#got a lot of catching up to do but you just never know who else will make this list you know?

[rafes-slut]

Self control

Summary: rafe is bored and he wants to test eachoters self control by cockwarming you to see who can go longest without moving

Warnings: NSFW, cockwarming, sexual tension, teasing, dominance/submission themes, power play, heavy temptation, loss of control, season two Rafe energy, mutual torment.

----

The weekend had started off exciting, but by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, boredom settled in like an unwanted guest. You and Rafe had spent the past few days holed up in his house, doing a whole lot of nothing—lounging, eating, watching random TV shows that neither of you really cared about. The rain outside made sure you were stuck inside with no distractions, no plans.

You were sprawled across the couch, scrolling through your phone, while Rafe lay beside you, lazily running a hand up and down your thigh. His touch was absentminded at first, but then it turned deliberate. Slow, teasing strokes that made you glance at him, catching the way his blue eyes darkened with something dangerous.

"Got an idea," he murmured, his fingers dipping under the hem of your shorts.

You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He smirked. "Mhm. Something to make things… interesting."

You could already tell by the way he was looking at you that whatever he was thinking had nothing to do with movies or playing cards. Rafe never handled boredom well. When he wanted something, he went after it with a single-minded determination, and right now, you had a feeling that you were his next source of entertainment.

When he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dropped to a low rasp. "How much self-control do you think you have?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

His hand on your thigh tightened. "I mean…" He kissed just below your ear, dragging his lips along your jaw before pulling back to look you in the eye. "Think you can handle sitting on my cock without moving?"

The bluntness of it sent a jolt of heat straight through you, making you tense.

"Rafe," you muttered, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to say anything else.

He grinned, knowing damn well he already had you. "What? Scared you'll lose?"

That did it. You never liked backing down from a challenge, and Rafe knew it. Which was exactly why he said it.

"Fine," you said before you could second-guess yourself.

And that was how you ended up here—straddling him on the bed, completely bare, his cock buried deep inside you. The stretch was almost too much, your body clenched tight around him, but neither of you had moved.

You were supposed to be winning this, supposed to be showing him that you had all the restraint in the world. But the way he was looking at you—eyes dark, jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips just to keep himself from fucking up into you—made it so hard to focus on anything but how badly you wanted to move.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

You swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat roll down your spine.

Rafe smirked. "Starting to squirm, baby."

You narrowed your eyes, forcing yourself still. "Not even close."

"Liar." His hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, making goosebumps rise on your skin. He traced your waist, up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing just under your breasts. "I can feel how bad you want it."

You sucked in a breath, digging your nails into his shoulders.

His voice dropped lower. "Be honest. How bad do you wanna move right now?"

"Not at all," you lied, even though your body was screaming otherwise.

Rafe chuckled darkly. His grip on your hips tightened before he shifted the slightest bit underneath you, just enough for you to feel it.

Your breath hitched.

"Oops," he said, all fake innocence.

You clenched around him instinctively, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, his fingers twitching against your skin.

The tension between you crackled like fire.

It was only a matter of time before one of you gave in.

Every passing second made it harder to breathe. Harder to think.

The ache between your legs was unbearable. Rafe filled you up completely, stretching you in a way that left you dizzy, and the worst part was that you couldn't do anything about it.

Your thighs burned from holding still. Your hands clenched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin just to ground yourself. But the worst part? You could feel him. Every twitch, every subtle pulse of his cock inside you, making the heat between you even more unbearable.

Rafe wasn’t doing much better. His jaw was locked, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was moments away from snapping.

Still, you refused to give in first.

But God, it was so hard.

Your body was betraying you, your hips twitching the slightest bit no matter how hard you tried to stay still. The more you resisted, the more desperate you became. You could feel yourself soaking him, your arousal pooling between you, making it impossible to ignore just how much you needed him to move.

A whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Rafe let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your waist. "Fuck," he muttered, head falling back against the pillows.

You clenched around him at the sound, another soft, helpless noise escaping your throat.

His grip on you turned bruising. "You're making this real fuckin’ hard, baby," he rasped. His voice was deeper now, rough with restraint. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling beneath you. "You're so wet—fuck."

You could barely form a sentence. "Rafe—"

Another needy sound tore from you as he twitched inside you again.

His hands flexed, and then his control snapped.

With a growl, he grabbed your hips and thrust up into you.

The sudden movement made you gasp, a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine as your hands flew to his chest.

"Fuck, baby—"

He didn’t stop. His fingers dug into your skin as he fucked up into you, the slow, torturous game you’d been playing thrown out the window. He was done holding back.

"You wanted to play, huh?" His voice was breathless, low, dangerous. "Now you wanna get all fuckin’ whiny, like you're not the one who started this?"

Your head was spinning. All you could do was feel—feel the way he filled you, the way he hit deep, every movement sending sparks through your body.

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your gaze down to meet his. His eyes were dark, wild, hungry. "Look at me when you come," he ordered, thrusting up into you harder. "I want you to watch who won this fuckin’ game."

And just like that, you shattered.

[muqingslover]

Hi! If you're open to requests, what would you think the lads men (or just one guy of your choice!!) would do in the following scenario?

They are out with mc when they run into mc's ex, and mc's ex says, "Damn, your taste in men changed a lot" in like a condescending manner. (Or something along those lines)

I hope you have a great time!! I love reading your stories!!

[ Thank you for the request! <3 I did a little of everyone so enjoy! ]

Sylus

"Your tastes sure have changed since the last time I saw you." is the first thing that actually catches his attention during the otherwise boring conversation.

Sylus is not an overly jealous person simply because he is very secure of his love for you and how good he is to you. The only thing your ex does is greatly amuse him because the difference is too great to even be considered fair.

"Naturally. You surely don't expect someone to eat trash forever, do you?" He would answer for you in a smooth voice while he towers over the both of you with that confident expression of his on his face.

He feels almost sorry for you, who had to make do with such men, but, not to worry, he's here now and he's not going anywhere.

Xavier

Taunting his jealous side is the same as playing with fire while knowing you're going to get burn.

"Is that the type of guy you prefer?" He'd ask the second the two of you are alone again. His hands pin you to the closest surface so you're unable to run from the conversation and he keeps his face very close to yours to watch for even the smallest reactions "Do you like him more than me?"

My advice? Say no as quickly as possible and give him a kiss to shush him otherwise you're in for the long, loooooong haul. Xavier is not easily soothed once he's worked up and he WILL hold grudges.

The next time your ex shows up he is quick to cut the conversation before they can even get a good morning in and makes it clear you belong to him now.

Rafayel

"What did you just say?" His head never whipped back faster mans almost twisted his own neck.

Arguably the most aggressive per se because he's SO obvious. To him it's just staggering you ever went out with anyone else, especially a thing like that, and that it's here, again, approaching you. Does it not see him? He's right there for god's sake!

"She's on duty so she can't talk to you right now. Or ever." He'd grab you by the shoulder as he sized the guy up and down with the most condescending and judgmental look on his face before scoffing. what a diva

He'll nag at you later for being "distracted while on the job" and say you're supposed to pay attention to him at all times otherwise how will his dear bodyguard protect him? Please be more mindful!

Caleb

It was a school reunion party when your old high school sweetheart came up to the both of you.

"Oh hey, I remember you! Weren't you the guy who got kicked out for cheating on his graduation exam?" He says with an innocent grin on his face knowing full well the guy is a deadbeat and making sure others heard it too.

It's canon he kept track of all crushes MC had while growing up and I'm sure he goes out of his way to show you their bad points so you won't even consider looking their way.

In some cases, Caleb had to get rid of them by manipulating things behind the scenes if they didn't take the hint and this one was one of those cases.

The guy was struggling with his grades and who is he to deny a helping hand? All he did was slip the sheet of answers to the test without anyone knowing, it's not his fault if the idiot accepted it knowing it was against the rules. Such an angel, isn't he.

This interaction will lead to him being even more territorial around you and he wants you to just stay home with him where it's safe. Pretty please?

Zayne

He will step in if they are bothering you by pretending he needs your immediate help in the office but otherwise Zayne merely listening in the background.

Once they're gone the silence is so loud.

You can basically feel that he's bothered by something, but he won't open his mouth even if you ask him about it because it's 'petty and childish'.

"Are you happy with me?" He'd eventually ask you after stewing in his own thoughts for the day. What if your tastes hadn't changed and you were just too nice to tell him he's not doing enough? That he is not enough.

Please reassure this sweet man that you're happy in the relationship. Especially so if your ex is the type that is super extroverted and easy to get along with since that's one of the points he struggles with the most.

The problem goes away on its own after some good quality time together and affectionate words.

[chokkzou]

PART. 1 ! the bllk boys discovering that they are your cute submissives (?

characters: isagi, reo, nagi, bachira, hiori, ness and kaiser.

tw?: top! male reader x sub! bllk. i speak spanish so sorry if there is any mistake or idk

link to part two !

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ Yoichi Isagi has always been someone who thrives on recognition and validation. He lives for those moments when his skills are acknowledged, when he feels like he’s making a difference, when someone tells him that he’s doing great. But it wasn’t until you came into the picture that he realized just how much your words affected him.

At first, he thought it was normal—after all, he liked being praised, right? But then you started doing it in ways that left him completely off guard. A simple "good job, yoichi," said in a low, smooth tone after a match, your fingers barely brushing his sweat-dampened hair? That had him completely losing focus for the next few minutes.

And you noticed. It didn’t take you long to realize that whenever you praised him directly, with intensity in your voice, isagi would react in the most adorably helpless way. His lips would part slightly, his eyes would flicker with something unspoken, and sometimes—if you were close enough—you could hear the way his breath hitched for just a second.

One day, you decided to take it a step further. After watching him score a goal, you pulled him aside, leaned in close, and murmured, "You looked so good out there." His face turned completely red. His hands clenched into fists, his body stiffened, and he stammered something incoherent before looking away, desperately trying to regain his composure.

That’s when you knew. Compliments were his kryptonite. And if you ever wanted to see him break, all you had to do was whisper something sweet with a bit too much confidence.

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ Reo Mikage is used to taking the lead. He’s confident, he knows what he wants, and he’s never had a problem going after it. But for some reason, when it’s you taking control, he absolutely melts.

It started with small things—placing your hand on the small of his back to guide him through a crowded space, casually hooking a finger under his chin to tilt his head up, pulling him by the wrist with just enough force to make it clear that you were in charge.

At first, he brushed it off, laughing it away like it was nothing. But you saw the way his breath faltered each time, the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way he swallowed a little too hard when you did it without warning.

The moment you realized how much he loved it? You had casually placed your hands on his hips to move him aside while saying, "let me through, reo." He froze.

It was barely a second, but you saw the way his pupils dilated slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to say something but completely forgot how to speak. And when he finally stepped aside, he did it almost robotically, like his brain was still catching up with what just happened.

After that, you made sure to test the limits—pulling him into you when he wasn’t expecting it, whispering "stay still" in his ear just to see if he could obey. Spoiler alert: he couldn’t.

