#do you think that for every punch there was once a softer touch for every place that their fists land

[jaybirdscoffee]

see everybody loves to talk about orion unnecessarily putting the megatronus decal on d-16’s shoulder, which is entirely valid. HOWEVER i see absolutely nobody talking about d-16 brushing dust and debris off of orion when he climbs out of the cart at the start of the movie. and i have been thinking about it nonstop.

[misswynters]

Jinx having a gf who’s touchy and affectionate

requested. @luc1dw0rld

Jinx’s hideout was always filled with chaos, half-finished inventions strewn across every surface, faint scorch marks on the walls, and the constant hum of machinery that never quite worked the way she wanted. But today, it felt different. Calmer, almost peaceful. It wasn’t because she’d finally decided to clean up the mess. She hadn’t. It was because of you.

You were sprawled out on her couch, an old, tattered thing she’d salvaged from a junkyard, but it felt like a throne whenever you were on it. Jinx sat cross-legged on the floor in front of you, tinkering with a grenade she’d been working on for days. Your legs dangled over the edge of the couch, and every so often, your foot brushed against her shoulder. Each touch, light as it was, sent a warmth through her that she didn’t know how to handle.

“Y’know, I think I’ve got this one right this time,” Jinx muttered, her tongue poking out as she focused on the tiny screws and wires in her hands. Her usual frenetic energy was dulled and her movements slower.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” you said from above her. Your voice was soft, laced with the kind of unwavering confidence in her abilities that always made her stomach twist in unfamiliar ways.

She glanced up at you, her eyes wide and unguarded for a split second before she remembered herself and looked away. “Pfft. Don’t go jinxin’ it, babe,” she said, forcing a smirk as she set the grenade down. But her voice lacked its usual sharp edge, softened by the way you were looking at her.

You slid off the couch and onto the floor beside her, your legs folding neatly under you. “Need help?” you asked, even though you both knew your technical skills couldn’t match hers. It didn’t matter. The question wasn’t really about the grenade.

Jinx tensed for a moment, her fingers twitching against her thighs. She wasn’t used to this. To someone just…being there. It was a different kind of tension, though. Not the kind that made her fingers itch for a trigger or her mind spiral into chaos. It was much softer.

“Nah, I’m good,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. But she didn’t move away when your hand rested lightly on her knee.

You smiled at her, that small, knowing smile that always made her feel like you could see straight through her defenses. “Alright,” you said, leaning back on your hands.

Jinx’s gaze flicked to your hand on her knee, then to your face. She could feel the weight of your affection in the smallest gestures. The way your fingers curled slightly, as if anchoring her in place. It was overwhelming and comforting all at once, a contradiction she couldn’t quite wrap her head around.

“You’re all…touchy, y’know that?” she said, trying for a teasing tone, but it came out softer than she intended.

“Does it bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Jinx hesitated, her fingers drumming against her leg in a rapid rhythm. “Nah. It’s just…weird. Not bad weird. Just…weird weird.”

You chuckled, the sound light and easy. “I’ll take weird weird.”

She watched as you leaned closer, your fingers brushing a stray strand of blue hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so casual, it made her heart stutter. She wasn’t used to people touching her like this. As if she was something fragile, something worth handling with care.

“Why’re you always doing that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Doing what?”

“Touching me. Like…like that.”

You tilted your head, your expression soft but serious. “Because I love you, Jinx.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to do with them. Love wasn’t something she was good at. It was messy and complicated and full of things she didn’t understand. Whenever she was with you, her entire world felt simpler.

She looked away, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. “You’re such a sap,” she muttered, but there was no bite in her words.

“That means you like it,” you said, your voice teasing but warm.

She rolled her eyes, but the faint smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head.”

You didn’t respond, just leaned closer until your forehead was resting against hers. Jinx froze, her breath catching in her throat. She could feel the heat of your skin, the steady rhythm of your breathing, and it was…nice.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice shaky but sincere. “Just…not used to this. Feels…weird.”

“Weird weird?”

“Yeah. But, like…good weird.”

You smiled, your hand slipping into hers. Her fingers twitched, hesitant at first, but then they tightened around yours. She didn’t say anything, but the way her grip lingered said more than words ever could. For a while, the two of you just sat there, her hand in yours, her forehead still pressed against yours. The chaos of the hideout faded into the background, replaced by a quiet that was rare for her. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that came with loneliness. It was the kind of quiet that felt safe. Jinx absolutely loved the time she would spend with you. You are her world.

banner. @anitalenia

[sincerelykimii]

𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘉𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳， 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐒𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨， 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭…𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺．

You love bucky and you hate it, you hate how hot he sounds, you hate how fucking handsome he is, you even find yourself staring at him, while daydreaming about the most sinful things you wish bucky would do to you.

Bucky on the other hand is the same, he hates how much he loves you, how much he worships your body how angelic your voice is, it infuriates him, whenever both you guys are forced to train together he teases you, flirts with you, insults you, and in all honesty you would flirt back, except you would purr seductive words in his ear that would get him caught of guard and you would use this to kick the back of his leg and make him fall to his knees before you, worked every time.

Once again you’re paired with, your sworn enemy. standing in front of him arguing about god knows what. Sometimes you think he just argues with you to argue, I roll my eyes as the insults fall from his lips, “I didn’t do it on purpose…you’re infuriating sometimes, you know that?” I retort back, fed up with his stupidity, my voice dropping to a quieter tone, remembering what Steve told me about getting loud. His breath catches slightly at your quiet, sultry tone. The way you're purring those words has him feeling things he shouldn't, especially not while they're supposed to be training. His voice coming out rougher than intended "You think this is infuriating? you haven’t seen anything yet, doll"

There it is, that irritating nickname, the one that he only uses when referring to me. I hate how smooth it rolls off of his tongue, how it lingers in my mind for days, I hate how much I don’t hate it. I bite the inside of my lip, his voice making me almost…nervous? The roughness in it seeping through, making my cheeks flush. “that’s what I said, isn’t it?” my voice coming out softer than intended, great, that just really helps my case.

Bucky steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he notices the flush creeping up your cheeks. He leans in, voice dropping to a low whisper. “Infuriating enough to make you blush like that?” His lips quirk into a smirk, realizing he's gotten under your skin. He knows what he’s doing, and he knows exactly how to get through you. Every time he sees you, his stomach flutters with an unfamiliar feeling, a feeling so unknown to him that he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Eyes meeting his as he steps into my personal space. the thoughts racing in my mind about him are sinful, erotic, just simply gross, and I can’t seem to shake them. I snap out of my thoughts, shoving him back by his chest. “whatever, we have training to do.” The push only serves to make him smirk more, his body reacting to your touch despite the shove. You notice his pupils dilating slightly as he recovers his balance. "Then why are we spending so much time talking instead of hitting each other?" With that I send a punch, landing directly on his stomach. the impact only making him stumble back slightly. He looks at me, eyes darkening, “that’s all you got?” he mumbles, sending a punch towards my face, dodging it with ease I grab his arm twisting it behind his back. He’s so cocky it makes me sick, but I can’t deny it draws me in more than should. He grunts at the hold, unable to break free from your grip. His heart racing, not from the physical strain, but from your closeness. "Cheap shot," he mutters, though there's no genuine anger in his voice. Instead, it's laced with something else - desire.

my breathing matches his quickly, the proximity making my head spin. “Get it together Barnes, you’re fighting like your mind is elsewhere.” I know it’s elsewhere, the way he’s been looking at me, the way his pupils overtake the blueness in his eyes as they dilate, god I hate him…do I? before I know it, taking me from my thoughts immediately, Bucky wrenches his arm free with a sudden jerk, spinning around to face you. His chest heaves with panting breaths, eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and undeniable hunger, now face to face with Bucky, breath heavy, eyes locked onto his. “And where exactly would my mind be, huh?”

“Clearly not on the training.” I retort sarcastically. His jaw clenches, the tension between you almost palpable. Leaning in closer, he whispers roughly, "You want to know where my mind is? It's wondering what it'd be like to push you against this wall..." His voice drops lower, gaze on your lips, lingering there for a moment before snapping back up to your eyes. "Forget it," he mutters, turning away abruptly. I don’t know what came over me, the proximity between us building my confidence inch by inch. With a swift motion I catch his hand pulling him into a slow, passionate kiss. Stunned, Bucky freezes for a moment before his arms wrap around you, deepening the kiss. His hands tangle in your hair as he pulls you closer, the world around them fading away. "Fuck," he curses against your lips. "What are you doing?" Pulling away from the kiss, forehead resting against his, “what I should’ve done, so, so long ago.” I whisper against his lips. letting the words linger for a moment longer, before finding his in another kiss, this one needier than the last. His control snaps completely, one hand sliding up to cup your face again, while the other pulls you flush against him. The feeling of his lips against mine, make my mind fuzzy. His kisses become more urgent, teeth grazing your lower lip as he tries to get closer despite the impossible angle. "Been..." he pants between kisses "Been waiting..." I break the kiss before we both do something we’ll regret on this mat.

“I’ve waited longer.” I mumble, my tone teasing. A deep chuckle escapes his throat as he rests his forehead against yours again, his breathing still heavy. "Well then someone should've made a move sooner." His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back "You always were too stubborn..." He steals one last quick kiss. Letting out a soft chuckle, returning the kiss, “whatever…” I mumble although there’s no heat behind my words at all anymore, just pure affection. He smiles against your lips, the warmth spreading through him as he holds you close. After a moment, he pulls back, looking around at the training room with a newfound awareness. "We should probably get back to training, huh?" He asks, his voice tinged with amusement.

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 : A few day later, Bucky and I walk into the living room, sitting with the rest of the avengers. Our thighs touching, not a single insult slipping from our lips, I glance over to Steve, his confusion is palpable as he watches Bucky and you sitting together, hands touching casually. “What?” He opens his mouth to ask a question, but Clint beats him to it. "Hey, what's going on with you two?" He asks, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. His eyes flick between you and bucky, eyebrows furrowing in further confusion. I shrug my shoulders, leaning further into buckys embrace, just enough to get the others ‘riled’ up, “what do you mean?”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he feels you lean into him. He shoots a playful glance at Clint before focusing back on Steve, who looks utterly bewildered. "Nothing's going on," he states casually, shrugging one shoulder. I nod in agreement, struggling to hide my smirk. “well, I’m gonna go to my room.” I announce standing up quickly. Before disappearing into my room I leave a soft, gentle kiss on buckys cheek, leaving the others jaws on the floor. His eyes follow you, finally looking away as you disappear into your room, a smirk playing on his lips as he hears the collective gasps and murmurs from the rest of the Avengers. He leans back casually, draping an arm over the back of the couch. "What?"

