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monicfever · 9 days ago

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could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3

frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff

FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.

frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.

watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”

frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.

he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.

he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.

has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”

“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.

he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.

he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.

keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.

does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”

like taking care of you is just part of his day.

he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.

gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.

keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.

won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.

he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.

when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.

still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.

he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.

he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.

he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.

you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.

reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.

refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.

doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.

he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.

major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.

makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.

when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.

when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.

frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.

whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.

he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.

good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.

he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”

he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.

he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.

he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.

he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.

he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.

he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.

he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.

he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.

he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.

he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”

he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.

he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.

he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.

he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.

he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.

he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.

he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”

always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.

he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.

he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.

he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”

has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.

he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.

he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.

he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.

he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.

never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.

knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.

weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”

he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.

so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.

puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?

he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.

he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.

calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.

he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”

he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.

he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.

he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.

double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.

sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.

he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”

wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.

refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.

he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.29.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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iluvsieunsveinydihh · 12 days ago

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Yeon Si-eun NSFW alphabet

A = Aftercare

Always. He might not be super talkative, but he’ll pull you close, wipe you down carefully, and kiss your skin like he’s grounding himself. “You’re okay… I’m right here.” He needs the closeness as much as you do.

B = Body Part

On you? Your mouth. The way you moan, kiss, bite your lip—he could watch you fall apart for hours. On himself? His hands. They’re strong, veiny, a little rough—he knows exactly how to use them.

C = Cum

Controlled, intense, and always deep if you let him. He loves filling you up, watching it drip out later while his eyes darken. If he pulls out, he still makes it intimate—rubbing it into your skin with his fingers.

D = Dirty Talk

Low and calculated. He doesn’t speak a lot, but when he does? Filthy. Whispered into your neck with lips brushing your ear: “So tight around me… You like when I ruin you, don’t you?”

E = Experience

Limited, but sharp. He’s observant, picks up what you like fast, and makes sure you never forget it. He doesn’t need practice—he learns you, and that’s what makes him deadly in bed.

F = Favorite Position

Missionary, with your legs hooked over his shoulders or hips. He likes being close—watching you, kissing you mid-thrust, hearing every breath. But he also loves when you ride him and take control, just so he can grab your hips and flip you halfway through.

G = Goofy

Not really. He’s focused, intense, and passionate—but if you giggle or mess up something small, he just smirks faintly, then distracts you with a kiss that shuts you up instantly.

H = Hair

Neat and trimmed. On you? He doesn’t care. He’ll go down on you no matter what. His only concern is how fast he can make you fall apart.

I = Intimacy

So much it hurts. Sex isn’t casual for him—it’s emotional. When he’s inside you, it’s like he can finally breathe. He makes love like he’s scared to lose you. And when he whispers “I need you” under his breath? He means it.

J = Jack Off

Not often. He bottles everything up until it’s unbearable. But when he does, it’s with your name on his lips and a memory he can’t forget—fist clenched in the sheets, brows furrowed like he hates needing you this much.

K = Kinks

Praise, possessiveness, control, silent dominance, overstimulation. He loves making you beg without raising his voice. And if you cry out his name? That’s his breaking point.

L = Location

His bed, your room, or anywhere private. He needs the door locked and the world shut out. But if desperation hits—like a heated kiss in a stairwell or a silent moment after a fight? He’ll risk it.

M = Motivation

Soft touches. Vulnerable moments. The way you say his name like a secret. His desire isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, hungry, and sometimes overwhelming.

N = NO

No humiliation, no pain without care, no sharing. He’s possessive—he needs to feel like it’s just you and him. No games that make either of you feel unsafe.

O = Oral

Giving: Obsessed. He’ll take his time, lips and tongue working in perfect sync while he watches every reaction like it’s a puzzle he’s solving. Receiving: Silent, gripping the sheets, barely breathing—only your name slipping out in the end.

P = Pace

Usually slow, deep, and precise. But if he’s emotional or angry? Rough. Fast. Bruising. He gets lost in it, panting against your skin like he’s trying to bury himself inside you completely.

Q = Quickie

If it’s been building—yes. He’ll shove you into the nearest safe place, kiss you breathless, and finish with one hand over your mouth so you don’t get them both caught.

R = Risk

Calculated. He’ll push boundaries in private but always watches you. He knows where the line is and won’t cross it without your full trust.

S = Stamina

Insane. He can go multiple rounds, barely breaking a sweat—especially when he’s trying to prove something. Or when he’s stressed. Or when he missed you. He’ll keep going until your legs give out.

T = Toys

Minimal. But if you introduce them? He’ll learn. Fast. He’ll use them on you just to watch you come undone, fingers curled around your wrist while he whispers, “You wanted this, right?”

U = Unfair

He’s ruthless. He’ll edge you until tears form in your eyes, whispering in your ear, “Not yet.” He’s the type to kiss everywhere but where you need it—until you beg.

V = Volume

Low and quiet, but intense. He curses under his breath, breathes your name like a confession, and groans deep in his chest when he finishes. But your sounds? That’s what he wants to hear.

W = Wild Card

He secretly likes when you’re on top—watching you take control, moaning above him. But when he snaps? He flips you, pins your wrists, and shows you who you belong to.

X = X-Rated Size

About 7 inches, thick and curved just enough to hit deep. He knows exactly how to use it—slow thrusts that drive you crazy, then sudden sharp ones that make you scream. He doesn’t brag, but when he’s inside you? You know.

Y = Yearning

Constant. He’ll never admit it, but he craves you in quiet moments. He’ll stare at your lips during class, brush your hand and pretend it’s accidental, text you “are you home?” when he’s two minutes away.

Z = ZZZ (Sleep)

He doesn’t sleep easily unless you’re next to him. After sex, he’s quiet—breathing slow, fingers resting on your skin, forehead against your back or chest. With you? He finally feels safe.

#weak hero class 1 #weak hero class 2 #weak hero class 2 smut #weak hero x reader #weak hero class 1 smut #weak hero smut #weak hero class 1 x reader #whc2 #whc1 #park jihoon smut #park jihoon

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thesuperiorrobin · 29 days ago

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Bruises and heartache~

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Crush!bestfriends!Reader

Warning: reader is flirty, mentions of cuts and blood but only slight, Damian gets freindzone

“Take your shirt off”

“Woah! At least take me out to dinner first Damian”

You laugh back as Damian mumbles something you can’t quite hear under his breath. He glares down, green eyes staring back at you with nothing but annoyance.

“L/n….” He hisses “If you won’t, I’ll do it for you”

He regrets saying that, watching as you flutter your eyelashes teasingly, tilting your head up against your shoulder as you lean forward—the palms of your hands planted comfortably on his mattress with your fingertips softly grazing over the med kit. “Then do it, I’m too hurt to do it by myself”

He feels his throat go dry, and his palms start to sweat. He's nervous, and he hates you for it. You struggle to lift your arms in the air, letting out a soft whine as you feel the pain shoulder, forearm, and back.

“I need a chiropractor after this” you groan, straightening your back with a light crack “or just have you step on me”

You wiggle your eyebrows, he rolls his eyes.

“I'm not stepping on your back” He murmurs, leaning forward to pinch the hem of your shirt “And don’t give me that look, you harlot”

You scrunch your nose, glancing up at him with a look in your eyes “I’d rather you just call me a Bitch or a whore”

“And hurry up my arms are getting tired”

He says nothing as he removes your top from your body, watching the way you arch your back out of an instant. Your groans and whines don’t go unnoticed.

“Sorry….” He says softly, throwing your dirt-covered shirt somewhere on the floor of his bedroom. His eyes linger, on what was once your soft skin—now covered in dirt, small cuts with dried or wet blood, and yellow spots that’ll eventually turn blue and purple.

“I’m fine” You let out a breathy laugh that makes his heart skip a beat “It’s my fault for falling off that tree”

He finds himself cringing at the memory.

What was once supposed to be a quick walk with Titus at the dog park turns into a quick energy back to the manor, with you holding your dad from both pain and laughter.

He still doesn’t understand how you could laugh at the unfortunate event.

But granted he thinks you’ve already taken too many hits in the head to even understand what had happened.

“What were you even doing up on that tree anyway?”q

The med kit is now in his hands as he waits for a response. He hears you humming—as if you were thinking before you let yourself speak.

“I dunno” you shrug lazily “cause I wanted to be up there. I liked the air up there”

He hums at your response, of course, you would have no reason to be up there other than the fact you just wanted to be up there.

For fun may he add.

“Lay down”

“But then again I did have a good view of that one alley way—where all the crack heads go to make out. I’m pretty sure I saw our math teacher there with an old lady—“

“I said lay on your back l/n” he asked one more time, brows furrowed slightly.

But you completely ignore him. But not on purpose. Your eyes are staring up at his white ceiling.

“Now imagine if one of the big gossiper from school saw them. Life completely over—but then again that old lady seemed to have some nice clothes meaning she probably has money to spear for generations—“

“Y/n” he calls out but you don’t answer him.

“Rich people just be doing stuff. Like they’re bored. Is that what you guys do? Do you think your dad did that kind of stuff before he got married to your stepmom? Imagine if that’s how they meet, what a story to te—“

He’s had enough—he pushes you down himself. Your bare back up against his silk sheets. A groan escaped past your lip, glaring at the you get Wayne above you.

“Rude” you hiss “you never interrupted a women when she’s speaking”

“You’re a woman?” He chuckles. “I thought you were some vile creature in heat”

“You are so lucky I’m hurt. I would have beat your ass”

A loud comfortable silence fall’s between the two of you. Eyes bore back up at his white ceiling, humming as a way to distract yourself for the painful pressure he was putting on the cuts and bruises and He was 100% carful, apologizing for every pressure he puts on your body.

"Y'know....' you start, eyes trailing down to his features, "This should be the other way around"

"How so?" he doesn't bat an eye at you, eye still trained on the cuts and bruises.

"you save lives in the middle of the night and you probably come home bloody and bruised, I mean I literally saw you in the hospital two weeks ago and you looked like shit"

"Thanks" he rolls his eyes, and you chuckle.

"You would think that I would be the one treating your wounds" you sigh, scratched arm reaching to grab ahold of his, fingers grazing under the sleeve of his black long-sleeve shirt. "I should be the one on top of you"

You couldn't hold back your laughter after hearing Damian choke on his saliva, he wants to push you off his bed but he holds himself back. Eyes trained on the bruises as he put on some cream.

" you can't go a minute without making an inappropriate joke can you?"

"I can" you hum, he can feel the tips of your fingers grazing his skin softly "But I like the way you react to them"

"Of course you do"

There's another comfortable silence that falls between the two of you. He can feel you rbreathen start to even out, and the longer you laid there waiting for him to finish the more it was a garante that you would fall asleep.

"I'm glad we're friends Damian, really glad....'

