#stop i love this drawing SO much … idiots in love for REAL

[otakudragones]

Bakugo Katsuki

As a boyfriend

• He’s the kind of boyfriend who won’t say “I love you,” but will fight the waiter if your order’s wrong. His love language is: acts of service + passive-aggressive violence.

• If he finds out someone made you cry, he’s already taking his gloves off. “WHO WAS IT? WHERE ARE THEY? DO THEY EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE TO ME?”

• Takes care of you without admitting it. If you’re sick: “I don’t need you dying in my house, so take this medicine and sleep in my bed. And don’t move, dumbass.”

• Gets mad if you don’t ask for help. “What the hell am I here for then, huh? You stubborn idiot.”

• He hates PDA, but looks at you like you’re the sun — and then flat-out denies it.

• Jealous? Oh, definitely. “Who was that, huh? Why’d he smile at you?” You: “The Walmart cashier, Katsuki.”

IMAGINE:

You’re at a party with your friends, and Bakugou hasn’t stopped frowning at you from across the room because you’re dancing without him. When you finally walk over, he says, “What, done trying to get attention or what?” But he takes your hand and doesn’t let go the rest of the night.

As a husband

• The wedding is simple, but he bakes the cake himself (with strawberry filling, because it’s your favorite).

• Says he won’t cry. Cries. Gets embarrassed. Gets mad about crying.

• Makes breakfast for you every morning, even if the toast’s a little burnt.

• He never goes to sleep without making sure you’re okay. Sometimes he gets up just to check if you’re still breathing — just in case.

• Talks to you about money, decisions, the future. He doesn’t run from adulthood. He’s the kind of husband who wants to do things right because you give him your all.

• Gets offended if you don’t lean on him. “What’s the point of having me if you’re gonna carry everything yourself, huh?”

IMAGINE:

You’ve got a headache and are lying on the couch. Bakugou covers you with a blanket, dims the lights, sets water on the table. He doesn’t say much — just strokes your hair and murmurs, “Rest, woman…” like he isn’t completely in love.

As a father

• Overprotective dad to the max. He’s freaking out during labor, but the moment he hears that first cry, something in him shifts. “Oh… This is real now.”

• Teaches his kid to defend themselves from kindergarten. Enrolls them in combat classes before soccer.

• But also: sings lullabies in a whisper, like his voice might break the baby if he gets too loud.

• He’s scared of hurting the baby at first, but soon becomes a pro at changing diapers and carrying without fear.

• Does homework, plays, reads bedtime stories (with full-on villain voices), and gets offended if his kid doesn’t draw him with enough muscles.

• His kid’s first “I love you” leaves him speechless for three minutes. Then he just says, “I love you too,” wiping his eyes.

In general, a relationship with Katsuki is…

• Like dating an emotional grenade who learned how to love gently.

• He doesn’t know how to be tender, but he tries. He tries so hard it hurts from how beautiful it is.

• You argue, but never go to bed angry. He always comes back to say: “I don’t care about being right with the world if I’m not right with you.”

• He has anxiety about not being enough, and you are his safe place. He won’t say it, but you see it in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching.

MINI ONE-SHOT: “Only You”

“Why are you with me?” you ask one night, staring at the ceiling while he strokes your back with one hand.

Katsuki doesn’t answer right away. He breathes. Hesitates. Then says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

—“Because you make me want to be a better person… without even asking me to.”

Then, softer, almost afraid:

—“Because you calm me down, damn it. You make me feel like I’m not broken.”

You look at him. And with glossy eyes and a clenched jaw, he just whispers:

—“And if you ever doubt it again, just remember there’s no one else I’d do all of this for… only you.”

Traducción

Como novio

• Es el tipo de novio que no te dice "te amo", pero pelea con el mesero si no trae bien tu orden. Su lenguaje del amor es: servicio + violencia pasiva-agresiva.

• Si se entera de que alguien te hizo llorar, ya está quitándose los guantes. “¿QUIÉN FUE? ¿DÓNDE ESTÁ? ¿TIENE IDEA DE QUIÉN ERES TÚ PARA MÍ?”

