#i usually want to talk about how good they are

[sumluckr]

Obsessive/toxic relationship with Baek-jin hcs:

• You and Baek-jin are the kind of couple that people either avoid or whisper about. The ones that sit too close, touch too much, stare at each other like no one else exists. It’s not cute — it’s intense. Suffocating. But to you, it’s everything. You need each other like oxygen. And when he’s not around, you feel like you’re unraveling.

• Neither of you came into this relationship healthy. You grew up in a house where love had strings attached and silence was safer than speaking up. He grew up with no one — just a system that chewed him up and spit him out. So when you found each other, it stuck. You both cling to this relationship like it’s the only good thing you’ve ever had. Because it is.

• His men are scared of you — not because you’re violent, but because he is, and he doesn’t care who he hurts if it means protecting you. One guy made the mistake of calling you “hot” once, loud enough for Baek-jin to hear. He broke the guy’s nose before he even finished the sentence.

Later that night, you sat on the bathroom counter while he washed the blood off his hands.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied, calm as ever. “But I wanted to.”

• When you get jealous, you don’t hide it either. You’ve cursed out girls for looking at him too long, even shoved one at a party because she got handsy while drunk. Baek-jin didn’t stop you — just pulled you aside after and said, “Next time, hit her harder.” He loves that side of you. Possessive, loyal, just as territorial as he is.

• The sex is rough. It’s messy. Loud. You leave scratches all over his back and he leaves bruises on your hips from how tight he holds you. Half the time, he doesn’t even take all your clothes off — just pushes them aside or pulls your underwear down far enough.

“Need you now,” he growls against your neck, hand already between your legs.

He gets off on hearing you lose control. You sound different with him — needier, more desperate. That’s his favorite part.

• Sometimes he fucks you just to prove a point. When someone pissed him off. When you had a fight. When he sees someone look at you wrong. He’ll drag you somewhere private and bend you over whatever’s closest, telling you exactly who you belong to.

“Say it,” he demands, slamming into you from behind. “Say whose you are.”

And you always do.

• You fight a lot. Not always screaming, but tension hangs thick between you when you’re upset. The arguments are sharp, fast, and exhausting. But no matter how bad they get, neither of you leaves. Not even for a second. You’ve both got abandonment issues so deep, the idea of walking away is worse than anything you could say to each other.

• After fights, the make-up sex is even nastier than usual. He grabs your face and kisses you hard, pushing you down on the bed like he can’t breathe until he’s inside you. You cry sometimes, still mad but needing him so bad it hurts.

And Baek-jin always gives in. Always.

“Stop crying,” he mutters, wiping your face with his hand. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

• You’ve both talked about the future like it’s already locked in. Marriage. A house. Maybe a dog. Maybe kids. But even now, you call each other husband and wife when you’re alone — or when you’re pissed and trying to shut people up.

“Back off. That’s my man.”

“She’s basically my wife already. Don’t talk to her like that.”

• He buys you food without asking. Memorized your coffee order. Knows what snacks you crave before your period. You act tough, but the second he shows up with your favorite drink, your heart melts.

“I know you better than anyone,” he says. And he’s right.

• Your phone wallpaper is him asleep in your bed. His is a picture you didn’t know he took — you in one of his hoodies, bare legs, laughing. He says it’s his favorite version of you. Relaxed. Happy. Safe.

You didn’t know he thought about stuff like that. He doesn’t talk about feelings much, but he shows them — in all the ways that matter.

• His trauma shows up in quiet ways. He hates hospitals. Doesn’t like being touched when he’s angry. Sleeps with his back to the wall. But he lets you in. Lets you touch him. Lets you see the parts of him that nobody else gets to.

Same for you. You don’t let people close — but he’s in. Deep. You’d rather fight the world with him than live without him.

• You’ve lost friends because of him. They told you the relationship was too much — too intense, too possessive, too toxic. And maybe they were right. But you don’t care.

“They don’t get it,” you said once.

“Fuck them,” Baek-jin replied. “All we need is us.”

• He tracks your location. You share your passwords. He doesn’t like when you’re out too long without telling him.

You act annoyed when he texts: Where the fuck are you?

But you always reply. And part of you likes it — that he cares that much. That you matter enough to make him anxious.

• One night, you were wearing something tight at a party. He didn’t say anything until you leaned down to grab a drink and someone behind you stared a second too long.

Baek-jin stepped between you and the guy without a word and shoved him back by the throat. Later, he pulled you into a bathroom stall and fucked you against the wall.

“You want attention? I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re mine. Remember that.”

• He doesn’t care about public sex. He’s done it. You’ve done it. You’ve blown him in the car, in his office, in a locked classroom. Once in a stairwell at a club.

He’s fast, rough, and doesn’t care who hears.

“You’re shaking,” he said once, pulling your panties back up after.

“You fucked me like a psycho.”

He smirked. “Only for you.”

• He loves seeing you in his clothes. Doesn’t matter what — hoodies, shirts, even just his boxers. Says you look better in his stuff than he ever does. And when you walk around the apartment in nothing but his t-shirt, he gets hard instantly.

“You trying to start something?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. Get in bed.”

• Sometimes you cuddle so close it’s like you’re trying to fuse together. Arms around each other, legs tangled. You sleep best like that. So does he. You’ve got matching scars, matching baggage, matching tempers — but somehow it works.

You make each other feel less alone. Even on the worst nights.

• People don’t understand how bad it gets when you’re apart. You once didn’t see him for two days after a fight and cried yourself sick. He showed up at 3 a.m., banged on your door until your neighbors threatened to call the cops.

You let him in.

He fucked you right there in the hallway. No words. Just hands, teeth, clothes being pulled off. And when it was over, he kissed your forehead and said, “We’re not doing that again.”

• You tattooed each other’s initials. Small, hidden. You did his behind his ear. He did yours on your hip. It’s not pretty — the lines are shaky — but you both love them.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said after. “Now you’re stuck with me.”

• When he says “I love you,” it’s not soft. It’s not whispered. It’s rough. Sure.

“You’re mine.”

“I’ll kill for you.”

“You’re the only person I’d burn the world down for.”

• You believe him. You’d do the same. And that’s the scariest part — how easy it is to believe him.

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind - One-Shot

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: It’s Bob’s turn to watch baby Georgie without his mother for the afternoon while Y/N gets a rare, much-needed break—a hair appointment and solo coffee date she's been putting off for a year. She leaves Bob at the Watchtower with an overly detailed list, and a kiss on the cheek. Bob is confident to do it alone. He’s ready.

He is not ready.

Word count: 3,3k

Note: surprise...? I've received requests to a little of this, and my story "Silence between hearts" is about to hurt, so here's something teeth rooting sweet

--

“Don’t call me unless he grows a second head or you explode.”

Y/N stood at the door of the Watchtower quarters, one foot already out, the other stubbornly stuck in her mom-brain. A hairbrush dangled loosely from her fingers—she hadn’t even finished brushing her hair—but this was the first time in months she was about to be alone. A solo afternoon. No bottle bag. No sticky hands tugging at her shirt. No cosmic boyfriend brooding in a corner while their baby giggled during diaper changes.

Just her, a hair appointment, and a painfully overpriced coffee in a place where no one would ask her how many teeth Georgie had now. Heaven.

Bob—the Sentry, golden-eyed god of light and destruction—stood barefoot in sweatpants, proudly holding Georgie like he was a war medal. The baby was perched on his hip, chubby legs kicking, two fingers jammed in his mouth as drool glistened on Bob’s shirt. Bob looked thrilled. Slightly wild-eyed, but thrilled.

“Please,” Bob scoffed, puffing out his chest like he hadn’t spent the morning panicking over how to warm a bottle. “He’s just a baby. And his my son.”

“Uh-huh,” Y/N replied dryly, grabbing a folded piece of paper that practically unrolled like a medieval scroll. She handed it to him like she was passing off the nuclear launch codes. “Feed him at noon. Not eleven. Not twelve-fifteen. Noon. Change him right after or you’ll have regrets. His favorite toy is the orange squid. Not the blue one. The blue one is cursed. If he says ‘boo,’ that means he’s sleepy. If he says ‘baba,’ it means he’s tricking you. Nap at one. And don’t—"

“I got it, you know I'm his dad right?” Bob cut in, smiling too confidently for a man who once accidentally put Georgie’s diaper on inside-out. “We’ll be great. Right, Georgie?”

Georgie responded by slapping him square in the face with his teething ring, then letting out a wail that could probably be heard three floors down.

Y/N didn’t even flinch. “He’s testing you. He smells weakness.”

“I am not weak,” Bob said, now slightly pale.

She kissed Georgie’s forehead and then pressed her lips to Bob’s lips , lingering there for a second longer than usual. “Be good, baby, have funny with daddy ? Love you.”

It was hard to say if she was talking to Georgie or Bob.

She turned back toward the door with the air of a woman stepping onto a plane to paradise. “And try not to cry.”

Bob grinned, lifting Georgie into the air like Simba. “Cry? Pfft. I got this.”

Georgie promptly spit up on him.

“...I’ve handled worse,” Bob said, blinking through the goo, voice wobbling just slightly.

Y/N just waved over her shoulder as the door shut behind her.

“Good luck, Sentry,” she muttered, smiling to herself. “You’re gonna need it.”

--

Hour One

Bob did not got this.

Fifteen minutes after Y/N left, Georgie let out a wail so powerful, Bob was almost certain it tore a hole in reality. The kind of scream that rattled the windows and summoned an instinctive fear deep in his cosmic-powered bones.

“Okay—okay, what is it?! What do you want?” Bob shouted over the sound of despair, pacing the room like a man who had definitely fought gods but had never faced a diaper with this much confidence.

Bottle: rejected. Diaper: halfway on, slightly crooked, and possibly backwards. Georgie: red-faced, screaming, cheeks wet with tears. Bob’s shirt: soaked in spit-up and the unmistakable scent of panic and baby wipes.

“…I guess I'm not your favorite.” Bob muttered to himself, trying to rock Georgie gently but ending up looking like a malfunctioning seesaw. “Okay, okay, you want the orange squid? THE ORANGE SQUID?!”

He scrambled across the room and grabbed the sacred plush—Y/N had made it very clear this was the only acceptable toy. With trembling hands, he presented it to his furious son like an offering to a very picky god.

Georgie made eye contact. And then—yeeted the orange squid across the room like a shot put champion.

Bob stood in stunned silence. “You… betrayed the pact.”

Georgie screamed harder, now seemingly offended that his father hadn’t caught the toy midair like a proper superhero.

“Right. Right, okay,” Bob said, panicking, swaying faster. “What would Y/N do? She’d stay calm. She’d sing. Sing! You like music, right? You’re a baby. Babies like music.”

And then Bob Reynolds—interdimensional powerhouse, man who had once been described as a living weapon—began softly singing the theme song to Bluey while desperately bouncing his son like a milk-drunk maraca.

By minute twenty, he’d tried every soothing technique he could remember: humming, rocking, whispering affirmations, showing him a spoon, talking about gravitational waves—none worked.

Georgie’s rage was eternal.

By minute twenty-five, Bob had texted Y/N no fewer than seven times:

“He screamed.”

“I think I did the diaper wrong.”

“He threw the squid.”

“I threw the squid back.”

“It’s a blur.”

“Why does he hate me.”

“Do not come home. I got this.”

The baby, finally exhausted from the chaos he’d unleashed upon the world, quieted into little hiccups. Bob sat on the floor, legs sprawled, cradling him like a glass of nitroglycerin.

He whispered hoarsely, “We made it. Hour one.”

Georgie let out a gurgle and drooled on his chest.

Bob blinked. “…Please don’t poop.”

--

Hour Two

Bob hit the emergency comms like he was ordering an airstrike.

“Team. Immediate assistance required. The baby’s angry. Possibly planning a coup.”

There was a pause.

Then Alexei’s voice crackled through: “Does he have tiny knife? Is he armed?”

Bob looked down at Georgie, who had somehow dismantled the baby monitor and was now chewing on a AA battery. “…Unclear.”

Twenty minutes later, the Watchtower looked less like a high-security military compound and more like The Hunger Games: Diaper Edition.

Alexei burst in first, shirt half-unbuttoned and holding a protein shake. He took one look at Georgie and nodded solemnly.

“In Soviet Russia, baby trains you.”

Without further explanation, he hoisted Georgie upside down by one leg. “This is strength test.”

“Alexei!” Bob yelped. “He’s not a dumbbell!”

“He is small. Compact. Good form.”

Georgie farted directly in Alexei’s face. The Russian didn’t flinch. “Powerful child.”

Yelena walked in sipping iced coffee, took one look at the chaos, and sat cross-legged on the floor like a judge at a toddler UFC match.

“Incredible,” she muttered in her dry Russian monotone. “One baby. Six adults. No survivors.”

Georgie hurled a stuffed giraffe at her. She caught it mid-air and nodded. “He has the killer instinct.”

Walker showed up in full uniform, plus a tactical diaper bag strapped across his chest.

“I brought emergency swaddles. Kevlar-lined. And baby sunglasses. Baby’s gotta block UVs and weak emotional boundaries.”

He tried to put the sunglasses on Georgie.

Georgie slapped him with a teething ring and screamed bloody murder.

Bob leaned in. “He doesn’t like authority.”

“Then he’s just like his dad,” Walker muttered, swaddling himself in frustration.

Ava phased through the ceiling. “Did someone say coup?”

She tried to phase into the crib to fix the music mobile, which was currently stuck playing Baby Shark in reverse. It sounded haunted.

Unfortunately, Ava got halfway through the bars and jammed. Legs dangling. Head inside the crib.

“Cool. Love this for me,” she deadpanned as Bob and Walker yanked her out by the ankles like an aggressive game of human Jenga.

Then, Bucky showed up with a dusty cardboard box under one arm and a PB&J sandwich in the other.

“I brought vintage baby gear,” he said.

Bob opened the box and immediately gagged. “Why does this smell like depression and mothballs?!”

“Those were my baby clothes from the ‘40s,” Bucky said proudly. “Wool. Bulletproof. Passed down from the trenches of Brooklyn.”

Yelena pulled out a hole-ridden sweater the size of a loaf of bread. “It has... bullet holes.”

“They’re historical, Yelena,” Bucky snapped.

“It’s screaming, Bucky.”

“That’s the spirit of American baby fashion,” he argued.

Through it all, Georgie was thriving.

He sat in the middle of the chaos like a baby warlord, covered in fruit puree, holding the blue squid he allegedly hated, laughing like he’d summoned the madness himself.

Alexei was teaching him how to do squats by moving his legs like a tiny puppet. Yelena had crafted him a crown out of wet wipes. Walker was still trying to enforce baby sunglasses regulations. Ava was stuck to the crib again. Bucky was sewing a patch onto a moth-eaten onesie labeled “SERGEANT CUDDLES.”

Bob, exhausted, crusty with baby food, orange squid stuck to the back of his head, finally sat down and sighed.

“This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

Georgie looked at him, giggled, and immediately pooped his pants with enough force to shake the mobile.

The team froze.

“New mission,” Bob groaned, standing up. “Code Brown.”

“OH GOD, NOT AGAIN!” Ava shouted as Walker reached for the tactical wipes and Bucky handed him a helmet.

“Baby training complete,” Alexei grinned proudly.

And somewhere, in a quiet salon chair miles away, Y/N took a peaceful sip of her latte… unaware that her son was currently being worshipped like a baby war god by Earth's most dysfunctional superhero team.

--

Hour Three

Everyone was covered in either baby powder, spit-up, fruit puree, or the unmistakable residue of regret.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor in the wreckage of what used to be the Watchtower’s pristine living room. Now it looked like a daycare after a tornado. Toys everywhere. One sock on the ceiling fan. The orange squid somehow lodged in the TV.

He held Georgie in his lap like a war casualty—himself included—hair matted, eyes bloodshot, a faint purée smear on his cheek. Georgie, unfazed, was happily chewing on a hairbrush he’d commandeered from Ava’s pocket mid-crisis.

“I’m so sorry, buddy,” Bob mumbled, gently wiping at the drool pooling under Georgie’s chin. “I’m a mess. I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Georgie blinked up at him. Silent for a beat. His jaw worked around the hairbrush like it owed him money.

And then.

Clear as a bell. Soft and sweet and a little wet from the drool: “Da-da!”

Bob’s entire soul left his body.

He blinked, stunned.

Georgie giggled. Wiggled. Flapped his arms like a baby penguin in battle mode.

“Da-da!” he said again, grinning wide with tiny teeth and baby joy.

Bob’s mouth fell open. His heart exploded. “That’s me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “That’s me, buddy. I’m your Da-da.”

A choked laugh slipped from his lips as he scooped Georgie up, holding him close like a miracle. His hands shook. He rocked gently, pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead, humming the lullaby Y/N always sang—the one she said her mom used to sing to her.

Georgie’s limbs slowly stilled. His head slumped on Bob’s shoulder. His tiny hand curled around Bob’s shirt collar.

Fast asleep.

The chaos settled.

Silence filled the room like a warm exhale.

Across the room, Alexei wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “That…” he said, voice thick, “was beautiful. Like watching Rocky hold his tiny Adrian.”

Yelena, sitting backwards on a dining chair with a juice box, nodded solemnly. “I am tweeting it.”

Walker leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyebrows drawn. “…Okay. That almost made me feel a human emotion. I hated it.”

Ava, still half-stuck in the crib, deadpanned, “If one of you doesn’t get me out, I will phase into the vacuum cleaner and haunt this place forever.”

“Shhh,” Bob whispered, rocking Georgie gently. “My son just called me Da-da.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, emerging from the kitchen with a peanut butter spoon and what appeared to be one of Bob’s shirts tied around his head like a baby bandana. “Meanwhile I’ve been trying to get him to say ‘Uncle Buck’ all day.”

“He thinks you’re a chair, Barnes,” Walker said flatly.

“Still counts!”

Yelena stood, walking over quietly. She crouched beside Bob and the sleeping Georgie, looking at the baby like he was a tiny grenade that had somehow taught her what peace looked like. “He really loves you,” she said, softer than usual. “It’s all over his weird little face.”

Bob smiled down at his son, his whole chest aching with a kind of love he never thought he’d be worthy of. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted, brushing Georgie’s curls back.

“No one does,” Ava said from the crib. “But you're trying.”

And for the first time since Y/N left that morning, Bob didn’t feel terrified. He just felt… full.

Georgie stirred. Sighed. And nuzzled closer into his father’s shoulder.

Then, of course, Alexei ruined it.

“Okay, but hear me out,” the Russian said, eyes wide. “We start baby boot camp tomorrow. Real tiny obstacle course. Baby repels. Very small kettlebells.”

--

Hour Four

Y/N opened the Watchtower door with one hand, sipping from her well-earned iced latte with the other, sunglasses still perched on her nose. She paused at the threshold, blinking slowly.

The room looked like it had been hit by a daycare-themed apocalypse.

Orange squid toy hanging from a light fixture. A stack of baby books precariously teetering like a Jenga tower. Finger paint (she hoped it was paint) smeared on the wall in what looked suspiciously like ancient runes.

Ava was stuck—again—half-phased into the playpen bars with a teether balanced on her forehead like a crown. Alexei was slumped in a baby swing meant for a 25-pound limit, snoring like a foghorn. Bucky lay unconscious on the couch, a pacifier somehow stuck in his mouth and a bib around his neck reading "Spit Happens."

Yelena sat in a beanbag with her phone, narrating like it was a nature documentary. “Observe. The aftermath of paternal delusion. One dares to father. The others fall.”

And in the center of the chaos: Bob.

He sat in the rocking chair, moving slowly, Georgie curled up and asleep on his chest. One of Bob’s massive hands cupped the back of the baby’s tiny head protectively. His shirt was stained, his hair was a mess, and there was a stuffed animal tail sticking out of his pocket.