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ꒰ Seishiro Nagi doesn’t care about a lot of things. He’s lazy, indifferent, and rarely puts effort into anything unless it’s truly worth his time. But for some reason, he cares so much when it comes to you.

It started out simple—he began noticing the small things you did for him. You’d grab his water bottle before he even asked, adjust his hoodie when it slid off his shoulder, remind him to eat when he got too distracted with his phone. And each time you did something for him, he’d just… stare.

Not in a creepy way. More like in complete awe.

One day, when you casually handed him a towel after practice, he took it but didn’t move. He just blinked at you, gripping the fabric a little too tightly, before mumbling, "…you’re spoiling me."

But he didn’t stop you.

And you noticed something else— nagi never initiated much, but when you did, he followed effortlessly. If you tugged on his sleeve, he’d move. If you tilted his chin up, he wouldn’t resist. If you told him to do something in that smooth, confident voice of yours, he’d do it without even thinking.

So, naturally, you started pushing the boundaries.

One evening, as he lazily lay on the couch, you ran your fingers through his hair and said, "sit up."

And without hesitation, without question, he did.

That’s when you knew— nagi wasn’t just being spoiled. He was waiting to be led.

[clockwayswrites]

Annalise&Tim, Magenta, Solstice, wood fire @roanawayspoons

Annalise is an OC from my fic City Pigeons Bleed Green who showed up briefly. This is an AU where she came to Bruce right away and lived. Uh, sorry that Tim is only dubiously present... but this got in my head.

“Hello, Bruce,” Annalise called from the sitting room that she favored. It was a slightly smaller one than the family room that the would gather in, but she always said that she liked how cozy and warm it was. The Manor, as old as it was, did tend to have a chill to it that would linger in the colder months.

Bruce generally dealt with the permanent cold by wearing warm, turtleneck sweaters and Dick simply never seemed to get cold. Helena liked to steal Bruce’s sweaters, for all that they came pooled around her feet. Annalise, though, seemed to struggle with getting warm with her poor circulation. (Bruce also harbored a fear that the complications around Helena’s birth had caused permanent harm to Annalise, such as the constant fatigue that she seemed to suffer.)

The warm, golden light of the fire spilled out of the half open door to the room and it felt like coming home to step into it. He leaned against the door frame with a smile “Hello, Lise.”

“Alright day at work?” she asked as she stuck her needle in the cross-stitch that she she had been working on.

There was a fifty-fifty chance that it contained a cuss that would make Alfred tsk at her.

“Mm, holiday bonuses went out today, so everyone was in a good mood.”

“Oh, I imagine,” she said with a smile.

The kid—more a pile of blankets and flash of black hair than anything else—who was asleep against her leg shifted. She carded her delicately painted nails through their hair.

“Is one of our sick?”

Annalise hummed in confirmation. “Poor thing was chilled to the bone.”

“That—”

“B! You’re home!” Dick called.

Bruce barely had time to swing around and catch him as he flung himself over the edge of the stare rail and at Bruce’s chest. At sixteen Dick was big enough to make Bruce have to brace himself to catch him. One of these days, Bruce knew he was going to get hurt doing this (but that would hardly stop him, not when his oldest still wanted hugs).

“Hey chum,” Bruce said as he swung Dick around and into the room and set him down. Not Dick who was sick then, which would save the manor a lot of whining. “How was your last day of school?”

“Super boring. We didn’t even do anything! I don’t know why we had to go!” Dick said in a rush.

“He also got, and ate, several candy canes,” Annalise added with a little smile.

“Also that,” Dick agreed.

Bruce tried not to laugh. “Well then it wasn’t all bad, was it. Did you save one for your sister?”

“I did, but she got even more than me! Not that she ate all of them, she’s saving them,” Dick said, like it was the most ridiculous thing that he had ever heard.

“Well, if she’s not feeling we—”

“Daddy!”

Bruce swung just in time to catch his daughter, who of course had also taken to flinging herself at him ever since Dick had started training her in gymnastics this year. The catch was a little fumbled as Bruce spun back to the room and whoever it was that was sleeping on the couch.

“Who—”

“Timothy Drake from next door,” his wife explained softly and with a little smile on her face that Bruce knew spelled trouble for him. Her fingers were still carding through the child’s hair. “Did you know that he’s all alone over in that monstrosity of a house? Poor baby walked over here, in the cold, completely drenched because a pipe had burst in the kitchen. It burst because the heat had gone out and his parents wouldn’t answer his calls about needing their approval for a new furnace. In December. He wanted to know if we had a wrench so that he could shut the water main off.”

Purposefully, Bruce relaxed his hold on Helena so that he didn’t squeeze her too hard at hearing all that. “I see.”

“Yes,” Annalise said. “So I brought him inside, made sure he got warm, and then we had some tea and cookies. I don’t intend to send him back to that house.”

“Of course not, it’s freezing.”

“Ever.”

“…I’ll call our lawyers up then.”

[aventurineswife]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do Blade with a reader who can't drive? Like they either don't have a license or are just a horrible drive so Blade drives them around a lot and maybe tries to teach them a bit? Sorry if that's too vague. Hope you're have a nice morning/day/night 🩷

“Hands on the Wheel, Eyes on the Road”

Summary: When Blade insists on teaching you how to drive, you're reluctant but agree. Despite your lack of skill and previous failures, Blade remains patient and surprisingly encouraging as he offers lessons. Throughout the process, you begin to realize that there’s more to Blade than his cold exterior, and his quiet care starts to break through your own walls.

Tags: Blade x Reader, Learning to Drive, Fluff, Lighthearted, Slow Burn, Angst (?), Patient Blade, Caregiver Blade.

A/N: this is giving that one Firefly and Blade scene 😭🙏

You sighed, clutching the seatbelt that was a little too tight against your chest. “I don’t think this is necessary,” you muttered, glancing at Blade, who sat in the driver’s seat with the calm authority of someone who had no time for your excuses.

“You don’t think being able to drive is necessary?” Blade’s voice was dry, his piercing eyes glinting as he glanced at you briefly before focusing back on the road. His hands gripped the steering wheel, elegant and steady, the glove on his right hand contrasting sharply with the pale skin of the left.

“I can walk,” you offered weakly, knowing full well that this argument was a lost cause.

“And if you need to escape?” His tone was soft but unyielding, cutting through any attempt you could make to downplay the situation.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. Blade wasn’t wrong. The Stellaron Hunters didn’t exactly live peaceful lives, and relying on others for transportation in a pinch was impractical at best, dangerous at worst. But still—

“I’m just not good at it,” you admitted, your voice dropping as you stared out the window. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and silver as the car moved smoothly along the highway. “And besides, the last time I tried, Kafka said I was ‘endangering the galaxy’ or something.”

That earned a quiet huff of amusement from Blade. “Kafka exaggerates.”

“She doesn’t exaggerate when it’s about me,” you grumbled.

Blade didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel his attention shift toward you even as he kept his eyes on the road. After a moment, he spoke. “You’ll learn.”

You blinked at him. “From you?”

“Who else?”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact, like there was no question that he’d take on the responsibility—made your chest feel oddly tight. Blade wasn’t exactly known for his warm demeanor, but moments like these reminded you of the quiet care he sometimes showed, tucked beneath his stoic exterior.

The next morning, you found yourself in the driver’s seat of the car. The sword Blade usually kept at his side was propped up in the backseat, as though it, too, were judging your every move.

“Start the engine,” Blade instructed, standing outside the car with his arms crossed. His long coat swayed in the light breeze, the embroidered gold catching the sunlight.

“I know how to do that,” you mumbled, turning the key and hearing the hum of the engine spring to life. A small victory.

Blade opened the passenger door and slid in with an effortless grace that you could never hope to replicate. “Now, put it in drive.”

“Got it.”

“And remember—gently.”

“Right, gently,” you echoed, carefully shifting the gear. The car lurched forward, nearly throwing both of you into the dashboard.

Blade let out a sharp exhale, bracing himself against the armrest. “That wasn’t gentle.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have such a sensitive car,” you shot back, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“It’s not the car.” His voice was flat, but you could see the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You groaned, gripping the steering wheel like your life depended on it. “I told you I’m terrible at this.”

“And I told you you’ll learn,” Blade replied, his tone calm despite the chaos of your driving. “Now, ease onto the gas. Slowly.”

Taking a deep breath, you followed his instructions. The car moved forward at a crawl, but at least it was smooth this time.

“Good,” Blade said, nodding slightly. “Now, keep your hands steady.”

Minutes passed as you navigated the empty parking lot, with Blade offering quiet corrections and encouragement. Despite the initial nerves, you found yourself relaxing under his patient guidance.

“You’re doing better,” he said after a while, and the rare note of praise in his voice made your heart skip.

“Thanks,” you murmured, glancing at him briefly. He looked surprisingly relaxed, one arm resting on the edge of the window, his piercing gaze softer than usual.

“Don’t get distracted,” he warned, and you snapped your eyes back to the road.

By the end of the lesson, your confidence had grown, even if your skills still left much to be desired. As you parked the car—crookedly, but parked nonetheless—you turned to Blade with a grin.

“See? No galactic disasters this time.”

Blade raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “You’ll get there,” he said simply, undoing his seatbelt.

As he stepped out of the car, you called after him. “Does this mean I’m your official chauffeur now?”

He paused, glancing back at you with a faint smirk. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

You laughed, climbing out to join him. Despite the teasing, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of pride. Maybe, with Blade’s help, you really would learn to drive.

And if not, well, you were perfectly fine with him driving you around for a little while longer.

[hl-obsessed]

fic rec: january-february | links to the original manip

💎✨ The Green Room by @jasthelarrie

(M, 112k) “For the last time, go away! This is fucking harassment, you know that? I’m well within my rights to call the cops.” Louis wished he could have hidden the tremor in his voice. He knew that it was thick with emotion. He was frustrated, angry, and beyond devastated.

“Uh…”

That was definitely not his ex's voice. Louis froze. Who had he just sworn at?

AKA

Louis has just been through a bad break-up and accidentally verbally assaults unsuspecting flower delivery man Harry.

scent holding me ransom by @the-larry-way

(E, 1,8k) Louis is obsessed with the scent of an omega he's never seen. Harry knows his dirty secret.

✨ all the sins you didn't have by @twopoppies

(E, 99k) It’s 1880, and premier danseur Harry Styles is running out of time. At twenty-five, he’s fast becoming too old for the lecherous benefactors who frequent The Paris Opera Ballet’s infamous backstage, and the only way to ensure he isn’t left penniless or rotting away in a brothel is to secure a permanent patron.

Enter Lord Louis Tomlinson: wealthy, young, handsome. And, unfortunately, a notorious rake. Harry strikes him and his gigantic ego off the list immediately… At least until they realize they have a common set of enemies and a common goal: revenge.

Though their ruse starts smoothly enough, the decadent freedom of Belle Époque Paris gives way to the rigid social rules of aristocratic Victorian London. Can a relationship that started as a calculated deception withstand the harsh realities of societal expectations and family duty to become a love more honest and profound than either has ever known?