• Te cuida sin admitirlo. Si estás enfermo: “no necesito que te mueras en mi casa, así que tómate esta medicina y duerme en mi cama. Y no te muevas, pendeja.”

• Se enoja si no le pides ayuda con algo porque “para eso estoy aquí, ¿no? pinche necia”.

• No le gusta el PDA (afecto en público), pero te mira como si fueras el sol y lo niega rotundamente.

• Es celoso. Tipo: “¿y ese quién era, eh? ¿por qué te sonrió?” Tú: “el de Walmart, Katsuki.”

IMAGINA:

"Estás en una fiesta con tus amigos, y Bakugou no ha dejado de hacerte ceño desde la esquina del cuarto porque estás bailando sin él. Cuando te acercas, te dice: ‘qué, ¿ya te cansaste de llamar la atención o qué?’. Pero se deja tomar de la mano y no te suelta por el resto de la noche."

Como esposo

• Su boda es simple, pero el pastel lo horneó él (con relleno de fresa porque sabe que es tu favorito).

• Te dice que no va a llorar. Llora. Le da pena. Se enoja por haber llorado.

• Cada mañana te prepara desayuno aunque se le queme un poco el pan tostado.

• Nunca se va a dormir sin asegurarse de que tú estés bien. A veces se levanta a revisar si respiras, justo en caso.

• Habla contigo de gastos, decisiones y futuro. No huye de la vida adulta. Es el tipo de esposo que quiere hacer las cosas bien porque lo das todo por él.

• Se ofende si no te apoyas en él. “¿Para qué me tienes si vas a cargar sola todo, ah?”

IMAGINA:

Te duele la cabeza y estás acostada en el sillón. Bakugou te tapa, apaga las luces, te pone agua en la mesa. No dice nada, solo te acaricia el cabello y murmura: "descansa, mujer..."como si no estuviera enamoradísimo.

Como padre

• Es papá gallina nivel Dios. Te ayuda en el parto con un susto épico, pero cuando escucha el primer llanto, su cara cambia por completo. “Ah no....Esto va en serio.”

• Enseña a su hijo a defenderse desde el kínder. Lo inscribe a clases de combate antes que a fútbol.

• Pero también: le canta canciones de cuna a lo bajito, como si su voz pudiera romper al bebé si sube de tono.

• Le da miedo lastimar, pero poco a poco se vuelve experto en cambiar pañales y cargar sin miedo.

• Hace tareas, juega, lee cuentos (con voz de villano incluida), y se ofende si su hijo no lo dibuja con suficiente musculatura.

• El primer "te amo" de su hijo lo deja en silencio 3 minutos. Luego solo dice: “yo también te amo”, mientras se limpia los ojos.

En general, una relación con Katsuki es…

• Como salir con una granada emocional que aprendió a amar con cuidado.

• Él no sabe cómo ser tierno, pero lo intenta. Lo intenta tanto que duele de lo hermoso.

• Discuten, pero nunca se acuestan peleados. Siempre regresa a decirte: “no quiero estar bien con el mundo si no estoy bien contigo.”

• Tiene ansiedad por no ser suficiente, y tú eres su refugio. No lo dice, pero se le nota en cómo te mira cuando cree que no estás viendo.

MINI ONE-SHOT: “Solo tú”

—¿Por qué estás conmigo? —preguntas una noche, mientras ves el techo y él acaricia tu espalda con una sola mano.

Katsuki no responde al instante. Respira. Duda. Luego dice, como si fuera obvio:

—Porque me haces querer ser una mejor persona… sin que me lo pidas.

Y después de un segundo añade, más bajo, casi temeroso:

—Porque me calmas, cabrón. Me haces sentir que no estoy roto.

Lo miras. Y él, con los ojos brillosos y la mandíbula apretada, solo te susurra:

—Y si algún día dudas otra vez, solo recuérdate que no hay nadie más con quien haría todo esto… solo tú.