"Yeah....Friends"

He is in love, your honor!

sorry my art classes are kicking my ass with finals around the corner. 😭

#damian al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian x reader #robin x reader #damian scenarios #damian wayne headcanon

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fadedtoneverland · 3 months ago

Text

smut alphabet | c.sn

❤︎ synopsis — just pure sannie filth

pairing: choi san x gn!reader

genre: smut ❣︎

a/n: i’m gonna start doing the smut alphabet with all ateez members, starting with my mans 🧎‍♂️ there’s a lot so be prepared

cw: it’s all fucking smut. read at your own risk

a = aftercare

very intimate and attentive. san wants to make sure his partner is feeling fine after sex. will do whatever his partner asks from him, and will prepare a warm bath with epsom salt to soothe the ache

b = bottom or top? / body part

san is a true vers. he can switch easily depending on the mood. sometimes he wants to be a hard dom, but other days he can be the neediest, whiniest sub in existence

as for body parts, san is very confident in his arms and hands. he likes the sight of his large, veiny hands on his lover. as for his partner, he’s a big thighs man, always grabbing the plush skin whenever it feels right

c = cum

san likes to come anywhere on his partner, but he gets especially turned on when he busts a load on your back. he also likes to do it inside, but would rather have a condom on than go in raw

d = dirty secret

san is not shy when it comes to sharing new ideas and kinks. however, he finds the musky, sweaty smell of his partner after an intense workout, really fucking hot (he has yet to share this with you)

e = experience

let’s just say the idol industry has its ins and outs when it comes to hookup culture. san has a bit of experience underneath his belt, but still has to learn when it comes to eccentric kinks

f = favorite position

san likes old fashioned missionary, but especially loves it when you wrap your legs around his waist. he’s also a big fan of backshots, and loves bending his lover over a table or couch. if he’s feeling especially spicy, san also likes shoving his lover against a wall and pounding them

g = goofy

san prefers to keep things more serious and in the moment, but if something unexpectedly funny happens during sex, he will giggle a little

h = hair

he’s pretty clean down there. hair grows, but not fast. san wants to keep it clean for himself and for you, so he grooms

i = intimacy

san is very intimate during sex. sometimes he just wants to make love instead of fucking, and he gets really into it (whispering praise, body worship, slow kisses. all of that galore)

j = jack off

san doesn’t really jerk off often. but during times where you and him are apart because of his career, he’ll beat his meat just thinking about you

k = kinks

san doesn’t have super eccentric kinks, but he’s also not super vanilla. san likes to manhandle a lot. he’s also got a bit of a size kink when it comes to how big he is compared to you. san also likes it when his hair gets pulled, whether he’s bottoming or topping doesn’t matter.

l = location

due to the idol life, san is very private with his sex life. he prefers to keep it in the house, but anywhere in the house works for him. however on the rare occasion you’re with him during performances, san won’t mind taking you deep backstage

m = motivation

san 90% of the time gets very horny after an insane performance, especially if the crowd was wild that night. if you’re there, ready and available, he’s dragging you to the nearest dressing room

n = no!!!

he doesn’t like anything involving knives or blood. san hates the idea of genuinely hurting his lover, and will quickly shut down any ideas of that genre

o = oral

san LOVES giving oral to his partner. chest worship, kissing all over the body. if his partner is afab, he will go feral if they sit on his face. if he could san would live between his lover’s legs forever

p = pace

san’s horniness can reflect in his pace. if he’s feeling especially frisky, he will be pounding away like a dog in heat. but for the most part, his pace will start slow, then gradually get faster as he nears orgasm

q = quickie

san doesn’t really like quickies. he prefers longer sessions with his lover

r = risk

he’s willing to try new things, and test new kinks, but san isn’t into actually risking the safety/image of himself and his lover

s = stamina

san has a LOT of stamina thanks to his athleticism. his usual is about 3-4 rounds. if he’s feeling extra needy? he can go for 6+ rounds

t = toys

y’all own a couple of toys. fuzzy pink handcuffs for extra power play, and maybe a vibrator. san’s favorite though, is the cock ring you use on him when he’s bottoming

u = unfair

san teases a lot. he likes to push your buttons, especially if he’s edging. sometimes he’ll throw in a degrading word or two to really see you fall apart

(if san is being teased however, he’s gonna be loud and bitchy about it, and his lover will have to put him in his place)

v = volume

san can be very fucking loud, mainly because he loves to express his enjoyment during sex. but he can shift his volume to what he wants. the noises he makes are a mix between deep groans, and full on, pornographic cries of pleasure

w = wild card

one time san had you bent over his desk, fucking you so good. however, mid-thrust, he got a really bad leg cramp and screamed in agony so loud it startled you. you spent the rest of the night massaging his leg, and comforting him every time san sulked about ruining the mood

x = x-ray

he’s about six inches underneath those clothes. perfectly veiny with a slight curve. there’s also a beautify mark right underneath the head of his cock

y = yearning

san’s horniness comes and goes. sometimes he can be super fucking needy, and will want to fuck you on the spot. but most of the time, he controls his need through performance or working out

z = zzz

san doesn’t knock out right after sex. he stays awake for a good while, taking care of you and holding you, right before he falls asleep

▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆

taglist - @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @dead-end-fanfiction

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez smut #kpop fanfic #kpop bg #atz smut #choi san x reader #choi san x y/n #choi san smut #san smut #smut alphabet #smut headcanons #ateez headcanons

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jophiel-extras · 1 year ago

Text

summary :: All Might NSFW alphabet

warning :: nsfw

note :: All Might my beloved, reqs open

A = Aftercare

Toshinori becomes The Thinker after sex. He’ll stay with you until you fall asleep, but once you’re out he’ll leave. Usually, he will go on a run or sit outside for a few hours with himself. Once he’s done, he’ll come back and slip into bed with your or put together a breakfast.

B = Body part

He never really considers any of his own body parts, especially when he’s in his skinny form. If he had to pick, it would be his hands. For you, Toshi likes your face the most.

C = Cum

He always pulls out, it’s a habit. He’ll finish either on your tummy or ass.

D = Dirty secret

He’s thought about going from his skinny form to muscle whilst inside you.

E = Experience

He’s rusty but knows what’s going on. It takes a while for him to truely ease into it and not overthink his actions.

F = Favorite position

Missionary, a classic for a reason. When things get pretty heated, he’s known to enjoy taking you against a wall especially in his muscle form.

G = Goofy

Usually pretty serious and sensual. Sex with him is almost always love making and Toshi takes it seriously. There’s been moments where you’ve both had a laugh but it’s rare.

H = Hair

The carpets do match the drapes, he’s blonde through and through.

I = Intimacy

He’s quite intense about sex; deep eye contact, squeezing your hand, holding you close. It’s always special and drawn out.

J = Jack off

Since the two of you started having sex it was like a switch in Toshi’s mind was turned on. He’s horny. Often. He’s had to excuse himself from teaching to rub one out just because he can’t stop thinking of you.

K = Kink

Size difference. Even if he doesn’t know it Toshi loves being taller and generally bigger than you. He especially loves to grab your waist in his muscle form, it’s a massive thing for him. I also suspect he might enjoy the thrill of public spaces, he’d never admit it or initiate but it’s there.

L = Location

The bedroom. He’s a private man.

M = Motivation

He’s a little dense when it comes to hints, so the best way Toshi gets turned on is when you openly flirt with him and whisper dirty things in his ear.

N = No

Never ever would he hurt you. He won’t compromise on it either.

O = Oral

Enjoys giving for sure. He’s pretty good with his mouth. The way he looks at you through his dark eyes as he eats you out is something else. Also, the way he acts when getting head is insane. His hands snake through your hair and he curls up, grunting and whispering profanities.

P = Pace

Slow and sensual. Unless it’s a special occasion of course! Then he’ll poof into his muscle form and fuck you like a sex symbol.

Q = Quickie

Not the usual, but it’s happened before. Quickies are whenever he’s in a rush to do something or when you’re in a semi public setting.

R = Risk

Yes, he can be a risk taker but it makes the sex anxious. He’s got a lot of eyes on him at all time so he needs to be wary.

S = Stamina

Oh honey, he’s not done until you’re done. You think all that stamina training from his early days wouldn’t translate into sex? You’re in for a surprise.

T = Toys

He’s not a massive fan.

U = Unfair

Toshinori is not one to tease you during sex, really it’s the opposite. He’s a giver and always follows through with pleasure.

V = Volume

Lots of grunting and heavy breathing. He’s not particularly loud, but just enough to get you going.

W = Wild card

Once you gave him under the table head whilst at U.A. and it was the best blowjob ever. He thinks about it often and can’t help but get hard.

X = X-ray

Both forms he’s packing a nice 9 inches. However the girth changes slightly between forms.

Y = Yearning

If he wasn’t so busy, he’d want to sleep with you every day but alas there aren’t enough hours in the day.

Z = Zzz

He’s not good at sleeping but after a particularly tiring session, he’ll pass out.

#bnha toshinori #bnha x reader #bnha #bnha smut #mha toshinori #mha x reader #mha #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia #my hero acedamia #my hero smut #all might #all might x reader #all might x you #toshinori yagi x reader #yagi toshinori

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sagittariusmarz · 1 month ago

Text

How ur fs defends you from others/how you & ur fs handle arguments with other couples (pac) *follower request

Pile 1

I see that theyll immediately address whoever is bothering you, they’ll be be calm but firm and they’ll be aggressive and very protective but not too aggressive. They’ll use their words to let the other person know that they can’t talk to you or treat you any kind of way and they may verbally threaten them too. I see that theyll try to be patient but theyll give the other person a reality check and warn them about bothering you. I see that when it comes to arguments with other couples you both will be emotional and really upset, I see that you guys will feed off of each other’s energy because you both don’t like when someone is messing with your partner. I see that you guys will work together to figure out if the couple is even worth arguing with, you’ll work together to figure out what the best solution is to solve an issue with another couple. I see that you both are willing to fight for each other. Signs- Taurus, cancer, aquarius. Aquarius in 6th house/leo in 7th house. Initials- W, U, Q

Pile 2

I see that they won’t be comfortable with confrontation and they won’t jump in the conflict unless they really feel like they need to, I see that they’ll argue for a little bit and then try to diffuse the situation so you guys can just move on. I see that you may be more defensive over them rather than them being defensive over you, they’ll try to be supportive and calm you down so you can move on from the situation. When it comes to arguing with other couples I see that you will let them take the lead and match their energy, I see that you both will isolate yourself from the couple you argue with and agree not to be around them or just avoid them whenever you’re near each other. You’ll both be supportive of each other and show the other couple that you have each other’s back, I see that you guys will intimidate the other couple that bothers you. Signs- Capricorn, Libra, scorpio. Libra in 8th house/Capricorn in 4th house. Initials- F, U, D, Q, S

Pile 3

I see that they’ll let you handle it but they’ll be close to you which will let the other person know that they’re willing to jump into the conflict if they need to, I see that they’ll hold back how they’re feeling because they don’t want to make the conflict a bigger situation. They’ll watch a argument happen and if it starts to get physical then they’ll break it up or join the fight, I see that they may not be able to control their anger when it comes to you being in conflicts so they would rather stay out of it as much as they can, they can get reckless if anyone tries to physically hurt you. When it comes to arguing with other couples I see that you guys will be very verbal and verbally aggressive, I see that you both will threaten the other couple and be prepared to fight. I see that you guys won’t back down from a fight with another couple and you both wont care about being mature. I see that you guys may feed off each others energy when you’re arguing with another couple which could amplify the situation, I see that arguments with other couples may get bad unless the other couple decides to back down. Signs- Taurus/leo, Capricorn in 4th house. Initials- Z, F, V, X

Personal readings always available!

Divider by @saradika-graphics PNGs by @clipitcutout @theluzvre @packs-pngs

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heartsforjh · 1 month ago

Note

Hey kay, congratulations on 100 followers! 🎉🎉🎉

Can i request oue huggy bear quinn with a mix of the prompts of im proud of you, a much needed hug and a dance party? I think that would be so cute

of course, sweet nonnie! this kind of turned into a hurt/comfort thing... but i hope you can still enjoy though! 🫶

main masterlist | 100 follower celly masterlist

Quinn unlocks the apartment door with a sigh, his mind painfully clouded. It’s almost playoffs and he just had what he believes to be one of his worst efforts this season. His shoulders are slumped, his breaths are shallow, and every step he takes feels more draining than the last.

You hear him come in and immediately hop up from your spot on the couch. You greet him with an excited smile, and wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug. He returns the embrace by wrapping his arms around your waist and you nuzzle your face against his.

“I’m proud of you. So talented and smart, Q. You know that?” you whisper. Your words come as a surprise to him. He’s extremely frustrated with his game, yet you’ve got nothing but praise for him.

“I… thank you,” he says hesitantly. “Did you- did you watch the game?”

Your brows furrow and you pull back just enough to look at him, voice full of confusion. “What do you mean? Of course, I watched your game. I always watch your games, baby. You did great.”