✨ Things I Want, Things I Need by @canonlarry

(E, 14k) Most people don't find out whether they're an alpha, beta, or omega until somewhere around their eighteenth year, which means Louis finds out he's an omega long before his best friend and sometimes lover Harry will get a clue. Zayn is the loyal alpha friend who takes care of Louis during his heats. Liam is Zayn's beta mate, Niall tries to keep the peace, and Harry just wants to know what he is already.

✨ To find home (is wherever you are) by CrOminona

(E, 46k) Harry will wake up tomorrow and life will go on as always. They will go out with their friends, they will catch up and have fun. And then one day too soon Louis will pack his bag again, will find a flight to wherever he hasn’t seen yet and he will leave the city.

Harry will stay behind, waiting for the texts he barely receives sometimes, some of them sent at weird hours because of time zones. Days will become weeks, life will carry on in London with little to tell and a lot to do. And one day Harry will stop counting the hours that has passed since he last saw him and just expect Louis to appear whenever he pleases. Could be three weeks. Two months. One and a half. They never know, but Louis always comes back.

Go With It by embro

(NR, 4,4k) Prompt: "You thought I was someone else and started making out with me in a club and you're really hot so I just kinda went with it and now we're heading back to your place and I don't know how to break it to you"

don't let it break your (arm) by @the-larry-way

(G, 816) Louis seems to have forgotten his husband thanks to the wonders of anesthesia. Doesn't mean he's forgotten his attraction though.

Tattoos and Temptations by

(E, 67k) “Love,” he drawled, the word dripping with sinful allure, “I’ve got tattoos that are older than you,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper, his breath warm against Harry’s lips.

Harry tilted his head, a teasing smirk of his own tugging at his mouth despite the rapid beat of his heart. “What can I say, I like experienced men.”

Louis chuckled low in his throat, a sound that sent heat rushing through Harry’s veins. “Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, his hand sliding up Harry’s back to tangle in his curls. He tugged lightly, just enough to tip Harry’s head back and expose more of his neck.

“You’re the one winding me up.”

don't call me baby by @vintageumbroshirt

(G, 2k) A short and cliché roommates AU inspired by To Be So Lonely, where they’re both oblivious to each other’s feelings and Harry gets sad and jealous over nothing. It works out in the end.

The Only One (when it's said and done) by @londonfoginacup

(T, 6,1k) Louis Tomlinson, alpha, twenty nine years old, is head of the Tomlinson pack.

He's unbonded, and happily so. A trip to the neighbouring Arthur pack certainly isn't going to change that.

Sweet Baby by @jishlerfics

(E, 5,3k) “Haz,” he said, “do you like being held down?”

Taking a shaky breath, Harry finally looked Louis in the eyes. “I think so.”

💎✨ And That Was That by @lightwoodsmagic

(E, 22k) “Okay. When Zayn and I were working on the set yesterday, Liam dropped by and mentioned he had a date. I asked Zayn about it, and he said that they’re ah - poly?”

Harry blinked.

“Oh yeah, I knew that. Li mentioned it when we were playing tennis once.” He ran his hand through Louis’ hair, smiling softly when he nuzzled into the touch. “Is that what’s making you act strange? Because it seems like something that works for them, and I —.”

“Zayn has feelings for me.” A deep breath, and then blue eyes locked on green. “He said he needs distance because he has to get over them.”

Harry hadn’t realised his hand had fallen from Louis’ face until his fingers were being tangled and gripped tightly.

Or, Zayn and Liam have been polyamorous for years, but Harry and Louis are monogamous. When Zayn meets Louis and starts to fall for him, it opens them all up for something they've never experienced before.

.💐💐💐

(okay so i didn't read much and these are some amazing fics that i mostly barely remember reading 🙄 seems like i have to do reread of them all 🙈🙈🙈)

.💐💐💐

all my fic recs

[bjwmastermind-writes]

ch.1 - fences and cities- dbf! joel miller x oc! miriam

Chapter One of "Fences and Cities" dbf! joel miller x oc! miriam

To check out the series and what it's about click here!

This story follows Miriam, but you can easily step into her shoes.

mentions: age gap (24-47), dad best friend, joel miller is a warning on its own!

Minors stay out or read at your own risk! I'm not responsible for your consumption!

divider by @cafekitsune

Montana

The old, familiar smell of Montana—pine trees and fresh air—mingles with the dust of the small airport parking lot. Her suitcase, heavy and unwieldy, pulls at her shoulder as she trudges toward the terminal doors. Her stomach growls loudly, betraying her irritation. Where is he? Miriam glances at her phone, but there are no texts.

Rolling her eyes, she mutters under her breath, “Where the hell is he?” Her voice is tight, a mix of frustration from travel, hunger, and something deeper—an unease about what’s ahead. Montana was never a bad place, but leaving New York had been… complicated. 

"Miriam!," a voice calls, and she lifts her gaze to see him stepping out of the truck.

The sound of a truck engine rumbles in the distance, and her eyes snap to it. Relief floods her for a moment, but it quickly sharpens into something else as the truck pulls to a stop in front of her. He’s finally here. But, of course, he doesn’t seem rushed. He flashes her a half-smile, like he’s entirely unbothered, and she feels the urge to roll her eyes again.

"Sorry," he calls from the truck, his voice still casual. "Got caught up with some things around here." He leans back against the side of the truck, looking at her in that way that suddenly makes her feel a little off-kilter. It’s Joel, for crying out loud—her dad’s friend, someone she’s known for years. But there’s something about him now, something different.

"It’s okay, just don’t do that again, okay? I waited so long," she says, her voice carrying a hint of frustration, but with a playful undertone.

He grins, leaning against the truck. "Oh, please, it was only a few minutes, Miss New York. Have you forgotten what it’s like here?" His tone is teasing, but there’s a soft warmth to it that catches her off guard.

His smile is the same, his voice the same, yet there's an intensity in his eyes she’s never noticed before. A teasing glint, sure, but also something more—a quiet pull that makes her stomach flip. She never saw him like this before.

As he drives, Miriam can’t help but steal glances at him from the corner of her eye. She’s always known Joel—her dad’s friend, the guy who always had a joke ready or was fixing something around the house. But something’s different today. She notices the way the light hits his profile as he concentrates on the road, the way his jaw tightens when he makes a turn, the easy confidence in the way he moves.

“So, how’s New York treating you lately?” he asks, his gaze flicking to her briefly before returning to the road.

“It’s been good. Work has been killing me, for sure, but there’s something about it I like as well,” she says, leaning back against the seat. “The people I’ve met so far are nice—we go out often. The city is lovely, very loud, but it doesn’t take away from its charm.”

Joel huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “New York is lovely? Never heard anyone say that before.”

Miriam rolls her eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “It is if you know where to look. It has this… energy, you know? Everything is moving all the time, and I kinda like that.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Sometimes,” she admits, glancing out the window. “But it makes you feel alive.”

Joel hums in response, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “And yet, here you are. Back in Montana.”

Miriam goes quiet for a moment, exhaling softly. “Yeah, well, I guess one can get a little homesick after all. Plus, I had to be here for my dad.”

Joel chuckles, a low, knowing sound, and glances at her. “Yeah, I get that.” Without thinking, he reaches out, his hand landing on her shoulder in a brief but solid squeeze—comforting, familiar. His touch is warm, steady, and for some reason, it lingers in her mind even after he pulls away.

The truck falls into a quiet lull, only the hum of the tires against the road filling the space between them. It’s not awkward, but it feels… different. Why does it feel different?

Just as she’s about to get lost in her thoughts, her stomach lets out a loud, unmistakable growl.

Joel smirks, side-eyeing her. “Hungry much?”

Miriam groans, covering her face with her hands. “Oh my god, that was so loud.”

“Loud enough to scare off the wildlife,” he teases. “Guess that answers where we’re going next.”

That makes her laugh too, shaking her head. “Shut up.”

He smirks, eyes still crinkled with amusement. “Guess that answers where we’re going next.”

She peeks at him between her fingers. “Let me guess… the diner?”

Joel grins. “Best damn burger and fries in town.”

She sighs dramatically but can’t stop the smile from tugging at her lips. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

Joel chuckles. “Don’t worry, it’s on me”

By the time they reach the diner, her thoughts are tangled. She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly noticing him differently, but it’s all she can think about.

They slide into a booth, the hum of conversation around them. As they both settle into their seats, she clears her throat, unsure how to bring it up.

“So,” she starts, trying to sound casual but unable to keep the edge from her voice, “When did you turn into this?” She gestures vaguely, not sure how to articulate the thought. “It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time or something.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “What are you talking about?”

Miriam takes a breath, trying to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know, just... you. You're different. I don’t know if I’m just imagining it, but you look different.”

His smile fades a little, but there’s a glimmer of something behind his eyes. “I’m the same, Miriam. Maybe you’re just seeing things.” He looks at her, his voice quieter now. “Maybe you’re different.” He looks back at the menu like he didn’t just shake something loose inside her.

Her pulse quickens at his words. She wasn’t expecting that response. It hangs between them, heavier than the usual banter, and suddenly, she’s not so sure how to navigate this space between them anymore.

The silence stretches out just long enough for it to feel a little too much, and Miriam, ever the quick thinker, decides to break it. She clears her throat, leaning in a little with a playful smile.

“Hey, did I tell you what happened at the airport?” she asks, her voice light but eager to shift the energy.

Joel looks over at her, eyebrows raised, clearly intrigued. “No, what happened?”

Miriam smirks, her eyes lighting up as she launches into the story. “They took my bagel. Like, actually took it.”

Joel laughs, clearly amused, shaking his head. “So that explains why you're starving, huh?”

Miriam nods, her face scrunching with playful frustration. “You have no idea. I was ready to fight for it, but I just didn’t have the energy after the whole ordeal.”

Miriam is mid-sentence when the waiter stops by, setting down their food with a polite nod. She barely notices, too caught up in the story she’s telling, hands gesturing slightly as she speaks.

“So there I am, at JFK, running on zero sleep and way too much airport coffee, and I swear, the TSA guy looks at my bag like it’s personally offended him. He pulls me aside, right? Starts digging through my stuff like I’m smuggling national secrets, and then—” She pauses for dramatic effect, a smirk tugging at her lips. “He pulls out a single, perfectly wrapped bagel. Just one. Like it’s contraband.”

Joel huffs a quiet laugh, watching her. Not just listening—watching. The way she leans in slightly, how her eyes light up when she’s caught in the middle of a story, how she always talks with her hands just a little.

“What did he do?” he asks, voice low but amused.

She grins. “Looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to explain this.’ Like I’m running some underground bagel operation.”

Joel shakes his head, chuckling. “And what did you say?”

“I panicked! I just went, ‘Sir, it’s a bagel. I swear I’m not dangerous.’” She leans back with a laugh, shaking her head. “I think he was just bored, honestly. But for a second, I thought I was gonna end up on a no-fly list over a poppy seed bagel.”

