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tapenbreak · 3 days ago

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𖦹. “𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄.” —(𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐍𝐄𝐘)

𖦹. — 𝐬;𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. losing a stupidly made bet has its consequences, it seems. oh, what a moron he can be. although, too late to back out now, is it—dearest whitney? a nice , round 5.0k words.

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . younger, therefore underclass man whitney who thought it was such a nice idea to suggest a bet, only to lose in the process, ‘first’ kiss, whoever lasts the longest wins, quite tame, actually—in comparison, though it’s mostly unspoken yearning. fat, puppy crush on upperclassman!reader (amab) that may or may not be worse.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, doc? : “I’ve wanted to stretch this on further than intended, but I got something else planned for this fucker, so never mind. I’m not all that fond of this one since it’s quite more heavy on the feelings than actions, but to each their own.”

Alright, so, let’s supposedly say that he’s already somehow impulsively roped himself in an intangible mess due to an irrefutably dumb bet he’s made on the spot with you, none the wiser—of course. Inexplicably caught himself in a sticky, spider web akin to a precarious trap most starving predators would’ve predictably laid bare for their meddling preys to eventually sink into and—would y’a look at that, like the actual dumbass he can seldomly be, he can’t possibly hope to back out now, can he?

No, no, because y’see—if Whitney were to humiliatingly do such an idiotic thing, then surely that’d just be directly admitting to that irritatingly pretty face of yours that you were apparently correct all along. Not that you are, fuck no. Like that’d ever occur in a million goddamn years, you intolerable bastard. God, that being his sole intention from the pure beginning to crudely wipe that frustrating smile plastered upon your. . . ugh, cherry perfect lips whenever the delinquent-in-the-making merely happens to be in your tedious presence.

Or is cruelly teasing him till he’s unabashedly grown hotter in the fullness of his blazing cheeks a conclusive hobby of yours? Probably, considering your blatant sadism when it comes to endlessly poking fun at someone until they’ve inevitably snapped dead in your face before you oh, so innocently claim that it was simply a meaningless joke. Mindlessly shrug the entire ordeal off as if it were meant to be truly nothing more than an obsessive overreaction on his part. Yeah, yeah—motherfucker, well he’s got a precious one-liner for y’a, also.

“Bet I could.” Confidently proclaiming with an overly arrogant tone that you notably took seriously due to the aforementioned circumstances for some unspoken reason. And that, you see—was specifically when the blonde irreversibly dug himself in the depths of a narrow pit which he can’t possibly climb out of now. So, fuck it, alright?? Fuck his sheer idiocy and muddling arrogance that’s shamelessly come forth to screw him over right in the balls for having previously accepted a seemingly doable suggestion.

Uh huh—‘doable’, he said. Cuz’ it’d be so irresistibly, fucking ‘easy’, another moron in his cocky mind chimed along in turn. Speaking of apparently ‘easy’, maybe next time, think twice before actually acting upon your stinging urges to uselessly prove someone else, like your shitty upperclassman, by the way—wrong, huh. Ever thought of that? No, ‘course he truthfully didn’t consider it thoroughly beforehand because it’s Whitney, the stubborn, hard-headed bully of a underclass man we’re namely speaking of here, after all.

Slippery, sliding slope doesn’t truly begin to particularly cut it either, honestly—yeah, he’s gone and undeniably fucked it up, this time for sure. Hasn’t he?

Hence why his clammy palm is currently placed atop your rather. . . uh, firm chest which he’ll never be outwardly uttering out such an exceptionally odd statement unless he inherently wishes to never live it down till the day he literally dies. That is, including this one ceaseless thought incessantly creeping within the remnants of his blurring mind—about how annoyingly nice the dizzying scent exuding from the warmth of your nearby proximity is. Shit, are those your natural pheromones too? Cuz’ he’s already going fuckin’ crazy from a mere unsuspecting whiff like a bitch in heat. Not to mention, the mind-boggling fact of being comfortably perched along the neat spreading of your thighs for his slimmer legs to settle upon, intimately hook themselves around your hips like a delicate lifeline solely intended to be unperturbed for the remainder of this intimate encounter. And no, this isn’t remotely on purpose, goddamn it—get your filthy head out of the gutter, you pervasive freak. It’s not like that, okay? Just. . . give him a moment, pretty please.

And perhaps at best, a generous minute you’d so graciously offer the blonde to discreetly adjust the sweltering heat that’s come forth to prettily stain his face in a similar crimson manner along with its unending path downwards and—well, y’know. . . below, there. Hardening cock certainly stirring with peeked interest at the subtle press of your laidback figure securely held against his own, shit. . . admittedly, smaller one. Sometimes, the considerable size difference shared amongst you two really does get to him in an albeit, fucking degenerative way. Enough so to inwardly curse at how utterly unhelpful that provoking detail was to the pulsing blood swiftly rushing down to his impatient length—hah.

Fuck, there’s no way this is realistically happening, right—but, it is, dammit. All due to prideful banter that may or may not have unreasonably translated to blatant flirting between you both despite his general lack of interest to other surrounding assholes slightly older than him in age.

Listen, you’re just tolerable enough where he doesn’t inevitably blow a sensitive nerve in return to some mild pestering on your end while simultaneously beating his dumb, idiotic self for regarding you in such high esteem—and yeah, that does include the sheer awed admiration visibly apparent in each of his movements. Intricately foolish in every one of his subtle gestures in hopes of successfully imitating your usual mannerisms, coincidentally catch your straying gaze to finally rest upon his uncharacteristically starving own.

Hell, the fucker even went through the irritating trouble of having the delicate muscle of his slippery, pink tongue wholly pierced for the sake of you possibly taking notice of it. Gleaming bud prettily flashing back towards your reflected, half-lidded gaze partially hidden by fluttering lashes, boringly snuffing in light interest at the sudden sight of it all. Taking notice, huh? That, you offhandly did, but merely for a few meddlesome seconds before eventually sinking back into your settled routine, as per usual. Well, said system of vaguely appreciating the sheer extended lengths he pathetically forces himself to endure in an unending pursuit of altering his appearance befitting of the ‘wilder’ types you habitually go for—due to something along the lines of, what’d you say again? Oh yeah, ‘they’re funnier to mess with when they lose their tempers, is all’—sickening asshole that you are, and still, remaining his unchanging crush nonetheless.

Although, whether or not he truthfully vocalizes that childish adoration akin to how a little brother would towards his elder one—is probably not ever fucking happening. As he still retains some semblance of pride to selfishly keep to himself, too. Don’t you forget that either.

Which is reasonably why despite the lurking remnants of embarrassment sourly creeping within the tensed coils of his tummy, a tightly-knitted cousin of shame, mind you. There’s still indisputable trepidation that traverses throughout the length of his shivering, curved spine; deepens his barely concealed smugness at having you like this. Because finally—fucking finally, has your shortly lived attention lastly settled upon the blonde’s awaiting own as purely intended.

‘Course, knowing your blunt self that either chooses not to attentively read the tense atmosphere currently residing within the spacious room or being merely oblivious to it, altogether—you eventually break that pleasurable silence with a singular insistent reminder or rather, a query to snap him out of this shit show. Ah, always the annoyingly persistent one when it comes to waiting for him to defy your set expectations, aren’t ya?

“Something the matter?” Sweetened voice of yours seamlessly passing through the foggy murk of his momentary daze by the slightest tilt of your head in a questioning motion. Still, remaining conscious that there’d be no such thing as worrisome concern on your part considering the utter bastard that you openly are and, yet—the persistent indication that this will be. . . obviously, nothing more than some meaningless wager whose sole intent is to be ultimately fulfilled in the end, leaves an exceptionally sour taste in his closed mouth.

Yeah, something’s the matter, alright—and he’s just about to recklessly give in to that sugary tone lest it weren’t for the automatic switch in your previously gentle inquiry, abruptly interrupting him from slipping out some mumbled confession in turn.

“Say, are you actually chickening out on me now? Is that it, Ney-Ney? Cat got your tongue and you actually can’t do it after all, can you?” Hah—again with that shitty nickname that bears no remote significance besides literally getting on his fucking nerves whenever, which you do impressively possess the sheer knack to repeatedly do so. Uh-huh, he’s gotta hand it to y’a.

It’s like the second you tentatively part your open lips to randomly speak—does his incessant yearning to restlessly press his starving lips against yours immediately shift instead, to this seething urge to meanly tug upon the strands of your hair like an angry kitten scratching at its owner. Oh, way to ruin the goddamn mood, dumbass.

“Will you shut up? I’m tryna concentrate here, but your fuckin’ mouth keeps on talking and talking and—ah, hey! Can you quit it and keep still for just one second or does the thought of sharing spit with your shitty underclassman actually turns you on that much?” Perverted bastard. Blearily aware of his shoddy excuse at some backhanded lie or whatever, as though you wouldn’t easily see through those tactics you’ve come to know of. Particularly becoming defensive once he’s ceremoniously brought back into a difficult corner and shit, you just can’t help but to gleefully tease him for it, can you?

Noooo, of fuckin’ course not! Must be solely imprinted in your bastardized nature to be so thoroughly insufferable at this point, huh? So much so that he’d desire nothing more than to tortuously crane your neck further to then—give forth to a salivating glimpse of your surely vulnerable neck for his glinting fangs to dreadfully sink into, greedily paint its pristine surface a melding velvet instead as pure revenge.

Because that’s entirely what it is, not some other bizarre, obscure fetish of this mean delinquent. Poorly hidden away in the withering depths of his unexplored memories or y’know. . . numerous times he’s come close to almost slobbering all over your veiny dick along with a generous amount of drooling, translucent spit to coat it with. And shit—he’s predictably derailing once more without meaning to.

Judging by the molten pupils that steadily expand in face of this less than desired situation, at most. Evasively trail towards whatever seemingly unimportant spot is etched amongst the boring surface of your bedroom’s blank walls in a futile attempt to soothe the pumping blood presently coursing throughout his thin veins. More or less, yeah. That’s all there is to it, so can you like, eventually cease with the constant staring on your end or something?

“I think you’re lying.” Unexpectedly bringing him out of his overly distracting fantasy for a stuttering second by flashing that signature grin of yours that’s only seeming to be confidently growing by the second, and—double fuck! You’re totally seeing through his barely concealed ploys, aren’t you? “I think you actually can’t do it and you’re just tryna play coy with me right now.”

“Wha—?“ Unsure wether to plainly deny your unjust statement that may or may not unfortunately ring true, regardless of if he painfully insists the opposite or to take actual offense at the likely suggestion that he doesn’t have the fucking balls to go through with it. Sure, sure! He totally can!! Albeit, a minute was all he scarcely asked for—despite it being way more than a single minute having passed, so don’t trample on the boggling nerves occupying the swelling of his drying, bobbing throat.

But before then, your indecently mocking voice somehow slips past the aforementioned comment Whitney was oh, so ready to renounce—because that’s all you ever do, managing to conveniently earn the upper hand in either situation, no matter the contextual circumstances at play. And damn you for it, too.

“See, what I think, honestly—I think you’re nothing more than a pussy who’s all talk and no bite, really. Too fucking dumb to even properly lie to me about it, too. Cuz’ the thing is, you actually haven’t kissed anyone for real yet, have you?” Inwardly flinching at the abrupt scorning on your part since sure, you’re one mean asshole sometimes, specially with others hopelessly clinging to your sides—but, not with him, no. Preferring to play the part of the considerate, older brother figure that’ll happily follow along to his unsatisfied whims.

So, strictly speaking, being unusually harsh on him without any spoken warning shouldn’t be so disgustingly hot to him nor heavily affect the thrumming blood rushing below to his leaking cock. Further dampen the already present, sticky stain against the now tarnished fabric of his trousers, but fucking shit—does it so. Like those untrained masochists, better put freaks, he regularly bullies on the daily, savagely snickers at for squirming beneath the hardened heel of his shoe. Idiots, is what they are.

Yeah. God, it’s so utterly, fucking filthy.

And funnily enough, here he is—shamefully experiencing that same warmth of degeneracy for being caught in his puzzling act, yet simultaneously thrilled at the various consequences that await for doing so.

“I don’t—“ Fuck, fuck, fuuuuckkkk!!! Mere sentences shouldn’t be humiliatingly failing on him now and neither should the withering breath pitifully falling forth from between his lips left agape—be this fucking telling of the unforeseen reality at bay. “. . . —I don’t know what you’re talking about, really—“

“Sure, you don’t. Then, you must also not have a single goddamn clue as to why you’re leaking like a fucking girl all over my lap right now too, huh?” Instinctually knowing better than to wearily spare a glance downwards since, well. . . yeah, about now—your not-so-precious jeans are notably soaked in the melding evidence of his unspoken arousal if nothing else, but did you fuckin’ have to truly word it like that either? Doesn’t necessarily lessen the sheer absurdity of the unbecoming predicament the delinquent practically pranced himself into like he hilariously owned the place or something.

