at him and whispering a “Bye, Mark.” Like you knew the effect you had on him.

Perv!Mark who’s looking down at the large tent he’s sporting in his pants, realising, oops, you just might.

[rabbitindisguise]

It gets worse. I think when trans men use "dude" we aren't wholly coming at it from the ~grew up around girls~ angle. It's not habitual and frequently intentionally adopted. We're specifically using dude as a gendering tactic on ourselves.

Basically since when you use dude as a girl talking to a guy it creates a different mode of speaking where the casual nature of it deconstructs some of the gendered nature of the conversation, a trans guy can take advantage of that shift. This escapes expectations like flirting, which can be super fraught while someone thinks they're talking to someone of the "opposite" binary gender while actually talking to someone of the same gender. In addition to that, it's obvious that men say dude in general way more often than women do so from an outside observer (as a trans man) saying the word dude is not an affirmation of men outside of oneself but an expression associated with internal masculinity. Not an exclamation or putting oneself on the level of a fellow guy, but creating manhood through the act of saying the word "dude" to no one in particular, in any context.

Someone taking away those two methods to 1) dodge any attempts of romantic or sexual interests from random guys who would potentially get violent if they realize that's kinda gay if them and 2) affirm his own masculinity when people are misgendering him (for example) is a real problem. Trans guys I know use dude like the average person who is known for swearing uses "fuck." It's as defensive speech pattern as much as it is an expression of gender euphoria of unchecked language (girls get told it's inappropriate to use dude a fair amount). Culturally I think it's important to allow us to retain that behavior. It makes sense to do this less around trans women, but some guys are simply not on the internet and won't get that memo. Hopefully this puts people's minds at ease that this is a situation where it can be not about them at all but about enforcing our own gender (in the same way as contractions/slang can indicate friendliness, formality/overly friendliness can indicate hostility, and emojis can be a familiarizer or a sign of outright hostility).

So the "don't call trans women dude" discourse is back on my dash, and I just read something that might explain why it's such a frustrating argument for everyone involved.

TLDR: There's gender-cultural differences that explain why people are arguing about this- and a reason it hurts trans women more than you might think if you were raised on the other side of the cultural divide.

I'll admit, I used to be very much on team "I won't call you 'dude' if it feels like misgendering, but also I don't really grok why it feels like I'm misgendering you, especially if I'm not addressing you directly." But then I read an academic paper that really unpicked how people used the word 'dude' (it's Kiesling (2004) if you're curious) and I realized that the way I was taught to use the word was different from the way most trans women were taught.

... So the thing about the word 'dude' that's really interesting is that it's used differently a) by people of different genders and b) across gender lines. This study is, obviously, 20 years old, but a lot of the conclusions hold up. The gist is, there's ~5 different ways that people use the word "dude":

marking discourse structure- AKA separating thoughts. You can use the word 'dude' to signal that you're changing the subject or going on a different train of thought.

exclamation. You can use the word "dude" the way you'd use another interjection like "oh my god" or "god damn".

confrontational stance mitigation. When you're getting in an argument with someone, you can address them as 'dude' to de-escalate. If you're both the same gender, it's homosocial bonding. If you're different genders, it's an attempt to weaken the gender-related power dynamic.

marking affiliation and connection. Kiesling calls this 'cool solidarity'- the idea is, "I'm a dude, you're a dude. We're just guys being dudes." This is often a greeting or a form of address (aka directly calling someone dude).

signaling agreement. "Dude, you are soooo right", kind of deal.

Now, here's the important part.

When [cis] men use the word 'dude', they are overwhelmingly using it as a form of address to mark affiliation and connection- "hey, we're all bros here, dude"- to mitigate a confrontational stance, or to signal agreement.

When [cis] women use the word 'dude', they're often commiserating about something bad (and marking affiliation/connection), mitigating a confrontational stance, or giving someone a direct order. (Anecdotally, I'd guess cis women also use it as an exclamation - this is how I most often use it.)

Cis men use the word 'dude' to say 'we're all guys here'. It is a direct form of male bonding. If a cis man uses the word 'dude' in your presence, he is generally calling you one of the guys.

Cis women use the word 'dude' to say 'we're on the same level as you; we're peers'- especially to de-escalate an argument with a cis man. Between women, it's an expression of ~cool solidarity~; when a woman's addressing a man, it's a way to say 'I'm as good as you, knock it off'.

So you've got this cultural difference, depending on how you were raised and where you spent time in your formative years. If you were assigned female at birth, you're probably used to thinking of the word 'dude' as something that isn't a direct form of address- and, if you're addressing it to someone you see as a girl, you're probably thinking of it as 'cool solidarity'! You're not trying to tell the person you're talking to that they're a man- you're trying to convey that they're a cool person that you relate to as a peer.

Meanwhile, if you were assigned male at birth and spent your teens surrounded by cis guys, you're used to thinking of 'dude' as an expression of "we're all guys here", and specifically as homosocial male bonding. Someone using the word 'dude' extensively in your presence, even if they're not calling you 'dude' directly, feels like they're trying to put you in the Man Box, regardless of how they mean it.*

So what you get is this horrible, neverending argument, where everyone's lightly triggered and no one's happy.

The takeaway here: Obviously, don't call people things they don't want to be called, regardless of gender! But no one in this argument is coming to it in bad faith.

If you were raised as a cis woman and you're using the word the way a cis woman is, it is a gender-neutral term for you (with some subconscious gendered connotations you might not have realized). But if you were raised as a cis man and you're using the word the way a cis man uses it, the word dude is inherently gendered.

Don't pick this fight; it's as pointless as a French person and an American person arguing whether cheek kisses are an acceptable greeting. To one person, they might be. To another person, they aren't. Accept that your worldview is different, move on, and again, don't call people things they don't want to be called.

*(There is, of course, also the secret third thing, where someone who is trying to misgender a trans woman uses the word 'dude' to a trans woman the way they'd use it to a man. This absolutely happens. But I think the other dynamic is the reason we keep having this argument.)

[heavens-whore]

RIDE

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel run away together for a fresh start, away from the town you both hate. Along the way, you start to have doubts about your decision, but Joel has a way of persuading you that it’s right for you.

A/N: this is my first fic ! It was inspired by a post my friend sent me that was just a pic of motel steps, captioned "need a cigarette here". And the scene unfolded idk. Also I don't really know how to make my posts look cute yet so please excuse this visual abomination for now. Enjoy!!

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: 18+, unspecified age gap, oral (f receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, cigarette smoking, not wearing a seatbelt (please wear a seatbelt fr), running away, getting fired, getting hated on

The sun shone through the dirty window of the truck and started to dip below the horizon, but the heat stayed hanging in the humid air. Your bare feet were resting up on the dashboard and your eyes watched the rural surroundings of the open road race past as you drove further and further away from your old life. The faint sound of 80s rock from the radio and the hum of the truck’s engine did little to silence the thoughts that tormented you- the thought that running away was a big mistake you would come to deeply regret.

You hated your hometown. The weather, the people, the way they talked, the way they dressed, the things they believed in. You even hated the buildings. So why was it all so hard to let go of? You had always wanted to leave, to run away and leave it all behind, start a new life out West and never look back. Joel was the only person who was willing to give it all to you. He never talked about it, but you could see it in his eyes every time you mentioned the idea of leaving. You knew he wanted this too- probably did from a young age. Some teenage pipedream of his that imploded when his daughter was conceived. So he stayed, started his family business, bought a house and raised her. But now she was all grown up and there was nothing to hold him back anymore. All he was waiting for was for you to say the word. 

And you did, after one particularly rough day. You had gone to work in the morning and come home in tears around midday after being fired with no warning. It didn’t matter, you hated the job anyway; but your parents were enraged, furious that you could let this happen. They called you a burden, said you had no ambition and no future ahead of you. In the early afternoon you had shown up on Joel’s doorstep with a bag packed and tears in your eyes, begging him to take you away from it all. And he did. 

He had one hand resting on your thigh, and the other on the steering wheel. His eyes strayed from the road to look over at you, seeing you gaze thoughtfully out the half-open window in your denim shorts and little tank top. He squeezed your thigh to get your attention.