Joel watches her as her laughter lingers, her shoulders still shaking slightly. There’s something different about her—he’s sure of it now. Not just the way she carries herself, but the way she fills the space around her, like she belongs in it. It’s new.

Joel, though—he’s still looking at her. The story’s over, but his gaze lingers, like he’s turning something over in his mind. Finally, he says, “You always talk like that?”

She raises a brow. “Like what?”

His mouth quirks, but there’s something thoughtful in the way he watches her. “Like you belong wherever you are.”

The words catch her off guard. There’s no teasing in his voice, no hint of the usual back-and-forth. Just quiet observation.

Her heart skips, pulse quickening as she forces a smirk. “Montana air,” she says lightly. “Does wonders.”

Joel doesn’t press, just lets out a small hum, but there’s a weight to his silence now. Something that lingers.

Neither of them moves to shake it off.

They finish their meal in silence, the kind of quiet that’s not uncomfortable but feels different—charged, maybe, or just heavier than usual. Miriam keeps her focus on her plate, unsure of what to say or do next.

After a few moments, she stretches her legs out under the table, not thinking much of it, until she accidentally brushes her foot against Joel’s. Neither of them pulls away immediately. The brief contact makes her stomach twist, and she’s suddenly aware of how close they are, how she can feel the warmth of his presence even through the table.

Miriam glances up quickly, her face flushing slightly as she pretends it didn’t happen. “Oops, sorry about that.”

Joel’s lips curl into a small, teasing smile. “Don’t worry about it.” His voice is steady, but his eyes linger on her a moment longer than usual. The tension between them feels different now, thicker, and Miriam feels a shift in the air, one that makes her unsure of how to move forward.

Finally, breaking the silence, Joel shifts in his seat and looks at her with a more casual tone. “Ready to get going?” He gives her a teasing glance. “Let’s get the bill. Your dad must be wondering what took so long.”

Miriam forces a laugh, grateful for the change in pace. “Yeah, he probably thinks we’re getting into trouble or something.” She reaches for her purse, trying to shake off the moment’s weight.

Joel pulls into the driveway, the sound of the gravel crunching under the tires as he stops. He glances at Miriam, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll let you settle in, spend some time with your dad. Bet he missed you,” Joel says, turning off the engine.

Miriam grabs her suitcase, struggling to pull it out of the trunk, the weight of it catching her off guard.

Joel raises an eyebrow, still seated in the car. “Need some help with that?”

She shakes her head, forcing a smile as she maneuvers the suitcase out of the trunk. “No, that’s okay. I got it.”

As she manages to free it, she turns back to him. “Thanks, Joel. For the drive. And the food. Good actions, all around.”

Joel chuckles, the sound low and warm. “You’re welcome, Miriam.”

She steps out of the car and starts walking toward the front door, her pulse still a little quicker than usual.

Joel stays in the car a moment longer, his gaze lingering on her. He tells himself it’s just for security—making sure she gets inside safely—but somehow, it feels like more than that. He watches her until the front door opens and her dad steps outside, arms outstretched.

“Miriam!” Her dad grins, enveloping her in a hug. “Welcome home!”

Miriam laughs and hugs him back. “I missed you, too, Dad.”

Joel leans back in his seat and clears his throat, a brief, awkward moment hanging between him and the family. “Take care, Miriam,” he calls out with a quick wave, as he shifts the car into gear.

Her dad waves back, calling out to him. “Thanks again, Joel! Really appreciate the help.”

Joel gives a small grin, rolling his eyes playfully. “Don’t mention it,” he says, mimicking Miriam’s earlier tone.

Her dad laughs as he steps back into the house, and Joel pulls away, disappearing down the street.

Miriam watches him leave, feeling a strange mix of emotions she can't quite place before heading inside with her dad.

Welcome to the first chapter of my series Fences and Cities! I’m so excited to share this story with you. I hope you enjoyed the beginning, and I’d love to hear your thoughts! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment—it really helps the story reach more readers. Stay tuned for what’s to come!

[xxplastic-cubexx]

charlies turn for the reference sheet beam

[callalillywrites]

Fictional Men that Live Rent Free in My Head All the Time

Part 1??

These are the men I draw on whenever I'm having a bad day and I just need a little pick-me-up or some comfort.

They include (in no particular order):

All the Men from Tech Tuesdays by @thezombieprostitute

Baker!Bucky by @angrythingstarlight

Bratty Beta!Ransom with Alpha!Ari by @stargazingfangirl18

Audio/Visual!Jake Jensen by @ronearoundblindly

Tattoo Artists!Steve and Bucky from her Howling Commandoes AU by @navybrat817

Sweet Redemption!Dennis Baker by @ellethespaceunicorn

Definitely check them out if you haven't.

Gotta catch up on some myself and revisit some others, but they are so worth the read and the reblogs, you guys. Trust me!

[dreamsicle262]

if the reading comprehension of some people who do make dead plate text posts is so bad (as i've had at least two people tell me in the tags) then maybe i SHOULD start analyzing every little detail in the game.

[mostly-imagines]

Banished

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason misses his girlfriend

warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)

Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.

Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes while Tim has sat atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.

Damian trudges into the room, past them and onto the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.

He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”

Jason just grunts.

He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.

But it’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He secretly wouldn’t really mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stayed behind. A lose-lose for Jason.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.

Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”

Jason keeps his head down as he blindly reaches for the spoon in his cereal and chucks it at Tim’s head.

Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.

Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”

“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.

Damian pauses.

“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.

“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.

“It was a genuine question!�� Damian protests, face screwed up.

Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”

It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.

Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.

He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.

Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.

He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.

And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.

And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.

Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.

But you could.

Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.

He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.

He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.

And he watches Jason.

As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.

He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.

He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.

The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.

✨ reblog fics or face the block button ✨

[machveil]

for the domestic whores, I’ve got you. Simon Riley x SingleParent!Reader🎀✨

Simon Riley who comes home from a deployment, headache throbbing behind his eyes as he jams his key into his flat’s doorknob. he’s absolutely exhausted, limbs heavy and chest a little tight with stress. he doesn’t even manage to kick off his boots before he’s falling back onto his couch, running a rough hand down his face as he sighs. everything is fine. a beer or three and some god awful realty show to turn his brain off always manages to make him pass out. yeah, a smoke or two and he can drift off, eyelids already droopy with sleep. then the crying starts

a slow glance to his left, fingers twitching slightly. there wasn’t a neighbor there before he left, and now some infant is screaming it’s bloody head off. it’ll stop soon. it’ll stop and Simon can fall into the pattern he’s set for himself. it’ll stop. it’s just a baby, someone’s got to make it stop. “No, no, no— it’s okay! Ssh, oh, honey—”, a muffled voice crooning through his walls, were the walls to his flat always so thin? a hiccupy wail cries out, sobs shortly following, “Sweetheart, look— it’s teddy! You love teddy.”, louder cries echoing through the air. maybe they don’t love teddy. with a groan, Simon stands up. today’s not the day for this, and he hates being that neighbor, but he needs peace and quiet

not even a minute later and he’s stepping down the hall, three quick knocks ringing out on his neighbors door. a deep breath leaves him as the crying continues, eyebrows raising slightly as the sound gets louder, the soft pad of walking overshadowed. there’s a soft click before the door opens and— Simon’s never seen you before. hair a little messy, faint eyebags, and a chunky little baby wailing on your hip. there’s a pause as you look up at him, and, god, there’s a lot to look at. a disposable medical mask he never took off, dressed nearly all in black, and looming past your doorframe. “Tha’s got to stop.”, short and curt, voice deep and rumbly

it’s only after he speaks does the little menace on your hip pipe down, bleary eyes blinking as they look up at the solider. glancing down at the baby, a soft little gurgle and grabby hands catch his eyes. delighted little noises as they reach their tiny arms out for him, “How’d you do that?”, you ask. your wide eyed expression makes him scoff, “What?”, happy little giggles reach Simon’s ears. “Say something else—”, you plead softly, readjusting your hold to cradle the baby, “They keep crying and I don’t know what to do— I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen them stop like that.”, you sound so tired, drained as you sway back and forth slightly. say something else. “‘M Simon.”

[mangostarjam]

you've been touching him a lot since he got back.

itoshi sae doesn't do anything about it — doesn't dissuade you from tugging at his sleeve or sliding his jacket zipper back and forth while you talk. doesn't comment or bring your attention to it.

but he watches.

you've been around him a lot since his plane landed, making up for all the time he's spent abroad, as if your daily chat threads haven't been enough. most of the time it's just the two of you, the way it used to be. sometimes his brother is around, though thankfully it doesn't seem like you've gotten any closer to rin since sae left.

other times there's a group, mostly your friends, a mix of guys and girls who don't seem to know what to do with themselves around him. sae is used to this — fame brings strange things to light — but you treat him as you always have, except for the touching.

you don't touch anyone else.

it makes him think.

sae has his reasons. he's never let your relationship get past that line, drawn in the sand. he's a professional football player on the other side of the world, and you have a life here. you have friends (even though you still call him your best friend), you have a job (that you complain about all the time), you have family (that can't be bothered to ever congratulate you on anything).

it wouldn't be right — to make you leave. to take you away. not when he needs to focus on being the best in the world.

(he is the best in the world. all those years ago he showed the U-20 team in japan the difference between them, the way the most they could hope for was dating a gravure model. sae never cared about that aspect. he already had you.)

he lets you touch him, but he doesn't touch you back. he keeps you at arm's length — where you're safe.

and then you ask him to be your wingman.

someone else — touching you? kissing you? having you? unthinkable. sae steps out of the shower and barely dries off before pulling on his briefs and pants. steps into his room and there you are, sitting on his bed, looking good, if a little sad.

he considers telling you to get your passport updated and catches the way your eyes trail down his form. maybe this conversation would be easier if he's wearing a shirt — your gaze is too heated, too distracting. you probably think you're being sneaky, hiding your feelings as best as you can, but sae knows you.

and your casual touches are ocean waves washing that line in the sand away.

sae walks towards his closet when it happens again. your finger in his belt loop, stopping him in his tracks. "what?"

"you were ignoring me," you say. "i asked if my outfit is okay."

your outfit is more than okay. "i would have told you to change if it wasn't."

"if you're going to be my wingman, shouldn't you hype me up?" you huff.

sae feels his jaw clench at the reminder. "no," he says, and his tone comes out cold. you don't seem to notice, falling back on his bed and testing every bit of self control in his grasp. "this is a waste of time."

he goes to pull on a shirt before he does something drastic. you're saying something, but it hardly matters when his flight leaves if you'll be on the plane with him. you've covered your eyes with your forearm, so you miss the way he pauses at the foot of the bed, teal eyes drinking in your form splayed out so defenselessly.

sae climbs over you silently, knees nudging yours apart, hands planted on either side of your body. "this is a waste of time," he repeats, watching with amusement as you take in his position. a blush sweeps across your face, but you don't push him off. that's a good sign, at least.

"what, you think i'm not worth being a wingman for?" you ask. silly. you have no idea.

and then you reach for his belt loops again, as if that's a totally normal thing to do and not something that drives him a little nuts every time. sae prides himself on his control, though, so he doesn't lean down to kiss you just yet.