Unfortunately, here’s to learning the harsh narrative that things, when seamlessly played out in the narrow space of your head—don’t invariably turn out the exact same as foreboding reality itself, do they?

Dumbass, he should’ve seen it coming the second he carelessly chose to lie to your face to begin with.

“Fuck, it’s not like tha—“ And there goes his irreparable mistake altogether, knowing fully well that it is indeed like that, if nothing else. Since it’s always been, every single time—without a literal, precious fuckin’ second to scarcely spare—you, you, and you solely. Plus sincerely speaking, he would’ve undeniably chosen for it not to be this way instead, y’know??

Not have his usually unaffected body so effortlessly react in face of your own, whether it’d be the discreet breaths of yours teasingly brushing along the rim of his blazing ears whenever you get the distracting urge to whisper some unimportant gossip during class.

Truly, do you feel the absolute need to remain so unbearably close in his personal space at times? To the point, it has him dizzyingly peering downwards to his clenched fists that greet him in turn. Too goddamn cowardly to steal a glimpse from below lest he realized the shockingly near proximity you’re both collectively sharing, without you bearing the slightest bother, too—and automatically curses as sweating palms land upon your chest and has you barely stumbling back. Cuz’ shit, the blonde’s downright terrified of the increasingly hasty beat of his annoyingly straining heart stuttering against the firmness of his ribbed cage. Fuck. . . it might as well be leaping out at a certain point, although he acknowledges he appears more like some dreadful lunatic if he were to audibly yell at some minor touches.

Reminiscing upon such pointless bullshit won’t necessarily get him anywhere and it’s not like he does it willingly either, no—not when your hand is now currently gripping at the shape of his gaping jaw. Actually, when the hell did you supposedly manage to get ahold of him like this when he wasn’t in the brightest of moments to do so? Momentarily caught off guard by the sudden press of your fingertips digging in the softened surface of his flesh, albeit with no sense of care in the fucking world as you habitually do with the majority of your things. Which, shit—doesn’t mean he’s the equivalent of your outright property since if that were the case, he’d most likely blow an imploding fuse as he knows it, and you certainly do know it, too.

As that was the initial plan presently swirling throughout the mumbling mess of the bully’s mind—only to be swiftly interrupted by a lingering kiss your. . . shit, annoyingly soft lips tenderly placed amongst the crimson hue that is his heated face—too dizzyingly close for his liking, near the mere corner of his pursed mouth. Frankly speaking, he has no clue what to make of this other than the likely scenario that you’re borderline amused by this and fuckin’ toying with him like your other various stress balls, as per usual.

“Earth to Whitney. I’m still tryna’ speak to you, but I guess you’re too far gone thinking about us sucking on each other’s tongues or something like that, am I right?” Drawling out lazily as though, you’d bear no semblance of interest for this little game of cat-and-mouse you collectively play on the daily basis and if not for that slight, adorning glint in your gaze—maybe he would’ve stupidly fallen for that easily concealed facade altogether, too. But no, he does know it’s a selfish thing of yours, or rather. . . some intricate fetish would be a better word to scarcely describe this sheer high you get from witnessing the gritting of his teeth, fluttering eyes narrowing in mere irritation. To say, it’s progressively building into something else until he’s undeniably pissed at your continuous mockery—that being, what others around you call ‘salacious flirting’ or something like that. Sheesh, he holds no importance for random spectators at your school besides you two.

Uh-huh, isn’t that what they refer to it as? ‘The boy likes to tug at the girl’s pigtails to draw her attention, after all!’—yet, he’s no squealing girl swatting at your insistent touches, is he? Fuck no. Truly, it’s nothing like that. However, sometimes with the way you constantly pinch and prod along the bruised surface of his perched figure atop your own, patiently await his expected curses like an anticipating dog wanting to be scolded. . . Well, can’t say it looks like anything else other than apparent sexual tension. Unsure whether or not he should be seldomly pleased at that somewhat late realization or temporarily concerned as to how you treat your usual girlfriends—or boyfriends, sometimes, that come and go like the blowing wind. Not to say, he treats any of his disposable sluts any better, either.

Eh, shit. No time to necessarily delve further in something he isn’t meant to supposedly poke at, is there? Yeah, cuz’ frankly speaking—he’s always been the goddamn impulsive type that’ll do as he pleases, expectant of yours truly to follow along to his baseless whims.

“Let’s quit with the bullshit already and do it, I don’t got all day to be sitting here on your lap like your prissy bitches.” Yup, yup. Carelessly ignoring the minor and important aspect that he cleared up his busying schedule regardless of his friend’s muttered pleas—going on and on about something at the shady pub that’s down the farthest street in this shit town. Oh right, he didn’t remotely listen to what those fuckers had to honestly say so, here goes that. Discreetly swishing at the messied strands of platinum blonde hair partially obscuring his vision, huffing at its burdensome concealment until he’s face to face with you. Almost clumsily bumping the curvature of your two noses together in an impatient haste to interlock each other’s lips in a. . . what others call it, huh; shitty, goddamn kiss.

However, rather uncharacteristically—he silently waits instead, hazy pupils traversing lower to where your curled up lips are solely a melding breath away from his dumbly hanging own. Maintaining eye contact like this. . . till your foreheads are nearly pressed along one another like this, inwardly shuddering at your unwavering focus upon his straying eyes. Gosh, do you seriously wanna fuckin’ do this with your eyes open or something, like a freak would??

“If you say so, Ney-Ney. I’m sure you wouldn’t wanna be kissing a boy either, huh. I’ll try to make it nice for you as best I can.” Ever the oh, so charming type that tries to accommodate to the blonde’s ill tempered tantrums, aren’t ya? Uttering so forth in an unspoken promise even if actually, he wouldn’t wanna be sharing spit with anyone else other than you. Whether he ever eventually admits it or not is an entirely different story, though.

Wordlessly so, he lets you do as you joyously please, at your own steady pace—‘course, which is to trace the softened pad of your cushiony fingertip along the sharp line of his tightening jaw. For it to ultimately land to where his chin awaits your yearning touches, brief moments of lingering contact to subconsciously gawk at in desolate secrecy. Y’know, how a drooling puppy would when awaiting its sweet treat; which he’s not, at all—no. Especially not your questionable pokes as you childishly peer to the side, rub soothing circles across the nape of his tensed neck as if to ease him into this, all the while idly playing with the shortened strands of hair settled there.

“Slacken your jaw for me, will you?” You gently order in a. . . shit, soft lull and he doesn’t like to be commanded around neither, but he calmly does so regardless. Solely to get it over with, nothing else extra that’s simmering deeply in the background. Especially not the unspoken crush he withholds for you whether you’re both mutually conscious of it or not, well—regarding how exceptionally cunning you tend to be that you can seamlessly read through him like a tattered heap of pages thrown atop your lap—yeah, maybe it’d be arrogantly dumb of him to assume otherwise, huh.

Plus it’s not like the delinquent here, is particularly used to his usually pursed lips wholly parting in an expectant nature for yours to plant featherlight kisses against. Since they’re generally brought up in a dismissive scowl for all to wearily witness—either when passing him in the hallways as his snarky laughter resounds with each echoed step, or the occasional glimpse of his shadowed figure sneaking between deserted alleyways, is seen.

Which, he would’ve indeed protested in stingy opposition at your insistent need to meticulously comb through the glistening locks of his hair. Sure, if it didn’t feel so damn good. . . to have your cupping palm carefully easing him into this, gradually melting in the imprinted shape of your entangled limbs settled together, atop this pillowed bed. One used thumb lightly nudging across the pouty flesh of his bottom lip in a silent gesture of the familiarity both shared between the two of you as your face nears closer to his. Intimately inspecting at the accumulated saliva that drips forth from the other’s open maw, nearly suckling at the intruding digit that is the continuous rub of your curled finger pressed across his drooling tongue. ‘Course, you gotta get a whole mouthfeel of its heated sensation before ultimately—diving in, don’t you?

“Yeah, there we go. . . You’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you—pretty boy?” It’s meant to have him inwardly seething towards this blatantly obvious taunt of yours, openly scorn at the unwanted nickname he’d like to jab at until that irritating grin of yours disappears altogether.

And shit, did he really want to—nothing more than that, honestly. But, he’s immediately interrupted from doing so once you’re ceremoniously covering the cushiony surface of untouched lips with yours, instead. Utterly pissed at himself with how easily it eases up from the experienced brush of your tongue inviting itself in its warmth depths. Those same arms that’d stubbornly stick to his sides like it’d never leave such a place either; now finding themselves to be clutching at the wrinkled fabric of your shirt draped along your reassuring back. Instinctually arching in your enclosed ones in return, loosely held around the width of his waist to absently pinch at in humming thought.

Fuck, fuck. . . fucking shiiittt. Was a kiss always supposed to be this mind-numbingly good that he’s out here losing all utter senses besides taste and touch? Neither struggling against the sudden weight of his eyelids shutting themselves in favour of greeting pitch darkness—goddamn it, not if it’s your mouth is perfectly made for his to mold against.

Even more so as an unwanted keen resembling that of a trembling prey, just about ready to be wholly devoured by the predator looming above its eventual demise—slips past previously sealed lips. Ugh, dammit. . . and here he is, upper lip wobbling in response to the added stimulation of your slippery tongue sliding against his own. Nearly wavering over the tempting option to hurriedly scratch along the delicate skin of your neck and—ah, speaking of, he’s gotta have a fixation with that bobbing throat of yours or something, shit. In some vain attempt to signal the sheer suffocation overtaking him from having his mouth crudely stuffed in repeated fucks of your impatient own, practically devouring his breathy moans in musing delight.

Accompanied by shuddering breaths collectively intermingling into one steady beat that’s bound to hurriedly quicken if he somehow keeps this one up, stretches it any further lest he doesn’t obviously get it over with soon. Which is the actual prime objective here! Don’t get him wrong! The sole plan, here—he’s intricately envisioned in the deep receding of his mind is to prove you wrong of his so-called loss, either way.

Quite literally, if it weren’t for the intolerable amount of pride residing within the swelling of his heaving chest—caught up against your own effortlessly casing over him; he’d have already done so, by now, without the slightest trace of hesitation.

But, y’know. . . It’s proving to be quite difficult for no reason whatsoever to necessarily pull away as he’s originally intended to do so. Partially disgusted by his own weakness when it comes to you and ‘course, it has to be solely you to wholly encase him like this. Whether or not it’s through plain obliviousness of his muddled protests swiftly concealed by your lips covering his own—or maybe, the sheer stubbornness of the mere possibility of letting him out of your sight. Either way, the numerous kitten scratches he’s subconsciously leaving along your treaded skin isn’t letting up itself.

Because even as he somehow manages to draw further backwards, your mouth instinctually follows his in return. As though the absurd thought of him teetering away from your emboldened grasp isn’t one to remotely ponder upon due to its ridiculousness, and neither is the way you both ultimately fall onto the bouncing mattress in a heaping mess with a resounding oomph! Although, he’s suspecting it was his quick-witted gesture of dragging you downwards—to where he’s predictably atop of, that landed you two in this precarious position.

“M-Motherfucker, you didn’t even give me a chance to catch my breath.” It’s rather an uncharacteristically petulant complaint than it is a fitting scolding on his part. Peering from underneath messied hangs that do oh, so well to conceal those narrowing eyes of his when he desires to. Yeah, they’re especially useful when it comes to evading your zeroing gaze hovering right above his own—like you’re actually surprised he hasn’t attempted a punch in your stirring guts for suddenly taking the lead like that.

“Hmm, was the kiss that unpleasant for you?” Pouting sorrowfully in response to the aforementioned statement like such a thing would potentially hurt your veiled sentiments, altogether. ‘Course, he knows better than to ceremoniously cave in to that pitiful nuzzle you offer along the crook of his neck since the thing is, your amusement of things comes first and foremost.

“Eh, don’t know. Why don’t y’a take another try at it and I’ll tell you how much you suck at it then.” It’s a tainted falsehood, at most—however, for the sly grin of pearly teeth flashing in your direction and the renewed sense of competition that swells within your chest at the provoking taunt. Well, he supposes that it’ll be worth the excuse so that his tongue better remembers the melding taste of your own upon one another.

And maybe, he’ll garner a measly chance to actually win this time. Rarely catch you off guard during one of those make-out sessions that are bound to grow more frequent, one way or another.

Though, it’s unlikely. Huh. You never do give him the chance to do so when it comes to your bets, do you?