Steve finally speaks after minutes of processing, “what the fuck.” Bucky chuckles softly, before disappearing to the room you retreated to moments ago, Tony opens his mouth to let out a sarcastic remark as he usually does, but nothing comes out. The shock still hitting him just as much as the others.

[dior-luxury]

Is it ok if i request angst for bluelock (specifically kaiser and rin and shidou (maybe sae but u can add whoever u wanna) how would they be after you two break up and they still love you alot (+ they found out you got a bf 2 months later and he's not over u) what'd he do to try and convince u to date him again

Them Coming Back For More

( ✧ ) ────── ex-boyfriend stories . drama - no prns .

- [𝐜𝐡.]rin itoshi . michael kaiser . shidou ryusei . sae itoshi

- [𝐩:𝐬] jealousy . sfw

Note: Guess who came back after hiatus... MEEE!!

Rin Itoshi

Rin isn't the type to beg or chase—but he is the type to destroy any competition standing in his way. He still loves you, but he’d channel that pain into becoming even colder, more focused. But the second he hears you got a new boyfriend? It’s war.

He’d start showing up in your life again—“coincidentally” running into you or making sure you see how much he’s improved since the breakup.

He wouldn’t say much at first, but when he does, it’s direct and to the point: “You think he’s better than me?” with a deadpan, piercing stare that makes your heart stop.

If you brush him off, he won’t argue. Instead, he’d turn up the pressure in the most Rin way possible—subtle but ruthless. Maybe he humiliates your boyfriend somehow (nothing obvious, just enough to make him feel inferior).

And when he finally corners you alone? His voice is lower, his eyes softer—just slightly. “You don’t love him.” It’s not a question. “You loved me. I still love you. So stop wasting time and come back.”

He won't force you, but he’ll make it hard to say no.

Michael Kaiser

Oh, so you thought you could move on from Kaiser? Cute. He’s pissed, but you’d never know—because on the surface, he plays it cool.

The moment he hears about your new boyfriend, he starts laughing. Not a haha, that’s a funny laugh, but the kind that makes people nervous.

He’d make sure to run into you again—dressed better than ever, confidence through the roof, acting like the breakup didn’t affect him at all. Except? Every conversation is laced with subtle mind games.

“You replaced me with… him?” He’d give the guy a once-over, smirking like he’s already won.

He’d remind you of everything you had together, twisting the knife in the best way possible. “He doesn’t know you like I do. He doesn’t make you feel the way I did.”

He’d invade your mind so effortlessly that even when you’re with your new boyfriend, you feel Kaiser’s presence.

And if that doesn’t work? Oh, he’ll up the stakes. Public displays of dominance—maybe interrupting a date with a smug “Oops, didn’t see you there”—or even making a bet with you: “One date. If you don’t fall for me all over again, I’ll leave you alone.”

Except, you will fall for him again. Because he never really lost.

Shidou Ryusei

Shidou does not take this well. At all. You broke up, fine. He still loved you, sure. But two months later, you with someone else? Oh, no no no. He’s not letting that happen.

He’d pull zero punches when confronting you. No sugarcoating, no games. Just straight-up:

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? That loser over me?”

If he ever sees you two together, he’s saying something. He might drape an arm around you out of nowhere, smirk at your boyfriend, and say, “She looks better with me, don’t you think?”

He’s petty. He’ll text you out of nowhere with stuff like, “Bet he doesn’t touch you the way I did.”

If subtle doesn’t work, he’ll go nuclear—maybe even pick a fight with your boyfriend, just to prove a point.

But when he gets you alone? He’ll drop the chaos for just a second, looking at you with something real, something raw. “You love me. I know you do. And I sure as hell still love you. So why are we wasting time?”

If he wants you back, he will not stop until he gets you back.

Sae Itoshi

Sae hates that he still loves you. He tells himself he doesn’t. He acts like he doesn’t. But then he finds out you have a new boyfriend, and suddenly? He’s reevaluating everything.

He wouldn’t say anything right away. Instead, he’d let his presence be felt—whether it’s through a simple text after months of silence (“You moved on that fast?”), or making sure you see him everywhere.

If you confront him? He just shrugs, looking completely unbothered. “I don’t care. He’s just a downgrade.”

But the more he sees you with your new boyfriend, the more it eats at him. He starts questioning if he messed up by letting you go.

And then, one night, he finally lets his walls crack just a little. Just enough to say: “Do you miss me?” A pause. “Because I still miss you.”

Sae won’t beg. But he will make you question if you ever truly moved on.

[slutoru1207]

No Goggles Mark x Hero!Reader pt3

Warning: Afab!Villainous Obsession, Psychological Warfare, Fighting, Angst, Tension-Filled, 5k Words

Your body ached.

Your breathing was ragged, your muscles screaming, but you refused to stop. Every strike you threw was meant to hurt, meant to kill, but none of it seemed to matter.

Because he was enjoying this.

Mark dodged your next punch just barely, like he was humoring you, like this was some sort of fun little spar instead of a desperate attempt to end him.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, his voice infuriatingly fond. “You can do better than that.”

Your jaw clenched. Your heart pounded, frustration and rage twisting in your chest as you blurred forward, swinging at his ribs. He let it land. Let you feel the impact of your fist against his body.

And then he sighed, deep and satisfied, like you had just given him something he’d been craving.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his eyes half-lidded with something wrong, something starved. “You still feel so good.”

Your stomach turned.

You wrenched yourself back, but Mark followed, crowding you, close enough that his body heat seared against your skin.

“You’re sick,” you spat.

Mark just grinned. “And you’re still mine.”

You swung again, aiming for his throat.

This time, he caught your wrist.

His grip wasn’t painful—just firm, just enough to stop you, just enough to remind you that he was stronger.

He tilted his head, his thumb brushing over your pulse point, feeling how fast it raced beneath his touch.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he murmured. “Hate that I know you. Hate that I remember.”

Your blood ran cold.

Mark’s smile widened as he leaned in. “I know what you look like when you sleep,” he whispered, voice soft and dangerous. “I know how you sound when you laugh. I know how you—”

You ripped yourself away from him, your heart slamming against your ribs.

He let you go too easily. Like he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

“You’re not him,” you hissed.

Mark’s expression didn’t falter.

“No,” he agreed. “But he could be me.”

You froze.

Mark’s eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering behind them. “What do you think will happen when he gets tired?” he asked, tilting his head. “When he realizes how much easier it is to stop pretending?”

You swallowed, your nails digging into your palms.

Mark took a step forward. You took one back.

He smirked. “It’s already in him,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “The anger. The power. The part of him that looks at you and wants.”

Your breath hitched.

Mark’s gaze flickered over you, slow, lingering.

“He’s going to break one day,” he murmured. “And when he does? You’ll come running.”

Your fingers trembled at your sides.

Mark’s smirk widened. He knew he was getting to you.

And you hated it.

“Shut up,” you snapped.

Mark just chuckled.

Then, before you could react—

He moved.

A rush of air, a blur of motion, and suddenly, he was behind you.

His arms wrapped around you, trapping you against his chest.

You struggled.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Not this time.”

Your stomach flipped.

Then, in a voice softer than you had ever heard him—

“I lost you once,” he whispered. “I won’t lose you again.”

Your heart pounded, fear curling in your gut like a living thing.

Mark’s grip tightened.

And you realized, with a cold, sinking feeling—

He wasn’t going to let go.

part 4👀

[lottiesliterature]

Summary:Javier Peña is injured during a mission, and you’re forced to take care of him while stuck in a small, one-bedroom cabin.

Warnings: 18+, mdni, injury (bullet wound), one bed, close proximity. Pedro Pascal

Wc: 1,340

The mission had gone south quickly.

It had started like any other operation—precision, stealth, and quick thinking. But things escalated when Javier was shot. It wasn’t a serious wound, thank God, just a graze across his side that was bleeding more than it should, and that’s how you found yourself in the remote cabin, tending to his injury in the middle of nowhere.

I'm fine,” he muttered, slumping against the wall as you wiped away the blood with a disinfectant soaked cloth. His eyes never left the floor, and his jaw clenched in that stubborn way you knew all too well.

You shot him a skeptical look. “If you're fine, then why do you look like you're about to pass out?” He didn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t. Javier Peña was a man who hated showing vulnerability, even if he was the one who’d just been shot. His pride always came before everything else, including the reality of his injuries.

The tension in the room was suffocating, the kind that came from two people who knew each other too well and not well enough all at once.

His eyes flicked to yours, dark and unreadable. “I said I’m fine. You don’t need to—”.

“Don’t,” you cut him off, sitting back on your heels and glaring at him. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re invincible. It’s not working.”

The room fell silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the storm rattling the windowpane. His dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the intensity in them made your heart skip.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his voice softer now but still edged with that irritating stubbornness.

You froze for a split second, your hand hovering over his side. The heat of his skin beneath your fingers burned like a warning, but you ignored it. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?” The word was barely a whisper, but it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Your fingers tightened around the cloth, and you tore your gaze away from his, focusing instead on the blood staining your hands. “Because you’d do the same for me,” you said, your voice low but firm.

Javier’s silence was deafening, and it made the air between you feel heavier.

When you finally looked up, his face was inches from yours, his expression unreadable but undeniably vulnerable. The proximity sent a jolt through your body, but you couldn’t afford to get distracted—not now.

“Lift your arm,” you said, your voice trembling just slightly.

He hesitated, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment you thought he might argue. But then he exhaled sharply and did as you asked, wincing as the motion pulled at the torn skin. You didn’t miss the way his hand brushed against your side, whether accidental or deliberate, and it sent a wave of heat straight to your chest.

You worked in silence, your hands steady despite the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. Every time your fingers grazed his skin, you felt him tense beneath your touch. The closeness was unbearable, every movement drawing you closer to an invisible line neither of you seemed ready to cross.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he said gruffly, breaking the silence.