His eyes opened when he heard the door.

“You’re back,” he whispered, like she might vanish if he spoke louder.

“I leave you for four hours,” Y/N whispered back, stunned but very, very amused.

“He said ‘Da-da,’” Bob said reverently, as if revealing the third secret of Fatima.

“Oh no,” she groaned, trying not to smile. “I’m never gonna hear the end of that.”

“I might tattoo it on my chest.”

“I believe you.”

Bob carefully stood up, like Georgie was made of glass and dreams. The baby stayed snoozing on his shoulder, drooling into his dad’s collarbone like it was his full-time job.

“We survived,” Bob said, dazed.

“Barely,” Y/N replied, walking up to kiss Georgie’s head… and then Bob’s cheek. “You did good, Da-da.”

From the couch, Walker groaned, lifting a pillow to cover his face. “Next time, I’m babysitting. Just me. No Russian gymnasts. No possessed chairs. No ghost babies.”

Alexei shot up mid-snore, eyes wild. “You wish! I will raise the child to become strongest soldier! He crawled at me once—I saw purpose!”

“Over my dead body!” Bucky shouted, jolting awake, still wearing the pacifier. “He said ‘Uncle Buck’ in his sleep!”

“NO, HE DIDN’T,” Yelena shouted. “He gurgled at a shoe. That does not count!”

“GUYS,” Yelena yelled over them all, hands raised. “HE. IS. ONE.”

Georgie stirred slightly in Bob’s arms and mumbled, “Da-da,” before sighing and settling again.

Everyone froze.

Bob blinked rapidly. “He said it again.”

Y/N reached up to take Georgie gently from him, pressing her nose into the baby’s curls. “I heard it, love. You win.”

Bob looked at her like she hung the stars.

She looked down at the boy in her arms. “He’s perfect.”

He met her eyes. “Just like his mom.”

She smiled—tired, tender, in love in every possible direction. “Just like his dad.”

And then, from the couch, a voice chimed in:

“Told you everything would work out.”

Y/N turned. Mr. Cooper—casually leaning against the wall, sipping a juice box that no one had seen him come in with—nodded like some sort of mystical babysitting cryptid.

“Heyy, I didn't see you go up.” she barked, laughing. “Are you stalking us now?”

“I heard ‘Da-da’ over open comms,” he said with a shrug. “I figured it was either a miracle… or Bob finally short-circuited.”

Bob blinked. “Wait. How is he always here?!”

"Oh I called him, to catch up, a litttle chat."Y/N responded.

Mr. Cooper didn’t answer. He just winked at Georgie and dropped a tiny NYPD plush teddy bear on the armrest.

Georgie grabbed it mid-sleep. Tiny fingers curling around it. He smiled in his dreams.

Bob looked at the chaos, at the team, at the baby in Y/N’s arms, then back at Y/N. He stepped beside her, slipping an arm around her waist.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Now I really got this.”

From the floor, where Ava was still phasing in and out of frustration, came a mutter:

“I give it twelve hours.”

Yelena raised her juice box like a toast. “To Da-da. And whatever the hell just happened here.”

Alexei joined her. “And to tiny future warrior! May his thighs be strong like mine!”

Y/N and Bob just laughed.

--

The soft glow from the baby monitor flickered gently in the dim bedroom as Bob and Y/N stood side by side, their bodies close but not quite touching yet. Through the small screen, little Georgie lay curled up in his crib, fast asleep, the tiny rise and fall of his chest the most peaceful sight either of them had seen in weeks.

Bob’s voice broke the silence, low and warm. “You know… I don’t say this enough, but I’m the luckiest guy alive. I have both of you in my life—my son, my family... and you.”

Y/N turned her head slightly to look at him, the soft lamplight casting shadows over his face, highlighting the tenderness in his eyes. She smiled, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You’re pretty sexy when you’re all proud dad and soft like that.”

Bob chuckled, his confidence shifting to a teasing smirk. “Oh yeah? You like this version of me?”

Her eyes sparkled as she stepped closer, fingers sliding up to trace the line of his jaw. “I might have to see more of it… after bedtime, of course.”

He caught her hand, pulling her gently into his arms. The playful heat in his gaze deepened as he lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “You know, I’ve got plenty of energy saved just for you.”

Y/N leaned in, her breath warm against his neck, heartbeat speeding up. “Good. Because the kid’s sleeping, the night’s ours, and I’m ready to remind you exactly how lucky you are.”

Bob’s hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The baby monitor hummed softly in the background, a quiet reminder of their new little world—but right now, all that mattered was the fire burning between them.

With a slow, teasing smile, Bob pressed his lips to hers.

Just as Bob’s kiss deepened and Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, a tiny, unmistakable sound echoed from the baby monitor — a soft, urgent “Waaah!”

They both froze, breaking apart with a shared glance that mixed amusement and inevitability.

Bob sighed dramatically, mock groaning. “That’s our cue.”

Y/N giggled, resting her forehead against his. “The universe doesn’t want us to have all the fun tonight.”

He smiled, brushing a gentle kiss on her temple. “Well, Mr. Georgie’s got impeccable timing. But don’t worry… once he’s back asleep, I’m coming back for round two.”

She grinned, slipping her hand into his. “Deal. Now, let’s go be the best ‘da-da’ and ‘ma-ma’ this little guy’s ever had.”

[honeytonedhottie]

wellness for the hotties⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🪞🎀

this is honey's updated wellness post for the girlies who love to romanticize their routines, listen to their bodies and take impeccable care of themselves. these r my routines and rituals that keep me glowing…💬🎀

LYMPHATIC DRAINAGE ;

lymphatic drainage massage has been an absolute GAME changer for me like OH MY GOSH?? and it literally takes no more than ten minutes a day and its lowkey like giving myself a massage 💕.

one thing i will say though, the order in which u drain is SO important so make sure to do it in the proper order. this is the lymphatic drainage massage that i do every single day, i rly love this one bcuz the doctor in the video actually explains it and shows u how to do it so i rly love it.

HOT OR NOT ;

so i drink hot drinks while eating and i drink cold drinks when im not. drinking warm drinks while eating/before eating help relax your stomach muscles and improve blood circulation to your digestive organs. and cold drinks cause blood vessels in your stomach to tighten, slowing down digestion. it also helps with other things like...

🫖 reduces bloating

🫖 helps with detoxification

🫖 gentle on ur throat and stomach

HOW TO MAKE A GINGER SHOT ;

so i own a juicer but assembling it and disassembling it is soo tedious and i'd rather just use my blender so im going to be talking about how i make ginger shots using a blender. all ur going to need are the following...

🌟 a few pieces of ginger (i usually just use one or two small pieces)

🌟 some water

🌟 cayenne powder if u want an extra kick (optional)

🌟 some lemon

🌟 strainer

and all u have to do is lightly peel ur pieces of ginger, dont worry about getting all the skin off but just get as much as u can off. put it into ur blender with some water and squeeze half a lemon into it before blending. next ur going to take ur strainer and separate the pulp from the juice and ur all done!

HOTTIES REPS ;

i always start all my workouts briskly walking for 30 minutes on the treadmill at an incline. i watch kimora lee simmon's life in the fab lane show while i do this because each episode is around 30-40 minutes so i keep myself distracted. or if im feeling for something different i'll go on the elliptical instead of the treadmill.

at the moment... the workouts that im doing consistently everyday are 10 minute waist + tummy workout, 10 minute hourglass abs workout, 5 minute stomach vacuum, 5 minute abs and small waist pilates workout routine, 5 minute everyday pilates lower abs for abs. and then for booty i love to do 12 minute booty workout (with resistance bands or weights), and 10 minute bubble butt burnout. now for my arms and back i do 10 minute slim back & better posture, 5 min slim and toned arms workout, and 8 minute victorias secret angel arms. if u guys want more on working out and stuff i can make a post on that too!

MENTALLY MOISTURIZED ;

i've been consistently journaling for about three years now and its been fabulous. i can get all my thoughts out onto paper and not feel like im carrying a million pounds of stress on my head. i feel overwhelmed a lot because i do SO much and journaling has really helped me.

also i have a super fabulous therapist who helps teach me how to ground myself, and just take care of myself better so shes great. if u can't have a therapist right now, journaling is great... and between me and you... chat gpt makes a great therapist.

i love meditating every now and then when i feel like i wanna just immerse myself in my brain, another thing i do to keep a good mental space is digital detoxes. every other week i get off of tiktok and it has been SO great for me. i also don't use my phone in the mornings because i just need time to get ready and have a screen free morning, its rly so pleasant. if im sad, i cheer myself up with shopping.

SIP PRETTY ;

i follow this one girl on youtube, i'll link her right here ❤︎ but she has amazing juicing recipes and healthy lifestyle content in general that rly inspires me. i make the same juices she does and they taste generally good and are good for you. i like to make juice once a week, maybe twice. whenever i feel like i need it essentially.

IN BED BY 9... GLOWING BY 8 ;

SLEEP IS A NON NEGOTIABLE. even if u eat super healthy and workout everyday, if ur not sleeping enough it's like shooting yourself in the foot! you need ur beauty sleep. sleep is when your body heals, resets, and literally glows up from the inside out. it helps balance your hormones, support your metabolism, and keep your skin clear and glowing. not to be dramatic but… no amount of eye cream or green juice can fix chronic exhaustion. and thats the real gag.

FEET UP THE WALL POSE ;

when u elevate ur legs, ur letting gravity do all the work for you. draining lymph, reducing swelling, and boosting circulation. it’s perfect after a long day or when you’re feeling puffy and need a moment of calm.

CYCLE SYNCING ;

so there are four menstrual phases. luteal (before period, when u start to feel sluggish) menstrual (during ur period) follicular (after ur period so improved mood and brain function) and ovulation (ur feeling confident, like the summer of ur body). the way i incorporate cycle syncing is just, during my luteal phase i won't over-stuff my agenda bcuz ik i get super sluggish and cranky.

i also make sure to pour into myself during the menstrual and luteal phases. i plan my bigger projects during follicular and ovulation. i plan my workouts accordingly too, and set aside extra time for rest. i eat a lot of soups during my period -> red meat and fermented foods during follicular -> fibrous foods during ovulation -> and healthy fats and chocolate during luteal.

its super simple! and to make it simpler think of it like seasons. ur menstrual phase is the winter -> follicular is the spring -> ovulation is summer -> and luteal is fall.

to finish off this post, start noticing what drains you, what fills your cup, and having the self-respect to choose what’s good for you…💬🎀

[lunarleylines]

Went to the reblogs to see if someone was already talking about this and yeah, this is at least the gist of things.

The other thing I'd add to the above is that if you've almost entirely worked with digital stuff in your life, you've stumbled onto the idea of Additive vs. Subtractive color. This might be boring to some folks, so full spiel after the cut, but TLDR; in digital, you're going from no light to all light, and in print, you're going from all light to no light (and you have to take some physical factors into account).

Now, excuse me as I dust off the degree I got but don't generally use:

When looking at RGB (like #000000 or #FFFFFF), it's explaining roughly how concentrated each color is in the same block of empty/black space, on a scale of 0-100%, but stretched into hex to be 0-256 (00 being 0% and FF being 100%). It's also representing mixing literal beams of light of those colors, so when you have them at 100%, you've made white light, like a reverse prism. This is additive color, the common thing for digital because it's pretty literal, as you're adding together light on top of an otherwise lightless square of a screen.

In CMYK, you're not starting from nothing, you have a (usually) white background, and then you're adding colors on top of that, and removing the light from the space*, thus subtractive color. That's accomplished with the dots referenced above in terms of how large the dots of a given color are in that block of space, ranging from no dot, to filling the given space with as much dot as possible. Additionally, in the same way you can make white in RGB by maxing out the colors, you can theoretically create black with just Cyan, Magenta, and Yellow at maximum concentration, but that's both a giant waste of ink, and way more likely to bleed through paper, so instead, you have Black on its own as a way to jump directly to black, and to make it more efficient to get dark colors when mixing the other three (plus black ink is cheaper).

Okay, so let's go back to the dots referenced above and what zwoelf was saying. If you think about printing some black text for something like a newspaper, that's easy, you just use purely black ink, and bam, you've got black text that reads just fine as black for general use. It's small, so there's not that much paper color to show up between the dots, and adding colors wouldn't change it enough for it to really matter in most cases (especially for the added price of printing with other colors).

But when you start looking at printing something larger that you want to look really good, and you fill a big space with just black ink, all of that white in-between the dots suddenly adds up, and now instead of black, visually you've got gray, which means everything starts looking washed out. You don't want your prints to look bad, and you know there's overlapping dots, so to fix that, you want to add a bit of the colors to fill up the white space (since all of the colors together can make black after all). Only, you don't want to layer things together too much because not only do you want to prevent the ink all just bleeding into the paper, those colors are more expensive. So you do some math and some tests, and you find the middle ground where you're using just enough of each ink that it covers up basically all of the white space on the paper without overloading it (if used appropriately).

Now when you look at it, not only do you have the black ink overlapping those colors a little bit in different spots, making the black dots a little more concentrated, but all of that space between the black dots is now a deeper, darker, mix of colors, and voila, the black looks more black, and technically, it is, because there's less white being added from the paper itself.

*You're also more literally removing light from the space in exactly the opposite way as RGB because Cyan, Magenta and Yellow are created by removing Red, Green, and Blue from White light. Cyan is White minus Red, Magenta is White minus Green, and Yellow is White minus Blue.

Additional "fun" facts:

If you've done digital art or messed with anything print related and seen DPI and not known what that is, that's Dots Per Inch. It refers to the scale of the dots that make up whatever is being printed, with a higher number meaning more dots can fit in one square inch of paper.

If you've read this and thought to yourself "I've used a color printer before and it's refused to print a simple document of black text because one of the color cartridges was empty, is it actually printing in Rich Black?" Good guess, but no, that's actually because when you print something from most modern printers, there's a micro-dot pattern encoded onto the page at least once, usually in yellow, but not all tracking codes are publicly known. (Also because capitalism, so how dare you not refill the color cartridges as soon as they're empty!)

Reblog to save a life

[endofthelinegang]

robert "bob" reynolds

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob reynolds x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  dating Bob Reynolds means loving someone gentle, wounded, and quietly devoted — a man who gives love like it’s a sacred promise, not a performance. Through emotional highs and lows, he builds a world with you that’s slow, deliberate, and filled with the kind of quiet safety he never thought he’d have.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

Bob is deeply introspective — and honest about it. He reflects constantly, especially after arguments or miscommunications. With you, he’s always circling back: “Did I make you feel unseen when I said that?” It builds a foundation where you feel safe to be human, because he’s not trying to win — he’s trying to understand you. He wants to be able to discuss things rather than have constant arguments. 

He craves stability but isn’t always sure he deserves it. That means you become his grounding point. He’ll start looking for you the second he walks through the door, like home doesn’t fully exist until you’re in view. When you bring him into your routines — your morning coffee, your playlist while you clean — he treats it like a privilege to be included. If you have to run to the store or the gas station he is there. If you wanna watch a movie he bring his book and sit with you. Finally if you wanna do anything with him you barely have to ask, in fact he usually only hears the “Hey do you wanna-” part and then he follows up as you go to do it so he knows more of what is going on. 

He loves being touched, but only on his terms at first. You notice how he relaxes into your touch slowly, cautiously. The first time you instinctively reach for his hand and he doesn't pull away? He watches your fingers like they’re made of something holy. Eventually, you find him reaching for you, thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles during movies, tucking you into his chest during storm, letting you play with his hair while he reads books, and letting you put your legs on his when you do whatever little thing you wanna tinker with. 

He spirals sometimes — but he fights hard to stay above the water. When he feels it coming, he doesn’t shut you out anymore. He’ll gently say, “I need a quiet day, but I want you here.” So you bring him whatever he wants, read nearby, or just lie beside him. Being allowed to witness those days — without having to fix them — becomes the quiet intimacy that defines your bond. 

He has deeply specific tastes. You learn quickly that Bob doesn’t just like things — he feels them. He’ll explain for ten minutes why a certain guitar chord feels like autumn heartbreak. You catch yourself falling for him more during those long, winding tangents, just watching his eyes light up while talking to you. He loves music, it is one of the only good things he can recall from being high so much in his teens. He also likes to try and paint, he knows he is not great at it but he does like to see what he can come up with. And he loves to do those things with you. 

He is loyal beyond reason. It’s not performative — it’s bone-deep. You never wonder where his loyalty lies. Even on hard days, you know: he chose you. And if anyone ever hurts you? Bob turns terrifyingly focused. Not violent — just unshakeable in his defense of you. You ever need a plus one he is there. 

He asks permission for everything early on. Your first kiss doesn’t happen in a whirlwind — it happens after he looks at you for a long moment, sitting so close you could practically feel his bottom lip touching yours, with his lips parted, and  he asks quietly, “May I?” It sets the tone for everything that follows: respect, softness, reverence. You always feel safein his arms — never cornered.

He is surprisingly domestic. He finds comfort in doing things for you. Fixing a lightbulb, unclogging a drain, reorganizing your fridge. He’ll hum while sweeping your room, look proud when you notice. Sometimes you wake up to fresh coffee and folded laundry, and you realize: Bob takes care of you the way he wishes someone had taken care of him.

He makes you feel chosen, not trapped. He tells you often — “I’m here because I want to be.” When you have bad days, when you cry or say something too sharp, he still stays. He reminds you that being loved by him isn’t a performance test. You are enough, and he is choosing you — even then.

He journals but doesn’t let anyone read it. You find out about his journals when you catch him writing at 2am. One day, when he trusts you deeper than he thought possible, he lets you read a page. It’s a dream about you. A memory of your laugh. Your name written like it means something salvific. You cry reading it. He holds you after.

He worries about overwhelming you. He’s scared his past, his sadness, his depth will swallow you whole. So he checks in, constantly: “Do I make things harder?” The first time you say, “No, Bob, you make things softer,” he stares at you like you just gave him a new reason to live.

He remembers every story you tell him. One day you mention a bakery your grandmother used to take you to, and weeks later he drives you two towns over just to get their cinnamon bread. “You said the smell reminded you of her.” He doesn’t just listen — he cataloguesyou like you’re sacred.

He’s got a crooked, beautiful sense of humor. Your favorite thing is when he cracks a joke mid-breakdown — deadpan, absurd, perfect. He never uses humor to deflect — he uses it to lighten, to remind you both you’re still here, still real, still together.

He’s sensitive to your emotional cues. If your voice changes even a little, he tilts his head and asks, “Did something happen?” He doesn’t press, but always leaves a door open. And on the nights you can’t find the words, he’ll just hold you until they come. Or until they don’t. Either way, you’re not alone.

He likes doing puzzles and crosswords. You start helping him with the ones he saves just for you. Sundays become your puzzle mornings, coffee steaming, knees brushing. He teaches you the clues he loves best — the wordplay ones. You start looking forward to the quiet click of answers falling into place with him beside you.

He’s big on pet names but never the usual ones.You’ll be brushing your teeth and he’ll come up behind you and say, “What’s the world’s luckiest creature doing this morning?” Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you get teary. Because he says it like he means it — like you’re the miracle he gets to keep.

He doesn’t like mirrors. So when you’re getting ready, he’ll often stand behind you and just look at you. Not the mirror. Just you. You start to notice how often he compliments how you see him — not how he sees himself.

He buys weird stuff when he shops alone. You come home to find a lava lamp, a taxidermy owl, and a tiny bonsai tree one day. He shrugs: “They looked like they needed us.” It becomes a game. You fill your space with beautiful, odd little rescues — like him. Like each other.