Fucking prick.

#uuughhhhhh upper class man reader never misses and I’d like to do more of him next time #but I’ve got other things planned so this is as much as you’ll get out of me #at least princess liked it after proofreading it so I’ll take that as a win #need to learn the method of shutting the fuck up so I can stop yapping in my writing so much #though don’t think that’s happening any time soon haha ^^#dol #degrees of lewdity #whitney the bully #whitney dol #dol whitney #degrees of lewdity whitney #whitney degrees of lewdity #top male reader #dom male reader #character x male reader #x male reader #male reader #— R-RATED TAPE FOUND #I keep forgetting the fucking tag dedicated to my writing but this’ll be the one for now

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pomegranatears · 6 months ago

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There's something about men getting flustered when you talk to them like you would to a dog. When that animalistic part of them speaks louder and reason vanishes. All they want is the thrill of feeling so good their minds go blank and that spot between their legs is a sinful mess.

And that goes from "Good boy! Who's my good boy?" to commands. "Sit. Lay down," always keeping it simple because in that moment their mind is too fuzzy to comprehend anything that's not tied to their pleasure.

You can't think right now, love. I'll do it for you. Sit there and watch. Stay still while mommy takes care of you. Be quiet. Do you need to be gagged like a pet needs to be muzzled? Leashed and collared so you can behave? We can do all that but eventually you'll learn.

Love the concept of having them like an obedient pet, watching while I play with myself but don't allow them to do anything but stare. Self-control is so important, it only leads to a reward. Brats are fun but when a sub has an "obedience is pleasure" mindset they can get anything from me.

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girlsdads · 4 months ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/girlsdads/762007245755170816

It looks like daniel is peeing

em!!! you put this in my brain and i promptly had a crisis, so of course i had to give Max that same crisis, and somehow this became 1.3k 🫡

cw: (consensual?) voyeurism, romanticized peeing

Practice gets red-flagged early on. Max doesn’t see who is in the barrier as he slowly passes, just knows it isn’t Daniel. He’d been assured of that down his radio almost instantly, though he hadn’t asked. He thinks it must be team protocol to tell him this, that it’s not his teammate in the totaled car. Still, Max flushes bone-deep, feeling too exposed, too obvious. Feeling like they know, everyone must know, his brain turns to goop around Daniel and he never catches himself in time.

He trails Daniel to his driver’s room anyway, knowing how it looks. Daniel grins over his shoulder at Max, starts skipping ahead, makes Max chase him. Warmth blooms in Max’s belly. He may be always following behind Daniel, but Daniel is always looking back.

Daniel shrugs his race suit off his shoulders, lets it hang open around his trim waist. The humidity has stamped dark patches on his white fireproofs where he’s started to sweat through. Max closes the door behind himself and stands there awkwardly, trying to think of something to say that will make Daniel laugh, trying not to make direct eye contact with Daniel’s sweaty armpits, lest he shove Daniel against the wall and stick his nose there.

What happens instead is much, much worse.

Daniel is making a beeline to the bathroom, thumbs hooking into the elastic over his flat pelvis. Max’s vision tunnels, the air in the room seeming to close in around him with a swoosh.

“What are you doing?” He hears himself ask, stupidly.

It’s obvious what Daniel is doing. He’s shimmying his hips side to side as he nears the toilet, wiggling the Nomex down. He’s left the door wide open. He stops and smiles at Max, blinding. “Gotta drain the snake, as they say.”

Who is saying this other than you, Max wants to shoot back, knows he should match Daniel’s cheeky tone, rib him a little then leave the fucking room like a normal person. He hears the wet pop of his own bottom lip dropping open, feels the weight of the words against his larynx, but is struck completely dumb watching Daniel pull out his flushed, soft cock.

Max has of course seen Daniel’s dick before, it would probably be more weird if he hadn’t, like he was purposely trying not to. But the handful of other times have only been glimpses in his periphery, nothing like this. Like this, close range and staring openly because Daniel knows Max is there and still he didn’t close the door, Max can see everything.

The double-stacked waistband of his briefs and fireproofs is tucked up snug under his balls. Max can see where the dark, stubbly hairs are starting to grow back, on his sac and around the base of his cock. Daniel has joked before, about manscaping, but to see the evidence of it like this is dizzying. Max wants to go to his knees and pull each ingrown hair free with his teeth.

Daniel holds himself loosely in his left hand, the ruddiness of his shaft clearly visible through the gaps between knucklebones. The head is peeking out past the circle of his index finger and thumb, fat and flushed a little darker than the rest of him. Even soft, his cock looks heavy and full. Max’s mouth floods with saliva and he sucks it back with his cheeks pinched in, hoping Daniel won’t hear the wet slurp.

His skin feels hot. He’s stuck like an ant under a magnifying glass in the sun, his insides incinerating as he watches an arc of piss flow from the gorgeous tip of Daniel’s cock, noisily splashing into the bowl.

Daniel groans, his chin bobbing down toward his chest like someone cut the string that was holding his head upright. Piss hisses out of him, harder now, like he’s pushing it. It is so loud and the walls are thin—anyone lingering nearby must be able to hear, to know. Max wishes he could put up a forcefield, shelter them both inside where only Max can hear the sounds Daniel’s body makes.

It is all over so quickly. The stream trickles to a stop and then Daniel is shaking off the last little dribbles before he’s tucking himself away. Max feels a pang in his chest like grief—he hadn’t finished mentally cataloguing every angle of this moment, needs the image 3D printed into his brain so he can remember forever. Daniel will probably never speak to him again after this, will certainly not let Max anywhere near his bare cock once he turns and sees—Max is hard.

Daniel is shrugging back into the shoulders of his race suit and Max is standing there tenting his own, mortifyingly obvious. Max braces for whatever awkward joke Daniel will try to make to mask his disgust, as he faces Max finally.

He watches Daniel notice. He watches his eyes go slightly bigger and rounder, watches his jaw tick like he’s going to drop it. His gaze feels like a physical weight. Max’s dick throbs once, twice. There is no way Daniel cannot see.

Daniel says nothing, in the end. He smiles at Max, easy as anything, as if Max isn’t a complete freak of nature with a boner from watching his teammate take a piss. He even claps Max on the shoulder as he passes on his way out the door, doesn’t seem to catch how Max sways, knees wobbly, under his touch.

And then Max is alone in Daniel’s driver’s room. Alone and hard and—fuck, a realization burns through him—Daniel didn’t flush.

Max lurches forward before he can stop himself. His foot catches on some part of the floor and he stumbles, nearly going to his knees right there in front of the toilet.

It should be mostly clear, with how they are supposed to be staying hydrated, but apparently Daniel is not doing a very good job. Max has to steady himself with one hand on the wall as he stares down into the bowl, dazed. The water is tinged an unmistakable yellow. It hits Max viscerally, that Daniel has bodily functions and that he did one of those right in front of Max, was comfortable enough to not care if he saw. It’s unbearably intimate in a way that Max can’t think too hard about or he’ll forget how to drive his car, probably. He thinks, wildly, that he wishes he could live inside Daniel’s body, surrounded by all the microscopic things that make him him. He wants to kiss every single one of Daniel’s cells and thank them for keeping him alive.

Even more wildly—he wants to massage his bladder from the inside, tell it he’s sorry it had to get so full, that Daniel should never have to hold it for too long, that he could always if he cannot wait tell Max to go to his knees, and Max would, anywhere, tip his head back and open up for everything Daniel has to give—

Max rips his layers off, feeling frenzied. Elastic stretches around his thighs as he squats lower, his cock now leaking bare over the bowl full of Daniel’s pee. He had foregone underwear earlier, the crotch of his fireproofs now absolutely soaked through with precome. It will be cold and sticky around his cock and balls when he gets back in the car, he will have to drive again and feel it and he will think about Daniel and his dehydrated piss and the sound he made when he let go—

Max comes, shaking, aiming his cock so that it splatters into the bowl, milky white swirling with yellow. Max and Daniel together, like it should be always.

#ask #maxiel #my fic #if there’s one thing about me… i Will make peeing about The Yearning #em thank u for always fueling my freaky little mind 😈#started writing this before The Horrors and got derailed for a bit but we’re back!#also ik the reference pic is from singapore 2016 but nothing in this is based on the actual events of that gp 👍#don’t come in here expecting journalistic integrity #also also tried to proofread this but i’m suuuuuper stoned rn so fuck it we ball

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blueberrybeomgyu · 6 months ago

Text

୨⎯ "insomnia" ⎯୧ (lcy)

+*:🍓:*﹤smut w a little plot, sub!anton, roommates/friends to lovers, unprotexted sex, edging, wet dreams, palming, blowjobs, light nipples touching, petnames: baby boy, anton calls reader noona, switching povs, fem reader, clit rubbing / wc: 5k / masterlist

✧･ﾟ: *

anton can't sleep.

he tosses and turns just to wake up two hours later, hot, sweaty, and heaving. he writes it off as having nightmares, but that doesn’t explain the hard-ons he always has. he considers getting one off to help him relax, and that works for the first two nights. then, in the days that follow, it's like no matter how long he goes at it, getting himself all whiny and desperate, he can't cum. that realization only makes it harder to stay asleep, lucky if he dozes off for forty minutes.

it's so aggravating. during lecture, he can barely keep his eyes open, but when his head hits the pillow, it's like he can't shut his mind up.

tonight, he gives up around 1 am after going in and out of sleep for an entire hour. he's restless but exhausted, and his mood is shot when you walk in the apartment. you had a long shift, so you can’t wait to snuggle in bed and watch a couple of comfort movies. you stop by the kitchen on your way to your room, unable to ignore your roommate's quiet grumbles.

“anton?” you call out, but his back is turned toward you, and he's still mumbling to himself, fiddling with a container.

“sweetheart, is everything alright?” you ask, placing an arm on his shoulder and gently turning him toward you.

“m fine, can't get this stupid box open.” he mumbles grumpily. in his hands, a box of hot cocoa packets is bent out of shape. you look at him in question (how did he bend the box like that? they aren't hard to open), but your attention is instead drawn to his features.

to put it short, he looks terrible. his eyes are puffy and red like he's been crying, his hair is tangled like he hasn't brushed it in days, and his oversized shirt is hanging off his shoulder, wrinkled and stretched out like he’s been pulling at it.

“do you need help?” you reach for the box, but he moves out of your way, tucking the box to himself protectively as he continues struggling with it.

anton knows he looks stupid, struggling to open this goddamn box, but ever since his problem of not getting off started, he hasn't been able to look you in the eyes. every time you guys make eye contact, he feels ashamed.

what’s frustrating is that he doesn’t know why. you're beautiful, and he can't lie and say he's not attracted to you, but he's never thought about you in a sexual way, because he’s put in great effort to not do so.

so why is it hard to be around you all of a sudden? he can’t help but feel sad about the circumstances, as he was enjoying the friendship you two had been building for the past three months.

“i got it.” he mutters again, tone sharp and stern. you watch him for a couple seconds and conclude that he doesn't in fact have it.

“are you sure, toni? i can-”

“i said i've got it.” he snaps, voices suddenly raised and face scrunched up in annoyance. you slightly flinch at his outburst, a wave of your own irritation washing over you.

“excuse me?” you ask, offended by his tone. his face falls and he turns away from you again. seconds later, his shoulders begin to shake with his sobs.

he wishes you would leave him alone, because having your eyes on him makes him feel things he can’t explain. he just wants to have some hot cocoa, get off, then go the fuck to sleep.

“oh, toni.” you coo, mood softening as you begin rubbing his back. “what's the matter?”

you and anton aren’t extremely close, and not by lack of trying. you’re so attracted to him, but love being his friend and don’t want to mess it up by asking him out. despite that, you've never seen him in this state before. his usually cheerful, even charismatic personality is completely gone, turned into something snappy and miserable.

“i'm so tired.” he says, his voice shaky and so quiet you almost don’t hear him. the palms of his hands come to rub his eyes aggressively. “can't sleep, no matter what i do.”

you wonder how long he had to be in this state to be acting like this, feeling a bit guilty that you hadn't noticed the signs earlier. you think for a second about how to help.

“i was going to go watch some movies in bed.” you offer after a few moments of silence. “do you want to join me? it might be nice to have some company for a little bit.”

he lowers his hands from his eyes and thinks about your offer. you guys have huddled in bed for movies before, so it isn’t a wild suggestion, and your bed is always so warm, multiple blankets and plushies adding extra cushion. he turns around, ignoring the heavy feeling he gets from looking at you.

“here, i'll even make this for you.” you gently remove the box from his hands, ripping its cardboard flap and opening it with ease. he looks at you in surprise for a second, then nods.