“Liar,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

A low chuckle escaped him, though it was tinged with pain. “You always this bossy?”

You glared at him, your temper flaring. “Only when my partner gets himself shot and refuses to take it seriously.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You finished cleaning the wound, your hands lingering on his side longer than necessary. When you finally looked up, the raw emotion in his gaze made your breath hitch.

Finally, you broke eye contact, your voice shaky as you muttered, “You should lie down. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m fine,” he said, the gruffness in his tone not enough to mask the exhaustion bleeding through.

“You’re not fine, Javier,” you snapped, standing up abruptly and pacing to the other side of the small room. The tension in your chest was unbearable, a knot that refused to unravel. You gestured to the single bed pushed against the wall, your frustration bubbling over. “Just take the bed before you pass out.”

He shot you a look, one brow raised, the kind that usually made people stop arguing. But you weren’t most people.

“You’ve lost blood, and you’re hurt,” you added before he could argue. “You need it more than I do.”

“You’re exhausted,” he countered, his voice rough but firm. “You think I don’t notice how you’ve been running on fumes?”

You ignored him, grabbing the blanket you’d pulled off the bed and laying it down on the floorboards. The room was small, cold, and lit only by the flickering yellow glow of the bedside lamp. But you didn’t care. Anything was better than sharing that bed and having to endure the unbearable tension lingering in the air between you.

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” you said, lying down on your makeshift bed. You turned your back to him, pulling your coat over yourself for extra warmth.

He let out a frustrated sigh, but he didn’t say anything else. The sound of him settling onto the bed filled the silence, followed by the creak of the old mattress.

You tried to sleep, but the floor was unforgivingly hard, and the chill seeped into your bones despite your coat and the thin blanket. Every time you shifted, the bruises and tension from the day’s events flared to life, keeping sleep just out of reach.

Eventually, though, exhaustion won out, and you drifted off.

Javier lay awake on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet except for your soft, uneven breathing, a clear sign that you weren’t resting peacefully.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. Stubborn. That’s what you were. Stubborn and self-sacrificing, always putting him first even when you didn’t need to. It made his chest ache, though he’d never admit it out loud.

When your breathing finally evened out, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a groan, standing up carefully to avoid pulling at the stitches in his side. The sight of you curled up on the floor made him frown. You looked so small, so vulnerable, and the thought of you spending the night like that stirred something deep inside him.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

He crouched down beside you, moving slowly to avoid waking you. His hands hovered for a moment, hesitant, before slipping beneath you—one under your knees and the other supporting your back. You stirred slightly, letting out a soft murmur, but didn’t wake as he lifted you effortlessly.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered softly, more to himself than to you, as he carried you to the bed.

The mattress creaked as he laid you down gently, pulling the blanket up over you. He hesitated for a moment, his hand lingering on the edge of the blanket as he looked at your face, now peaceful in sleep.

Shaking his head, he moved to sit back on the floor, resigned to a sleepless night. But before he could settle, your hand reached out, catching his wrist.

“Stay,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

He froze, his breath hitching as he looked down at you. Your eyes were barely open, your grip on his wrist loose, but the vulnerability in your voice was enough to shatter the walls he’d so carefully built.

After a long moment, he exhaled and climbed into the bed beside you, careful to keep some distance. The mattress was small, and the proximity was impossible to ignore, but he stayed still, watching as your breathing evened out again.

“Stubborn,” he whispered one last time, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

And for the first time in a long time, Javier Peña allowed himself to relax, the weight of the day melting away as the quiet rhythm of your presence lulled him to sleep.

[tgrs10]

Two Choices | PEDRI GONZALEZ⁸ [001]

MASTERLIST (N/A) ⤑ 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩|718 ⤑ 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮|Pedri ends the relationship after growing distant, blaming the pressure of his career.

⤑ 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 | Angst, no happy ending.

It hadn’t been right for a while. Not because either of you stopped caring, but because life had started pulling him further and further away. Bit by bit. Like the version of Pedri you used to fall asleep beside was slowly being replaced by someone too busy, too tired, too far gone in the blur of fame and fixtures to look at you the same way anymore.

It was subtle at first. Missed calls. Rushed texts. Half-hearted kisses between airport gates and training sessions. And every time you asked if he was okay, he’d just smile, brush your hair back, and say, “Just tired, amor. You know how it is.” But you did know. You knew all too well.

So when he came home that night,silent, tense, avoiding your eyes, you felt it before he even said a word. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, folding one of his hoodies you’d washed without him asking. He stood in the doorway like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his mouth a thin, unreadable line.

“Can we talk?” he said quietly.

You froze. Your hands dropped into your lap. “Sure.”

He stepped further into the room, but didn’t sit. His eyes flicked around like he couldn’t bear to meet yours. “I’ve been thinking about us. A lot.” You stayed still, your heart already thudding with dread. “Okay…”

“This..” he gestured vaguely between you, “it’s been hard. For both of us. I’m always gone. You’re always left waiting. I come home and it’s like… we don’t even know how to be around each other anymore.”

“That’s not true,” you said, instantly defensive. “We’re just tired. That’s normal. People go through rough patches..”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “But this doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. It feels like a pattern. Like we’re pretending everything’s fine because it used to be good.” You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “So what, you’re saying we're done now?”

He winced. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Then how should I say it, pedro?” you snapped, the first crack of emotion escaping your chest. “Because it sounds a lot like you’re giving up on me.”

“I’m not giving up on you,” he said, finally meeting your eyes, voice breaking just slightly. “I’m giving up on this idea that I can keep you happy while I’m living a life that doesn’t leave space for anything but football.” You felt the words hit, hard and final, like a punch to the lungs. “I never asked you to choose. I knew what I was walking into.”

“And I thought I could balance it,” he said, softer now. “I thought I could give you what you deserved and still be everything the club expects from me. But lately, I feel like I’m failing at both. And I can’t stand the idea of dragging you down with me.”

You shook your head, a single tear sliding hot and slow down your cheek. “So you’d rather hurt me like this? Walking away like you’re doing me a favor?”

He stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’d rather hurt you now than let this bleed into something toxic. I still love you, te juro que sí. But it’s not fair to keep you here, waiting for a version of me I don’t even know if I can be anymore.” You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “So that’s it?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

There was no yelling. No anger. Just the quiet collapse of something that had once been beautiful.

You stood slowly, your chest tight, every step toward him feeling like a goodbye. He watched you, face aching with guilt, lips parted like he wanted to say more but didn’t have the right to. And you hated him for making you understand.

You brushed past him, shoulder catching his just enough to make it clear,no softness left. At the door, you paused, not to look back, but to speak for the last time.

“Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t even pretend we’re on good terms.” You turned the handle, then added flatly, “I’ll come by tomorrow to grab my stuff. ”

He didn’t respond. Just stood frozen, breathing like the weight of it had finally landed.

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

tags for pegging, fem + afab!reader, bottom toji + bisexual toji, sex work, 18+

in my mind... i think toji has probably bottomed before at least once in his life. he's only been with men in that sense though, and even then - given his appearance, he's still more used to topping. shiu joked to him once that women can tell his dick is all he's good for and it makes toji laugh since it's not entirely untrue. he's experiment, had a few freaks who wanted him on bottom and not the other way around.

but when that's the occasion, it's still mostly just some guy trying to get their rocks off. what it feels like to toji is of no importance, not really. it's just something to get their dicks wet and well, whatever. toji can respect that

you probably meet toji in some bar where he's trying to pick up a woman to take him home so he's not out on the streets. he finds you beautiful so he chats you up like always. he's good at it. and you seem a little smug, a little amused but you flirt back. he can tell you've got money so he makes sure to pull out all the stops.

you work something out, but you warn toji that you've got pretty nasty tastes. in his head he's whatever about it. he's done a lot more than most, and all kinds of kinky play both in his personal life and not. he's thinking you want what most business want which is choking or some slapping - something to take the edge off.

that ends up being very far from the truth. you tell him flat what you want to do to him which is fuck him. like... actually fuck him. you show him the collecting of toys and everything. it's nothing he's never done before so he doesn't think anything of it. and admittedly the thought is...weirdly exciting even if it confuses him. it's not like you get anything out of it, right?

still though - he does as told. gets clean in your shower and comes out. you're the same as you were in the bar. maybe softer, really. your way of speech is warmer as you guide him into your bed.

weirdly enough - you're strict. you bind his wrists at the start and only unbind them when you go to fuck him. and you do a lot of the legwork. and it's very different to any other experience he's ever had in his life. it's a little embarrassing, a little shameful - but he's so fucking hard seeing it. such a beautiful woman treating him like that - it's fuckin' embarrassing. it's crazy how good it feels. he doesn't know how you do it, but you do it well and it feels good.

but it's different from every other kind of pleasure. you help get him open on your fingers and you're rubbing a spot that makes his stomach feel like it's burning from the inside. he's panting, drooling in your bed - and you coo at him the entire time like a tamed dog. he can only think to describe it as affectionate and it has a powerful effect on his dick.

you don't touch his dick at all no matter how much he asks. not once after you secure it tight behind him so rings. so he's cumming from the inside for the first time and it's ridiculous.

by the time it's fine for you to fuck him - he's not just going with the flow. he's shamefully eager, shamefully desperate. he's kinda self-aware about the whole matter but his dick hurts and you promise to let him cum at least after. so he wants to get to it as fast as he can.

he's taken stuff in before, knows how it feels - but his insides have never been all that sensitive and they've never been so big. you've been abusing them for the last hour. stretching, touching, rubbing. fucking torture. so when you finally do slip your cock in - it feels like getting a punch to the lungs.

it's so deep. so stupidly deep it makes him go fucking limp in your bed. you put a hand on his stomach when you bottom out and he can feel you from the inside. he cums faster from the inside. it's the stretch and swell and buck of your hips so mean into the fucking spot that makes him spray all over his chest.

you fuck better than he could've guessed. the motion is rhythmic and precise. pretty, sharp nails digging into his hips in missionary before getting him on his knees and taking from behind. you make it clear he's not allowed to touch his dick. treating him like a sleeve for your cock instead of a person.

he knows about stuff like this on the other end, but damn does it feel different this way. and it effects him, makes him drunk in a weird way that a woman as beautiful as you is making him cum so filthy. and he's exposing all that to you with no regard at all.

you're merciless but you give in eventually his dick is practically bursting when you take the ring off and let him cum one time proper - barely a stroke of hands before it spills between your fingers and you wipe it back onto his skin.