‘You take your seatbelt off again?’ You looked up at him, your eyes wide and clearly swimming with thoughts. But he didn’t push it. You nodded. ‘Gotta put it back on for me, darlin’. We can’t have nothin’ happening, can we? Ambulance would take forever to get to us out here.’ You didn’t say anything, just took your legs down from the dashboard and pulled your seatbelt back on, the polyester squeaking as it unravelled. Joel’s eyes flicked back to the road momentarily but then returned to you. You were being unusually quiet. ‘You doin’ okay?’

You nodded again, but this time feigning contentment.

‘Yeah. Just hot in here.’

Joel’s dark eyes lingered on yours for a moment before flicking back to the road, definitely unconvinced.

‘Well we’re almost to the next stop anyway. Think this motel’s got a pool, too.’

The heat was definitely part of the problem, because when you finally got to the motel, the cool water of the pool lifted your spirits. You put on that new bikini you had bought at an earlier stop along the way and floated on your back, let the water cool your skin while you watched the sunset paint the sky with bright streaks of pink and orange. Joel watched you swim from the edge of the pool for a while before joining you. He splashed you with the water and pulled you beneath the surface, wrapped your legs around his hips and kissed you with such tender desire it made you want to cry.

Later in the evening, you lay awake beside Joel. His arm was wrapped loosely around your waist and he was fast asleep, but all you could do was stare at the chipping paint on the ceiling. Those regrets had started to creep back into your head, and it felt as though there was a war going on in your mind. You thought of your friends, your family, what the people back home would say about the young girl who randomly up and left one day to run away to California with the old man from down the street. You quietly untangled yourself from his grasp and stepped outside for some air. It was dark but the stars were bright, and the crickets chirped as you sat on the steps of the motel and lit a cigarette. You didn’t know what time it was or where exactly you were. All you knew was that it was late and you were far from home. You sucked in the smoke and watched the neon glow of the motel sign dance on the ripples in the pool. It was quiet, peaceful, but the war in your head raged on. It was impossible, trying to tell if this was just some optimistic dream you had cooked up- that you could run away and find your fresh start on the coast and live happily ever after. What if it all blew up in your face and you were forced to come back home to your parents’ fury, that you could be so reckless and believe in some big lie this dirty old man was feeding you?

The creak from the door opening snatched your attention away from your thoughts, and you turned to see Joel’s concerned eyes watching you. He sat on the step behind you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

‘What’s on your mind, darlin’? Been quiet all day, I know something’s up.’

You took another hit of the cigarette and flicked the ashes onto the steps below you.

‘I dunno. It’s… I dunno.’

He sighed as he watched your troubled expression.

‘We can go back if you want, y’know. Don’t want you to feel like I’m callin’ all the shots here.’

You shook your head.

‘I don’t wanna go back. You know how bad I want this. I just wish I could forget all about home.’

‘You will forget it, sweetheart. Once you see the ocean, you’ll forget all about that town. We’ll start over, yeah?’

You brought the filter back to your lips and inhaled again, your mind still not eased much.

‘What if we get there and we hate it?’

Joel rested his chin on the crown of your head as he held you from behind.

‘Then we’ll go back. Or we’ll go somewhere else. But what if we get there and we love it?’

He had a way of making everything sound so simple and it never failed to blow your mind. 

He plucked the cigarette from between your fingers and put it out, then pulled you to your feet and rested his hands on your waist. ‘S’just a fresh start, darlin’. Nobody’ll know us, nobody’ll look twice when they see us together, they won’t care. We’ll be okay, I promise. And if we ain’t, we’ll think of somethin’ else. Can always go back if we change our minds.”

It was true, but something in the back of your mind told you that you wouldn’t. Joel’s hand stroked your cheek gently, and his dark eyes sparkled under the neon sign as they gazed into yours, full of nothing but intimate affection.

The two of you went back to bed but didn’t sleep. The moonlight seeped in through the flimsy net curtains and illuminated your naked skin as you undressed each other. Joel laid you down on the edge of the bed and stood between your legs, his hands squeezed your breasts gently while his eyes wandered your body, a sigh escaping his lips. He leaned down to press feather light kisses to your neck and collarbones while his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs. He gripped your thighs tenderly as he pulled them apart, and knelt in between them.

He licked a stripe up your center while moving your thighs to rest on his shoulders. He wrapped his thick arms around them while he lapped at your seam, the taste of your arousal dampening his taste buds. His tongue swirled around your clit, causing your toes to curl and your back to arch while he watched from his position, his boxers tightening with every second that passed until he couldn’t wait any longer. He pressed a tender kiss to your inner thigh and stood up, shoved his underwear down and lined himself up for entrance.

‘You want this, baby?’ He whispered, ‘You want me?’

You nodded eagerly, if there was one thing in this world you knew you wanted for certain, it was him. He slid into you easily, your juices and his saliva soaking him. Small whimpers and whines fell from your lips, as well as his name, while your nails dug deep crescents into his shoulders. He held still once he bottomed out to let you adjust his length. It didn’t matter how many times he had buried himself deep into your walls, he always seemed to stretch them out more each time, the dull ache blending with ecstasy. His eyes held your gaze and he watched your expression as it twisted in pain and pleasure.

‘You okay darlin’? You with me?’

You whispered a soft but adamant ‘Yes,’ and he pulled out before pushing back into you again with the same agonizingly slow pace, his jaw tense as he groaned in pleasure, the head forcing its way in even deeper.

‘Always so wet for me.. Such a good girl.’

Your little moans filled the night air as he started to gradually pick up the pace, speeding up slightly with each deep thrust. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in even deeper; and your arms wrapped around his neck, drawing him into a warm and passionate kiss. Joel’s tongue wetted your bottom lip, asking for entrance into your mouth, and you let it. The sound of his hips slapping against your thighs melted into your sweet whimpers of ecstasy as the heat from his body dampened your skin with sweat.

‘I love you, baby,’ He mumbled against your lips, his thrusts never stopping, ‘love you so much.’

You pinched your eyes shut as the stimulation started to overwhelm you. Each of his movements sent shockwaves through your body, and you could feel your legs start to tremble. Joel laced his fingers with yours and squeezed your hands gently, his voice soft and low. ‘Look at me, baby girl.’ Your eyelids fluttered open to see his eyes were burning into yours and sparkling with passion. ‘There’s those pretty eyes.’ He slowed down, reading your expression, and pressed a tender kiss to your lips. His face hovered above yours as he slowly pushed himself in and out, trying to draw this out as long as he could, before building back up to the same speed as before.

The tension in your stomach was growing, the coil tightening after Joel’s thrusts established a steady pace. He pulled back from you to watch your features contorting with pleasure, your back arching up into him, the moisture on your skin glowing in the dim moonlight. His grip on your hands tightened, and his brows furrowed like they always do when he’s close to the edge. You whimpered to let him know that you were too- no words needed. 

‘Where do you want it, baby?’ His voice was low and gravelly, dripping with hunger.

‘Inside. Please.’ You whispered desperately and squeezed his hand.

‘You sure?’ His jaw was tightening and his eyes were dark, and you knew you had to decide fast. But your mind was already made up. You nodded certainly, right on the brink of shattering.

You both fell apart at the same time. His hips stuttered as you felt his warmth blossoming deep within your core, and your desperate whimpers and groans bounced off the walls of the small dim room. Joel pushed himself somehow even deeper into you as your walls clenched tightly around him, choking his length. He leaned down to your face again, your lips meeting in a messy, loving kiss while he tried unsuccessfully to still his hips, continually pulsing within you and filling you up with his climax. 

He didn’t pull out- you asked him not to. He just rested you on his lap and rested his back against the cheap headboard of the bed while you were still intimately connected. The sun was starting to rise and orange rays shone through the parting in the curtain as Joel held you, his fingers running through your hair while drips of his release seeped out onto your inner thighs. It was quiet, the sound of the crickets had subsided and the only noise you could hear was the steady beat of Joel’s heart where your head rested on his chest. It was time to hit the road again soon, but this time your mind was clear, and you knew it was what you wanted.