He gives quiet but heartfelt compliments. He doesn’t shout his affection. He slips it in while handing you a cup of tea: “No one has a smile like yours.” Or whispers it in the dark after a nightmare: “You are the reason I come back.” You learn to listen closely — his love is laced into the silence.

He loves you deliberately.With Bob, there’s no autopilot. He loves you like a man who had to relearn how to live — and decided you were worth it. Every morning he reaches for you like a prayer. Every night he holds you like an answer.

He thrives on consistency, even in the smallest ways. Bob loves knowing your routines. If you like tea at 4PM, he’ll start setting the mug beside the kettle at 3:59, every day without fail. He never makes a show of it — he just remembers, quietly turning your comfort into a rhythm he honors with care.

He teaches you how to be patient with yourself. Being with Bob makes you slower in the best way. He doesn’t rush conversations, apologies, or healing. So when you’re harsh on yourself, he’ll just say, “Give yourself the same grace you give me.” And you do, eventually, because he leads by example.

He doesn't laugh often — but when he does, it's everything. It’s sudden, usually low and breathless, like it startles even him. You make it your life’s mission to earn those laughs. And the first time you make him wheeze-laugh until he’s crying? He looks at you like you’re the first light he’s seen in years.

He has entire playlists for you. Not just “your song” — full playlists, carefully ordered, titled weird things like “If I Could Speak in Color” or “You, When You’re Sleeping.” He plays them when you cook together, or during road trips, smiling quietly as the lyrics say what he sometimes can’t.

He talks in metaphors when he’s overwhelmed. Sometimes it’s easier for him to say, “It feels like the sky is pressing down,” than to say “I’m anxious.” You learn the language he uses to describe his mind. And instead of asking “What’s wrong?” you begin to ask, “Where are you today?” And he always answers.

He can’t fall asleep without hearing your voice. If you’re apart for a few days, he calls you just to hear you breathe while you talk about your day. If you’re home together, he waits for your voice to anchor him — murmured thoughts in the dark, even just soft humming. Silence used to be scary. With you, it’s just peace.

He notices your moods before you do. “You okay?” he’ll ask on a day when you haven’t said anything yet. When you blink at him in surprise, he shrugs. “Your eyes don’t crinkle the same when you smile.” He doesn’t push — he offers. And you realize what a gift it is to be seen like that. 

He lets you in on the hard stuff, eventually. There are things he doesn't say right away — his past, his fears, the guilt he still carries. But when he does open up, it's never dramatic. He just says it simply, like he's handing you a piece of his armor. You never try to fix it. You just hold it — and stay.

He gives love the way a survivor does: carefully, but completely. Bob doesn’t love with fireworks. He loves like a storm survivor building a cottage on the shore — every nail steady, every wall built to keep you safe. When he says “I love you,” it doesn’t feel like a confession. It feels like a vow.

[cosmicaura7]

BREEDING KINK

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, dirty talk, 

Synopsis : He has been thinking about it for a while now, having a baby with you. The thought consumes him and he can't keep it to himself any longer. 

Author's Note : Enjoy this in the meantime since I'm on my period hehe😜

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint Flood isn’t a man of flowery words. He doesn’t have to be.

He speaks with his hands, with the way he stands in front of you in the doorway like a wall, shielding and solid, eyes burning like headlights through storm fog. When you wear his shirt around the house? He growls under his breath. When you curl into his lap after a long day, kissing his neck while he runs his calloused hands down your back? He always ends up whispering it.

“Gonna put a baby in you.”

You never laugh. Because when he says it, he means it like a promise.

Tonight, it’s no different. The moment he walks in, sweat on his brow, bruises on his knuckles and streaks of dried blood on his arms and hands, he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. You’re already waiting in the bedroom, sprawled out in nothing but soft cotton underwear. You don’t say a word, you just spread your legs and tilt your chin, daring him.

His chest rises hard. His boots are off in seconds. He crawls over you like a man starved, kissing you rough, deep and worshipful. His hands slide over your hips, gripping them with reverence and hunger. “You know what this does to me, baby?” He grinds out, voice thick with need. “Lookin’ at you like this. Waitin’ to be filled.” You moan as he pushes inside you, slow and deep. His thrusts are powerful from the start, steady, possessive and built to last.

“You feel that?” He breathes into your neck, hips meeting yours again and again. “That’s how I know you’re made for me. Your body, hell, this womb, it’s all mine.” You gasp his name, clutching his back. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let you drift too far.

He keeps you grounded with his weight, his words. “Gonna fill you up so good.” He murmurs, voice breaking. “So deep you won’t stop thinking about it. Walkin’ around with my baby in you, that’s all I want.” He starts to tremble as you tighten around him. You feel the change, the urgency, the desperation that hits when he’s close.

“You want it, sweetheart?” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanna be mine like that?”

You whisper yes over and over until he groans, thrusting deep and finally lets go. The warmth floods through you. Clint shudders hard, his arms wrapped tight around you, breath hitching in your ear. “Take it…” He rasps. “Take all of me.” He stays inside you even after it’s over, holding you as if letting go would break the spell. His lips press softly to your temple.

“Gonna keep you full.” He whispers. “Make you round with me.”

“You already have.” You cup his cheek, smiling into the hush of your shared heat. 

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

There’s something in Dave’s eyes tonight. He’s been tense all day, something about the way he walked through the front door, jaw tight and shoulders rolling like he was shaking off bloodlust. The kind of energy that made your heart race for two reasons, danger and desire.

You didn’t ask questions.

You just waited in the bedroom, lights low, legs bare and wearing that lace he always fingers like he might tear it off. When he finally walks in, the air thickens. He says nothing at first.

Just stares.

Then slowly, like a storm rolling in, he approaches, boots heavy, gaze locked. His voice is low when he speaks. “You been thinkin’ about it too?”

“About what?” You blink, heartbeat jumping. 

He leans down until his lips brush your ear. “About me filling you up. Finally making you mine.” Your body jolts at the heat in his voice, hungry, possessive and needy. That calm control he usually wears is cracking and what’s underneath it is feral. He undresses you in silence. There’s a kind of reverence to it, like he’s peeling away everything that doesn’t belong between the two of you. And when he pushes you back onto the bed and lines himself up, his voice is thick with restraint.

“I’m not pulling out.”

You already knew. He’s been hinting for weeks, hands low on your belly after sex, muttering “It’d be so easy, baby. So fucking easy to knock you up.” And now he’s shaking as he slides into you, one arm braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise.

“This pussy was made for me.” He grits, moving in long deep strokes. “All soft and wet, begging to be filled.” You moan his name, lost in the heat, in how full he makes you feel. “That’s it.” He pants. “Take me. Every inch. Gonna breed you so good, sweetheart. Gonna fuck a baby into you so deep you’ll feel me every time you move.”

The words hit you like lightning. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper. He groans, raw and broken, and his rhythm falters. You know he’s close, you can feel it in the way his body trembles. “Gonna give you all of it.” He whispers. “Every last drop. So you’ll carry me. So no one ever questions who you belong to.” When he finally comes, he does it with a deep primal growl of your name. You feel the warmth flood inside you, hear the ragged way he breathes as he stays buried to the hilt as if his body won’t let him leave you. You kiss his cheek, chest heaving.

He strokes your stomach, hand spread wide and possessive. “We start tonight.” He says softly. “You're gonna take. I know you will.”

And somehow, you believe him.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

It always starts with a look.

That Dieter look, smoldering and theatrical, as if he’s the lead in a tragic romance and you’re his co-star, the one woman who will destroy or save him. Tonight, he’s pacing the bedroom barefoot in a silk robe, ranting in half-curses and half-whispers, until he finally turns to you. “I’ve thought about this all day.” He says, eyes wild and sincere. “You. Pregnant. With my baby.”

Your pulse skips. He’s been like this lately, dramatic and obsessed. Every time he touches you, he groans about how “fertile” you look, how “his seed should live in you like holy fire.” It's unhinged. It’s so Dieter. And it turns you on more than you can admit.

“So why haven’t you done anything about it?” You sit on the edge of the bed, head tilted. 

That’s all it takes.

He immediately pounces. Clothes are gone in a blur of motion, his hands fumbling and shaking as he drags your underwear down. “You don’t understand.” He groans, kissing your thighs and your stomach. “You belong to me. And if I don’t come inside you soon, I’ll die. I will literally collapse and perish.”

“Then do it.” You whisper. “Fill me.”

He shudders. And when he slides inside you, it's with reverence, like he’s praying. His hips move deep and slow at first but his words? Those come fast and desperate. “You’re so warm… your body wants this, wants to keep me in. God, baby, I need to breed you.” You cry out, his rhythm getting rougher and more frantic. He cups your jaw and stares down into your eyes like he wants to memorize your face at the moment he claims you. “I want you round.” He moans. “Glowing. So when people look at you, they know that’s Dieter Bravo’s fucking baby in there.”

His name sounds like a plea in your throat as he drives deeper, faster and loses rhythm in his obsession. His hand slides down to your belly, holding it possessively. “I want to watch you grow.” He breathes. “Want to paint paintings about how gorgeous you look carrying my baby. Want to make a documentary about it, hell, a trilogy.”

You’re breathless and slowly getting overstimulated, but you don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t, not until his body tenses and he groans into your mouth, pressing deep, giving you everything. You feel him release, his whole body trembling as he stays locked inside. “Don’t move.” He begs. “Keep me in. Let me give you a baby.” When it’s over, he collapses dramatically on top of you, panting. “If that didn’t do it, I swear to God I’m buying a fertility clinic.” You laugh weakly. But when he gently strokes your belly and kisses it again and again, you know he’s dead serious.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

There’s something different about him tonight. He’s already stripped out of the beskar by the time you return from bathing, his gloves folded and helmet placed carefully beside the bed. The air is still thick with anticipation and heavy with purpose.

You meet his gaze. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, breathing slow and deep. “You said you wanted a family.” He says simply. “I’m ready.”

Your heart stutters. You knew he thought about it, knew how carefully Din Djarin considers every step, every word. He never promises lightly. But now he’s looking at you like you’re his path forward, his home. The one vessel he trusts to carry his blood, his future and his legacy. You come to him silently, straddling his lap. His hands grip your hips, reverent and rough, as if grounding himself.

“Are you sure?” You whisper, nose brushing his.

He nods once. “I want to see you full with me. Want to know you're carrying what we made.” His voice shakes, controlled and low, like a storm held back by sheer force of will. And then he lifts you, gently laying you back on the bed like something sacred, worships every inch of you with his mouth and hands before finally pushing inside. The stretch, the heat and the sheer weight of him has your legs trembling. But it’s his words that undo you.

“So perfect like this. Taking me so well.”

“You were made for this, made to carry our ads.”

“No one else gets this. No one touches this. Only me.”

His pace is deep, slow and claiming. Not rushed but intentional. Every thrust feels like a vow. Your nails drag down his back as he presses a hand to your stomach, breathing harder and rougher. “Right here…” He groans. “Gonna fill you up. Watch your body take it, keep it.”

You gasp his name as he buries himself fully, over and over, grinding in so deep you swear you can feel it in your bones. “Say it…” He pants. “Say you want me to breed you.”

“I want it!” You cry. “Want you to fill me, Din. Want to carry your child.” His rhythm falters, body shuddering. And then with a deep guttural moan, he comes. You feel the heat of it spill inside as he holds himself there unmoving, forehead pressed to yours, panting hard.

“Don’t move.” He whispers. “I need it to take. Need to know I gave you everything.” You nod, blinking away tears. Because this is how Din Djarin loves, with purpose, with power and with a future in mind. And wrapped in his arms, filled to the brim, you believe him when he says.

“This is the way.”

Ezra (The Prospect)

He watches you like he’s starved, not for food, not for air but for you. Something deeper and something primal. It’s always been in his eyes when he looks at you like he’s survived hell and you’re the only thing worth living for now. You lie back in the narrow bed of your shared dwelling on this godforsaken moon, atmosphere humid, faint hum of the old purifier rattling in the corner. Ezra stands at the foot, shirt half-open, scarred hands on his belt.

There’s a tension in the air that goes beyond lust. It’s been building for weeks, ever since you told him you wanted to stop using the meds and that you wanted to try to have children. He climbs over you like a man crossing a ravine, careful, reverent and trembling with need. “You sure?” He rasps, voice raw with hope and warning.

You reach up, cupping his jaw. “Put a baby in me, Ezra.” Something in him breaks at that. He kisses you hard, desperate and consuming, and then he's inside you in a single thick thrust. You gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a slow, grinding rhythm, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust.

Ezra’s breath shakes as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Gonna take.” He whispers. “You’re gonna take, sweetheart. Know you are.” You moan, wrapping your legs around him, forcing him deeper. He groans, low and pained, like the pleasure’s almost too much. His hand slides between your bodies to splay over your belly. “Wanna see you round with me.” He says, eyes wild now. “Heavy, glowing, want you walking slow 'cause you’re so full.”

“Ezra…” Your voice cracks, wrecked and dizzy.

“I've been in the dirt too long.” He murmurs. “Time I plant something that grows, something real.” His rhythm stutters. He grips your hips harder and panting like a dog in heat. “This body’s mine. Gonna leave you full of me. Breed you properly. Let this place know who you belong to.” You clench around him, and he shudders, head falling to your shoulder with a ragged cry. And then he spills into you, thick and hot and endless. He stays buried, pulsing, his arms caging you in like he’s trying to keep every drop inside. His voice is soft now, broken in your ear.

“We make a new life.” He whispers. “Right here, in this soil.” You kiss his temple. Because you know he means it. And in the silence of this lonely moon, Ezra holds you like he’s finally found his home, growing deep inside you.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been held until he’s inside you again.

Francisco is the kind of man who carries everything on his shoulders, the mission, the danger and the never ending guilt. But when he comes home, when he’s with you, he softens only in one place, the way he touches your body like it’s holy, like it’s the only safe ground he’s ever known.

And tonight, he’s different. His hands tremble as they slide down your hips. His mouth lingers on your stomach longer than usual. And when he pulls back to look at you, eyes dark and steady, you know what’s coming before he says it. “Let me do this.” He murmurs. “Let me put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He’s never said it aloud before but you’ve seen it in the way he always presses a hand to your lower belly after you make love, the way his eyes linger on the curve of your body, possessive and almost… aching.

“I want something that’s mine.” He says, forehead pressed to yours. “Ours. Something real. Permanent.” You nod, heart racing and that’s all the permission he needs. He spreads you open slowly, reverently. His hands are strong, sure but careful like he’s preparing a place to bury something deep, something that will grow. And when he finally pushes inside, it’s not rushed or rough.

It’s purposeful. Each thrust is deep and anchoring. He keeps eye contact the whole time, jaw clenched, brow furrowed in focus. Like he’s thinking about every movement, every drop he plans to leave inside. “You’re gonna take all of it.” He grits out. “Gonna keep it all in until it takes.” You moan, body clenching and he groans low in response, that sound he only makes when he’s close to losing control.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.” He mutters. “You open up so perfectly. So ready to be filled.” He wraps an arm beneath your lower back, angling your hips to take him deeper until he’s hitting that spot that has you gasping his name like a prayer. And when your body starts to tremble around him, he snaps. “Gonna breed you.” He growls. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you so deep it takes. You’re gonna be carrying me, every time someone looks at you, they’ll know you’re mine.”

You cry out, and with a strained, guttural moan, he spills into you, hard and hot pulses that have him twitching and shaking above you. He stays inside, pressed close, panting against your neck. Neither of you move. Then you feel his hand slide between your bodies, cupping your belly again, like he’s willing the future into existence.

“We’re gonna build something.” He whispers. “Right here. Starting tonight.” And you believe him because Francisco never says things he doesn’t mean.

Not in the field.

Not in your bed.

And definitely not with your body under his, soaked in sweat and filled with his seed.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

There’s nothing casual about the way he touches you. Not when the rest of his life is a performance, smooth suits, sharper smiles and perfectly-timed handshakes. But not here, not when you're beneath him, silk sheets tangled around your thighs, wearing only the diamond necklace he bought you last anniversary.

Here, Harry Castillo is all hunger.

"You know what I want." He murmurs against your skin, lips dragging from your collarbone to your breast. "You’ve known." His voice is thick like honey and bourbon but there’s an edge to it now. A need he no longer bothers hiding, especially not tonight.

You thread your fingers through his dark curls and whisper. “Then take it.” And he does. He slides down between your thighs, hands gripping like he owns every inch. There’s always a finesse to Harry but when he’s inside you, all control blurs into desperation.

“Been thinking about it for weeks.” He groans, pushing in slow and deep, making you feel full. “You, heavy with me and absolutely glowing. Want to watch you swell, watch the world know I filled you.” Your breath stutters. He starts moving with long grounding strokes that keep you teetering right on the edge. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other bracing your hip, making you take him all with each roll of his hips.

“You’re gonna take every drop, baby.” He growls. “And you’re gonna keep it. No excuses. No pills. No getting out of it.”

You moan beneath him, back arching. “Want it. Want to be full of you.” That breaks whatever control he had left. 

He kisses you roughly, moaning into your mouth as he fucks you harder, faster and deeper, like he’s trying to brand his name inside you. “Gonna watch you waddle through the penthouse.” He pants. “In your little heels, showing off what I did to you.”

You shudder, crying out as you tighten around him and he loses it. Harry spills inside you with a sharp groan, staying deep, hips grinding as he rides the high. He twitches, still inside, and lets out a raw exhale that sounds almost reverent. “Mine…” He breathes, kissing your shoulder. “You’re mine. And now everyone’s gonna see it.” He doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he lowers your legs gently and lays on top of you, keeping himself buried as long as possible. His hand slides across your stomach, as if imagining the future already taking root. "You want luxury?" He murmurs. "Let me give you the rarest one, a legacy." And in the soft glow of gold lamps and city lights, you know he doesn’t mean money.

He means you.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click and you barely have time to turn around before your back’s pressed to it, his broad frame towering over yours. “Been thinkin’ about this all day, sugar.” Jack drawls low in your ear, his voice thick as molasses. “You, all spread out… waitin’ for me to fill you up.”

You gasp as he grinds his hips into yours, the buckle of his belt pressing into your stomach. “You serious?” You whisper, heart racing.

Jack leans back just enough to meet your eyes, tilting his cowboy hat up with two fingers. His gaze burns through you, hazel eyes dark with intent. “I ain’t jokin’.” He says, slow and deliberate. “Wanna put a baby in you real bad. Want you swollen with me. Want the whole damn world to see what we did.”

You shiver because this isn’t one of his usual flirt-and-smirk games. There’s something real behind it, something hungry. You nod in desperation. He smiles, slow, wide and wolfish. Next thing you know, he’s got you on the bed, boots kicked off, shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging at his sides. He kisses you like he owns you, tongue hot and eager, hands rough on your waist.

“Gonna fuck you proper.” He mutters as he slides inside, thick and pulsing. “Gonna knock you up the way God intended.” Your head falls back as he sets a steady rhythm, hips grinding deep, every thrust designed to hit exactly where it counts. You can feel it, his need and the way he holds back from going feral.

“Y’feel that?” He pants, resting a hand low on your belly. “That’s where I’m gonna leave it. Right there and deep.” You moan his name, gripping his arms as he thrusts harder. “Gonna make you a mama.” He growls. “Gonna keep you in pretty dresses and rub your feet while you're carryin’ my kid. No more missions. No more pills. Just you, barefoot in my kitchen with a baby in that belly.” The way he says it like it’s the most sacred erotic thing in the world sends you over the edge.

And that’s all it takes.

Jack lets out a broken groan, burying himself as deep as he can go. He twitches and jerks before spilling into you with raw unfiltered need. He doesn’t stop. He grinds in slow circles, coaxing every drop deeper while whispering filth in your ear. “Gonna make sure it takes, sugar. Know it will. You’re made for this, made for me.” He stays there, heavy on top of you, chest rising and falling against yours. His palm lingers over your belly like he’s already imagining the bump, the glow, the baby booties on your shared ranch porch.