[thesweetestapplepie]

I love your writing and umm if you're doing requests may I please request essentially the reverse of the fwb ones, where she and arthur are partners in crime and they're super sweet and couple-y best friends but are NOT together even though everyone in camp is like 'are they seriously not fucking???' And they're just mutually pining like idiots for years on end. I hope that made sense sorry if its weirdly specific i probably need therapy lol.

wc: 1.9k

tags: FLUFF!! pining Arthur.

Comfortable. Too comfortable. It was almost suspicious. Those were the exact words Susan Grimshaw would use to describe the pair of lovebirds that bumbled around camp as if completely enamoured in their own worlds. Those lovebirds not even being the crude Sean and babbling Karen or even Mary-Beth and the stuttering, nervous mess which was Kieran. No. It was the mere sight of you, the silver tongued bandit with her heart on her sleeve being so shamelessly sought out by the brooding, enigmatic man Arthur Morgan. To be completely fair on Grimshaw’s part, it wasn’t only her who held suspicions on the end of her finger when she would constantly wave it in front of your nose. The very close friendship the pair of you had knitted together came tangled with the inquiries of not only the women of camp, who bargained gossip for gossip by their washboards, but the men in camp who would throw sneaky, offhand remarks at the wind over a drink or game of poker. And yet, not much to everyone’s surprise that the pair of you would deny, deny, deny.

And who can blame them? It had become an almost domestic frame: the pair of you couldn’t help but to give in to the simple pleasures. Simple distractions. Mornings became rich in the same scene of Arthur trailing behind you to your routine which in return had become his routine. Knowing he would be gone on a job for most of the week, he prepares himself for the long departure in his own endearing way. Trailing behind you with ears low tucked behind his hat, he follows you to the glistening shores of Clemen’s Point the very mornings before departure. He’d sheepishly blush and sit on a rock nearby where you had already begun to wash your face in the cold, relieving sting of the water. With a palm tucked under his scarred chin and elbow resting on his knee, his body lumbered over to intently watch you. The use of conversation was pointless in the of quiet elysium which was the Clemen’s point waters so early in the morning that the moon still forged itself to the blue sky–so early in the morning it traps the pair of you in a capsule where no one else seemed to matter or intrude. When he can’t avoid your tickling suspicions, he scratches the back of his neck and hopes you didn’t think of him as any less of a man.

“You’re up early.” You draw first to jab at him.

“Gonna be busy today.. Coffee’s good when it’s hot.” He hides his real reason behind coffee beans and hot water, tipping his hat for extra perseverance.

“Really now?” You’d respond to him with conviction for his dishonesty and he shrugs. You pulled yourself up and rang water from your skirt.. “Could you get me a cup then?”

“Ain’t your dog, woman.” He’d mumble with no real bitterness, walking with a slow lumber towards the campfire where he lets his feelings for you swallow him up in his pathetic attempts to make you smile.

Caring for you had become a part of Arthur Morgan’s character. The aspect of grey clouds contorting you to anything but the carefree, happy woman who read to him on quiet nights and splashed in puddles on rainy days leaves him feeling utterly ashamed and bastardized. Arthur doesn’t know exactly when he realized it hurt so much to see you as anything but content and well fed, yet he succumbs to your rule and seems to crush himself beneath your thumb.

“You’re gonna get yourself sick like that.” He scolds you when you prance through the streaking, silver pelts of rain. You chase the rushing chill past the front steps of The Loft, stopped by the simple yearning to play with the riches of nature. If Ambarino could offer Arthur one thing, it was the ability to see you bask in the background of green and meadows of blurred wildflowers.

“So?” Water trickles down your back and seeps through the stitchings of your clothing and much to his prediction you push down the sting of cold with brilliance.

He laughs half-heartedly at that. “So? You whine like a dog for days with a stuffed nose, you ain’t foolin’ me.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if it’ll stagnate the humming in his body. He forces his head down to avoid the sting of his yearning for you. And yet, even when you pull him by his hands into the blur of pelting water he feels nothing but warmth in his vain attempt to preserve your health. And in the end, he’d rather it be both of you sipping hot stew in the quarantine of his tent than you by yourself in yours.