[nanamisgirly]

fould we possibly get more womanizer sugu :3

this looks more like a fic than a head canon...oooops. I hope you will enjoy it !!! MWAHHHH :333 part.1

cw chubby reader, masturbation, jealous geto, reader fingers herself in front of geto while being in couple.

womanizer!geto thinks he's about to catapult that engineering major boy out of the solar system. right. now.

geto is sitting across the room, arms slung over the back of the couch, fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pop. his eyes are glued burning to where that poor nerd's hands are gripping your waist, pushing you back against the edge of the kitchen counter during some half-assed apartment party. 

the guy's mouth is low against your ear, whispering something pathetic (he's sure of it) that makes you blush and push at his chest. but apparently not enough for him to back up completely. 

womanizer!geto repeats the same sentences like a mantra “he doesn't know her. he doesn't stand a chance. it's not some pinterest-date plan he probably has in his mind that are going to make her flinch. he doesn't know how she is when her stress hits a fever pitch or when she cries over bad grades. he doesn't even know she chews her pens' cap until they're useless. he. doesn't. stand. a. chance.”

“you let him touch you like that in public?” womanizer!geto leans against the doorframe, smirking lazily, letting his voice drip with mock-casual venom—watching you read some dense academic paper, hoodie two sizes too big. he couldn't restrain himself from asking once you both got home.

you don't even look up as you say, “excuse me?” suguru shrugs, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, heavy with something darker than amusement. “the way the prop-on-him-self-boy was holding your waist earlier. pretty bold move by the way. thought you were shy.”

you blink, slowly lowering the paper. “i am shy.” he chuckles under his breath—low and unkind. “could've fooled me. guess you get real friendly when someone finally shows you attention, huh?” your lips part in shock, jaw going slack at the nerve—the venom hiding in his fake nonchalance.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he doesn't bother answer, he just keeps looking at you—daring you to do something of it, mouth still curled in a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. you hold his stare, mouth tight, throat dry. “if you have a problem with who i'm seeing, suguru, be a man and say it.” his jaw ticks at your words, “i don't—”

“good," your voice cuts him off, "then no problem, right?” he nods once, and pushes off the doorframe, leaving you sitting there, heat crawling up your chest and hands trembling in your lap. 

what you miss to see is the way his fists clench the second he turns away. of course womanizer!geto had no problem, why would he? because his mind was spiraling at the girl he had earlier that night, lips wrapped around his cock while his mind conjured the shape of your mouth instead? because his body refused to come unless he imagined your big soft body squirming against his? 

the next week womanizer!geto is sure he's going to catapult the engineering boy out of this fucking solar system. he's halfway through some miserable cafeteria lunch when he hears your friends whispering too loud few tables away. “her boyfriend said she came twice” one of them giggles. another leans in, dramatic “she told me he gave her a massage and it turned into, like…a whole thing. .” and the final bow, “she even said he was the best she ever had.” suguru's hands curl into fists under the table, knuckles popping loud enough to make heads turn.

even gojo stops yapping mid-sentence, blinking at him, but geto doesn't hear a single word. his ears are ringing too loud, blood pounding behind them like a drum. all he can think about is you, your possibly messy moans, your pretty face, your fat thighs locking someone else's waist.

it rots him from the inside out.

womanizer!geto goes home right after that and jerks off twice. back-to back. once angrily, under cold water, cursing your name like a prayer. and again, this time slower… worse…because now the image in his head is you under that stupid stem boy. your soft hips rocked by clumsy fingers, your plush thighs spread wide for a cock that doesn't deserve you. geto shouldn't be hard for that. shouldn't want to watch it like some deranged freak.

but here he is—balls aching, cock leaking in his palm—jerking himself through gritted teeth, groaning low in his chest as he imagines your soft belly rippling under the weight of another man's body. he cums with a guttural snarl, forehead slamming the cold tile, imagining your tits bouncing, your glasses sliding down your nose as you whimper for someone who isn't him.

womanizer!geto tries to fuck someone else the next night—some hot girl, tight waist, full lips, half-dressed and panting all over him. but his cock seems stubborn. dead weight in his jeans. not even a twitch. she moans against his neck, grinding her hips against him on the couch, whispering that she wants to ride him all night—

but all he can do is thinking about you. 

you, in your stretched-out pajama shorts. you, soft and plush everywhere, a little roll of tummy peeking when your tanktop rides up. you, mouth parted around your pencil when you're focused.

and the next time you're all alone with womanizer!geto in your living room, a late night study session for the upcoming test, he doesn't even try to act normal at the sight of your thick dimpled thighs tucked under you. you're rambling about something, showing him your notes—unaware of the way his eyes devour you. you look so sweet. fuck, he bets you taste so sweet.

he's staring at the half-faded bruise blooming across your collarbone when your voice pulls him back, “suguru…?”

“do you moan for him?” it slips out. you freeze at the sudden question. “wha—”

“your little stem boy,” he says, eyes dark. “when he fucks you. do you moan for him?” the silence is brutal. you open your mouth, close it again, cheeks burning, “that's none of your business.” 

he smirks, leans in like a viper. “you sound like you could.” mock sympathy is dripping from every word. and nastier, “if he had a better dick than, what, three inches hard? maybe you would." his eyes glint, "be honest, nerd. he never makes you come, does he?”

the slap cracks across the room, hard enough your hand stings. hard enough to whip his head to the side. his cheek blooms red, but all he does is breathe hard—cock aching, swelling mean against his zipper. your heart is pounding, shame and rage boiling under your skin as you shove your notebook off your lap and storm toward your room.

womanizer!geto probably isn't thinking with his brain anymore as he follows you to your room. he stands in your doorframe just like he did two weeks ago, except this time, his eyes are pure fire—a mix of anger and hunger.

his eyes piercing yours, challenging you. his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful and you should scream at him to leave your room, should shove him out. . and you're about to—but when your eyes fall down to the heavy, swollen bulge in his jeans, you loose all your rationality.

“get on the bed.” the words split the air, hot and final. you blink at him, confused and furious…soaked. your eyes following his every movements as he goes to sit on your desk chair, drops into with all the lazy arrogance in the world. his hand drapes over his thigh, just inches from the thick imprint stretching his pants.

“i won't repeat myself.” the mockery is thick on his tongue. “you can hate me later. you can even hate me forever if that's what you want. but right now?” his voice drops. “right now, you're gonna listen.” something deep inside you twists—dizzying. and before you realize what you're doing, you clim onto your own bed—like some pathetic, brainless thing. you glare at him, trying to save whatever pride you have left.

geto leans back further into the chair, his fingers thumbing the thick ridge of his cock. he tips his chin. “show me.” your stomach flips. “show you…what?” you whisper, already knowing—already burning. 

“don't play dump, nerdy. you're too smart for that.” his voice is syrup-thick, fingers taping against the desperate strain against his rough denim. “show me how wet you got after slapping me like a brat.” your throat closes. “no,” you breathe out, a pitiful little sound of defiance but your thighs are betraying you, pressing tighter together. geto grins, “you're already soaking through those dumb little shorts, might as well let me see the mess you made."

womanizer!geto watches like a predator trapping his prey. his chest rises, slow and deep, extremely controlled compared to the raging war breaking inside you. his hand squeezes his cock through his jeans. he licks his lips, hungry. “touch yourself for me, pretty thing. show me how desperate you are for me instead of that useless fucking loser you keep calling your boyfriend. go on. be good.”

your traitorous hand slips under your waistband. the second your fingers brush the sticky heat between your thighs, your breath shatters from your lungs. your fingers tremble as you press harder, rubbing desperate little circles into your clit. you're trying to be quiet, to pretend you have a shred of dignity left—but the wet sounds are obscene and unmistakable. 

geto's groan rips through the room—raw an broken, a sound like he's been punched. “tell me, pretty girl," he rasps, “is it dripping already? just from me talking to you?” your whimper is an answer enough, high and shameful, your cheeks burn under his gaze. ”get your shorts off," he commands, voice shredded. "and the panties too. now."

your hands shake so badly it takes two tries to peel your shorts down your thick thighs. your panties stick wetly, peeling away from your messy pussy with a filthy noise. the cold air hits you, your cunt gleaming under the soft light. geto leans forward in the chair, forearms braced on his knees, his stare burning between your legs like he's trying to sear it into his skull.

you try to remain a bit more decent, and close your legs shut together. “nuh-uh." he tsks. "what you doin', pretty? keep them open for me. don't be shy. lemme see all that messy pussy you were hiding.” tears are prickling behind your eyes from how exposed you feel as your legs fall open. geto's pupils blow wide. “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a rough hand over his face. “you're leaking. that's such a mess. and all i did was talk.”

you can't speak—can't think—your whole body is shaking as you rub yourself faster, chasing some kind of release, slick noises filling the room. every tiny touch feels too much and not enough at the same time.

geto is fighting everything in him not to move from the chair, watching like a man starved, squeezing his cock hard enough to hurt. “go on, pretty.” he croons darkly "put a finger in." your fingers fumble, slipping through the wetness before finally pushing inside. your walls flutter around your own digit, too tight, too needy. he lets out a brutal, bitten-off moan, grinding his hips against his palm—matching your pace.