"you're fun to play with," is the only thing you say at the end. and he doesn't know if he should laugh or not so he smiles and says.

"wanna play with me again, then?"

he's pleased when you agree. he thinks it'd suck if that was the last time. just once was all it took to get him there. get him hooked

but given how fast you've learned to yank his leash, you probably knew that'd be the case beforehand. he's more than happy to give into you since that's the case.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Close Enough – Part 2

Marshall wasn’t in a great mood.

He had been on set for hours, filming a music video, and everything felt off. The lights were too bright, the director was yelling instructions that didn’t make sense, and the energy wasn’t clicking the way it usually did.

But most of all, it was her.

The actress they’d hired to play the female lead was standing a little too close, laughing a little too hard at his jokes, and touching his arm every chance she got. Normally, Marshall could brush off stuff like that—part of the job, no big deal. But today, it was getting under his skin.

Because she wasn’t you.

It hit him like a punch to the gut halfway through the third take.

The actress leaned into him, her hand brushing his chest as she delivered her line. The director called, “Cut!” and she stayed there, still in his personal space.

Marshall stepped back, his jaw clenching. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his mind racing.

He missed you.

He missed the way you’d wander onto set during his shoots, bringing him coffee and staying just out of the way. He missed the way you’d lean against him between takes, stealing kisses when no one was looking. He missed your laugh, your touch, you.

And as he stood there, feeling uncharacteristically irritable, he realized something else: he was clingy, too.

Not with anyone else. Not with people he worked with or even his closest friends. But with you? He craved your presence like it was oxygen.

The thought made him smile, even as he glanced over at the actress who was now chatting with the makeup artist. This isn’t it, he thought. She’s not who I want here.

As soon as the shoot wrapped for the day, Marshall made a beeline for his dressing room, pulling out his phone. He didn’t care that he was sweaty and tired, or that his voice was still hoarse from hours of yelling his lyrics on set. He needed to talk to you.

You picked up on the second ring. “Hey, you,” you said, your voice immediately softening his rough edges.

“Hey,” he said, his tone lighter than it had been all day. “What are you up to?”

“Not much,” you replied. “Just hanging out at home. How’s the shoot going?”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, not wanting to linger on the details. “But I was thinking about you.”

“Oh?” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. “What kind of thoughts?”

“The kind where I wish you were here,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, it’s just weird without you. I feel… off.”

There was a pause on your end, and when you spoke again, your voice was softer. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he said, his tone earnest. “You’re my person, you know? I hate it when you’re not around. And I know that probably makes me sound clingy as hell, but I don’t care. I like having you close.”

You laughed gently, and he could hear the smile in your voice. “You don’t sound clingy. You sound sweet. I like being around you too, you know.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’ll always make time for you, Marshall. You know that.”

His chest ached with the kind of love that made him feel both invincible and vulnerable all at once. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” you teased.

---

The next day, Marshall insisted you come to set. When you arrived, coffee in hand, he couldn’t hide the way his face lit up.

“Finally,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug. “Now this feels right.”

You laughed, leaning into him. “Missed me that much, huh?”

“Always,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’s just not the same without you.”

As you sat in the corner of the set, quietly watching him work, Marshall felt more at ease than he had all week. And when the actress tried to flirt with him between takes, he barely noticed, too focused on sneaking glances at you.

Because at the end of the day, there was only one person he wanted in his space.

And that was you.

[paperstorm]

Thanks for the tags @annoyingcloudearthquake and @thisbuildinghasfeelings!

From Somewhere in a Song, chapter 9 posting tomorrow

Carlos blinks at him with his lips slightly parted, eyes flitting down to TK’s bare chest. Something electric and neon crackles between them for half a second, and then he surges forward and reaches for TK. Their mouths crash together, a loud noise of surprise punched from TK’s gut as suddenly hands are holding his face and lips are sliding against his with so much force he’s knocked a few steps backwards.

They rotate, TK too shell-shocked to do much other than let his mouth be plundered by Carlos’s probing tongue. Sense snaps back to him like a rubber band when TK connects solidly with the door and the back of his head thumps lightly into the wood. It hurts a little and something ferocious roars to life inside him, he kisses Carlos back with abandon.

Carlos hums, high pitched and resonant and the sound shoots right to TK’s groin. The world seems to turn too fast and too slow all at once, TK’s entire being narrowed down to the feeling of his tongue sliding against Carlos’s and their noses brushing and the way Carlos smells filling up his lungs. He hasn’t been kissed like this in such a long time, and the muscle memory of it comes back to life as he rubs against Carlos’s body and soaks in the feeling of being surrounded in his arms.

They kiss until TK’s lips are numb, until he can’t remember what it feels like to be doing anything else, until he’s sure the skin around his mouth is going to be red and chapped in the morning and he won’t have a good explanation for it if anyone asks.

His bandmates, and Carlos’s bandmates, who they will both have to see less than eight hours from now. The thought feels traitorous, TK wants to shove it away and keep sucking on Carlos’s tongue, but he can’t seem to ignore it. In another life, TK would have surged ahead despite anything and everything and left any consequences for his future self to deal with. Maybe rehab matured him, TK thinks bitterly, as he breaks the kiss.

“Mm, wait,” TK pants, holding Carlos’s face in his hands and nudging him backwards when Carlos just ducks down and starts kissing his neck. He laughs, and repeats, “Wait, hold on.”

Carlos looks at him, momentary worry shining in his dark eyes. “You don’t …?”

“No, I …” TK shakes his head, feeling nearly hysterical at how ludicrous the notion is that he doesn’t want this. He wants it so much his vision is blurring and his pulse is pounding.

He bites his lip, looking down at Carlos’s mouth before pressing them back together, softer this time. He backs them up, pushing his hips forward once the wall is sturdy behind Carlos. Half an erection shifts in his sweats and he feels Carlos, too, hot and thick against his thigh. It makes TK’s stomach twist. It makes him hungry for Carlos’s skin, aching to strip him naked and taste every delicious inch of him.

Carlos swears softly under his breath, their foreheads touching and his hands curling, like they had the last time, around TK’s waist. Only this time TK is shirtless and Carlos’s hands are so warm against his bare skin.

“I want it,” TK whispers. Regretfully, he continues, “But you didn’t, before.”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos whispers back. “I panicked. You surprised me.”

TK winces. Voicing a previous thought, he asks, “That wasn’t your first kiss, was it?”

“My – no,” Carlos chuckles, fingers pressing into TK’s sides. It’s small and maybe accidental, but TK swears Carlos’s thigh is moving, rubbing minutely against him. “No, sadly they won’t be able to put on my tombstone that rock star TK Strand was my first kiss.”

TK doesn’t think it sounds like much of a claim-to-fame, but he doesn’t say so. He strokes his thumb along Carlos’s cheek, skin catching on his facial hair. He wonders how flushed his own skin already is from the scrape of stubble. “So what changed?”

Carlos swallows – TK hears it click in his throat. TK’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he’s surprised when Carlos asks, “Does it matter?”

His thigh deliberately pushes forward, no mistaking it for incidental this time, and TK’s eyes flutter closed at the pressure on his cock.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Carlos murmurs to him, sliding their lips together again and making TK’s head swim. “When you wear a leather jacket with nothing underneath I don’t know what to do with myself.”

TK parts his lips, sucking Carlos’s tongue into his mouth as he rolls his hips, riding Carlos’s thigh against the wall while the room spins around him. And fuck it, he decides.

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@lemonlyman-dotcom @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce @hereghostslive

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @thisbuildinghasfeelings @whatsintheboxmh

@irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89 @nancys-braids

@carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday @rangersoup

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[lonewisteria]

Damage Control

Chpt. 3

☽ chpt. 1 | chpt. 2

☽ wooo I have never posted smut publicly before. I hope it’s good for y’all, mwah. More to come. There will be a softer smut scene, I swear.

☽ notes: MINORS DNI, smut, alcoholism, fem reader, gn pronouns, ram!Schlatt x dog!reader, use of ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’, fingering, size kink if you squint, kind of pet play (use of ‘pup’ and ‘mutt’), rough smut, eating out, edging, hickies/biting, unprotected pnv, soft aftercare

☽ summary: you leave Schlatt the next day to go to work, stern about the fact he needs to not drink. But when you return, to see he had alcohol, things get heated.

☽ words: 3,750

It was the following day after babying Schlatt in his cabin. Since your little intervention, he holed himself up in the main bedroom, even as you tidied up and washed his work clothes. Whatever, you can’t be there at every moment to fuss over him.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, yet your mind drifts to him all day at work. You promised to check on him later and now, you’re nothing but a heaping puddle of anxiety. Schlatt is more stubborn than he appeared, but you hope, just this once, he’d lay off the alcohol.

As soon as the clock strikes 10pm, you’re out the door before anyone can say goodbye. Your ears are twitching and your hands fumbling with your keys as you approach your car.

And while you drive, your fingers fidget on the wheel, the image of him leaning into you lingering in your mind, making you reluctantly flustered. You felt like you were losing it. No one would believe you if you said Schlatt stared at you with kindness. He gazed at you like he needed you, and not solely the TLC sense.

You park your car next to his and scurry to the front door, knocking before stepping inside the cabin. Your eyes immediately zero in on the half-empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table. There Schlatt was, head lolled against the couch cushions, some rap music flowing from the radio, proving you wrong about trusting him alone with his vices.

“Fuck, Schlatt!” You growl as you stalk over to him (not without frustratingly slipping your shoes and coat off first) with your tail lashing, “I thought we said no more booze until you’re a bit better?”

Half a bottle is practically nothing for him, but alcohol is alcohol. Trust is trust. Your canines flash in a snarl as you snatch the whiskey, glaring down at him.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I won’t-“

“Don’t you dare fuckin lecture me,” he snarls, surging to his feet in one smooth motion, towering over you as he jabs a finger at your chest, “I didn’t ask for your help. And I sure as hell don’t need your pity.”