"tell me," sae says, "have you become this touchy with all your friends since i've been gone?"

"n-no?"

it's cute, how wide your eyes get. sae leans down a little closer. feels your breaths on his lips. still doesn't kiss you — yet. "then i won't be your wingman. you don't need one."

"why not?"

do you know how breathless you sound? sae considers his apartment in spain, how he'll need to make sure the bedroom doesn't share any walls with the neighbors. the way you sound is all for him and him alone.

"because you have a boyfriend, now."

(companion piece to this)

[rafesweetie]

⋆˚࿔ espresso ꥟ ˚⋆ — sunny!reader x rafe

“ walked in and dream-came-trued for ya! “

i believe the saying goes, “she was like a shot of espresso.” rafe didn’t think that saying could fit a person more than it could fit you.

he’d see you at parties, dancing with his sister or giggling with the pogues. you never could seem to pick a side. this whole pogue vs kook rivalry never crossed your mind, for you were simply friends with everyone in kildare. he’d see you at the beach with your friends, tanning while listening to silly pop music and sipping on a fruity canned drink. you reminded him of the sun.

there was one night where sarah cameron invited you to her place for a start-of-summer party. rafe was dealing some coke, as per usual, and his eyes followed you as you walked in, holding hands with sarah while she led you inside. he’d never understood why girls held hands with each other, but wheezie said that it’s a universal girl thing, and he ‘would never get it.’

topper elbowed rafe out of his trance, laughing about how rafe had a little crush.

“nah, nah,” rafe denied instantly. “isn’t she a pogue?”

topper shakes his head. “nope. she just hangs out with them. her parents own that flashy smoothie shop, she’s a kook,”

“…oh, that’s good,” rafe mutters. he can’t quite avert his gaze from you.

“aw man, you’re desperate,” kelce is on his other side, patting his back, making rafe grunt and shoo him off. rafe can’t relate to desperation.

his night goes on per usual, getting bundles of cash handed to him as he deals. until topper speaks up after a bit. “she just broke up with pope,” he informs rafe. “she’s on the market,”

“yeah?” rafe checks.

“yeah. you should go talk to her,”

rafe hesitates, staring at you again. you’re not a dancer by any means, but both you and sarah are wiggling your shoulders a bit when a good song comes up. rafe would assume you’re drunk, the way your giggles echo through the room and the way you spill your drink when you stumble into sarah. but he thinks that’s just you, drunk on life. he eventually speaks. “no fucking way, she’s with my sister right now. sarah would lose her shit if i talked to little miss sunshine over there,”

“yeah, well, need i remind you i’m dating sarah, so i’ll just get her away, go make out for a bit, she looks drunk,” topper offers.

“…a’ight. yeah, lets do it bro.” rafe agrees, and they both get up off the couch. rafe stands a little bit away as he grabs another vodka pink lemonade for you, maybe a subtle bribe into talking, and a beer for himself. topper talks to sarah for a bit, greets you, then leads sarah away.

rafe’s literally directly behind you, when suddenly you’re already talking to someone else. you’re pretty chatty, it seems. rafe hangs around to catch you after your next conversation. but then he looks away for one second, then you’re gone again. he spots you on the balcony, with jj maybank. then a couple minutes later, you’re with kie carrera. then you’re shotgunning a drink with sofia. holy shit. you’ve got him wrapped around your finger already, and he looks so cute chasing after you. if he’s not pushy, he’ll never get his chance. so, channeling his inner ward cameron, he spots you with ruthie (who he never would’ve assumed you would associate with. maybe you’re just being polite), and he puts a hand on your shoulder from behind, spinning you around. “y/n. right?”

you blink, not expecting the sudden interruption. but you regain yourself quickly, smiling. “hi! yeah, i am,” you say. your voice sounds as sweet as honey. “you’re rafe cameron?”

you know who he is? he shouldn’t be surprised, you seem to know everyone, but he likes that you know, anyway. “uh, yeah, yeah, that’s me,”

“well it’s so nice to meet you,” you smile up at him. “it’s funny, sofia used to mention you a lot, and obviously im close friends with your sister. but i’ve never met you before,”

“..you’re friends with sofia?” is all he can think to ask.

“mhm. i’ve known her since grade 5. we’re not like, super close now, but we were when you guys dated,” sensing his sudden aversion to talking about her, his ex girlfriend, you shut up. “um, wanna go grab a drink?”

“oh— shit, yeah, um, brought one for you, actually,” he hands you the vodka pink lemonade. “saw you drinking one earlier, so..”

“oh my gosh, thank you so much,” you say. is he that sweet? you guess so.

“yeah, ‘course. heard sarah talk about you, and it’s all been good things, so i figured i’d try and meet you myself,”

“well now you have. i’ve heard her talk about you too,” you don’t have the heart to say it hasn’t been very good things.

it feels like this awkward small talk is going in circles. but maybe that’s a good, slow way to start something.

your name is suddenly called by a group of girls a couple meters away. “it was so nice to meet you rafe. i should go, they want me,” you say softly, reaching for his hands. he remembers when you came in holding sarah’s hands. it seems to be your thing. “i’ll see you around?”

“yeah—“ he clears his throat, gaining the courage to hold yours back. “yeah. see you around, y/n,”

you smile. you could swear he’s blushing. “you’re cute,” you say softly, squeezing his hands once more before retreating away.

he feels like he just took a shot of espresso, and now he’ll be thinking of you every night.

[thecoochiefairy]

gamer girlz. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.6K word count. blackfem!reader, drabble, college football coded! onyankapon, grumpy!onyankapon, sweet!onyankapon, dominant!onyankapon, kinda sorta makeup sex?, couch sex , black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, oral [f] [m], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, backshots, missionary, condomless sex, cumming on face, kissing, spanking, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ day 283737272 of liyah’s ovulation and faithful celibacy pact meaning she’s having the most nasty, egregious thoughts. please enjoy my black man fantasies. the links inspired this fic heavily, so enjoy those too.

𝓐ᥫ᭡ :: onyankopon just wants to help you finish your game.

link. link. link. ony’s visuals.

YOUR FINGERS SHOULD'VE HURT AT THIS POINT. Swiftly moving from button to button, they tap the controls as you’re on another level of the game you desperately wanted to beat.

You had some time off of studying, and this is how you wanted to spend it. Your boyfriend was at football practice—although a part of you just wanted to be swarmed up in his arms, your attention span also had you elsewhere—this damn game. You enjoyed the older games, replaying the hardest version of Batman: Arkham Asylum, your boredom peaking your interest back in the game you’d had since childhood. 

You didn’t even register that the door had opened, or maybe you didn’t just care enough. You knew who it was. You eye him dropping his keys against the counter, black hoodie over his head, sharp jaw grunting lightly from his sore muscles, scowl along his face—definitely had to do with practice. 

You pause the game for a second, turning your face to the side, fuzzy socks along your feet, his large jersey slung along your body as you greet him, “Hell, baby. What they’ do to you?” 

“Coach was on dick today. Had me running laps cause other niggas couldn’t catch the ball and I got mad,” he huffs, taking his helmet and slamming it on the counter next to him. He massages the nape of his neck, sighing deeply to himself. 

“Now you know coach don’t like all that cussing on his field,” you sigh, “He knows you're good. That’s why he’s on your ass.” 

“Nah. He just annoying as fuck. Can’t expect me to do everything.”

He’s like a child, grumpy and pouty. His tall frame comes closer, wanting your attention in response to his rough day at practice. 

“How’s my baby?” he says in your ear, wrapping his large muscular arms around your waist and gently biting your shoulder. His broad frame shadows under his hoodie, tat against his face shining under the lights of your shared apartment, full lips moisturized—you’d never let him leave the house otherwise. 

You give him a soft laugh, rubbing your fingers over his durag as you say, “I’m fine. Had some time off studying, tryna’ beat this game. I meant what I said, Ony. He doesn’t just give you a hard time because he’s bored. You’re his star player, gotta make sure he ain’t treating you like everybody else.” 

“Don’t tell me you on yo’ nerdy stuff. C’mon. I’m sore,” he groans, his grip around your waist tightens and he pushes himself against you. 

“Oh, is it nerdy shit when you’ screaming on the game playing 2K with your friends? I was gonna offer a little massage. Now you’ve lost your entry to that,” you say, trying to push him off of you, reaching for the controller in between your lap. 

He doesn’t budge. He holds firmly onto you, pressing sloppy kisses against your neck to distract you. 

“Don’t be like that. I was kidding, you know I like that shit,” he huffs, his breath against your neck as he presses his lips on the sensitive part of your skin, “Forgot to tell you, I got an away game coming up in a few weeks. So I’ll be gone for like, a week.”

Your head comes down a bit to look directly at him, “What? You’re not coming with me to my parents? You know the holidays are coming up, Onyankopon. I told them you’d be there.” 

“You know imma’ just be sitting around hiding behind you,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath tickling you. 

It’s not that he’s shy— rather, he just doesn’t enjoy the unnecessary attention. 

“How ‘bout we do our own Christmas, before I go?” 

He’s nuzzling himself against your neck now, his hands roaming all along your body. You press his body away from yours, standing up as you become annoyed. 

You then say, “I wouldn’t be going up to my parents place if you didn’t agree to come with me in the first place,” going into the kitchen, searching through the freezer. 

He runs a hand over his face, seeing how instantly irritated you became. He knew having his support for the holidays meant a lot to you, and he might’ve waited on telling you about the going away game to lessen your disappointment. 

“Mama,” he calls, watching you from the sofa. 

You turn, raising an eyebrow as you say, “Oh, so now I’m Mama, you love hitting me with that shit when you know I’m mad.” 

“You know I don’t like going to those family functions, I swear that house always stinks cause yo’ auntie cooks that nasty ass fish. A week ain’t no big deal. Let’s just have our own thing here.” 

“So which one is it? You don’t wanna go or you got your football shit?” You narrow your eyes, pulling the ice pack from the freezer, arms crossed as you come back closer to him.

He knows better than to lie, especially to you. 

“They got some NFL scouts coming to this game,” he mutters, scratching his temple. I’m sorry. But I’m tryna’ go pro, you know that.”

“Mhm.” 

You hand him the ice pack, “Put it on your knee. I know it’s been sore lately.”

He raises an eyebrow, “You’ not mad?”

“Did I say I was mad? You’ want the ice pack or not?” 

He takes the ice pack, wincing once the coldness hits his knee. He knew you were gonna give him a scolding if he didn’t.

“You’ got a bad ass attitude right now.” 

“I wonder why, Onyankopon? If we had plans to go back to your parents house for the holidays and at the last minute I told you I have exams and that I just didn’t wanna go, you’d be irritated too.”  

“Damn, you gon’ be on my ass about this for the next three weeks?” 

He didn’t like it when you were like this, cause instead of being pissed you were more disappointed, which was somehow a lot worse to him.

“I’m gonna be gone for a week.” 