And then he smirks.

“Reckon we better start thinkin’ of names.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

He worships you like a collector worships his rarest piece.

Javi Gutierrez may have once obsessed over movie memorabilia but ever since he put a ring on your finger, all his attention shifted fully and forever to you. His hands know every line of your body like a poem, like the script of a film he’s memorized frame by frame. But lately, there’s a different kind of need in his eyes. Something deeper and more possessive.

“You don’t know…” He whispers one night, lips pressed to your stomach. “How badly I want to see you full, round and carrying our child.” You freeze, heart stuttering. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, eyes soft and voice low. “Would you let me? Make something real with you?”

You nod. You don’t even think, you just feel. The answer’s always been yes. That’s all he needs. He climbs over you with careful reverence, like you’re breakable porcelain and holy at once. When he enters you, he moans like he’s been starving, slow and deep, filling you until he’s flush against your thighs.

“You take me so well.” He murmurs. “It’s like you were made to.” You gasp as he begins to move, rocking into you with controlled desperation. His hands tremble slightly as they cradle your hips, like he’s holding onto something sacred. “I’ve imagined it.” He breathes. “You, glowing. The way you’ll look in the morning sun. My child inside you. Ours.”

You whimper, clutching his back. And he groans in response, hips thrusting harder now, deeper. “That’s it, cariño.” He whispers, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me fill you. Let me plant it inside. I’ll worship the life I put there.” Your whole body tenses and his rhythm falters, because he can feel you getting close. “You want this too.” He says, more statement than question. “Want me to breed you. Leave you dripping, aching and all mine.”

You shatter around him with a cry and that’s all it takes. Javi buries himself to the hilt with a low ragged moan, his whole body shuddering as he spills into you. He whispers your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, hands never leaving your skin. He stays inside you, even after the heat fades. One hand drifts to your belly, gentle and awed.

“It’ll be my masterpiece.” He says. “But not as perfect as the real thing.” He smiles, cupping your face.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

He doesn’t say it out loud the first few times. But you feel it in the way he lingers inside you after he’s come, slow, grinding, deep and refusing to pull out. You feel it in the way he rests his hand on your belly afterward, silent and still, like he's imagining something. And then one night, after a particularly rough case, after too much whiskey and not enough sleep, he breaks. He comes home at midnight. Tired, bruised and reeking of smoke and Bogotá rain. You’re already in bed but when he crawls in behind you, kisses the back of your neck and slides his hand between your thighs, you know he needs more than comfort.

“Wanna see you pregnant.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “Wanna see you round and full with my baby.”

“Javi…” Your breath catches because it’s not just dirty talk, there’s a hidden ache within it.

He flips you gently, settling between your thighs. His fingers push in deep, testing, spreading and preparing you with practiced care. “Let me do this.” He says. “Let me leave somethin’ behind. Just one good thing.” Then he’s inside you, deep and hard, with a pace that screams need. His forehead presses to yours, his hand cradling your hip, keeping you still as he rolls into you over and over, desperate to stay buried.

“I fuckin’ need this.” He groans. “Need to know you’ll carry a piece of me. After all this shit...”

You cup his face, arching into him. “I want it too.” You whisper. “I want all of you.” That’s when he loses it. He grabs your thighs and fucks you deeper and rougher, grinding into your sweet spot until you’re shaking, until you’re clinging to him and crying out. He watches you fall apart beneath him, then follows with a strangled moan, spilling inside you so hard he shudders.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like you’re his last tether to this world. Finally, he murmurs. “If I died tomorrow... I’d want to know you were carrying somethin’ that mattered.”

You stroke his back, heart aching. “You’re not going anywhere.” You whisper. But part of you knows, if anything ever did happen to him, you’d still carry him forever. Maybe even literally.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

The world outside is broken.

But inside these four walls, inside this tiny cabin with its creaking floors and warmth that smells like pine, Joel loves you like the world never ended. It starts soft, always does with him. A brush of his calloused thumb along your cheekbone, a kiss to your temple, a murmur of “Hey, darlin’.” spoken low and tired after a long day on patrol. But tonight, something’s different in the way he touches you. He’s reverent and slow, as if he’s bracing for something bigger than just pleasure.

When he finally presses his body over yours in bed, his voice cracks near your ear. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it.” He murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “You… carryin’ my baby.”

Your breath catches. “Joel…”

He hushes you with a kiss, slow and grounding. “I know the world’s gone to shit.” He says. “But if there’s one thing worth keepin’ alive… it’s us. You. Me. What we could make.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders and nod, heart pounding.

And then he loses himself in you. The thrust of his hips is deliberate and deep. His weight pins you down, like he needs you still while he gives you every part of him. His hands cradle your thighs, keeping you open for him, spreading you wide so he can press as deep as your body allows. “Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly. “Real deep and make sure it takes.”

You moan and he groans in answer, kissing down your jaw, your throat. “Wanna see you round, baby. Full of me. Belly tight with somethin’ we made.” Each thrust is possessive, each word gritted out between clenched teeth. His rough fingers drift to your lower belly, pressing gently like he’s already imagining it, already claiming it. Your climax hits fast, his voice, his body, his need, it’s too much. You cry out, body trembling.

Joel follows with a low growl, burying himself to the hilt, shuddering hard as he spills inside you. He doesn’t pull out. Not for a long, long time. “Just stay like this.” He breathes. “Wanna keep it in. Let it settle. Let it stick.” Later, when you lie tangled together beneath a wool blanket, he traces slow circles on your belly with his calloused palm.

“You’d be a good mama.” He whispers. “Strong and soft. Everything this world needs.”

You blink at him, heart breaking open all over again. “And you’d be a good dad like always.” He swallows hard, nodding once. And then he holds you tighter, like you’re the only thing left that matters.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

He returns from the battlefield still wrapped in blood and glory. The roar of Rome follows him but when he steps into your chambers, he softens. For no one else would Marcus Acacius remove his armor with such aching slowness, for no one else would he kneel unless it was for his dear wife.

“Come here.” He murmurs, voice low and gruff from shouting commands all day. “Let me look at you, wife.” You cross the marble floor barefoot, silk brushing your thighs. He reaches for you like a starving man, pulling you into his lap on the edge of the bed. His hands are rough and calloused from sword and shield but they tremble slightly where they cup your hips. “I dream of it.” He says into your neck. “You, swollen with my child. My seed in your womb. My heir in your body.”

You gasp softly, fingers curling into his thick curls as he lifts your shift and parts your thighs. He lays you down like you’re sacred. “Do you want it?” He asks, gaze burning. “To carry my name, my line and my legacy in you?”

Your answer is breathless. “Yes.” That’s all he needs. Marcus covers your body with his own, worshipping you with lips and tongue and hands. He spreads you wide, not just to take you, but to mark you, to claim you.

His thrusts are deep and purposeful, each one a silent vow. “You’ll look divine with my child inside you.” He groans, hand splayed possessively over your belly. “I’ll give you twins. Sons or a daughter, fierce as you.” You moan under him, body arching into every stroke. “I’ll fill you again and again.” He growls. “Until it takes, until the gods themselves look down in envy at what we’ve made.”

You fall apart with a cry and he follows, burying himself to the hilt as he spills into you with a guttural groan, strong hands gripping your thighs, holding you still, locked against him. Even after, he doesn’t pull away. He stays sheathed deep, his weight heavy, warm and protective.

“You will be my legacy.” He whispers into your hair. “And I will protect you and what grows inside you with my life.”

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

He’s never rough with you. Even when his desire runs hot and fast, when his breath shudders and his hands tremble from holding back, Marcus touches you like he’s afraid you’ll break. Even though he knows you won’t. Even though you’ve shown him time and again that you can take everything he gives and still reach for more.

Tonight, it’s quiet.

Just the two of you. Dim light, soft sheets and the sound of his voice low in your ear. “You know what I want?” His fingers trail slowly along your bare stomach, reverent and slow, as if the idea alone deserves to be worshipped. “I want to see you carrying our baby. Our future.”

“I want that too.” You swallow, already aching for him.

Something changes in his expression. The way he kisses you becomes more intense, deeper and more needy. His body covers yours, not to dominate but to cocoon, to shield you, even in intimacy. “I think about it all the time.” He admits. “How you’d look glowing and heavy with my kid. Something of ours.” A breathless chuckle. “A little brother or sister for Missy.” You moan softly as he slides into you, his movements slow, controlled and deep. He holds your hips still, angling just right, like he’s memorized every inch of your body, like he knows how to make you take him in completely.

“Gonna fill you up.” He whispers. “Make sure it sticks.” The words aren’t crude, they’re sacred and said with aching devotion. Every roll of his hips is steady, measured and intentional. Not just to give you pleasure but to plant something in you. A hopeful future with him and his daughter, and soon enough another baby or two.

“I want to leave part of myself with you.” He breathes, voice thick with emotion. “I want you to carry it.” Your breath hitches, hands digging into his back. He feels your body tighten around him and it’s too much, he gasps your name and comes deep, staying pressed to the hilt as he empties into you. And then he stays there, doesn’t pull away. Just holds you close, his hand resting over your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you.” He murmurs. “You, Missy and our baby. Always.”

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

He’s always been the kind of man who thinks before he speaks, thoughtful, measured and kind. Marcus never rushes anything, not when he’s planning, not when he’s kissing you with that slow patient passion that leaves your knees weak. But tonight, there’s a different kind of urgency in him.

The kind he’s been quietly hiding until now. “I’ve been thinking.” He says, hands resting low on your hips as he looks at you beneath the glow of the bedside lamp. “About us. About the future.” You know that look, the way his eyes flicker down to your belly, his fingers flexing slightly. He swallows, then he finally says it. “I want to put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He sees the way your lips part, the way your thighs shift. He leans in close, voice dipping low. “Let me make you mine in the most permanent way.” He whispers. “Let me give you everything.” His mouth finds yours, soft but desperate, as he lays you back on the sheets. He takes his time undressing you, kissing the skin he reveals inch by inch. You feel treasured and worshipped.

And then he’s inside you, not fast, not hard but deep and purposeful. His hands cradle your hips, your waist, then splay across your belly like he’s imagining it, what it would look like rounded, full with his child. “You’d look so beautiful pregnant.” He groans. “You’re already perfect but… like that? Carrying my baby?” You moan his name and he leans in to kiss you again, slow and open-mouthed. “Want to fill you up.” He breathes. “Want it to take. Want to see you glowing.”

Every thrust now is deliberate and careful, like he’s afraid to spill a single drop outside of you. You feel it in the way he presses deeper, groaning into your ear as your body tightens around him. You fall first, gasping his name as you shudder beneath him. He follows seconds later, pulsing inside you with a broken sound, holding still as deep as he can while his seed spills.

Marcus doesn’t move and doesn’t pull out. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck, whispering promises that sound like vows. “I love you. I want this life with you. All of it.” And you know he means it.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

“You know, sweetheart…” Max says, loosening his tie with a flourish as he shuts the bedroom door. “For a guy with eternal youth, you’d think I’d be patient.” He’s not, especially not tonight, when you’re sprawled on the bed in nothing but his oversized dress shirt and that wicked little smile he can never resist. It’s enough to bring out the predator behind his sharp grin. His hunger isn’t just for blood, it’s for you, for your body and for what he wants from your body.

And tonight? He’s decided.

“I want to knock you up.” You blink at him, heat prickling in your cheeks but you don’t look away. And that alone makes him growl. “I mean it.” He says, climbing over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “I want you so full of me, you feel it for days, weeks and maybe even months.”

His fangs flash as he smirks, but the look in his eyes is real, almost reverent. “I want to see this gorgeous body round and soft and slow. With my kid inside you. Half vampire, half you.” He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Beautiful and dangerous.”

You gasp as he slides into you, thick, hard and hot. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t even ask. Because you want it, he knows you do. His thrusts are deep, deliberate and claiming. Max kisses you with biting intensity, sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip as he groans into your mouth. “Gonna fuck it into you, sweetheart.” He pants. “Breed you like I own you. Because I do, every inch of you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and he loses it. One hand grips your hip, the other sneaks between your bodies to rub circles against you, coaxing you closer, begging your body to take everything he gives. He wants it to stick, wants it to grow. When you cum around him, he nearly unravels, shuddering above you, swearing under his breath as he spills deep, pressing his hips flush to make sure nothing escapes. He stays inside you, panting.

Then, with a small smile, he kisses your forehead and whispers.

“Next time? I’ll keep going until your legs give out.”

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Max has always been a man driven by dreams. Some of them may be greedy. Some of them are mostly dangerous. But you are the only one he’s ever held like a prayer. Now, after the chaos, the regrets, the redemption… you’re all he wants to build his life around. And tonight, he’s done pretending.

You see it in his eyes when he watches you undress, slow and deliberate, his gaze reverent like you’re made of something sacred. His fingers trace your hip bone, gentle  but trembling slightly. “I want to give you everything I have.” He whispers. “Everything I am.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, voice low. “You already have.” But that’s not enough for Max.

“No, cariño…” He murmurs, hands sliding down to your waist. “I want it to stay. Inside you. I want to put a child in you. My child. Our child.” Your breath hitches. And then he’s kissing you, hard, deep and desperate, like he’s sealing a promise with every touch. When he lays you back on the bed, he worships every inch of you. He doesn't just want your body, he wants your future, to help build your legacy. Something that will live on long after the world stops spinning.

“Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly, pushing into you, slow and thick and deep. “Gonna make sure it takes.” His rhythm is steady at first but his control is fraying. His hand grips the curve of your belly possessively, like he’s already imagining the swell.

“You’ll look so beautiful.” He pants with such need and hunger. “Glowing, full and carrying the future I thought I ruined.” You wrap your legs around him, grounding him in your heat, your need. You tug him deeper, until your hips meet and his composure shatters. He groans your name, his thrusts growing rougher and more frantic, as he fucks you with purpose. Not just to feel good. Not just to chase pleasure. But to breed.

“I need you pregnant.” He rasps. “Need to see you grow with what we made. Need it more than I’ve ever needed anything.” And when you finally cum hard, crying out his name, he follows with a broken reverent sound, spilling deep inside you. Holding himself there, grinding slow and low until he’s sure it’s all buried where it belongs.

When it’s over, Max doesn’t move. He just stays inside you, arms around you, voice rough with awe. “I want our child to have your heart.” He whispers. “They’d be the most precious treasure I’ll ever have next to you.”

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the room where only you and Lucien exist. The old manor is silent now, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the sound of Lucien’s breathing, slightly uneven as his eyes drink you in. You’re splayed out on the plush velvet sheets, your silk nightgown hiked high on your thighs, the delicate straps slipping down your shoulders. He’s kneeling between your legs, still partially dressed, shirt undone and hanging off his shoulders, chest rising and falling with quiet restraint. His dark curls are tousled from your fingers, his lips flushed, pupils dilated as he looks at you like you’re something holy.

“Lucien…” You whisper, breathless already. “What’s going through that mind of yours?”

His voice is a gravelly murmur, rich and low. “You already know.” You do. You’ve seen it in his eyes every time he finishes inside you, how he holds your hips down, how he groans your name like a man lost in a prayer, how his hands linger on your lower belly like he’s claiming it.

But tonight, it’s different. He’s been more intense and more deliberate. You gasp softly when he leans forward, pressing slow kisses along your inner thighs then up your stomach, pausing to rest his lips just beneath your navel. “I want to see you full with my child.” He says, voice trembling with hunger and devotion. “Want to look at you and know I’ve put something inside you that can never be undone.”

Your fingers thread through his hair as his mouth returns to your skin, worshipping every inch. “Lucien…” He groans at how you say his name, like you’re giving him permission to lose control.

“You were made to carry me.” He whispers, kissing higher, his hand splayed possessively over your abdomen. “My wife. My everything. You don’t know what it does to me, thinking about you swollen and glowing, knowing it was me who did it to you.” You arch beneath him, your body already aching for him. He hooks your thighs over his arms as he lines himself up, pausing, always asking with his eyes before he takes.

“Tell me you want it too.” He says, voice ragged. “Tell me you want to be mine like this.”

“I’m already yours.” You breathe. “Give me everything, Lucien.” He sinks into you slowly and fully with a groan that sounds half pained and half desperate. His eyes squeeze shut like he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. But it’s not just about pleasure, it’s always more. It’s about belonging, bonding and possession.

He moves with deliberate control, slow and deep, his hands cradling your hips as he thrusts into you like he’s trying to etch himself into your very bones. Every stroke is filled with purpose, with need and with love. “Gonna fill you.” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “So deep you’ll feel me for days. Gonna make you mine in every way.” Your nails dig into his back as your pleasure rises. You’ve never felt more wanted, more cherished and completely his.

And when he finally spills inside you, he doesn’t just groan, he whimpers, breath hitching, trembling as if the act of giving you his seed is a sacred offering. He doesn’t pull away, instead, he stays pressed to you, deep inside, kissing your damp temple and whispering broken words into your hair. “You’ll take me, won’t you?” He murmurs, thumb brushing your belly again. “Let me give you a piece of me. A future.”

You nod against his neck, already lost in the idea of having his child. “I want it too…” You whisper. “I want all of you.” And Lucien, for all his darkness, his scars and haunted past, glows like a man redeemed by love, by need and by the family you’re about to make.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

You wake to silk sheets and the weight of his arm draped lazily across your waist, the Dornish heat wrapped around your bodies like a second skin. But even in sleep, Oberyn clings to you, palm splayed over your belly, thumb absentmindedly stroking just below your navel.

As if it’s already begun.

He murmurs something in Dornish into your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. His voice is low, smooth and drowsy with lust and longing. “You feel so soft this morning.” He purrs. “Like you’re ready to be filled again.” You turn to meet his molten gaze and notice he’s already watching you.

He always is.

“I already have eight wonderful daughters and as much I love each and every one of them…” He says, trailing kisses down your collarbone. “I want more with you. I want them born out of love and passion, made purposefully.” The words send heat curling through your belly. He rolls atop you, pressing your thighs apart with one hand, the other cradling your jaw as if he fears you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“I want to see you swollen with my child.” He whispers against your lips, voice thick. “I want the entire court to see who you belong to. To see you glowing, ripe and sacred.” His thrust is slow, but deep and claiming, like every movement is meant to ensure that you take.

“You’re already perfect.” He groans, grinding his hips in tight circles. “But gods, the thought of you heavy with my seed… carrying the next Sun of Dorne.” His control snaps. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you again and again, chanting your name like prayer between curses in Dornish.

“You’ll take all of me.” He growls, voice shaking. “Every drop, I’ll spill into you until there’s no room left. Until you’re made to carry me.” Your moans blend with his, the sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room like music.

When you come, he holds you down, lets you flutter around him and then thrusts deep, hips locked tight to yours as he pours into you, moaning against your mouth. He stays there, panting and body trembling, his release warm and endless. Then he pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to yours, his hand gently spreading over your belly again. “I hope it took.” He whispers.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The wind howls outside your tent, thick with desert dust and the quiet hush of a distant, dying battlefield. But inside, there’s only firelight and the weight of him. Pero towers over you, chest heaving, hair clinging to his damp forehead. The moment your armor came off, the moment you let your soft hands ghost over his bruised cheek, he snapped. “You ride into war beside me.” He growls, fingers sinking into your hips. “Fight like a soldier but you’re still mine and I want the world to see it.”

You tilt your head, breath hitching, watching him through hooded eyes. “Then claim me.” That’s all it takes. He surges forward and kisses you like he’s starved, like the only way to make the ache stop is to ruin you with need. Clothes scatter as your back hits the furs and then he’s there, thick and hot between your thighs, dragging the head of his cock against your slick folds, slow and deliberate.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days.” He murmurs, low and rough. “Burying myself so deep inside you you won’t be able to walk without remembering I own you.”