Though, you show you care for him as well, in sweeter and considerate terms of affection. When Arthur Morgan fails to take care of himself in negligence or in carelessness, you make up for it with not a word spoken in between them. With a bowl of fresh stew lightly garnished with creeping thyme personally plucked by you, you take it upon yourself to bring the moping man a meal when he’s too stubborn to grab one himself. When another robbery only left them with a quarter and law men too close to camp, you remind Arthur that he isn’t the cold steel of a gun but he was human.

“You ain’t gotta do that fa’ me.” Yet, when his thumb firmly brushes your hand in exchange, it speaks all the thank yous to you with the life in his eyes coming back.

He speaks thanks especially when he knows you need it. It isn’t uncommon for Grimshaw to have you fold the same 3 loads of laundry at the beginning of every morning, or force you to stick your nose to the mat and collect the dust through your nostrils and a broom. When the days begin to wax at you and you melt over the boil of your pot, Arthur knows he isn’t a smoothtalker yet he pats himself on the back for his saving grace.

He’ll bound up to you, confident with a chest puff of ash and yarrow pollen. Sometimes he’ll find you atop of a discarded barrel, you were already helping Pearson peel at potatoes, fingers tough and printed with the blunt side of the blade; But that thief needs to steal some more of your precious time.

“Put’chu shoes on. Need you to run an errand with me.”

“You busy? Could use a saddle warmer.”

He’ll almost always ask you with hands looped on his gun belt, naval tilting up as if to downplay his own request. However, on occasions where he is self-serving enough to pry you from the comfort of your tent, he’ll ask you to accompany him for no real particular reason. Well, of course he has his reasons. But who were you to say no to that handsome man.

Once in a while, when the brilliant summer sun would even dare to outshine your golden smile, he calls you over just by the banks to serve him in your musical lull. Pulling his sleeves up to the curl of his bicep, he swings an axe overhead with a thunderous strike of lightning and the logs of wood splinter effortlessly in his control and he only pauses to call your name from the crowd. Finger pointing a spotlight to you as you make your way. “You.”

“Me?” You make your way over with a fluttering skirt and the breath of lilac that calls your name in its aroma. “What about me?”

“Need you to read for me.” An awkward hand gestures to the book safely tucked under your arm and with a hell of a lot better to do such as washing and cooking you sit down in a shady patch of lime grass and flip to page 25 of your book. There, with the trees swelling at every gale of bird songs and the smell of oak and cedar, you read to him from your spot where your skirt pools on the floor and makes his heart tick with endearment. When he fails to force his face down into the heat of his work, he allows himself to sneak fleeting glances of you and your pretty skirt. Capturing you in his mind was no different than a fully realized photograph, he knew you well enough to not have to remember which way your hair parted and how you liked to wear ribbons in your clothing. When you do catch him looking, he ducks his head with an apology too quiet for you to hear but just for him to save his pride. And you laugh, because the shades of red that paint his stubble face wasn’t due to the pounding sun in the sky but the drumming of his heart.

Arthur Morgan’s criminality didn’t leave him much room for care and domesticity. The soft blazing skin of a woman had become unfamiliar and alien to him as dreams of Tahiti or god knows what. Death’s waiting arms was by far going to be the closest thing he’ll get to a white lacy wedding, yet when the noose slips and it tightens it’s hold on him, a nagging itch in his body tells him your boot isn’t fitting as it usually did or you’ve been losing track of your rings and dainty necklaces that seem to only fit your perfect skin. And heaven knows he cannot even imagine death's eternal sleep if you were not properly looked out for.

It wasn’t the prettiest sight, though he has to admit it to himself, to tear away trinkets and gold from the hands of anyone unfortunate enough to ride down his trail. With a sinful thumb he wipes sweat lining the indents of his forehead and dismounts with a heavy footfall directed towards your yellow starched tent canvas. He pulls open the canvas but not before announcing his entrance like the gentleman that he was.

