#something possessed me and had to post them

[zstartrixxx]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐇

ᵒˡᶦᵛᵉʳ ᵐᵉˡˡᵒˢ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

good evening to all oliver mellors devotees!!! inspired by this post of mine here, i decided to develop a small fanfic for pure fun (horniness) to start a good friday, on the way to a splendid weekend! 

— pnp (+18 | NSFW | porn without plot | dirty talk, breeding kink and fingering | a lil' bit of after care | wc.: 1.7k ) happy reading for whoever is going to read it <3

"You want me to fuck you?"

The question came between one rough grunt and another, his half-bare chest rising and falling as he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, looking at you with a visceral hunger to devour you. You felt your body respond to that slutty gaze of his—weak legs, pussy throbbing and burning with the ache of wanting him, breath ragged and heavy between your lungs, pupils dilated in awe as the man undressed just for you.

Oliver didn’t stop devouring you with his stormy eyes, clouded with passion and desire: seeing you lying there in fragile, beautiful nakedness, legs slightly parted to reveal your wetness—all because of him—adorning his bed in the dim light of a cold afternoon, the fireplace crackling beside you, the air thick with the scent of sex, your sweet perfume mingling with his bittersweet sweat. It was driving him wild with lust and adoration. As soon as Mellors tore off his shirt, his voice came out breathless:

"No..."

"No!?" He raised a challenging eyebrow, hastily undoing his pants, where your eyes wavered at the sight of the thick bulge straining against his underwear. You wet your lips before speaking, matching his defiance: "No. I want you to split me in half with your cock. I want to choke on it today—no making love."

"Oh—" He gasped, then laughed smugly, yanking his pants off and pushing back the fringe that had fallen over his eyes before settling between your legs. He kissed your neck, his stubble prickling your skin, making you shiver. The tip of his nose trailed along the curve of your neck to your ear, his lips pressing hotly against your lobe as his deep voice whispered: "Are you sure you can handle all of me?"

Your hands wrapped around him—beneath your palms, his skin was soft, smooth, warm, and damp with a thin layer of sweat. You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in his scent—wood, upturned earth, sweet sweat, him—before answering:

"If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked, Oliver."

You were his ruin.

Oliver was (once again) certain of this as he pushed himself up on his arms just to look at you, with the perversion of someone who’d just been invited to destroy something. In this case, to destroy you. He smirked wickedly before leaning down to capture your lips in another slow, wet, messy kiss, grinding against your entrance as if he could already fuck you through the barrier of his underwear. His tongue, soft and possessive, tangled with yours as one of his hands guided yours to his back, then shoved it down his briefs, murmuring against your lips:

"Feel that? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Mhm..." You whimpered softly, giving his cock a teasing squeeze, drawing a low, almost restrained groan from him—one you swallowed in the kiss as you stroked him, your hips rocking against his. Oliver couldn’t take the sheer lust and adoration, roughly pulling your hand away, urgency taking over as he yanked down his briefs, letting them pool at his knees before grabbing you again, crashing his lips back onto yours.

You welcomed him with open arms and legs, so wet that the moment he lined himself up and pressed the head against your entrance, he sank into you with a long, drawn-out moan that sent a wave of unbearable heat through you—you loved hearing him moan for you. Drunk on your pussy, Oliver whined:

"Fuck, you feel so good," he started pushing in, slow, deliberate, making sure you both felt every inch, skin to skin, in this dance. "So tight and—" He gasped when you clenched around him, laughing at the face he made—eyes rolling back briefly before shutting, biting his lower lip. He stopped thrusting, opening his eyes in a flash of blue darkened by blown pupils:

"If you keep squeezing me like that, I’ll fill you up—like, now!" He chuckled as you bit your lip, amused, your hands gripping his narrow shoulders for some semblance of control, your voice slipping between a whiny moan and a playful tease:

"Maybe I want you to fill me up, Mellors... Who knows? Maybe we’ll have a little baby in a few months."

"Slut," he growled when you clenched around him again, moaning like a complete whore for you, taking deep breaths to keep from coming right then.

"Come on, Oliver, fuck me good, my love. We’re just getting started, and I want you to ruin me," you murmured, staring into his eyes. Oliver looked hypnotized—by you beneath him—his rough worker’s hands gripping your waist firmly, a shock running through both of you as he rolled you onto your side, one hand lifting your thigh over his. His cock had slipped out during the shift, drawing a giggly moan from you before he slid back in, pulling you into a tight embrace, his mouth going straight for your jaw, then your chin, before fucking you with the fury of a man consumed by desire.

Your moans grew louder, filling the room, your bodies pure flame, the world reduced to just this sweet, filthy moment between the two of you.

Mellors’ lips didn’t just devour you—they mapped every inch of your face, his tongue licking your lips, teasing you with kisses he trailed down to your cheek as he thrust deep, hitting that spot, one hand gripping your back to pull you harder onto his cock, slick, feeling you drip around him. It felt so good to be filled by him—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually—nestled between your soul and heart, sending spasms of pleasure electrifying your thighs, sweat-slicked and crying out in love for him.

"I’m gonna split you in half fucking you like this, my love—" Mellors gritted out, stopping his thrusts, making you whine at the loss of his cock. "—Oh, don’t look at me with those begging eyes, sweetheart," he murmured roughly, a tender hand cupping your face as he smirked. "I only stopped because this angle won’t let me shoot my cum deep inside that pretty little pussy, hmm?"

"Oh yeah? Then how are you gonna fuck me now?" There was no shame in these bedroom talks, at least not between you two. Your eyes gleamed, your breathing so heavy each word came out as a gasp, your hands gripping his arms.

Oliver simply pulled out of you.

Empty.

Your little whine made him laugh darkly before his strong hands flipped you onto your stomach, one leg hooking over yours as he settled behind you, thick and heavy, sliding back into your soaked, desperate cunt. Your hands scrambled for purchase, gripping the sweat-damp sheets as Oliver buried his face in your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin, his wild-honey scent enveloping you, his stubble scratching as his other hand slid down to your clit, rough fingers rubbing harsh circles:

"Like this, my love—taking you from behind while I make you squirm on my fingers..."

Your body was pure fire, Oliver fucking you with his cock and his fingers—his thrusts slow on the way in, rough on the way out, his balls slapping against you, his fingers slick with your arousal, sending electric shocks through your legs. You rested your head on his forearm beneath you, looking up at him with pleading eyes, met only by the most wicked, sinful gaze. Mellors pulled his hand away for just a second, wetting his fingers with his tongue before returning to your clit with renewed vigor, watching you writhe between his cock and his touch, the pleasure building, building, until—

"Oliver!"

His name tore from your lips in the most beautiful moan, music to his ears—and feeling you come around him, milking him, trembling, undid him. A choked groan ripped from his throat as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his hand stilling on your clit, instead splaying over your lower belly to keep you pressed against him.

You came together, staring at each other.

Smiling, satisfied, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips:

"Stay like this for a bit... Just to make sure you’ll walk out of here pregnant with my child."

"No doubt about that, my love. The way you came in me—the way you made me come..." You laughed, your body still floating from the aftershocks, sensitive, making you squirm beneath him.

You kissed again, this time letting it deepen, tongues tangling, tasting each other before—reluctantly—you pulled away, settling against his warm, comforting body, feeling some of his cum trickle out between your thighs.

Oliver shifted over you, his chest pressing against your breasts as he kissed your chin, nipped your nose, sucked on your cheek—"Stop! You’re gonna make me all slobbery...!"

"Oh, you’re talking? The one who just got filled with my cum is complaining about manners?" His laughter against your neck filled the entire space, and you melted into his touch, his mouth lazily mapping your skin, your drowsy eyes fixed on the white plaster ceiling, the orange firelight casting dancing dust motes in the air. You felt like you were floating, even with Oliver’s comforting weight on you.

Another kiss, this time on your lips, before Oliver whispered:

"I love when you get like this... All dazed after I fuck you."

"How romantic of you—" You laughed, squeezing him tighter against your chest, wishing you could fuse with his sweat-slick body before wriggling free, lying back on the mattress, looking at him with love: "—but you’re right about that... I’m better when I’m with you."

"I doubt that’s just when we’re fucking..." He shifted, offering an arm for you to curl into, his other hand lacing with yours over your stomach.

"Yes, Oliver... In everything."

"I feel the same, my love..." he whispered.

When you looked at him, his gaze was distant, lost in thought, and you wished you could read him completely—but you relaxed, reassured by the certainty that Oliver would always tell you, in that beautiful voice of his, just how much you meant to him.

As if reading your mind, with the gentleness reserved for holding a delicate flower, Oliver brushed your hair from your face, revealing your beauty to him fully, melting all over again. His lips curved into a smile of sincere love and devotion before pressing a kiss to your temple—long, lingering, as if he could telepathically whisper "I love you, love you, adore you, want you, love you" over and over with just that touch.

And so your bodies nestled in that cocoon of love and surrender, humming with pleasure—yours light and content, wrapped in Oliver’s unwavering devotion, completely at peace.

i’d like to thank you all once again for being here, reading my little crazies—truly, from the bottom of my heart!!! also, a quick announcement: we’ll have a remmy fic dropping on friday the 13th (if you’re reading this after that, RUN to check my masterlist ;). and now, i’ll be focusing on a full-length fic (yes, with actual plot and everything) 'bout mellors, PLUS another one about remmy crying over pussy—anon, i saw your message and i’ll reply properly later, in case you’re reading this here—to celebrate yet another milestone for this humble blog. see you soon, with wet kisses, tight hugs, and sweet dreams of our beloved lover oliver mellors (or our pathetic whiny vampire remmick!!!)

"You want me to fuck you?"

[svtimagination]

the stranger in my phone | jeon jungkook | eyes in the dark series

✦ Pairing: Jeon Jungkook × Female Reader ✦ Genre: Dark Angst, Fluff, Smut (18+) ✦ AUs: Stalker AU, Obsession AU, Hidden Identity, Texting Stranger → Dark Romance ✦ Chapter Warnings: Stalking, Harassment, Abduction, Aggression, Psychological Manipulation, Blood Mentions, Possessiveness, Non-consensual Undertones, Forced Intimacy, Obsessive Love, Trauma, Mental Instability ✦ Word Count: 3.1K ✦ Summary: A drunken text to a stranger draws Y/N into a flirty, thrilling exchange—unaware that the charming man on the other end is already watching her from the shadows.

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The bar hummed with life — the music low but steady, the clink of glasses blending with the sound of carefree laughter. The air smelled of liquor and a hint of mischief as you leaned back into the worn leather seat, your head just a little too light, your cheeks warm from the alcohol.

"Truth or dare, Y/N?" your friend teased, her voice lilting with the unmistakable glee of someone who'd had one too many drinks.

You grinned, biting your lower lip. "Dare."

A collective "ooooh" echoed around the table, your friends exchanging mischievous glances. That was your first mistake.

"Text a random number and flirt with them," one of your friends declared, a wicked smirk spreading across her face.

Your eyes widened, but the alcohol buzzing in your system made you bold. "Easy," you slurred with a laugh, unlocking your phone and randomly typing in a string of digits. No thought, no hesitation. Just reckless fun.

You: Hey there, handsome… are you this hot, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Your friends roared with laughter as you hit send. The screen blurred slightly before your eyes, but you kept going, spamming the number with playful, flirty texts.

You: I bet you look like a Greek god. Or maybe you're just a nerd in glasses… But hey, I like nerds.

Minutes passed. You were already moving on to another round of shots when your phone vibrated — once, then twice.

Unknown Number: Are you always this bold, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Your jaw dropped. "He replied!" you blurted, shoving the phone in your friends' faces. They cheered. "Ask him his name!" one of them giggled.

Your fingers moved quickly.

You: And who do I have the pleasure of drunkenly seducing tonight?

A pause.

Unknown Number: Jeon Jungkook.

The name made you blink. "Jeon Jungkook?" you muttered aloud. "Sounds… fancy." Your friends howled. "Maybe he's a CEO or something," one teased.

You shook your head, amused.

You: Ohhh, a full name? Classy. Let me guess — you're some hotshot businessman sitting in a glass office right now, counting your millions?

A longer pause this time. Your heart thudded lightly in your chest, the alcohol heightening every emotion.

Jungkook: Something like that.

You bit your lip. His responses were smooth, confident, but not pushy. It was… fun.

You: Well, Mr. Jeon, hope I'm not distracting you from making your next billion.

Jungkook: Trust me, sweetheart. You have all of my attention.

The words made your stomach flip — a dangerous mix of drunken courage and the thrill of talking to a stranger who seemed both charming and… intense.

What you didn't know was that Jeon Jungkook wasn't just some random businessman.

He was your stalker. And tonight, you had unknowingly handed him the perfect excuse to slip further into your life — all because of a silly, drunken dare.

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

The city glittered beneath the towering glass windows of my office, a perfect blend of cold steel and distant lights. Papers were scattered across my desk — contracts worth millions, deals that would make or break lesser men — but my mind was only half on the numbers. It always was these days.