You scratch your nails in between the baby blue orchid claw-clip that holds your curls. You dismiss him, “You need to go shower.” 

“What, you ain’t tryna’ join me?” he murmurs, a smirk on his lips, “Quit being mad. I’m tryna love on you. Wanna put on The Isley Brothers and give you a rub down.” 

“You’re playing too much right now,” you deadpan, “Bye Onyankopon.” 

“What’ you mean bye?” he says, his smirk turning into a frown.

“I’m finna’ go finish studying,” you’re already walking back towards the bedroom, ending the conversation off as that. 

When you finally hear him smack his lips and make his way into the shower, you glance over your notes, deciding you weren’t gonna let him ruin your previous plans. You’re now back on the sofa, eyes set onto the screen, trying to defeat the computer generated opponent. 

You switch over to the sound of the bathroom opening, seeing him re-tying his durag back on, basketball shorts baggy and house shoes on his feet. His tattoos all along his face, neck, chest and arms always had your attention—but not as much attention as you usually gave him at this moment. You sprawled along the furniture, elbow deep into the couch's pillow as one leg laid straight out, while the other bent itself over the top of the couch. 

He doesn’t like how you’re paying no attention to him. As stupid as it sounds, he’s always got to have your eyes on him. They were pretty. 

“You’ still mad? You for real ain’t finna’ give me a massage?” 

“I’m good,” you swiftly respond, “Just playing my game. You can massage yourself.” 

“Why you’ gotta be like this?” 

He sits down next to you, his large frame takes up a lot of the space. The couch becomes smaller somehow. His eyes watch the game intently before he decides to get comfortable. Lying back down on the sofa, he lets his head rest in your lap. Even with you being irritated, you let him lay there. 

You continue going up level by level, your focus intently on the game. The little argument between you and Onyankopon irritated you to say the least, but you didn’t have the energy to completely push him away. It’s unfortunate he was persuasive. You notice out the corner of your eye that he lifts his head a little, the warmth between your legs along the back of his neck, and that’s when he sees that you’re wearing nothing under his jersey.  

He takes the time to admire you, legs lazily hung open, his eyes staring directly against your pussy, scenting of vanilla on your legs, freshly shaven. One of his large hands comes to rest on the back of your thick thigh, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“What you’ got on?” he mutters.

“Had to wash clothes, didn’t have any underwear. That’s why I put on your jersey,” you tell him, eyes still not looking at his face, unable to see how his jaw clenched at the sight. 

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. In that moment his large hand rubs along the skin on your thigh, pushing the jersey up further.

“You look good as fuck in my shit,” He mumbles, a low rasp in his tone.

“Thank you,” you say in a softer tone, mainly because you’re distracted, buttons pressing harder against the controller. 

He can tell how focused you are—how your face scrunched up, the way your fingers move, even the way your thighs fall open on his head.

That’s when you feel him lean down, giving a gentle peck to your inner thigh. The feeling makes you tense a bit, but you still keep your eyes against the screen, huffing out a breath as your character is close to dying. This level was difficult. 

He’s giving small, light kisses along the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, taking small intervals to glance up to you as you keep your eyes against the screen. His hand moves higher up on your leg, slowly pushing the jersey up even more.

Your eyes go to him for a millisecond, seeing as his head is down, lips attached to your thighs, sucking ever so gently on your skin. You can almost feel a pressure building in your stomach, the slow ache of his movements almost purposeful, teasing you in a way. You press your glasses up against your face, huffing out a breath as you mutter, “Stupid ass level,” trying to come up with a reason as to why you sound so breathless. 

He grins as he’s laying there, hearing your breathing getting heavier. It’s obvious how hard you’re trying to focus on the game, but he’s working you up.

“You’ trying so hard, Mama,” He murmurs against your hot skin, his kisses trailing to the spot he knows is extra sensitive.

You shift your body, clearing your throat as you say, “Gotta restart,” adjusting your legs a bit, opening them up just a little more than before. 

He can tell how you’re slowly giving in, how you’re shifting your body around, legs opening just enough for him to move closer. He lets his free hand come to caress your stomach, rubbing against the skin under the fabric of the jersey. His lips are so close to you, his breath is hot against your skin. 

“Restart then,” He mutters, tongue now coming to flick out from his lips, gliding across your skin, hiding beneath the pillows of his lips as they begin sucking a dark red mark against you.

You narrow your eyes lightly as you restart the level you play, but your body is distracted by Onyankopon’s lips along it. You drag your teeth along your lip a bit, pressing your fingers harder into the controller, feeling his lips coming up higher. 

You could feel the arousal you had flooding in between the lips of your pussy, protecting your clit as it now begins to pool farther down, dampening the couch. His large fingers wrap along the outside of your thighs, using his thumbs to pull the skin on the inside apart, showing the dark pink of your pussy, squelching at his presence. Your body tenses even more as you feel his thumb meet with your clit, rubbing so softly against it, dropping his mouth down to press another kiss to your skin. The leg hiked up against the top of the sofa trembles a bit. 

“You’ winning?” You hear him murmur against your skin. 

You take a deep inhale, squeezing your fingers against the hooks of your controller as you softly reply, “No.”

He circles your clit with maddeningly light touches, barely grazing the swollen nub. At the same time, he’s still pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses, occasionally grazing his teeth. 

"You’ getting distracted. Wet ass pussy," Onyankopon murmurs appreciatively, feeling the slick evidence of your arousal coating his finger.

Your chest heaves a bit at his tone, but you don’t let up. You keep your eyes on the screen, but you seem to be losing. In both games. 

He spreads you even wider as he leans in closer, hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He pulls his thumb back as he replaces it with his mouth, giving you an innocent kiss against your clit. His beard captures your arousal, your fingers shuddering as you hear him groan, “Ooh, fuck, Mama. You’ wet for real.”

Without warning, he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud. He releases it with a lewd pop before trailing open-mouthed kisses along your slit, lapping up your dripping arousal. Your eyebrows deepen into a frown, lips trembling as you give one more press to your controller, before you take your hand and reach it to the back of his head, getting a clutch against the knot of his durag. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, clasping your mouth shut as you whimper for him.

He delves his tongue deeper between your opened folds, dragging it up and down, lapping up to create more secretion. His hands grip your thick thighs, spreading you obscenely wide as he eats you out like a starving man.

"Mmmm, this a nigga favorite fuckin’ meal," he rumbles, voice muffled by your flesh. He alternates between slurping you up and flicking rapidly, determined to make you fall apart. One hand slides up to grope your ass roughly, kneading the plush flesh.

“O—Ony…” you gasp, voice small and high pitched, fingers squeezing harder against his head, dropping the controller out of your other hand, the object hitting the ground with a thud. The music of the battle within the game becomes something you hear, but not as loud as his mouth gulping you down, heavy tongue sopping against your pussy, drenching his beard so much that he could drown in you.

“Pretty ass voice,” he encourages huskily, the vibrations from his words sending shockwaves through your core. He dips two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your weeping cunt, pumping them slowly as he continues his relentless assault on your clit with his tongue. The wet sounds of him feasting on your pussy fill the room, mixing obscenely with the forgotten video game noises.

His free hand roams your curves possessively, groping and squeezing every inch of exposed skin he can reach—your ass, your thighs, the underside of your breasts. You’re lost in a haze of pleasure.

You were always so sensitive to his touch, the pleasure that you received from him kept you so kidnapped that it was hard to be mad at him. You grind your clit along his mouth that waits to catch it, voice ineffective of composure as you struggle, “Gonna cum soon, Ony…” 

“Yeah?” He grunts, head knocking up and down, your eyes only able to watch as his lower face disappears in between your legs, glistening a coat against his beard, “Where you wanna cum?” 

“On your dick, baby…” you whine softly, rotating your hips gently to match his moments, “Please…”

"You wanna cum on your dick, Mama?” He coos against you, the sound reverberating through your core, you’re whimpering with an urgent nod, “Mhm,” before he can even finish his sentence. 

He pulls himself back, already tugging his tip from beneath his basketball shorts, taking off the material as your eyes follow the curve, the vein in his dick, heavy against the stretch of his large palm. Tattoos spread against his pelvic, scriptures and inspirational quotes that didn’t belong in his blasphemous moment.

"Turn around, put that ass in the air for me.“

Your legs feel a bit numb, bringing yourself up as you know exactly how he wants you. Raising your left leg along the arm of the couch, you lean your breast over the top as your face hides beneath your arm, right knee digging into the seat of it. He places his fingers along the side of your neck, other hand digging into your thigh thrown over the furniture. He doesn’t have to tell you to look at him—you always give him your eyes, feline as they blank beneath his control. Your body trembles as he slams his palm against your ass, “Arch more,” your body following suit, deepening the valley your silhouette creates. 

He grips your hip with bruising force, using the leverage to grind the swollen head of his dick teasingly along your soaked slit. Up and down, he rubs himself through your slick folds, coating his length in your essence. Your hips tense as you feel the weight of his tip stretching open your pussy, sinking in that it makes your abdomen cramp, aching in a pleasure that has your entire body tighten. Your eyes are beginning to roll back, digging your nails into the sofa as you keep your eyes on his, he looks mad at you, slamming his palm against your ass again as he grunts, “Keep that fuckin’ arch.” 

Your chest is filled with oxygen, holding your breath to cure the slight discomfort you feel, but it’s also an agonizing pleasure, feeling so full from him. He’s slowly dragging himself halfway out, rolling his hips back in and going even deeper, your mouth dropping open as your eyes flutter shut, turning your head back towards him as you whimper, “Fuck, baby. You’re deep…” 

Silence goes in between the both of you, savoring the rush of pleasure that clutches the air as he drags his first couple of thrusts, so slow it felt like time wasn’t even passing. The sedated actions almost feel better than if he sped up, his eyes locking down as he sees you painting his tip, creaming on him. 

“I’m in your shit, huh?” he talks to you, it’s almost tortuous as he hilts himself fully inside, his heavy balls slapping against your throbbing clit. Your walls clench around him like a vice, your head tilting back as you completely tense. You whimper, “Ungh,” attempting to push him back to relieve the stimulation, jumping as he gives you a bruising spank, deep voice aggressive as he says, “Uh-uh, don’t do that. You know I don’t do that running shit.” 

His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he starts up at a carnal pace. The wet squelch of your pussy being split open echoes obscenely in the room, mixing with your deep whines, nodding your head, gently dropping your hips against his abdomen to meet his strokes.

“Keep riding that dick, goood fuckin’ girl,” each thrust is punishing and deep, stirring up your insides. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes obscenely as he rails into you, chasing your pleasure to insanity.

You always try to keep up, but you never could. All your organs feel tossed around by him, so blinded in your erotic state, your mouth opens as you give long moans, deeply gasping each time you need to catch your breath. He brings you to a point of saying things you’d never thought would leave your lips, mouth parted as you groan, “Yes, yes, baby. Agh, fuck, Ony. Deeper.”

"You want this dick deeper?" He growls, accentuating his question with a thrust that has your eyes rolling back farther. His grip on your hips tightens, surely leaving finger-shaped bruises on your toffee skin as he sets a merciless pace.