And yet, when he’s able to string together enough money he buys you those new amber shaded boots with dark rose embroidery running along its stump. Once in a perfect pale moon he cobbles together enough to buy you a new necklace to replace the one you left in Valentine, and the embellished swelling of your already tinted pink cheeks makes the blood in his hands tingle when he gives you the delicate items. He is adamant on doing it to serve you, to make your life a little easier in the light of the coming summer. Even when you kiss his cheek and whisper your thanks and praise, he dares to let his smile show any more crooked teeth. His reasons are albeit, a little more selfish than he cares to admit.

“Look at that face, Morgan! She gave you a good one this time, ain’t she?” Sean croons from his spot at the table like a crow with a face kissed red in liquor.

“Gave me more than what you’ll get in 10 years, fool.” He deflects with a dismissive hand when he b-lines for his tent. Despite all the accusatory remarks and comments, he bounds to his tent with a smile on those thinly curved lips, because something about everyone assuming you were his as he was yours had only fed into his hopeless desires. Arthur Morgan knew he was out of his mind for yearning for you, but he had lost half of it to the violence. And lord knows he deserves to lose the rest of it to love.

[mrbrightxside]

Eltingville sketches because I am suffering from Bill Dickey brainrot 👌

[veinsfullofstars]

"Still trying to intimidate me? Cute."

(ID: Kirby series fanart of Meta Knight and Galacta Knight based off of a couple dynamics template by @/ReddsMess on Twitter. Original template and source below the cut, as well as a HAL language variant. Top-left panel - high-angle shot of MK lit from above, standing firm and glaring up through his mask, his wings curled out and breaching the panel in places, subtitled "Well well..." Top-right panel - low-angle shot of GK lit from below, looming in the air and leering down through his mask, his wings curled out and his hands spread wide in challenge, both of which breach the panel in places, subtitled "Look who came to see me..." Bottom panel - MK & GK stand next to each other, the latter leaning towards the former and gently caressing the side of his mask with the back of one hand, grinning smugly and wrapping a wing around the knight, subtitled "My Knightmare." MK stands stiffly with his fists clenched at his sides, blushing vividly and glaring away from the warrior. A little flurry of white hearts emanate from GK, while one small one hovers above MK. END ID.)

Started 03/30/24, finished 04/02/24, updated for color correction 11/02/24.

---

HAL language variant:

Original by ReddsMess (template link) NOTE: The artist has marked 16-18+ in their bio, so browse at your own risk!

[wickmitz]

what wick says : idk if i can be with her when she probably wants me dead. i just can’t trust a woman like that …

wick’s inner thoughts :

I love their sass

[eraserbread]

read part 1 our husband is hungover :(( what r we gonna do to help him??

when nanami finally wakes up, he's drowning in an ocean of shame, throbbing, and filth. it's hard to breathe - the room is too hot, and he's alone. you're not tangled up next to him like you always were. in fact, he feels quite lonely when he sits up, rubbing at his exhausted eyes.

either he chose to block it out, or he just didn't remember anything past shoving satoru off at the bar. it's nothing new, but seeing humans die had an effect on him. there shouldn't have been casualties when he was working with satoru -- even he's a grade 1. the whole situation just made him unsure of himself. when he watched that woman draw her last breath last night, he saw you in her wake. you begging for safety and mercy,

it's the only reason he let alcohol touch his lips -- and that's probably the reason he still has his shoes on when he slips out of bed half-naked.

one whiff and a quick scan of his surroundings has him muttering curses to himself. first course of business—a bath—a long one—in one he purposefully bought for this house that could accommodate all of his height.

and in the bath is where you find him, damp, steaming rag covering his sensitive eyes.

you come bearing coffee and breakfast, unwashed yourself but okay enough to slip something on real quick and take care of your hungover husband.

your bathroom is painted in beige and greys, new appliances and fixtures all personally picked by a very tedious kento. on the neo-modern tile floor, you kneel, placing your gifts on the side of the tub.

"i just treasure you so much." he speaks before you can, absolutely blinded to you but locked onto your delicate footsteps.

it's only when you laugh does he pull the side of his cloth up. he catches the final pull of your smile and can't help but grin back. kento just knows he's a lucky man.