He grabs the bottle back from your grasp, causing your fingers to touch. The brief contact sends a flutter in his stomach, a heat that has nothing to do with alcohol.

“I’ll drink when I damn well please, you bitch. I’ll do whatever the hell I want, consequences be damned,” he snaps.

He leans in, so close you can feel his whiskey-laden breath on your face as he continues. “You think you can fix me with your pretty words and concerned looks?”

His proximity makes your ears pin back and your tail bristle at his harsh tone. The racing of your heart going against your will.

“You’re the fucking President!” you growl, “you should be at the capital, not in some cabin trying to kill your liver!”

You know you should push him away and leave him wallowing in his own turmoil, but you keep rambling. “You’re so fucking arrogant. Why can’t you think of people other than yourself, huh?”

Ouch. Schlatt can’t lie, that one bruises more than any punch. He masks it with an icy stare as his hand shoots out to take your ears in one hand, like he’s holding a squirming animal. The action causes you to bare your teeth at him, desperately withholding your urge to fuck up his pretty face.

“I am thinking of my people,” he hisses, “every fuckin day, I’m thinking of em’. I’m trying to keep this country from falling apart at the seams.”

Now your foreheads are touching. Your breaths mingling. Your shared pique simmering together. His voice drops an octave as his gaze bores into you.

“But sometimes, I need a fuckin break. To let loose, forget about the weight of everything,” his hands release your ears to move to your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“And right now, I want to forget about everything. Except you.”

As much as you want to lash out and tell him to fuck off, everything about this —and him— is intoxicating.

“You’re a fucking mess Schlatt,” you growl, “a drunk, self-destructive mess and you’re dragging me down with you.”

Even as those words leave your mouth, they’re only partially true. You aren’t being dragged anywhere – you’re choosing this. You’ve chosen to help him, fully aware it’s a mistake.

You’ve chosen to fist your hands in his shirt and pull him in for a demanding kiss. Schlatt groans into your mouth and is quick to draw you into his lap on the couch, setting the whiskey down so his selfish hands can wander freely.

Nothing else matters. Not the presidency, not Manberg, not the consequences. There’s only him.

He breaks the kiss, leaving you both panting, his hands flying to undo the buttons of your shirt. His fingers fumble, and in his eagerness, he snaps a button off and rips the fabric, prompting you to smack him upside the head.

“I’ll buy you a new fuckin’ top,” he pants, pushing the shirt off your shoulders to fall on the floor, “I’ll buy you a fuckin’ hundred of em’.”

You connect lips again and his hands dig into your ass to pull you closer. You swallow his groan as you grind against him, his bulge straining against his sweats. Now, you can’t see the damn thing, too prioritized on the sensation of his lips and hands, but it’s unmistakably thick. The butterflies swarming in your stomach are incessant at the thought.

Schlatt’s hands slide around to undo the buttons of your slacks to slide them down your hips. Before he slithers past your underwear, he brings two fingers to your lips, which you obediently take into your mouth. He finger fucks your face, groaning as he grows impossibly harder while your tongue swirls around his digits. When he withdraws, he promptly trails them down and circles your entrance past your underwear. You’re so wet. So horrifically wet that perhaps he didn’t need to leave your lips a saliva ridden mess.

“You’re so fuckin soaked already,” he teases, barely brushing your folds, “what? Ya like when I’m a dickhead to you?”

You grit your teeth, ready to bark a retort, but his fingers shut you up as they slide into you. Slowly he pumps them, adding a gentle curl as he does so. Your hips involuntarily buck against his hand, your walls desperately clenching around him. Reaching down, you wrap your hand around his wrist, guiding his fingers deeper. You practically hold him in place as you rock your hips in time with his thrusts.

This man fantasized about you far more than he cares to admit. He’s experienced with a fair share of lovers; dainty rabbit hybrids, his playful asshole of an ex, and cocky traitors of the nation. But never such a dominant, forthright guard dog like yourself. This is proving a delightful challenge and he is relishing it.

In retaliation for his arrogant comment, you lean into his neck and start marking up his skin. Your moans rumble against him and he responds by increasing the tempo of his fingers. There’s an attitude in how you bite and suck his neck, but of course he savors it, sinking further into the couch and closing his eyes momentarily.

His thumb starts pressing and rubbing your clit, causing your hips to sputter and heartier moans to escape you. Unable to endure the sight of your bra any longer, he unhooks it and tosses it carelessly over his shoulder. A large hand presses onto your chest, pushing you away from his neck so he can fully appreciate the view. Your tits are moving with each grind of your hips and he grits his teeth to suppress his desires.

You continue to shamelessly grind against his hand and grip his shoulders. “Fuck…you just gonna sit there…” you demand breathlessly, tail thrashing behind you, “and finger me?”

In one swift motion, Schlatt acts on your taunt and stands with you in his arms, withdrawing his fingers from you without a second thought. He barges through the bedroom door and practically tosses you on the bed, watching as your body —especially your tits— bounce from the impact. His hands make quick work of your bottoms, pulling your slacks and underwear all the way down to throw aside. This leaves you completely bare to his gaze while he hovers over you, fully clothed.

“Shit, your rack is nice,” he mumbles aloud, reaching down to grab your breast, but you seize his grabby hand.

“Hey, asshole,” you snap, “I’m not gonna be the only one naked right now.”

“Oh, right,” he mutters, surprisingly compliant as he strips his shirt, leaving you to drink in his bare torso. Seeing him yesterday in a mere towel was quite enough to ignite your imagination, but this was a completely different experience that had you clenching around nothing.

And when he shimmies his bottoms off, letting his cock slap against his stomach, your eyes widen. Your observation was correct. He was far bigger than anything else you’ve taken. Of all the times you’ve faced this ram, you haven’t had an ounce of fear glazing your eyes – until now.

Schlatt is quick to notice it too, a light laugh leaving him as he climbs onto the bed. “So, you’re not scared of me when I’m drunk and yellin at ya, but you’re scared of my cock?”

“Shut up and touch me already,” you growl, the gentle flush across your face betraying your bravado.

He snickers at you and cups your tits in his large hands, feeling them up, only subtly touching your nipples. You can sense his restraint, which goes against his character, but you’ve also come to truly comprehend him from recent encounters. Beneath the harsh demeanor lies a ram seeking a tenderness he somehow found in you.

This progresses for another minute before he leans down, leaving wet kisses on the flush of your breasts. Biting, sucking, and kissing everywhere except your erect nipples. Your hands tangle in his hair, urging him to pay attention to them, but he only grunts, lost in his worship of you.

Ultimately, he relents, pressing the flat of his tongue against a nipple, eliciting a relieved sigh from you. He licks and sucks on it before shifting to the other, his hand massaging the abandoned breast.

After lavishing you with attention and saliva slicked skin, Schlatt kisses downward. His lips leave a heated, sloppy trail as they traverse your stomach, hips, and mound, ending it off with a fleeting kiss to your clit that has you squirming.

Unlike earlier, he dives right in, tongue probing your entrance, nose nestled in your folds, and facial hair rugburning your inner thighs. A choir of moans and whimpers rise from your throat. Your hands instinctively grip his hair. The lewd noises he’s producing down there vibrate against your core, making you curse and whine.

His hands clutch your legs and push them closed around his head, allowing you to squeeze. The way he’s devouring you makes it clear he’s been starving, with nothing but alcohol fueling him for days. Right before you snap in ecstasy, he removes himself. Your arousal glistens on the lower half of his face, the shit eating grin he’s wearing is slick and soaked. You’re left in shambles on the sheets, body neglected and thrumming with arousal.

You’re not given a minute to regain yourself before his cockhead is bullying your entrance. Seems like his restraint has limits considering he’s now sinking in you, fast, causing you to jerk up and claw at his abdomen. Your eyes are wide and a gasp escapes your lips as he shoves himself into you.

“Fuck, Schlatt!” you hiss with your ears pinned back, “slow down you fucking jerk!”

Despite your harsh words, you feel yourself responding eagerly to his switched harsh treatment. It’s been too long since you allowed yourself to feel anything and Schlatt’s awakened desires you thought were long buried.

“Sorry, doll,” he grunts out, removing a couple inches from you until the burning sensation dissipates.

“Sorry, doll?” you mock and raise your eyesbrows. There’s a coy smile plastered on your face at his sudden shift in demeanor. He’s apologizing and calling you ‘doll’? Who is this man?

Though he disregards your banter, save for a quick glare, before shoving a pillow under your hips and throwing your legs over his shoulders. His thumb lands on your clit, carefully pulling it up to grant him an unobstructed view of him thrusting into you inch by inch, little by little. His movements are shallow and controlled, but you see his muscles tense as he fights himself from slamming into you.

The feeble movements are enough to coax strained whines and moans from you. You lean your head back and close your eyes, focusing on the pleasurable way he’s easing himself in.

“Nuh-uh, look at me,” Schlatt demands, his hand grabbing your hair and pulling your head back up.

“Wanna see that pretty face,” he adds and you obey. You watch as his thrusts grow longer and more brutal, until he’s fully sheathed in you, causing your jaw to go slack and eyebrows knit together. As much as your eyes want to roll back, you keep them trained on your joined bodies.

The gentleness he presented fades away when he starts moving. He’s ramming into you now, the lewd squelching from your sopping cunt is music to his ears. His eyes never leave you, drinking in the way your cunt stretches around him, how your tits bounce with each thrust, and your face contorts in pleasure. Fuck, he’d only ever dreamed of witnessing your usually stern face go tight with ecstasy. Now that it was happening, he couldn’t stop himself from driving into you.

“I’m gonna fuck that stupid attitude right out of ya,” he growls, letting his elbows cage your head and his hair tickle your face, “you got no idea what ya do to me, mutt.”

Oh, but you did have an idea, and it was playing out right before you. “Make you a whore?” you can’t resist teasing him.

“Fuck, that attitude,” he growls, delivering a particularly harsh thrust, watching your back arch and hands fist the sheets.

You could barely thrust up into him with how your thighs were pressed against his stomach, sticky with combined sweat. Each thrust makes the bulge in your stomach noticeable, a testament to his size compared to you. Finally, he has control over you and that defiant mouth of yours. Even if it’s simply in bed, it’s more than enough.