“okay, why don't you go get settled and i'll be there in a minute?”

he pads softly to your room, shoulders slumped and feet dragging.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

anton is buried underneath your duvet and blankets, only his eyes up to his forehead visible when you walk into your bedroom.

“comfy, are we?” you ask with a light chuckle, reaching out to hand him his cocoa. he sits up in bed and takes the mug. after changing into pajamas in the bathroom, you settle into your own space and pull up a selection of movies on your phone.

“how's the cat returns?” you ask, watching as he downs the drink and snuggles back into the sheets.

“fine.” he mumbles, eyes droopy. you feel bad for him again, hoping he'll be able to get some sleep tonight.

you get through that and a third of coraline when you hear anton huff loudly. you glance down to see that he's snuggled up by your chest, eyes shut and breath even. he’s never slept in your bed before, but you don’t want to wake him up from some much needed rest. you take a moment to appreciate his beauty. in the glow from your bedside lamp, you can see his rosy cheeks and furrowed eyebrows, and your heart swells with fondness. maybe this will make you guys even closer. you smile in triumph and continue the movie.

ten minutes later, you hear it. you ignore it the first time, but it happens again soon after. anton lets out a faint whimper. for a second, you think he's talking to you, but he doesn't respond when you call out his name. instead, he full-on moans.

“n-noona.” he mumbles. the blankets have fallen from his chest and pooled around his pelvis, and you see his hips twitch slightly. “please…”

was he…having a wet dream?

surely not, you tell yourself. the circumstances of this happening are quite unlikely.

“y/n…need you.” he whines quietly, and your eyes jump to the size of saucers.

he was having a wet dream about you?!

your cheeks heat up, feeling flattered but scandalized. he doesn't say anything else, but his breath picks up rapidly, becoming more choked off as it progresses. seconds later, he jerks awake, gasping and panting, his fingers tangled into the blankets. you watch as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to slow down his breath. then, he opens them again and looks up from your chest.

“oh, noona, did i wake you? i'm sorry.” he asks, voice thick and words slurred.

you ignore the way hearing him call you that now makes you hot all over, arousal manifesting in your panties. he sits up with messy hair and puffy cheeks. is he just going to pretend like he wasn't dreaming about you?

“what?” you scoff, a smile tugging at your lips. you can't help but laugh at how weird this situation was.

“sorry for disturbing you, i'll head back to my room now.” you watch in disbelief as he sluggishly stands up from the bed and not-so subtly covers his boner with his large shirt.

the truth is, anton can't wait to get out of your vicinity. your scent is stuck to his clothes, and he doesn't know why he likes it so much. that shameful feeling is back, and he wants it off his skin.

“wait, anton.” you call out, dropping your phone on the sheets and just barely catching his wrist.

shit. he turns back to you, eyes falling to your mouth, and he could've sworn you were almost…smirking?

“did you get to sleep?” you ask, but your eyes lack genuine curiosity.

“oh, yeah, i guess i did.” he answers awkwardly, looking everywhere but your eyes. he’s so cute, and his nervousness makes you feel empowered.

“what did you dream about?”

“what?” he looks at you finally with a look of confusion.

“dreams? did you have any?” you slowly lead him to sit back down. he follows easily, pulled back onto your soft, comfortable blankets.

“uhm, no, not that i remember.”

“you can't remember what you dreamt about?” you ask, incredulous. he looks away for a second, thinking, then turns back to you and shakes his head.

“i think i've been having nightmares a lot recently. i keep waking up on the verge of a panic attack.” he explains. you hum in contemplation. you can’t help but wonder if any more of these “nightmares” have actually been wet dreams, and if so, how many of them have been about you.

slowly, your hand trailed along his thigh, and you delight in the sound of his breath hitching. his body is tense, eyes looking at you in question. “but that's alright, i guess i don't w-want to if they were that scary.” he stutters as your hand trails higher and higher. you’re giving him a sultry look, and he wonders if this is going where he thinks it’s going, and is surprised to realize maybe he wants it to go there, despite it being so sudden.

“that's interesting, because i think i know what you dreamt about, and why you can't get to sleep.” you say, circling your finger around a spot right on his hip. they twitch under your touch, and you almost coo again watching him try to restrain himself.

you’re not sure where you suddenly got the nerve to act like this, but you say to hell with it. you’ve been harboring a crush on him ever since you became his roommate, and he obviously shares the same desire, if his subconscious is anything to go off of. his shy demeanor only makes you more confident. you move on from his hip and slide a hand up his loose shirt.

anton’s almost relieved by your statement—he wants almost nothing more than to have a full night's rest—but he finds it hard to focus on your words as your nails lightly scrape his skin. his eyelids flutter prettily.

“when was the last time you came?” you ask abruptly, causing anton’s eyes to snap open.

“i’m sorry?”

“you likely can't go to sleep because you're so tense. when you do, you can't stay asleep because you keep having wet dreams about me that eventually wake you back up.” you’re not sure if the last part is true, but that’s your working theory. you watch as he struggles to comprehend your statement as you graze a couple of fingers over his nipple, voice catching in a gasp.

“what are you talking about? i'm not even having inappropriate thoughts about you.” he defends, because he tries so hard to not have inappropriate thoughts about you. he doesn’t want to be a pervert and take advantage of the friendship you guys have, so he pushes away any sexual thoughts that creep up in his mind. sometimes it’s so hard, but he values your company so much, and doesn’t want to upset you.

“oh, yeah? so when you moaned, ‘y/n noona, i need you’ in your sleep, you weren't having inappropriate thoughts about me?” you ask, over-exaggerating the way he moaned. his eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of you tugging on his nipple, then you trail your hand back down to lightly trace his bulge. his hips lift towards your hand, and you pull it away.

even in his aroused, half-asleep mind, your words make sense. why he feels shame looking at you, why he’s always rock solid when he wakes up. it’s not a far fetch to think he’s been having sexual dreams, nor is it to wonder if those dreams are about you, since you’re the only person he’s been attracted to lately.

you wrap your hand around his member through his pants, snatching him out of his thoughts.

“f-fuck.” he gasps quietly, surprised at your actions. “what are you doing?”

“did you think you could get off on the thought of me and i wouldn't take up the opportunity to finally fuck you?”

questions swim around in his head. have you been wanting to have sex with him? you’ve been thinking about him inappropriately this whole time? the mere idea of you finding him attractive gets him even more hot and bothered, but he has no time to dwell on these thoughts once you start palming him roughly through his sweatpants.

“oh, g-god.” he whimpers out after a few minutes, hips finally bucking into your touch. “please, ‘m close.” his breath quickens again, uneven and harsh like it was in his sleep. his cheeks are dusted with baby pink, embarrassed about how close he’s gotten so quick, but he can’t help it. you’re so beautiful and you’re touching him and he’s realizing maybe his feelings are bigger than he previously thought.

“you're gonna cum from humping my hand?” you ask, unimpressed. “we haven’t even started yet.”

your words make him feel like he’s being boiled alive. part of him can’t believe this is happening, but he’s so desperate to please you. anton gasps, pushing his hips back onto the blankets to get away from the stimulation.

“please, stop. wanna last.” he begs. he’s so cute, all weak and compliant, and you want to tease him more, see how long he holds out, but you can tell how much he wants to last, so you relent. he mumbles weak “thank you”s as he comes from the edge, and once his breathing returns to normal, you straddle him. he opens his eyes and looks at you in question, audibly gulping when he sees your dark, hungry gaze. he starts a sentence, but you cut him off as you grind your cunt against his member.

“god, y/n.” he groans, throwing his head back into the pillows.

“sorry, you were saying?” you ask, giggling meanly. you keep the movement up, building a rhythm while watching him struggle to string words together.

“i can’t– ahh– can’t believe t-this is happening.” he manages, interrupted by a particularly rough grind. for a second, his head catches on the opening of your cunt, and even through two layers of clothing, the feeling has him reeling.

“hm.” you sigh into the feeling and accept the fact that you were gonna have to throw these underwear away. “why’s that?”

“you’re so pretty a-and nice and– fuck, fuck, need you, please.” he whimpers out, echoing the words he spoke while asleep. you take in the sight of him, and he just looks so beautiful, brown hair fanning out beneath him. his lips are red from him biting them, and you can’t resist the temptation to lean down and kiss him. he tastes a little like the cocoa he had earlier.

it starts out slow, anton taking a couple of seconds to comprehend the situation, overcome his shock, and actually kiss you back. then it becomes more of him panting against your mouth, hips jerking erratically under your weight.

you still don’t want him to finish just yet, so you lift off of him and ignore the displeased whine he lets out. you pull his sweatpants off slowly while lightly scratching the skin of his thighs, reveling in the sharp gasp he takes. he’s so responsive, so fun to play with.

“oh,” you whisper, shocked to realize he’s not wearing underwear. “so what’s this? were you expecting to come in here and get your dick wet?” you ask in disbelief, eyeing his cock. it’s about average, but thick, and just thinking about having that in you has your pussy throbbing. you’re just teasing, but your words break anton into a cold sweat.

“n-no! no– these are m-my pajamas.” he explains desperately, words clipping off into a whine as you lift his hard cock with two fingers then let it flop back down. you can’t help but be mesmerized by it. it was a deep shade of pink, almost red, and a white bead of precum was forming at the tip. you subconsciously lick your lips at the sight. you professionally move on from the fact that anton doesn’t sleep with underwear on in favor of running your tongue across the slit of anton’s dick.

he let out a choked sound and his hips jerk violently, but you’re able to back up before his penis collides with your nose.

“toni, if you want me to touch you here, you have to be still.” you warn, one hand coming to rest on his hip.

“sorry, sorry, i can do that. i can-” his rambling is cut off by you taking his entire head into your mouth. “shit, shit, i– ‘m.” his hands come to tangle into your hair, but you pull off of his dick and place his arms back by his side. you don’t say anything, but you’re sure he gets the command.

“gonna cum already, baby boy?” you ask teasingly, rubbing his wrists gently. his breath hitches at the pet name, and you make a mental note to revisit that later.

“no,” he mumbles defensively. your eyebrow lifts in suspicion, but you take his word for it.

“if you get close, let me know, okay?” you hold eye contact while saying it, and he responds with a nod. “no, baby. answer with your words. can you do that for me?”

“i’ll let you know, promise.” he says, nodding quickly, so desperate to get your mouth back on his dick. you’re not sure how much you believe him, but you oblige, slowly taking his member into your mouth inch by inch. since he’s on the shorter side, it doesn’t take long for you to bottom out, his tip barely even reaching the back of your throat, but he’s hot and heavy on your tongue.

you wait and adjust for a second then begin a pace. under you, anton doesn’t say anything, the only communication being his gasps and grunts. you can tell he’s close by the way his hips stutter, desperate to buck up into the wet heat, but still, he doesn’t say anything. you pull off his dick to instead suck at the head, tongue sliding across and dipping into the slit. almost immediately, anton verbally explodes.

“stop! stop, please– too much, ahh–” he rambles, stuttering around portions of a sentence. he’s so embarrassed, but it’s not his fault you’re playing his body like a fiddle.

you love the sound of him begging, so you keep up the ministrations a bit longer until his whines are so loud that he’s practically screaming, squirming on your blankets. you pull off again and rub up and down his thighs slowly. he gasps and pants as he comes down, so tense, and his cock is even more red, twitching as a steady stream of precum leaks out of the tip. it’s so vulgar that it almost drives you insane, and you’re starting to think you’re gonna lose it if you don’t sit on his cock in the next few minutes, but you push through it.

“aw, that looks like it hurts. want me to help you, or should i just leave you like this?” you ask, rubbing lightly at the head. in anton’s sleep-deprived, sexually frustrated mind, he can’t see how much you want him, how you’re just as desperate as he is, and thinks you’re serious.

“no, please, please, don’t leave me, it hurts so bad.” his hips jump lightly, drawing your attention to his member in an effort to prove his point. “i can’t–can’t get off alone, need you.” he can’t even fathom the thought of you leaving him like this, tender and submissive and so, so hard.

you can’t help but coo at that. you slip your pajamas and underwear, as well as his shirt, off, then straddle him again. you grind your cunt against his member again, this time without the barrier of clothing. before he can beg, you crash your lips into his, swallowing any small sounds that try to escape.

you kiss him until your lips hurt, making up for all the time you spent silently pining after him, not knowing he wanted you just as bad. when you pull away, he’s struggling to catch his breath and looking at you like you hung the stars.

“you’re s-so stunning, i c-can’t believe you l-like me.” he mumbles through stuttered breaths. his hands lay awkwardly by his sides, and you lift them up to rest on your hips. his thumbs rub circles into them shyly, which causes your heart to swell up.