"you're cute, but an idiot when you drink." you start. he sighs.

"yeah, yeah." he looks at you, sitting up when he notices the spread. omlettes - rice, his favorites. and, he's starving.

yeah, even hungover nanami wants you right now, bad.

"get in here."

you end up on your knees, somehow. always. ken's splayed out under you, sitting back against the tub with his eyes covered. he lets you take the lead, this time.

surely he wasn't expecting you to tuck your hair back and take his pretty, dripping erection in your mouth. he hardly reacts, just giving you a steady little breath. but, you can see his chest tighten. he peeks down at you.

"oh, baby... that's nice." you stop, parting your lips like you want to speak. "hush, don't distract yourself."

you must be looking up at him like an idiot, because he chuckles again, letting his cloth fall back over his eyes. something in your chest screams for him -- it's a true feeling, pulling and tugging on your insides when he looks and talks to you like this... this love is bone deep.

so, you give it everything you have. making up for all those stupid, self-conscious years you spent abstaining. if you knew ken liked oral so much, you would've been doing it all these years.

quiet, respectful bastard... you hate love him.

now, he's moaning your name as you swallow him whole, throat soft and pliable for his cock to sit. it's uncomfortable at first, but so is everything, and he sounds so pretty sighing over you.

perhaps you get a bit overzealous, pumping your head hastily, hollowing your cheeks and whining vibrations over him, because he stops you. a hand in your hair that's painful but dominant and unapologetic makes you blink up at him.

"feels so good, but i may die if I cum too hard."

so, you take your time without further thought. he guides your head up and down his length, swallowing back nothing every time he glances down at your filthy reflection.

he warns you when he's about to cum, digging your face in his small trail of pubic hair. "baby, 'm so sorry, baby, I can't pull out."

then, he cums, gloriously crying your name and clawing at the edge of the tub. all of the tension he held melts away into nothingness, and once he comes down he whispers:

"thank you. love you so much."

[thephantomsdream]

Let's be real for a second.

Ghost likes you a lil mean. Just enough. To him, to his mates, to everyone. He can fight. He will fuck anyone up who dares to react aggressively to you, so it doesn't matter if you're sassy, snarky, plainly put a little shit. He won't stop you, he's not gonna "tame" you, he's definitely gonna fucking eat it up and tease you, loving your remarks, clever, funny or straight up mean. The man will be smirking behind his mask (or straight up giving you heart-eyes at home). Don't be unnecessarily mean though, it's not a good look on anyone. Oh, god, and if your humor is dark? You got the man snorting and fucking giggling*(1), shoulders shaking and him trying to hold it in as you're plain roasting someone.

Be mean to him. He tests the waters, dropping one of his incredible and fantastic jokes for you to roll your eyes at him and tell him to rather wear a clown mask, since he's such a joke, and I swear he folds. Wants to pin you down and fuck you raw until you're a sobbing mess that knows nothing else but his name? Of course, and know he'd be mocking you, because where's that snarky mouth of yours, hmm? Oh, ya, busy sucking on his fingers. But until then, he's lowkey following you around dropping stupid joke after stupid joke until you're actually angry and amused. He got you smiling somehow? Gets him feeling like a young boy with a crush, silly butterflies and all.

Give him a bitch-face. Raised brow and unimpressed face at anyone and he's just eyes on you. Fucking hell, he's creepy too. Ghost is fucking intimidating as he is but if he just fixates on something, big brown eyes locked onto you and (big, awkward because let's be fucking for real, boy's actually fucking awkward) body frozen. Just 🧍‍♂️. (I'm fucking wheezing, he just 🧍‍♂️👁👁 and you know it!)

"Fuck are you looking at, weirdo?" That's bloody foken lovely!

And!

AND! He just (again, awkwardly) hovers and makes shit jokes but is so helpful to you in any way he can because in reality he's garbage with words but with actions he's much better. Regardless of where you met, he'll find a way in your life because you bring him joy and he just can't seem to let go. Simon tries to convince himself too that it ain't a good idea, that you're better off. Aha. Yeah, then you just look at him in a way when someone else says something absolutely fucking stupid and he just... Yeah, he's yours.