The other half of me was… elsewhere. With her.

My Marionette.

The phone beside me buzzed, a single sharp ding slicing through the silence. I didn't expect a message — not at this hour — but when I glanced at the screen and saw the unfamiliar string of digits, a smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

Her. My Y/N. My marionette I give her this name

I knew her number by heart — I'd memorized it long ago — but seeing her text me without realizing who I was? It was almost too perfect.

Marionette: Hey there, handsome… are you this hot, or is it just the alcohol talking?

The boldness of her words made me chuckle, a low sound that echoed in the empty office. Was she drunk? Probably. She only ever let her guard down when she thought no one was watching.

But I was always watching. Fingers steady, I let the moment simmer before replying.

Me: Are you always this bold, or is it just the alcohol talking?

Her response was quick — playful, teasing — her usual sharpness dulled by liquor, but the fire in her personality still sparked through the screen. I liked her like this. Vulnerable. Open. Unaware that she was texting the very man who watched her from the shadows.

She asked for my name.

Me: Jeon Jungkook.

I didn't lie — there was no need. My name meant nothing to her, not yet. To her, I was just a random businessman on the other end of a dare.

Marionette: Ohhh, a full name? Classy. Let me guess — you're some hotshot businessman sitting in a glass office right now, counting your millions?

If only she knew. I leaned back in my chair, my thumb brushing the edge of the phone as I stared at her message. She was teasing, playing, unaware that her every move — every smile, every drunken text — was threading deeper into the web I'd spun around her.

She wasn't just texting a random man tonight. She was texting the one pulling her strings.

My Marionette.

Me: Trust me, sweetheart. You have all of my attention.

Because she did. Always.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Marionette: Oof, smooth talker alert. I bet you say that to all the girls, Mr. Jeon.

I chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the silent office. She thought this was a game — a harmless, drunken exchange with a stranger.

If only she knew how long I'd been watching her, how many times I'd crafted scenarios like this in my head. Tonight, luck had simply handed me the perfect excuse to slip into her life without suspicion.

She chose me. Or at least, she thought she did. My Marionette had unknowingly tangled herself deeper into the strings I held.

Me: I don't talk to just any girl, Y/N.

I imagined her reaction — the way her lips would part slightly in surprise, wondering how I knew her name. She hadn't given it to me yet, and I didn't plan to explain how I knew. I wanted to see if she'd question it — if her gut would whisper that something was wrong.

Seconds ticked by. My fingers drummed against the dark wood of my desk, anticipation simmering in my chest.

Then — three dots appeared. She was typing.

Marionette: Wait… did I tell you my name?

Smart girl. But drunk. Vulnerable.

Me: It showed up with your number.

A lie — effortless, smooth. She wouldn't question it, not when she was tipsy and playing a silly dare. The perfect alibi. Her response came slower this time, and I imagined her biting her bottom lip, trying to piece together whether or not she'd slipped up.

Marionette: Weird… but okay. Guess you have me at a disadvantage now, Mr. Jeon.

My tongue ran along the inside of my cheek, my jaw tightening at her words. Disadvantage? If only she knew just how deep that disadvantage ran.

I knew where she lived. What time she left for class every morning. The café she liked to study at. The perfume she wore — soft and sweet, like vanilla and a hint of jasmine. The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

She wasn't at a disadvantage. She was utterly, completely in my grasp — and the best part? She had no idea.

Me: I like having the upper hand, Y/N. Don't worry — I'll be gentle.

The words hung between us — a playful threat masked as a flirtation.

Would she catch it? Would her heart stutter in her chest the way mine did every time I thought of her — every time I saw her through the lens of my carefully hidden obsession?

Another pause. Then…

Marionette: Gosh… you're good at this. Are you sure you're not secretly a heartbreaker?

I smiled.

Oh, sweetheart. I wasn't here to break your heart. I was here to own it.

The seconds stretched between her last message and my next move. I could almost picture her now — sitting in that dimly lit bar, a half-empty glass clutched between her fingers, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the attention of a so-called stranger.

A soft smile playing at her lips as she waited for my reply, completely unaware she was toying with the man who had already mapped every inch of her life.

She didn't even realize the spider she was flirting with was the one who had been weaving her into his web for months.

My Marionette.

The phone buzzed again.

Marionette: So you're sure you're not drunk too? Because I swear, no sober man flirts this good.

I let out a low chuckle, running my thumb over my bottom lip as I leaned back in my chair. The city lights reflected off the glass walls of my office, the stark contrast between my world and hers glaringly obvious. She was there — carefree, drunk, laughing with her friends.

And I was here — cold, calculating, yet sickeningly infatuated with the girl on the other end of the phone.

Me: Not drunk, sweetheart. Just interested.

Simple. Friendly. A lie wrapped in a golden bow.

Because my interest wasn't the fleeting kind she thought it was — the kind of attention that burned fast and faded faster. No, my obsession was a slow, simmering ache. A carefully curated madness.

She had no idea that I knew she preferred red wine over cocktails. That I knew which sweater she wore when it rained.

That I'd watched her through the café window for hours as she studied, chewing the tip of her pen when she got stuck.

To her, I was a random number. A stranger. To me, she was everything.

The three dots appeared again. My jaw clenched — not out of frustration, but anticipation. Every text from her was like gasoline on the fire already raging inside me.

Marionette: Interested? What's a hotshot businessman like you doing talking to a tipsy college girl like me?

I smirked. Cute. She thought she was playing the game. But I was the one who created the board.

Me: Maybe I like tipsy college girls.

I let the words linger — just enough innuendo to keep her hooked, but not enough to scare her off. It was a delicate balance — push, but not too far. Pull, but not too hard. Not yet.

Another buzz.

Marionette: You're dangerous, Mr. Jeon.

I let out a dark chuckle. Oh, sweetheart… You don't know the half of it.

-Y/N POV-

The bar felt warmer now — the lights a little blurrier, the music a little louder. Or maybe that was just the alcohol humming through my veins. Either way, I was drunk. Properly drunk.

Another shot slid down my throat, burning for half a second before settling into a warm buzz in my chest. My friends were still howling with laughter over something stupid, but my attention was glued to my phone — to him.

Jeon Jungkook.

The random guy I'd just been dared to text was… surprisingly fun. Smooth, confident — dangerously so — but not in a way that screamed creep. If anything, he was playing along with my drunken flirting, matching my energy. It felt harmless. Silly.

Or maybe the liquor was making me too bold to care.

Me: Jungkook… sounds too serious. What if I call you… Jumpy JK?

I giggled to myself, biting my bottom lip to stifle the sound. God, I was embarrassing.

The three dots appeared immediately. He was quick — too quick for someone who was "busy counting millions" like I'd joked earlier.

Jungkook: Jumpy JK? Sweetheart, I don't think anyone's dared to call me that.

I could almost hear the smirk in his text. It made my stomach flip for some reason — that stupid, annoying flip that happens when someone attractive pays a little too much attention to you.

Which was ridiculous. I didn't even know what he looked like.

Me: Well, there's a first time for everything, Jumpy JK. Consider me the trendsetter.

Another giggle escaped me. God, I was so drunk. He replied again — smooth as ever.

Jungkook: A trendsetter, huh? Should I be worried about what nickname you'll come up with next?

I grinned, my fingers moving faster than my brain.

Me: Hmm… how about Mr. Billionaire Bunny? Rich, smooth talker… but I bet you're secretly soft.

I didn't even know why I said that — something about the name "Jungkook" felt… youthful.

Like he was too polished on the surface but maybe — just maybe — there was something warmer underneath. Or maybe that was just the tequila thinking for me.

The dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again. Was I throwing him off? Good.

Jungkook: Billionaire Bunny? Careful, sweetheart — you might be onto something.

Something about the way he called me sweetheart made my skin tingle — too warm, too familiar for someone I didn't even know. But I brushed it off. It was just flirting. Nothing more.

Right? I took another shot. The room spun a little, and my thumbs danced clumsily over the screen.

Me: If you're a billionaire, shouldn't you be doing… billionaire things? Not texting drunk girls in bars?

I expected him to deflect again, to play it off like he had before — light, flirty. But his next text felt heavier.

Jungkook: Maybe drunk girls in bars are more interesting than business meetings.

My heart thudded. It shouldn't have. It was just a text. Just a game. Right?

-JEON JUNGKOOK POV-

Billionaire Bunny.

The name shouldn't have amused me, but it did — not because it was clever, but because it was her. She could've called me anything, could've laughed at her own drunken jokes like she just did, and I still would've hung onto every word like a man starved.

Because it was Y/N. My Marionette. The girl who had unknowingly spun herself into my web long before tonight.

I leaned back in my chair, the city lights casting a cold glow across my office. My fingers tightened around the phone, the smooth surface suddenly too small — too fragile — for the weight of my obsession.

She thought this was a game. A drunken dare. A harmless flirtation with a stranger. But to me? It was a door she'd just opened — wide enough for me to step through, to slip further into her life with a smile and a name she didn't yet fear.

Jeon Jungkook.

Not her stalker. Not the shadow who followed her home. Not the man who memorized the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.

Just a random businessman who happened to text back.

I was playing the role perfectly — friendly, flirty, a touch mysterious. Careful not to push too far too fast. She didn't know that every word she sent fueled something far darker inside me — an obsession that had grown roots so deep, even I couldn't cut them loose.

Her latest message blinked on my screen.

Marionette: If you're a billionaire, shouldn't you be doing… billionaire things? Not texting drunk girls in bars?

I smirked.

Me: Maybe drunk girls in bars are more interesting than business meetings.

It was a simple line — light, teasing — but I wondered if she felt the shift like I did. If she noticed how easily I turned the conversation back to her.

Would her friends tease her about it? Would she glance at her phone and feel the tiniest flicker of intrigue — wondering why a rich, successful man was bothering with someone like her?

Good. Let her wonder. Let the doubt creep in. Because that was the key to this game — not chasing her, but making her step closer. Making her want to know me. To trust me.

Even if that trust was built on nothing but lies. The dots appeared again.

Marionette: Oh? So you're saying I'm more fun than your boring billionaire life?

Me: Much more fun, sweetheart.

The word sweetheart lingered in my mind — a dangerous pet name, too familiar, too intimate — but I liked it. I liked the way I could slip it into conversation and feel her hesitation, the slight pause before she replied.

She noticed. Even if she didn't fully realize it yet — she noticed. And that was enough. For now.

The seconds dragged into minutes.

Her texts — the playful, drunken nonsense that had me grinning like a fool in this cold, sterile office — suddenly stopped.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, waiting for those familiar three dots to pop back up. They didn't.

Me: What's wrong, sweetheart?

Nothing. Unseen. Another minute passed. Then two. Then five. The small flame of amusement in my chest flickered — twisting into something darker. Colder.

She didn't just lose interest. No, not Y/N. She was drunk, still giddy and playful just minutes ago — and now, nothing?

Did she pass out?

The thought gnawed at me. The idea of her — slumped over at some dimly lit bar, surrounded by people who didn't know her like I did — was enough to set my jaw tight. She was too careless tonight. Too trusting.

Her friends were probably just as drunk — laughing, dancing, not watching over her the way I would have.

If I were there… I shut my eyes for a beat, breathing slow. I wasn't there — because she didn't want me there. Not yet. Not in the way I needed to be.

She still thought I was just a name on her screen — a random man she stumbled into by chance. Not the man who already knew the bar she was at.

The man who had followed her there once or twice before, lingering in the shadows just long enough to make sure she got home safe.

My fingers tightened around the phone, the plastic and glass creaking under the pressure.

I should leave it alone. Let her wake up tomorrow with a headache and a blurry memory of texting some smooth-talking "billionaire" — let her reach out first.

But the idea of her unconscious — vulnerable — made my skin itch. I had to know. I had to see. With a slow exhale, I typed one last message.

Me: Falling asleep on me already? Or did someone steal your attention, sweetheart?

No response. Unseen.

My jaw clenched.

I leaned back in my chair, the cold glass of the skyscraper window reflecting the dark smirk tugging at my lips. It was fine. Let her sleep. Because tonight was just the beginning.

She'd opened the door — and now, I wasn't going anywhere.

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A/N: How was the story, do tell me.... Also, if you want to be tagged, please feel free to drop a comment or send an ask<3

– DO NOT: repost, translate, copy, continue, or reimagine my work, and upload on different sites. this is mine. let it rest here.

[punished-affection]

☾ — yandere summon x reader !

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　☾　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　,　 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　 　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  ✮　　　　　⠀✦⠀　 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdivider credit: h-aewo.

notes: sorry for disappearing for a few months here i didnt know what to post lol. so here's something short, cause i wanna be active here. i actually really like how this turned out.

warnings: gn reader, not proofread. yandere content, unhealthy relationships, possessive behavior, near-death experience, murder, saros is kinda freaky ngl, use of the term 'master', brief depiction of murder, jealousy, overprotective behavior.