“how could i not like you, sweet boy? you’re so handsome and smart, so caring.” you run your hand through his tangled hair, gently undoing a couple of knots as you remember the traits and quirks that made you like him from the beginning. he practically melts into your touch and praise, but you’re not done with him just yet. you raise your hips and lean into his ear.

“you’ve been such a good boy, do you want me to fuck you now?” you barely get the question out before he’s nodding again, all eager at the idea of finally feeling your walls against his cock.

anton watches with slow, bated breath as you line your opening up with his length, but then you actually take it in, bottoming out with no hesitation, and his eyes roll into his head. he screams, but the sound is muffled due to his teeth trapping his bottom lip. you sigh in pleasure while letting yourself adjust to the feeling, then study his features as you clench around his dick.

his eyebrows furrow, and he lets out another high-pitched keen, and you’re mesmerized by his beauty. anton’s grip on your hips tightens as you lift up and slide back down, but you feel a bit annoyed that his eyes remain closed.

“look at me, toni.” you request, hands resting on his chest to support your weight. his eyes barely open, fluttering like it’s a struggle, and you can't help but think again that he’s just so cute. you want to destroy him.

“good job.” you praise and graze his nipples with your fingers. his hips jerk at the sensation, pushing himself deeper into you, and you squeeze your eyes shut momentarily as a wave of pleasure washes over you. you breathe through it in an attempt to hold on to some sanity. on the next inhale, you pick up the pace, sliding his length in and out of you rapidly.

“oh, oh god- fuck, th-that’s so good, you’re so good.” anton rambles, his voice strained and high-pitched in a way you’ve never heard before. you’re instantly obsessed with the sound and make a tsk-ing noise when he bites his bottom lip. you lift your hand off of his chest and squish his cheeks. his bottom lip juts out in a forced pout.

“none of that, baby boy. i wanna hear you.”

“-t’s embarrassing.” he mumbles weakly, which tapers off into another moan as you sink down fully and roll your hips. you throw your head back, feeling his thick size touch you in places you’ve never reached. you pick up a rhythm of sliding him in and out of you a couple of times then bottoming out and rolling your hips.

“damn, anton. you f-feel amazing.” you moan, stuttering when his hips buck into your own. you look back at him and his eyes are still open, and he’s giving you that look again, the one that makes you want to shy away under all of that adoration. before you can, he throws his head back, baring his pretty, flushed neck as another high-pitched noise rips its way out of his throat.

“f-fuck, -m so-sorry, can’t look– gonna cum, i’m–”

you still on his lap and ignore the frustrated noise he lets out. next to his ear, you whisper, “not yet, toni. don’t you want to make me feel good too?”

he nods dumbly, unaware of how good he’s already making you feel. his eyes are empty and glossed over as you guide his hand to your clit. he rubs it experimentally, and your pleased sigh has him speeding up a bit, pressing a little harder to hear more of those sounds from you.

his entire body is tense and burning hot, so close to the release he’s been chasing for a week, and watching your beautiful body react to his touch only makes it worse. he wants to get you there first, but when you roll your hips down again, he doesn’t think he can do it.

“p-please don’t move, please, please.” he begs, words slurring and eyes shining with desperation. he’s so deeply submitted to you that it’s almost unbearable, and you have the sudden need to please him, make him cum so hard he forgets his name, then kiss him to sleep. you support your weight with your shaky arms and lift your hips up.

“fuck me, baby. don’t you wanna cum?” you ask, putting on your sweetest voice for him.

“fuck yeah, yes, need it.” anton grunts out. he wraps your arms around his neck and grips your hips tightly before roughly thrusting into your cunt.

“oh, fuck, toni–” you gasp out with your face burried in his neck. his desperation shows through his lack of rhythm, his strokes uneven and harsh. he’s hitting your sweet spot so aggressively it feels like you might lose your mind, then his hand comes to rub your clit again, the grip on your waist strong enough to hold you up with one hand.

“oh, god. cum, please cum, i-i can’t hold it.” he begs, words interlaced with keens and gasps. despite your previous permission, he’s still so desperate to please you, even with wet cheeks and eyebrows furrowed in agony. the sight, the feeling of him pounding into your sweet spot, and the harsh, uneven rubbing on your clit sends you into overdrive. you cum so hard your hearing almost goes out, but you can faintly make out his muffled screams, and you feel him cream in you, hot fluids spilling back over his cock as he works himself through it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

eventually, the air stills, and for the first time in hours, anton’s tense body fully relaxes, his bones melding into your pillows. you lift off of him to let him fully catch his breath, and slip into the bathroom. his eyes are closed when you return, and flutter open when he feels something warm and wet touch his skin.

you’re clean now, having wiped yourself down in the bathroom, and he’s silent as you clean him up as well. his blinks are slow like his eyelids are heavy, and you’re overwhelmed with the desire to leave kisses all over his puffy cheeks.

you put discarded clothing as well as any dirty blankets in your laundry basket, then climb under the duvet with him. he’s warm and cozy when you pull him to lay on your chest again.

it’s silent for a few minutes, but you know he’s not asleep, because his breath is irregular.

“...noona?” he calls out so quietly you’re surprised you hear it, alert to make sure he’s got everything he needs, so you hum in response.

“did you mean it? that you think i’m…handsome, and stuff?” he mumbles. his voice is so soft and sweet that you just wanna eat him up, but you don’t wanna disturb his comfort.

“i meant every word, anton. i’ve adored you since we met.” you confess while running your fingers through his fluffy, tangled hair.

moments of silence pass.

“i think i’ve been denying my crush on you for the past four weeks.” he whispers again, almost uncertain. his words have your heartbeat picking up, the idea of him reciprocating your romantic feelings makes you so happy you could jump on the bed, because you don’t know how you would’ve gone back to being just friends after tonight.

similar thoughts run through anton’s mind. he can’t believe he didn’t see his feelings for you sooner. it feels like after a full week, he’s finally able to relax into his skin again. you’re so comforting, and remembering how you took care of him gives him butterflies. curiously, he looks up at you, and your eyes are staring back at him, as soft and sparkly as they’ve always been. he can’t believe how deep his feelings for you actually run.

your lips curl into a big smile, then you're suddenly cupping his cheeks and pressing warm, wet kisses all over his face.

“so cute. you’re so, so cute. i can’t resist any longer.” you say through smooches. he grunts in feigned annoyance, pretending that his heart isn’t threatening to jump out of his chest. you lay him back down, but he still has one question on his mind.

“noona, w-will you…be my girlfriend?” his uncertain tone is back, despite everything.

“i better be.” you say lightly, half-joking. you continue running your fingers through his hair, and anton’s eyelids become so heavy that he can’t keep them open despite wanting to stay here in this moment with you.

you want to be sure before you drift off yourself, so you wait for a few more minutes, and then his breath evens out, and anton falls asleep.

✧･ﾟ: *

a/n : this story on ao3 <33 pls lmk if i missed any tags i should add! this is my first ff so it's lacking, but i tried my best to fix up any obvious plotholes!!

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quibllyfish · 8 months ago

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Can I have Mammon being possessive headcannons plz😊

౨ৎ﹒Mammon x Reader : Possessiveness HCS．𝝑𝝔

﹕You are MAMMON'S human! He's a little possessive when it comes to you- what else would you expect from the avatar of greed??

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა：❝—Whipped this one up in about half an hour! Short and sweet, just a couple of ponderings ꒱ . . ♡

‹𝟹﹕ In my opinion, I think mammon would do a lot of subconsciously possessive things. We see this already when Mammon flippantly calls you 'my human' and whatnot. Often mindlessly, his hands find themselves holding onto you. One rested on your thigh while he's driving or his arm consistently draped over your shoulders as you walk side by side. When other demons ask you a question, he also has a tendency to answer for you (which… can get annoying at times). In his mind, you're practically his, which means he knows everything about you! Why wouldn't he be able to pipe up in your place?

‹𝟹﹕ When you succeed, your success feels almost like an extension of his. If his human gets a good mark on a test, he will be as EQUALLY ecstatic as if he were to have done that well. You answer a question correctly in class?? A giddy smile tugs at his lips- because of course his human would be that smart!!

‹𝟹﹕ A majority of his possessiveness likely finds its origin from the fact that he views you as genuinely his. Maybeee its a bit toxic, as no one wants to be viewed as something thats owned, but these habits of his are oftentimes less harmful as they are irritating. For instance: Mammon is going somewhere. He automatically assumes that you are also coming, as you are his human and therefore need to be brought along. He will most definitely barge into your room whenever he sees fit and announce 'we are going to X/Y/Z' as if it's a statement of undeniable fact.

‹𝟹﹕ He WILL get jealous of almost anything under the sun. Why is Asmo taking you to the mall?? HE can take you to the mall, and he can most DEFINITELY buy you many more things than his brother can. Hell, he'll even go into debt for you! Do you want a car? A house? Asmodeus definitely wouldnt buy you a house. Mammon is either going to the mall with the two of you, or the avatar of lust will have to lock him in a closet and make a mad dash for the door.

#i also did not proofread this one #its safe to assume that I never proofread anything I write #theres a few brothers that are incredibly easy for me to write and mammon is defs one of them #followed by levi and asmo #the others take some focus and references.. must read other fanfics in order to portray correctly #writing tag #headcanons #obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me fic #mammon obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me x reader

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pixiest1cks · 6 months ago

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i'd like to think no matter where he's at in his life, dottore likes to ramble as he works.

no matter if he's prime, or the more ill-tempered scholar from the akademiya or even omega build, dottore quietly mumbles as a habit when he's working.

some things he says aloud are just to commit certain details to memory. in the grander scheme of his plans, the details seem small-- but they hold a crucial grip on the entire project. because of this, dottore reasons that the habit holds its merits.

sometimes, he makes sarcastic remarks when something doesn't go well. short, choppy words that mostly go unheard even by those in his general vicinity. when you first worked under him, he had mumbled to himself like usual (it was second nature at that point). what he hadn't expected though, were your responses.

"stupid thing tightly screwed--"

"do you need a wrench, sir?"

before he could respond, you had one held and ready to hand to him. from then on, you would help him out here and there in his more foul moods and dottore would be lying if he said the additional assistance wasn't helpful.

the mad scientist had found an adequate assistant.

work went by smoother, toning down a good portion of his irritation. it's almost as if having someone to support you (even if it was strictly for work purposes) provided more benefits than he had originally thought. of course, he would never admit that. the most he would do is thank you here and there when you proved to be extra useful.

work continues the same for a while. the interactions grow more frequent and so his musings change from your responses. instead of talking to himself, he talks to you. he asks you for your input, for you to pass him whatever he can't reach from his other desk, he asks for you.

that is, until you're gone one day.

dottore doesn't think anything of it. he's worked alone for his whole life, what's a few days without you? but his segments have been more irritable as of late, resulting in lackluster performance as a whole not only from his segments, but his troops. the fatui are fearful of the doctor, but even more so of an irritated one. you'll turn up eventually and everything will be back to normal, he reasons.

but as the days go on, you are still nowhere to be found in the cold, desolate laboratory. he finally pauses in his work to think about where you could be.

something must've happened. something outside of his jurisdiction. it's not like it's his problem. you might've proved a useful assistant to him, but his work holds utmost priority.

yes, work. back to work.

and dottore mumbles as usual, but it's not the same.

by habit, he calls out for you to hand him something--

but you're not there.

dottore is a scholar first and foremost. all it takes to find you is a little bit of research, so he does exactly that. he finds out you've been working somewhere else, somewhere closer to home to better support your family.

well, that's no problem. he'll have his assistant back as soon as possible, no matter the cost. all he needed to know was your whereabouts.

#dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #i am posting doctor doctor the doctor #dottore brainrot #the rot consumes me #i will begin to cough in 3 days #dottore save me (lobotomy for me!!!!!)#i need more dottore fics #the prideful arrogant mad scientest archetype #THAT is dottore #and he's a yandere #cue the hunt for reader!!!#except he does it all with his segments and no one else because why would he need anyone else's help #imagine him sending out his 10000 ruin guard drones or whatever like “SEIZE THEM”#pix rambles #drabble #not proofread #actually. sent that last sentence to my friend like “do i write was or were” and she said was BUT THAT'S IT!! nothing else

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pupkashi · 7 months ago

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satoru loves you & he’s tired of being your friend

a/n: loosely inspired by taehyungs song fri(end)s i hope u guys like pls lmk what yall think plsplsplspls

word count - 1,764

masterlist

the only light illuminating your living room was from your tv as it played your favorite comfort movie, one you’d seen countless times before. the familiarity of it had you dozing off on your couch, in and out of sleep as you lost the battle with your heavy eyelids.

there’s a soft knock on your door that has you jumping out of your skin, heart racing loudly in your ears. you pause the movie, wondering if maybe you’d hallucinated it and it truly was time for you to go to bed.

knock, knock, knock

your palms are sweaty, checking your phone before standing up. there’d been no missed texts or calls from anyone you knew, who the fuck knocks on a door at 3:24 in the morning?

you grab the baseball bat by the door, peeking through the peephole and being met with tousled white locks. a color of hair you’d be able to spot a mile away, one you’d grown to care for.