He’s back at palming his hand brutally against your ass, rushing it up to come around the front of your mouth, resting his fingers there as he grunts, "Take this fucking dick then," yanking your head back.

The new angle allows him to go even deeper, his hips slapping against your clit, “Finna’ tear this fuckin’ pussy open.” 

His filthy words mix with the lewd sounds of your bodies coming together, filling the room, it has you groaning through his fingers. 

“Love you so much,  baby—“ this was a regular routine, the affection you give him as he’s hitting that spot that only he could find, whines plummeting from your mouth, eyes to the back of your head as you reach back and grab onto his wrist that holds your hip, moaning louder each time he rolls his hips back to meet the weight of your ass matching his rhythm.

“What happened to you being mad?” He questions, going slow as he tugs you back into his dick, the echo of your skin bouncing off each other like a drug induced round of applause. 

You shake your head, “Not mad at you, Onyyy,  love you so much….”

He chuckles darkly, low and rumbling in his chest as he leans over you, pressing his muscular torso against your back. His hot breath fans across the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "I know you do, Mama. I love you too.” 

One large hand slides up from your hip, reaching around to splay across your stomach as the other now tangles in your hair, tugging your head back. He rolls his hips in a slow, deep grind, stirring you up from the inside, your mouth releasing broken shouts, your face hot, pleasured tears wanting to stroke along your face. 

"Fuckin’ love you, princess. Pussy was made for me,” He gives another sharp thrust, grinding against your cervix. "You’ getting tight as fuck—You’ cumming, Mama?”

“I’m….” You gasp, defeated in your inability to speak, taking your hand and reaching back to hold his face closer to yours, hips trembling as you dangerously moan in a cracked tone “I’m cumming, baby. I’m cumming. I’m—agh,  c—cumming…”

His chuckle is dark with lust as you flutter and clench around him erratically. He grips you harder, using the leverage to pound into you relentlessly, chasing his own release.

"Good job, baby. Biggg fuckin’ girl. Cum on this dick. Fuckin' soak it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure. One hand moves from your hip to your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub as he continues his brutal pace.

Your whole body tenses and shakes as your orgasm crashes over you, a loud cry tearing from your throat. Your pussy spasms almost violently around his thick shaft, gushing against him so much it pushes him out of you, trying to milk the sensation for all it’s worth. 

“I’m finna’ bust, baby,” he warns, groaning in your ear, “Come eat this dick up.”

Your body feels numb as you turn yourself towards him, immediately wrapping your lips along his tip, enveloping the taste of your own arousal within the walls of your mouth, sucking him in to reach the heavens of your throat. He clasps your hair within his palm, bobbing yourself back and forth as you reach down, rubbing your clit as you still feel your orgasm rushing through your body. You moan around him, giving him those cat eyes, fluttering your dark extensions as you swirl your tongue against his tip, begging for a reaction.

He throws his head back with a deep, guttural moan as your warm mouth engulfs him. His grip on your hair tightens, guiding your movements as he starts to thrust shallowly into your throat.

“Shit—just like that. Eating that dick up good as fuckk," he pants, his abs flexing with each snap of his hips. The sight of you—eyes fluttering, cheeks hollowed, one hand buried between your thighs—it’s almost too much.

He pulls your mouth off him, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening tip. With another smack to your ass, he flips you onto your back, settling between your spread legs. 

"I wanna see your face when I nut in this pretty ass pussy." 

He lines himself up and sinks back in with one smooth thrust, bottoming out instantly, clutching your throat, holding you down as your back arches up, clawing into his back at the visceral sensitivity.

He sets a hard, fast pace, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. His intense gaze locks with yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he takes in every expression that crosses your face.

"That's it, baby. Gonna fill this pussy up real good," he grunts as you whimper with his talking, “Ba-by,” angling his hips to hit that special spot inside you. One hand slides under your thigh, pushing your leg up and back to change the angle, allowing him to go even deeper.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he continues to pound into you. His tongue dominates your mouth, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. Breaking the kiss, he buries his face in your neck, biting and sucking dark marks into your skin as he chases his release.

"Fuckk, finna’ cum soon. You want it in you, baby?”

“On my face baby, you say it’s pretty there,” you whimper, deepening your nails in his back, “Mmmph, c’mon, Ony. Please…” 

A grin spreads across his face at your pleas. Grabbing his throbbing tip, he positions himself at your face, smearing the leaking pre-cum across your cheek. He’s moaning, stroking himself rapidly, aiming his tip at your parted lips. His free hand grips your chin firmly, keeping you in place as his strokes become erratic. He then cums, painting your face—across your cheeks, over your lips, some even landing in your waiting mouth.

You stick your tongue out, running your tongue over your lips that darken in color, bruised as you dig your teeth into them with a sultry giggle. Heavy breathing fills the room as you keep your eyes up at him. 

He steps back as he says, “Hollon, baby,” going into the bathroom as he finds a towel, rubbing it along your face to clean you up. He then leans down, pulling you into a kiss as he grunts, “Gimme’ your mouth. I love you, Mama. I’m sorry.” 

You give him a kiss, holding his face in your hands, running your tongues together sloppily, passion filling your entire body from the previous actions. 

You say, “It’s okay. You’ want your massage now?”

He pulls his mouth back a bit, eyeing you before he chuckles. It makes you pout, “What’s funny?”

He laughs, shaking his head as he helps you stand, “Nothin’ Mama. Just thinkin' 'bout how quick you forgave me after I tore your ass up."

You roll your eyes, “I can always change my mind.” 

He runs a hand down your side, squeezing your hip possessively. "Chill out. I want that massage. You know I'm always ready for your magical hands."

He stretches languidly, his muscles rippling beneath his tattoos as he leads you towards the bedroom, “ And don’t be all stingy with the lotion. Do that lil’ thing I like if you feeling extra generous.” 

“You’ getting beside yourself. Do you need that?”

He turns, “Do you?”

You scrunch up your nose, “No. I want a massage next!”

“Exactly. C’mon, get that ass on the bed.”

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 21st. tom — gun play / dubcon / masochism.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom can’t hurt you, but you love seeing him try.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, i truly mean it minors stay back from this one. this is as fantasy as it comes. do not do this at home. or anywhere, ever. empty unloaded gun, gunplay, hardcore gun kink, masochist reader, sadist tom, very ooc tom riddle imo, lots of history between these two, angst and tension and emotion.

It doesn't matter how you got here—trapped in a room with Tom Riddle circling you, hands clasped behind him, his brother standing guard like a fucking solider just outside the door—it doesn't matter that your wrists are bound behind your back, rope cutting into your skin, or that you were caught somewhere deep within the manor, searching for information for the Order. It doesn't matter that you grew up with Tom and Mattheo, all those years in the orphanage, loved them both more than you ever loved yourself.

It doesn't fucking matter.

Nothing does—nothing except the man standing in front of you—nothing except the moment his hand reaches behind him, pulling a gun from where it had rested at his waist.

Yeah, uh, yeah—that might matter. Just a little.

"I never took you for someone who'd resort to Muggle weapons," you manage, but your voice is thin, a strained sound under the pulse thundering at your throat. "How refined."

Tom's eyes trace over you, stalling on the rhythm at your neck as though it's tangible before dragging back up to meet your own. He hasn't spoken in minutes, just watching, letting the silence swell, the tension grow with each passing second.

He's building it slowly, deliberately. It's always been a game to him—one he knows you'll lose.

"There's a certain appeal to them." His thumb grazes the trigger, almost absentmindedly. "So much power at the flick of a finger. No skill, no magic. Just finality."

Heat rises up your neck, settling in your cheeks, and all you can do is stare at him. He knows he doesn't need to touch you to break you—he's never had to. Tom's greatest weapon, when it comes to you, has always been his words.

He steps closer, fingers still ghosting over the gun as if he isn't holding all of your fate in his hands. He slows when his shins brush against your knees, and you hate how your pulse jumps, how you feel so small beneath him.

"You're tense," he murmurs, amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "Is it the weapon? Or something else?"

You lift your gaze because there's nowhere else to look—dark stone walls close in around you and he occupies every free inch of space between. It's laughable, really, the way your heart aches when you meet his eyes. You know he has to make an example of you, to prove something to the Death Eaters lurking beyond these walls, but despite the fire in his gaze, you can see it—the way he's holding back, just like he's done time and time again, for years.

No matter what he's become, there's still something of the boy you once knew buried beneath the surface. The boy who used to curl into you for warmth, for survival.

Your eyes flicker down to the gun again. You force the words past grit teeth. "Do you need that to feel powerful, Tom?"

There's something chilling in how natural the gun looks in his hand, the way he wields it with the same ease he uses to twist a wand. You’re certain Tom could find ease in anything, especially empty handed.

He's silent for a long moment, until he isn't. "I don't need anything to feel powerful."

The barrel catches the light as he raises it, and your skin tightens in anticipation. You close your eyes briefly as he drags it lazily up your arm, tracing a line of cold fire over your collarbone. Your heart is gone, soaring far away from this room, and a shiver rolls through you—not from fear, but from something you can't name. Something that's always belonged to him—

When the gun reaches your throat, your eyes flutter open, drawn to the sight of metal pressed against your skin.

He tilts his head, studying you. "You think this makes me dangerous?"

He tilts the gun beneath your chin, nudging your head back until your gaze meets his again. You gasp, and your thighs tense involuntarily. His eyes flicker down—he notices.

It's not the gun. It's him. Christ, it's always been him.

"No," you force out against the threat at your throat. "I think you make you dangerous."

Something shifts in Tom's eyes—just for a moment, before it vanishes beneath something more potent—determination.

He moves behind you in a slow circle, fingers brushing through your hair as if in contemplation. It's only a moment before his other hand brings the gun back, cold metal kissing the edge of your shoulder. You tense, feeling the weight of him behind you, his breath ghosting over your neck—and he inhales against your skin as he slides the gun lower, tracing the dip between your breasts, dragging like a threat down to your lap until the barrel presses against your thigh.

At this point, your heart pounds so loud you're certain Mattheo can hear it from outside the door—all you can do is stare at where his hand lingers, your mind racing ahead to the edge of terror and something far more dangerous.

"You seem...unbothered all of a sudden," Tom muses, teasing the gun up your thigh, dragging your skirts along with it. "One might expect the opposite reaction, given where this gun happens to be."

You know it's a game. Of course it's a game—his way of toying with you, forcing a reaction, demanding fear where there's none left. Except instead of fear, there's an unbearable heat curling inside you, your thighs wanting to close around the gun, to push against it, to feel it.

God, you hate that he does this to you.

"You won't hurt me," you manage, though your voice cracks. Your hips shift, just slightly, but enough to feel the cold metal slide higher. "If you wanted to, you would have."

That's the truth of it, isn't it? In the darkest moments, when you face him like this, you know with every beat of your heart that he'd never hurt you. You trust him in the way you shouldn't, in the way no one else in the world could. He could kill anyone else without a second thought, but not you.