“Honey, did you see how I did today? That was… worse than usual,” he says, lightly gripping your shirt where his hand rests on your waist.

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Why? Because your time on ice didn’t rack up to a whole shift? Just because you’re not completely overworking your body, doesn’t mean you’re not doing good enough, Quinn. You’re doing amazing.”

“Babe, it’s almost time for playoffs. I have to do better than this or we won’t even get a spot,” he says, and you can see the amount of stress he’s in simply by looking into his eyes. Your heart breaks for him–wishing there was more you could do.

You pull him back into a tight hug, running your fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to be perfect, babe. You’re the captain, sure, but that doesn’t mean you have to put all of this pressure on yourself.”

As you stand there, trying your best to comfort him you realize something that actually shocks you. He’s crying. You’ve never seen him this upset. You’re at a loss for words, but luckily you don’t have to think for long because he speaks up for you.

“I just don’t think I’m doing enough. This can’t be enough Y/n,” he tells you through his tears.

You hold him a little tighter, wincing at the raw sadness in his voice. “Hey, you are doing enough. You’re doing more than enough for this team. Don’t stress it. You’re overthinking. You’ll get your playoffs spot. You’ve been working too hard not to. It’s all gonna pay off.”

“You think so?” he asks, picking his head up, his tired eyes meeting yours.

You move your hands to cup his cheeks. “Q, please. You’re gonna be the next Stanley Cup Champions.”

“Okay, baby. Calm down,” he says with a laugh. “Sweet of you though.”

He looks down at you smiling–worn out, but a smile nonetheless. He leans in and gently kisses your nose before pulling into yet another hug. Only, this one is bone-crushing. You can tell he needs it.

You return the hug with some added kisses to his cheek before whispering in his ear. “Okay, we have to fix the mood now, come on.”

You pull away from him and he looks at you like you just told him you’re selling his gear. You can’t help the small giggle that escapes as you make your way to the television in your living room and turn it on.

“Honey… what are you doing over there?” he asks, quickly making his way over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, and laying his head on your shoulder.

You turn on some music and wiggle out of his grip, grabbing both of his hands. “We have to dance.”

“Oh? We have to dance?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

“We have to dance,” you repeat, confidently. “So… don’t just stand there. Move!”

Quinn’s eyes widen a bit. “Alright, damn. But you have to help me. I got nothing.”

As you watch your boyfriend make his best attempt at dancing to make you happy, you can’t help but just laugh. You honestly feel bad. This was meant to cheer him up… not be a humiliation ritual. Then again, he seems to actually be enjoying himself, despite looking like a complete dork. That’s all that matters to you, you can certainly work on his rhythm later. For now, you join him, grateful to see that genuine look of happiness back on his face.

tags: @beenucks @nic0-hischier @sweetestdesire @azure-dawn81 @emsdevs @puckmedude @joesnumerouno @alex-wotton @r0wdymaize86 @ccomandercody @macklin-celebrini-71 @randomcuboidshape @when-im-with-you @quillycrow @rainyvalentines @alwaysclassyeagle @ruinix

join the taglist here!

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pure-vanilla-lilies · 1 year ago

Text

Dark Cacao Cookie Smut Alphabets

A) Aftercare:

Dark Cacao Cookie gives out really great aftercare, from back massages to herbal baths to herbal teas. He wants to make sure that his partner is alright

B) Body Part:

Their favorite body part on himself is definitely his eyes and his favorite part on his partner is their eyes. He really does like his partner eyes for sure

C) Cum:

Dark Cacao Cookie cums about four cups of semen each round, he’s very pent up for sure. But his cum does taste like bitter chocolate for sure :)

D) Dirty Secret:

It’s nothing special but Dark Cacao Cookie enjoys a little bondage. For in the bedroom or for decoration. He wouldn’t mind if his partners tied him up

E) Experience:

Dark Cacao Cookie is pretty experienced in the bedroom, he maybe a cold hearted king. But he is definitely experienced

F) Favorite Position:

Dark Cacao Cookies favorite position is missionary, he’s really old fashioned but he loves staring into his partner eyes whenever he has sex for sure

G) Goofy:

Dark Cacao Cookie is very serious in the bedroom, for one reason he don’t want to hurt his partners for sure. He can be a softy too but that’s for later on :3

H) Hair:

Dark Cacao Cookie does groom daily maybe twice a week for sure.

I) Intimacy:

This is the side you’ll see for Dark Cacao Cookie, he maybe romantic in the bedroom but he’s a cold king in public.

J) Jack Off:

Dark Cacao Cookie don’t masterbate that much because he thinks it’s very messy. But in reality, he just makes a very messy mess.

K) Kink:

Dark Cacao Cookie isn’t very kinky, pretty much vanilla but he does have a few favorite kinks he has:

-Daddy Kink

-Biting Kink / Marking Kink

-Lingerie

L) Location:

Dark Cacao Cookie has two favorite places to have sex. One is in the bedroom & second is in the throne room (it happens when no one is there or around)

M) Motivation:

What turns Dark Cacao Cookie on, if his partner goes down on their knees and give him a blow job for working hard. It definitely turn him on for sure

N) No:

Dark Cacao Cookie won’t do anything that involves hurting his partners (anything like knife play to breath play) that’s just out of the question!

O) Oral:

Dark Cacao Cookie prefers giving than receiving, he wants his partners to feel good especially when there alone

P) Pace:

Slow and Steady is what Dark Cacao Cookie prefers, he not taking any chances on hurting his partners

Q) Quickie:

Dark Cacao Cookie is iffy on quickies, sure he likes them when he’s busy but all the time is eh

R) Risk:

Dark Cacao Cookie is up for experimenting but nothing that hurt his partners

S) Stamina:

Dark Cacao Cookie can go up to two rounds, sometimes three if he’s very pent up

T) Toys:

Dark Cacao Cookie don’t own toys, but if his partner does own some. He’ll definitely use them on them

U) Unfair:

Dark Cacao Cookie is a huge tease for sure but not to the point of his partner getting upset at him

V) Volume:

Dark Cacao Cookie isn’t very vocal, soft grunts could be could but that’s all you being hearing from him

W) Wild Card:

Not to mention but Dark Cacao Cookie enjoys seeing his partner is very revealing lingerie sets. Especially sets that barley cover anything up

X) X-Ray:

Dark Cacao Cookie is about 6.2 inches for sure, for sure your ain’t walking in the morning

Y) Yearing:

Dark Cacao Cookie sex drive is pretty low, but he does help if his partners are needy and need to let some steam off

Z) Zzz:

Dark Cacao Cookie does sleep after his partner is taken care of. He wants to make sure that there okay

#lillies writing #cookie run kingdom #cookie run smut #dark cacao cookie x reader smut #dark cacao cookie x reader #smut alphabet

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monicfever · 11 days ago

Note

Hiiii 👋👋👋 could you write hcs about punisher n daredevil characters finding reader badly injured? Like in the brink of death. Maybe in a scenario where reader is a vigilante, your choice :)

you’re critically injured 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

the first thing matt notices is the smell of blood. sharp, metallic, thick in the air. his heartbeat spikes as he’s running through the alley, scanning the shadows with a heightened sense of panic. he hears the faintest shift of breathing, shallow, labored, and he knows. he knows it’s you.

his heart sinks into his stomach when he finally locates you, crumpled against a wall, blood staining the concrete beneath you. you’re barely conscious, barely holding on. his hands shake as he drops to his knees beside you, instinctively checking for a pulse. it's weak, but it's there.

he’s trying to keep it together, but the fear in his chest grows. his senses are overwhelmed: the sharpness of your blood on the air, the brokenness in your breathing, the way your body is trembling under the weight of what you’ve endured. matt’s fingers graze your skin, feeling the warmth of your body despite the chill of blood pooling around you. his usually steady hands tremble as he pushes your hair back, his voice soft but firm. “stay with me. please, don’t do this. please.”

his mind is racing, calculating, desperate. every second matters. he can feel the damage, but he knows there’s no time to waste. he’s no doctor, but he knows the signs of severe blood loss, and he won’t lose you like this. his grip tightens on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, even as his thoughts are whirling in a thousand directions. you’ve always been the one to keep fighting, to push through the impossible, and it kills him that he can’t be the one to save you this time.

the guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. he’s supposed to protect you. but he didn’t. now he’s staring down at you, blood staining his hands, the overwhelming scent of iron mixing with the faint scent of you. his radar sense is a mess, overwhelmed with every small sound: the crackle of your shallow breaths, the faint tremor in your heartbeat, the sickening thud of blood dripping onto the pavement.

every instinct in him is screaming. no. no no no. not like this. he’s scrambling, trying to hold you together in his arms, his voice urgent and strained. for the first time in a long time, he’s terrified. he’s scared. his world is spinning out of control. you’re in his arms, slipping away.

you open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and that small, fleeting moment of connection — your weak, barely-there smile breaks him in ways he can’t explain. he hates himself for not seeing this coming, for not being there sooner. “i’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice shaky, barely a breath as he presses his forehead to yours. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve—” he cuts himself off with a sharp, frustrated sound. he’s shaking, his control slipping further as he feels your blood seep through his fingers, your body limp in his arms. the sound of your heartbeat is slowing, and every second that passes is like a knife in his chest.

without thinking, he scoops you up. he’s already calculating, running through every alley, every shortcut he knows, his mind fixated only on getting you to the hospital, getting you help before it’s too late. matt’s mind is already running, already picturing the faces of the scum who did this. they don’t get to hurt you and walk away. he bursts through the hospital doors, a breathless, wild mess, the doctors rush to take you from his arms.

as they pry you away, matt lingers in the doorway, his heart still in his throat. he’s torn between wanting to follow them, make sure they’re doing everything right, and wanting to tear through the streets and hunt down the monsters who put you in this state.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

the second he sees your body slumped in the dirt, blood staining the concrete beneath you, something inside him snaps. not breaks — snaps. like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. a deep, terrible silence settles over him for half a second. then it’s gone. replaced by fire.

“no, no, no.” he growls, running to you. his knees hit the ground hard but he doesn’t even register the pain. all he can see is you. broken. bleeding. your gear torn. your skin pale. your chest barely rising. the world around him turns red. frank’s voice is low and frantic as he presses his hands to your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “you stay with me. you stay with me, goddamnit.”

you’re still alive, barely. he can hear it. the ragged hitch of your breath, the faint stutter of your heartbeat. it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. just barely.

he scoops you up in his arms, movements stiff with rage, with desperation. there’s no subtlety, no care for being quiet — he’s a storm tearing through the night, carrying your broken body like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade out of hell. the hospital is too far. too slow. he takes you to someone off the grid — a medic he knows, someone who won’t ask questions. and even then, even when they start patching up, frank can’t sit still. his fists are clenched. jaw tight. body vibrating with fury. he stares at the blood on his hands like it’s proof that he failed you.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the guilt is unbearable. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. the second he took his eyes off you, someone tried to take you from him. and now all he can think about is revenge. he demands a name. doesn’t care if you’re awake enough to answer. he’ll find out anyway. he always does. and once he does, that name becomes a death sentence.

there’s no hesitation. no mercy. whoever did this is already dead, they just don’t know it yet. frank will hunt them, one by one, slow and brutal. no warnings. no speeches. just bullets and blood and silence. he’s not out for justice. this isn’t about balance. this is personal. they tried to take you from him. they crossed a line, and frank castle has never let something like that go unanswered.

the second they say you’re stable, just stable, not awake, he’s gone. no words. no goodbye. just the heavy sound of the door slamming behind him and the fire in his chest finally given permission to burn the world down. the rampage doesn’t start with guns. it starts with intel. names. faces. affiliations. once he has them it’s over. brutal. no survivors. they’re not just dead, they’re erased. to frank, this isn’t about sending a message. it’s about making sure they never touch anything he loves again.

the bodies pile up fast. each one worse than the last. there’s no pattern except brutality. knives. bare hands. point-blank execution. he’s not even covering his tracks — he wants them to know who’s doing it. he wants the fear to spread. he leaves behind chaos. and a message, unspoken but loud: you fucked with the wrong person.

in the rare moments he’s not out hunting, he’s sitting beside you. still bloodied. still burning. he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him alive too. sometimes he talks to you. quiet, raspy words like confessions. he wipes the sweat from your forehead with a rag, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the carnage he left behind hours before. his thumb brushes your cheek, he breathes deep. you’re still here.

he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. not until you open your eyes again. and when you finally do, even if it’s just for a second, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he found you bleeding in that alley. “i got ‘em,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. “every last one. they won’t ever touch you again.”

but even when you’re awake, he’s not the same. there’s something darker in him now. something permanent. he’s more aware that you are easily a target and can get ripped from him at any point. depending on the strength/length of the relationship, the next time you see him once you open your eyes may very well be the last.

if he has to become the devil to keep you safe — so be it. he’s already halfway there.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he’s not supposed to find you like this. he’s supposed to be waiting at home, maybe pacing with a mug of coffee gone cold, maybe falling asleep on the couch with the tv on low. but instead, he’s running through a dark alley, heart in his throat, phone in his shaking hand, following some half-panicked tip from someone who "saw someone in your suit" go down hard. he rounds the corner and sees you crumpled on the ground. at first, he doesn’t even register that it’s you. the blood, the way your body is twisted, your mask half torn. it doesn’t look real. it looks like a nightmare he’s having with his eyes open.