“what are you doing at my door at four in the fucking morning?” you whisper-yelled, setting the bat down and opening the door wider to let the man in. he gives you a small smile, one hand pushing his hair back and out of his face and the other holding his side.

“sorry sweet cheeks, didn’t wanna go home just yet” he mumbles, stepping in and standing by the doorway, waiting for your instruction.

“d’you get hurt? are you bleeding?” the annoyance in your voice is gone, and it makes satoru relax. he gives you a small nod, shrugging his shoulders and trying to play it off.

“nothing that won’t be healed by mornin’” you roll your eyes at him, muttering a small ‘come on’ and walking to the bathroom down the hall. “i miss you y’know” satoru says softly, watching as you searched for the first aid kit under the sink, grabbing the box and making him sit on the toilet lid.

“did you really?” you scoff, not meeting his gaze as you grab a soft rag, running it under warm water. satoru furrows his brows, confused as to why you think he wouldn’t have missed you.

“‘course i did,” he replies, opening his mouth to continue but closing it quickly when you turn to face him.

“can i take your blindfold off” you ask, your hands fiddling with the damp rag before setting it down when he nods ‘yes.’ you find the small knot hiding in his hair, gently undoing it.

the black blindfold loosen instantly, and you’re quick to gently take it off his head, setting it on the counter. his hair flops onto his forehead, falling almost perfectly to frame his face. despite the countless times you’d seen his eyes, your breath still hitched in your throat when you looked into them.

you try not to stare too long, brushing his hair out of his face and cleaning the dried blood on his face. satoru doesn’t take his eyes off you, eyes tracing your every feature. his gaze is one you always faltered under, growing nervous when he’d stare at you for too long.

“what” you ask, a small nervous smile forming on your face. satoru shakes his head, a small upside down smile on his face as you wipe the cut on his cheeks with an alcohol wipe.

“you’re just real pretty” he says, watching as you bite your bottom lip, surely trying to stop the smile fighting its way into your face.

“is you side hurt too?” you motion to where his hand is covering, trying to brush past the compliment he’d given you.

“healed it up a good amount while you were cleaning me up” he shrugs, lifting his shirt and showing you the brand new scar, “I’m not completely helpless.”

“no you’re the strongest” you tease, throwing away the used items and washing your hands. “did you wanna shower? you look like you could use it” satoru pouts at your words.

“don’t have to be so mean about it” you laugh softly, drying your hands before you’re standing in front of him again. you let your hands brush through his hair, exposing his forehead before you press a kiss to the skin.

“sorry angel, you’re the one who woke me up” satoru lets his eyes close softly, heart sinking a bit when you pull away from him.

“I’ve got some clothes you’ve left over so I’ll leave ‘em on the counter” you smile, closing the door behind you and sighing softly.

how’d you get to this point? how’re you stuck between friends and something more?

friends don’t feel the way you do about satoru. friends don’t place feathery kisses on their friends scars. friends don’t act the way you two act.

satoru steps out of the shower, smiling when he realizes his clothes smell like you. his heart leaps when he exits the restroom, finding you still awake and waiting for him on the couch.

“waiting for someone?” his voice makes you jump a bit, shaking you head and watching as he sits next to you. “did you have plans for tomorrow?” he questions, watching as you send a text.

“told them something came up,” you shrug, “figured you need me more.”

the words tugged on satoru’s heartstrings. there was a never night you hadn’t been there when he needed you. you’d been there for him since the day you’d met him, there to comfort him and ease his racing mind. you were there to calm him from panic attacks and frustrations, help him through grief and stress. everything.

you were a great friend.

he hated that word. you weren’t his friend, you were something more. he knew how he felt about you, he had an inkling feeling you felt the same. so what’s stopping him?

satoru shakes the question out of his head, focusing instead on the tv. the end credits are rolling but you’re not looking away, eyes unfocused and your mind elsewhere.

“should we go to sleep?” satoru whispers, a feathery touch to snap you back to reality. you nod with a small smile, the two of you making the familiar walk to your bedroom, satoru turning off any lights and closing the bedroom door behind him before slipping in next to you.

you’d always liked having your head on his chest, you were able to hear his heartbeat this way. the rhythmic pitter-patter never failed to make you smile or help you relax. it also gave away anytime he was nervous.

“your hearts beating real fast” you state, not looking up, instead continuing to draw circles in the palm of his hand. “what are you thinking about?”

there’s too many thoughts in satoru’s head, so many that he can’t begin to process a single one of them. so instead he blurts out what had been on his mind all night.

“i love you.”

you never thought people were telling the truth about time stopping when something like this happened. you’d always figured they romanticized their life a little too much.

but you felt time stop.

your fingers faltered and you felt your breathing hitch in your throat. your stomach erupted in butterflies, face hot and your eyes wide as the three words landed on your ears.

there was a million thoughts in your head, memories flooding in. spring nights around a fire pit, hot summer days at the beach, cool autumn afternoons carving pumpkins and cold winter mornings drinking hot chocolate. and in every one of them you bit back three words while staring at the white haired man.

“you don’t have to say it back” satoru begins, his heart beating even faster than before, “i just- I’ve been think-” you sit up quickly and cut him off, shaking your head and finally looking him in the eyes.

“I love you too,” you smile, letting yourself enjoy the the moment of euphoria the two of you felt upon hearing the other say the three words you’d dreamt of.

there’s only a second of silence before satoru’s blue eyes are looking at your lips, flickering up to meet your eyes momentarily. all it takes is you leaning in ever so slightly.

his hands are cupping your cheeks, crashing his lips against yours, a sense of urgency as his lips move against yours. he tastes like his vanilla lip balm and toothpaste, smiling as the words replay in your head.

“what’s funny?” he mumbles against your lips, laughing softly, not bothering to pull away from your lips. satoru’s cerulean eyes are fluttering open, completely focused on you.

you pull away a couple inches, staring into his eyes, you can see the emotions swimming in his eyes, love and excitement written over his face as he takes in your beauty.

“just happy” you reply, “never thought you’d put the end in friends” satoru pouts comically at your words, shoving his face in your lap and groaning softly.

“‘m sorry” he grumbles, “new to all the relationship stuff” there’s genuine frustration and remorse in his voice, it makes you smile as your run your fingers through his hair, tugging softy.

“‘s okay” you say, “thought technically I’m not yours since you haven’t asked me” he knows you’re poking fun at him, not rushing him into anything.

“don’t worry,” he says, sitting up and adjusting himself to lay down next to you, smiling when you lay your head on his chest, “gonna make you mine as soon as i can.”

the words make your heart flutter again, a sheepish smile on your face as your cheeks and ears burn.

“alright smooth talker let’s get some sleep.”

funny enough satoru feels the weight on his shoulders grow lighter with your body weight pressed against him. he feels a sense of serenity running his fingers up and down your exposed skin.

you can see goosebumps rise where your fingertips touch, smiling softly and holding back a giggle as your fingers ghost over his abs, causing him to shiver.

it’s different from before, more intimate.

satoru wonders why he was so afraid of baring his heart to you in the first place. he can’t find an excuse as he watches the golden ray of sunshine hit your face softly, causing you to stir. he’s still as he watches you immediately nuzzle your face into his side, falling back into a deep sleep in his arms.

it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep too, a smile on his face when he feels your grip tighten.

lovers, he thinks, it has a nice ring to it.

taglist (send an ask to be added): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

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mae-lou-ron · 11 days ago

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Some friendly advice: if you want to get into writing fan fiction, don’t be like me and pick a fandom where the characters tend to lose their body parts at an alarming rate.

#who knew it would be so difficult to keep track of where everyone’s collective hands are #proofreading your own work is so fun sometimes #cackling because it reminds me of a lyric from Sleep Token’s Ascensionism ☠️😂#one eye on the door— other eye on a rail— other other eye following a scarlet trail #star wars fanfiction #fan fiction probs #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #fennec shand #arc trooper echo #tbb crosshair #darth maul #savage opress #star wars #…and an honorable mention for my Bucky Barnes WIP #yes I write Bucky Barnes fan fiction too #because I mean look at him

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porto-rosso · 7 months ago

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when people say tim drake has no personality like oh you dont even know about the unwavering faith in a flawed cause you were loyal to long before being a part of?? 🤨

#real talk i dont get it when people hold 'oh hes the normal one' against him. like is that not interesting to you #his whole deal is repeatedly forgoing a normal life due to his dedication to his sense of right. cmon #if you saw me post this twice no you didnt. was giving myself a headache trying to proofread the verb tenses. im very tired and its very hot #still not sure its completely grammatically correct x #.log

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realtapiocafan · 10 days ago

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The way people talk about black NFL players always has me side eying 😭😭😭 some of the comments I’ve seen about Ja’marr today have been crazy

Ok, incoming rant. Please do not read if you're uncomfortable with discussions of racism

Wow, I was just looking in the insta comments of ja'marr signing shit for fans and omfg, i couldn't believe my eyes. 'Show a little excitement' 'look like you care a lil' 'don't look away while you're shaking someone's hand' well what if i shake in RAGE. like he stopped and signed the jersey and he took a picture, what. 'smile' GIRL THE CAMERA ISN'T EVEN POINTED AT HIM. and like you compare that shit to joe signing shit yesterday (in which joe didn't smile either) and it's all 'oh thats my qb' 'making a diff in the young generation' 'so compassionate'. The sheer difference in perception is just... 💔

The thing is: there's a lot of racism in the NFL.

Like, just as a whole, we're watching a predominately black population fight each other for our entertainment. Yes, NFL athletes get paid, but for the longest time, the main argument for NIL was that colleges were benefitting from the free 'labor' of student-athletes, who were basically putting their bodies and futures on the line (it's been proven you can get CTE from even youth football which. yikes).

The most prominent example, and the one that the media probably talks about the most, is coaches. Don't get me wrong, the NFL has gotten a hell lot better with coaches. Like a couple of years, there was just one black head coach (which is another rant bc the racial makeup of the league was even more skewed in past years), and this year there was nine. So it's... progress? The thing is: I get the Rooney rule, I do. But interviewing for a job that you know you aren't getting... I don't know. Considering someone for an interview and considering someone for a job are two entirely different things. I don't know how to fix it, it's kind of a microcosm of the whole DEI debate. On one hand, African Americans are at a historical and thereby structural disadvantage, but teams are still gonna hire who they think is best (and surely it's just a coincidence that 'who they think is best' is white). Black coaches can't just be as good as their white peers - to get hired, they have to be better.

And there's just a lot of casual racism. There's a common myth that black athletes tend to be faster. No one likes to acknowledge it, but it's basically entrenched into our society. And that myth permeates through the NFL and football in general. We see it in the different racial makeup of positions, in the 'two-way' threat of black qbs, in how replaceable rbs are seen as, in how wrs are seen as 'prima donnas' and 'divas'.

There's a reason why you never see black centers and we're only recently seeing black qbs. Those are the 'thinking' positions, the leadership positions, arguably the most important positions. And there's a reason why so many WRs and corners are black. Those are the 'athletic' positions. (There's also the fact that wide receivers and corners are positions far more prone to injury than qbs or centers or kickers but that deserves its own rant).

In large part, the racial segregation can be traced to youth/college football, where black players are predominately pushed to the athletic positions. Black players are perfectly able to play qb thank you very much -it's that their coaches and agents and whoever switch them to WR or corner, because of the perceived 'better athleticism'. That's the casual racism I'm referring to, the generalization just based on skin color.

There are so many stories about how people were trying to convince Lamar to become a RB -and that's still a common insult for Lamar ('oh he's just a glorified RB'). And that's basically reducing Lamar to just his athleticism (aka his 'natural talents'), completely ignoring the FACT that he's an elite passer. Like fuck right off with the 'he's not intelligent enough to pass' argument (which some people still say). The discourse around black quarterbacks, as a whole, is still very much centered on 'oh it's just their athleticism', always praising their 'two-way threat' and that just. Ugh.

And also running backs! The current devaluation of running backs, considering that most rbs are black... there's something disturbing about just how much of the discourse around rbs is centered around how easily they can be replaced. How they're seen as commodities and things, rather than people. This can be extended to all players, because of how profit-oriented the NFL is, but it's especially applicable to rbs and the fact that most rbs are black, cannot be ignored.