♡ — thinking about a yandere summon... you end up in a typical isekai scenario and end up in a world of fantasy entirely unfamiliar to you, left to start a new life with no place to call home and no one to rely on but yourself. it was hard work, but you were able to get into a normal routine, managing to get a job at a tavern. the owner was even kind enough to let you stay in the small loft in the upstairs area!

♡ — you were so focused on just trying to build a life here that you never really realized you had any sort of special power. not until your life was in danger, and you resigned yourself to death yet again. right before the final blow could be dealt, there was this blinding light. bright enough that you squeezed your eyes shut to shield yourself from it.

♡ — rain starts to pour, but you can't feel it touching your skin. everything was silent, other than the rain. when you opened your eyes, you weren't sure what you were expecting to see. but the adventurers that had decided to attack you because you wouldn't let them leave the tavern without paying their tab were gone. the only thing remaining of them were their weapons dropped on the ground, red water washing away.

♡ — instead, a man stood before you. he was holding an umbrella, and it was the reason why the rain wasn't touching you. yellow eyes stare down at you, the faint glow of them causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. he smiles when you meet his gaze, and there's this air of danger around him but it didn't feel directed towards you.

he felt the pull almost instantly. the human he'd connected his soul to was finally calling for him. finally bringing him out of the endless darkness that he called home. he was starting to think they'd never discover their power! he had been so excited to finally meet you! he had it all planned out. you'd summon him, and he'll appear in front of you with a nice demonstration of his power, like summons always do, and you'll be so impressed by him that you'll fall in love with him. so when he appeared to see you curled up on the ground, a bunch of no-good assholes beating you up... their reasoning doesn't matter to him, because in his eyes, you could do no wrong. the rain started to fall, and saros opens the green umbrella in his hand, holding it over your shivering body to keep you from getting wet. the people who were hurting you screamed. the rain burned their skin, and they dropped their weapons. the scum tried to flee, but you can't outrun something falling from the sky. they were dead in a matter of seconds, not even their clothes left behind. but none of that seemed to matter as he looked down to see you staring up at him. your blood was sticking to your skin, exhaustion heavy on your face. but your eyes held a galaxy within them, and when his skin touched yours as he helped you up, it felt as if everything clicked into place. he's right where he belongs.

♡ — "i was wondering when you'd call on me," he hums as he helps you from the ground. his touch was gentle, but firm. you have to lean on him just to keep yourself from falling over. the pain in your body made you feel unbearably nauseous, and you could already see black dots pooling in your vision.

♡ — when you next wake, you're in the loft at the tavern. honestly, you would've believed the whole experience to be a dream if the man wasn't sitting on the floor next to the bed, flipping through one of the books you'd recently gotten. he seemed to perk up like a dog when he saw you were awake.

♡ — he introduced himself as saros, and you were a summoner. apparently. the term wasn't a mystery to you. you've lived in this world long enough that you had no choice but to learn about the magic in it, you just hadn't ever expected to wield that magic. summoners were rare, and they were typically high up in the government due to their powers. but that wasn't a life you wanted to live.

♡ — and saros was... well, he was a bit too eager to listen to you, to be honest. the stories you've heard of summoners, you sorta assumed you'd have to prove your worth for him to do what you want, but no. if anything, you'd rather he stop listening to you. he was stuck by your side like glue, and you had to awkwardly come up with a story for your boss as to why you suddenly had a weird... bodyguard? friend? you're not sure, honestly.

♡ — either way, your boss ultimately agreed saros could stay as long as he helped out around the tavern as well. he was eager to help out, too. he insisted on doing most of the work, so you ended up behind the bar most nights making drinks while he went to deliver them. something about not wanting you to exhaust yourself? but the way he looks when one of the patrons sitting at the bar tries talking to you, you got a feeling his reasons were a lot more sinister than they appeared.

there's this pout on his lips as he watches you chat away with some random adventurer. he's supposed to be humoring some patrons, but it was hard to focus on the work he'd been assigned by you when you're laughing at some awful joke made by someone who wasn't him. saros hated seeing you talk to other people. why would you need anyone else when you have him? he's all you could ever want or need. a friend, a protector, a lover. he gets that you're just doing your job, but he hates it. it would be so easy to take you far away from anyone else. these people don't appreciate you like he does. they don't understand you, they don't know what made you happy. they didn't spend a century figuring out how to drag you into their world so they could spend their life with you. maybe he should. you wouldn't be able to stop him, you're just a weak human. the idea danced around in his mind, but everything seemed to go silent when your gaze flickered over to him. he stared, and you offered a small smile before getting back to work. oh, he can't take freedom away from you. not if it risks losing that pretty smile of yours.

♡ — you're not even sure what he is. he's a summon, that much you know, but... what kind? what category does he fall in? he so easily killed a group of adventurers with rain alone (something that still makes you sick when you think about it), so he's definitely in a higher category compared to your typical summon.

♡ — it's a question saros must've been waiting for you to ask, because when you finally decide to ask him about his origins one night while trying to fall asleep, he perks up like a dog and gets this smile on his face. like you asking about him, wanting to learn about him, was the greatest thing that's ever happened.

♡ — you were expecting a complicated response, truth be told. a lesson on summons, the different types of summons, something like that. instead, saros just hums like he's in thought for a moment. there's this playful glint in his eyes as he cocks his head to the side a bit, "i guess you could say i'm a god?"

♡ — and you laugh at his words. you weren't from this world, but you weren't clueless, either. you had studied up on the place. gods can't be summons, because gods don't like being controlled. some may argue that they can't be controlled. the few records of a god being a summon, it resulted in the summoner being killed, because mortals aren't built to withstand the energy of immortals.

saros smiles at the sound of your laugh. you didn't believe him, and he found that to be adorable. he can't blame you. were you anyone else, he would've left a long time ago. he's not fond of people telling him one to do, but you... you're just... special. you could tell him to cut off his own arm and he would. "...you're joking, right?" you ask, the sound of your voice causing his skin to tingle and his soul to burn in his chest. he can see the moment you realize that he was serious. your expression shifts into something wary, and you were putting distance between you two. he didn't like that. shifting closer, saros reaches out and grabs you wrist. he can feel you tense from his touch, and his smile grows just a bit from your reaction. everything you did, every reaction you had, it was all so damn cute to him. your fear wasn't misplaced, either. he could easily overpower you. he could take you, he could lock you away. he could keep you all for himself. he could. but he won't. he values your trust, your respect, your love far too much to betray you. unless it's to save your life, saros could never see himself going against your wishes. you are his master, his everything. his whole existence, from the moment he discovered your soul while peeking into the neighboring universe, revolves around you.

♡ — the moment you felt him grab your wrist, you were preparing for the worst. your life force to be sucked out of you, or maybe something worse than that. the first time you died, you ended up in this alternate universe and had to restart your life. if you die again, would that be it?

♡ — but instead of the death you were expecting, you were met with the touch of cool metal. a chain. you blink, and look down at your hand to see a chain resting on your palm. your gaze follows it, only to see it connected to a collar that saros was wearing. when the fuck did he even put that on? how long has he had this?

♡ — "consider this my vow to never harm you, master," saros says, like that would explain anything. you stare at the collar for a moment longer before looking to meet his gaze, yellow eyes staring back into you. there's an intensity behind them that has you looking away, and you pull your hand back. the chain falls, and you watch as it fizzles away into nothing.

♡ — ...you suppose saros' presence is just one of the many things you'll have to adjust to, if you hope to survive in this world. you just weren't expecting a god to be so... weird.

[cherriette]

afab/transmasc scara brainrot ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚

♯ ˶ featuring ⦂ afab!scaramouche (or wanderer! that works lmao) x afab!reader

♯ ˶ notes ⦂ scissoring / implied overstimulation / bottom!scara / awkward writing :( POTENTALLY OOC!!! i hope not though. this is just a brainrot post (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) !!

i never sesbian lex scissor city before!! so i hope this isn't unrealistic. :( i'm trying </3

♯ cherry~cherie

∿ two rounds? three? maybe four? 𓈒 At this point, he wasn't even sure; mind blank, hazed---eyes glossed over by pure lust and pressed so prettily into the mattress beneath him. That confident front he had up earlier, long forgotten and completely melted away into whoreish submission. Such a pretty face he had ~ flushed rosily, pretty lips gaping and slick with drool--tongue lolled out with every few stroke of your clit against his that made his eyes roll back. And his moans, pornographically sweet as they bounced off the walls. broken, whimpering, raising in pitch and volume.

You wore the smallest smile, watching him unravel while you ground against him. pussies rubbing desperately against each other, slick mixing together and thighs soaked with your fluids. The lewd, wet noises filled the room, somehow still audible under his moans, growing more broken and whiny each orgasm you rode and pushed him through; "a-ahhnnn~ fuck, slow down--- i already-- s-sensitive... ahh~!"

And still, even while fucked out, his own cunt was throbbing around air, clit swollen and sensitive and his hips moving needily up against yours for more friction. It was amusing, honestly. How he'd whimper out how it was too much yet still wanted more, how for the umpteenth time he'd scream your name as he gushed all over your pussy mid-act. How his hands, slender and trembling, found your thighs with a tight grasp - his body rocking while you slid your pussy against his just right, his back arching off the bed with a high-pitched squeal of your name that made him inwardly grimace.

A faster pace.

He moaned into it---of course he did. You moved against him like you needed him to remember specifically how you felt against him. Like having him writhing and borderline sobbing under you wasn't enough, you needed him completely ruined and fucked stupid. And at this point, that was the case - and every little reaction of his only served to egg you on. How his body twitched and jolted when your clits rubbed, how his breaths sharpened as he moved his hands to your hips ~ a lazy attempt to press you more against him to chase his own orgasm.

Pretty whimpers slipped from his lips as much as he tried to hold them in, his head pressed back into the pillow and his eyes fluttering closed, eyebrows furrowed and-- "C-Cumming~ gonna c--- fuckfuckfu--"

A few more ruts and his body convulsed under yours, messy squirting accompanied by a round of high-pitched moans and nearly coherent blabbering with some attempts of your name amongst it. His hands flailed around, desperate to grab something---the sheets, the pillow, the air and then back on your body as you rode him through it.

Beneath you, his body fell limp. Chest rising and falling with his orgasm, Indigo irises still dull and fucked-out as they looked up at you tearily. Some faint, satisfied giggle left your lips when you lifted yourself off of him--a string of slick briefly connecting you as you moved up to kiss him. A quick peck, light and gentle, then a deeper kiss--before you moved to kiss his forehead and cheeks. "Mmh.... you're so pretty like this.."

࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚

hii i'm back i think. i think it's my preference for women and femme anatomy that possessed me because i haven't been able to write on this -- or any -- account for months.

forgive me for any typos, i tried to check through for them. and i'm sorry if this is cringey, i've gotten rusty with writing smut (as well as writing overall). i hope i can be more active on my accounts now that i've found back my motivation, although i might occasionally hide again out of habit if i pressure myself to keep posting. </3

i'll be revamping my page in the meantime.

[brujaluas]

Compatibilities in the destiny matrix that >I< find the most difficult to deal with!

Remember, if you don't know what I'm talking about and want to know more or want to know how to do your destiny matrix and/or compatibility with another person, I'll leave useful links here for you, remembering that I now also have paid services to analyze your destiny matrix or compatibility. <3

link with information about destiny of matrix and how to make it.

link about my new paid services about matrix of destiny

It's good to remember that when I talk about relationships/relationships, I'm not limiting myself to romantic couples, but to all types of relationships (because if you know someone, you already have a relationship with them, and I could be referring to a friendship, family, acquaintances, coworkers and finally, romantic love.

I think I've said too much in this post, but usually my tarot analyses and readings are this long, so get used to it, my sweeties. Let's go!

ps: I would like to warn you that during some analyses there will be +18 content, more specifically in the compatibility 15 and 16.

Compatibility number 16 in the center

I'll start with the one I consider the worst of all, the number 16 in the tarot is the TOWER card, yes, nothing more and nothing less than the TOWER. When you have compatibility 16, it usually involves relationships that already had a past, yes, I'm talking about a relationship that is most likely karmic, relationships like this start like an explosion! It's a huge adrenaline rush, you meet each other and already have a thousand feelings and emotions for each other, whether positive or negative, it's that person who you know has left a mark on you, even if you don't really know it, something of yours gravitates towards that person, it can be a relationship that starts very quickly! For example, they become super friends in a first conversation, or for romantic affairs in 2 months they are already dating and then everything cools down, it is as if at the same time you wanted each other, both have the tendency to sabotage the relationship, always moving away from each other consciously or not! The relationship is also marked by a huge obsession and jealousy here and I am serious! It's not a silly jealousy here, like not liking that the person has spoken to someone else. Jealousy and possessiveness are serious in this relationship, and can almost always end in fights, serious fights, in some cases with a lot of yelling and cursing and even physical violence. Yes, violence also has a big impact on relationships with 16. It's not an easy relationship at all, because of the way it is. I believe that the life spent with the person may have been quite tormented. If it's a loving relationship, there's a lot of make-up sex here. You fight, you don't talk properly because you both prefer to end the night with sex instead of discussing the problems that will come to the couple the next day. It reminds me a lot of a dialogue like "I hate you" "It's mutual, I hope I never see you again!" and after a few hours you're treating each other full of love. It could be a relationship where you fight and move away but always get back together. It's that yo-yo relationship. If you watched Euphoria, there's a part where they talk about how Nate and Maddy always fought and got back together. People would see you like, "Did you break up with that person?" "Yes." "Definitely, right?" "Definitely, no chance of getting back together." And a week later, you're with that person. Can it be a healthy relationship? Yes! There's a LOT of love in these relationships, a desire to protect and have the person all to yourself. But it's complicated because it's a relationship between two EXTREMELY intense people who DON'T know how to deal with their own intensity, much less with the intensity of the relationship.

