#just need to write them

[bruciemilf]

Need a teen! Bruce au where he’s exactly like Justice League! Batman and Battinson in one. That mf put the fear of every god in Ra’s Al Ghul.

Everytime he’s in a room with someone over 30 “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance plays in the background.

Despite that, in his own way, he’s as gentle as can be with his league. Give me a young Diana who’s getting spat on and ripped apart by the media in a way not one of her male teammates get.

And she’s Wonder Woman. She shouldn’t be affected by it. And she is, anyway. Bruce relates to that in an uncomfortable degree.

“When I first became Batman, weak men tried standing in my way, too. “

“And what did you do?”

“I stepped over them.”

He has a tiny Robin he occasionally has to keep on a leash.

Give me somewhat teen mom Bruce who struggles to wrangle his unruly six year old who likes flipping from rooftop to rooftop and thinks fighting Bane is a piece of cake.

“If Tati can do it, so can I!”

“Dick,” he paused, before handing him a handfull of candy. “Wonderful emotional manipulation. Good job.”

“:D”

[tariah23]

The manga industry, especially JUMP, needs to hurry up and do away with weekly scheduling for mangaka. There needs to better regulations put into place for their health and safety because this is pitiful. Two weeks - monthly updates should’ve already been the standard for the manga industry at this point. These money grabbers will only continue to put the lives of these artists at stake for the sake of capitalism unless some serious changes are implemented.

[writersdrug]

If you smack your boyfriend's ass...

Captain John Price will snap his head up, looking at you with a confused but intrigued expression, rubbing his behind in slight shock. "What's that for, luv?"

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick will throw back his head and laugh, rubbing his ass and smiling at you. "Been workin' out more - is it paying off?" He'll say, looking back at his own ass.

Simon "Ghost" Riley will let out a shocked grunt. "Oi, little wanker-" he'll quickly grab you by the waist before you can scramble away and give you a few sharp pats to your ass.

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish will chuckle mischievously, putting down whatever he'd be doing. "Right, askin' for it now, cheeky-" he'll say, chasing you into to the bedroom.

[ronanlynchbf]

tshirt that says NO LIVE ORGANISM CAN CONTINUE FOR LONG TO EXIST SANELY UNDER CONDITIONS OF ABSOLUTE REALITY

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[strawberryyyenthusiast]

Eddie, who becomes so in tune with Steve it’s actually crazy. Steve lovingly dubbed it as his “Stevie-Senses,” which Eddie loves and robin hates. Robin calls him a glorified service dog.

Steve’s blood sugar is low? Eddie brings over a juice box or a blue airhead.

Steve’s blood sugar is skyrocketing? Eddie nudges him and asks is he needs a correction.

Eddie even has the app on his phone that is connected to Steve’s pod so he can see where Steve’s levels are at even when they’re apart.

Eddie keeps the packet that Steve made for him on his person at all times, even though he doesn’t need it anymore. He keeps the needles, strips, alcohol wipes, and the monitor in a little pouch.

When Eddie is performing, he makes sure that there are a shit ton of snacks for him, as well as water and a place for him to relax if he needs to.

Steve has never felt so loved and so seen before, which helps solidify Robin’s endearment and approval for the couple.

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[latimeria-fell-from-heaven]

Okay look, I know people are gonna characterize Aventurine as the kind of yandere that manipulates everything behind the scenes and is always coming up with ways to try and make his darling unable to rely on anyone but him. But honestly? I can see him as the desperate needy type who needs to have your attention on him, he NEEDS to be the only man you'll ever want and look at, and GOD, he just desperately needs you to own him in his entirety.

He'll do anything to keep your attention on him and make sure that you at least will keep him around long enough for him to enact his plans of keeping you by his side. You want a dog who does whatever you say and will crawl on hands and knees for your amusement? You want a pretty little toy that you can break over and over? You want him to take the lead and make you unable to think or walk anymore? He'll do it, he'll do whatever you want, he'll do anything to keep your attention on him until he can make you his.