Back to WRs. The media loves to just toss the label of 'diva' on wide receivers. And like those hand-wavy comments, 'oh that's just the diva gene'... Again. Most WRs are black. And simply calling them dramatic for no reason, just based on their position ... it makes me very uncomfortable. Racism isn't about calling people slurs, it's stereotyping a whole group of people. You can say that it might not be a harmful stereotype, but is accusing black people of needlessly throwing tantrums, really harmless? Especially in this case, there's a long very painful history of accusing black people of overreacting. So when people call Ja'Marr a diva for wanting to be paid his worth, yea, I do think there's racism there. It's not overreacting to want to get what you deserve and the discussions that he should accept less than what he's worth, just because the (white) front office was too stupid -god, it makes me furious.

#i'll put this in this tags bc it's even more controversial #but there is. a difference in the coverage that deshaun watson received and justin tucker is now receiving #both of them belong in hell don't get me wrong. but. the lack of national media attention on tucker just rubs me wrong #i'm tired i don't want to proofread this #those comments were so disgusting 🤮#racism #nfl #my asks #*just revised this 😭 i was just typing and hopefully it's a little more coherent now #*accidentally had double of one paragraph 😔#*not entirely satisfied with how i worded the wr part maybe i'll go back and add more later

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softpine · 6 months ago

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can you please, please relate? i’m not holding up

[transcript]

#the one without a custom voicemail is asa :')#i always write casper posts when i'm mentally unwell 💀 but now i'm doing okay overall so reading this again makes me feel.......#almost like i'm oversharing somehow #and i get embarrassed #but i guess that's kind of the point #it wouldn't be mental illness if it made me feel good lmaooo #also i'm forcing myself not to proofread this at all because i don't want to get caught up in the cycle like i always do #so if there are any mistakes sorryyyyyy you can think of me as a semi-retired storyteller #frozen pines #camellia #casper birkshaw #tom connelly

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cherryxblossxms · 1 year ago

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🔞 Letting Buggy fuck his frustrations into you~

[nsfw obviously, afab reader, oral (m receiving), some degradation, rough sex, some ass slapping, creampie, followed by fluffy aftercare; a lil devil fruit misuse; 1.6k ahahahaha this....... was intended to be short idk what happened]

He's extremely hesitant when you first bring it up because he knows he's strong, and he never wants to bring anger into the bedroom. He's already anxious when it comes to his relationship with you, he wonders how he ended up with someone like you and if he even deserves you. It's a thought that's on his mind on a near-constant basis, though it improves over time. So the first several times, he adamantly refuses.

He still tends to fall back on old habits and mannerisms and it takes a lot for him to rein himself back in, control it so he's not causing harm to you. He already feels awful when this causes a fight with you that he didn't intend. So even though you're the one bringing this subject up, he's still worried that he'll hurt you somehow, physically or emotionally or maybe even both, and he'd never forgive himself if it caused you to leave.

It takes a while to convince him. But eventually, there's one day where seemingly nothing was going right. Buggy and his crew dealt with a particularly annoying opponent, destroyed a town but didn't get much loot out of it, and none of the crew members could seem to do anything right. At this point, all he wants is to shut himself in his room with you and forget about the world.

And then he remembers your offer.

The second he gets back to the ship, he's dragging you back to his cabin. He doesn't say anything at first, but you can see the gears turning in his head, thinking of what he needs to say. When he finally does speak, it's clearly with much effort over thinly veiled desire and frustration, asking you if you're sure that you want this.

He asks you not once, not twice, but three times. Even as you move forward to kiss his jaw, as you trail your hands over his abdomen and down to cup his growing erection, as he lets you brush your lips over his, he's still asking in between to make absolutely sure you're okay with this, because once you give the okay, he's not letting you go and he's not going easy. And it's clear how much he's struggling not to take you right then and there.

Finally, once he's convinced you understand what you're asking for and established a safe word and a call sign in case things get out of control, it's like the floodgates open. He's ripping your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. You're on your knees before you know what's happening, face to face with the straining tent in his pants, and Buggy's hand holding the back of your head to keep you close.

He has you undress him, exposing his fuzzy chest and watching as you undo and tug his pants down, and his cock is so eager that it slaps against your jaw, catching you with his dripping precum. It's always intoxicating being on your knees for your captain, but it's even moreso as he directs you on how to touch him, no hands allowed. But you're happy to oblige, teasing him with your tongue along the side of his shaft and along his heavy balls, drawing out a needy groan from his painted lips before he's gripping your hair, indicating his patience is waning quickly. And you're not one to want to anger your captain most days, or deprive him of what he needs. So you happily oblige, finally taking him into your mouth.

He's a struggle to fit in your mouth on a good day, blessed with a thick curved shaft that always manages to make you scream, and it's even harder now that you're doing this hands-free. But as Buggy directs your movements, bobbing your head on his dick, it's intoxicating letting him control your movement. It also doesn't help as you feel a hand suddenly grabbing your rear, having not even noticed he detached one. He temporarily lets go of your head to detach the other hand, using them to tug your pants and underwear down your thighs, before one hand comes back up to continue holding your head.

As you keep sucking him off, it shouldn't be a surprise as his one hand slides between your thighs, lightly brushing against your clit and sliding between your lower lips. What does surprise you both is how wet you are, and Buggy has no shame in pointing it out, commenting on how needy you are, what a slut you are to get off on being used like this. Buggy is no stranger to dirty talk, (it's hard to get him to stop talking about anything truly), but this time it's obvious how affected he is by everything.

He's quickly pumping one, two, three fingers between your legs, making you moan around his shaft as he preps you for the main event. With all the frustration built up in him, it's not long before he's twitching, already ready to cum, especially as he gets to listen to your noises. But he wants to finally take you. He pulls you off of him, dick coated in your spit, and you look fucked out already, making him chuckle. Once he reattaches the hand that was fingering you, he's finally completely removing your bottoms and hoisting you up in his arms, letting your legs wrap around his hips as he presses you to the cabin wall.

It's a struggle not to scream as he immediately pushes in, still causing some stretch even with all the prep. And although his thighs are shaking with the effort, he gives you just enough time to adjust before he's pounding you into the wood. If the ship wasn't already rocking with the sea, you're sure his movements alone would have made the place shake, the sounds of your wetness and skin slapping filling the air. At one point, he adjusts his position so your legs dangle over his forearms, effectively folding you like a lawn chair and allowing him to reach even deeper.

Your first orgasm blindsides you, making you scream and shake in his arms as Buggy keeps fucking you towards overstimulation, his movement barely halted as you suddenly clamp down on him. He slows his pace, but only barely, just enough to tell you how good you are for taking him like this... but that he's not done yet. You can barely register his words before you're on his bed, face down and ass up, thighs trembling from your orgasm and a cooling feeling between your legs as your cunt is exposed and presented.

You can only imagine what a mess it looks like, especially given the pounding he'd just given you, before a hand comes down on your ass, snapping you out of your thoughts and drawing a cry from your lips. Now this is not unusual for Buggy, whose hands are always finding their way to your ass. He loves the plush, the jiggle, and he especially loves the noises you make when he slaps it. But of course, even that's short-lived as he grinds his shaft against you, still hard and aching to cum already, before pushing in once more.

By now, although he hasn't cum yet, Buggy is actually feeling better already. Just having you cum for him, watching your expressions and feeling the way you hold onto him, eased much of his frustration, now mostly replaced by just his usual hunger for you. So he's quick to snap his hips against yours once more, making you moan against the sheets as he sets a brutal pace. Once again, one of his hands separates to keep up occasional slapping, making you tighten around him, before it eventually slides between your legs against to circle your clit.

The sensations are too much, and you're babbling as such before you realize it, but Buggy is quick to promise he's almost done, just a little bit longer, you're doing so good for him and he can't wait to fill you up. By now, his body is pressing down on yours, warm and sweaty and strong, his balls and thighs slapping against you with each thrust, and his detached hand still toying with your sensitive pearl, trying its hardest to make you cum again.

The combination of things finally drives you over the edge, and your orgasm triggers Buggy's this time, making you both moan in tandem as Buggy presses in close, cumming deep inside as your cunt tries to milk him for everything its worth. His moans echo in your ear, hot breath panting against your shoulder as you two struggle for breath. It takes much too long to separate, and the ache between your thighs tells you just how sore you'll be tomorrow. But as Buggy comes into your view, now seeking to check on your wellbeing after fucking your brains out, you can see that it'll be well worth it, his eyes only filled with love and worry now instead of their earlier anger.

Buggy always struggles a bit with aftercare, but he tries his best for you, finding the cleanest rag he can to clean between your legs. Once you're dressed in one of his shirts, he's quickly pulling you into his arms. It's sweet, if overbearing, how he's checking in with you and asking you about a hundred times if you're okay, if he was too rough, if there was anything you didn't like or if he scared you. You might have to interrupt him with a kiss to get him to stop for a moment, but once he's reassured about how you feel, he'll finally relax.

When you first brought up this offer, he was so scared about how it would turn out, afraid to hurt you and afraid to scare you off. But now that it's out of the way and he knows you're okay, he might be more willing to come to you more often with his... troubles.

#its year of the clown fucker yeehaw #buggy x reader #buggy one piece #buggy smut #one piece smut #buggy thirsts #afab reader #i cannot believe the chokehold this character has on me i am suffering #posting this before i chicken out so its not really proofread...#the minx can write ✍️#spicy minx 🔥

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crystallizsch · 2 months ago

Text

🐍: —?! Prefect, is everything alrigh-

💜: Don’t- say anything. Please.

(oh lore? below the cut?)

(cw: nightmares, implied death/suicide <- ONLY AT THE END) — 800+ words — I DIDNT REALIZE IT WAS THIS LONG???

━━━━━━✦

the vice housewarden of scarabia, jamil viper, didn't think he'd be bringing the ramshackle prefect to stay over at his room, and much to his roommate's confusion. then again, the roommate knew better than to question his choices.

it was the end of the day and the vice housewarden was on his way back to his dorm after a late-night errand.

what he didn’t expect was the ramshackle prefect coming out of the shadows and tackling him in a hug.

jamil almost threw down the unassuming prefect out of instinctual self-defense.

but the prefect gripped his back as if she was holding on for dear life— quivering, her head buried in his shoulders, holding back sobs, profusely apologizing over and over and over-

“sorry, sorry, sorry—“

the prefect said she had a nightmare.

jamil just froze, entirely confused.

all this because of a dream? what is the prefect even apologizing for other than whatever this is.

━━━━━━✦

jamil didn’t really know what to make of all of this, but it was hard not to pity the state the prefect was in.

pity. that’s the right word.

he only clarified to himself because the word, concern, briefly passed his mind.

it was not concern. why would he be concerned?

and if it weren’t for pity, jamil would have been annoyed instead. he had to admit, he didn’t know which would have been the worse approach, even though he opted for the former.

plus, this was a side to the prefect that the vice housewarden had not seen before.

vulnerable.

very vulnerable.

as if her walls finally fell. and jamil was able to bear witness behind it.

to choose whether or not to step inside those walls is up for debate in his mind.

no, stop it. not again. there was no point in involving himself more with the prefect this time.

jamil could have walked her back to ramshackle. but they were already in the mirror room, and he didn’t feel like making that trek.

or he might have been too tired and too dumbfounded to think.

yeah, those were jamil's excuses.

━━━━━━✦

it’s not like the ramshackle prefect, yuusha tala, understood either. how this all went down.

why the first person she beelined towards was the one who played a part in her nightmare.

why she felt comfort at his mere presence despite recoiling the moment she looks into his eyes.

either because of fear, disgust, or… guilt?

━━━━━━✦

this phenomenon had happened before.

yuusha and ace got off on a horrible foot at the start, deuce was just another guy that got involved with them by chance, and grim was an annoying cat.

and yet, it felt like she’d known them forever despite having only known them a few months.

there was no way they were all that compatible of a friend group to end up that way.

but the soft spot she felt for all three of them was like they were longtime friends in another life.

and now it’s this… bastard. the one yuusha fell head over heels at first only to feel used and betrayed.

why she keeps giving pretty guys a chance like this is beyond her. yuusha knows she won’t learn her lesson for the foreseeable future, however.

━━━━━━✦

in any case, the prefect finds herself resting on the scarabia vice housewarden’s bed when she could have suggested resting in one of the empty rooms instead. to not trouble him any further.

oh wait. jamil could have brought her to another empty room instead. there’s no way that didn’t cross his mind.

did he assume that would bring up memories?

if so, why would he even care?

the scarabia lounge would have been an alternate choice as well. but would it have been considered rude to put a guest there? even though yuusha wouldn’t have mind?

well. that’ll be a topic for another day.