“Do it…” You whisper. “Put a baby in me, Pero.” He shudders, a full-body tremor, and then drives into you, a savage moan ripping from his throat.

“I’m going to breed you.” He snarls, fucking you hard and deep. “Gonna keep you stuffed full of my seed until you take. Until I can see it and feel it growing inside you.” You cry out, each thrust rocking you into the bed, your nails clawing into his shoulders. He lifts your legs, presses your knees back to your chest, getting deeper, rutting into you like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to do.

“You think you’re done after this?” He growls, eyes wild. “No, hermosa. I’ll fill you again and again. I’ll breed you until you beg me to stop.” You come undone around him, trembling, calling his name like a plea and he follows with a broken animalistic groan, spilling himself inside you in wave after wave.

When he collapses over you, still inside and still throbbing, he doesn’t move. He just cradles your face, his voice hoarse. “You’re mine. And soon, you’ll carry proof of it.”

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

You’re seated on his lap in the couch inside his lab, surrounded by the hum of machines and half-drawn schematics but Reed isn’t thinking about equations, not at the moment. His hands splay across your bare stomach, thumbs brushing side to side. He’s been quiet for minutes, just content with feeling you.

“What are you thinking about, genius?” You kiss the corner of his mouth. 

His eyes flick up to meet yours, soft and dark with intent. “You…” That’s not surprising. He shifts beneath you, pressing up against your core. “Specifically…” He says, voice husky and low. “About how perfectly your body is calibrated to carry mine.” Your breath catches as he leans in closer, brushing his lips over your jaw.

“I’ve run the numbers.” He murmurs. “Mapped out the ideal conditions for conception. Your cycle, my genetic markers, even optimal positioning. But there’s something even better than science.” He lifts you gently, guiding you down onto his length, slowly and reverently.

“It’s this.” He groans, bottoming out inside you. “The way you take me. The way your body pulls me in. Like it wants to keep me.” You moan, hips rocking instinctively. Reed’s hands grip your waist tightly. “I think about it all the time.” He confesses, voice unraveling. “You, full of me. Your belly round with our child. I’d document every stage. Not because I’m obsessed with data…” He thrusts hard, making you gasp. “But because I’m obsessed with you.”

You bury your hands in his hair, breath stuttering as he thrusts again, precise and deep. “I want to watch you grow.” He whispers. “Want to chart how your heartbeat syncs with theirs. Want to hold you while you carry the future.”

“Reed…” You whimper, your body trembling around him.

His arms wrap around you as he grinds up with a strained groan, burying himself in one long final thrust. “I’m coming.” He growls. “Gonna fill you up. Let it take. Let you carry my brilliance and your beauty in one perfect form.” He pulses deep inside you, holding you tight as he spills into you, a soft gasp catching in his throat. His body quivers beneath you, overwhelmed and undone. And when he finally speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper against your throat. “We’re going to make something extraordinary.”

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

You were supposed to be helping him sort through another stack of case files. That’s how this started, papers spread across the oak desk, a storm flickering outside the stained-glass windows of the mansion. Tim had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and got that concentrated furrow between his brows. You’d only meant to walk behind him, gently kiss his cheek. But the moment you whispered. “You’ve been working too hard, baby.” something in him snapped.

Now you’re bent over that very desk, the cool wood against your stomach a shocking contrast to the molten heat of Tim’s hands gripping your hips. His belt hangs loose from one of the brass handles. Papers are fluttering off the desk, forgotten because he’s not thinking about murder or mystery, or Maddie’s grandmother anymore.

He’s thinking about you. His voice is low, gravelly, thick with something darker than usual, it was filled with desperation and need. “Look at you.” He groans behind you, dragging his fingers down your spine before gripping your waist with both hands. “God, sweetheart. You were made for this.”

“For what?” You pant, already shaking.

“For me…” He growls. “To take me. To carry my child.” You gasp at his words, you’ve heard him whisper fantasies like this before, late at night, in bed with your legs trembling around his waist. But tonight he sounds different, he was serious and completely feral. He thrusts into you again, deeper this time, groaning like the pleasure is almost too much. His chest is pressed to your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You like when I say that, don’t you? When I tell you I’m gonna fill you up so good, you’ll have no choice but to take.”

You moan, head falling forward as your hands scramble to hold onto the edge of the desk. Tim’s hand slides from your hip to your belly, palm splayed protectively over your lower stomach. “Want to see you swollen with my baby.” He says, almost reverent. “Want people to look at you and know you’re mine.”

Your whole body pulses at his words. His voice is hot and possessive but there’s love underneath it, filled with worship and devotion. He’s not just claiming you for the sake of control, he’s building a future in his mind. One where you’re barefoot in the kitchen of that damned mansion, glowing with life, your hands resting on a bump that he put there. He’s breathing harder now, thrusts becoming erratic. “I’m close, sweetheart. You’re gonna take every drop. You’ll be dripping with me.”

“Do it.” You whimper, rocking back into him. “I want it, Tim. I want you to put a baby in me.” The way he groans your name in that moment is primal and almost beautiful. He spills into you with a ragged cry, his arms tightening around your waist as if he could anchor you to him forever. You can feel the warmth of him deep inside you, the weight of his body still trembling behind you as he rides the aftershocks.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, Tim presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs. “I hope it takes.”

You twist around just enough to meet his eyes, which are wet and glowing with something raw and real. “So do I.” You whisper. And when he kisses you, desperate and slow, full of promise, you know this isn’t just a fantasy anymore. He means it.

[writingsforfandoms-multi]

unwell | jack abbot x nurse!reader

requested prompt: “your complexion is scaring me, please sit down”. original request

warnings: medical inaccuracies, mentions of surgery 

From the moment you woke up, something didn’t feel right. 

You felt a small ache in your stomach, but you brushed it off thinking it was probably just something you ate yesterday. You noticed the pain was coming and going in waves, and in hindsight maybe you should've called out, but you didn’t want night shift to be short staffed. Well, more so than night shift usually was anyway. 

You took an ibuprofen before you entered PTMC, and you honestly forgot about the pain until a few hours into your shift when the pain came back in full force while you were talking with Dr. Ellis. You winced as you held your lower abdomen, “fuck” you said softly under your breath

Dr. Ellis’s eyebrows scrunch in concern, “you good?” 

“Yeah, just a little pain” you say as the pain starts to subside

Before she could ask you when the pain started, you were called away to answer a patient’s call light. You were leaving the patient’s room when you heard jack call your name on your right, “hey jack” you smile through the pain, going to your locker in the opposite direction to get another ibuprofen, not realizing he was following you

“Ellis mentioned you were in pain, what's going on?” he asks, concern in his voice as he eyes the ibuprofen you took out of your bag 

You shrug it off, “it’s nothing really, my stomach has just been hurting today, probably just cramps or something I ate” 

“How much ibuprofen have you taken today?” he asks, his thoughts thinking of all the questions he wanted to ask you, his mind thinking of all the potential diagnosis.

“I took 500mg before coming in, and now I’m taking 500mg more” you said as you take the medicine 

“When did you first notice the pain?” he asks

“Right when I woke up, doctor” you tease, pressing your hand against your lower abdomen as you get a wave of pain

“Rate your pain” his eyebrows scrunch together as he notices you grimace

“Right now it's like a 4” you say, and he gives you a quick look when you wince again

“So it’s really like a 7” jack amends, knowing that you were trying to lowball your pain 

“I’m fine, really” you insist 

He narrows his eyes, “okay, but let me know if the pain gets worse, okay?” he asks softly

“Okay, Dr. Abbot” you smile and he gives you a quick kiss on your forehead 

The ibuprofen didn’t seem to help as much as it did earlier when you first took it. You were standing at the nurse’s station, taking a minute for the nausea to pass when you feel someone tap your shoulder, making you look up into Jack’s eyes 

His eyes sweep over your face, “okay your complexion is scaring me, please sit down” he says as he leads you around the counter and into a chair. 

He grabs one of the carts to take your vitals, “describe your pain” he says as another wave of pain rolls through you 

“Like a sharp, stabbing pain” you said, and hold your lower right abdomen in hopes of relieving some of the pain, but it only makes it worse, “okay pressing it makes it way more painful” you wince 

“In your lower right quadrant” he notes as he finishes taking your vitals, “your blood pressure is elevated, so is your heart rate” he places the thermometer in your mouth and once he takes it out, he sees you have a mild fever. “Do you still have your appendix?” he asks 

You nod through the pain, “okay, I want to give you an abdomen exam” he says as he starts to see what room was open

“No really jack it’s fine I’ll just go to urgent care after shift” you say, not wanting to be a bother or take the bed from someone who has been waiting for hours to be seen

“If it’s your appendix you won’t be able to wait until after your shift” he gives you a look as you refuse to follow him into the empty room. “Okay, what if I just give you a quick abdomen exam and if it isn’t your appendix, fine, I’ll even go to urgent care with you afterwards” he compromises

You think about it for a moment, “fine” you relent and follow him into the empty room and lay down on the bed while he dons gloves. How could you say no when he looks at you with those eyes

“Can I?” jack asks, albeit a bit shyly, as he gestures towards your top to lift it up to expose your stomach. you give him a reassuring smile, you had never seen him shy like this before, he was always so sure and so confident, it was nice to see him a little nervous. He always made you nervous anyway

“sure” you nod and a light blush overtakes your face. He gently takes the end of your scrub top and lifts it up just below your breasts.

“I’m going to gently press down here okay” he says, his fingers lightly pressing down on your right lower abdomen, making you grimace. He quickly removes his finger, “sorry  sweetheart” he says softly, “can you get in the position to check for the psoas sign?” with a nod, you get on your side and extend your leg, wincing again 

“Okay, so positive mcburney's point and positive psoas sign” he says as he gets the ultrasound machine, “we’ll confirm with an ultrasound instead of a CT” he grabs the jelly, “it’s gonna be a little cold” he warns 

Once he looks at the screen, he sees an enlarged appendix and confirms it, “it’s appendicitis, luckily we caught it before it ruptured, I’ll put you in line for surgery, you’ll be next” he goes to the computer to put in the information 

You sit up in the bed and go to stand, “okay, I need to go finish up my chart-” you don't even get to finish before jack is shaking his head and lightly pushes you back on the bed 

“Nope you’re not getting out of this bed, I’ll bring you a computer, and let the charge nurse know” he sees you about to refuse and quickly continues, “and no buts, okay? This can get pretty serious pretty quickly and we don’t want it rupturing or even rupturing while you’re with a patient” he reasons and you relent, he had a fair point

“I hate it when you’re right” you say under your breath and get back in bed with a huff, but you give him a small smile when he grabs your hand in his. 

“I know you do baby” he indulges with a grin. 

–

potential for pt. 2, tbd :)

the pitt masterlist

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 8

theme: homoerotic friendship turns into ex best friends turns into fake-real-ish best friends turns into jealousy and confusion turns into this mess

A/N: The moment you've all been waiting for lol. (Edit: But.... this chapter is still angst)

WC: 4.8K

**** Chapter 8 **** 

Bowling was two weeks ago. It should’ve been out of her system by now. But something about that night stuck — not like a wound, exactly, more like a splinter: small, quiet, but impossible to forget once you’ve felt it.

Paige didn’t dwell on it. Not out loud, anyway. 

She kept things light, laughed when she was supposed to, didn’t say anything when Lexi started showing up uninvited to team hangouts or loitering in Azzi’s apartment — even on nights Azzi wasn’t there.

Lexi had a way of inserting herself into the middle of things — like she belonged there. Like the room had been waiting for her all along.

Lexi Reyes. UConn’s star pitcher. Transferred in from UCLA. Known for her fastball and her following — a walking highlight reel with a reputation Paige was pretty sure Azzi hadn’t heard. At least not the full version. Kathryn and the soccer girls had filled in the gaps one night after practice, trading stories that sounded more like cautionary tales than gossip. Paige never told Azzi what she heard. Maybe it wasn’t her place. Maybe it was something else entirely.

“She’s a lot,” Paige muttered around a bite of food, watching Lexi spin her car keys like a fidget toy while hovering near the building entrance, clearly waiting for Azzi.

Aubrey, tugging her hoodie over her head nearby, didn’t even pause. “If I don’t like somebody, that usually means something.”

Paige blinked. “That bad?”

Aubrey just shrugged, but the kind that spoke volumes. “Let’s just say I trust my gut. And my gut says she’s shady as hell.”

They never talked about it again, but it stuck. If Aubrey wasn’t sold, there was probably a reason. The girl liked everyone.

Still, Paige told herself what Kathryn had told her: You’re just protective. She’s your best friend. That was the story. Neat. Reasonable. She told it every time Azzi laughed too hard at something Lexi whispered.

Things with Kathryn, on the other hand, were… good.

Not easy — their schedules were chaos, and soccer was basically a traveling circus lately — but good in the way that felt earned. Intentional. Like they were both trying. Kathryn showed up even when she didn’t have to. Even when she was running on four hours of sleep and post-game soreness and the kind of exhaustion that lived behind your eyes.

Like the night she texted Paige from the team bus saying, craving popcorn and your face — and twenty minutes later, there she was, hair damp, hoodie zipped halfway up, a bag of Skinny Pop tucked under her arm. Paige hadn’t realized how much she needed the knock on the door until it came.

They didn’t talk much that night. They didn’t need to. Kathryn kissed her slow, touched her like Paige wasn’t made of fragile parts, like want and safety could exist in the same breath. Her fingers moved like a promise, and her smile — sleepy and sure — undid something in Paige that had been wound tight for weeks.

She stayed the night. We’ll just leave it at that.

Lately, Paige needed those kinds of nights — the ones that didn’t ask questions or remind her of everything she couldn’t control. Rehab was dragging. Her return date kept slipping further away, like something on the horizon that never actually got closer.

She hated watching practice from the sidelines. Hated how the team kept moving like nothing was missing — like a song she still knew all the words to, but wasn’t allowed to sing anymore.

Just smile. Clap along. Pretend your mic isn’t off.

Most days, she kept herself busy. That was the rule: keep moving, keep smiling, keep the ache at a low hum.

But this morning, while digging through her desk drawer for a hair tie, her fingers brushed something small.

A corner. Smooth edge. Something half-buried beneath tangled charger cords and old photos she hadn’t looked at in months.

She paused — long enough for her brain to flicker — but then her hand landed on a hair tie, the thing she’d been searching for.

So she moved on.

She didn’t open the box. Didn’t even register it as something new.

Didn’t know she was that close to finding it again.

Azzi

She never brought up the bowling night to Paige.

Figured if Paige wanted to talk about it, she would’ve by now. She’d made one offhand comment — something like “She seems like a lot” — back when everything was still loud and awkward and Lexi had first inserted herself into the picture. Azzi hadn’t responded. She’d just let it hang there, like the smoke trail after a firework. And since then? Nothing.

Maybe Paige didn’t care. Maybe she was just trying to keep things easy — for the team, or for herself. Maybe Azzi was doing the same.

Whatever the reason, they hadn’t talked about it. And honestly, Azzi wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Things had finally started to feel stable again. Practice had good energy. Paige and her had settled into something that resembled normal — not like before, but steady enough. The team was clicking. And they were headed west for the Phil Knight Classic — ranked matchups, national coverage, new gear they weren’t even allowed to post about yet. The kind of trip that made everything else blur at the edges.

Just basketball. Just them. Just enough to forget the rest, at least for a little while.

They were all camped out at the gate, waiting to board. Backpacks spilling open, travel hoodies up, empty Starbucks cups lined up like trophies on the floor. Ice was halfway through braiding Amari’s hair. Lili was nose-deep in a paperback. Nika had claimed two chairs like a throne.

Azzi was half-scrolling, half-listening to the low hum of conversations around her, when Aubrey slid into the seat beside her like she owned it.

“You’re not slick,” Aubrey said, tilting her head toward Azzi’s phone. “You knew what that selfie was gonna do.”

Azzi blinked. “It was just good lighting.”

“Uh-huh.” Aubrey grabbed the phone and held it up. “Caption: ‘just thinking’. Come on. That’s bait.”

“It’s literally a mirror selfie.”

“It’s a thirst trap disguised as introspection,” Aubrey deadpanned.

From a few seats down, Lili leaned in. “How many DMs?”

Azzi shrugged, but she could feel the flush rising behind her ears. “I don’t know. A few?”

“Define a few,” Ice called out without looking up from her Switch.

“Double digits?” Caroline guessed. “Or like... international waters?”

Amari grinned. “Didn’t someone send you poetry last week?”

Aubrey started scrolling. “Oh my God — ‘You look like a poem I can’t stop reading’. Who writes that? Who even talks like that?”

“Apparently her followers,” Lili said. “She’s got options.”

“And then there’s Lexi,” Aubrey said, tapping Azzi’s screen like it owed her an explanation. “Again.”

Azzi shrugged, trying not to make a thing out of it. “So she commented on a post. You all do that too.”

Aubrey gave her a look. “Yeah, but we don’t drop off coffee during study hall like it’s a rom-com grand gesture.”

“It was one time.”

“And the surprise Venmo for lunch?”

Azzi blinked. “It was five bucks.”

“Mmhmm,” Aubrey said. “Lexi’s just out here investing in your happiness, huh?”

“She's just being nice,” Azzi said again, softer this time. Like if she said it enough, it might be true.

Aubrey grinned. “Real nice…”

Azzi rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Because the truth was… Lexi had been persistent. Since Ted’s, she’d been around. Texting often — not just flirty stuff, although there was plenty of that — but little things. Compliments. Memes. Good luck before practices. One morning, she’d left protein muffins outside Azzi’s door with a note that said, For my favorite jump shot.

Azzi hadn’t asked for any of it. But she hadn’t told her to stop either.

Azzi hadn’t asked for any of it. But she hadn’t told her to stop either.

If she was being honest, it felt kind of nice — being seen like that. By someone new.

Lexi was hot. And fun. And knew how to make people feel like they were the only one in the room.

So whatever.

It wasn’t serious. It didn’t have to be.

She could feel Paige watching. Just a glance, a quick flick of the eyes, but Azzi felt it anyway. Like static in the air.

Paige hadn’t said anything since that night at the bowling alley. No comments. No warnings. Just silence. But Azzi had felt the shift — the way Paige went quiet whenever Lexi’s name came up, the way she looked away too quickly when Azzi mentioned something vaguely nice Lexi had done.

She didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t want to assume.

So she didn’t.

If Paige had something to say, she’d say it. She always did. And if she didn’t… well, maybe that said something too.

Azzi popped in a headphone and leaned her head back against her backpack, letting the sounds of the gate fade into background noise. Her screen dimmed. The conversation moved on without her.

She closed her eyes.

Whatever.

Paige

Paige didn’t want to sit next to Azzi.

Not because she was mad. Not exactly. It was more… complicated than that.

She was still lowkey embarrassed about the whole bowling night — the dumb competitiveness, the way her voice had snapped sharper than intended, the heat that rose to her cheeks when Lexi leaned into Azzi like it was nothing. Paige hadn’t meant to spiral. But she had. And now she didn’t know how to act.

They’d somehow landed in this weird fake-real-normalcy. Like two people playing the roles of people who used to know how to talk to each other.

So when they got to the back of the plane and Azzi casually asked, “You sitting here or what?” Paige didn’t really have it in her to say no.

She shrugged. “Yeah. Sure.”

The flight was long and late. Most of the team had already claimed their windows and neck pillows and snacks. The cabin lights were dimmed to that fake-nighttime blue. Paige settled in, tugged her hoodie tighter, and stared ahead like the seatback screen was broadcasting peace.