“stop biting your lip,” he growls, “wanna hear you, pretty.” your moans breaks free—small and shameful at first, then louder when you start fucking yourself. “that's it,” his eyes are locked between your legs, “nice and slow, sweet girl. let me see how desperate you can get for me.” it's humiliating, disgusting, how fast you're falling apart, how quickly your hips are starting to chase your own fingers, trying to fuck yourself deeper.

sweat drips down his temple, cock throbbing and leaking so much in his boxer. he shifts again, rutting his hips shamelessly against his palm—chasing friction he desperately wanted you to give him. “bet you never do this for him,” he sneers, “bet that poor stem doesn't know he packed a slutty cunt. a needy one.” you gasp, a pitiful sound.

“does he, at least, get you this wet?” his words whip across the room like a lash. “when he touches you. .” your fingers speed up frantically, thighs quivering “when he fucks you. .” his smirk is vicious as he read through you, “quiet little good girl," he drawls, stepping closer. “saving all that greedy cunt for him, hoping he'll know what to do with it.” he's on you before you can process he even got up—looming over you at the edge of the bed, huge and terrifying and perfect. one big hand cups your jaw, tilting your flushed face up to meet his. his thumb smears sweat and tears across your cheek. ”pretty thing," he hisses, voice shaking with how hard he's holding back. “all soft and sweet. spread out so nice for me.” 

if you dare glanced down, you could've seen the soaked patch growing bigger. “i should be disgusted,” he whispers, “should leave your desperate little fat ass begging. sobbing for it.” he presses in closer, nose brushing yours, breath hot and heavy. “you're close, aren't you? fucking yourself stupid in front of me. can't even help it.” his forehead tips against yours. “come for me, sweetie." he murmurs, almost lovingly this time. "make a mess all over that pretty cunt. prove he's nothing.”  the filthy command punches the air out of your lungs.

you cry out, loud and shameless, thighs shaking violently as your orgasm crashes over you—drenching your hand and the sheets, rinding it out belly trembling and hips bucking helplessly.

geto watches it all—breathing ragged, knuckles white against the bedspread—but he never touches you. instead, he leans down and presses a filthy, tender kiss to your sweaty forehead. his cock still twitching violently in his pants, he's never been this hard his whole life. not even when he got onto threesome with twins.

and then—still hard, still starving for you—he stands.

he leaves you there, panting, twitching, soaking the sheets. your hand sticky, your cunt fluttering around nothing. your mind a ruined mess of him and only him.

he doesn't look back.

the door clicks softly shut behind him.

you lie there, empty—knowing no one else would ever make you feel so filthy, so wanted, so his.

ᖰ⌯'▾'⌯ᖳ

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: I mean sinister is his own warning but honestly it’s very tame – I love reader too much to do her dirty

Tags: Reader is oblivious—Mark is not, domesticity but make it dangerous, food = feelings = possession, reader feeds the wrong man

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: You were just being polite—feeding a hungry stranger who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. It’s what any good southern girl would’ve done. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much either, but bless his heart, he cleaned his plate like a man on death row and looked at you like you’d done southern sorcery. Only problem? Now he won’t leave.

a/n: to set the scene: Mark was passing over Georgia otw to a big city during the Invincible Wars but we all know – this man can eat 👀 so when he smells that southern cookin’ he’s just GOTTA make a pit stop (this might lowkey be my favorite?? VERY tempted to do another part for this)

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The backyard is alive with the sound of friends laughing, the sizzle of meats on the grill, and the light clink of glasses—just a typical Saturday night cookout in Georgia. The heat doesn’t mind, clinging to your skin, but it’s all good, ‘cause you’ve got the best BBQ in town and enough sweet tea to keep anyone happy.

You’re just about to check the ribs again when something cracks the air.

Not a flash of lightning. Not a plane. No, this is bigger—or at least, seems bigger. The kind of sound that makes the trees shudder and the dogs howl in panic.

You look up from the grill, squinting into the sky. Your friends barely notice, still wrapped up in their own conversations. Everyone's too deep into the party to hear it—except for you. And that sound? It’s bad. Too bad. But you brush it off as a fluke, not like you’ve ever been one to get skittish.

Then you hear it again—closer this time.

Boom.

The ground shakes underfoot.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs.

“You sure we’re not near a runway or somethin’?” a friend jokes.

You shake your head. The air smells wrong, though. Something metallic. Something deep in the earth. But the food’s almost done, and there’s a few folks eyeing that last batch of coleslaw, so you shrug it off.

That is, until the trees part like they’re being ripped down by some invisible hand.

A figure steps out of the smoke and into the clearing. You freeze for a second—tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in dirt and blood? Definitely not your usual neighbor popping by. But hey, this is Georgia, and folks sure have a habit of popping by when you least expect it.

He’s wearing a black and yellow suit, torn at the edges, face grimy and set like he’s walked through hell itself. His eyes are glowing, but you don’t notice that right away. Your brain does the mental gymnastics of “he looks like he’s been hunting” and “okay, maybe he’s lost” before you really stop and look.

The guy’s not normal. Not by a long shot.

But you? You? You just tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and call out.

“You lost, sugar? You look like you been runnin’ from somethin’.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even flinch when you address him, standing there in the middle of the yard like he’s deciding whether to blow everything up or just... stand there.

You walk over toward him, not too fast, but not slow either. You’ve got ribs to finish, and the night’s getting late. You’re not about to let some weird stranger ruin your good time.

“You hungry or what? You don’t look like you’re from around here, but the food’s hot. And I ain’t got time to be askin’ a million questions. So, either you’re gonna stand there starin’ or you’re gonna sit and eat.”

He watches you. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a long second, but when he shifts, you notice the hunger in his posture. It’s not a casual look. It’s the kind of stare that makes your pulse pick up, but you’re too wrapped up in hospitality to worry about it.

“I’ve got cornbread, sweet tea, and a whole lotta ribs. If you’re just gonna keep standin’ there, I’m gonna think you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

And without saying another word, you turn, walk back into the house, and leave the screen door open behind you.

The next thing you hear is his boots hitting the porch. Heavy, determined. He’s following you inside.

You don’t even turn around.

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t be shy.”

He sits at your kitchen table, too stiff, too tense to be comfortable. But you’ve got ribs on the counter, mashed potatoes on the stove, and a whole pot of collard greens simmering in the corner, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. Setting the table. Stirring the pot. Making sure everything’s just right.

“I don’t bite,” you offer casually as you set down a plate, the food still steaming. “Unless you ask nice.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the food. His eyes flicker between the plate and you like he can’t believe it’s real. But once that plate hits the table? It’s like something in him snaps.

He grabs the ribs. Bare hands. No knife, no fork. Just raw hunger.

And you? You just stand there, watching.

“You’ve been hunting for a while, haven’t you?” you ask, half-teasing. “You eat like you ain’t had a meal in months.”

He looks up then, eyes catching yours. There’s something darker in his gaze, something sharp.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t no need for you to be so grim. You’re eatin’ good now.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he devours the food. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s tearing through everything. It’s like he’s starved. Like he needed this meal more than anything.

You can’t quite explain why, but... you feel like maybe you’re the one in control here. Maybe it’s the southern charm, or maybe it’s just your damn good cooking. Either way, you’re gonna enjoy this strange little moment with the stranger at your table.

“You want more?” you ask casually, tipping your head to the stove.

He just looks at you again. This time, it’s less cold, more... curious.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I want more.”

You're putting the finishing touches on his second plate—extra mashed potatoes, a little more brisket, because Lord knows he tore through the first like he hadn’t seen a fork in years—when the screen door creaks open again behind you.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the low hum of cicadas and music drifting in from the backyard.