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

ok i need. need. NEED. you all to understand what high support needs autism actually is. not just higher support, but highhhh (high) support.

& honestly me, am not even fit to talk about this!! but knowing popular (often low support) autism content creators & authors tokenize me & include me in justification “well i listen to high support needs people and they need—”

high support needs not just need remind take meds, not even need remind eat, need remind shower. if you think “high support needs” & those struggles come first in mind & see those as most represent of HSN, most classical way of be HSN, then you wrong. you wronggg.

many HSN autistic, not even “advanced” enough (for not have better word) to able use reminders. on average day often need physical help. for a lot, need complete physical help. need complete physical help hold spoon n fork, or not able be a part at all and need other people do it. need be told open mouth chew swallow sometimes. need other people clean up drool & spill from mouth & mess.

they have worth. deserve all the fucking help they need.

“difference between low & high support is not actual amount struggle because all struggle inside same but that high support show more external outside struggle & those struggle more annoying for people around them” hear this so often and make blood boil because cannot be farther from truth yet some you all so loudly proclaim.

then tell me why only hear LSN say this. why only hear LSN on internet. why all big content creator big authors big autistic speakers all LSN.

tell me how someone nonverbal and no robust communication no functional language struggle even nonverbally communicate not even AAC not yet or not ever ever, how that same inside as someone who able speak who speak fluent who able communicate want needs dreams have conversation with words

both struggle. but not fucking same struggle.

many people in between. but you not get use people like them like me to give self shiny credential of “i know high support needs because i listen”

don’t use me. you embarrass me.

[bababaka]

Yall need to interact with fanfiction author's more.

So. After the ddos attack on ao3.

I was encouraged to write more comments and make my love known to fanfic writers.

I dont really like commenting. Because im a bit shy and soooo lazy.

Now though. I am writing more comments. And dude. This is so heartwarming. Ya'll need to treat writers better. They are doing the lord's work.

Take for an example, couple of days prior, i was searching for something interesting to read, and found an oneshot quite compelling.

I read it. At the end of it, i was blown away by how good it was. It promised me something and it went beyond my expectations. But then i saw a crime, zero fucking comments!

At that moment, i wasn't feeling up to writing a comment. Because, normally i like to write huge paragraphs. But because im lazy i decided to be brief.

Next day, the author answered that the comment lift their mood for the whole day.

That warmed my heart.

Duuuuuuuude! Write comments! Suport the writers of the fics you like! No need to be something super elaborate. Just give your thoughts. Freak out. Ramble. Ask something. Make theories. Compliment. Make a joke about how you wished to give kudos every chapter but ao3 sucks(not true bby) and won't let you.

Truly. Just. Comment. It can make someone's day. And that is part of the apeal of writing fics. Interacting with people.

Just give love to fanfic writers yall. They deserve this and so much more.

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[sea-webs]

"I don't know who I want to be, anymore."

Oc - Cirque | The Dragon Chosen by the Shadows |

| mary oliver / franz wright / chelsea dingman / mary oliver / sue zhao / can't find :( / can't find :( / i am a dog. i have blood all over my teeth. - sciencedfiction / little weirds - jenny slate / the unabridged journals of sylvia |

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Normal boy spotted.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[xanderscollection]

[frownyalfred]

I cannot emphasize this enough: sometimes the draft sucks because you keep looking at it. It doesn’t actually suck. You just need to post it and stop beating yourself up.

[ethereangel222]

all yours

© @nicholasachavez

nicholas alexander chavez & cooper koch x reader (anyone can read!)

part ii | part iii premise Caught in a passionate, unconventional relationship, Y/N navigates the love and desire between two very different men.

cw suggestive

Reblogs are highly appreciated.

PART I

The three of you had always had this easy, unspoken rhythm. Nicholas with his playful charm, always quick with a joke, and Cooper with his quiet, more thoughtful presence, the two of them balancing each other out. And then there was you, somehow finding your place between them, where their differences and similarities intertwined in ways that made your heart race. It wasn’t something any of you had planned, but here you were, in Nicholas’ apartment, the city humming outside the window, the soft glow of candles flickering around you.