His cock is virtually abusing your cervix, the pleasure-pain having you emit pornographic moans. The pressure makes your eyes water, but god, you love it. This was everything you imagined and then some.

He’s pistoning in and out of you, causing your arousal to leak down the curve of your ass and soak the pillow and sheets. At this point, you’re utterly brainless, his cock sending you reeling under him. Your tail wags furiously against the sheets, the noises your making only spurring his momentum on. His horns whack against the headboard with how rough he is, an evident reflection of his behavior outside this room.

“Shoulda fucked you sooner,” he grunts, burying his face into your neck, biting down harsh and sucking your skin between his sharp teeth. You’re completely encased by him now. His heavy balls are slapping your ass as a white ring builds at the base of his cock with each rut.

Honestly? He’s pissed it took so damn long to train this stupid dog into submission. Pissed that your cunt feels nothing but perfect gushing around his cock, sucking him in. It’s almost like a reward for putting up with your defiance for so long.

“See? All fuckin quiet,” he huffs against your skin, landing a brutal thrust that brings you slightly back to reality. Just enough clarity to bite back.

Literally.

You snap at his ear, the fur standing on end when your teeth connect with it. He curses against your neck, but continues to plow into you and mark you up all pretty for your coworkers to see.

His hand snakes between your bodies and finds your clit, rubbing and pressing your attitude back into place. He finishes his work on your neck with a lingering kiss before pulling back to watch your face. You had released his ear and were back to a fucked out slump on his bed. Damn dog.

Your eyes meet and a grin stretches across his face. You bite back a moan, only to hiss at him. “I fucking hate you. Keep going.”

The laugh that leaves Schlatt’s lips resonates off the walls, mingling with your joined squelching sounds and your moans and whimpers. His ministrations on your clit persist and he brings his free hand to your thigh, clawed fingers digging into your skin.

He adjusts his angle, all the while fucking you, so he can thrust in an upward motion to hit that sweet, rough spot in your cunt. Your thigh winds tight beneath his touch, signifying just how close you are. If that isn’t enough motivation to keep going, then how you claw at his back, leaving red welts, certainly is. The variety of noises you make higher and louder definitely are.

“You like this, huh, pup?” he growls, fingers deftly rubbing your clit, eyes fucking your body alongside his cock.

“Lettin the emperor fuckin ruin ya, fuckin shit-“

When you clench around his stupidly fat cock, an orgasm hitting you sharply, he groans. Your eyes start to roll back and flutter shut, but he’s quick to grab one of your ears to redirect your attention. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your claws dig into his back for support, eyes trained on his as he keeps fucking you.

Even though you’re finished, left limp against the sheets, he isn’t. He’s using your poor pussy like a damn toy now, chasing higher and higher, thrusts erratic, until he ultimately breaks. He buries himself as deep as he can, his cum shooting loads into your cunt as his face stuffs back into your neck.

Both of you linger like that, Schlatt still shoved inside you, his body acting like a weight blanket against your’s. It’s silent, the only sound being your shared panting.

Well…you didn’t expect this entire runaway situation to evolve into this. A traitorous part of you is glad it did though.

Without a word, he pulls out and sits back on his heels, watching your combined releases grow the wet spots on the sheets and pillow. He shuffles off the bed and into the connecting bathroom, the sound of running water making your limp ears perk. He returns with a damp rag — and is that Benedictine? Does he have alcohol at his disposal everywhere?

“Thought I said no more drinking,” you huff. He watches you push yourself into a sit, body slow and clumsy as the high fades.

When he reaches the bed, he hands you the bottle. “For me, but not for you,” he laughs, “drink. You deserve it.”

Your fingers tremble as you take the bottle, letting the alcohol burn your throat as you take a sip. No wonder he had boxes of this lying around; it’s delicious.

As you go in for seconds, your eyes scan him as he towers over the side of the bed. Bruises and bite marks adorn his neck, one in particular with broken skin, along with the glisten of his slick cock, his tousled hair, and clawed up shoulders. Damn, he’s fine, even after an intense fuck.

He notices your fawning and smirks, his fingers pressing against the worst bite to examine the meager smear of blood. No way he was going to parade around Manberg like this, as much as he wanted to flaunt it all. You’ll work on hiding it later.

He leans over and brushes strands of hair from your flush face. His touch is gentle, tender even, a crazy contrast to how he was fucking you raw minutes ago.

“You good?” he asks, searching for any hint of regret or pain on your face. But all he finds is bliss.

“Yeah. I’m okay,” you reassure him.

“Good pup.” He gives you a soft pat to your cheek that causes your tail to wag softly and ears to twitch. He notices and smiles a bit, watching your eyes soften at his praise.

After adjusting the towel, he leans down to start cleaning you up, the cloth warm on your skin. He takes his time, wiping away the cum smears on your thighs, chuckling when he reaches your folds and you suck in a sharp breath.

“What was that earlier? Calling me doll?” You tease, setting the Benedictine on the nightstand.

“Fuck off and let me take care of ya,” he grumbles.

You let him finish without added remarks and he cleans himself off before disposing of the rag in the corner of the room. He herds you off the bed momentarily so he can tug the top blanket and pillow off to join the rag, considering the fabric was soaked from both of you. Wow, he’s actually taking care of things for once! Granted, it’s all aftercare, but you’re not complaining.

You pull the covers back and crawl under them, Schlatt following in suit. You’re unsure if cuddling was his thing, but he proves you wrong by wrapping his arms around you and resting his head on your chest. Of course he likes cuddling; you should know by now that the whole tough guy persona was mostly that, a facade.

Your fingers start to fiddle with his hair and trace the lines of his horns, while his hand draped over you traces patterns on your skin. He knows he shouldn’t indulge in this moment of vulnerability, but your warmth, your tenderness, no person could come to resist it.

You nurse on the same thoughts. You’re always so guarded with everyone, but something about his gentleness, the warm intimacy after being railed, makes it difficult for you to maintain those walls.

And a part of you wishes tomorrow would never come, that you both could avoid returning to Manberg and leaving behind whatever is blossoming between you two.

[fallenbutterfly-nemesis]

Love & Hate, Part 2

Grimmjow x reader

---

Weeks passed without a trace of him, and while you swore it was a relief, a strange sense of irritation gnawed at you. Every rustle, every hollow lurking in the shadows, every shift in the air—your first thought was Grimmjow. You told yourself it was because he was a threat, not because of… anything else. Still, no amount of convincing could shake the feeling that something was missing.

Then, one evening, just as you were wrapping up a mission, you felt that unmistakable, wild spiritual pressure flood the air. Grimmjow. And like clockwork, your pulse quickened, that familiar blend of frustration and thrill surging through you. You’d barely turned around before he appeared right in front of you, arms crossed, smirk locked and loaded.

“Miss me?” he asked, sounding all too pleased with himself.

You sighed dramatically, giving him a deadpan look. “I forgot you even existed.”

“Really?” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing, testing. “'Cause from the way you’re glaring at me right now, I’d say you missed me a lot.”

You crossed your arms, refusing to back down. “In your dreams. But sure, Grimmjow, if it helps your fragile ego, go ahead and think that.”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that was equal parts genuine and infuriating. “You talk a big game for someone who’s clearly happy to see me.”

You scoffed, your cheeks heating up in betrayal. “What are you even doing here?”

He shrugged, casual as always. “Just passing through. Thought I’d check on my favorite punching bag.” He leaned in, his voice lowering, that smirk daring you to react. “Wouldn’t want you getting soft without me around to keep you sharp.”

“Please. You’re the one who’s gonna get soft if you keep spending all your time lurking in shadows,” you shot back, but your pulse betrayed you, racing as he closed the distance, a touch too close for comfort. “Why don’t you find some other idiot to annoy?”

Grimmjow chuckled, looking at you with an intense, almost unreadable expression. “Nah. None of them are as fun as you.”

For a split second, the air between you shifted, the tension stretching so thick you could practically feel it. You hated how he always had that effect on you, how he knew exactly which buttons to press, how he made it impossible to think straight. But before you could respond, Grimmjow’s expression darkened, his gaze shifting past you.

“Get down,” he muttered, pushing you aside as a blast of energy whizzed by, leaving a scorched mark on the ground. You barely had time to react before a swarm of hollows closed in around you both, their claws and teeth flashing in the moonlight.

Without missing a beat, the two of you fell into a brutal rhythm, fending off the attackers side-by-side. For all his arrogance, Grimmjow fought like no one you’d ever seen—raw, ruthless, and fierce. You found yourself matching his intensity, both of you moving in sync like you’d trained together for years.

“Watch your left!” he shouted, blocking a hollow from blindsiding you.

“I had it covered,” you shot back, slashing through the creature with ease.

“Sure, whatever you say,” he replied with a grin, tearing through another with his bare hands. Blood spattered across his face, and he looked back at you with a wild, almost feral look in his eyes. “Try to keep up.”

When the last hollow fell, you were both left breathing hard, surrounded by the aftermath of the fight. Grimmjow stood there, looking completely in his element, a hint of admiration mixed into his usual cocky stare.

“Not bad, Y/N,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “You might actually be getting stronger.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat in your chest. “I’ve always been strong, Grimmjow. Maybe it’s you who needs to keep up.”

For once, he didn’t fire back. Instead, he looked at you with a curious expression, almost like he was seeing you for the first time. The usual smirk was gone, replaced by something raw, something real.

And then, before you knew what was happening, he stepped forward, closing the space between you with surprising gentleness. He didn’t say a word, just looked at you with that intense, piercing gaze that had always driven you crazy. There was no snide remark, no mocking laugh. Just a silence that seemed to pull you in, the air thick with something you couldn’t quite name.

You were about to say something—anything to break the tension—when he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was somehow both fierce and soft, as if he was testing the waters but daring you to pull away. You should have pushed him back, should have told him off, but somehow, you found yourself kissing him back, caught up in the heat and fire of it all.

When he finally pulled away, he looked down at you with that infuriating smirk back in place, but there was something different behind it this time, a softness that surprised you.

“Guess I missed you after all,” he murmured, before stepping back, that cocky grin once again firmly in place.

You glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as you both walked away from the battlefield, side-by-side, you knew you were both tangled up in something neither of you could quite escape. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t hate it as much as you pretended to.