“no,” he whispers. it’s the only thing that comes out. then louder, frantic: “hey! hey, baby, come on. stay with me.”

his knees hit the pavement. he doesn’t care about the blood or the dirt or the way his hands shake as he pulls you into his lap. you’re too still. too quiet. your breathing’s shallow. he presses his hand to your side and it comes away soaked. he nearly vomits. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay. we’re gonna — shit, okay— i need to call someone.” but he can’t even dial. his hands won’t stop shaking. his voice keeps cracking. “you’re gonna be fine, i swear. you’re not dying. you’re not dying. you’re not dying.” - he tells you, but it’s more for himself.

foggy has seen matt come home busted up. he’s patched bruises, stitched wounds. he knows what this life does to people. but this —you — he never imagined this. and now that it’s happening it’s like time is moving too fast and too slow at once.

he finally calls someone — matt, karen, someone who knows what to do. he blurts out the location, doesn’t even know if they can understand him through the panic in his voice. “they’re hurt, they’re — shit, they’re not waking up.” when help does arrive, he won’t let go.

at the hospital he’s a wreck. pacing, snapping at nurses, tears in his eyes. trying to keep it together but failing miserably. there’s blood on his clothes. he hasn’t sat down in hours. he keeps replaying it over and over — how pale you looked. how quiet. how close he was to losing you. when the doctors say you’re stable, he sits down for the first time and just cries. full-on, head-in-hands, silent shaking sobs.

he doesn’t leave your hospital room. not for food. not for sleep. not even when they ask him to. he’s curled up in one of those uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tight like he’s physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. his eyes are on you constantly, watching your chest rise and fall. counting the seconds between each breath like it’s a lifeline.

the doctors tell him you’ll be okay. they say it a few times, gently, like they think it’ll finally sink in. but foggy doesn’t believe it until you open your eyes. when you finally do, he lets out a breath so heavy it sounds like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “hey.” he greets, voice cracking just on that one word. he tries to smile but it’s broken around the edges. “you look like hell.” you say, and then his eyes get glassy again because even half-dead, you’re still you, and he almost lost you. the tears come quietly this time. no drama. just him brushing your hair back with shaking fingers, but he’s not himself enough to joke. he just leans down and rests his forehead against your arm, letting the silence say what he can’t.

when you’re strong enough to come home, he sets up everything. extra pillows, blankets, meds. he googles like ten different recovery guides and keeps your favourite soup on the stove. he jokes, tries to keep things light, but you can see the fear still living behind his eyes. he flinches when you wince. apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. checks on you every few minutes, even when you’re asleep. “i know i said i could handle this,” he whispers one night while you’re resting, your hand in his. “but this, what happened, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

he won’t ask you to stop. not out loud, because he knows this is who you are. he’s proud of you. scared for you. but proud. still, of course he wishes you would quit. he’s not a fighter. not in the way you or matt or frank are. but he’d go to war for you all the same, and you know if he had gotten there a minute later that night, he would’ve never recovered.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s not the first time someone she loves has bled out in front of her. but this hits different. it’s you. and karen has already buried too many people. she told herself she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t love someone who runs headfirst into danger. but then there was you. and now you’re lying on the cold floor, broken, barely breathing, and she can’t stop shaking.

she stumbles when she finds you. almost slips in the blood. her hands go to her mouth before she can stop them — silent shock. her heart is in her throat. she drops on the floor next to you, her hands hover over you, afraid to touch, afraid she’ll hurt you worse — but she has to do something. she presses down on the worst wound, even though her hands are slick with blood. her fingers are slipping. she’s talking to you the whole time, voice trembling, like if she stops talking, you’ll slip away. “hey, hey, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay. just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

her phone’s already on speaker, the dispatcher talking her through what to do. she’s holding pressure, crying without realizing it, trying not to fall apart because you need her. and she’s not going to let you die — not when she just started to believe maybe, just maybe, you were the one she wouldn’t lose.

when the ambulance arrives, they have to pull her away from you. she fights it at first, grabbing onto your jacket, her bloodstained fingers clutching the fabric like she can keep you tethered to this world just by holding on. at the hospital, she’s stone-faced. too still. too quiet. people keep asking if she’s okay, but she just stares straight ahead. she’s not okay. she’s watching nurses rush in and out of your room, scrubs soaked red, machines beeping. it all feels too familiar. and the worst part? she doesn’t know if she can do it again. the waiting. the not knowing.

when they tell her you’re stable, she doesn’t cry. she just walks into your room like a ghost and sits by your bedside. she doesn’t touch you at first. just watches you breathe. listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor and lets it stitch her back together, one slow beat at a time. eventually her hand finds yours. she stays the whole night, doesn’t sleep. just sits in that hard plastic chair, watching the sunrise paint shadows across your face. her eyes are red. her soul is tired. but she’s there. because she always is. because you’re worth the pain.

when you wake, she smiles — small, watery, but real. not forced. relived. “hey,” she says. “you scared the hell out of me.” she doesn't ask you to stop. she knows she can't. but her voice goes low, soft, trembling with something fragile. “next time, come home. don’t make me find you like that again.”

after the worst is over, after the colour starts returning to your face, karen shifts. she goes quiet, withdrawn. controlled. because that’s how she survives this: by doing something. by finding out who did this to you and making sure they can never hurt you again. she starts digging the second she leaves your hospital room. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. just her laptop, a folder full of crime scene photos no one should have, and a growing web of connections on her wall — sticky notes, red string, scribbled names and locations.

she’s not reckless. she’s methodical. she calls in favors, slips into police records she’s technically not supposed to have access to, traces shell corporations and burner phones. if the people who came after you thought they were ghosts, they picked the wrong woman to cross. every night she comes back to your bedside like nothing’s changed. she talks to you softly, like she hasn’t spent the entire day tearing through criminal networks with a pen and a stare.

her version of revenge isn’t bullets or fists. it’s facts, it’s evidence, it’s exposing everything they’ve done and nailing them to the wall in court. she’s seen what blood-soaked justice does to people. it nearly destroyed frank. nearly destroyed her. so she’s doing it her way this time. but even she has limits, and when she finally tracks down the name of the person who ordered the hit on you, when she sees their face, reads their file, realizes how close they got to killing you - - there’s a split second where she considers just sending that name to frank. or matt. or taking a gun and doing it herself. she doesn’t. not yet. but the thought lingers.

there’s steel in her eyes when she looks at you. love, yes. but fire too. a dangerous kind of loyalty. she almost lost you. she kisses your forehead and brushes your hair, “you just focus on healing,” she says softly. “i’ve got the rest.”

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she finds you by scent first. blood in the air, and her instincts flare. everything in her stills. her fingers twitch toward her sai. her heart? it drops, immediately. she knows it’s yours. her body starts moving before her brain catches up. the sight of you nearly guts her. crumpled. gasping. blood soaking into the street like it’s trying to swallow you whole. her face doesn’t change, not yet. but her heart is screaming.

“you idiot.” she breathes, kneeling beside you. her hands hover, uncertain. for a second, she looks down at you like you’re already dead. like she’s staring at a body and trying to convince herself it’s not real. then she snaps into action, fast, precise, pressure on wounds. a whispered curse in greek under her breath.

she doesn’t call for help, she is the help. she picks you up, cradling you close to her chest, and moves like a shadow through the night. rooftops. alleyways. no hesitation. she gets you somewhere safe, somewhere secret. a place no one but her knows. her hands are stained red by the time she’s finished patching you up. it’s messy, but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stop moving. if she lets herself feel even for a second, she’ll come undone.

and then she disappears. without a word. you’re alive — so now someone else won’t be. she hunts with the kind of violence that comes from fury. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t give warnings. she carves a path through the people who touched you like she’s making a statement in blood and she smiles while doing it. not because she enjoys the kill — but because it quiets the ache. for a moment, revenge is the only thing louder than her fear. she doesn’t care who they are. a gang, a syndicate, a hand of god — it doesn’t matter. they’re in her way and they die for it.

when she returns, days later, she’s cleaner. calmer. like she’s shed the blood and stepped back into her skin. but when she looks at you, still pale, still healing, that mask slips just a little.

she doesn’t sit by your bedside like matt or foggy or karen. she watches from the shadows, perched near the window like a ghost. barely breathing. doesn’t want you to see how shaken she is. doesn’t want you to know how deeply she feels this. how much of her identity unravels the second she admits: you’re not just another casualty. you ask her where she went, her gaze sharpens. “handled it,” she replies flat. but her jaw is tight, her knuckles white. you know what that means.

the night you wake up crying from pain, she’s already there. no sound. no warning. just a gentle hand on your ribs, shushing you softly. “breathe. it’s just pain. you’re alive.” but you see her eyes shimmer for a split second. not with tears — she doesn’t cry. with something that looks like grief curling inward.

when you ask if she’s okay, she laughs. cold and low. “you almost died, and you’re asking me?” she cups your face then, thumb brushing your cheekbone. the softest touch from the most dangerous hands. she doesn’t promise you’ll be safe. she never lies. but she does promise one thing, with venom in her voice: “if anyone tries this again, they’ll beg for hell by the time i’m finished.”

some nights you wake to find her pacing. barefoot. silent. a blade spinning in her fingers out of habit. it’s not restlessness, it’s restraint. she’s still seething beneath the surface, waiting for another name, another threat, another reason to hurt something in your name.

she starts training with you again before you’re ready. not because she’s cruel — because the thought of losing you again is unbearable. her touches are rougher. her critiques sharper. but her eyes never leave you. she’s watching, making sure it never happens again. you confront her, tell her she’s pushing too hard, that you need time. her jaw clenches. “time didn’t stop them from almost killing you.” she snaps.

she doesn’t ask you to stop being a vigilante. she’d never try to take that from you. but she does expect blood if anyone touches you again. it’s not a question. it’s a fact.

and still, on the quietest nights, she curls into your side like a girl afraid of the dark. because she’s seen death. been reborn by it. but the only thing that’s ever truly terrified her is the thought of living in a world where you don’t exist.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he finds you by accident. it’s not a tip. not intel. he’s just out — tracking someone else — when he turns the corner and sees you. the second he recognizes your body slumped on the pavement, he freezes. mid-step. breath locked in his throat, eyes wide. everything goes quiet in his head. no noise. no inner voice. just a sudden, terrifying blankness that only ever comes with trauma.

and then it all slams back in. heart pounding, breath shaking, footsteps too loud as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. his hands are shaking. “what the fuck —no, no — hey. hey. look at me,” he snaps, voice cracking as he lifts your face roughly. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to leave me.”