Nicholas leaned back against the headboard, his dark eyes watching you both with that familiar teasing smirk. His fingers played lazily with the hem of your shirt as you sat between him and Cooper, his touch warm and grounding. “You’re too quiet tonight,” he spoke softy, brushing his lips against your ear. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

You felt Cooper shift beside you, his hand resting on your knee, thumb gently stroking circles into your skin. Unlike Nicholas, Cooper didn’t need to fill the silence with words. His presence spoke enough. Steady, comforting, always there when you needed it. His eyes flickered to you, and there was that shy smile of his that always made your heart skip.

“I’m just…” You trailed off, glancing between them, feeling the heat of both their gazes on you. It was moments like these, when the reality of being caught between them, of being theirs, felt almost overwhelming. “I don’t know… maybe I’m still trying to wrap my head around how lucky I am to have both of you.”

Nicholas chuckled, his hand sliding up your side in a lazy, sensual way that had your breath hitching. “Lucky, huh?” He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck, his lips warm against your skin. “I think we’re the lucky ones.”

You tilted your head back slightly, giving in to his kiss, but your hand sought out Cooper’s, needing the grounding touch of his fingers lacing with yours. Cooper’s lips curled into a soft smile as he watched Nicholas work his magic, his own hand gently squeezing yours. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his lips brushing against your temple in a featherlight kiss.

“You’re everything we didn’t know we needed,” Cooper whispered, sending a shiver down your spine. He was never one to push, always patient, always letting Nicholas lead when it came to these moments. But when he spoke, his words had a way of sinking deep into your heart.

The dual sensations of Nicholas’ lips on your skin and Cooper’s hand holding yours sent a wave of warmth through you. It was overwhelming but perfect, like you were caught between two flames. One burning hot and fast, the other slow and steady. You let out a soft breath, feeling the weight of their affection settle over you like a warm blanket.

Nicholas’ kisses grew more heated, his hand slipping under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin. “You’re ours,” he murmured against your neck, his tone low and possessive in a way that made your pulse race. “Don’t forget that.”

Cooper shifted beside you, his hand moving to cup your cheek, turning your face toward him. He kissed you softly, his lips gentle and careful, the contrast to Nicholas’ fiery touch making your head spin. “We’re right here,” Cooper whispered against your lips, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Always.”

The connection between the three of you felt electric. Nicholas, with his playful grin, tugged you closer, pulling you fully into his lap while Cooper pressed in from behind, his fingers trailing down your arms in a way that made you feel surrounded, cherished. They were both so different, yet somehow, they completed each other — and you.

Nicholas’ lips found yours, his kiss hot and demanding, while Cooper’s hands moved in slow, sensual patterns along your skin, his touch a quiet reminder of the depth of his feelings. You moaned softly into Nicholas’ mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, but when you pulled back for breath, you turned toward Cooper, needing to kiss him too.

Cooper’s kiss was always more tender, more deliberate, as though he was savoring every second of it. He cupped your face in his hands, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, feeling Nicholas’ hands still on your hips, holding you tight between them.

“You’re ours,” Cooper murmured, echoing Nicholas’ earlier words. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “And we’re yours.”

Nicholas smirked, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder, his hands sliding under your shirt again, sending shivers through you. “I think it’s time we showed you just how much that means.

Before you could respond, Cooper turned to Nicholas, his expression soft but determined. There was a moment of silent understanding between them, a lingering tension. Then, to your surprise, Cooper leaned in, his hand resting on Nicholas’ cheek as he kissed him.

It started slow, tentative. But soon, the kiss deepened, the air between them charged with the same heat that had enveloped the three of you. You watched, breathless, as Nicholas responded eagerly, his hands gripping Cooper’s waist, pulling him closer.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them turned their attention back to you, eyes dark with affection and desire. Nicholas grinned, wiping his thumb across his lips, while Cooper gave you that shy, endearing smile that you loved so much.

And in that moment, surrounded by their touches, their kisses, their love, you knew you were exactly where you belonged.