Besides, there could be many games here, like one of you ending up "trading" the other, just to make it clear that there are other options, even if you're sick with love for the person you choose to torment, go figure.

Compatibility 13 in the center

I don't see relationships with this compatibility being supposed to be long-term, it's a transitional relationship, you met to change your personal lives definitively, there are points in you and in the other person that your relationship can help to show, such as a reconstruction of ideals, values ​​and mentality, it's that position when you go through a situation with someone and think "wow, this has changed me" and it can be both positive and negative, you are always being a walking metamorphosis, helping each other in a certain way to break old patterns (this can also be linked to being in a relationship with a person completely different from you, becoming a challenge in a certain way), but continuing, you are always on the point of challenging each other, and all these constant changes can be excellent but at the same time very tiring and exhausting for you, for them or for both. It can be relationships with a very striking beginning and/or end, it reminds me of a Netflix movie (if I'm not mistaken) that was even nominated for an Oscar, with Scarlett Johansson, which talked about the entire divorce process of a couple. I know it may sound very depressing, but the end of this relationship was sad and intense, just as the end of relationships can be for those who have this compatibility. Sometimes it can be karmic too, but that's not a rule. It can also be a relationship that you're carrying on out of fear, whether it's a fear of becoming independent again, of living without the person, of going back to being the way you were before, anyway, I don't see the target as necessarily extremely toxic, but it's definitely not something easy to live with.

Compatibility 15 in the center.

It's complicated, get the children and minors out of the room first, because there's no way to talk about the number 15 without talking about sex/sexual tension. In the tarot, the number 15 is associated with the Devil, a dense card. Just like the relationship of those who have this compatibility in the center of the matrix, if you're thinking about a couple, couples with this compatibility are quite obsessive with each other, and have a very strong sexual attraction, they can be driven most of the time by issues of sexual appeal, it's like Tinashe's song - Nasty Girl when she sings "Is somebody gonna match my freak?" And she'll answer "me!", it can cause mental confusion in one or both of you because that question will come up "is it love or are we just good in bed?" One song that I think fits perfectly for couples with this compatibility is Dua Lipa's "Good in Bed" (my favorite song of hers too, it's worth checking out if you're in a romantic relationship with someone with this compatibility, then tell me what you think). If we're talking about a relationship that isn't romantic, it's a very controversial relationship, involved in a soap opera plot, it can be very obsessive, possessive and quite jealous (it also applies to couples), and any relationship driven by obsession, jealousy and possessiveness is very complicated, right? Here there's also a question of rushing, if it's a couple they definitely don't wait for foreplay, friends here in a month or two are already planning a trip together, for example. There can be betrayals here, broken trust, apathy towards problems, it's always "we'll talk later" and you never talk about the problems in the relationship, you can get involved in addictions together or bad habits too. It also reminds me of gossip, there can be gossip between you or about you that can really affect the mental health of both of you. A relationship that can be fun and not get boring? Yes. Good in the long run? Maybe not.

Compatibility number 18 in the center.

First of all, just like compatibility 16 in the center, 18 also talks about karma, but here it's something more positive. This compatibility talks about soulmates, yes, that's right, I don't really like to talk about my readings/services, something like "this person is your soulmate/twin flame" because people end up not setting limits on this, thinking that just because there's a connection there that they should accept anything coming from this relationship and behavior, which is not exactly the case, but leaving this warning of mine, let's continue, you must think "wow, but they're soulmates, why would that be a bad thing?" Well, speaking positively, with this compatibility there's a great mental companionship here, you understand each other very well emotionally, it's that kind of relationship that looks at each other and already understands each other, they live in their own little world and others can even be part of it, but there's a different language between people who share this number. They look at each other and one starts to cry, the other one too, because kind of feel what the other person is feeling haha, it's confusing. Anyway, there's a very strong mental connection, like knowing what the other is thinking, they can have a 5D connection, in dreams, but why can it be difficult? Because it's usually associated with soulmates and karma! Karma that's not so positive, you know? Who knows what you went through in another life (you can get an idea through the karmic cause, but that's only with personal analysis), but continuing, it's a good connection, but it's also very intense and difficult to manage, it can cause codependency, it would be a really freaky relationship (of any kind), it reminds me of Lana del Rey's song - Religion, and I also think it can be a relationship where both are very attached to each other, like any possibly negative reaction can end the other, feeling bad, doing crazy things because of it, it's really complicated to describe.

I'll give you an example. Do you know Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love? They were the craziest couple, and did you know that they share the number 18 in the Matrix of Compatibility Destiny? Yeah, that's right, their relationship was always visibly EXTREMELY intense. I won't give a complete biography of their relationship here, but Kurt thought Courtney had cheated on him, and he practically overdosed because of it. That's just an ASSUMPTION. In addition to a turbulent relationship of comings and goings, in the song Heart-Shaped Box (which I really like, you can check out the lyrics if you want), you can feel how intense and complicated this relationship was. But on the other hand, there's also a couple that I know that has this combination and even similar compatibility, and they were together for almost 50 years. What separated them was death. They were an extremely passionate couple, and you could look at them and feel the love living there, and they were considerably calm (even though one of them was VERY intense too). See? It's complex, I believe that everything depends on how your past life with this person was to see how it will be in this one.

I feel that in this compatibility 18, one of you has a superhero syndrome, of wanting to save everyone, especially those who are your soulmates, right?

Compatibility 22 in the center

I would like to say that at least in the center of the matrix, I believe that repeated numbers are not very positive because they give the idea that they end up mirroring each other too much. The same happens with compatibility 11. These are relationships that can be fun, have good times, but there may be a question of high expectations for the relationship and one and the other may have many expectations about the other and about the relationship they share, like "she's the person of my life" "the best friend I could have, incomparable", which is cute and cool, but is this really happening or is it an expectation that is too high that you are placing on the person's lap??? There may also be a fear of commitment or responsibility in these relationships. I think that for a friendship, colleague, work relationship, family relationship it may even be a good combination, but for romantic relationships, I don't know, well, it's the card of the fool, right? Number 22 is ruled by the fool, so you can expect everything from this relationship. It's worth checking it out if you want to embark on this.

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (17)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 6.8k

authors note: i'm now writing in real time and will post at the same time when chapters are ready, here and on AO3. i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

tag list: @thelastemzy @its-in-the-woods @wkhannah @h0neylemon

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

Frank’s hands shot out, fast, rough— fingers curling around your wrists before you could step back again. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Intentional. You froze at the contact, pulse flaring under his grip. It wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about stopping you. It was about the tether. The last one left. And some part of you— the part buried so deep it didn’t speak often— thought: This is what it feels like to be wanted. Not gently, not softly. But completely. Dark corners and all. His skin was hot against yours, fevered almost, and the way he held you felt like a contradiction in motion: desperate and hesitant all at once.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at where he held you like you couldn’t quite believe it. You tugged at his hold on you, flexing your arms, trying to pull back— and his grip on you tightened.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Just— don’t.”

You could feel the breath leave your lungs in a slow, shuddering exhale. His thumbs dragged across your skin, slow, uncertain, like he was memorizing the shape of your pulse. Like he hadn’t meant to grab you but couldn’t make himself stop.

His eyes lifted to yours. And this time— he looked. Really looked. Like he didn’t want to. Like it cost him something. You didn’t recognize the expression on his face. Not exactly. But it carved itself into you, sharp and permanent.

“Let me go, Frank.”

“No.”

His voice came low, wrecked, nearly swallowed. But there was steel beneath it. Not possessive, not pleading. Just a refusal carved from the same place as grief. And in that one word, you heard everything he hadn’t said: I already let go once. I tried to. I can’t do it again.

Something in you shifted at his refusal— some deep, bruised place inside that hadn’t stopped aching since the night before. The air felt thinner now. Too tight in your chest. Your hands were suddenly damp, clammy with adrenaline. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or anticipation setting your skin alight, but goosebumps rolled across your arms, even as heat pooled low in your belly.

His grip on your wrists tightened once more— still not painfully, but with a kind of authority that made your heart stutter all over again before picking up into a staccato beat. His eyes were on yours now, locked and burning. There was no apology in them, no regret. Just fire. And the fuel? You.

This time you were certain. He moved first.

His mouth crashed against yours with none of the tenderness from before. This wasn’t slow or careful. This was a punishment. Or maybe it was a surrender. A kiss thrown like a match onto gasoline. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up— spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders and then around the back of his neck, wrapping tightly around him. You kissed him back just as hard, just as hungry. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, and he growled into your mouth like the sound was torn from the center of him.

The fury inside you didn’t die— it shifted. Reformed. Molded into something molten. Something reckless and clawing and full of need.

His hands had dropped from your wrists to your waist, and now began to lower— gripping tight, anchoring, dragging you against him like he was trying to fuse your bodies together. You felt the scrape of your zipper catch his, the heat of him pressed flush to your stomach. And still, he kept moving you, pulling you forward with single-minded purpose— toward the bed, the wall, the table. He didn’t care. Neither did you. You just needed him closer.

The room tilted slightly, like gravity had shifted. Your ears buzzed faintly, overwhelmed by the roar of your own pulse. Your legs were trembling now, knees gone soft from the weight of what was building between you— fury and hunger braided so tightly together they were indistinguishable.

His mouth broke from yours— only to trail down, over your jaw, your neck, biting heat into your skin with every pass.

“Take it off,” he muttered, voice rough, hand already shoving beneath your shirt, dragging it higher with fingers that shook.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because it was him. And because you were… you.  

“Frank—”

The name caught in your throat, came out softer than you meant it. Like a question… or a warning.

He froze for a breath, his chest rising fast against yours. And then his mouth found yours again, harder now. Wilder. Like he needed to drown out whatever meaning you’d tucked into his name.

“Why can’t you just listen to me?” he growled into the kiss, lips rough and unforgiving against yours. “Why can’t you just do what you’re told?”

It was about the shirt. About the moment. But it also wasn’t.

You felt it in the way his hands trembled just slightly as they ran over your skin, dragging the fabric higher, exposing inch by inch like he needed to feel every part of you to believe you were still here. Still real. Still his— for now.

You kissed him again, rough and open-mouthed, your breath coming in uneven stutters. His stubble scraped your cheek as he shifted the angle, took more of you. You could barely hold yourself upright, legs starting to tremble, the heat of it blooming low and insistent between your hips.

You broke away just long enough to yank the shirt over your head and toss it aside.

Cool air hit your skin, sharp and immediate. Your nipples peaked instantly, not just from the change in temperature but from the heat of his eyes tracking every inch of new skin, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Your chest rose too fast, too shallow— like your body hadn’t figured out how to breathe properly with him looking at you like that.

And even if it wasn’t smart— if it wasn’t safe— your hands found the hem of his shirt next. With trembling, overheated fingertips, you lifted the material up over his stomach and chest, pushing it past his shoulders. You didn’t do it because he asked. You did it because you wanted to. Because you needed this like air. Like absolution. Like maybe if your skin touched his, if your breath synced with his heartbeat, you could stop the world from falling apart for a little while longer.

Because in this moment, he wasn’t shutting you out.

He was pulling you under.

And you went willingly.

Once his shirt was tossed aside, he pulled you in to him with more urgency. His fingers trailed the length of your back, slow and deliberate— just a pass of heat, a promise— and then the clasp of your bra came undone with maddening ease. You didn’t know why it startled you. He’d seen all of you before, had his hands on your skin, his mouth on your pulse. But something about this— about the deliberate pull of the straps off your shoulders, the way he didn’t rush it— made it different.

Your breath caught.

Not because of the chill in the room or the air against your skin.

But because he was looking at you now. Really looking.  

His hands framed your shoulders, not gripping, just resting. Holding you there like you might vanish if he didn’t keep some part of you tethered. His gaze dragged down your chest, slow, unflinching— his throat bobbed once, like the sight of you made it hard to swallow. Your skin burned where his eyes dragged over it, leaving a flush of pink in its wake.

He reached up and pulled the loose straps the rest of the way down your arms, fingertips grazing the inside of your elbows as he did. Then he let the bra fall to the floor like it didn’t matter, like he never wanted to see it again.