Be mean to him, then let him shove his face in your tits. Pull his hair a little but wrap your arms around him. Bite him and call him an idiot if you want, as long as you call him your idiot. That's Simon to you.

(But when you're nice to only him, he feels special. Make this man feel special, yeah? He needs it.)

(1): I actually imagined him in his barracks, him kicking his feet while he wears a pink robe, writing in his pink diary (with a pink pen with one of those fluffy balls at the end) "Dear diary, my lovie called me an asshole today. My heart is still racing. We shall mary in spring." and drawing hearts around his and your initials together.

[josephquinnswhore]

no promise left unkept - joel miller x female reader

summary: Joel knows how to fuck, and good. But does he know how to love. He’s not sure, but he wants to try.. with you.

word count: 1.1k

content warning: raw fucking, p in v, reader tasting her own juices, two idiots navigating their feelings.

The sun hadn’t yet completely risen over the top of the tall silhouette of the trees of the forest yet, eliciting a bright orange glow through the forestry. The same glow that makes Joel look ethereal, his hazel eyes glow golden, his skin too.

The cool, autumn breeze weaves through the branches, it feels icy on the exposed skin of your ass.

Your jeans had been brazenly pulled halfway down to your ankles when Joel decided that this was the perfect spot for you, insisted.

“It’s safe here, ain’t gonna run int’a no trouble, promise.”

The deepened drawl of his morning tiredness lingered, the promise was one you’d heard time and time again, in which he took seriously.

Here you were, attempting to stabilise yourself against a growing tree stump that you had been bent over, creating the perfect angling of Joel to spear into you, while your back is arched proficiently. Each time he thrusts into your sopping, greedy cunt, your knees scrape against the stump from the force of his desperate movements.

Pummelling into you over and over, the reverence of his cock clamming harshly into your hole was the only thing keeping your mind off the pain. He was so thick, so delicious, the tip of his cock rams against the soft flesh of your cervix. It’s a painful feat to bear and your fingers coil around the loose foliage in attempt to alleviate the pain.

Despite how standoffish and rude Joel seemed, you’d fucked him enough to know that he was a generous man. Perhaps he wasn’t the most romantic, this wasn’t his bedroom, after all. But he had made it his unspoken duty to claim you. Worshipping every inch of your body, refusing to let you walk back to the settlement you call home without that satisfied, fucked out face you gave him.

Like clockwork, you’d sneak out of Jackson through the unfinished boarding on the south end that was still being repaired, meeting him at the lookout for his patrol once every week for a desperate fucking.

“I know you got one more for me, can feel how tight you’re clenchin’ around me—“ he interrupts himself with a grunt, picking up his pace frantically as he leans right over you. The added weight of his chest flush against your back makes you stumble palm first into the soft orange and yellow autumn leaves. The fallen colourful leaves crinkle and crunch under your palm, collecting under your nails as you curl your fingers into the loose plant.

Joel is grunting in your ear, his thick cock ramming into you with such devotion that he hadn’t with anyone other than you.

He loved to please you, hearing every whine and bated breath he could feel. His fingers are warm and wet, slick of your juices from playing with your clit. He clumsily redirects two of his thick digits to slide against your chin as he clutches onto your jaw, intrude into your mouth, it’s met with the same warmth your cunt provides, and he fucks your mouth too.

With another orgasm approaching, you’re whining, but the sound is muffled by his thick fingers and you’re forced to suck on them, tasting off your own arousal.

Never had you met a man so devoted to making sure you came first, drawing it out of you with his elicit fucking and feral grunts. The skilful fingers and the way they caress your body with such tenderness and precision to what makes you feel good.

He could never stop himself from the rapids of intrusive thoughts of cumming inside you, no matter how much time he had to give himself, he couldn’t. The feel of your cunt clenched around him like a vice, begging to be filled with his thick load.

A devotion to you, but he couldn’t ever find the courage to make you his exclusively, outside of fucking you, with the promise of something real.