I wrote these last night ✋🏻😔

[yoursdeadlynightshade]

Under the stars | Words 1.4k

The night air is cool against Regulus's skin, biting into his exposed cheeks and neck though it isn’t cold enough to drive him back indoors.

The silence between them is comfortable, easy, broken only by occasional rustling of grass as James shifts beside him, lying flat on his back, eyes heavily focused on the endless night sky.

The stars above twinkle lazily, making the dark sky seem like a blanket full of shiny things. Instead of their usual place—the Astronomy tower—James has insisted they come out here—has dragged Regulus by the arm wearing the same maddening grin. 

There’s something magnetic about James, something that makes it hard to say no, even when Regulus wants to.

Now they lay side by side, arms touching gently, stretched out on the damp grass right in the middle of the quidditch pitch. 

But for once, James is unbelievably quiet. 

And Regulus likes him this way. Not that James’s talking was entirely unbearable—no, that isn’t it. But there is something about the silence that makes Regulus feel… less alone.

“There.” James breaks the stillness, lifting an arm to point toward the sky, his voice barely above a whisper. “That one. It looks like a broomstick, doesn’t it?”

Regulus follows the direction of James’s outstretched hand, squinting at the constellation James is referring to. He tilts his head, trying to make sense of it, but all he sees is a jumble of stars.

He snorts. “That’s not even close to a broomstick, James.” 

James laughs softly, not the loud, boisterous sound Regulus is used to hearing, but a quieter, more intimate chuckle. “Yeah, well… maybe I just see things differently.”

There’s something in his tone that makes Regulus pause, something beneath the usual playful teasing. He turns his head slightly to glance at James, but James is still looking up, his expression softer than Regulus has ever seen it.

“You know,” James continues, voice lower now, like he’s confessing something he isn’t meaning to. “Every time I look up at the stars… I think of you.”

Regulus’s heart dances in his chest. “What?”

“Yeah.” James finally turns his head to meet Regulus’s gaze, brown eyes shining with something soft. “You’re like that, you know? Always there. Quiet. Distant. But… kind of beautiful.”

The words hit Regulus like a punch to the chest. Beautiful. No one has ever called him that, not in a way that feels real, not in a way that matters. And yet, hearing it from James Potter of all people makes something inside him break loose.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the words stick in his throat.

“You’re messing with me,” he finally chokes out, voice full of accusation. 

James’s smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t lie when it comes to you, Regulus.’’

There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes Regulus’s heart race, a sincerity that terrifies him. He’s used to people wanting things from him—affection, loyalty, obedience—but James doesn’t seem to want anything. Just this moment. Just the stars and the quiet and Regulus by his side.

“Are you alright?’’

“Why wouldn’t I be?’’

“James,’’ Regulus murmurs, his fingers gently covering James’ hand. “Please, just tell me.”

“I think… I think—I’m not in love with Evans anymore.’’

Regulus’ mouth hangs agape at the same time his heart skips a beat. He’s ready to embrace hurt. Of course, James might be hurt over it. 

“Oh,’’ he whispers, barely audible. “You… wanna talk about it?’’

“I don’t know. Not really. I feel like,’’ James chokes, eyes squeezing shut. “I feel like I’ve been chasing an idea not a— not a person. And I hate myself for it.”

“James. James, don’t be. It’s alright to mess up our lives a bit you know?’’ Regulus mutters, “No one hands us a guideline to live our lives. It’s in our hands to do so. It’s normal and accepted to be flawed and to be filled with some mistakes.”

“I know. That’s not all to it either.”

“Oh.”

James hesitates, his breath hitching like he’s on the verge of death. “I’m in love with this person,” he whispers, his voice shaking but determined. “I’m so in love with them. When they smile—god, when they smile, I can’t breathe. It’s like everything in me stops. And when their eyes catch the light, when they look at me and there’s that spark…” He lets out a strangled laugh. “It’s everything. They’re everything. I want to hold them, protect them, and love them. And it’s driving me mad because I don’t know what to do with it.”

Regulus feels his stomach drop, the words sinking in with the force of a tidal wave. His mind spins with the realisation, with the crushing weight of what James is saying. James is in love. Deeply, irrevocably in love with someone else.

Not him, again. But with someone else, again.

“So… does she not feel the same way? Is that why you’re upset?” 

James blinks, his brow furrowing. “She?”

“Huh?” 

“Not a she,” James murmurs quietly, as if the truth is finally slipping from his grasp.

Oh, a boy then. 

Regulus swallows hard. “That’s alright, too. I mean, I’m literally gay, James. I—”

“I’m in love with you,” James interrupts, his voice trembling but unyielding, “It’s you, Reg. You are the person I’m in love with”

The world falls silent.

Regulus’s mouth hangs open, his mind struggling to catch up with what he has just heard. His heart pounds  so loudly in his ears that it drowns out the rest of the world, leaving nothing but the echo of James’s words. 

“What?” 

James’s eyes are desperate now, searching Regulus’s face for any sign.

“It’s you, Regulus,” he repeats, his voice softer, more vulnerable. “You make me feel all those things. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

James Potter is in love with him. Not with someone else this time.

He tries to process it, trying to make sense of the rapid, frantic beating of his heart, the way his chest aches with the force of it all. 

James’s face is pale, his eyes wide and filled with something raw—fear, maybe, or hope. “I’m sorry,” James whispers, the words trembling in the night air. “I didn’t mean to— I just couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. I had to tell you.”

Regulus’s breath hitches, his throat tight with the overwhelming wave of emotions crashing through him. He wants to speak, wants to say something—anything—that’ll make this easier, but the words were stuck, lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

“James…” His voice is barely audible, a whisper in the wind.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just… I needed you to know.” 

Suddenly, everything clicks into place. The late nights spent together, the way James’s smile always seemed softer when it was just the two of them, the way his eyes lingered on Regulus a little too long, the way his jokes had always seemed a little more tender, a little more meaningful.

Regulus’s hands tremble as he moves, his fingers brushing against James’s arm, tentative, unsure. James’s head snaps up, his wide eyes locking onto Regulus’s, and for a moment, they just stare at each other, the world around them fading away.

“You love me?” Regulus asks, his voice barely more than a breath.

James swallows hard, his gaze unwavering. “Yeah, Reg. I love you.”

And at that moment, Regulus knew. He knew because his heart feels lighter, like it’s finally free after being caged for so long. He knows because he wants to reach out and pull James into his arms, to feel the warmth of him, the solidity of him, and never let go.

“I think…” Regulus’s voice cracks, and he takes a shaky breath, “I think I might love you, too.”

James eyes go wide, breath catching. “You think?’’

“No, I—” Regulus shakes his head. Not think, no. He knows. “I know.”

Before Regulus can second-guess himself, he closes the distance between them, his lips crashing against James’s in a kiss that was all at once fierce and tender, desperate and gentle.

James kisses him back with the same intensity, his hands finding their way to Regulus’s face, holding him like he was something precious, something he can’t bear to lose. 

And in that moment, under the stars and the cool night breeze, everything finally made sense.

James pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against Regulus’s, his breath coming in short, shaky bursts. “You really mean it?” he asks, his voice full of hope and disbelief.

Regulus smiles, something soft and real. “Yeah, I really mean it.”

And for the first time in quite a long time, James Potter looks like he isn’t lost anymore. He looks like he’s home.

[thisgirlhasdreams]

Chad and the Wick: an original story told from my own experiences

Chad sat at his desk, his phone screen illuminating his face in the dim light of his bedroom. The message stared back at him as if even it was daring him to send it:

"Hey, I was thinking—"

No. Too casual. Try again.

"I’ve been meaning to tell you something important—"

Too dramatic. This was unbearable, every second a tapestry of frustration and discomfort. Why couldnt he just send the damn thing?

"I’m trans." He exhaled sharply and deleted it all. Again. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the phantom weight of his mother’s voice ringing in his head.

"You’re a girl!"

The words felt like acid, burning his throat from the inside out. He clenched his fists against his thighs, his nails digging into his skin. It was always her voice, always lingering even when she wasn’t in the room. She had this way of making him feel like he was something fundamentally broken, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong place.

He ran a hand through his short, freshly-cut hair, the strands slipping between his fingers. He liked it. He wanted to love it. But her words echoed again:

"You aren't a son. You will always be my daughter. No amount of rebellion will change my mind."

Chad swallowed the lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to scream, cry even, but all that came out was a shaky exhale.

That’s when he heard him.

“Well, love, that’s a bit dramatic.” Chadwick’s voice was rich and smooth, like honey with just a touch of smoke. When Chad opened his eyes, there he was—lounging on his bed, a self-assured smirk curling his lips.

“Not that I blame you, of course,” Chadwick continued, inspecting his nails. “You do have a flair for the poetic. But the broken glass thing? That’s a touch medieval.”

Chad flinched. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Chadwick tilted his head, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Talk about the things you won’t? Because I’m you, mate. You can’t really shut me up.”

Chad turned away, fingers pressing into his palm. The memory of earlier that day hit him like a gut punch. Walking home, stomach twisting, spotting some shattered glass on the pavement. He had picked up a jagged shard by an old burnt bin, the kind next to his college that the council says they'll empty but never do, turning it in his fingers, watching how it glinted under the dappled sunlight.

"I want to tear my chest out, i swear to God." He was near tears, grip tightening until the glass bit into his skin. He had watched the tiny beads of red well up, fascinated and horrified all at once. It wasn’t about pain. It was about something deeper, something clawing at him from the inside.

And right now that glass was on his higher shelf. Out of sight, out of mind. Right?

Chadwick sighed dramatically. “Look, I get it. Dysphoria’s a bitch.” He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “But hurting yourself won’t change the fact that we, my dear, are one handsome bastard.”

Chad let out a shaky laugh, hollow and bitter. “I don’t feel like it.” He said with a forced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, which had once been a bright, vibrant blue, full of joy and laughter and dreams, but became a greyer shade over the years, a reflection of his current defeatist state. His dreams cruely dashed and slaughtered by the comments of those from past and present. Especially present.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to remind you.” Chadwick sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Now, I know she’s a bloody nightmare—” he began, checking his nails nonchalantly as he spoke. Chadwick had this calm look in his eyes, the kind that was both charming and also warm.