he presses his hands to your wounds, barely noticing that he’s getting blood all over himself. his suit. his arms. his face. he doesn’t care. he’s muttering now, voice slipping fast between anger and panic. “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re gonna be fine.” there’s a twitch behind his eye, the way it always starts when he’s unraveling. the restraint is gone. he’s fighting the part of him that wants to go find whoever did this and carve their eyes out with a fucking pen.

he carries you himself. doesn’t trust anyone else to touch you. gets you to a safehouse, not a hospital — he doesn’t trust them, either. “i got you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a mantra. “i got you. i got you. i got you.” he patches you up with the kind of surgical precision only someone trained to kill would have. he’s been taught where to stab, where to shoot, where to break. now he’s using that same knowledge to keep you alive. hands still shaking. breath uneven. eyes wide and glassy.

when it’s over — when the bleeding’s stopped, and your breathing evens out — he just sits next to you. hands covered in your blood. staring at nothing. numb. it doesn’t last. the next day he’s gone. doesn’t say where, doesn’t leave a note. when he comes back there’s blood on his collar. a new rip in his jacket. a dark look in his eye. he doesn’t say a word. just washes his hands in the sink, slow and quiet. “they screamed,” he mutters later. voice low. flat. “when i found ‘em.” he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. not for the blood. not for the kill. he needs you to know what he did. in his mind, that’s love. that’s loyalty. that’s what he is.

at first he tries to hold it together. stiff jaw. blank face. but it cracks fast the moment he hears you groan in pain, or sees you wince when you move — it’s like a glitch in his programming. he paces. mutters. his breathing gets shallow. hands in his hair. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck.” he can’t stop replaying it. you on the ground. the blood. your eyes going glassy. the way your body felt in his arms — too limp. too quiet. it haunts him. he’s twitchier than usual, zoning out mid-sentence, jaw clenching like he’s trying not to scream.

when you sleep he stands at the door with a gun in his hand. all night. doesn’t blink. doesn’t rest. he hears every sound, every creak, every car outside — and for every single one, he’s ready to kill. he will not let it happen again. you wake up and find him cleaning weapons on the kitchen table. obsessively. over and over. something in his expression isn’t right. too calm. too blank. eyes dead.

you tell him you’re okay now. he snaps. kicks a chair so hard it splinters against the wall. slams his fist into the fridge. breathing too fast. too shallow. “you almost died.” he shouts, turning toward you, eyes wide and wild. you try to calm him. he steps back. shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the panic out of his skull. “i can’t lose you. i can’t—” voice cuts off. he’s choking on it. shaking. “if you leave, i’ll fucking burn down the world.”

he becomes obsessive. even more controlling — not in a cruel way, but in that desperate, self-destructive, bpd way where his fear of abandonment becomes everything. he checks on you every hour. double locks the doors. hides weapons around the apartment. watches you sleep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. doesn’t want you going out with anyone that’s not him. “i don’t trust the world with you,” he tells you. “only me. only i can keep you alive.”

god help you the moment you try to suit up again. he begs. angry, terrified. “please don’t go.” his voice goes so soft, like he’s reverting back to the little boy inside him who just wanted someone to stay. he will beg you to quit, to stop, to give up that part of your life completely. if you go anyway he unravels. waits at home, pacing, crying, screaming into his hands, punching walls, whispering your name. “please come back. please come back. please come back.” when you finally do, and you’re safe, he grabs you, pulls you into him so tight it hurts, and presses his face into your neck. he’s trembling. sobbing.

he doesn’t let go for hours. doesn’t care how messy it looks. doesn’t care how unstable he seems. because when it comes to you? he needs. it’s not just love, you’re his survival.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

the moment he sees you, his whole body freezes. it's not panic — it's shock. billy's usually composed, cold, the kind of guy who can walk through hell and come out smiling. but this is different. you're not just another casualty in his world, you're his everything. and when he sees you lying there, barely conscious, blood seeping into the concrete, it feels like the air leaves his lungs. for the first few seconds, he doesn’t move. his eyes go glassy, disbelieving. his heart is pounding in his ears, and he can’t process it. he doesn’t know what to do. everything he’s ever known, every instinct, every move, every cold calculation — it’s gone.

when he finally rushes to you, he’s all hands, desperate to pull you close. “hey. hey, baby. hey, look at me,” his voice shakes slightly, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. something that isn’t this nightmare. “you’re gonna be fine. you hear me? you’re gonna be fine.” he pulls you into his arms and holds you against his chest, completely oblivious to the blood staining his suit. all he cares about is keeping you conscious. “just stay with me,” he mutters under his breath, over and over again. “don’t close your eyes. don’t fucking close your eyes on me.”

he knows hospitals aren’t an option. hospitals don’t work for people like you — people with blood on their hands, people like him. so he takes you to a private location, and pays for you to be privately attended to. he’s talking to you. low. soft. like if he can just keep you engaged, keep you anchored, he can fix you. “don’t think for a second you’re getting away from me,” he says, trying to sound confident, trying to sound calm. but it cracks. “you’re too much of a pain in my ass to just die on me, okay?”

the bandages are tight. the pain meds are there. but when you don’t respond, when you still look too pale, too still — he breaks. he can’t stop there, not now, not ever again. the fear that’s gnawing at his chest is unfamiliar. he doesn’t like it, so he drowns it. dives headfirst into revenge. the people who did this to you? they don’t just die. no. they’re tortured. billy goes into full punisher mode — ruthless, calculated, brutal. nothing is off-limits.

the nights are worse. he stays close, watches you like a hawk, like if he looks away, you’ll disappear. he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a fear in him now. one that claws at his insides, reminds him of all the things he’s lost before. he doesn’t let you go anywhere alone. not even for a second. when you try to go out, when you even mention getting back into the game too soon, he flips. “don’t you dare.” his hands grip your shoulders a little too tightly. “you’re not going anywhere. you almost fucking died. you’re not risking it again.”

if shit hits the fan and you’re caught in the crossfire again, if things go wrong, if you're too exposed, too vulnerable, billy goes feral. the change is instant, an animal’s rage flipping the switch in his brain. his body goes into autopilot as his mind snaps into pure chaos. without hesitation, he’s on the offensive. you’re the only thing that matters, and anyone who tries to get close to you, even just a second too long, is dead before they know what hit them.

he doesn’t give you time to breathe after that. the moment the adrenaline settles, billy’s back at your side. he’s close, too close. his hands roam over your body, making sure you’re intact, making sure you’re real. “are you hurt?” he asks, though he knows you’re not, he’s just making sure. his eyes don’t leave you for a second. his breath is still fast, ragged from the violence.

when you try to pull away from him, when you try to leave his arms or distance yourself even an inch, billy tightens his grip. his whole body freezes, and his gaze darkens. “don’t.” it’s low, dangerous. it’s a warning. and you can feel it. that slow, creeping panic that is threading itself into his soul. billy isn’t just holding you now, he’s clinging. because if you slip away again, if you pull too far from him, he’ll lose himself. and he knows it.

if you think you can get away to go out and continue your work he’s already planning how to stop you. every exit is blocked. every path you could take, every little crack in the world you could slip through, billy knows it. he knows because he’s thought about every possible way, and he’s ready for it. it’s not just that he wants to keep you close. it’s that he can’t breathe when you’re not around.

the possessiveness isn’t even the scariest thing about him. it’s his insecurity. billy russo knows he’s capable of destroying anything — and that includes you, if it comes down to it. “I’m the only one who can protect you,” he tells you in the dead of night, his face barely an inch away from yours. “no one else can. not like I can.” his presence is more a demand than an option.

his world is you. the only one who’s ever loved him. the thing that keeps him going, the thing that defines his decisions. no matter how violent, no matter how twisted, he’ll do anything to keep you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

the moment she finds out you’ve been hurt, she’s frozen. it hits her like a ton of bricks. when she gets the call, when she hears what happened, she can’t breathe for a second. her chest tightens. her hands shake, but she doesn’t let it show. she’s a professional. she’s been trained for this.

her first instinct is to get to you fast. dinah’s never been one to waste time. but when she sees you, when she takes in the severity of your injuries, something inside her snaps. that sharp edge that’s kept her moving forward, her ability to compartmentalize? gone. in its place is the cold, biting realization: this is all too familiar.

she fights to keep it together as she kneels beside you at the hospital, checking for signs of life. her hands hover above you, but she’s too afraid to touch you at first. afraid she’ll make it worse. but when she sees your eyes flicker open, when she hears you weakly call her name, she snaps into action. her voice is low, soothing— something she learned to use to keep people calm in the chaos of her work. “you’re okay,” she says, even if her voice shakes. “you’re gonna be okay.”

but the worry doesn’t fade. in fact, it just makes her more determined to hunt down the people who did this to you. she’s driven by vengeance. this isn’t about breaking the law or falling into chaos — it’s about justice. it’s about doing things the right way. she has to — she’s always believed in the system.

her flashbacks hit harder now. she thinks of sam, how he died, how she couldn’t stop it. every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. his blood. his empty eyes. she sees you in the same way, and the guilt starts to fester. she’s relentless in her search for answers, and every dead end, every failure to get closer to them, feels like she’s failing you all over again.

the guilt and anger bleed together in her dreams. she wakes up in cold sweats, her mind flashing back to that night, the night sam died, and how helpless she felt. then there’s you, and the helplessness is even worse. the thought that she couldn’t save you. that she might lose you too.

but when she gets closer, when she finally has the chance to make them pay, it’s not a feeling of triumph — it’s just a cold, hollow satisfaction. revenge, for dinah, doesn’t bring peace. it doesn’t bring closure. it just empties her further. she’s not sure if what she’s doing is right anymore, but she can’t stop herself. the justice she’s been chasing her whole life feels hollow now.

the weight of the revenge still hangs over her, even after she gets it. madani knows that she’s done what she had to do, but there’s no true peace. the law isn’t enough, and she’s not sure she’ll ever find solace. the trauma lingers, the flashbacks to sam, and the faces of those who hurt you haunting her every step. but she’ll keep going. because that’s what she does. she survives. she endures. and for you? she’ll keep fighting.