And then, without a word, he moved. One arm wrapped around your hips, the other braced across your back, and he turned you both, guiding your body down to the mattress with a careful, practiced strength that felt like something reverent. Your back hit the sheets and the cotton felt impossibly rough against your over-sensitized skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You were dizzy with it— want and fear and some unnamed thing crashing together inside your chest. The bed gave under you, the thin mattress creaking beneath your weight, and then he followed— settled over you, not all at once, not crushing, but piece by piece. A knee on the edge of the bed, his hands reaching for your hips to push you back further.

You could feel the tension in him now, clearer than before. The braced strain in his arms. The tremor in his thighs. The heat of him where he hovered, where his hips didn’t quite touch yours.

You didn’t look at his face— not yet.

Your eyes dipped lower. Across his chest, where muscle stretched taut beneath old scars and new bruises. Across the plane of his stomach, where his skin was tight, breath just a little uneven. And lower still— to the thick press of arousal straining against his jeans, the metal teeth of his zipper stretched tight.

You exhaled slowly, felt the nerves start to melt out of your spine and join the pool of heat gathering between your thighs. The tension that had held your body rigid began to loosen, unraveling by degrees as the reality of his nearness— his weight, his heat, the sheer force of him— sank into your skin. You didn’t dare move, not yet. Just let yourself feel it.

Your gaze lifted to his, and the air caught hard in your lungs.

His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the brown until they were nearly black. He wasn’t looking at your face. His eyes dragged across your bare skin with a weight that was almost physical— slow, heavy, deliberate. You could see it: the muscle in his jaw flexing, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his throat bobbed like he was trying to swallow something down. Control. Restraint.

And God, he looked hungry.

Not starved. Not desperate. But focused— like your body was something sacred and he was memorizing every inch of it before it slipped away. His eyes tracked the curve of your breasts, the rise and fall of your chest as your breath struggled to stay even, the faint lines where your jeans had pressed into your hips, the flush spreading across your stomach.

He met your gaze only after he’d looked everywhere else.

And when he did— when those dark eyes locked on yours again— you felt it. The burn of it. The weight of every unspoken thing strung tight between you. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your hands ached with the urge to pull him closer. And the heat between your legs sharpened, deepened, until it was a need you could no longer ignore.

He was already undoing you, and he hadn’t even touched you again.

You lifted a hand, traced the edge of his jaw with your knuckles, slow and tentative.

“Frank,” you whispered.

And you didn’t say anything else. Because you didn’t need to.

Because the way he looked at you then— eyes both light and dark, lips parted, breath caught halfway between control and surrender— said enough.

The hand not gently caressing at his jaw went to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, but his fingers caught your wrist again. Stilled you. Stopped you.

“Stop fighting me,” he rasped, breath hot against your cheek. “Just— let me.”

You hesitated, only for a second. But it was enough.

One of his hands found the center of your waist, his thumb and forefinger making quick work of undoing the button of your jeans. He dragged the zipper down slowly, and all the while, his eyes remained on yours. The heat in his gaze made you shiver and then shift beneath him, body unsettled. Then his hand lowered, pressing into the dark material of the jeans where they pulled tight over your thighs. He dragged them down your legs, one-handed, the other one braced beside your head to keep him hovering above you. His eyes never left you. Not even when his knuckles skimmed the inside of your thigh, not even when he made you gasp. He wanted to see this— you— coming apart under him.

His head dipped, mouth dropping to your neck, distracted, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Why the fuck won’t you stay safe?” he muttered, voice splintered and low. “Why can’t you just stay safe?”

He wasn’t asking questions to be answered. You knew that now. These weren’t demands… they were confessions.

A breath trembled loose from your lips, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. A sudden rush of emotion jolted to the surface, overwhelming. Your eyes pinched shut, trying to fight against the sudden burn there. You weren’t crying, not really, but the ache in your chest was sharp enough to threaten it.

This was the storm breaking after too many days of silence.

His mouth moved lower, dragging across your collarbone, then down— slow, deliberate, like he needed to map every inch of you with his mouth just in case he never got the chance again. He didn’t kiss like a man being handed something. He kissed like a man taking it— claiming it— because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing it again.

When he reached your breasts, he didn’t rush. Didn’t grope or grab like he was impatient to move on. He slowed. Settled.

His lips brushed across one nipple first, barely a graze, just enough to send a jolt straight through your spine. Then his tongue followed— hot, rough, insistent— as he took you into his mouth. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails curling into flesh. Leaving behind little crescent moons in his pale, battered skin. But he didn’t stop. Sucked harder, just once, and the sound that left your mouth wasn’t a word. Wasn’t anything but need. He grunted in response, seemingly urging you on.

His other hand came up to palm your other breast, thumb stroking slow as his mouth continued its work— sucking, licking, dragging his teeth just enough to make your hips jerk beneath him. His stubble scraped your skin raw in the best possible way.

You arched into him, head tipped back, fingers sliding into his hair and gripping tight.

“Frank,” you whispered again, broken this time. A plea. A prayer.

His eyes lifted to yours then— half-lidded and darker than you’d seen them before— and the sight of them nearly undid you. He looked like a man caught in something he couldn’t name, couldn’t outrun. And still he kept going. Kept devouring you like your body held the answer to every fucked-up question in his head.

When his mouth finally let go, his breath was ragged against your damp skin. He pressed a kiss to the underside of your breast, softer now, and then another one just beside it. Like he needed to mark the places that made you shake. Like he couldn’t stop himself.

And then his lips found yours again. The kiss was wet, hot, a little wild. And his hands kept moving lower.

Your jeans were halfway down your legs, caught at the knees. He tugged once, rough, like his patience was gone, and you lifted your ankles, helping him. Not because you were ready. Because you couldn’t bear to be away from him for a second longer.

He pushed the denim to the floor, barely glancing away to do it. And then he came back— lowering himself again, the heat of him now pressed full to the curve of your thigh. You could feel the shake in him, the restraint coiled so tight you thought it might snap.

You reached for his belt again.

This time, he let you.

Your fingers fumbled, not from inexperience but from urgency. From the way his gaze pinned you, daring you to flinch, to hesitate. You didn’t. You tugged the leather loose, popped the button, dragged the zipper down inch by aching inch. You felt the weight of his erection pressing against the material there, the heaviness a promise, a threat.

And when he shifted to kick off his jeans, you took the chance to sit up just enough to meet his mouth again. This kiss was slower, not softer— still messy, still hot— but deep. Your hands curled around the back of his neck, pulling him into it, like if you kissed him hard enough, long enough, you could rewrite what came after.

You broke away only to whisper again, “Frank.”

It was the third time you’d said it. Every time different.

This time… it meant stay.

“Shh,” he whispered back, the sound meant to soothe. “Enough.”

Something in him must’ve understood. Because a hand landed on your thigh and curled tight, fingers digging in so deep you were certain he’d leave marks, and he lowered himself again, all the way this time. His body covered you, fitting against you like you were made for it. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes shut, breath ragged. And for a moment, there was stillness.

No war. No fear. Just you.

Just this.

His breath ghosted against your mouth, warm and uneven, as his body settled fully onto yours. You could feel every line of him— every inch of hard muscle, every scar, every point of heat. He was heavy without being crushing, a presence that grounded rather than smothered, and you curled into it instinctively, one leg sliding up along his hip to anchor him closer.

His hand moved again— up your thigh, around your waist, fingers splayed wide and firm like he needed to memorize your shape before it disappeared. His touch wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It was urgent and possessive in a way that made your heart stumble.

You felt him, fully, against the cradle of your hips— hard, thick, straining. And when his hips shifted just slightly, brushing along the seam of your underwear, a shiver rolled through you. Your breath caught, and his did too, like he felt it. Like he always felt it.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His tongue slid against yours with deliberate care, like he was tasting something he hadn’t let himself believe he’d ever get to have. Your hands moved restlessly over him— his back, his shoulders, the ridges of his ribs beneath your palms. You traced the bandage just below his shoulder blade, the one you’d placed just the night before, and he shuddered, pulling back just enough to breathe you in.

His eyes opened— barely. The emotion in them was raw, startling. Your breath caught at the back of your throat.

“You alright?” he rasped, voice worn and low, like gravel pulled over silk. “You sure about this?”

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Just pulled him down again, tilting your chin to meet him, lips parting for him like they were meant to. And this time, when your bodies shifted— when your hips lifted and he slid a hand between you, nudging your underwear aside— there was no hesitation. You’d given him the final piece he needed to keep going.

His fingers brushed you there and you gasped— sharp, involuntary. His eyes searched your face as he stroked slow, testing pressure, finding rhythm. He wanted to watch. Needed to see how you reacted to every touch, every curl of his hand, every brush of his finger. And when your thighs trembled, when your breath hitched and your nails dug into his back, his mouth found yours again— hungry and shaking.

“God, you’re fucking soaked,” he muttered against your lips. “You always this wet for me?”

You arched into him as a response, breath catching as his hand left you— just briefly— and hooked in the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t ask. Just tugged, firm and rough, dragging the last barrier down your legs in one practiced motion. The fabric caught on your ankle, and he cursed under his breath, yanking it the rest of the way before tossing it aside like it offended him. Like it had kept him from what he needed.

You shivered— part nerves, part need— as his hands skimmed back up the fronts of your thighs, slower this time. And when they reached your hips again, you let your knees fall open beneath him, unabashed. His breath hitched at the sight.

You didn’t look away.

And neither did he as he shifted back just far enough to reach for his own waistband. His fingers moved fast, impatient— pushing his boxer briefs down past his hips, freeing himself with a sharp breath. He kicked them off with a jerk of his legs, leaving him bare, the length of him thick and flushed, already hard. Precum leaked from the tip and your tongue darted out from between your lips, tracing the seam of your mouth. His eyes locked on the movement, eyelashes fluttering and breath catching in his throat at the sight.

You reached for him and he didn’t stop you. Your hand curled around him with deliberate slowness. He was hot in your palm, solid, and when you stroked him once— slow, teasing— his eyes squeezed shut. His jaw clenched like he was in pain.

His hand caught your wrist, then, but not to stop you— just to still you. Just to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I need—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

Because you were already shifting beneath him, lifting your hips, guiding him to where you needed him most. Your hand shifted to his hip, easing him forward, breath stuck somewhere in your chest as you met his eyes again.

He looked down at you like he could see straight through your skin, like every breath you took rattled something loose in him. His hand shook when it found your thigh again— just a little. But you felt it. You felt everything.

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Your voice was shattered. Shattered and wanting. The air between you shimmered with tension so thick it felt like your skin couldn’t hold you together. Every nerve ending sang. You could feel your pulse in places that had never had a heartbeat before. Your body ached— not just with need, but with the ache of almost. Of being on the edge of something irreversible.

His gaze held yours— still dark, still burning— but now there was something else layered behind it. Something like restraint, barely holding on. Like reverence trying to masquerade as control.

He hovered there, the head of him brushing your entrance, and it was maddening— almost painful— the way he didn’t move. Like he was waiting. Or giving you one last chance to stop him. Your breath stuttered, chest rising too fast, your whole body lit up like a live wire. You were soaked, aching, every nerve turned outward and begging for him. But still— he waited. You shifted beneath him, unable to stay still. The pressure inside of you was throbbing, begging for relief.

You reached towards him, one hand curling around the back of his neck again, grounding him. Pulling him in.

“Please,” you whispered, another plea. And permission.

His forehead pressed to yours. His eyes closed. And then— finally— he pushed in.

The stretch was slow. Deep. Devastating. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat, like there wasn’t enough room left inside you for air and him at the same time. Your inner muscles fluttered around him, overwhelmed by the intrusion and the aching relief of it. You gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, lips parted around a sound that never made it out. He groaned low in his throat, voice rough and guttural, like the feel of you had destroyed him, ripping him apart at the seams.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “You’re— fuck—”

Your fingers clawed at his back, dragging down the long ridge of his spine, needing something to hold onto as your body adjusted around him. He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep, like he was anchoring himself. Like if he moved too soon, he’d lose everything.

Your heart was racing, thundering so loud it seemed to echo in your ears. You felt too full, too open, like he could see every part of you from the inside out. And it terrified you. But it also calmed something. Silenced the part of you that still feared he’d disappear again without warning.

His mouth found yours, softer this time— no less hungry, but tempered. Steady. His tongue licked against yours, explored the inside of your mouth, trying to distract from the pain of the stretch his body caused within yours. Then his hips rolled once, barely, and the sound you made against his lips cracked him open. He flinched against you, pulling back, just by an inch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured against your jaw. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you breathed. “You couldn’t.”

That did something to him. You felt it in the tremble of his arms, the twitch in his thigh, the way he buried his face in your neck and started to move. Each thrust was slow and deliberate at first— exploring, relearning, like he was mapping your body one stroke at a time.

You met him, hips tilting, legs widening, the air between you going thick with heat and breath and the sound of skin against skin. Every time he pulled back, you swore you could feel the emptiness he left behind. Every time he pushed in, you swore you were being filled with more than just him.

With something whole.