“Hey, [y/n]? We ran outta napkins—” She stops mid-step.

You turn, smiling, just as Tate bumps into Mag’s shoulder with a beer in hand.

“You got more inside? I spilled a little—”

He stops too.

Both of them are staring toward your kitchen table where your unexpected guest sits like a warning carved in stone. He’s hunched forward slightly, eyes too red, posture too still, like a bear that hasn't decided if you're a threat or a snack.

You just step over to his side with a hand gently landing on his shoulder. His body is tense—coiled tight like a spring—but you don’t think much of it.

“Now don’t y’all go starin’,” you say cheerfully, running your hand down the back of his suit, brushing off some soot. “This poor thing just came in outta the woods lookin’ half-dead. I reckon he’s been huntin’ all week and didn’t catch a thing. Probably embarrassed, bless his heart.”

Maggie’s mouth opens, but no words come out. She glances at Tate like are we not gonna talk about the blood on his sleeves?

“You feedin’ him... uh... now?” Tate asks slowly.

“Course I am,” you chirp, already sliding the second plate in front of Mark. “Look at him—he ain’t eaten in days. I can tell by the way he’s sittin’. All tight like a rabbit in a foxhole. You know how men get when they ain’t fed proper.”

Mark’s jaw flexes. His eyes flick up toward Maggie—then to Tate—slow, calculating. You’re standing right beside him, warm hand still on him like a tether.

You misread the look entirely.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, waving it off. “He’s just nervous. You drop a man into a house full of strangers and feed him a full plate, and o’course he’s gonna be a little guarded. That’s manners.”

Maggie swallows.

“...Right. Manners.”

Mark hasn’t said a word since they came in, but his hands have stopped flexing under the table. His gaze shifts back to you. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

You smile down at him, proud of yourself for making him feel welcome.

“You got a name, sugar?”

He watches you a beat too long before answering, voice low and rough. “Mark.”

You clap your hands softly, delighted.

“Well, Mark,” you say, grinning. “Hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I don’t let folks leave my house hungry.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes flickers.

“I won’t.”

—

You’re leaning against the counter again, glass in hand, still chatting with Maggie about the peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill when someone new wanders into the kitchen. Robbie. That friend of Tate’s who always thinks he’s funnier than he is. Got a little too much sun, a little too much beer, and not nearly enough sense.

He sees you, lights up like a porch bulb.

“Well damn, [y/n], you been hidin’ in here the whole time?”

You laugh, casual.

“Had to make sure my guest didn’t keel over from starvation. Boy looked like a scarecrow when he came outta them woods.”

Robbie gives Mark a once-over. Slows down at the red eyes. The blood-streaked arms. The unnatural stillness.

“He, uh… doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said, brushing past it. “Just needed a hot meal and a warm porch, that’s all.”

Mark doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Robbie sidles up next to you, close enough that you feel his elbow graze yours.

“Well if you get tired of playin’ nurse, I wouldn’t mind stealin’ you away for a dance. We still got music out back. You always were the best two-stepper on this side of town.”

You smile, polite and a little bashful.

“Ain’t danced in ages.”

Behind you, the chair legs scrape.

You glance over—Mark’s shifted. Just barely. His hands are resting on the table now, fingers spread like he’s grounding himself. Or like he’s seconds away from launching across the room.

Robbie doesn’t notice. But Maggie does. She suddenly finds a reason to check her phone.

You, bless your soul, remain utterly unaware.

“Robbie, don’t be silly,” you say with a playful swat to his arm. “You just want someone to show off to.”

Robbie grins.

Mark twitches.

Your guest’s gaze is locked on the spot where Robbie touched you. His lip curls—not quite a snarl, but close. His knuckles go white.

“So what if I do?” Robbie says, leaning a little closer. “You know I’ve had a soft spot for you since high school.”

Your laugh is soft. Good-natured.

“You and every other boy south of Atlanta, Robbie. Y’all get all misty-eyed soon as I break out the cornbread.”

You don’t notice the shift in air pressure, the subtle hum of tension winding tighter and tighter around the kitchen.

But Maggie does. Tate does. Even the damn flies do.

Robbie just keeps grinning.

“Well, maybe I need a reminder of what I’ve been missin’, huh?”

Then he reaches—lightly, playfully—to touch your waist.

That’s when Mark stands.

Fast. Quiet. Absolute.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not yelling. He’s not doing anything dramatic. He’s just standing there, still as death, eyes glowing brighter now, like coals stoked hot. He’s staring at Robbie with the kind of look you’d give a bug you’re deciding whether to step on or dissect.

Robbie’s hand drops instantly.

“Uh…” Suddenly Robbie’s as sober as a preacher.

You blink, glancing between the two of them, completely missing the tension about to snap the room in half.

“My,” you say lightly, stepping between them without a care in the world, hand brushing Mark’s arm. “Y’all seem wound up tighter than a racoon’s tail in a trap.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t breathe.

But he doesn’t move either.

“He’s just bein’ friendly,” you tell him sweetly, like you’re calming a jumpy horse. “Ain’t no harm in a little flirtin’. That’s just how folks around here are.”

You pat his chest—firm, warm.

“You don’t gotta puff up like a bear just ‘cause someone gets talkative.”

Mark finally blinks.

Barely.

But he sits.

Not because he’s calm.

Because you asked.

And Robbie? Robbie suddenly remembers a reason to be anywhere else.

It’s quiet in the kitchen now.

—

The last of the guests have trickled out, carrying pie in foil and beers in koozies, waving lazily and promising to see you at church next Sunday or at Maggie’s baby shower. The cicadas are humming louder now that the sun’s down, and the overhead light casts the room in that warm yellow glow that makes everything feel soft.

You're at the sink, sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds. The smell of hickory smoke still lingers in the air, wrapped around vanilla and leftover grease. Your back’s to him, humming low under your breath as you rinse off a casserole dish.

Mark hasn’t said a word since Robbie left.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, but not eating. Just watching. Still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over your shoulder with a little smile.

“You doin’ okay over there, sugar? You look like you’re waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His eyes flick down to the plate in front of him—the third one you filled without thinking. Then back to you.

“You cook like this all the time?”

You laugh, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder as you scrub at a stubborn bit of baked-on cheese.

“’Course I do. You think folks show up here for my charm alone?”

You don’t see it—but he grins.

Sharp. Quiet. Possessive.

Then his chair scrapes back.

You glance up just in time to see him cross the room in three slow steps, stopping behind you. He doesn’t touch you yet, just stands there, close enough that you feel the warmth of him against your back.

The tension’s different now.

It’s not hunger.

It’s not restraint.

It’s decision.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, curling around the shell of your ear.

You blink, hands stilling in the water.

“Huh?”

You turn—only for him to step in, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting to cup the side of your neck. Gentle. Too gentle for how wild he looks.

Eyes glowing.

Mouth parted.

Grin sharp.

“I didn’t want to have to go far for it.”

Your breath catches.

“For what?”

“All of it,” he says, thumb dragging slow along your jaw. “The food. The soft voice. The hands that don’t flinch. You.”

You blink up at him, laugh a little shaky now.

“You talkin’ like—”

“I’m telling you,” he cuts in, soft but final. “You belong to me now.”

The world tilts.

Your lips part, but he’s already there—close, not kissing yet, just brushing his forehead to yours, like he’s anchoring himself to something precious.

“You fed me,” he breathes. “You smiled at me. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart is thudding now, ears ringing, hands still damp from the sinkwater.

“You sure that’s how it works?” you whisper, breathless, not pulling away.

He grins wider.

“It is now.”

And then he kisses you.

Like he’s starving all over again.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Make Me

See Me Through You Blurb

Synopsis: Just as every other argument in the Burrow household, it ends with you telling your husband to "make you."

Pairing: Husband!Joe Burrow x Wife!Reader

Requested by: a beautiful anon

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Tensions were still high in the Burrow household because of an argument that had taken place mere hours before. Your husband was currently getting the silent treatment from you as well as an occasional eye roll here and there any time he said something.

It was getting closer to ten at night and it was a known fact that in this particular household, no one goes to bed angry or mad at their significant other. It was a rule that you two had established once the engagement ring was placed on your finger by Joe.

All you wanted to do was go to sleep, but you had to get past your husband in order to be able to do it and he was currently staring right at you.