⏜︵ DAVID / MICRO. 𐂯

fear grips him hard. you’re everything to him — he can’t even process the reality of what’s going on. he tries to call you, but there’s no answer. panic sinks in deeper. he’s trying to keep it together, but it’s all falling apart. he can’t lose you.

he knows he can’t do this alone. he’s smart, he’s good with computers, but this is beyond his control. so, without even thinking, he picks up his phone and dials frank. he needs help — real help. not the kind of tech solutions he usually works with, but someone who can find the people who did this and make them pay. frank picks up. david’s voice cracks when he speaks, but he tries to keep the desperation in check. the words spill out of him, but he knows frank doesn’t need any more details. frank doesn’t need him to explain — it’s always been a silent understanding between them. frank will help.

frank’s response is immediate. there’s no hesitation in his voice. “get to me. now.” david doesn’t need to be told twice. he hangs up, grabs his bag, and doesn’t stop moving until he’s at frank’s location. he’s shaking, from fear, from the overwhelming guilt and helplessness clawing at him. when david finally arrives it’s a blur of frantic energy. he’s pacing, his mind spiraling through a hundred different thoughts at once. frank listens, david explains what little he knows, but it’s clear he’s not thinking straight. his focus is broken, distracted. he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come after him. frank doesn’t judge him for his panic. he knows david’s been thrown into a situation he’s not prepared for.

with castle at his side, david dives headfirst into research for revenge. he’s typing away at the computer, pulling up every piece of data he can get his hands on, but he’s still not in control. every lead he follows feels like a dead end. he’s so close, and yet it’s so far. he feels helpless again, like he’s failing you. frank knows exactly what to do, starts tracking down leads the way only he knows how, and it’s not long before david starts feeling that old rush of adrenaline. david watches as frank works, and a part of him feels sick. he doesn’t like the things frank does to get answers — he never has — but in this moment, he doesn’t care. he wants the people who did this to you to suffer. they will pay.

when he gets back to you, he’s exhausted, drained. he holds you close, his fingers trembling. the adrenaline’s worn off, and now he’s just done. his mind keeps running through what happened, but he’s too tired to make sense of it all. all he knows is you’re here, you’re alive, and somehow, somehow, that’s enough for him.

even with everything settled, the guilt never goes away. david knows he couldn’t have done it without frank, and that thought haunts him. he hates that frank had to be the one to pull him out of his panic, to get him to this point. he feels weaker for it. but he’s trying to hold it together for you. he’ll always try to hold it together for you.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

it’s like his whole world stops. wesley is used to being in control, to managing every detail of his life with precision, but this is different. you are different. you’re the one person he can’t control, the one person he’s allowed himself to care about, and now you’re in danger. it shatters his calm, makes everything feel like it’s slipping through his fingers.

the moment he hears what happened his first thought is to get to you. immediately, he starts making plans, pulling strings, organizing everything in his mind with military precision. nothing is left to chance. he won’t leave anything to luck or fate. he’s already running through every possible solution in his head — getting you to safety, finding out who did this, and making them pay.

when he sees you hurt, it’s worse than he expected. his eyes narrow, scanning you for injuries, his expression hardening. this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be in this state. he’s quick to assess the situation — if you’re still conscious, he’ll call your name, trying to keep you awake and alert, reassuring you that everything will be taken care of. but deep down, he’s losing control. this is his fault. he wasn’t there when you needed him, and that thought claws at his gut.

he doesn’t waste time on emotions, at least not outwardly. wesley is all about efficiency. he’s trying to keep his cool because he knows if he loses it, if he shows any sign of weakness, the situation could spiral even further. he pulls you close, his tone sharp, “we’re going to get you help. stay with me.” there’s no comfort in his words, no softness. just cold, calculated action.

he won’t take you to a hospital. he’s already got another plan in place, one that he knows will guarantee your safety. he’s not leaving your side for a second, and he’s certainly not letting you be treated by anyone who could jeopardize the situation. he’ll take you to one of fisks safe houses, somewhere he’s already set up for emergencies. he’ll make sure you’re patched up, but not by a doctor, by someone he trusts, someone he knows won’t ask questions.

the person who did this is as good as dead. wesley doesn’t even need to think twice about what he’s going to do. the moment he finds out who’s behind this, they’ll pay. he’s methodical about it, just like everything else in his life. he’ll track them down, piece together every detail, and make sure no one escapes. they’ll regret crossing him, crossing you. he’ll track down every lead with obsessive precision. while youre recovering he’ll monitor every movement, every conversation, making sure no one can get close enough to hurt you again. he’s already planning, moving pieces on a mental chessboard, keeping you protected in ways you can’t even fathom. it’s almost clinical the way he works, and it’s terrifying. there’s no room for failure. when he catches the person who hurt you, there’s no mercy. wesley doesn’t do mercy. there’s no room for hesitation. he’ll handle them swiftly, in the way he’s always been trained to — calm, efficient, without remorse.

once it’s over, once the danger has passed, he’ll find himself restless. he won’t relax. not fully. the guilt gnaws at him. no matter how much he tells himself he did everything right, that you’re safe now, he’ll never fully shake the feeling that he could’ve done more. he’s been trained to protect, to control, and yet, in this one instance, he couldn’t stop what happened. it eats at him. he wasn’t fast enough.

when he checks on you later, there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. he’s there, by your side, but it’s not the gentle reassurance you might expect. he’s not soft about it. he’s focused on your well-being, but there’s that edge to him, an intensity that makes it clear he’s not quite done. not done with protecting you, not done with his need to control the situation. he’ll stay close, but it’s not because he’s worried for you. it’s because he can’t bear the idea of losing you or letting anyone get close enough to hurt you again.

if you ask him about it he’ll brush it off with his usual coldness. “it’s done. you’re safe. that’s all that matters.” there’s no emotion in his voice, no sign of the internal battle he’s fighting. because for james wesley, admitting weakness, admitting fear, isn’t an option. he’ll never show that side of himself.

but deep down, the fear never really goes away. it’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the fear that he’s not good enough to protect you in the way he needs to. he’ll bury it. he’ll hide it. but the cracks will start to show, just a little. and as time goes on, he’ll start to wonder if he’ll ever truly be able to shield you from the world that’s out there.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

everything else fades away. he’s used to the violence of his world, the chaos of being part of hell’s kitchen, but seeing you in this state — broken, bleeding, close to death — shatters him. he’s good at shutting down his emotions, but this? it’s like a punch to the gut.

his first instinct is to move you, get you out of there. he doesn’t care about the blood or the injuries; he just needs to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the people who did this. he’s not gentle when he picks you up. muse’s hands tremble, but his movements are urgent, almost frantic, because this isn’t just any injury — it’s you. the one person who’s shown him a hint of softness, the person who doesn’t treat him like a joke. and now, you’re this. he hates it.

when he gets you to a safe house or wherever he’s decided you need to be, he’s not leaving your side. he’s patching you up as best he can, trying to stop the bleeding with hands that shake. he’s muttering to himself, cursing, moving like a man possessed. he knows this isn’t going to be enough, that the injuries are too severe for him to handle, but he can’t bring himself to call for help. not yet. not when he’s still trying to keep control over this.

when he finds out who did this to you it’s bad news for them. muse isn’t the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things. he’s always been the kind of guy who takes care of problems on his own terms. and if someone hurt you? well, there’s nothing stopping him from hunting them down and making them wish they’d never laid a finger on you. he’ll go after them with everything he’s got, no mercy, no hesitation, draining every last drop of blood from their body.

he gets reckless. the more he tries to keep his head together, the more the anger builds. he wants answers, he wants vengeance, but most of all, he wants to fix things for you. he’ll keep pushing until he finds out who did this, and when he does, he won’t hold back.

he’s constantly checking on you, watching you like a hawk. when you wake up, he’s there, hovering over you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, panic and concern.

as much as he tries to stay detached, you’re changing him. the more time he spends with you, the more he cares. it’s not something he’s used to, not something he can easily admit, but it’s there. you’re important to him in a way he never thought possible.

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

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itsnesss · 3 months ago

Text

𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐧 | minho (xo,kitty) × fem!reader

OO1. OO2. OO3.

summary | you struggle with your feelings for minho, knowing he's in a relationship with stella. after an intense conversation about your kiss, you decide to distance yourself, despite the undeniable connection between you two

warnings | emotional distress, relationship complications, heartbreak, mentions of kissing

word count | 1.7 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The way back to the cabin felt endless. You wrapped the towel around your body so tightly that your fingers hurt, trying to keep your breathing steady. Min Ho's kiss still burned on your lips, like an impossible-to-ignore burn.

When you entered the room where you were sleeping with Yuri and Juliana, they were both fast asleep. You climbed under the blankets, but sleep didn’t come. Only the memory of Min Ho, his intense gaze, his voice whispering words that should never have been said.

"What about what I feel? Or what you feel?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. None of that mattered. It couldn’t matter.

...

The first rays of light filtered through the windows when you finally decided to get up. You went downstairs to the kitchen and found your friends already gathered. Yuri and Juliana were serving themselves coffee, Q and Dae were discussing a board game, and Stella was hugging Min Ho, resting her head on his shoulder as she looked at her phone.

Your stomach twisted.

"Look who decided to show up!" Yuri exclaimed with a smile. "We almost let you sleep, but Min Ho insisted we wake you up."

Your eyes quickly went to him, and you found him staring at you intently. He didn’t say anything, but there was something unsettling in his expression.

"Thanks for the gesture," you responded, pretending indifference as you grabbed a cup of coffee.

You tried to stay occupied during breakfast, participating in the conversation as little as possible. However, every time you looked up, you found Min Ho watching you, even when Stella was talking to him.

And then, Stella spoke.

"Since the snowstorm has passed, we could take a walk to the lake," she suggested excitedly. "It’s not too cold, and the view must be incredible with all the snow piled up."

"Sounds like a great idea," Q said, stretching.

"Hope you all have good shoes," Dae joked. "I don’t want to be the one carrying anyone if they slip."

"You say that as if you won’t be the first one to fall," Juliana retorted with a smile.

Amidst laughter, the group prepared to leave.

You tried to convince yourself that it was just a walk. There was nothing wrong with that.

Except Min Ho was there. Except every time Stella held his hand, your chest tightened.

The path was beautiful, surrounded by snow-covered trees. The cold air helped clear your mind a little, but not enough.

Min Ho walked ahead, alongside Stella. She was animatedly talking about something on her phone, while he simply nodded, not too interested.

"He’s looking at you again," Yuri whispered beside you.

"What?"

"Min Ho. He hasn’t stopped looking at you since we left the cabin."

You quickly shook your head. "That’s your imagination."

"Uh-huh." Yuri gave you a look of *don’t lie to me*. "Something happened last night in the hot tub, right?"

You almost choked on the air. "No! Why would you say that?"

"Because I know you. And because he looks at you like you’ve killed his dog and at the same time like he wants to kiss you again."

"Yuri," you warned, feeling your cheeks burn.

"I won’t say anything," she promised with a mischievous grin. "But you have to tell me later."

Before you could respond, Min Ho stopped and announced:

"I’m going to look for more firewood for the bonfire tonight."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Stella asked.

"No, stay here. It won’t take long."

Your heart stopped for a second.

"I’ll... take a walk," you said to Yuri and Juliana, quickly walking away before anyone could ask questions.

You followed the path Min Ho had taken, the sound of snow crunching under your boots. You found him a few minutes later, picking up some fallen branches.

When he saw you, he dropped the firewood and crossed his arms.

"I knew you’d come."

You rolled your eyes. "Don’t think you’re that important."

Min Ho let out a low laugh, but his gaze was serious.

"Are you going to keep pretending nothing happened?"

You took a breath. "I don’t want to talk about it."

"Well, I do."

His tone was different. It wasn’t the usual arrogance, nor his playful tone. It was deeper. More real.

"You kissed me last night," he said firmly.

You clenched your jaw. "It was a mistake."

"It wasn’t."

"Yes, it was," you insisted, your chest burning.

Min Ho took a step toward you. "Tell me you didn’t feel anything."

"Min Ho…"

"Say it."

You clenched your fists. You couldn’t. You couldn’t tell him that because it would be a lie.

"You have a girlfriend," you reminded him.

"I know."

"Then this is over."

He took a deep breath. "I’m going to break up with Stella."

Your eyes widened with surprise and fear.

"You can’t do that."

"Why not?"

"Because she doesn’t deserve that," you said, your voice trembling. "I don’t want to be the reason for that."

Min Ho ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You’re not."

"Of course I am," you insisted. "If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be thinking about this."

Min Ho shook his head. "No. This was happening before. Stella is amazing, but she’s not…"

He stopped, but you understood what he didn’t say.

"She’s not you."

Your chest ached.

"Min Ho, don’t do this. Don’t complicate things more than they already are."

"And what do you want me to do? Stay with her just because it’s the right thing?"

"Yes," you said, even though every part of you screamed no.

He stood in silence, watching you.

"Leave me alone, Min Ho."

The words came out before you could stop them.

Min Ho blinked, as if you had slapped him.

"Is that what you want?"

You nodded, your heart breaking in your chest.

He pressed his lips together, then nodded stiffly.

"I understand," he murmured.

He picked up the firewood and started walking back to the cabin without looking back.