Azzi nudged her knee. “You wanna play something? I downloaded that dumb fruit slicing game again.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “What is this, 2014?”

“Shut up. You’re gonna love it.”

She passed over her phone, and Paige took it, their fingertips brushing — just long enough to register. Azzi leaned in a little, close enough for Paige to catch the faint scent of whatever citrusy thing she always used in her hair.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just shared the screen in silence while Paige sliced through falling fruit with lazy precision, like muscle memory.

Azzi laughed under her breath when Paige missed a pineapple. “Wow. Tragic.”

“Please,” Paige said, flicking a banana off the screen. “I’m warming up.”

It wasn’t much. But it was something — a flicker of ease, a small pocket of time where the air between them didn’t feel like it had to be navigated. Where it felt like they could maybe still make each other laugh.

It felt—normal. Almost easy. Like the kind of moment they used to fall into without even thinking.

And then Paige noticed it.

Just above the collar of Azzi’s hoodie, on the curve of her neck, barely visible in the soft cabin light — a bruise. Small. Faint. Definitely not from practice.

She tried not to flinch. Just stared a little too long. 

Her stomach flipped.

Azzi caught the shift in Paige’s gaze, followed it, and instantly tugged her hood higher like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t noticed. Like Paige hadn’t just seen proof of someone else’s mouth on her skin.

Paige didn’t say anything. Just clenched her jaw, handed the phone back.

But her thoughts didn’t stay quiet.

She tried not to care. Tried to tell herself it wasn’t her place — that whatever this thing between them was or used to be, it didn’t give her a right to feel anything now.

But she did. Of course she did.

The bruise was small. Faint. A whisper, really. But it said more than anything Azzi had in months.

It said she’d moved on. Or was trying to.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly too warm under her hoodie. The game wasn’t fun anymore. The moment — whatever it had been — was gone. They played for another minute or two — silent, trying to force lightness back into the space between them.

And then a banner popped up at the top of Azzi’s screen.

Lexi: still thinking about how good you looked last night 😵‍💫

Azzi swiped it away quickly, but it was too late. Paige had seen it. And her fingers froze just long enough for the fruit to explode across the screen and end the game.

Silence stretched between them like a rubber band, pulled tight and trembling, waiting to snap.

Paige looked down. Then back at Azzi.

She shouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t her business. Azzi could do what she wanted.

But the words were already climbing up her throat, heavy and sharp.

Maybe she could say it gently. Maybe she could pretend it was just concern. Maybe Azzi wouldn’t see through it.

Her voice came out low, like she was aiming for chill and missing by a mile.

Paige swallowed. Cool. Smooth. Definitely didn’t sound unhinged.

“I’m just saying, Lexi’s kind of a player,” she managed, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to spiraling. “Everyone knows it.”

Her heart was doing that thing where it felt way too present in her body — loud and fast and everywhere at once. She knew she should shut up. Let it go. Take the L and move on. But something about that bruise on Azzi’s neck — about Lexi’s name lighting up her screen like a punchline — made the words claw their way out anyway.

She could still see it: that night at Ted’s, the way Azzi had laughed at something Lexi said, head tilted, eyes bright, like Paige wasn’t three feet away and fully unraveling. Like she hadn’t ever mattered at all.

This was dumb. This was probably jealousy. Or trauma. Or some combination of both, garnished with emotional immaturity and a long history of not knowing when to shut up.

“I don’t think she’s…” Paige exhaled hard through her nose, jaw flexing. “I don’t think she’s in it for the right reasons.”

There it was. Out in the air between them.

Paige wanted to melt through the floor. Or eject herself out the plane window. Either option would’ve been less humiliating than this.

Azzi turned toward her, slow and sharp. She crossed her arms like it gave her something to hold onto.

“Wow. Okay.”

“I’m not trying to start shit,” Paige said quickly. “I just… I’ve seen how she’s moving. And I don’t want you to get messed up over someone who’s not serious.”

Azzi scoffed, quiet and cold. “Right. So now you care?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Azzi shot back, voice tight. “You don’t say a single thing for weeks and now suddenly you’re worried about me?”

Paige looked away first. Out the window. Into the nothing-dark of a red-eye flight where everyone else was sleeping, not spiraling.

The silence between them wasn’t silence anymore. It was noise in her chest. A buzz behind her ribs.

Two steps forward. Three steps back. Always.

Azzi didn’t say anything else. She slid her phone into the seat pocket, turned toward the aisle, and pulled her hood up like that was the end of it.

Paige stared straight ahead.

This. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to sit here.

Azzi

She didn’t get it. Still didn’t get it.

Why Paige had to come for Lexi like that.

It wasn’t like she knew her — not really. A couple glances, one passive-aggressive comment at a bowling alley, and now suddenly Lexi was a “player” and didn’t have the “right intentions.” Whatever that even meant.

Azzi wasn’t trying to fall in love. She wasn’t trying to get married. She was just figuring it out. Trying something new. Letting herself breathe a little. And yeah, okay, maybe she liked Lexi more than she meant to. Maybe that was part of the problem.

Because Lexi had been… really nice. Sweet, even. She’d walked Azzi back to her apartment in the rain one night and made a dumb joke about it being cinematic. She brought Azzi her favorite smoothie after practice with her name written in cursive Sharpie across the cup.

She was bold. Cheesy. Kind of irresistible.

And there was that night. The one with the ice cream. They’d both had late study sessions and ended up walking to the gas station down the block because it was the only thing open. Lexi bought two pints of Ben & Jerry’s — didn’t even ask, just handed Azzi her favorite and said, “Don’t say I never pay attention.”

They sat on the curb outside Azzi’s building, sharing one spoon and talking about tattoos they’d probably never get. Lexi had reached for her hand without asking. Kept playing with her fingers while she talked. It wasn’t subtle. And when she leaned in to kiss her — slow, certain — Azzi didn’t stop her.

It had been nice. Warm. Familiar in a way she hadn’t expected.

And it was the first time she’d kissed a girl who wasn’t Paige.

She didn’t want to overthink it. Didn’t want to turn this into something it wasn’t.

So she tried to shake it off — Paige’s speech on the plane. The judgment in her voice. The way it made Azzi feel like she was doing something wrong just for letting herself feel anything outside of her. Like this tiny flicker of something new was already a mistake.

Paige had no idea what it had taken just to get here.

And Azzi got it. She did. Paige cared. Paige always had. But sometimes that care showed up sideways — sharp and unspoken, like a bruise you didn’t realize you had until someone pressed on it.

By the time they got to the hotel, it mostly felt fine again. No dramatic standoff. No lingering tension.

Just a moment in the elevator — Paige standing next to her, close but not touching. The soft hum of lobby music playing from the speaker overhead. The kind of quiet where you can almost hear the things people aren’t saying.

Then Paige broke it.

“I’m sorry if that came out harsh earlier,” she said. Her voice was softer now. Not careful, but… sincere. “You’re still my best friend. I guess I’m just a little protective. That’s all.”

Azzi nodded. She didn’t trust herself to say much more than that.

But there was a pause — a long one — and when she looked over, Paige was already watching her.

It was the eyes. It was always the eyes.

For a second, Azzi was back in that gym in Colorado.

USA Basketball training camp. Seventeen years old. One second she was sprinting through a transition drill, the next her knee gave out — just buckled, sharp and sudden. She didn’t even feel it right away, just heard the sound. That awful, unnatural pop. And then the pain hit.

She remembered hitting the floor, hard, and gasping like the wind had been knocked out of her. The gym felt too bright. Her hands shook. Everything blurred.

People crowded. Coaches. Trainers. Whistles blew.

But the only person she really saw was Paige.

Paige, already on her knees beside her, before anyone else had moved. Her face was pale, eyes wide, mouth parted like she’d forgotten how to breathe. One hand hovered over Azzi’s shoulder, not touching yet — like she didn’t want to hurt her, but couldn’t not be near her either.

Azzi remembered the way Paige looked at her — like she was the one in pain. Like someone had taken the floor out from under her. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t panic. It was something else entirely. This open, gut-level heartbreak that Azzi hadn’t known what to do with.

She’d been the one crying. She’d been the one injured. But Paige’s eyes were the thing that stuck with her.

Because that look?

It said everything. It said I wish it were me. It said I don’t know how to fix this, but I’d do anything to try.

That was the kind of care Paige Bueckers gave people. Wordless. Fierce. Immediate.

It scared Azzi, a little. Even then.

Azzi blinked, and they were back in the elevator.

Back in this moment. Present day. And then—

Buzz. Paige’s phone lit up in her hand. FaceTime call. Kathryn’s name across the screen.

Azzi took a step back.

The elevator dinged. Paige swiped to answer. And just like that, the moment was gone.

Paige

The tournament went well. That’s what everyone kept saying, anyway.

Two big wins. Ranked teams. National attention. And Azzi— Azzi was a headline.

She’d gone off in the championship game against Iowa. Just two points in the first half, then twenty-two in the second like it was nothing. Seven for seven in the third quarter alone. Every shot effortless. Every step like she was floating.

Paige watched it all from the bench, clapping when she was supposed to. Smiling when the cameras panned her way. Pretending like something inside her wasn’t unraveling one missed moment at a time.

Azzi looked unstoppable. Paige felt like she was standing still.

She hated that it was hard. She wanted to be nothing but happy — for Azzi, for the team, for the program. And she was. But also… she wasn’t.

The travel had messed with her knee more than she expected. Tightness. Dull pain. A throbbing ache that settled deep and stayed there, like background noise. She hadn’t even played. She hadn’t done anything — and still, her body felt like it was folding in on itself.

That was the part no one talked about. Not the comeback or the highlight reel. The part where your body betrays you in silence. Where you do everything right and it still isn’t enough.

Paige didn’t say any of that. She iced. She stretched. She smiled when the trainers asked how she was feeling.

But in her head, she was spiraling.

What if the best version of her was already behind her? What if she was chasing something that didn’t even exist anymore?

It felt like too much some days. Too heavy. Too loud. Too far.

The flight home sucked.

She sat in her window seat, hoodie up, headphones in — but no music played. Just the quiet hum of the cabin and everything she didn’t want to think about.

Just her and the thoughts she hadn’t figured out how to say out loud.

Azzi was a few rows up, curled sideways in her seat, laughing at something Ice had said. Paige could hear it — that soft, full laugh that made people look over without meaning to. The kind of laugh that used to be hers.

She looked away before she could get stuck in it.

She wasn’t jealous. Not really.

Just tired. In every way a person could be.

****

She didn’t know what else to do.

Her body hurt. Her chest felt tight. And her thoughts kept looping the same four questions on repeat: What if this is it? What if I don’t come back? What if I’m already behind? What if I can’t catch up?

It wasn’t just about her knee anymore. It was about everything the injury had taken from her — the rhythm, the edge, the part of her that used to feel solid no matter what. She used to wake up and just know. What she was chasing. What she was made for. Now? Now it all felt a little fuzzier. Like the clarity had gone quiet, and she didn’t know how to get it back.

She didn’t say that out loud. She couldn’t. So she cleaned her room instead.

She told herself it was just to feel productive — throw some laundry in, toss a few empty bottles, maybe vacuum the corners she usually ignored. But really, she was trying to shift something inside her. Make space. Shake loose the weight pressing down on her lungs.

Maybe if she cleaned her room, her head would follow.

So she straightened her desk. Refolded sweatshirts. Pulled open drawers she hadn’t touched in weeks. Dust clung to her fingertips, and she welcomed it — physical proof that something was being lifted.

And that’s when her hand caught on something small.

A box. White. Plain. Wedged in the back beneath some birthday cards and a half-used notebook.

She didn’t recognize it at first. Didn’t think anything of it.

But when she opened the lid, her breath caught in her throat.

A bracelet.

Pink and purple beads. White blocks spelling one word:

PURPOSE

For a second, she just stared at it.

Not exactly like the one she had made for Azzi all those years ago — after the ACL tear, when Azzi sat on her floor in tears and told Paige she didn’t know if she could come back from this. Paige had made her a bracelet to remind her that strength wasn’t something you waited for — it was something you decided to keep showing up for.

But this one? This was new. Azzi had made this one — for her.

And the word…

Paige didn’t just know this word. She had lived it.

Purpose was the thing she clung to when the pressure got loud and the silence got louder. It was what she whispered in the training room, in late-night prayers, in between ice bags and cortisone shots and days where she didn’t feel like herself.

Everything happens for a reason. This isn’t wasted. There’s purpose in this.

She’d said it so many times, she’d started to believe it.

Azzi knew that.

And she had chosen this word on purpose.

Paige’s hands started to shake.

It was slow at first — barely noticeable — just a tremble at her fingertips. Then her chest tightened, like there wasn’t enough room inside her ribs for everything she was feeling. The tears came faster than she could stop them. No warning. No pause. Just a sudden, full-body kind of grief that made it hard to catch her breath.

And then she saw the note.

Folded beneath the bracelet, her name written across the top in Azzi’s handwriting — steady, careful, familiar.

She picked it up with both hands like it might fall apart.

She read:

P,

When I tore my ACL, you gave me a bracelet. I wore it every single day. It reminded me that I could get through it. That I’d come back stronger. That I wasn’t done.

You believed that before I could. And it changed everything.

So I made you one. Not the same — because you're not where I was. You’re where you are.

I picked the word you always come back to. The one that holds you up when nothing else can.

Don’t lose it. Or break it. Or forget what it means.

And hey — happy birthday.

Love, Az

****

Paige let the letter fall into her lap, her fingers still curled like she didn’t trust the air around her not to take it back.

It felt like all the wind had been knocked out of her — not suddenly, but slowly, like she’d been holding her breath for months and hadn’t realized it until now.

She folded in on herself, pressing the bracelet to her chest, her breathing uneven and shallow.

This wasn’t just a gift.

It was Azzi — thoughtful and steady, always noticing more than she let on — reaching out in the quietest way possible. No explanations. No expectations. Just… this.

Something small. Something soft. Something Paige hadn’t even known she still needed.

But Azzi had known. She had seen her. Even from a distance. Even in silence.

And instead of asking for anything, she’d given Paige the one thing she hadn’t been able to find on her own.

Belief.

In the middle of silence. In the middle of distance. After almost a year of not talking, of walking past each other in hallways and pretending it didn’t still hurt — Azzi had still made this for her.

She had still remembered.

And Paige didn’t even know when she’d left the box. Her birthday had come and gone in a blur of awkward smiles and late texts, and she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t even opened the drawer.

Azzi probably thought she didn’t care. That it hadn’t meant anything. That it got lost in the noise.

But now, holding it— Clutching it—

Paige felt like her heart was cracking open in the best and worst way — like something long-buried had finally surfaced and didn’t know how to settle.

She pressed the bracelet to her chest, blinking up at the ceiling like that might steady her. Like that might be enough to hold her in place. But the tears came again anyway — slow, quiet, impossible to stop. The kind that came from somewhere deep, the kind that knew exactly what they were mourning and didn’t need to explain why.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was breaking.

She felt like maybe she wasn’t lost at all.

She just needed to remember what she was made for.

And maybe… who she was made to come back to.

[skywalkoverme]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 pt 1

a/n: Request made by anon! I hope I covered all the tags lol.

𐙚 Anakin Skywalker x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+ MDNI

Summary: You're close friends with your neighbor, Anakin.

Warnings/contains: modern au, dom! male, sub! fem, dilf + milf, adultery, raw sex, multiple orgasms, squirt+cream orgasm, crying during sex, rough sex, oral sex (f reciv), choking, lots of dirty talk, reader is a milf, proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 3.3k // More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

You held a tumbler to your breasts, and it was all he could focus on. Your white French tipped nails wrapped around that pink tumbler filled with hot coffee. A baby pink scarf around your head and neck and a pale coat that hugged your body. You stomped some to keep warm as your eyes followed the boys while they did drills up and down the outdoor rink. The sound of their hockey sticks, and sharp blades as they scraped on the ice echoed through the rink.

Anakin wore a knitted hat and coat as he stood beside you, his own hands engulfed in warm gloves. “You’re usually standing with the coaches before the games. Did you get kicked out again?” You asked before sipping from the warm drink.

“Apparently, my ambition has distracted the boys.”

“I told you last season to sign up for head coach. Luke likes you in the coach’s circle.”

“He does? You must know something that I don’t.”

You shrugged, “I eavesdrop when the boys have their sleepovers.” He nearly missed it as you traced your forefinger on the opening of the tumbler lid.

His breath hitched as he watched your nail… “U- Ahem, I won’t lie and say I don’t do the same thing.”

“Good friends keep you honest.” He nods once. “Were you thinking of coming over for dinner?”

And have the excuse to see your curves in a short apron? “Of course.”

“I hate when he’s out of town…” You twisted the ring on your slim fingers, “the house feels empty.”

“I’m sure me and the boys could help with that.” He smirked without looking at you. You stared at the side of his face and noted his cockiness. He’s sweet but prideful. Anakin knows how much you want him around, how excited it made you to hear his voice or even stand beside you like this. There was something about his charisma that drew you into him. You supposed it was the reason why even the people who couldn’t stand him found themselves circled around him for news about the team or his own life.

Last June

You had moved into this neighborhood with your husband and son. Two houses down from Anakin and his twins, you lived in a three-story home: pale blue exterior and close to the lakeshore. Anakin first spotted you as you carried in a small box from the moving truck and into the home. You came back outside and leaned on a porch pillar, a sweating water bottle in your hand, a white tank top clung to your form and blue jean shorts around your curvy hips.

The water from his hose sprayed on his car as his jaw loosened. “…holy shit.” Anakin’s eyes followed your every step as you walked back to the moving truck to assist your husband and son.

It didn’t take long before you turned around and waved. The man smiled drunkenly, his tongue rolled between his teeth as he waved back, watering his porch. You tilted your head at his actions, “Oh, Shit!” He turned his watering hose back to the grass and chuckled. By the time he turned towards your house, you were inside again. “Dad!” Leia called from the doorframe. “Where is my---” She scoffed, “Why is the porch wet?! My friends are coming over!”

“They can go through the side door.” He muttered distractedly. “Who are the new neighbors?” Through a sweaty brow, he peered over at your family.

“Huh? Oh, that’s the L/N’s.” Leia waved a hand and ate from a bag of grapes.

“I think the son plays hockey; I saw goalie pads.” Luke leaned on the porch, his attention on his phone. “We need a player badly, Dad.”

“Let’s wait until they get settled in and then we can visit.” Anakin finished watering the grass and sighed.

Leia shook her head, “We need to bring a gift. You can’t show up to someone’s house without one.”

“I can go to the store!” Luke perked up and slipped his phone into his pocket.

“Tsk, no! You just want an excuse to drive Dad’s car!” The two raced to the keys that rested in a ceramic dish by the door. Anakin didn’t care for the commotion that occurred over his car because all his attention was given to you while you rest in your husbands’ arms, his arms around your neck as he kissed your deeply. Part of him wanted to yell and tell you both to get a room but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the lewd sight. “Dad! Leia took the keys!”

“Then get in the passenger side.” He groaned and pushed a cap onto his head.

Within a week of you living here, it was clear to Anakin that he wasn’t the only person, man or woman, who found you to be a beautiful and perfect distraction.

Present

“Poor thing, you look like an icicle.” Anakin chuckled and cupped your hands in his warm gloves. “Still not used to the cold?”

“I’m used to the cold, not the snow.” You said as he gently rubbed your hands. Other parents in the stands watched as he gently warmed you up. “Only a few more weeks of this until—”

“Rain.” The man chuckled and wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

“Mhhh, thank you.” You slumped against his body as his heat enveloped your body. “That’s perfect.” This wasn’t Anakin’s first time pushing it a little far with you. There were times where you’d find your way to his lap or in the tuck of his arm on someone’s couch. Each time, you figured there was some implications that pointed to him wanting more from you, but you’d just brush it off.