That trust is what keeps pulling you back here, again and again, even though you've sworn yourself to the Order, even though you've promised to fight against everything he stands for.

"You always did have a death wish." He says, spitting the syllables at you, the disgust in his tone making your stomach lurch. His grip tightens in your hair. "Is that all it takes to make you pliable? My hands on you, a weapon in the room, and suddenly you're eager? Suddenly you trust me again?"

"You've never been able to kill me." You whisper, trying to sound cocky, sarcastic, but it comes out wrong—too breathless, too raw. "And you never will."

"I've never needed to." He murmurs as the gun moves again, pressing firmly against the apex of your thighs, nudging toward your clothed cunt. "You destroy yourself just fine."

You can't think, can't breathe, can't be when his voice wraps around you like this, when he presses the gun against you like it's a fucking present. Every nerve in your body is screaming, every instinct warring against itself. You want to grind against the barrel, to push it deeper between your legs. You want to trap it there, feel it pressed so tightly that you can't move. You want to drag his face to yours, taste his breath, break him.

Yet, you want to pull away and strike him across the face all the same—and that is Tom's power over you.

It's always been this way with him. You hate him—he's horrible and corrupt and so goddamn bad for you but he knows exactly what to say—exactly what to do to make you want to hurt him, to make you want to worship him in the same breath. The intensity of it steals the air from your lungs, makes a groan slip from your lips before you can stop it.

"Tell me, Tom," you grit out, forcing yourself still despite every inch of you wanting to move, wanting to react. "Would your fucking gun be on me like this if I was terrified of it? Would you be pressing it against me like this if it was loaded?"

The insinuation doesn't escape him. Not for a second. You have him pinned and it pisses him off because you fucked up by sneaking in here but there’s not a damn thing he can do to punish you for it that wouldn’t be punishment towards himself as well.

His grip in your hair tightens as the gun drags slowly over your clit, and you keen at the contact, your hips pushing into it.

"Fucking vixen," he pulls your head back roughly, his breath hot against your ear. His voice—the rawness— sends a goddamn thrill through you, makes your whole body jerk. "I have you tied to a chair, a gun at your cunt, and you still have the power to make me doubt myself.”

"That's me, Tom." You laugh, breathless. "Always ruining your fun."

His eyes flash with something—something devastating but it doesn't scare you because you've been here so many fucking times before. It only makes you arch your back, grinding against the gun harder, a soft moan escaping your lips just to spite him.

He watches you—eyes lidded, and something in the way he stares makes you ache.

"Why do you keep coming back here?" A question hissed through a tight jaw, words crawling down your spine, burrowing beneath your skin. "You keep testing me...fighting me...just to end up like this...”

You gasp. "I have to stop you—I—“

He cuts you off by yanking your head toward his until his forehead presses against yours—

"I didn't ask why you came," his nose brushes yours as he speaks. "I asked why you keep coming back. Why do you keep coming back to be...this for me?"

His voice is raw, something you've never heard in a long long time—unguarded—so fucking human. It makes the heat in your belly coil tighter, and your eyes flutter shut against the weight of it. You don't have an answer, not one that makes sense, not one that fits the way he's looking at you now.

"I-I don't know," is all you can offer.

Tom makes a noise in the back of his throat—low, frustrated, a sound that hums between you.

"Yes, you do," he hisses. "Don't get shy on me now."

He shifts the gun again, sliding beneath your panties, the cold metal making contact with your slick slit and you fucking gasp—a sound so loud you're sure Mattheo heard it—along with the rest of the goddamn house, too.

"This isn't about stopping me," Tom says, a whisper of words. "This isn't about taking away my control—not really."

He's right, and the truth of it stings. This isn't about stopping him, not entirely. You hate him for his choices but gods, you fucking crave this—him, his power over you. Every time you've come here, sneaking past the Order's notice, pretending to gather evidence, pretending you're smart enough to catch him in something—you know this is what you wanted. You know it's always been about him. The boy you survived with, the boy you loved—it's about how you've always belonged to him, even though you hate him for it.

It's always been him. Only him.

"Fuck," you gasp again as you feel the gun shifting, pressing harder against your cunt, and your mind is spinning because you can't believe he might—he wouldn't really— "…are you about to—Jesus, Tom..."

He's listening, you know he is. He's waiting for any hint of something that tells him to stop—a flinch, a breath that isn't right, the smallest sound that says you don't want this. But all he hears is you. You, the girl he's known since all you had was eachother, the one who loved him but left, who keeps coming back to him, no matter how much you claim to hate him.

He hears you submit, and it fuels him.

"You are..." he jerks your head again, roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes as the gun nudges against your soaked entrance, "...so unbelievably frustrating."

Oh, the irony. "I'm...not the only—oh gods—"

Your words crumble into nothing, dissolving in your throat as he presses the gun inside you. Cold metal pushing deep, rough ridges working you wide, the pressure burning with something almost unbearable in its fucking intensity.

Your mind hazes with it, and a groan that isn’t yours fills the room as you fight to adjust to the stretch.

"I hate this," he spits, his voice like gravel, raw and jagged with frustration, trembling with restraint. His eyes, wide and wild, stay locked on yours as though he can't tear himself away. "I hate how easy it is with you—I hate how quickly you give in, how you let me do this to you because you know I’d stop if you asked—I hate how I can never look at you without remembering what it feels like to be inside you. I hate how badly I still want that, after all these years, even though you left me. I hate you for making me want this."

Oh god—fucking hell—there's no room in your head for coherence now, no space left to argue, to resist—Tom Riddle has been so many things to you over the years, but openly, unabashedly vulnerable has never truly been one of them. Not until now. You feel it—beneath the brutality, the power—something fragile.

His forehead presses against your temple, the intimacy of it dizzying, disarming. You clench around the cold metal and he pushes it deeper.

He continues. “Admittedly, I hate myself most for wanting you to want this back.”

Your voice cracks around a sob—he’s pumping the gun in and out of you now—lewd sounds filling the room and your head tips back against his shoulder. His free hand slips from your hair and cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, a gesture that almost feels tender though you know better. His version of tenderness is as dangerous as anything else he offers.

You whinge. “T-Tom—oh fuck—I’m always going to let you win. I trust you—“

"Don't," he cuts you off in a groan against your cheek. Pumping the barrel into you, making your back arch off the chair. “You have no reason to. You know better."

You hear the unspoken words in his voice, the ones he can't bring himself to say aloud—I don't deserve it—and it makes your chest ache, makes your throat tighten—makes you want to shake him, wake him up from this nightmare—

"Of course I know better," you whisper through a gasp as he mutters a spell, something swirling over your clit that makes your eyes roll. “Gods—but you’ve never wanted me rational anyways.”

"You're right," he hisses and you hear the pain in it, a man who has everything still simultaneously has nothing and it makes him frustrated—all because of you. "I never wanted you to be rational. I never wanted you to be safe. I never wanted you to be anything other than mine."

You keen as the sensation on your clit intensifies and he pumps the gun quicker, you look down to watch his hand, the way his knuckles tense with the movement and you can almost see the restraint under his skin telling you just how bad he wishes he was pumping into you instead. You can hear your arousal—you feel the shame in it and you should be disgusted by it, by everything this is, but instead, it only makes your heart race faster.

You know there's more he's not saying—that he can't say.

He wants you to be his, but he will never let you be his.

"I hate you. What you've become." The words scrape from your lips between moans, your climax charging fast. "It shouldn't be this...this hard."

"This is why I call you frustrating. How can you hate me and still let me do this to you?" His voice is raw, burning with something you don't fully understand, but you can feel it— he's pushing deeper, grinding the gun against you with every bit of anger he has left. You're on fire, your mind spinning out of control, and the ropes digging into your skin only ground you to the pain, to the pleasure. "I'm defiling you...and yet, you keep coming back.”

"God," you grunt, sweat slicking over your skin because you’re so goddamn close and his words only drag you that much closer. "Jesus f—Tom, please—“

"Please what?" His hand slips back through your hair, eyes jerked to meet his. "You need to be more specific, sweetheart."

There's a bite in the pet name, but you don't care. All you can think of is him, of more, of everything he's doing to you, and it's not enough. It’ll never be fucking enough—

“Please!” Words fail you. “Tom—I—“

He shudders at the sound of your voice, at how helpless you are, at all the power you've given him.

"Words," he snarls, pumping quicker. "I'll give you what you want, but you’ll need to use. your. words."

“Please! I need to cum!” You blurt out. “Tom—Tom! I need to—“

With that, he kisses you to cut you off, teeth sinking into your lower lip with fervour that borders on irrational. Which, of course it is. All of this is beyond fucking irrational. It's not careful or soft or gentle, his lips searing against yours as if he's trying to claim every breath you've ever taken, every inch of space between you. And you—god, you kiss him back just as fiercely while hating yourself for the way you want it, need it, how you crave the bruises his mouth is leaving behind.

Tom groans against your lips and it's the sound of something breaking, something starved for way too long, something desperate to pour out of his blood. His tongue slides over yours, wet and warm, and you feel the ropes biting into your wrists, feel the ache where your arms strain to break free. You realize, with a pulse of helpless longing, that if you weren't tied, you'd be clawing at him—dragging him closer, letting him consume every part of you until there was nothing left.

"Feel that shame?" He whispers as he pulls back, just as you’re about to tip over. "That's your punishment.”

And then—you break, shatter, explode and the sound that escapes you is so fucking raw you don’t even recognize it. Something filled with the shame of wanting someone so goddamn bad you let them fuck you with a weapon—the shame of wanting someone so terrible you’d never be able to explain yourself to anyone with a rational pulse. The sounds come without reason, without thought—just a release of emotion that you had held in for far, far too long.

“That’s it. Let it burn.” He coos, hungrily watching you break. “You will always be mine."

A jagged sound escapes you as you twitch in aftershocks and he finally, however torturously slowly, pulls the gun free. You realize just how empty you feel without it now, how Tom made it feel so fucking intimate even though, in reality, it was the furthest from. He didn’t even touch you.

“You’re just weak. For me.” He says, as though he heard your thoughts. Part of you knows he did. He brings the gun up to your lips, urging you to part them. “Clean your mess. This is Mattheo’s gun.”

You grimace but take it into your mouth anyways, tasting the result of your need—the shame that comes along with it, the self disgust—the list goes on. Tom watches you tease your tongue around it, his throat working in a terribly dry swallow as you hollow your cheeks and suck it clean as he pulls it free.

He shudders, and for a moment his control wavers. But then he shakes his head, and exhales.

"I was meant to be alone, I understand that." He whispers, something abhorrently vulnerable, tucking the gun away before working at undoing the ropes around your wrists. “But you...you were never meant to change me. And I need you, to understand that.”

A lump forms in your throat. You taste the tears wanting to well but you force them away and instead, you nod.

“I know.”

He straightens up again and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and almost tender—so different from the way he treated you merely moments ago. It's a goodbye—you can feel it in the way his lips linger, reluctant.

“Good girl.” He steps back. "Don't come back here."