Noticing this, you once again rolled your eyes and asked him what his problem was.

“Why are you in my face? Take a picture, it lasts longer.” You told him as you went back to playing on your phone.

“You still have that attitude I see.”

“I wouldn’t have it if my husband would listen to me. All I'm going to do is ask you over and over again. If your answer is no, I'll keep repeating myself because obviously you didn't hear me the first time. But now I'm finished asking. I've been doing it for literally two weeks.”

“Too fucking spoiled for your own good. If I tell you no, it's obviously for a good reason. And I never actually told you no! I hardly ever tell you no! I said not right now since I had so many things to do. When did you actually hear me tell you that my answer was no?”

“And WHOSE fault is that!? And no is not in my vocabulary. I don't know what that word means so it doesn't matter. You probably said it and I blocked you out.” You replied as Joe sighed while making a face at you.

“We aren't going to bed until we fix this and you lose that attitude. Because it's unnecessary at this point. We can still do both.”

“Not on the same day and the same time! My attitude stays until you fix that part.”

“Well it's going to be a long night then for the both of us. It's not like I can cancel this, its been planned for months.”

“Hmph.” Was all you said in response as you curled yourself tighter into your Bengals blanket.

“Baby, come here.”

“No. Don't try to sweet talk me. I just divorced you for five minutes. I'll let you know when your time is up and we're married again.”

“Why do you have to do all this? We can do both.”

“Joseph Lee, I will give you THREE seconds to reword that sentence. I have been asking you for two weeks to go to this restaurant and when you finally told me yes, I booked the reservation only for you to have an event on the SAME day and at the SAME time. THAT YOU KNEW ABOUT AND FAILED TO TELL ME.”

“Princess, I'm sorry. It was an honest mistake and I'm going to make it up to you. Now bring your spoiled ass over here. We're both tired and don't have time for this.”

“You still have three minutes until we're married again.”

“I'm only going to ask you one more time.”

“Come over here and make me because I'm not moving.” As soon as those words left your mouth, your eyes went wide as Joe raised his eyebrow at you.

“Uh oh.” You quietly said underneath your breath as you saw the look on his face.

“What did you say to me, Mrs. Burrow? I didn't quite hear you.” Joe asked as he got up from the couch opposite of you.

He was towering above you after three strides and was waiting for an answer.

“Oh, so we're quiet now? What happened to all that mouth you had before?”

“Two minutes.”

“Fuck all that. Repeat what you said.” He told you while still peering down at you.

“I will kick you in the forehead if you don't get away from me. And you know I'm flexible and can get my leg that high. One minute and thirty seconds.”

Joe grabbed his phone out of his pocket and opened up his clock to the timer and set it for one minute and thirty seconds as the two of you were having a stare down.

As soon as the timer went off, he promptly ripped the Bengals blanket off of you and threw you over his shoulder as you let out a yelp and a protest to put you down.

“Hey! Put me down!” You said as you were dangling.

“No.” Was the simple answer you got as Joe started climbing the stairs.

“It seems like you only listen when I'm in you so if it has to be like that then so be it.”

“Keep your dick away from me. I'm still pissed enough that I'll bite it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

The only response you gave was slapping his butt as hard as you could which made him stop halfway up the stairs.

“Oh, so that's how you want to play?”

“Don't know what you're talking about, Burrow. I'm innocent and you are now holding me hostage.”

“You are not hardly innocent and be careful what you wish for because I will tie you up and really be holding you hostage as I make you cum over and over again.” He told you as he gave your ass a slap in return making you hit his back.

He continued to walk up the stairs and once the two of you were finally in your bedroom, he gently threw you onto the bed and you sat on the edge of it as Joe stood in between your legs and leaned down to kiss you.

“Mrs. Burrow?���

“Yes?” You replied as you gazed up at your husband.

“Strip.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Ethical Thieving: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Pope learns about ‘ethical thieving’ during one of your safe cracking lessons. He’s halfway through the tumblers on an Aspen 305 when you ask the question. “Have you ever stolen anything from a gallery?”

“No.” He tells you as he listens to the fourth one drop. “We’ve never had a fence that can move that type of shit.”

Art theft comes with its own unique set of problems. You usually need to have a buyer in place because the items are too hot to put out on the open market. Those types of people don’t exist in his world, they’re always too high maintenance or pretentious.

“No fence required in this one, no pay day either.”

He glances at you over his shoulder.

“No payday?” He exclaims, shaking his head. “Then why do it?”

“Sometimes it’s not about the money, it’s about righting a wrong.” You explain as he turns his attention back to the safe. He hears the locking mechanism click as he slides home, spinning the handle at the same time. The heavy door opens to reveal his prize, a Snickers bar resting on the middle shelf.

You’ve discovered he works best with an incentive so you’ve been sneaking candy into the safes to give him that drive. You never tell him what it is, which only adds to the intrigue.

“And what wrong would we be righting?” He asks, removing the Snickers and tearing it open with his teeth. He breaks it in half before handing you a piece which you take happily.

“We’d be liberating a portrait that was looted by a war criminal from his private collection.” You tell him with that mischievous look in your eye and that fire in him ignites because you, you might just be his salvation.

He’s never thought about utilizing his skillset for something like this before. All the jobs Smurf has given him have been for profit or to suit her needs, not anyone else’s. This is a chance to do some good, to put something positive back into the world.

“I’m game.” He tells you, focusing on unwrapping more of the candy bar. “It’ll be our first solo job together, maybe kinda like a date.”

“I’m not sure how all our other dates will live up to this one.” You tell him as you hop off the wooden work bench and duck underneath it to remove the schematics for the gallery. “Stealing Nazi artwork is kinda hard to top.”

“I’m sure we’ll find away.” He murmurs as he steps up alongside you, tilting his head to review the plans. “I didn’t miss the implication there would be more than one date by the way.”

“Good.” You tell him, your hip bumping against his. “I was hoping you didn’t.”

**

You really do plan the best first dates.

That private gallery job, it’s everything he could have hoped for.

Challenging, fun and the best part is he gets to burn down the whole fucking place to the ground.

A cleansing, you call it after you discover ‘Girl in A Yellow Sundress’ sitting amidst a plethora of Nazi memorabilia. It’s not the normal type of stuff you see in museums, it’s deranged fucked up shit like teeth from Auschwitz and baby shoes. The essence of human misery emanates from that room like a fucking beacon before it disappears in a puff of smoke, all of those trapped spirits returning to the ether.

The biggest high of the night is when you stop off outside the little house on Oakview. He watches from the driver’s seat as you climb the steps with the black telescopic tube slung over your shoulder. You’re greeted at the door by an old woman, one that grasps you so tightly he’s terrified she’s going to break something with the forcefulness of the notion. It’s that gratitude that lights up something deep within his soul, that knowledge that he helped with that, that he did something right for once in his life.

“Who was she?” He asks you when you’re back at your place, sipping beers on the back porch in the darkness. There’s a couple of candles burning on the wicker table in front of the outdoor couch, illuminating the two of you as you listen to the waves crashing against the shore.

“She was my foster mother once upon a time.” You tell him, pulling the hair clip from your hair. It falls across your features in waves and he wants nothing more than to run his hands through it. “After I killed my father, she took me in, raised me, taught me how to crack a safe. She gave me a trade that didn’t involve selling my body.”

“Is that why we took the painting?” He asks you, his arm coming to rest along the back of the sofa. His fingertips trailing over your bare shoulder, tracing the pattern of that Medusa tattoo on your bicep.

“She barely survived Auschwitz as a girl.” You say softly. “Her parents didn’t. The portrait is of her mother, one she barely remembers because of the Alzheimer’s. I hoped her having it would help with the good parts of her memory, that it would bring her some comfort.”

“You have a good soul.” He tells you, his palm coming to cradle your face, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek. “If you wanna do more of these jobs, help more people, then I’m up for it. Hell, I could probably do with the good karma.”

Your lips brush over the base of his wrist, your eyes on his and he inhales sharply at the intimacy of the sensation.

“Too much?” You ask and he shakes his head, his breathing ragged.

“Not enough.” He murmurs. “I want…”

The words die on his lips because Pope, he’s never really considered his own needs before, he’s been too busy taking care of everyone else’s.