Chad scoffed. “Understatement.”

“—but her words? They don’t define us.” Chadwick leaned in, voice dropping to something softer. “You’re not a girl. You never were. You know that.”

Chad swallowed hard. He did. He knew it in the way his stomach twisted when he caught his reflection, the way his heart felt lighter when a stranger called him ‘lad,’ the way it felt like something inside him locked into place when he first said he was Chad.

But his mum? Well, for the past five years she had been against it, her comments creating a viscous circle of self hate.

"You can’t like boys as a guy. You have to like girls" He heard that condescending voice echo in his very bones. It made him want to throw up.

Chad visibly winced at the memory of his mum's words.

It wasn’t just his gender. It was everything. His entire existence was a contradiction to her. Every step forward felt like a battle, every attempt to be seen as himself met with resistance. And yet—Chadwick nudged him playfully.

“Oh, please. You and I both know you’d make an excellent gay guy. And by the way, you're gay as fuck.”

Chad rolled his eyes. “Not the point.”

“It kind of is.” Chadwick winked. “Because she doesn’t get to decide who we are. We do.”

And he was right.

So Chad finally breathed in deeply, then exhaled, slow and measured. He knew his mum's words would never stop stinging, but they weren’t a prophecy. They weren’t his truth.

He looked at his phone again. The message box was still empty. His fingers hovered over the keys before he started typing.

"Hey. I just wanted to talk about something. About me."

Simple. Honest. A start.

Chadwick grinned. “Now, that’s my boy.”

[johntonkin]

oooohhhh 28 - "I know your friends" with either solittle or armitozer please! <333

(Putting this one under a cut bc it got a bit long!)

“What the fuck happened to you?”

It’s not as if Edward has any say in where Sol goes or what he does, as Sol had been kind enough to remind him on his way out the door earlier when Edward had asked where he was going (“None of your fuckin’ business Neddie, you’re not my boyfriend and you’re not my mum, so fuck off, yeah?”). He feels justified in asking now though, as Sol stumbles through the door just past one in the morning, lip split, brilliant black eye blooming on the right side of his face.

“Got in a fight, didn’t I?” says Sol, tugging open the fridge and leaning into it, pulling out a beer and immediately holding it up to the bruise on his eye. His eyes look slightly out of focus, and Edward doesn’t know if it’s from the injury or if he’s been drinking already too.

“With who?”

“Does it matter?”

“Your face is bleeding, Sol,” says Edward, shoving himself to his feet and walking across the kitchen towards him. “So yeah, I’d say it fucking matters.”

“A friend,” snaps Sol.

“What friend?”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know your friends.”

“Can we not with the third degree, right now?” asks Sol, and this time Edward is sure he’s drunk. Better that than concussed, he supposes. “My fuckin’ head is killing me.”

“Do you think it’s because you got punched in the face?” asks Edward, but he softens his voice, taking the beer out of Sol’s hand with one hand and turning his chin towards the light with the other. The bruise is nasty, but the cut on his lip isn’t as bad as it had looked when he’d walked in, only crusted with old blood, already mostly closed. “Come on, Sol,” he continues, even softer this time. “What’s going on with you?”

Sol lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, and finally looks at Edward properly, eyes big and far softer than Edward ever gets to see them when Sol’s sober. “Was seeing someone,” Sol says finally. “Didn’t work out.”

“They did—” Edward says, forcing himself to stay calm, to push down the anger rising in him, sure it’s the last thing Sol needs right now.

“I thought—” Sol starts, but he cuts himself off too, shrugging awkwardly. Edward realises all at once that his hand is still on Sol’s chin, but can’t bring himself to move it, especially not when Sol leans into the touch. “I don’t know what I thought,” he continues after a moment, and then, before Edward can say anything else, Sol leans forward and kisses him.

He tastes like blood and whiskey, his several days of stubble scratching against Edward’s chin, and Edward is already opening his mouth and leaning back into the kiss before he quite processes what he’s doing. Because they don’t do this, him and Sol. They’re flatmates, they’re old friends, and maybe they’ve gotten off together a few times when they were drunk, and maybe Edward fantasises about getting down on his knees and sucking Sol off every time Sol comes home from the gym all flushed and sweaty and grinning, but they don’t do this. Edward has never even dared allow himself to want this.

“Sol,” he says, pulling away, forcing himself not to react to the small, disappointed noise that Sol makes. “You’re drunk.”

“And?” asks Sol. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for… for fuckin’ ever.”

“You’re drunk,” Edward says again, as much to himself as to Sol. “And bleeding, and… Let’s just get you cleaned up, alright? We can talk about this in the morning.”

Sol stares at him a moment longer, eyes still wide, before his face hardens again and he steps back, holding the beer can back up to his eye.

“I can deal with it,” he says tersely. “I’ve had worse.” Edward doesn’t know if he’s still talking about the black eye or not.

“Sure,” says Edward, taking a step back as well. “Yeah. I’ll just… leave you to it then.”

“Cheers,” says Sol, and then he’s stepping away, out of Edward’s orbit, and down the hall towards the bathroom.

[recitedemise]

asked by @enrhysmion:

He was not warned about the damn punch. He tastes nothing like booze, really. He can't get enough of it; if anything, it's sweet. He wants to join the rest of his friends in celebrating since it's such a beautiful occasion. He continues to sip on this fruity beverage without realizing how much alcohol he is really consuming. The world around him eventually gets… brighter. All appears feasible, and all his surroundings are dazzling like a dream. His never-ending remorse momentarily escapes his thoughts when this unwavering wall surrounding his reality collapses. Finally --- freedom to do as he pleases and to spend time with whoever he pleases. It must be a dream, after all, if it feels like one... Like many nights prior to this one, he sees him in his dreams, ambling around as though he owns the place. This one man, the source of both his anguish and yearning. Even if Rhys has a unique bond with the wizard, he typically lacks the courage to give in to his desires. For him, every day is a source of both joy and agony as he longs for his companionship yet is terrified to hear more about his supposed goddess. Mystra, Mystra, damn you! --- she has no right to call him her 'chosen one' and yet treat him so poorly. How dare she! He will also choose him and treat him far better than she ever could. 

With a voice softer than silk and warmer than the sun, Gale addresses him once more. But this name, this damned disgusting name, is all he can hear. Mystra, Mystra, Mystra—he's sure that there are a gazillion more lovely things that his friend's mouth is capable of. Like groaning, or perhaps moaning. He can't help but wonder how the other man sounds when he moans as his thoughts begin to race with ideas of how to make him shudder with utter pleasure. Yes, exactly — that sounds incredibly delicious but might not be achievable for the time being. He doesn't dare cross this boundary just yet, even if it's only a dream. But what about sharing a kiss? Rhys bets he's a good kisser because his tongue is always so swift. Maybe this dream may provide the best chance to verify his theory. Rhys touches Gale's torso without thinking twice, right over his orb. His fingernails sink in just a little bit, like he's attempting to pull the orb from his chest or cover Mystra's scar with his own. His other hand reaches for Gale's nape, and he hesitates a moment before pulling him in for a kiss. However, it's not a charming, innocent kiss—rather, it's passionate, ravenous, and bordering on beastly. With a fervor that is unlike him, the devout and consistently kind preacher is devouring up the other man's mouth. He is biting Gale's bottom lip, and he quickly deepens the kiss by putting his tongue into his mouth. He holds on until they both run out of breath, sticking his tongue out to taste the dripping saliva on his partner's chin and bottom lip. "You deserve to be kissed every day and every night." As he finally releases the other man from his hold, he just whispers those sincere words to him. So far, this dream has been incredibly vivid and quite… well, exquisite.

He can feel the weight of that gaze. About the bare of his neck, back turned toward their watchful cleric, Gale notes the simmer of his coiling nerves. Wordless, he looks to his manual, but the words don't meet him.

This is... different. Novel, he confesses. Their healer has, and to perhaps the awareness of most everyone else, fancied his glances toward this Waterdeep son. Gale's sensed it on many of their far-gone sunsets, even in those nights where their shadows were long, and each time, he admits, it'd stirred in him a maelstrom--anxiety like butterflies, like bees in a field. He likes him, he had realized. Their companions slip away for their slumber, their sherry bottles left about the logs of their seats, and it is moments later when he hears purposeful footsteps. Gale, turning, looks on up.

"Rhys," Gale starts. Your eyes. The way want flashes in them--! Oh. "What are you--"

He is upon him. Gloriously. Gale makes a noise, embarrassingly undignified, that spills handsomely, prettily, and startled off his lips. His heart swallows it with haste, his great hands strong against the curve of Gale's neck, but sat about that chest, his other palm lays, and that orb, thundering, ripples a-glow. I'm yearning, it sings. Like storm. Like thunder. The way he tastes--it is lavish vineyards. A color spills past that hand, something cross between violets and amethyst jewels as Gale, mortifyingly, knows he is had. He's only being grabbed. Gosh, only being kissed. But to be kissed and grappled is a delicious feeling, and it's been long, an eternity since he's last whined. He has never been touched. Never by Mystra, there in her planes. Now, it's as though he's an adolescent once more, quivering to hands both strong and greedy. He hungers, he knows, but not like this. Gale feels teeth, tongue, and he startles on a gasp. He pulls away, face red, and his exhale harried.

You deserve to be kissed every day and every night.

Something in his ribcage growls and wails.

"That's enough." His pulse hammers. There is something wicked bellowing in his bones, unearthing yearning and desire in frightening droves. Gale feels ninety ways uprooted, a thousand ways relieved, but despite the joy of knowing he is clearly desired, there is a million more ways that he feels wrought. He wants to kiss him. Gods know he does... but looking at the color smoldering those cheeks, Gale, swallowing, grabs those wrists. No more. "Not now. Not like this." His fingers are warm against that skin, and Rhys' is crushingly handsome.

Please. "I'm afraid you drank far too much. Do not misunderstand me. I have imagined your hands on many nights," he starts, "more than my pride will allow me to ever confess, and they are eager, always kind, but more than that besides, they are sure."

"Another night, perhaps, if you'd still desire me." He backs away, yearning. "But when you are there in mind and only then. Your body is not enough, not for me."