The rhythm built slowly. Not frantic, not yet. Just steady. Deep. Like he was trying to memorize the feel of you around him— each inch, each shudder, each tightening breath. His hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, curling it around his hip, pulling you closer, deeper, until there was no space left. Until you felt him in places you hadn’t even known were empty.

Your skin prickled with goosebumps, despite the heat. Your palms were slick where they gripped his back, nails leaving pink trails in their wake. There was a buzzing in your ears, a dizziness behind your eyes— like your body had shifted into some other state of being. One where only this existed. This weight. This man. This moment.

“Fuck,” Frank groaned into your shoulder, teeth dragging blunt and hot along your skin. You shivered at the feel of it. “You feel so—” He cut himself off, voice cracking like he didn’t trust what might come next. His stomach flexed above you, damp with sweat, each thrust carving tension into his frame. You dug your heels into the backs of his thighs, chasing the rhythm, urging him deeper.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely think. You just moved with him. Met every roll of his hips with your own, every thrust punching the breath from your lungs in sweet, stuttering gasps. The tension was building low— hot, insistent, coiling tighter and tighter with every slick slide of his body inside yours.

And the way he looked at you when he pulled back to see your face—

It was ruin. That’s what it was. You’d ruined him. Just as surely as he’d ruined you.

“I can’t…” he panted, forehead dropping back to yours. “I’m not gonna last.”

You nodded, breathless. “Don’t care. Just don’t stop.”

His hand reached between your bodies, found the place where you were most sensitive, and pressed— just enough, just right— and the world shattered. His eyes locked with yours in that final second, wide and wild and reverent. And it was that look— more than his touch, more than the drag of his body inside you— that pushed you over the edge.

You cried out, one hand flying to his shoulder, the other twisting in the blanket beneath you like it could keep you grounded. Your body arched, clenched, shuddered around him as the orgasm hit— sharp and bright and blinding. Your walls pulsed around him, and he groaned so low it bordered on a growl, one hand braced beside your head, the other still between your thighs, coaxing everything from you.

He lasted a beat longer. Two. Then he buried himself deep and broke.

You felt it in the way he locked up— muscles taut, jaw clenched, a sound like a curse torn from his throat. But it wasn’t a curse. It was your name. His hips stuttered, once, twice, and then he collapsed— not fully, but just enough to fold himself around you. His arms were braced on either side of your head, trapping you between them like a cage.

His breath was hot at your neck. Harsh. Unsteady.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

You just laid there, tangled and ruined, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, the last of your tremors easing under the weight of him.

You knew the moment it changed.

There was no shift in light, no grand declaration. Just a slow, almost imperceptible pulling away. The warmth of his body started to fade. The weight of him— once grounding, steady— lifted inch by inch until the space above you felt colder than it had any right to.

His gaze dropped to your face as he moved, softened by something you couldn’t name. Something that might have been sorrow, or guilt, or the kind of tenderness that only showed itself when it was already too late. The amber in his eyes caught the light like it was trying to hold on. Then his hand lifted— slow, careful— and he reached for you. Not like a man ready to leave, but like one who almost didn’t. His knuckles skimmed your cheek, fingers brushing back the hair that had fallen into your eyes. The touch was unbearably gentle. Reverent. His thumb lingered at your temple, like maybe he could memorize you this way. Like maybe, if he touched you softly enough, it would undo what he was about to do.

Then the warmth was gone.

He eased himself back, limbs reluctant, slow. You watched his eyes change first— like a door quietly clicking shut behind them. Then his chest, the way it rose and fell just a little faster. The breath before retreat.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, his bare back catching what little light filtered in through the window. You stared at the jagged lines across his spine— old scars, new bruises, the carved history of a man who never stayed still.

Your eyes followed him as he reached for his jeans on the floor— his movements stiff, achingly human. The soft scrape of denim against skin filled the room. You saw him wince as he bent, his shoulder catching, one hand going instinctively to his ribs like he’d forgotten they were still healing. But he didn’t pause. He just pulled the jeans up in one fluid motion and zipped them with more force than necessary, like maybe if he moved fast enough, none of this would stick to him.

Your gaze caught on his bare feet against the cold floor, the way they shifted subtly as he reached for his shirt next, shaking it out before dragging it over his head. He didn’t look at you. Not once.

You sat up slowly, cool air pinching at the exposed skin of your chest, but you didn’t care. You pulled your knees up to your chest and you wrapped your arms around them like you might hold yourself together that way.

“Where are you going?” your voice was hoarse. Brittle.

He didn’t answer right away. He grabbed his belt from the end of the bed, looped it through with steady fingers. The ritual slowness of it was unbearable— methodical and practiced and final.

Only then, without turning, he answered. “I need to finish this.”

That was it. Five words. Flat. Functional. Like you were just another variable in his equation. Like the ache still blooming in your thighs, the echo of his voice rasping your name against your skin, hadn’t changed a thing.

Your throat closed. Something inside you buckled. Shook. Nearly shattered into a million tiny, imperceptible pieces.

You blinked once, slow. Let the words hang between you like a tripwire for a beat.

“We’re really still doing this?” you asked, voice raw. “After everything?”

“Yeah, we’re still doing this.”

The response cut deep. But it was the ease of it that hurt more. The certainty. Like this was already decided, already boxed up in his mind under necessary loss.

You released your hold on your body and swung your legs off the bed, the hardwood slapping cold against your bare feet. Your body flinched, goosebumps rising in the silence he left behind. The ache in your chest cracked wider with every beat of quiet. You weren’t trying to stop him— at least, that’s what you told yourself. But your body betrayed you, standing in his path like your presence alone might be enough to make him hesitate. You were naked— skin completely exposed and on display— but you didn’t allow yourself to pause, to flinch.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, and your voice broke on the last word, anger bleeding into it now. “You don’t get to take and then walk away like it didn’t mean anything.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped himself. Ran a hand down his face, sighing hard through his nose. “That’s not what this is. Not what that was.”

“Then what is it, Frank? Because I’m standing here naked after letting you in— really in— and you’re halfway out the fucking door. So please— enlighten me.”

His hands dropped to his sides. Rigid. Tense. You watched the flex of his knuckles. The silent clench in his jaw. He looked like he wanted to say something. Like maybe, if he could just find the right words, this wouldn’t have to get uglier than it already was.

But whatever he found wasn’t enough.

“I already told you how it is, how it has to be.” He said finally, quieter now. “What just happened doesn’t change anything.”

You stared at him, stunned. The heat behind your eyes broke, the first tears slipping down before you even registered the burn. You just stood there in silence, stripped bare in every sense, tears carving tracks through the flush on your skin. And for a moment— just a breath— Frank looked. Really looked. His eyes met yours, and whatever distance he’d been clinging to wavered. His face didn’t change much, not to the untrained eye, but you knew the signs now. The small flinch at the corner of his mouth. The ripple of something jagged passing behind his eyes. He looked like he’d been shot— quiet, internal, a wound without blood. But still, he said nothing. Because that was who he was. A man who bled alone.

“Jesus Christ, Frank.” You let out a sharp, humorless breath, your voice thick with tears. “You could at least pretend you give a damn.”

“I do.” His voice dropped, a near-growl. His eyes flashed with emotion— the kind of emotion that, in him, was easy to name. Anger. Frustration. “But it’s not about that.”

You laughed. It sounded awful. Broken. A noise torn from something raw.

“Then what is it about? Hm?” you stepped closer, shoulders squared, baring your hurt like a blade. “Is this you protecting me again? Sparing me from the fallout? Or just sparing yourself the guilt?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Just held your gaze with something heavy in his eyes— like regret wearing armor.

“You’ll survive this,” he said. “You’ll go on. You’ll be safe. That’s all that matters.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it made your ribs ache. You shook your head, not in disbelief— just disappointment.

“I don’t want safe, Frank,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He looked away in an instant, jaw clenching so tight you wondered if the muscle might break through the skin. That was worse than any answer.

And then he reached for his coat. Slipped it on like it weighed nothing. And even though he moved like a man with broken bones, he still walked like he was trying to disappear.

You watched the entire exit— the rhythm of his steps, the way he didn’t once meet your eyes again. And still, some soft, ridiculous part of you held on. Waited for the pause. The turn. The fucking apology.

But it never came.

He reached for the door with a hand that had touched every inch of you just moments ago and twisted the knob with the same fingers he’d buried into your skin.

“Just go,” you said, quieter now. “If you’re gonna go, then just fucking go.”

Frank hesitated at the door.

You saw it.

The slight pause in his spine, the flicker of conflict tightening the muscles in his jaw all over again. But he didn’t look back.

He left.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. A polite little ending to an impolite, violent rupture.

You stared at it for a moment, frozen. Then your knees buckled.

There had been no warning. No shift in breath, no soft confession. One moment he was part of you— bone, breath, blood— and the next, he was leaving you behind. Not with a door slammed in anger, but something far worse: absence wrapped in silence. Like you’d never been real to him at all.

You sat hard on the edge of the bed, breath catching in your throat like something jagged. Your hands went to your face and stayed there, muffling the soft, ugly sounds that broke free. The tears came hot and fast now, not from sadness alone— but humiliation. From the way he’d taken everything you gave him— your body, your trust— and left it crumpled on the sheets behind him.

You could still smell him. Still taste him.

And he’d still walked away.

Your hand curled into a fist before you even knew what it was doing. You drove it into the mattress, once, twice, breath catching on a sob you refused to let loose. Then you grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it across the room. It hit the far wall with a soft, traitorous thud. Not nearly loud enough.

The room felt hollow without him, like all the air had been siphoned out. The sheets beneath you were still warm, still wrinkled with the imprint of his body, and it made everything worse— like he was a ghost pressed into the fabric, fading with every second. Your body curled in on itself, not from cold, but grief. A grief so wide and raw it had no edges.

* * * * *

Eventually, you pulled yourself up. You didn’t know how long it’d been. Every motion was mechanical. Your limbs moved like they didn’t belong to you. Like your body was just a shell you had to carry until your rage was sharp enough to fill it again.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. Not really. The room was spinning too slow and too loud, like the silence itself had teeth. Every inch of your skin still felt him— every bruise, every bite, every place he’d held on like you were the only thing left tethering him to the world. And then he let go.

Just like that.

Your body was still trembling. But it wasn’t grief anymore. It wasn’t sadness. It was something sharper. Meaner. A howl curled in your throat, caged behind your teeth. You didn’t want to cry anymore. You wanted to tear something apart.

He walked out with your breath still in his lungs. With your name still on his mouth. And somehow he made it feel like none of it mattered.

You needed to do something. Anything.

Your eyes snapped to his bag, near the foot of the bed.

Not because you had a plan. Not because you knew what you’d find. But because something in you needed a lifeline, a weapon, a fucking map. Something he hadn’t already taken.

Your feet hit the floor before your mind caught up. The motion was clumsy, raw. You dropped to your knees and tore the zipper open with shaking hands. You didn’t care what you touched. You just needed to feel powerful again. Needed to dig your hands into the truth he wasn’t willing to share.

Your hands trembled as you unzipped it, digging through the contents like a woman possessed. And there it was— small, black, nondescript. The burner phone he’d taken from the men who followed him.

With a thumb brushed against the screen, it came to life. You pressed again and it unlocked— no password.

You scrolled.

One message thread. A location. A time.

You stared at it. Then again.

This wasn’t over. You weren’t done.

And if he wouldn’t let you in…

Then you’d find your own way through the fire. Without his permission. Without his blessing.

[agarsett]

In regards to King's mistreatment of Lancer... (+ perspectives on how dark worlds work based on who makes the dark fountain)

I've seen a few people on here talk about how it feels like King's neglect (and possible abuse) of Lancer seems to be getting swept under the rug, and I wanna add something to the conversation that I haven't seen a lot of people mention.

First off, no, I am NOT going to be trying to justify King's actions. Quite the opposite, in fact!

I WILL be talking about chapters three and four below the cut, so be warned!

Ralsei mentions something about how Lighteners can be sort of "reborn" in dark worlds, but only if the memory of the deceased is strong and vivid enough in the mind of the Dark Fountain creator.

(This immediately made me think that Alvin was the one to open the Dark Fountain in the church, but that's not what this post is about.)

Because of this, I belive that whoever opens the Dark Fountain has a heavy impact on the Dark World, which is backed by how Susie's Dark World was different from whoever made it before she did, down to the colors and everything.

(Which, by the way, everything being flipped in Susie's Dark World could be symbolic for Kris' and Susie's different goals? Seeing as Kris is trying to keep both us and Susie out of the Shelter and we're trying to get in.)

So, if the creator has a heavy impact on the Dark World, what does this mean for King and Lancer?

Well! If you remember Tenna's words, apparently King, Queen, and Tenna were all in possession of the Holidays and the Dreemurrs once, with them playing with the cards and laptop, maybe while watching TV?

So, if King, Queen, and Tenna were all influenced by being around the two families for so long, it means that they could have seen the downfall and splitting of the two families.