You stood there, with the snow gently falling around you, feeling like you had just lost something you would never have again.

tags | @msromanreigns2023 @imagineme2you @yuwaimo @cassiewritessalot @lavnderluv

#minho xo kitty #minho moon #minho x reader #minho x you #minho #xo kitty #xo kitty x reader

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willowcried · 3 months ago

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being quinnie’s little lapdog.

the auditorium.

the only place she allowed you to talk to her at school. anywhere else was completely prohibited. she told you that on day one.

if you tried to talk to her in the hallways, she wouldn’t even acknowledge you. you learned that the hard way, when she left you there like an wet puppy while she walked past, barely sparing you a glance. you didn’t think she was actually serious.

she would apologize later, sure—murmuring quiet sorry, baby’s while kissing your stupid face, as she usually called it, curling her fingers around the collar of your sweater before making you lose it. that’s when she’d let herself be soft, let her nails drag gently along your jaw, let her voice drop into something warm, something just for you. she’d kiss you slow, teasing, until your head spun, until your hands trembled where they held onto her waist.

and then, just when you thought she might actually mean it—just when you thought maybe she felt something real—she’d pull away with that knowing smirk, dragging her thumb across your kiss-dazed lips harshly before fixing her cardigan like nothing happened.

you understood, though.

she was hurt after puckerman, obviously. she needed control back in her life. she needed this—you—on her terms. not because she liked having you as a pet.

that’s what you told yourself, anyway.

today, she’s late. your fingers nervously drum on the random seat you chose in the big auditorium. glancing at your cellphone for the third time, your leg bounces up and down but you hate skipping class. even though she was the reason why you did it, your mind was stressed, thinking about the missing lessons just for quinn.

of course it had its perks, though. depending on your luck, sometimes she was nice, running her fingers through your hair the way you liked, teasing you about your sweater choices, calling you cute in that whispery voice that made your brain short-circuit.

other times, she was mean. distant. late on purpose, like she wanted to see how long you’d wait before you gave up.

this seems to be the case today as she flings the door open, storming towards you with that look on her face that pretty much terrifies you. she stops in front of you, and you barely have time to open your mouth before— “what the hell is wrong with you?”

you blink. “i—what?”

she exhales sharply, rolling her eyes, like you’re exhausting her. like she doesn’t have you completely lost, going through your folder of memories to figure out what you did wrong.

“you know what, nerd.”

except you don’t.

quinn sighs, tilting her head back like she’s trying to rein herself in, and when she looks at you again, her eyes are sharp, expectant. “why were you looking at me in class?”

your lips part in realization. that’s what this was about? the stupid rules? “i wasn’t trying to—”

her eyes narrow. “so you admit it.”

shit.

“i’m sorry. i won’t do that again.” you swallow, voice quieter now. “i just liked the way you did your hair today.” you point with your index finger, suddenly hyperaware of how warm your face feels. “with the yellow— the little flower.”

“stupid. they could’ve found out.”

she always said that. you still didn’t understand how could a person connect so many dots by just one look. the no-talking- in-the-halls rule was understandable, but not being able to look at her?

you don’t say a thing about your thoughts, though. you know better.

“i’m really sorry, q.” you tug on her hand, pulling her closer to you until she’s standing between your legs.

you stare up at her, squeezing her hand when she doesn’t say anything after a beat—two beats, trying to get her to talk to you. it’s nonsense. you know it. she knows it, but that doesn’t stop her from remaining silent for another moment, just so she can look down at you some more, to make you impatient.

and you do. but then, just as you’re about to apologize again, quinn huffs, shaking her head. “idiot.”

before you can react, she’s on you. it’s sudden, the way she slants her mouth over yours, her hands gripping the back of your neck to pull you into her. you barely have time to adjust to the heat of her lips before she’s straddling you, sliding into your lap with ease, her body pressing against yours, drawing out of your throat the tiniest, most embarrassing sound against her lips while your fingers curl around her hips instinctively.

your glasses fog up from the rush of your breaths, but she’s quick enough to pull them on top of your head effortlessly the second they start getting in the way without breaking the kiss. her hands cradle your face, fingers threading into your hair as she deepens it.

#⠀⠀ willowcried #⠀⠀♱ ㅤ┉ ⠀ㅤquinn fabray brainrot #this is bad sorry #the pace it’s not good #quinn fabray x reader #glee x reader #glee #quinn fabray

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introvertedelf · 4 months ago

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Chrollo Lucilfer NSFW Alphabet 🕷️

Minors DNI

⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Chrollo is such a gentleman, honestly. He’d get a warm wet rag and clean between your legs, apologizing when he bumps your sensitive clit. He def cuddles with you, too. He might even run a bath for you both to take together.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His fav part of his body is ofc his chest/abs.

His favorite part on your body is your ass/thighs. I will die on the hill that Chrollo loves it if you’re on the chubbier side, loving the way your thick thighs and ass feel when he’s pounding into you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He wants to cum inside of you. Period. He doesn’t want to make a mess, and he loves the idea of marking you like that. He’d also stuff his cum back inside of you.

Btw he’s going to try to get you to squirt by fingering the hell out of your g-spot with those thick, long fingers of his 🤤

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He literally wants to nurse on your tits. When he cuddles you, he wants to suck your nipple in his mouth, sucking on it until you can’t take it anymore. “Maybe some milk will come out of these soon for me, hmm?”

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s had a few one night stands, but it’s not like he has them all the time. He’s experience enough without being a total man whore lol. He’s read a fair share of erotica books and def has picked up some techniques.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He can’t decide between doggy style so he can slap your ass and watch it bounce and missionary with your legs on his shoulders so he can fuck you deeper.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Chrollo is super serious. He takes love making with you very seriously.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He trims it when it gets too long. Carpet matches the drapes. With you, he doesn’t care. You can have a full bush, a landing strip, or be completely bare. You won’t hear him complain either way.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s super romantic and likes to take things slow. He might start off giving you a massage before even initiating sex.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He would do it a couple times a week before meeting you as a way to release stress. But he never does it now, why would he? Not when he has your warm pussy to fuck.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Dacryphilia (he gets turned on when you cry. Not when you’re sad but when he’s fucking you so good you start crying), bondage, orgasm control, choking (nothing too serious), spanking, dumbification, praise (giving and receiving), breeding. So many more. The only things he’s really opposed to is piss and shit lmao.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

In bed or in the shower. Usually just in bed tho.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Literally anything and everything you do turns him on. He really gets excited when you come out of the shower in just a towel. Or when you’re acting all cute and innocent.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Like I said earlier, piss and shit kinks. He also doesn’t want to severely hurt you. No cutting you or anything that could really cause damage.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Oh he 100% prefers giving. He will eat you out all night until you’re begging him to stop because your poor clit is too sensitive. And Jesus, he’s so good at it. He’s not opposed to a blowjob, but he’d rather just fuck you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Starts out slow and sensual, then starts pounding into you like an animal. You’ve had to tell him he’s fucking you too hard before…

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He’s not totally in favor of them, but if you ask he’ll not hesitate to satisfy you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s not one for risk taking really, he likes to carefully plan and be safe about things. But tbh in the beginning before you were on birth control he would fill you absentmindedly.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can last all night, thanks to his top tier physique. You’ll tire out before he will.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He owns tons of toys—for you. Dildos, vibrators, clamps, whips, everything. He loves to tie you up sometimes and put a vibe on your clit, making you have screaming back to back orgasms.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Chrollo is a big tease sometimes. He’ll at times when he’s busy make you ride his thigh instead, telling you “you either cum from that or not at all, darling.”

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He grunts, moans, growls, and yes, he’ll whimper. It’s rare, but it’s so fucking hot when he does it.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He likes when you act like a brat so he can punish you. He’s so mean when he wants to be, and he enjoys putting you over his knee.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Oh baby boy is hung. 8”, straight, pretty cock, veins on it, a perfect slightly pink tip. 🫣

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Higher than you’d think. He’s pushed it away for so long, focusing on his duties, but with you? He’ll fuck you every night.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He waits for you to fall asleep always, not wanting something to happen and be unaware. He’ll cuddle you to sleep, stroking your hair or your back and pressing kisses to your temple as you do.

#chrollo smut #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #chrollo x you #chrollo x y/n #chrollo lucilfer smut #chrollo x reader smut #hxh chrollo #h x h #hunter x hunter smut

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sweetdispatch · 1 month ago

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Song 2 - Q. Hughes

My Muse | Song 1 pairing: Quinn Hughes x singer!reader summary: Aftermath of your and Quinn' kiss is not as positive as you thought warning: swear words taglist: @bunbunbl0gs @hwalllllllelujah

Things become weird between you and Quinn since that kiss. You were still hanging out with him during days off but you could feel the tension from his side. Like he regretted this. You didn’t confront him about this. You always believed that everything is happening for a reason and waited for the universe to do the work for you.

Quinn was showing up at your place after games only if he lost. For him, you were his safe space who won’t judge him - just listen. Won games he was celebrating with his team. You understood this but it made you sad that he didn’t want to do it with you like it was in previous weeks. You held your tongue and just accepted the new reality of your friendship.

This kiss for you was eye opening. You knew that you needed Quinn more than you would like to admit. All the touches, all the time you spent were nothing compared to the feeling of his lips on yours. You were craving him more and more now. You never felt this much love like now and that’s why you were mad that you’re so helpless.

For Quinn, this kiss was confusing. He didn’t know what to think. Sure, he was falling for you but he was scared of expressing this. He wasn’t ready to make a move and be in a relationship. Firstly he needed to sort things out with his feelings before he could give you the love you deserve. That’s why his genius plan was to keep you on distance, until he’ll be 100% sure.

It was an awkward atmosphere but you thought that it would go away soon. It didn’t, with time it was even worse. Quinn focused on hockey. You weren’t his priority anymore. He wanted to be better and wanted to succeed. He was seeing you only if he had to. He stopped randomly showing up at your apartment or inviting you for a coffee in his free time.

That’s why you threw yourself into work. You didn’t want to just sit and wait for Quinn. Sure, you could talk with him but you weren’t ready to face the consequences. You were writing new songs and working hard on your album. The vision slightly changed because you didn’t want to have an album about your and his journey but inspired by being in love and how hurtful it might be.

But one song was your way to get Quinn to talk with you. You tried to reach him a couple times to see him but he was always making excuses that he’s busy. For the first couple times you believed him but for a whole month, he was ignoring you. You were mad at him for playing with you.

You didn’t know where you were standing. You didn’t know if you should move on and forget about Quinn or you should treat him as a friend or give him time to date you. You wanted to know what he’s thinking about you and this whole situation. It was weird because after the kiss, you were still hanging out but two months later he was acting like you’re not existing.

But if you need my love

My clothes are off, I’m comin’ over to your place

You wanted to give him your love but you weren’t sure if Quinn wanted it. You were willing to sacrifice everything to be with him. You were ready to give everything you can to him. You wanted to go to his place and just be there, next to him without any tension floating around you two. He was the guy you love and ready to show it to him.

And if you don’t need my love

Well, I didn’t want your little bitch-ass anyway

You were thinking about the scenario when Quinn is telling you that he doesn’t want you. That’s how you came up with the last lyric. If he’s not into you, you don't want him either. This was a lie because you desperately needed him but you won’t be begging him. You’ll move on and find someone who actually wants you. For now, this is all you had but you knew that the song would write itself and you weren’t wrong.

Yeah, I’m a busy woman

I wouldn’t let you come into my calendar any night

Quinn finally called you and asked if you could meet with him. You wanted to but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction that you’re waiting for his call to drop everything and run to him. You were now a busy woman, hardly working on her new album. That's why you told him that you need to check your calendar when you have time. You had time whenever you wanted but he didn’t need to know that.

Of course, Quinn was surprised by your answer. He thought that you’re free when you want to be. He remembered when you were telling him that you’re working when you want because you didn’t want to put pressure on yourself. He slowly started to realise that maybe cutting you off was a bad idea and he shouldn’t be doing this. For his luck, you agreed to see him the next day.

It was the first time you saw Quinn in a month. His hair was longer and he had a slightly longer beard but still, he looked attractive. You didn’t know where to start the conversation. You felt like you two grew apart in the past four weeks and now nothing was connecting you except for the past. You were sitting on a couch in his apartment with a cup of tea in your hands waiting for him to return.