“There you go…” He chuckled and playfully kissed the top of your head. The practice came to an end and the boys began to take off their helmets and padding. Anakin refused to let you go, a teasing whine on his lips as he whispered to you, “You’re like a little bunny…I can’t let you go; you’ll freeze to death.” You laughed, a hand in your hair as you twirled a lock. “Have a good night!” A few parents exchanged their goodbyes with you and Anakin, used to the dynamic by now.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, “Moooom!” Your son shook your shoulder harder. “We wanna order in.” You faked a whine and buried your face into Anakin’s shoulder.

Luke chucked, “Hold me, Mister Walker~” He mocked your voice and nudged your son's shoulder. Luke brought your son into his arms and ruffled his hair.

"Very funny!" Your son pushed Luke into the snow.

“How about I drive your mom home and you both can meet us there?” Your son agreed and dug in your purse for car keys. He walked with Luke to your car and tossed their gear into the trunk. Anakin gently spun you on the ice outside the rink and led you inside.

You quickly gripped the side of the rink and shook your head, “I don’t have on skates! You don’t either!” The man took off his gloves as you stood awkwardly, your ass poked out and your feet spread as if you were too scared to move.

 “C’mon.” He rests his left hand on top of yours, the other on your lower stomach as he helped you stand up straight.

“I’m going to fall.”

“If you wish, you will.” He said as he helped push your feet on the ice. You clung tightly to him, your nails pressed into skin. His nose buried in your hair as he took deep inhales. Anakin held back a moan as your ass pressed on the front of his pants. His eyes fluttered close as you focused on reaching the next wall. Your hands quickly grabbed the padded side in a quick crash. The man’s hips rocked onto your soft backside and groaned. You gasped; a warmth built in your cheeks.

“I’m sorry!”

The man chuckled, his hold on your lower stomach tightened. “I’m not complaining, Sweetheart.” Your stomach flipped as he pulled you back with him towards the center of the rink; you quickly gripped his forearms for support. “Lean back on me, I’ve got you.” The man whispered and you gave him your weight. “You see the far zone?” You nod at the yellow exit. “We can make it…” With slowly glides, he takes you towards the far zone, his attention on your sweet expression outlined by your hair. “There you go.” He gently rubbed your lower stomach, his curious fingers played with the delicate, cold skin of your hand. Chills ran down your spine repeatedly without much of a break due to the sensual touches.

Without much of a warning, the man spun your joining until your backs faced the exit. He let his body take the hit and push the door open; his arms wrapped around your waist as you rolled on the fluffy pile of snow. “Christ!” You yelped as he chuckled and pushed snow from your clothes. Your legs tangled with his as you lay against him. “I’ll bring my skates next time.”

“It’s better this way.”

“Why?” You balled up some snow in your hands. “So I can struggle?”

“You’re so adorable when you struggle.” He pets your hair. You smush the snowball onto his face and stand up. The man laughed and pulled you back into the pile of snow.

When you and Anakin arrived at your house later, half of the team surrounded your kitchen islands; some half-eaten boxes of pizza and others were empty. Hockey uniforms were tossed in the laundry room and bags were lined up by the entrance. “Uhm, honey?” You grabbed the attention of every player. “My son.” You cleared your throat, and the young man found his way to you, “I thought it was just you and Luke tonight.”

“You didn’t see my text?” He asked as he was thrown a game controller. You sighed and looked through your notifications. “I guess not. Anyway, Chris’ truck had some issues so I said he could come here…the rest of ‘em found their way here.” He shrugged.

Anakin hung you and his coat, eavesdropping some. “…alright. Since it’s so many of you, sleep on the third floor.”

“Thank you!” he quickly kissed your cheek and called out an ‘I love you’ before turning his attention to the television, as his thumbs rolled over the controller’s right and left sticks.

Anakin flipped through a few boxes before he found an untouched pizza. He raised it with a smirk and followed your lead upstairs. His eyes followed your hips as they swished from side to side; his bottom lip caught in between his teeth. “I need to get out of these wet clothes.” He playfully bit the air behind your ass as you walked ahead, “Do you want to change into something else?”

“Hm? Yeah.”

You walked into the master’s bedroom and disappeared for a few moments. Anakin set the pizza box on the table and began to undress in the second living room. When you returned, you didn’t shy from the sight and instead you handed him a pajama set. In those grey shorts you now wore, you ass seemed fatter. He stood behind you as he buttoned the pajama shirt close, a breath away from your body. You looked comfortable in your alma mater sweatshirt. Perhaps it was how comfortable you were around him as you switched through movies until you settled on something you’d seen a million times. Anakin settled on the couch, his feet propped up, when you joined him.

From your fingertips, you took a few bites of your pizza. Anakin leaned forward and took a bite of your slice. His arm tucked around your neck as you lay back on him. “Did you put on perfume?” He took another inhale.

“Yes.” You tried your best to swallow your spit discreetly as your heart throbs in your chest.

“It smells nice.” He brought your neck closer to his nose and nipped it with his lips playfully. You puckered your lips and pushed him away. “C’mon.” He followed you to the other side of the couch and kissed your cheek. You didn’t move away as he hovered over you, a leg between both yours. “I’m just being friendly.” He leaned deeper over you and bit your shoulder. Your hands rests on his shoulders as he kissed the reddened spot.

“Friendly? None of my friends do that.” You rose up and turned him on his back, your legs straddled his.

“Really? I could have sworn I’d seen you and Valentina like this in November.” He sat up on his hands, his lips a centimeter from yours as his eyes traced your dazed expression. “May I try something?” You nodded as he leaned into your lips, his hands sunk into your hair as you kissed him back. Your mouth opened for him, his thick tongue made it’s warm and silken impression on yours. Without warning, he took the gold band from your finger, minding the large diamond before he set it on the table. Your body fell onto his; his rock-hard cock under you as he sucked on your bottom lip, and you took his top lip into your mouth. “Fuck, you feel amazing.” He groaned, palming your ass as you sat on his hips.

You pulled off your sweatshirt and left yourself in a bra and shorts. …just as big as I imagined! You thought as his cock throbbed under your heat. Maybe bigger. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and turned you on your side. He lay against you on the couch, soft kisses trailed down your collarbones and to the edge of your bra. “Careful…”  He inhaled your excited exhales and breathed it back into your lungs. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know.” His forehead rests against yours, his fingertips glide over the heat of your skin. “We won’t get caught.”

He chuckled, “You sound so sure of yourself.” Anakin whispered as his lips brushed against yours, “Your son already thinks I’m fucking you.” You shook your head, “It's true. Now, I’m trying to be a good man; to respect your marriage, Y/n.” He hiked your leg up on his hip until you were spread open.

You peered up at him with those large eyes, glazed with need, “You don’t care about my marriage.” Again, he laughed. His tone was not convincing from the start but you calling him out was comical in the heat of the moment. His hand tucked into the waistband of your shorts and grazed over your slit through your panties.

“He’s a lucky man…” You followed Anakin’s eyes to a marriage photo behind your head on the side table. He turned his gaze down to you as his fingers played with your slickened pussy. “Shhhh…” He circled the pad of his thumb on your clit. When you began to whimper a little too loud for his liking, Anakin took a deep kiss from your lips, his tongue dove into your mouth so lewdly.

The erection that bulged against your leg distracted you from his middle fingers that seamlessly slipped into your pussy, stretching your pink pussy. He swallowed your whimpers in his mouth as he pumped his fingers in and out of your pussy at a steady pace; each stroke curled to your sensitive spot inside your pussy. “N~ nnhhg~” You kissed the shell of his ear, and he pressed even deeper onto you until you could feel the ridges of his muscles through the pajama fabric.

He sped up, his fingers fucked you faster, “Ride my fingers.” He said softly as your sweating forehead pressed on his. Your hips bucked forward to his rhythm, seeking that delicious feeling that stirred in your core. “Ride them.” He repeated and you sat up on your hands, working your hips to the pace. Your silky walls clenched him with every stroke so rightfully, he took his place between your thighs. Two lips around your clitoris as he weakened your hole with his thick and invasive digits. He suckled until he found that perfect center. Your thighs faltered and his breath grew hotter as he breathed on your pussy, inhaling your sweet scent. “You can take it, pretty girl~”

Never had your husband spoken to you in this way, touched you in this manner. Sure, this was cheating but dammit, it felt good. He pushed your thighs wide and pushed a third finger into your cunt. The flat of his tongue pressed on your hard clitoris and you whined from the pressure. Anakin could feel your climax building; your walls clutched him tightly and you ride his fingers faster. Your exhales scattered and needy as if you were trapped in a tight space. “Cum for me.” He moaned into your ear, “Cum on my fingers, pretty girl.” His lips swallowed your cries as he worked your core. When you came along his thick digits, he could feel your pussy spasm and see your eyes roll back. He gently pats your cunt until you squirted over the couch cushions; he quickly gathered you in his arms to keep you from falling back. His hand stroked your damp forehead, a kiss on your temple as he carefully placed you on your hands and knees.

Your arms lazily held the arm rest of the couch as you huffed. You couldn’t remember when he pulled off your panties or took your bra off but with the heat you felt they weren’t needed. He pinned you to the couch, his hands rests on top of yours as his muscular frame caged you in. His firm cockhead pressed of the folds of your swollen pussy, “Mhh, fuck.” He groaned in your ear, a tempting edge to his voice. “…little cunt.” His tip caught on the opening of your pussy, threatening to push inside at any given second.

Anakin gripped your throat in his hand and tilted your head back, so you’d look him in the eyes. He enjoyed the feel of your body against his, the center of your sensitivity against his. Your breathing was quick, your body still twitching from the last orgasm. “You’ll take every inch of my dick, won’t you?” You nodded as his lips hovered over yours. He pried your lips open and spat in your open mouth. “Swallow it.” You obeyed his command as your eyes glossed over. Slowly, he buried himself to the crotch inside of you. “Fuck, you’re choking my cock.” Your eyelashes fluttered as he gripped your throat tightly.

He pushed into you at a comfortable pace as you gripped the couch, a few obscene moans left your mouth.

Downstairs, two or three of the boys turned their head to the sounds coming from the second floor.

Anakin quickened his pace as he pumped your pussy full of his fat cock. “Shhh…” He chuckled as you gripped the couch tighter. “Shut up or I’ll take you to the floor.” You could barely understand him as each stroke twisted your consciousness. His cock was the kind that you savor so naturally, you did so. Mindlessly, your mouth pooled with drool. Anakin laughed before kissing your lips. “You’re such a filthy whore.”

“Y- yes, Sir.” He pistoned into your cunt harder, stroking deeper with every sway of his hips. Anakin gripped your throat harder until your vision grew blurry and all you could think of was his cock. Drunk off his length, you hadn’t noticed the stairwell lights that flicked on.

“This is what you wanted, right?” You only exhaled a breathless moan, “They can hear you, slut.” He taunted in your ear. “Can you hear me, fuck doll?”

You nodded; your drool spilled on the side of the couch. “M- mhm.”

“Letting me fuck your pussy raw, you’re such a whore.” You smirked; you’d already came on his cock twice now. He kept his full length in you and stirred his hips with a deep groan; his cock whisks your insides, rearranging your guts.

“F- fuck~ ” He took your clawing hand and pressed it on your stomach that bulged with his length. You could hear the boys downstairs as they gathered blankets for the night and prepared for their night over.

“Focus on what’s important.” Anakin’s words echoed in your ear as he continued his relentless bucking into your cunt. “There you go~”

a/n: I'm working on an Anakin x Mistress (original universe), piece right now as well as a new series! Follow for more

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

Interact with my Anakin master list to be tagged: (sorry if I missed you, it's a rotation)

@meowmeowjang @slingggshot @cdfvgbhnjm @peachpit31 @carterc15 @smithcaityy @sisterofreverance @hellomwah @blondiebatter @aqqjjk @radiantvader @anthrais @xhino3 @valyna27 @wuxianwrld @discobronzer @melaninswift @justthingzsblog @stanyuqisworld @ppoppy-seed @mcxdiaz @maneater97 @swiftiesimonriley @yeonjinnie @laddle @daughterofstairs @edenizzyx @eymie @xxhvzelxx @bored-as-fuck @skywalkershootme @viviennebloom @jujustarwars1 @kaaaatta-blog @javierpenaspentis @cherrylvrsworld @finnyboob @nouschkaa @blackkhir4 @ilovepurple31 @smiling-is-suffering @akariakanji-blog @daddysbitchybaby @sythethecarrot @thescxrpio

Dividers (as always) from @cursed-carmine

[artistic-arteries]

((Please don't read physical books while eating or cooking, especially if it's a library book. ))

Genuine advice to help bring up adult reading:

Everything @moniquill mentioned

Suggesting books to friends and coworkers

Starting a book club

Attending your local library's book club

Inviting people to book clubs

Creating a designated "reading hour" for you and your family

Bringing a book to read in waiting rooms

Bringing a book to the park

Going to a cafe to read once a week

All these things help normalize reading as an enjoyable activity and foster community around reading

As an adult, I read more books while in a bookclub than I have since

If you have kids/young loved ones:

Set a reading hour. start a timer, get a blanket, read to them if they can't read, with them if they struggle, and read next to them with your own book if they're good enough to independently read.

If your kids just learning to read, ask their teacher what method they're using. Studies show that sight word learning IS NOT as effective long-term as learning phonetically. If it is what they teach, express your concerns (nicely!), if they can't change how they teach, call the district, call the PTA, call your local politician, call the local news, complain to your friends, even. Just talk about it so we can get rid of this thing

I want to say that kids really should be watching PBS more, especially if they're elementary school age and younger. The purpose was to help kids learn to read and other basic skills like empathy and emotional regulation. Turning on Netflix' or Disney's educational shows is NOT the same (the kid often eventually changes to something else). Plus tbh live TV teaches a patience and focus that streaming doesn't.

Many schools and libraries have summer reading programs and many will be free and some will provide transportation. These are sometimes treated like day care and not all will be equal so ask the people running them what the teacher:student ratio is. Anything more than 15 is usually more like a daycare than a reading program (sincerely, a public school teacher who works the summer reading program)

I am sick of people sugar coating the education crisis of American Adults. It is killing us. It is killing the world. Being nice about the fact that half of adults would struggle to read harry potter is going end us up dead as a species.

I am sick of losers jumping in to defend adults who don’t read books. Adults who don’t seek out news. I don’t give a fuck about their feelings. I don’t give a fuck if this makes them feel embarrassed and ashamed. They should feel that.

The stupidity of adults are poisoning our children. They are not raising well rounded kids. This is the time to stop the drain before it’s too late.

[xoamiiren]

FRESH FOR YOU, ⋆｡°✩ 𓈒𓈒 home sweet home

𖥔 PRECIS. In which, Jay comes home to find you in one of his favorite comfort shirts. PAIRING. whipped husband!jay x whipped wife!reader GENRE. fluff, implied nsfw WARNINGS. skinship, mild kissing, very suggestive, mdni

authors note ୨୧ should I release the continuation I wrote?

─────────

Jay dropped his bag next to the door with a quiet thump and toed off his shoes, letting out a sigh that felt like the first breath he’d taken all day.

He padded softly into the apartment — your apartment — and felt the weight of his job melt off him with every step. The soft scent of coconut and vanilla hit his nose, cozy and familiar. You must’ve cleaned today.

The corners of his mouth lifted.

God, he loved coming home to you.

The living room was quiet, cast in the warm amber glow of lamps instead of the usual overhead lights. There was something soft about the atmosphere, like a gentle hum vibrating through the space. His eyes wandered for you, and then—

He spotted you near the kitchen counter, one leg slightly bent as you lit a candle on the windowsill, lips pursed in concentration. The flick of the match was almost poetic — tiny flame, focused eyes…

Then he let his eyes trail down your person, his smile fading into something more worried… for how own sanity of course.

That oversized, pin-striped dress shirt he loved so much hanging off your shoulders like it was made for you...

His shirt.

Jay stopped in his tracks.

Who knew domesticity would do it for him?

You looked… fuck. You looked innocent. Sweet. So soft. The usually sharp, velvety edge to your presence had been replaced by something blurry and dreamy. Jay wasn’t used to seeing you this way — not like this, not when you usually walked into a room like you were six feet tall, all confidence and allure. Though soft-spoken, you had an undeniable edge.

The kind of energy that had drawn him in like a moth to a flame. Reckless and happy to be burned by your light.

But now?

Now you looked tiny in his shirt, hair damp from a recent shower, collar slipping off one shoulder. Jay’s heart stopped.

You turned, finally sensing him.

“Oh! you’re home,” you grinned, holding your arms out invitingly.

“I’m glad you came back to me in one piece.”

Jay moved without thinking, crossing the room and wrapping you in a hug that was all-consuming. His hands gripped you tightly, chest flush against yours, breathing you in — clean skin, citrusy lotion, floral shampoo. It was you. Every inch of you.

And it short-circuited his brain.

“Showered?” he murmured against your neck, voice thick.

“Mhm,” you nodded innocently, “I wanted to feel fresh for you…”

That was it.

With no warning, Jay scooped you up bridal-style, laughing when you yelped and clung to him.

“Jay! What are you doing?”

“You looked too good not to,” he grinned, setting you gently on the counter, his hands firm on your thighs to keep you there. His eyes flicked down, drinking you in again.

“You really wore this shirt today?”

“I didn’t feel like getting dressed,” you smirked, legs swinging lightly.

“Your shirts were just hanging there all lonely in the closet.”

Jay exhaled like he was in pain. “You know what seeing you in my clothes does to me…”

You raised a brow smugly. “Of course I do. I’m married, not stupid.”

That earned you a low chuckle, and a brush of his thumb across your exposed collarbone as he subtly adjusted the shirt back up your shoulder. Not that it helped — the image was already scorched into his memory.

“So… how was your day, Mr. Park?” you teased, nudging him with your knee.

“Was the Vesselsoft empire kind to you today?”

He laughed, forehead falling to your shoulder. “Exhausting. Endless meetings…My boss nearly cried over a server issue that wasn’t my fault...”

“Yikes, baby… Tell them your wife wants compensation for the emotional damage her husband endured.”

“Yeah…? Does money talk now?” Jay quizzed, watching his hands slide across your thighs.

“Yep.” You smirk.

“Don’t think I make enough for your retail addiction?” he raised a brow.

You blinked. “No! I just… I spend money very, very fast, Jay.”

“Can you spend it as fast as I earn it?”

Your grin widens, blush creeping up your ears, but you remain silent.

“Hm?” he leaned in, eyes dark with mischief. “That’s what I thought.”

His hands slid up and down your thighs, fingertips firm, grounding you. You tilted your head at him, fingers gently fixing his loosened tie.

“And you?” he asked softly. “What’d you do today, honey?”

You held your hand up, wiggling your fingers. “Got my nails done!”

Jay gently took your hand, inspecting the soft baby pink polish, the tiny white flower on your index. He kissed each fingertip as you chattered on.

“I had lunch with friends, we went shopping after — No, not retail, just groceries. Oh, I got that cereal you liked as a kid… Hm, then I cleaned the apartment, which took forever, but I lit candles so now it smells really nice—”

His lips trailed from your fingertips up your arm as you spoke on, and when they reached the curve of your neck, your breath caught.

“Jay…” you laughed breathily, voice going faint. “Wh-what’s gotten into you?”

He pressed himself tighter between your legs, voice thick against your skin.

“I’ve just missed you is all…”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, smiling softly as your lips brushed his ear. “Yeah…? How much?”

He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded, dark with something wild. “You’ve got no idea.”

You cupped his cheek, smoothing down the edge of his tie, your voice quieter now.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jay’s expression softened, his lips capturing yours again in a kiss so deep and sure it made your toes curl.