King: represents neglect (emotional and physical), with not caring what Lancer is up to and not bothering to make sure he eats, leaving Roulxs to feed him worms and three glasses of milk for dinner.

This COULD be mirroring how either Kris or Noelle didn't feel cared for enough, especially Kris during their parents' divorce and Asriel leaving for collage, I can see them feeling neglected and abandoned.

As for Noelle? She prefers to stand outside her house's gate rather than bother her mom at work. Sure, being the mayor is important, but Carol already lost one child, what has she done to cause Noelle to prefer standing outside for hours instead of asking for the gate key? (My theory is emotional abuse or emotional neglect. "I shouldn't bother mom at work, she's doing important things and I can stand outside for a while" even when your mother is supposed to be one of the two people you should be able to rely on as a kid to keep you safe and warm.)

Queen: represents forcing a kid to do something you yourself believe will help them, without asking for their input. She tries forcing Noelle to open another Dark Fountain, believing that it is what SHE wants, believing it's what will make Noelle happy, even when Queen herself had never asked Noelle herself what she wanted.

I don't currently have any ideas on what this could mean for Noelle (besides imagining that it's similar to what's happening between Carol and Noelle), but I DO have an idea for how it could relate to Kris.

As we saw in chapter four, Kris and Carol are working together, presumably with the Knight. I believe that one, Kris had a hand in Dess' dissappearence, and two, Carol is trying to being Dess back via the Knight (what with how powerful they're said to be, and how similar the Knight is to Dess) and is manipulating Kris into helping her with that.

(This is probably due to grief. Not saying it's okay, of course! Kris is a kid! I'm merely explaining what could be happening, regardless of if it's right or not.)

As I've seen other people theorize, Kris could have possibly gotten their knife from Carol, hinting that the two were super close before everything. If Kris DID have something to do with Dess' dissappearence, then I could imagine them running to Carol and explaining everything, and Carol, in turn, made them promise to her that they'd do everything in their power to get Dess back. Possibly believing that doing so will absolve Kris of their guilt?

Tenna: represents the fallout of everything. The distractions kids use to ignore their surroundings, though no matter how bright the screen is, no matter how loud the volume is, it can never fully drown out the dread of KNOWING there's another fight happening.

This applies mainly to Kris; just pay attention to Tenna's dialog during the third board(?), it's pretty obvious.

Maybe it applies to Noelle as well, but I can't think of anything at the moment.

All in all, this doesn't excuse anyone's actions, of course it doesn't. But it could shed some light on the story, on what's going on in the world of Deltarune.

I believe that all of this is building up to something huge, something that deals with parental neglect and abuse, and the Dark World bosses are simply a reflection of that abuse. I don't think Toby would just ignore that, especially since it's such a big theme.

[lxvenderjewel]

TJLC & Co; a full examination of John & Sherlock's relationship

(PILOT) Literally in the first episode they’re mistaken for a couple. Mind you, this is coming from Mariana, who eventually becomes one of their closest friends, and is arguably one of the most observant characters in the series. Being a podcast about Sherlock Holmes, it’s pretty easy to forget that everyone else only looks stupid because he’s exceptionally smart, but Mariana is quite intelligent as well, and her first impression of them is that they’re together. So.

(THOR1) This is sort of the first time we see John and Sherlock start to get intimate (not like that you nasty bastard). Up to here they’ve pretty much barely tolerated each other but here we get some really sweet moments that start to build up their relationship with each other.

(GOLD3) This is really early on in their budding rapport, but it sounds so very soft and fond when you listen to the audio. Sounds sort of like John is smiling. Already, John knows that Sherlock is something special. He’s also already fully aware of Sherlock’s sleeping habits.

(CARB1) Then of course we get to Blue Carbuncle which is the beginning of their weird ass flirting. This is just crazy work in general to me. It’s pretty early on in their relationship but we can already begin to see that they’re into each other, even if they don’t know it yet. (Expand the second image if you want to see the full scene. It's one of my favorites, personally.)

(REDH2) Everybody knows this scene. Why’d Sherlock sound so thirsty here? Like... why?

(GLOR2) We come to The Gloria Scott and we start to see real actual bonding of substance happen between John and Sherlock, I mean this is a crazy moment… Sherlock’s freaking out right now because he doesn’t want to fuck it up with Victor and John comforts him, they’re stealing away a moment in between all of the crazy emotions in this case and just laughing together in John’s bedroom? Even just as friends, this is a pretty pivotal moment for their dynamic. They’re really starting to get comfortable with each other by this point. They're so. <3

(SILV2) Just John complimenting Sherlock for no other reason than he can… beautiful to see really.

(REIG1) Sherlock trying to rile John up here, even though by this point he thinks he’s just teasing him, he doesn’t realize he actually. Well. Heh.

(REIG1) LOOK CLOSELY. VERY CLOSELY. WE DO NOT HEAR JOHN TAP SHERLOCK’S CHEEK. BUT IT IS IN THE SCRIPT. WHY? WHY PUT EMPHASIS ON THE FACT THAT JOHN IS TAPPING SHERLOCK’S CHEEK HERE WHEN IT DOESN’T END UP IN THE FINAL CUT? WHY JOEL

(DANC3) I’d say this is where it fully clicks for Sherlock that he’s in love with John. I think he probably had an inkling when he was going crazy about Ian the sniper but here it’s like. Well wow. John just got shot and he could’ve died. And Sherlock responds completely normally by first checking to see that John’s okay and then going and trying to actually kill Abe. So normal.

(SHOS2) This is probably where John realizes he’s in love with Sherlock. Like by this point he’s realized that Baker Street has become his home and by extension Sherlock has become his home, this following Dancing Men where he watches Sherlock go absolutely batshit insane, like just crazy over him getting shot… yeah the man is down bad.

(LION3) Some odd tension post DANC/SHOS… why? I’d say because they’re both dealing with their recently realized feelings for each other. That can always be. Well. You know. John’s always a bit awkward but I find their fumbling around each other during Lion’s Mane Verrry Curiouss

(SIGN4) This strange ass flirting right after John finishes talking to Mary? At least John has an excuse here, he was just talking to Mary so he’s probably feeling romantical, Sherlock literally has no reason to be telling John he has a warm lovely face.

(SIGN4) By far one of THE strangest arguments I have EVER had the displeasure of witnessing in any media ever. Sherlock gets weird and strangely possessive about John here, tries to cover it under the guise of him being concerned that John is forgoing professionalism for the sake of a date, and then loops BACK around to say that Mary doesn’t really care about him, Sherlock does, and he shouldn’t be neglecting Sherlock like this because he’s the only one who truly cares about him? What the fuck are you talking about.

(SIGN4) Which is then IMMEDIATELY followed by John bringing up Victor and making a weirdly flirty remark that calls back to Sherlock calling his face warm and lovely? Seriously one of the oddest scenes in all of fiction. They're so weird and disgusting.

(WIST1) Is being jealous just a funny back-and-forth game for them? Because they do it far too often. Sherlock is being very open in his praises for Baynes and it sounds like John would rather be literally anywhere else. Weirdly possessive of each other.

[bearkibble]

office secrets

content warning: 18+ mdni - bkdk, post-time skip, semi-public, degradation, praise

bakugo can’t keep his hands off of his boyfriend.. deku takes advantage

All of Japan saw Pro Hero Deku as a symbol.

An emblem of unwavering hope. Golden boy of Japan. Absolutely untouchable.

But here, in the half-lit quiet of Katsuki Bakugo’s private office, that image had long since crumbled.

Izuku was bent forward over the edge of the desk, fingers clenched against the lacquered wood as his body rocked with each hard thrust. His pants were tangled around his ankles, knees trembling. Mission reports, crumpled and forgotten, lay scattered beneath his drooling mouth. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the walls, vulgar and unrelenting.

“Look at you,” Katsuki rasped, his voice wrecked with hunger. His hand fisted in Izuku’s damp curls, yanking his head up—forcing him to look at their reflection in the window. “This the legacy you’re leavin’ behind, Deku?”

The image was brutal.

Izuku’s cheeks were flushed a furious pink, lips swollen, eyes glassy with tears and something darker. His body shook under the force of every thrust, every motion sending his spine into a deep arch. He looked utterly undone—beautiful and shamefully desperate.

“I—Kacchan—” Izuku tried, but the words collapsed into a broken moan, helplessly watching himself get wrecked.

Bakugo’s grip slid from his hair to the slope of his throat, not tight—never enough to hurt—but grounding. Possessive. His other hand bruised its way into Izuku’s hip, dragging him back with each punishing roll of his hips.

“Prance into my office with that sweet little act—like you needed to ‘talk’—when all you wanted was to get split open by my cock, huh?” Katsuki hissed into the shell of his ear, voice like flame. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The desk beneath them creaked with every movement. The reports strewn across it were stained with sweat and smeared ink, the air thick with the scent of heat and tension and something almost reverent.

Izuku didn’t answer—not with words. His body did all the speaking. The way he pushed back into each motion, the way his knuckles turned white with how tightly he gripped the edge of the desk. He was raw, shaking, strung out on Katsuki’s touch like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

Katsuki leaned over him, breath harsh and warm along Izuku’s nape. “Answer me, Izu.”

Midoriya whimpered, an involuntary sound that gave him away completely. He nodded, barely.

“That’s what I thought.”

Katsuki’s thrusts deepened, rhythm tightening into something precise and brutal. The sounds were obscene—wet, relentless, echoing loud in the all too-small room.

Izuku’s jaw dropped, a low, needy sound punching out of him. His arms buckled slightly under the weight of it all, and his forehead rested against the cool surface of the desk.

“You act like a saint out there,” Katsuki growled, burying his face into the curve of Izuku’s shoulder. “Then come to me when no one else is looking to get your guts rearranged.”

A sharp nip of teeth at his skin. A mark bloomed red and hot, and Izuku shivered.

“Can’t even get off unless I’m tearing you in two. Can you?”

Izuku trembled violently beneath him, legs shaking from the overstimulation, from the overwhelming heat pooling low in his gut. His cock, untouched, was slick with arousal, painting his thighs and the floor beneath them.

“It’s—hah—all I think about..” he admitted, voice ragged, wrecked. “Kacchan—please—”

“I know,” Katsuki muttered, his tone low and fraying. “I know, baby.”

He pressed a kiss, uncharacteristically tender, to the back of Izuku’s neck. His thrusts grew sloppier, messier—losing rhythm as pleasure built like a dam about to burst.

And when it finally broke—

Katsuki groaned into his skin, gripping Izuku’s hips like he owned them. His body trembled as he buried himself deep, muscles locking as heat spilled inside him, raw and consuming.

Izuku followed with a broken cry, his entire body tensing before it collapsed, shuddering with release. His climax hit like a wave, crashing down on him all at once. He came untouched, moaning through it, jaw slack and body limp beneath Bakugo’s weight.

They stayed like that for a moment—still, panting, caught in the gravity of what they’d done.

Katsuki didn’t pull away. He simply leaned in and kissed the nape of Izuku’s neck again, lips soft. Almost reverent.

“…Gonna need a new desk at this rate,” he said after a beat, voice rough but gentler now.

Izuku let out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “And probably a mop.”

Katsuki smiled against his skin.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, brushing back a damp curl.

Izuku turned his head slightly, green eyes hazy but shining. “Better than okay.”

[slaymaster-general]

DINA POST CANON ONE SHOT

Against her better judgement Dina returns to the farmhouse. Pure angst baby.

A/N I have two other fics in the works but this image literally kept me up.

Ellie’s been gone for years. Maybe alive. Probably dead. The gaping hole where Dina’s heart used to be is now filled with a patchwork of new moments that form a makeshift aorta, irreversibly scarred but still beating, pumping blood where it needs to go just the same.

She no longer feels that little twang of guilt when someone else makes her smile. Her stomach no longer tenses in anticipation when she hears the hum of an acoustic guitar. She can hear a joke without thinking about how much Ellie would like it, or envisioning her smile—that laugh. She’s made her peace with it.

So she can’t explain why she finds herself on a horse, currently approaching the farmhouse for the first time since the last time. It’s still as beautiful as ever, overgrown and falling apart in places... Images of the day she and Ellie discover this place come flooding back, like she hasn’t worked so hard to push them down all this time.

They work so hard to restore it, Ellie pouring herself into the repairs like her life depends on it. Which, honestly, it does. Dina always knows everything they build here, the work of fixing it, plays a heavy hand in keeping the demons at bay for both of them.

Dina notices the tension in her jaw before realizing how tightly she’s pulling on the reins, snapped back to reality by her horse coming to a stop with a jolt. She takes a deep breath, unclenches her jaw, and loosens the reins. God, this is a bad idea. She should just turn back now. Forget the whole thing.

So why is she dismounting, approaching by foot with the reins in hand? She doesn’t know, but it’s as if possessed that she begins tying the knot that hitches the reins to the familiar post. Still strong enough to hold her, she thinks.