“I want to say sorry for ignoring you” Quinn started when he sat on the couch. “It was childish from me. I should talk with you instead of running away”

“Yeah, you should. I was wondering if I did something wrong but it was a mutual kiss so I’m not the only one to blame for the situation” You took a sip from the cup.

“About that” Quinn took a deep breath. “I don’t regret this kiss if this is what you’re implying. I needed to know about this whole situation and what it meant for us”

“What conclusion did you come up with?” You asked him.

“I like you but I don’t think I’m ready for this relationship. The problem is not with you but I just don’t want to be in a spotlight. We are well known and people will be talking and you know me, I like privacy that’s why I’m asking you to wait for me until I’m ready” Quinn said, hoping that you understand his point of view. “What about staying friends? For now?”

“Okay, sure. If this is what you want I’m willing to wait” You told him truthfully. Quinn smiled at you and you two felt like the atmosphere became lighter.

You were telling him about your new album and music you’re currently making but didn’t show him anything. Quinn understood that you want to keep this as a secret for now. He was telling you how much of a hell hockey had been lately for him. He was grateful that you were a hockey fan and knew how much on a plate he had right now.

But if you want my kisses

I’ll be your perfect Mrs. ‘til the day that one of us dies

Everything came back to normal between you two after this conversation. You waited for Quinn until he’s gonna be ready but it was killing you. It was an awful feeling to know that he wants you as bad as you want him but was scared of being in the public eye. You were grateful for your career but sometimes, you wished that you’re just a normal girl who doesn’t have to worry about life and what people will say.

The last verses to the song come to your mind weeks after the conversation with Quinn. If he wanted you, you were ready to be his perfect girlfriend. You wanted to be the best version of yourself for him. When you finished the song, you invited your friend over to show them. This was your second song that was ready because others were partially written or recorded.

They instantly loved the song. It was catchy and the lyrics were fun to sing along. Quinn couldn't make it to have the first impression at your small gathering but promised to see you the next day. When he arrived at your place, the first thing he wanted was to listen to it. You played him the song and from his facial expression you could tell that he loves it.

“It’s a great song. It’s like your personality. Strong woman who knows what she wants” Quinn said when the song stopped.

“Yeah, it’s because I wrote it” You giggled.

“One question. Is this song again about me?” Quinn asked out of curiosity.

“Maybe. I’m writing when I’m inspired and this whole situation was… inspiring” You told him not really sure what you should tell him or how to explain it.

“Well I’m happy that I’m your muse” Quinn joked and you tensed a little bit. He was your muse but you didn’t know it’s that obvious. Before you could say anything back, he continued. “I hope that one day you’ll write something more cheerful about me”

“We’ll see. You never know if I already didn’t do it” You teased him.

“C’mon, spill it. Tell me more about this song” Quinn begged you.

“Not a chance Hughes, you need to earn it” You joked and saw Quinn rolling his eyes.

The rest of the day went slowly. You two were talking and enjoying each other's company. There was no rush. Everything looked normal like you didn’t face a huge problem just a week ago. Now, all you needed to have was patience until Quinn was ready to be in a relationship.

Couple weeks later, Quinn told you about the gala he needed to attempt. To your surprise, he asked you to be his plus one. This meant the first ever public appearance of you two together but for you, it meant that he’s slowly tearing down the wall he built at the beginning. You were happy about it but didn’t know how much jealousy it would cost you.

Song 3

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes au #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #vancouver canucks #my muse

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86espresso · 8 months ago

Text

where do we go now? | qh43

-> 1.7k

sum: you’re the best in my life and I lost you

warnings: HAPPY ENDING in the second part don’t run away, not as heartwrenching as the song I promise, breaking up, angst, feeling like a pile of emotionless trash ❤️, she/her for reader, use of y/n. you’re Quinn’s age and your favorite flowers are marigolds btw.

a/n: I love this song, it hurts so bad <3

You flop on the couch, looking disheveled and tired. Junior year really brings out the worst in everyone. Quinn, who was sat at its end, immediately threw aside his phone and put his sole attention on you.

“Hi, Goldie. How was school?”

“Horrible. I’ll kill mys-”

“Okay, okay I won’t let you finish that,” he muses. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“You don’t need to, Q. I’ve got it under control. Swear on Jack’s life.”

“I can’t decide if that’s reliable.”

“Hey!”

The younger boy was the one who gave you the nickname after your favorite flowers, and as annoying as he can be, he never fails to make you smile.

“Alright, boys. No need to throw hands. Quinn, could you wake me up in twenty minutes? Carla’s coming over for tutoring.” You add sleepily as you lay your head on Quinn’s lap, and he immediately threads his fingers through your hair, giving you a gentle scalp massage and acknowledging that he heard you. You really could get used to this everyday, til junior (closest thing to hell on earth) year ends.

The tutoring session with Carla goes by fast since its always fun with her sharp personality. She always has the right words at the top of her tongue. Which is why it was concerning to see her quiet after the session was over.

“What’s up, Car?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs, running a hand through her short hair, “You- well, it’s weird since I don’t seem like the type to talk about these things-”

“Spit it out, Carla,” You deadpan.

“You’re, like, in love with Quinn, right?”

It catches you off guard and you check the door of your designated room in the Hughes’ house to be safe before answering, “Yeah?”

“Do you ever plan on telling him?”

You can’t help the way all of your insides turned to mush, “I did, actually. A couple of days ago.”

You flushed as you remembered that night.

You and Quinn had just sat down to study for the same stupid French exam you both needed to take. It was exhausting but studying with your favorite person made it so much better.

“You know, you’re, like, my best friend.”

You pause, but continue a moment later because you knew that Quinn could sit in silence for hours with everyone except you.

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

You laugh through your nose, he might be the most endearing person ever.

“I love you.”

Now.

You would’ve lied if you said you didn’t feel your stomach lurching in a good way.

“I love you, too? Quinn, what’s-?”

“It’s like.” He shuts his textbook. “You’re the one person who knows me inside out and you’re, like, always there for me. And I-“ he huffs, running a hand through his hair as if he couldn’t find the right words, slightly distracting you with his bicep.

“I don’t know what I would do without someone as constant as you in my life, y’know?”

Quinn was definitely more empathetic than his brothers, but the sentiment was almost too much for you to handle.

So, the sudden bravery and burst of emotion in you decided that you will not start crying and instead throw your notebook to the side and straddle his lap. And cup his face.

As soon as you realized what you did, mortification took over all of your senses and before you could clamber off of Quinn’s lap, he puts his hands firmly on your hips to lock you in place.

“Goldie,” he murmurs your sweet nickname as if in a trance.

“Can I-?”

“Please.”

His voice was borderline desperate when your lips collided in a firm, dizzying kiss. It started to escalate when the kisses went from soft to feverish and his hands were all over your body and tangled in your hair, French textbooks long forgotten.

“I love you so much more, baby,” You managed to say between pants and stolen kisses here and there while you and Quinn stayed intertwined. That’s when he shoved your face into his chest so you wouldn’t see the blush on his face.

You two eventually broke apart because it really was super late and even with the adrenaline, you weren’t sure if you could stay awake any longer.

So, you and Quinn made your ways to your separate rooms, grinning like complete idiots but not without sharing a goodnight embrace.

“Shut the actual fuck up.” Carla snaps you out of your trance, jaw hitting the floor. “Honestly, I never thought you would ever grow the balls to do that.” You could never stop smiling around Carla.

“Well, I did grow the balls and you weren’t finished with what you were going to say.”

She looked uncomfortable again. You spared her the misery and said it for her instead.

“Jack.”

“Oh god.”

She buried her head in her hands.

“I can’t have a crush. That’s literally so embarrassing, golds.”

“It’s absolutely not embarrassing, Car. It’s okay to like someone if they’re worth it, y’know?”

“I don’t like him.”

Sure she didn’t, but you ended it at that.

One thing you learnt from being the oldest child with neglectful parents was to lock up your own feelings and put them away in some dusty top shelf while you attend to others.

And now it was almost the end of senior year.

The Hughes’ knew you since you walked into their life at 11 years old. They all, especially Quinn, understood you better than anyone else.

They started noticing small changes.

How you stopped spending special time with Luke where you both did his homework and helped with girl problems. How you stopped organizing pranks with Jack and his friends and having witty banters. How you’d started to shy away from Quinn’s touch and become nervous-uncomfortable around him rather than nervous-giddy.

Every time he would praise you, you would think of the lower than average score you got on the test earlier. Every time you two were out for lunch, you would remember how you started falling off in your favorite sport, and your hunger would go away. You felt sick to your stomach about every little thing you did.

Quinn isn’t that much of an idiot though. He knew you needed space so he avoided prodding too much.

“Hey, goldie”

You let out a soft hum, acknowledging that you heard Luke before he takes a seat next to you, a spot where you were usually found overlooking the vast lake. Luke would always be a little brother to you, even now that he’s 15 and understands so much more than he did when he was 7.

“You’re sad,” he noted. The corner of your lips twitched.

“Not anymore, Lu, and you don’t need to worry about me,” you gave him a glance before shifting the conversation to him and asking about school and hockey. He took the bait, bless his heart, and talked while you gave the occasional hum and raise of your eyebrows. He knew not to be offended; you weren’t exactly… you anymore.

“You know.” He breaks the few minutes of silence. “If there’s something that’s really bothering you, you should tell us. Or at least Quinn. He’s worried.”

You were wrong. The little boy you grew up with wasn’t stupid enough to take the bait.

For the first time in days, tears sprang to your eyes. You look up at the sky that was getting darker with time, just like you.

“it’s just- everything, I feel so useless and sad and I’m always snappy, and.” You take a deep breath. “Quinn’s moving. He has his whole life planned out. And, so do you and Jack. What the hell am I supposed to do? Michigan is so far away from Vancouver, I don’t even know my majors yet I just-” You stop, because the boy who you were almost four years older to didn’t deserve to hear your worthless problems.

Regardless, he pulls you into a tight hug without intentions of letting go.

“Y/N.” You momentarily freeze at the lack of your nickname. “All of us can’t really imagine a life without you. Those stupid things don’t decide your worth. You mean so much to us, goldie.”

You knew his words held meaning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to believe them.

The next day, you were found at the same spot. Not by Luke this time, but by a softer, deeper voice that used to be sugar to your ears. Still is, but clouded with the mess of emotions in your head. Or lack thereof.

“Hey, baby.” The pet name actually did something to your stomach this time. You don’t deserve to be called baby by him.

“Hi,” You whispered back. You look up at him as he he sits next to you, mustering a small smile because its the least he deserves. He seems to light up at the slight display of emotion, and leans in to kiss your forehead.

You don’t deserve to be taken care of so gently.

You don’t deserve any of it.

His touch was so comforting but it felt like poison. You lean into it and pull away because this may be the last time you ever talk to him.

“We need to break up, Quinn.”

He’d spoken softer words to you at first but it escalated. He couldn’t be blamed for fighting back, because the girl he knew, the girl he laid his heart out for, wasn’t there anymore all of a sudden. His eyes were teary and yours were dull and dry.

“Quinn, I’m leaving and you need to stay away from me.”

“No.”

“You look so hopeful, trying to convince me that we- we were made for each other and we’re supposed to last forever and that I have it figured out as well as you do. We are so different, Quinn. It was never going to work out.”

“Just-” he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “If it’s the space that you need, you know where I am.” His voice had grown soft, but you had already turned your back.

The rest of it was a haze; packing the few clothes you brought with you to Michigan, leaving without telling anyone. Except Jack, who saw you packing through the doorway and got sad, knowing exactly what’s going to happen.

You went to your aunt’s home after that, which was in a small town that was annoyingly close to Vancouver. It was serene and quiet and Carla had committed to college there.

If it’s the space that you need, you know where I am.

so part two yes no idk

love u all 💗

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #ellie writes 🙂‍↔️#quinn hughes angst #quinn hughes fluff

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