“I love you too, (Y/n)… so much.”

You gasped between kisses, breath warm against his mouth. Eventually, you pushed him away just enough for you both to catch your breaths, shyness creeping in as you gripped his shoulders.

“Jay— Jay, I want to have sex. Like… now?”

Jay froze for just a second and a half.

Then looked up at you like he had just seen God, eyebrows raised as if he wasn’t sure you knew what you just asked of him. Eyes low, pupils blown. Every part of him drawn to you like gravity.

“Oh… baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

Before you could even process the hunger in his expression, he had you in his arms again, carrying you toward the bedroom like a man on a mission.

You were smiling from ear to ear.

And the door closed softly behind you.

[https-bobreynolds]

bob headcanons

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x thunderbolts*! reader

summary: just some headcanons of bob, before and after you guys started dating.

author’s note: i love bob sm you don’t even know but WHERE ARE THE VOID X READER FANFICS AT- anyways, should i make any one of these into a short blurb/fanfic? let me know which one i should do <3

before:

bob who always stares at you, no matter who else is in the room

of course whenever you noticed, he always immediately looked away with a blush, “u-uhh, the sky looks so… b-blue today…”

no matter how you looked, he always looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing on this earth, which to be fair, is the truth for him

bob who’ll always try and defend you from the other’s snarky remarks

bob who gets nervous every time you go on a mission, and will wait for you to come back safely, no matter what time it is

if you do come back injured, be prepared for him to wait for you in the medbay UNTIL the doctors have deemed you fully healthy

bob who always comes to your room (he’d knock the door first- obviously) whenever he can’t sleep, bringing his own set of bolsters and pillows

at first, he’d want to stay and sleep on the floor, saying that he just needed your presence- that sleeping on the floor is fine. but when you kept on insisting that it was fine, he just couldn’t resist.

he’d try to be careful, not to touch you or make you uncomfortable. but his efforts are gone in vain when he woke up the next morning, tangled in your limbs

bob who could care less about the mission cause anytime you’d go on missions together, his only mission is to make sure that you’re fine, that you’re protected and safe

bob who puts his book down whenever you come around, doesn’t matter if you talked to him or not, his focus is all on you

bob who blushes at every contact you make with him

bob who secretly gets jealous whenever you laugh at bucky or john’s jokes, wishing it was him

bob who would never confess first because he thought that he wasn’t good enough for you :(

after:

bob who, after you confessed, will never stop telling you how much he loves you

bob who’ll still stare at you, even less subtly now, but with even more love and affection if that was even possible, “you look… r-really beautiful, sweetheart”

bob who always tries and come accompany you on your missions- even though the others would usually reject the idea. at least he tried.

bob who will personally clean up your wounds whenever you come home from those missions, secretly taking first-aid kit lessons on youtube in his free time so he can properly heal you up

bob who now practically lives in your room, he just comes there whenever he can’t sleep, and snuggle you right up

whenever you’re away on missions, he’ll most definitely stay in your room, feeling comfort from your scent, your things, just the feeling of you…

he’ll help clean things up, do the laundry for you, organize your array of weapons, water your plants (which he got for you), and many more- anything that’ll help make your life easier

bob who wakes up early to cook you breakfast, because breakfast is the most important meal of the day according to him

most likely would remind you to eat and drink water every day cause he’s cute like that

he’ll also cook lunch and dinner for you whenever he can, remembering what you like and don’t like

bob who’ll cherish every moment with you, every gift you gave him, he just loves you so much and will always remind you how much you mean to him

bob who holds you in any time and way possible, especially whenever you’re both out in public. he hates loud noises, touching you gives him a bit of comfort

he’ll be extra touchy in private, but respectfully of course, always end up asking, “i-is this okay?”

bob who melts every time he sees you wearing his oversized clothes… which is most of the time

bob who whenever the team would go do movie nights, will always be seated next to you, making sure to cover the two of you under a warm blanket

bob who takes extra care of you when you’re sick or on your period, trust when i say this man will do his research for you

oh how badly he wishes he can take the pain for you

bob who needs reassurance every now and then

bob who can control his other sides best when he’s with you because your presence gives him calmness and solace

on the other hand though, if you are ever in extreme danger just know that his other side will 100% show up because he’ll do anything to protect you

his other sides, being void and sentry, of course, also has a soft side for you

[niktokor]

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

MDNI/NSFW/KINKY AF

Ft: Soap, Ghost, Price, Gaz

❂ Ghost: he is complicated, I picture him as a kind of a feral guy in bed so having a lover that matches his freak is a peak win. Loves to know that he will somewhat find a scratch on his body that wasn't training related. May that be on his lower belly or his sides, he knows your fingernails did it.

He is jealous of them, he never shows them, not even to Johnny but looks at them with a difficult expression. You know what those heart eyes mean though, under that mask, he is red as fuck.

Talking about matching his freak, I think he is down bad forcing you into submission. You two want sex? Good, who takes it and how? There we go, you two are at each other's throats going for the kill. By the end of that you two are exhausted but happy. Having Simon with scratches and bite marks on his back is a sign that you are going to guide him through all the night, may you be on top taking him and riding him like a champ denying his release or simply him taking you from behind (may you have a strap-on or dick).

Fucking hell, he will surely remember who he belongs to, those marks around his nipples and nape and back are going to be there for days...expecially the ones on his lips, good thing he has a mask

☆ Price: He loves it. He can't get enough of you scratching and marking him all over. During training I like to think that if he gets the opportunity, he'll bite you back. Just like two kids fighting, you know you can't always behave like a good and well mannered soldier so when the occasion presents itself, you go for it.

You do not kiss, rarely can we say. Instead you go on and gently bite whatever skin you can find, a finger? You are tugging it, his wrist? you are tugging it too and shaking it gently, his cock? He loves the thrill of knowing you will use your teeth why giving him a blowjob like the good little lover you are.

Taking risks, that is what he likes, so he has you sometimes under his desk between his legs and he can feel your teeth hovering the base of his dick or his puffy and fat redhead. Of course, you do not bite him with force, just gently nibbling at it. No way you want to injure your boyfriend.

But with sex? Oh god he is a total mess after. On the bed with his hairy chest quickly taking in breath after breath as his shoulder blades and neck are strawberry red...maybe even his ass is a bit red...even his inner thighs...His body is like a chess piece filled with hickeys, bites and scratches.

He doesn't mind any of that, actually he always wants some of your presence with him.

✫彡 Soap: loud bastard, gotta know how to shut him up properly. Deny him what he loves, affection and release and he is whimpering like a puppy.

Still time though he wants to get what he wants, he will beg you to give it to him, even if it takes having the heel of a military boot crushing his weeping and red cock in the confinements of his jeans.

Gag him, you he talks too much. Bite his nape, after all puppies become pliant when they feel teeth on that part of their neck, it tells them to shut up.

If he had a tail he would swag just for you, and his mohawk? Perfect love handle to give pain to that masochist. He smirks as he knows he will get what he wants, he just needs to bribe you.

But you know, he likes to have some reminder that he must be a good boy, that collar is giving wonders around his red neck filled with red lines. You thought you were going overboard but he said no, if you did, he would've said the safe words and things would be taken to a halt.

After all, he can't wait to do the same thing to you too, he just needs to grow his nails a bit longer and then he would be ready to call you his personal slut.

꧁ Gaz: pillow princess. This guy just sits back, cigarette in hand, stripped down to his boxers and says “Do whatever the fuck you want mate” usually this means “thank god my skin color is dark so I don’t own anyone an explanation for possible markings”. Bite his strong thighs, kiss his plump lips and suck on his pecs…after all he’ll be the only one knowing what you did. If this comes up in the showers then he will have a good excuse. “Got caught up with a trainee that loved to move around and was kind of energetic. Had to put them down in a way or another, even if that meant being marked like a fucking dead animal.” he happily chirped as he dryed his body with a towel and sat down on the wooden bench of the showers. Price, who was still under the running water, just had that same tired expression of an exhausted father. “What?” Gaz frowned, “Nothing, it’s just…that energetic recruit really had the audacity to peg you wonderfully didn’t they?” He put shampoo in his hair and began to scrub. “At least have the decency to invite your captain next time since you two have the audacity to jack off to photos of me naked“.

[chococrepes-art]

(disclaimer: I would not say I'm a folklorist)

I'm Romanian that's why I gave the zână as an example and talked about it more.

I do want to say this: if the categorisation is very strict, then yes I wouldn't count a zână as a fairy, but in my opinion categorisations are supposed to be vague anyways (so that in very fast speach if you don't have the time to get too in-depth when talking about something you can still express it in a fast enough matter, and to describe similarities etc.) if the categorisation is vague then yes I would say that a zână counts as a fairy, it really depends on how vague or how strict you make the category of "fairy" be in this situation (or any category ever)

An english fairy would count as a zână in romanian just the way a romanian zână would count as a fairy in english. That doesn't mean a Romanian zână and a English fairy are the exact same thing, no, not at all, but they do have enough similarities to be categorized in the same group, and of course what that group is called is usually going to be the same word as the specific things of that language and folklore, so of course the fairy category is going to be called the fairy category in english and not something else because the word for fairy in English is, well, fairy. Like in Romanian as well, there's a difference between the specific romanian zână and the category of zână that things from other cultures and different types of zâne from our own culture would count as.

Categorizing things can erase culture, but also not categorizing things that do count in a category logically speaking and just in general can also erase culture and be offensive and misinformative to some degree.

Like it didn't feel very good when you said only celts and english people/english colonized people have fairies, because that's not really true, unless you purposefully make the category of fairy overly strict to omit talking about other fairy types that normally would count logically speaking, and that also can be seen as erasure, lots of things can be seen as erasure. But I'm just saying, one way to erase folklore is to not mention it and to only mention the overly popular thing.

I didn't mean to be mean with the erasure thing, erasure is not something that's done on purpose (most of the time)

Anyways you can look it up both zână and vila are classified as types of fairies. And as a Romanian I can't speak for vila, but for zâne I give my fairy-pass to zâne and zână pass-to fairies lol

Please stop discrediting your ancestors' ability to tell stories by trying to find material/physical origins to their stories. Krampus isn't a cryptid, dragon stories weren't inspired by dinosaur fossils, every region has its own mythology and fae are only a thing in Celtic, English, and English-colonized regions, your ancestors were perfectly capable of doing things without help from aliens, and our world is weird enough that tales of mysterious strangers, mass disappearances, memories not lining up, and so on, are better explained as a product of OUR world than hypothetical other worlds/timelines. A lot of weird tales were spun by storytellers. Give some respect to their hard work.

[iheartcake123]

si-eun x f!reader

based on this request: Hello, please can you make one about Si-eun ending her relationship because she doesn't want you to get hurt, she says hurtful things to you, her friends tell her to tell you the truth because they broke up❤🥺🙏

warnings: none

Masterlist

si-eun sat across from you at a small table in the corner of the café, his usual calm demeanor replaced with something darker, more distant.

“so, what should we order?” you looked up at si-eun trying to liven up the dull mood. it felt like you were waiting for something bad to happen.

the way his eyes avoided yours made the air between you feel suffocating. you could already feel the tension.

"i think we should break up," he said then said, his voice tight, barely audible above the quiet hum of the café.

the words hit you like a slap, but it wasn’t just the suddenness that stung. It was the way he said them. as if he were stating something inevitable. something that had been decided long before you even walked into this café.

when you opened your mouth to speak, no words came out. instead, you just stared at him, waiting for some kind of explanation, something to help you understand what was happening.

si-eun sighed, running a hand through his dark hair “i can’t have you in my life right now. you’re not good for me”

your heart clenched at the words “what do you mean? where is this coming from?”

"i’m talking about how you care too much, i don’t want you dragging me down- you’re too weak. so, we’re done” his voice was cold and distant as his eyes cut through you like dagger.

the words sliced through you, each one more painful than the last. weak? he thought you were weak? you weren’t weak. you’d stood by him, supported him through everything, and this was how he was going to end it? with a few words that crushed your heart under their weight?

“i don’t need your pity or your excuses si-eun” you whispered, your voice trembling “you don't even care about how much this hurts me, do you?"

he didn’t answer. instead, he stood up and walked away, leaving you with nothing but the empty, bitter feeling of being discarded.

the next few days were a blur of emotion—anger, confusion, heartache. you tried to understand why he’d done this, but no matter how many times you replayed the conversation in your head, the words didn’t make sense. weak? you weren’t weak. and you sure as hell didn’t drag him down.

the more you thought about it, the more his words stung too much, and you couldn’t just ignore them.

then, came the knock on your door.

you were surprised to see that it was his friends. jun-tae, gotak and baku. they were also kind to you and were fully supportive when you were with si-eun. but it was confusing why they were visiting now that you weren’t with him.

youu let them in, trying not to show how much you were hurting. they followed you to the dining room and you got some snacks for them.

“y/n. we need to talk” jun-tae said gently, sitting down across from you.

he pushed his glasses up his nose as the two beside him started digging into the snacks.

"about what?" you asked, your voice still hoarse from the crying.

"i-it’s about si-eun" jun-tae began and he then cleared his throat before nudging baku.

“oh right.” baku quickly swallowed the food in his mouth and then spoke loudly “you see. the cutie, he didn’t want to break up with you. he didn’t want this to happen”

your breath caught in your throat as soon as he said those words “then why did he say all those things?”

baku let out a sigh and gotak then spoke up.

“because he’s an idiot. he thought if he pushed you away, that you’d be safe from the chaos that come with being close to him” gotak had a soft expression.

"yeah, he doesn’t want you to get hurt. he thinks that by pushing you out of his life, he’s protecting you from the dangerous people after him” jun-tae now added “he thinks you’re better off without him”

your heart skipped a beat. you’d always known si-eun was carrying a heavy load, but to hear his friends confirm it. it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. but it made sense now, in a way.

“is… is he okay?” you asked, suddenly worried “he just—he looked so distant, so cold when he said it. i thought that i meant nothing to him”

baku shook his head, his eyes softening with sympathy.

“si-eun doesn’t know how to express what he feels, especially when it comes to you. he cares about you more than anyone else, but he's terrified of putting you in harm’s way. you’re the only thing that’s kept him from going completely off the deep end. but he doesn’t know how to protect you without pushing you away” baku explained.

your mind was busy, you didn’t know what to do with all this new information. you couldn’t just forget what had happened. the hurt was too fresh, too raw. but at the same time, you couldn’t deny how much si-eun meant to you.

you knew that whatever world he was caught up in, it wasn’t one he could escape easily. but you also knew that running away wasn’t the solution.

you had to try.

his friends gave you his location so you found him. alone in his usual spot by the old bridge, his head down, shoulders hunched as if he were trying to become invisible.

"si-eun” you called, your voice shaking.

he froze, his entire body going tense. slowly, he turned to face you, eyes wide, guilt written all over his face. he opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him before he could say anything.

“stop. si-eun, you were right about one thing. that i care too much” you said, taking a step closer “but you were wrong about everything else. i’m not weak. i can handle whatever this is. i just need you to be honest with me. i just need you believe and trust me. you’re all i care about and i want to share your burdens so that you’re not alone. i know you think i can’t handle it but, i can. as long as you’re by my side. i love you si-eun. i always have and always will”

his eyes softened, and for the first time since that painful break-up, you had your si-eun back.

“im so sorry, y/n you don’t understand” he whispered “i never wanted to hurt you.”

“i know” you said quietly, stepping up to him “i know. but, we’re in this together. don’t shut me out. i’m not leaving you. not now, not ever.”

si-eun’s eyes glistened, and he pulled you into a tight embrace. For a moment, neither of you said anything. there was nothing more to be said—just the feeling of being close again, of mending the rift that had almost torn you apart forever.

“i love you y/n. so much” his arms didn’t let go of you and in that quiet moment, everything felt right again.

you were together, and that was all that mattered.

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Shield (John Walker)

Description: Y/N is horny and John’s busy for the moment

Warning: Masturbation (with the shield), dirty talking

Word Count:912

It was strange, something she never thought she would be into but when a woman ovulates they find out just what they are willing to do to get off. She usually stares at it and laughs, wondering why her boyfriend would keep it. It barely held use anymore and everyone on the team agreed. John would die on the hill defending it like it was his baby, his most prized possession. It was ridiculous but she was down bad for something and John was busy.

It’s not that John wouldn’t fuck her if she asked, she just didn’t want to interrupt him. She found something new and interesting, his taco shield. She bit her lip as she picked it up, it was cold and perfectly shaped for riding. She set it on the bed before stripping down, not realizing just how wet she was at the thought of riding it before she pulled down her panties. They were wet, so wet it was embarrassing. The door was shut but not locked, meaning John could walk in any time and see her but maybe she wanted that.

Once she was naked she got on the bed and took a deep breath. Was she really doing this? She straddled the shield and the cold on her thighs made her shiver, it got worse when her wet pussy came in contact with it. “Mmmm.” She loved how cold it was. Her hands went straight to her boobs as she gave an experimental thrust. She gasped as her clit dragged against it, it actually felt really good. It was better than she expected. Her hands squeezed her breasts as she slowly thrusted again, wanting to take in the feeling of how perfect it felt. One of her hands started playing with her nipple, twisting it and running her fingers over it.

Her eyes were closed as her hips slowly rode it, her lower lip between her teeth as she felt the pleasure building. Her hips moved a little faster and she started lowly moaning, wanting to keep quiet. But with the way the shield felt against her pussy, that was impossible. She threw her head back as she sped up, not caring about the bed rocking. Her mouth was opened as dirty noises fell from her lips. Her gush covered the part of the shield she was humping, “Fuck.” She mouthed as one of her hands left her tits to hold it for support.

She imagined it was John, his perfect body she’d be grabbing and his perfect dick inside of her. She imagined all the dirty things John would say as she rode him and the way his hands would be all over her body. A thin layer of sweat covered her body even with the coldness of the shield. She could feel her orgasm building up as she tried to keep her moans quiet. Her body jerked on the shield as she gripped it so hard for support. Luckily she didn’t have Bob’s strength.

“John.” She cried as she was on the edge, just a few more thrusts and she’s cumming with a loud cry that she has to cover her mouth. Meanwhile, John was heading back to his room after a training session. All he wanted to do was shower and eat but the cry from his room stopped him for a moment. The bed was creaking hard and he couldn’t help but imagine what his girlfriend was doing on the other side. When he opened the door the last thing he expected to see was her riding her orgasm with soft cries and eyes rolled back on his taco shield.

“What do we have here?” His voice was teasing but she opened her eyes wide and looked at him like a deer caught in headlights. He wore a smirk as he walked into his room, “John I-“ but she couldn’t form words. How does she explain to him? “My girlfriend is pleasuring herself on my shield.” He shook his head, his voice filled with fake disappointment. “John I’m sorry-“ He held up his hand, “Why are you sorry?” He asked, “I’m just disappointed that I missed it.” He told her and walked up to her.

She was still trying to catch her breath and she wouldn’t catch it anytime soon. He reached out and ran his hand up her torso till he reached her tits, she whimpered as he played with one of them, focusing on the nipple. “Did it feel good? Rubbing your pussy on my shield.” She nodded, shamefully. She felt like she was getting exposed for it but John loved it. His hand moved up to her lips and traced them, “I bet it did, getting off on your boyfriend’s shield instead of asking him for help.” It was degrading, the look in his eyes as he rubbed her lips as she stared up at him like a puppy.

“Such a pretty girl.” She felt her pussy gush more at his words. His fingers that were wet from her lips traveled down to her throat and gripped it, her breathing picked up and her eyes widened. He had this dark lustful look in his eyes as his other hand moved to her clit that sat on his shield. She gasped and he squeezed her throat a little, “Do it again.” He growled, rubbing her clit faster, “Make yourself cum all over my shield like the dirty slut you are.”