You shift positions, climbing into his lap. The two of you fit together like the missing pieces of a jigsaw, it’s both wonderful and overwhelming all at the same time. His hands come to rest on your waist squeezing lightly as he tilts his head up to meet your gaze.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask him and he nods unsteadily.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

Your hands thread through his curls, tugging just a little and he moans outloud as your mouth meets his. You have the softest damn lips, he can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like chasing over his neck, his chest, his dick. A burst of citrus blossoms on his tongue, the taste of your lip balm and his hips arch causing you to make that sound, the sweet one he hears only in his dreams.

His hands rove over your clothes, stroking, caressing, kneading until your grinding against him so hard, he thinks he’s about to lose it.

“Gonna come.” He warns you, his voice a rasp.

“So am I.” You whisper back, your teeth grazing his lower lip. “You want me to stop?”

“Fuck no.” He whispers as that ecstasy surges up inside him. “I wanna keep going for as long as it takes us.”

Love Pope? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[lazy-ahh]

ONG DUDE CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE GOOGLE-LESS/LENSLESS MARK PLS I'M BEGGING I LOVE YOUR WRITINGS 🙏🙏

HOW TO (NOT) CONFESS YOUR FEELINGS VIA ATTEMPTED MURDER

pairing goggle-less! mark grayson x gender neutral reader

they say violence is a love language—and yours is practically poetry. mark grayson knows this better than anyone. (or: the one where you punch him in the face daily and he still looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the sun is barely up, casting a weak orange glow through your half-open curtains, and you already want to punch mark grayson in the face.

it’s not even his fault this time (which is rare, because usually, it is), but the way he’s sprawled across your bed like some overgrown golden retriever—limbs everywhere, taking up way too much space—grinning at you like he knows exactly how much he’s getting on your nerves, it’s infuriating. his hair is a disaster, sticking up in every direction like he just flew here at top speed (he probably did), and oh look, he’s stretching out another one of your favorite shirts because now he’s got more muscle on him, thanks to his stupid viltrumite genes and training. he’s got that look in his eye, the one that means trouble, the one he’s had since you were both dumb kids throwing rocks at each other in second grade.

back then, you hated him. or at least, you told yourself you did. he was loud, obnoxious, always pushing your buttons just to see how far he could go before you snapped. but even then, there was something about him—the way he never backed down, never flinched when you shoved him, punched him, kicked him, just laughed like your anger was the best thing he’d ever seen. you told yourself it was annoying. you told yourself you couldn’t stand him.

(like that one time in fourth grade, when your parents forgot your birthday—again. you sat alone at lunch, picking at the sad little cupcake your nanny had packed for you, trying to ignore the hollow ache in your chest. then he showed up, grinning like an idiot, elbowing you hard enough to make you drop your fork. "what’s your problem, grumpy?" he’d teased, and something inside you snapped.

you don’t even remember who threw the first punch. all you remember is the scuffle, the way your knuckles stung when they connected with his jaw, the way he laughed even as his lip split open. the teachers dragged you both to the principal’s office, scolding you for fighting, but you didn’t care. you were too busy simmering in your own misery, glaring at the floor like it had personally wronged you.

then, out of nowhere, mark nudged you. when you didn’t look up, he nudged you again, harder. 

"hey," he whispered. you finally glanced over, ready to snap at him—only to freeze when he dropped something into your lap. a small, slightly dented action figure—the limited edition space knight you’d been obsessing over for months but could never afford. its paint was chipped at the edges, one arm loose in its socket, but it was unmistakably yours, the one you’d pressed your nose against the toy store window for, the one you’d never admitted out loud that you wanted.

your breath caught.

mark’s grin was crooked, his split lip still smudged with dried blood. "saw it at the thrift store last week," he said, like it was nothing. like he hadn’t remembered. like he hadn’t carried it around in his backpack just in case. "figured you’d wanna beat it up or whatever. y’know. since you like breaking my stuff."

you stared at it, your chest too tight. idiot, you thought. absolute idiot.

(you still have it, tucked away in your desk drawer where no one can see. even now, you’ll sometimes take it out when you’re alone, turning it over in your hands, pretending you don’t smile.)

his smile was bright, warm, completely at odds with the bruise forming on his cheek. "happy birthday," he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

you never asked how he knew. you never thanked him either—just scowled and jammed the figurine deep into your pocket before the principal dragged you in. but that night, alone in your room with the door locked, you carefully glued the loose arm back in place, smoothed out the chipped paint with your thumb, and spent way too long arranging dramatic battle scenes on your bedsheets. you told yourself the wetness on your cheeks was just from yawning too hard.)

now, at seventeen, you know the truth: you never stood a chance.

the memory fades like sunlight through closing fingers, leaving you staring down at mark where he’s still sprawled across your bed, grinning up at you like an idiot who’s won some secret game. he waits, smug, until the silence stretches too long—then he chuckles, tilting his head just enough to make his stupid hair catch the light. "did you even hear what i said?"

you roll your eyes so hard it aches, turning back to your homework like the scattered papers and dog-eared comics might save you. your desk is chaos—pencils chewed at the ends, textbooks splayed open to the wrong chapters, a half-finished doodle of (embarrassingly) mark in the margins. it’s as messy as the thoughts in your head. "i’m sure it wasn’t anything important anyway."

your brows furrow deeper, teeth gritting just slightly when mark laughs—that laugh, the one that starts low in his chest and spills out like he can’t contain it, bright and reckless as a car crash you can’t look away from. it hooks under your ribs, warm and irritating, like sunlight burning through closed eyelids. you hate it. (you crave it.)

mark's laughter settles into quiet huffs, but he doesn't look away. no, it's worse than that—he's studying you like you're some priceless artifact behind glass, his gaze tracing the curve of your frown, the way your fingers twitch around your pencil, the barely-there flush creeping up your neck. it's not piercing. it's reverent. the way morning light memorizes every detail of a landscape it's about to paint in gold, the way a poet lingers on a favorite verse, committing each syllable to memory. it makes your skin prickle, makes you want to both hide and lean closer.

then,

"how do i know if i have a crush on someone?" casual as anything, like he hasn't just turned your room upside down with his presence yet again, like he hasn't made himself at home in your space, in your head, in the quiet places between your ribs where you store all the things you'll never say out loud.

you glare hard enough to bruise, knuckles whitening around your pencil. "not my problem," you mutter, but the words lack their usual bite. when he just keeps looking at you with those stupid hopeful eyes, you cave with a growl. "fine. you can't stop thinking about them. you feel all...weird when they're around. and then you want to—" your voice catches as you finally register his expression, the softness there that wasn't there before. "—why are you looking at me like that."

because he is. looking at you like you're the last firework of summer bursting against a midnight sky—all spark and glow and unbearable brightness. that stupid, lopsided grin cutting across his face like he knows a secret, eyes crinkled at the corners and focused with terrifying intensity, like you're the only thing in this messy room, in this entire city, maybe in his whole damn universe that matters. it makes your stomach swoop like you're falling from a great height, makes your pulse stutter in that traitorous way you'll never admit out loud, and you hate it. you hate how warm it makes you feel. you hate how much you don't hate it at all.

"no reason," he says, but the words dance with barely contained laughter, too light and too amused and too everything. he props his chin on his palm, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against his cheekbone, still watching you with that infuriating focus. "just thinking."

"thinking is dangerous for you," you snap automatically, your hand already moving to flick his forehead hard enough to sting. but he doesn't even blink—just leans into the contact like a cat seeking pets, his laughter bubbling up like carbonation in a shaken soda can. ever since the viltrumite blood decided to make him near-indestructible, he's become absolutely insufferable, turning every shove, every punch, every irritated smack into some twisted game where the prize is the way your hands linger a second too long against his skin. (and you know he loves it. the freak. the absolute, irredeemable, beautiful freak who makes your chest ache with something terrifyingly close to affection.)

if people knew this was invincible—son of omni-man, earth's 'golden boy', the living weapon who could level city blocks before breakfast—they'd piss themselves at the thought of laying hands on him. they'd tremble at the idea of shoving him, of snapping at him, of treating him like anything less than the walking natural disaster he is. but you? you've never been normal. and this isn't invincible. this is mark. the same mark who used to eat glue sticks in second grade, who cried during disney movies, who still sleeps with that ratty old seance dog poster above his bed. you knew him when he was just a scrawny kid with scraped knees and too-big dreams and questionable morals, and that knowledge makes him somehow more terrifying than any superpower ever could. maybe that's why you're like this—two fucked-up puzzle pieces that somehow fit together despite all the jagged edges.