━━━━━━✦

so the night was pretty uneventful. other than the awkwardness.

wait, actually— jamil wanted to bring up how the prefect had the habit of hugging things in her sleep.

namely him.

even when unconscious, the prefect can’t respect personal space.

but then that would bring up the obvious fact that jamil could have easily woken her up and quietly tell her off. and that he didn’t.

because for some strange reason, jamil felt an odd sense of comfort in her warm yet crushing embrace. and thus pretended not to have known instead.

━━━━━━✦

what was the nightmare, so to speak?

yuusha barely remembered all the details.

except for the feeling of the cold wind tearing through her skin, gravity violently pulling her down—

—and the final, haunting vision of a desperate hand reaching out to her, with an intensely horrified look flashing from charcoal grey eyes.

eyes that belong to none other than jamil viper.

#IT ENDED A BIT DARK I THINK #BUT IDK THIS IS PRETTY TAME TO ME TBH BUT IM NOT SURE HOW EVERYONE ELSE FEELS ABOUT IT 🧍🧍🧍#anyways something something yuusha is reminded of the jamil counterpart back in her original world #BYE im the only one who this lore makes sense to #not proofreading any further bc this is essentially just rambling too #+ it’s past midnight if something doesnt make sense OH WELL WE BALL #[—✦-#-✧ my writing #-✧ my art #cw nightmares #cw implied death #cw implied suicide #twst #twisted wonderland #twst oc x canon #jamil viper x yuu #twst yuu #twst yuusona #(💜) yuusha #(💜) curry noodles #-✦—]#i love messing around with different formats hmmmm #also dont mind that the art kinda contradicts the writing #i made the art before i had the idea for the writing oops hfbdjsjs #okay good night. passes out.

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the-broken-pen · 15 days ago

Note

Hi! I love love LOVE your writing so much!!!❤️❤️(it’s the only thing sometimes that can help me reorient myself when life sucks)-

Idk if you’ve already written a work like this- but could you write about a villain who fakes being in a relationship with hero to get information. Hero absolutely loves them and thinks that they can finally be happy….but then Villain breaks their heart- while saying they never loved them and that it was all a lie.

and then later on Villain regrets it and realizes they are actually obsessed with hero and go full psycho?

The hero had spent their childhood watching as their parents fought viciously with one another. Slamming doors and breaking plates, and then sullen, withdrawn and nearly silent conversations illuminated only by the dying lamp in the corner of the living room. Whatever the hero’s parents had, it wasn’t love, and never would be. The hero had no way of knowing if it ever had been.

And then the hero had watched as time after time, their sister loved someone with her whole heart and was left shattered on the hero’s doorstep at the end of it. Fairytales that ended with no happy ending, ripped up love notes and a hundred playlists made for people their sister could no longer bear to name out loud.

The hero had watched their entire family reach for love and fall flat every time, and had resigned themself to a fate of the kind of heartbreak you cannot escape. The kind that hangs over heads like a cloud and fogs mirrors.

And then–

The villain. The hero had met the villain, and the villain had smiled, and they thought maybe, just maybe, they had beaten the curse. That they were meant for the soft kind of love they had only imagined when they were young, before the pain of it got too great.

The hero had let the villain intertwine themself into the hero’s life, and they had thought they were okay. They had thought they had made it.

Which was why, now, they couldn’t seem to make themself think anything sensical at all.

The villain settled the file in front of the hero gently, on the table they had picked out together with as much care as one was capable of. They almost, almost, looked like they regretted it, face soft and breakable.

The villain cleared their throat in the silence. “If you just read it–”

“What, can’t say it yourself?”

The villain stopped, swallowing. This was the first time in a very long time the hero had seen them look unsure.

The hero scoffed at them. “I know about Project Pegasus.”

The villain went very, very still. They looked down towards the folder.

“So then–”

“This?” the hero picked up the folder, waving it once. They tossed it onto the floor without looking. “I’ve already read it. Two weeks ago.” They stared at the villain, and did their best not to blink. “I just hoped it was fake.”

The hero wondered if maybe, this was what had happened to their parents. If they had spent all of that time fighting and hating one another and crying in darkened rooms just so they could spend the rest of it constantly reaching back towards one another. Pretending that the file wasn’t real. That the fights were nothing more than a blip in existence and not the roots of a rot so deep it would never be fully cut out of them.

They had wondered about a lot of things, curled on the bathroom floor around that wretched file, but mostly they had wondered if they had always been meant to end up here. If this was what being doomed felt like.

The villain blinked.

“You hoped it was fake.”

The hero felt a little like they couldn’t breathe. They sucked a shallow breath in through their nose anyways.

“If you–” their voice broke. “If you were me, would you want to believe it?”

The villain’s shoulders, almost imperceptibly, slumped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yes,” the villain said, but in the space where they should have explained themself, where they should have said it was fake, and that they loved the hero more than anything, and that this little apartment meant everything to them–they said nothing.

“So, what,” the hero snapped, voice wet with barely held back tears. “You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean for me to fall in love with you? That this was an accident? That you’re sorry again? That you never meant to hurt me–”

“No,” the villain corrected gently. “You were always meant to fall in love with me.”

A tiny sob wormed its way out of the hero’s throat before they could stop themself, and they pressed their shaking fist to their mouth before anything else could follow, turning away.

“It was just about the information,” the villain said, and the hero shoved themself back from the table, just to get further away from the love of their life.

“You knew what you were doing,” the hero said bitterly. “You know me. You knew. You knew I would never be able to get over this, and you did it anyways–”

“It’s my job,” the villain protested, and it took the hero everything in them to remain standing. “It wasn’t personal.”

“You made yourself my world, you made yourself into my everything, you made me fall in love with you–”

“I never made you do anything.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that. This was your goal, wasn’t it? Own up to your accomplishments. Go on. Tell me how proud you are. Do it.”

“Hero.”

“I loved you,” the hero was screaming, maybe.

And there it was. Past tense.

Loved.

The villain stepped back like the hero had slapped them.

“Hero,” their voice was barely a whisper.

The hero picked up the file. Rifled through it once more.

“Hero–”

The hero held out the file. The villain didn’t take it, hands remaining limp at their side.

“Take it.” They gestured with the file. “Take it, and get out.”

The villain sucked in a breath.

“Hero,” the villain said again, uselessly.

“Tell me you love me, then. Tell me you meant it.” They gestured to the file once more. “Tell me that this is the lie.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

The villain opened their mouth, and for a second, the hero hoped–

“I don’t love you.”

The hero wished the villain had just killed them.

“I never loved you. It was all a lie. A really, really pretty lie.”

The hero wanted to say something elegant to that. Something biting and vicious and jagged in the same way the inside of them felt right now. They wanted to say everything they had felt earlier, every thought that had cut them so that it could cut the villain too.

Instead, all they managed was a choked, “Get out.”

They threw the file at the villain.

The villain didn’t bother to catch it, letting it slam into their chest. It thudded against the floor, papers spilling out in a halo around the villain’s feet.

A part of them wanted the villain to argue further.

A part of them just wanted the villain dead.

“I’m sorry,” the villain said once more, and then they were gone.

The villain had known as soon as the hero had thrown that file that they wanted the villain dead.

That they were more likely to claw their own bones apart than willingly reach for the villain’s hand again, and the logical part of their brain was viciously pleased about it.

It made this whole thing easier. No lingering attachments to further butcher. Just a field, burned so badly nothing would ever grow in it again, and god, wasn’t that convenient for their mission.

A tiny, smothered part of their brain, however, wouldn’t stop screaming.

They drowned it.

But then the villain would catch themself glancing to their side in search of a smile. They would wait a beat too long after they said something, would wait for laughter, and then there would be none, and they would curse themself for it, and that little part of them would come gasping back to life and start screaming again.

Possibly it was that little part of them that had made them send a message to the hero, offering the apartment. It was the least they could do, right? Fuck up their life and then get the fuck out of it.

But the texts had said delivered, but never read, and three days later when the villain used their key to open the lock, they found themself stepping into a mausoleum and not a home.

They weren’t sure what they were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Dust hanging in the air. Blank squares left on the walls where pictures had once hung. Empty cabinets, empty floors, empty rooms; no, whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

For a reason they couldn’t name, they went from room to room, searching for something without quite understanding what. It wasn’t until they had come full circle back into the living room, fingers coated in dust and an aching chest, that the villain had realized. Ghosts. They were looking for ghosts.

Because there was nothing better to describe the way they felt right now other than haunted. And if there was something, anything, of the hero left in here to burn, to destroy, to exorcise, they could use it as an excuse–

There was nothing left of the hero. There were no ghosts. This place was just dead.

The villain made a shuddering little sound, and slammed the front door closed behind them when they managed to stumble into the hallway.

This was an easy mission, it was–

–two years and dates over ramen and houseplants–

–something even a new recruit could do–

–i love you’s in the dark and the scent of the hero on all of their clothes and–

–something the villain was trained for, countless hours spent–

–laughing and crying and rainy days and sunny ones–

–learning how to fake love, and somehow–

–the villain had forgotten it was fake.

The villain couldn’t breathe.

The villain had forgotten they weren’t supposed to fall in love, too.

The villain had forgotten they weren’t supposed to fall in love too, and they had just set their entire world ablaze around themself.

Fuck.

It really only made sense, then, that they found themself standing on the roof of their old apartment building as it burned. And when that didn’t work, they moved onto the next, until a third building went up in flames beneath their feet. They knew the kind of message it would send, and they knew exactly who that message would get sent to–

The hero landed on the other end of the rooftop, as far away from the villain as they could possibly get.

“Stop,” the hero hissed, teeth clenched. “Stop lighting things on fire to get my attention, just stop–”

“I’m in love with you,” the villain said, voice wrecked, and the hero reacted like the villain had shot them. They stepped away, feet bumping against the edge like the fall was a better option than the villain.

“No,” the hero said. They shook as they said it. “Stop it. You don’t get to do this to me.”

“I love you,” the villain said again, and the hero pressed a hand over their own heart.

“Stay away from me,” the hero managed after a moment. Another deep breath, and their hand dropped back down to their side. “Go do whatever it is you need to do, go ruin anyone else’s life, and stay out of the wreckage of mine.”

“We have a life together,” the villain tried. If the hero could just see, could see that they could fix it– “I’m sorry. I was stupid, I was so, so stupid. But you can’t just leave, please, just let me fix it–”

“I told you to get out,” the hero said, and there was nothing soft in their eyes as they looked at the villain. “What about the way I said it made you think it was temporary?”

“Hero, please, let me fix–”

“Villain,” the hero said calmly, voice sharp. “Some things aren’t meant to be rebuilt.”

All of the air left the villain’s lungs in a pathetic sort of wheeze.

“You’re my everything,” the villain choked out. “My whole world, and I’m so sorry. I was–I made a mistake, but you can’t just throw us away–”

“No,” the hero spat, and the villain flinched. “You burned that world to the ground. You’re standing in the ashes of it. You don’t get to come to me begging for it back.”

The villain felt unmoored. Like the world had shifted one step to the left and they had no idea what to do with their limbs anymore, no idea how to keep existing.

“But I love you.”

“The only person who feels anything when you say that is you.”

This time, it was the villain who stepped back.

“Please,” the villain whispered, and the hero closed their eyes.

“What were you expecting to happen. That I would forgive you? Would fall back into your arms? You could tell me that you’re sorry in every language for the rest of your life and that wouldn’t make what you did hurt me any less. So why would you think you could light a building on fire, tell me you love me, and then make everything go back to the way it was?”

“I–I don’t–”

“There is no back,” the hero said firmly. “There is no undo.”

“I don’t know what to do,” the villain said. A tear dripped off the edge of their chin.

The hero appraised them.

“Learn to live with it.”

The villain sucked in a shuddering breath.

“I can’t live without you, okay, I can’t–”

“Then die.”

The villain froze. They waited for the hero to take it back, but the hero just stared at them, face stony and cold. An avenging angel on the edge of the rooftop, firelight flickering at their back and smoke rising into the air, not an ounce of sympathy left in their bones for the villain.

And before the villain could say anything, say that the hero couldn’t possibly mean that, the hero spoke again.

“I mean it. You are not my problem.”

The villain was choking. They were drowning on air and the hole they had left inside of themself when they ripped the hero out of their life and the hero was just watching them–

“Please,” they said pathetically, and even as they said it they knew it was futile.

The hero didn’t bother to give them another response.

They watched the hero leave without saying anything, smoke beginning to sting their eyes and nose as their hands shook.

It felt terminal. It felt world-ending. It felt deserved.

They wished the hero had just killed them.

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