She catches herself before starting up the stairs, listening carefully for any sounds of life—infected or otherwise. The house appears untouched apart from the decay, but she knows better than to rush into any building unless she’s feeling particularly self-destructive. And she can’t afford to be self-destructive anymore. Never really could. Any youthful recklessness has always been on borrowed dimes. She knows that now.

But it sounds clear, and with tense body and her hand on her gun, she starts up the steps to the door, which she now sees is ajar.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers as she’s hit by a mix of fear and hopefulness. She won’t allow herself to even think of the reason she hopes it might be open. Nope. It better be a damn clicker. At least that she can kill and be done with. But hope... it never really dies.

Dina pushes the door open, trying to avoid making noise but failing by no fault of her own. The hinges are rusted beyond repair and give away her presence immediately. She’s in it now. She braces for impact as the door opens fully, expecting the worst.

Instead, she’s hit by the cold emptiness of the barren walls of what was once the dining room of their home. No clicker, just the shell of that life she’d only just begun to build. There had been so much life in this room, and now it’s just… white. Dingy and empty in the low light. Peeling paint. It feels like a weight on her chest.

She should just leave. What is she hoping to find here? A note? A body? Something worse? Even she can’t answer that. So why should she stay? Yes, she should leave.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she finds herself walking up the stairs, bypassing the kitchen entirely, even knowing she should clear the first floor first if she’s trying to avoid getting killed. But she just grips her gun tighter, deciding that pure force of will is going to have to be enough. She knows she’s not thinking clearly, but she’s powerless to her own actions.

She makes her way to what was once Ellie’s studio like it’s an old habit. Like she was just there earlier. The door is open, and she enters without hesitation before she even registers what she’s seeing.

Her eyes fall first to the boxes against the wall. A mix of Ellie’s things and shared belongings that just hurt too much to ever see again. And yeah—shit—it still hurts. But the pain only amplifies when her eyes drop to the open guitar case. Her stomach flips. Ellie was here. She can’t help thinking it. And then she catches the breeze through the open window and instinctually looks there. Her breath catches in her throat.

Ellie’s guitar, propped against the window. The bone moth inlay catches her eye, and for a second Ellie’s in their bedroom with JJ, playing him a lullaby she wrote. Lyrics indistinct. And then Ellie’s sitting across from her, skin lit with the soft glow of a bonfire, and there’s no one in the world but the two of them. She’s in Seattle, surrounded by greenery with soft daylight shining down on her red hair as Dina sits on the ground beside her. She’s in the theater, doesn’t realize Dina is watching as she struggles to go on with her song.

And then the guitar’s in the window. Ellie is gone. She’s been gone for years.

Dina takes a few steps before falling to her knees, the hardwood sending shocks of pain through the nerves in her legs. Bruises she’ll have to explain. But the pain is nothing. Dina’s heart is ripped clean out of her chest. Again. Tears stream down her face as she finds herself reaching for the instrument, fumbling to grasp it. She wants to take it down from its resting place, to cradle it as if it was the one that was dying. The guitar falls and gracelessly she catches it, pulls it close to her heart. Tears fall on the wood, leaving streaks through the fine layer of dust that has settled on its surface.

Ellie was here. Ellie was here and now she’s gone. Ellie has been gone for years.

The tears pour as if it’s the first night Ellie left. And suddenly it's as if it's both then and now. Dina pulls her shirt up to her mouth and lets out a muffled cry that’s more like a scream. She can’t wake JJ. Only JJ isn't here.

Dina doesn’t know how long she cries. Eventually, the tears run dry, her breathing ragged, voice hoarse from overuse. She finds herself wrapped around the guitar in the fetal position, head resting on the neck.

Exhausted, she closes her eyes and falls asleep, allowing the darkness to empty her thoughts.

Ellie has been gone for years and nothing will ever be okay.

[angelyuji]

sugar daddy husband

so i was planning to make everything into one post but then each one got too long... whoops. i also wasnt sure which character to write for each of these scenerios, but then i closed my eyes and talked to god and he was like angelyuji... check out these visions my dawg and then i had a straight up conjuring possession and then started cooking.... so here you go

18+!!!!!!!!!!! MINORS DNI!!!!!!

cw // yandere/toxic behavior, implied kidnapping, asshole tony stark, noncon, manipulation, power imbalance, gender-neutral reader

yandere tony stark x gn!reader

his hands were cold, sending chivers down your spine as he zipped up your outfit. "you're going to have to play along today. can you do that?" you watch tony through the mirror. his eyebrow quirks up as he stares back. you nod, letting him dress you up. you were tired. tired of him, tired of this place, tired of everything. tony smiles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "gorgeous." he waves over pepper, whispering in her ear. you don't bother to listen into their hushed conversation. last time you did, tony made sure to correct your misbehavior. she nods, walking back to the hall. the door closes, softly, and you startle when tony's cold hands force you to turn. tony's eyes return to you, looking you up and down. he whistles, "i always know exactly what to buy for you. don't you think?"

"sure." you turn, resigned. tony rolls his eyes. he taps his cheek and you lean in. tony pulls you in, catching you by surprise.

"gimme a good one." he whispers, arms tight around you. you scowl and he laughs. "come on, babe." you lean in and tony closes the gap. his mouth was hot, a stark contrast from the rest of his body. you let him take dominance, already annoyed.

you could feel his hands squeeze your butt, pressing you further into him. wrapping your arms around his neck, you grind your knee between his legs. tony moans into your mouth, retaliating by biting into your bottom lip. you hiss, shoving him away. "there's that fire." he laughs. you grit your teeth, forcing yourself to calm down. he enjoyed it. enjoyed your pain, your anger, your anguish. it gets him off, breaking you. tony comes closer and you back up against the vanity. he grabs your arm and pulls you back, pressing your mouth against his. his tongue laps up the blood staining your lips.

"tony. you guys need to get going or you'll be late." pepper doesn't come inside, choosing to save herself from watching the vulgar display.

the ride to the event went by quickly. he had left you alone in the car, keeping your hand clasped in his. the lack of tony's usual perversion left you on edge. the event itself started smoothly. everyone came up to you to kiss up to tony, believing that somehow you were the key to having an in with ceo of stark industries.

"you look lovely today!" "you look even more gorgeous than usual!" "have you and tony considered marriage yet?" "how about kids?"

you fend off the questions with polite chuckles and move to the bar. you can still feel his gaze, but you gesture to the bartender to give you something stronger. you feel your skin prickle. something was wrong.

"hello! hello! i'm so glad everyone could be here today. to give to charities in need and to celebrate another ground-breaking achievement for the avengers." you whip around, watching tony puff his chest as he continued. "i actually have one more incredibly important announcement... this was something that i've been wanting to do since i met them." you feel someone grip your arm and pull you towards the center.

"no no no no wait" you let out panicked whispers, but the security team leave you stranded in the middle. tony jumps down from the stage with a grunt, waving off the security. you feel your blood run cold as his hand goes to search the inside of his jacket pocket.

"oof so embarrassing for me, huh." he lets out a chuckle as he finally pulls out a box. tony gets down on one knee in front of you, grabbing your hand. "(y/n), you are my everything-" you could hear your heartbeat, pounding loud and fast. it could've been the tight grip tony had on your hand or the rest of the avengers planted strategically around the venue, but it took everything in you to stop yourself from running out of there. "-your heart, your soul, and your body belongs to me. and i to you. will you marry me?" tony takes off his glasses, before looking back at you, lifting the ring up to your hand.

he waits for your response, but you couldn't speak. you could feel a sob choking your words. tony's shit-eating smile falters and he whispers so only you could hear, "don't fucking embarrass me, (y/n). say yes. now." you nod, unable to speak and the crowd erupts in cheers. tony forces the ring onto your hand and lifts you up, spinning you around in glee.

you didn't see pepper when the two of you got home, but you couldn't check since tony hadn't put you down since he proposed. "can i go to sleep now." he had placed you on the bed and started to undress you. tony takes his time: lifting your hips up to pull down your clothes, carefully taking your shoes off and massaging your soles. tony's hands are soft, delicately touching you.

"no sleep, we're enjoying our engagement." tony's starts to kiss up your neck and you push him away.

"i don't want to enjoy it. i want to go to sleep." tony's eyes darken and you suddenly feel how naked you are. you try to cover yourself and you see his jaw clench.

he shoves you and you fall back onto the bed. your bottom lip quivers as you remember what comes next. he grabs your jaw, "i don't care if you don't enjoy it, sweetheart." his hand gropes your chest, "i've allowed a lot of your bullshit this far, but we're getting married soon." he pinches your nipple and you moan, unable to stop yourself, "so things are going to change."

tony forces two fingers into your mouth, gagging you. you try to speak but he tuts. "messy, messy." you could feel your saliva start to coat his fingers, slowly dripping down the sides of your mouth. tony smirks, "be good, (y/n), cause i'm not going to hold back anymore."

[zenaidamacrouras1]

This was in my drafts so one can reasonably assume I haven't posted it. Look. Backhoe has a baby sister! After I wrote Backhoe I published a handful of stories in a Backhoe Expansion Pack. All of the stories in that series, including my favorite, A Passel of Backhoes, are in that slimmer volume I made to match Backhoe.

The typeset has a quilty them, the specific block is a modified Ohio Star block, which is a favorite of mine, though it's a little rigid and dramatic in its pure form, I like it messed up a bit.

I could have sworn I had an image of the table of contents but I don't seem to and I already gave this book away. Oh well. When I was looking for the picture I found this image of my most precious possession, my grandma's avon bottles of Abe Lincoln and George Washington. My Grandma has these in pride of place in a cabinet in her dining room. Mine are in my kitchen on a prominent shelf but they get dusty.

I had to give them their once per decade bath and Abe's head got a little loose and some cologne leaked out and re-scented me so bad I was afraid my family would reject me from the nest. My partner walked into the kitchen and said, "oh! Smell!" and walked back out.

Anyway. I love them despite the fact that they are full of 50 year old pestilent cologne and possibly gave me brain damage.

Anyway I feel like this story could absolutely be something that happens in the old Barnes homeplace so I am sharing it here.

Oh right, here is the link to my binding of Backhoe, the big brother book

[ghoulspaw]

Obscuary my beloveds <3

[shepscapades]

Uhm hi Shep 👉👈

if I were to request more Xisuma, what would you sayyyy?

(P.S. saw you redraw one of the mini doodles for the last request - this time, can it be the cleo and X one?)

Well normally i would rush to find a little xisuma to share from part 3 (which is almost done btw >:3), but I remembered that little doodle of cleo hugging x and whipped this up because they are so special to me and I think xisuma should get 100000 comforting hugs

[mothoscope]

Been a while since I've drawn these dumbasses.

[beanghostprincess]

Do you think shuggy ever gets possessive over one another?

Definitely. Undoubtedly. And it goes both ways.

I believe the most obvious answer would be saying Shanks is the possessive one because, you know, have you seen the rizz this clown has to always attract people? Cross Guild??? So Shanks gets jealous easily but I don't think he actively shows it because he wants to keep things peaceful and he truly does not want Buggy to get angry at him for this. So it's small, subtle moves that let others know Shanks is possessive over Buggy but without making Buggy notice.

On the other hand, Buggy is way more explicit with that. Shanks is just too nice. It doesn't mean he flirts with everyone he meets but he just has a flirty personality and it does look like that when he's being polite, plus, for some reason every girl wants to fuck Shanks. That man looks disgusting and very gay to me, but whatever the female gaze wants, idk-- And Buggy is more the type to get angry at Shanks and yell at him about it and quickly drag him away from any flirtatious conversation, but Shanks kind of sort of likes it, ngl. ("Awww you want me only for yourself, Bugs?" / "Shut the fuck up")

But this doesn't only happen romantically and I doubt you meant it only in that way. I was saving my favorite thing for last.

I think they were possessive of each other since they were kids. You know. Always being together and clinging to each other constantly. Never being without the other. They of course argue but they always have this "he should be with me" sensation when the other is with someone else because it just doesn't feel right to be apart from him. They have also always been possessive in the way of like-- Not the "you're mine" sort of thing but "we belong together, that's how it always has been". On the battlefield too, btw, if you touch one of them you will probably end up dead because they're just that protective (Shanks does it in a more obvious way and Buggy could kill someone to protect Shanks but he would blame Shanks anyway and say he didn't do it because of him when he totally did).

There's just something about them now that screams how they want to go back to the way things used to be when they could live in their own bubble together, only the two of them. And there's this clear possessiveness because their love is only theirs and no one else's. And I believe them to be extremely protective in all stages of their relationship. When they were kids. When they were teenagers. Even when they were fighting. And even more, if they date again.

By the way, I just had the most adorable thought about lil kids Shuggy being this possessive. A little headcanon-- Roger always playing with them and showering them with love because of course he did, and he used to hold Buggy and go "He's mine!!! <33 My ray of sunshine!!" and Shanks instantly got so possessive and angry going "No!!! Mine!!" and Roger kept joking about it until Shanks cried and he had to let go of Buggy if he didn't want the kid to have a whole breakdown about it (Buggy didn't give a single fuck btw he liked to be with Rayleigh better).