"c'mon," he says, rolling onto his back with that infuriating, effortless grace that shouldn't belong to someone so stupidly powerful. his arms stretch above his head, muscles flexing beneath golden skin as his stupid shirt (your shirt) rides up—revealing the sharp v of his hips, the tantalizing trail of dark hair leading south, that unfairly sculpted abdomen that looks like it was carved from marble by some greek god with too much time on their hands. you can see the way his sweatpants sit dangerously low on his waist, the faint outline of—nope. absolutely not. you swallow hard, throat suddenly dry, and pointedly focus on your homework like it holds the secrets of the universe instead of just random scribbling.

"you're the expert on this stuff, right?" he continues, completely oblivious (or more likely, completely aware) of what he's doing to you. his voice drops into that teasing lilt that makes your stomach do backflips. "so tell me more."

"expert?" you scoff, digging your nails into your palms just to feel something other than whatever the hell his smile is doing to your insides. "what, because i've rejected every loser who's ever asked me out? because i don't fall for cheap lines and emptier promises?"

"because you're you," he says, simple as breathing, easy as gravity. like it's the most obvious truth in the world. like you hung the stars yourself instead of just being some messed-up kid who never learned how to love gently.

(it makes your chest ache something fierce, a dull throb beneath your sternum that feels suspiciously like hope. you crush it immediately, shoving it down deep where it can't ruin you.)

"shut up," you mutter, grabbing the nearest pillow and swinging it at his face with enough force to knock out a normal person. but mark isn't normal—he's mark, so he just lets it smack into him full-force, the impact sending his stupid hair flying in every direction while that infuriating grin never wavers. if anything, it grows wider, like you just handed him a gift instead of attempted assault with a throwable object.

"see, this is what i mean," he says, voice muffled by the down-filled fabric still pressed against his face. when he finally pushes it aside, his cheeks are flushed pink from the impact, eyes sparkling with something dangerously close to affection. "you're so violent with me. it's kinda cute." he says it like it's a revelation, like he's just now realizing how your sharp edges fit perfectly against his soft spots. because that's the thing about mark—he's invincible to the world, but for you? for you, he's always been vulnerable. he loves the way your punches linger a second too long, how your insults carry the weight of inside jokes, how every shove and smack and pillow-to-the-face is just your fucked-up way of saying 'i care' without having to say it at all.

"i will end you." the threat would carry more weight if your voice didn't crack halfway through.

"you won't." his reply is instant, smug, accompanied by that look—the one that says he knows you better than you know yourself.

you growl, grabbing another pillow and launching it at him with all the pent-up frustration of a thousand unresolved tensions. but this time he catches it, his laughter bubbling up as he yanks it toward him—and because the universe hates you, the momentum sends you stumbling forward until suddenly you're way too close, noses almost brushing, his stupid warm eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that steals the breath from your lungs. his grip on the pillow tightens just slightly, and for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, you think he might actually close the distance between you.

your heart does something unforgivable—a traitorous somersault that leaves you breathless, your pulse hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape. you can feel the warmth creeping up your neck, the way your palms suddenly feel too clammy against his stupidly firm chest.

"...you're the worst," you mumble, but the words come out all wrong—too soft, too fond, lacking their usual venom. your voice betrays you, cracking just slightly at the edges like it always does when he gets under your skin like this.

"you love me," he counters immediately, that smug, shit-eating grin spreading across his face like wildfire. he says it like it's fact, like it's written in the stars or carved into the fucking constitution, and the worst part is he's right. he's always been right.

you shove him away with more force than necessary, desperate to put space between you before he notices the way your face burns hotter than a supernova. "in your dreams, grayson," you snap, but the effect is ruined by how your voice wavers.

he just laughs—that bright, unrestrained sound that makes your stomach do backflips—before flopping back onto your bed like some overgrown golden retriever, limbs splayed out like he owns the place. and you could kick him out. you could scream, could throw his stupid jacket at his head, could pretend he means nothing to you like you've done a thousand times before.

but you don't.

(because the truth is, you'd rather die than admit it, but he's carved out a space for himself in your chest, nestled right between your ribs, and you can't remember what your heartbeat sounded like before it learned to sync with his. the truth is, you're terrified of how empty the world would feel without his laughter echoing through it. the truth is, you're so, so fucked.)

2.4k of my FAVOURITE INVINCIBLE VARIANT and GO AHEAD AND CALL ME A BASIC BITCH but look at this little guy i love him and his little twisted(?) sense of love and how he thinks that reader's love language is violence and how he takes the hits but never EVER gets violent with reader and AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[laegolas]

Hi! I work in social science research, and wanted to offer a little bit of nuance into the notes of this post. A lot of people seem to be referring to LLMs like ChatGPT/Claude/Deepseek as purely ‘generative AI’ and used to ‘fix’ problems that don’t actually exist and while that is 99% true (hell in my field we’re extremely critical of the use of generative AI in the general public and how it is used), immediately demonizing LLMs as useless overlooks how great of a research tool it is for fields outside of STEM.

Tl;dr for below the cut: even ‘generative AI’ like ChatGPT can be used as an analytical tool in research. In fact, that’s one of the things it’s actually built for.

In social sciences and humanities we deal with a lot of rich qualitative data. It’s great! We capture some really specific and complex phenomena! But there is a drawback to this: it’s bloody hard to get through large amounts of this data.

Imagine you had just spent 12 months studying a particular group or community in the workplace, and as part of that you interviewed different members to gain better insight into the activities/behaviours/norms etc. By the end of this fieldwork stint you have over 20 hours worth of interviews, which transcribed is a metric fuckton of written data (and that’s not even mentioning the field notes or observational data you may have accrued)

The traditional way of handling this was to spend hours and hours and days and days pouring over the data with human eyes, develop a coding scheme, apply codes to sections by hand using programs like Atlas.ti or Nvivo (think Advanced Digital Highlighters), and then generate a new (or validate an existing) theory about People In The Place. This process of ‘coding’ takes a really long fucking time, and a lot of researchers if they have the money outsource it to poor grad students and research assistants to do it for them.

We developed computational methods to handle this somewhat (using natural language processing libraries like NLTK) but these analyse the data on a word-to-word level, which creates limitations in what kind of coding you can apply, and how it can be applied reliably (if at all). NLP like NLTK could recognize a word as a verb, adjective, or nouns, and even identify how ‘related’ words could be to one another (e.g ‘tree’ is more closely related to ‘park’ than it is to ‘concrete’). They couldn’t keep track of a broader context, however. They’re good for telling you whether something is positive or negative in tone (in what we call sentiment analysis) but bad for bad for telling you a phrase might be important when you relate it back to the place or person or circumstance.

LLMs completely change the game in that regard. They’re literally the next step of these Natural Language Processing programs we’ve been using for years, but are much much better at the context level. You can use it to contextualise not just a word, but a whole sentence or phrase against a specific background. This is really helpful when you’re doing what we call deductive coding - when you have a list of codes that relate to a rule or framework or definition that you’re applying to the data. Advanced LLMs like ChatGPT analysis mode can produce a level of reliability that matches human reliability for deductive coding, especially when given adequate context and examples.

But the even crazier thing? It can do inductive coding. Inductive coding is where the codes emerge from the data itself, not from an existing theory or framework. Now this definitely comes with limitations - it’s still the job of the researcher to pull these codes into a coherent and applicable finding, and of course the codes themselves are limited by the biases within the model (so not great for anything that deals with ‘sensitive issues’ or intersectionality).

Some fields like those in metacognition have stacks of historical data from things like protocol studies (people think aloud while doing a task) that were conducted to test individual theories and frameworks, but have never been revisited because the sheer amount of time it would take to hand code them makes the task economically and physically impossible. But now? Researchers are already doing in minutes which historically took them months or years, and the insights they’re gaining are applicable to broader and broader contexts.

People are still doing the necessary work of synthesizing the info that LLMs provide, but now (written) qual data is much more accessibly handled in large amounts - something that qualitative researchers have been trying to achieve for decades.

Midjourney and other generative image programs can still get fucked though.