You slobber against his thick fingers, tears falling down your cheeks as you cum again, the obscene sound is muffled. In quick succession you couldn’t recall, but he always made up for the days of the week he didn’t see you.

The sound of him grunting and heaving as he pulls out of you to cum on the damp foliage is tuned out by the ringing of your ears after another intense orgasm.

Without a beat passing, Joel is pulling your jeans up to cover whatever decency you still held, and managed to help you to your feet, still dazed and euphoric, you undervalue the intimate and personal gesture of him wiping your tears away.

“You alright?” A softness brings you back to him, into his orbit. The way he gazes at you with those hazel eyes is the only way he’ll allow you to understand what he’s feeling.

“Hey—“ he snaps you out of your dazed state and manages to elicit a nod from you. “Not good enough. I need words, talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” the murmur is unconvincing, lacking any real substance.

The warmth on your ears spreads down your neck as he looks at you, into your eyes intently as if he senses something is wrong.

“You’re not fine. Did I hurt you?” The warm flesh of his hands cradled your cheek.

“No. You didn’t hurt me.” That wasn’t entirely true, your knees ache and your stomach was hurting from his incessant ramming. But what hurt the most was that you two couldn’t do this properly. In his bed, or with someone acknowledging that you two were an item.

Joel knew something was amiss, he knew that you had feelings for him, you two had been screwing for months, how couldn’t you have?

And he—burns the cowadarce inside of him, seeing the distraught expression on your face. The need.

“I’ll come visit you tonight, alright? We’ll have a meal, an’.. we’ll talk about this. Us.” His murmur is soft, a promise, and pauses. “If you want.”

“You will?”

Disbelief overwhelms him. While your heart feels yearning, to keep his hand on you, to beg him not to make you return to Jackson without him by your side, to give him any time for him to forfeit his promise.

Did he make you feel this unsure of the dynamic you shared?

He hums, the sound is even and calm. He pinches your cheek. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, sweetheart. Promise.”

With that one word, you feel secure, like an infant being held in the arms of it’s mother. Safe.

Joel Miller is your security, and he had never broken a promise to you.

[lazy-ahh]

Lazy-ahh, first, your brain his huge and wrinkly for all the writing you’ve shared with us! You’re easily one of my fav Invincible writers! 🛐🛐🛐 Second, bless you for giving us more male reader in this desolate fandom 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Third, I had a request I’ve been thinking about and having a tough time deciding which Mark I wanted. I HC that Viltrumites can purr! Can we get something about male reader witnessing main Mark purr for the first time because of him? And reader’s completely weak for how cute it is. 🥺

THE SOUNDS HE MAKES (ARE ONLY FOR YOU)

pairing mark grayson x male reader

mark grayson purrs. it’s a secret only you know—something between a biological quirk and a love language, vibrating against your skin every time you touch him just right. and god, do you love finding new ways to draw it out of him.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you never expected to fall for someone like mark grayson. loud, optimistic, annoyingly persistent—everything you usually couldn’t stand. the first time you met him, he was all wide-eyed enthusiasm, rambling about superheroes like it was the most important thing in the world. you’d scoffed, called him an idiot under your breath, but he just grinned like you’d handed him a damn trophy. it pissed you off. or at least, that’s what you thought you felt.

but then he kept showing up—in the hallways at school, at the shitty diner you worked at, even outside your apartment like some lost puppy. and no matter how much you snapped at him, he never left. just stood there, smiling like you weren’t being a complete asshole, until one day, you realized you were looking for him too.

now, a year deep into dating the idiot, and somehow, you hadn’t strangled him yet. (though not for lack of trying.)

it was a lazy afternoon, the two of you sprawled across his bed, your head resting on his chest as he rambled about some comic book shit. you weren’t really listening, more focused on the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin under your fingertips. you traced idle patterns along his ribs, just to feel him shiver, and smirked when his voice hitched mid-sentence.

"you’re not even paying attention, are you?" mark huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it.

"nope," you admitted, dragging your nails lightly down his side just to watch him squirm.

he laughed, breathless, and caught your wrist—not to stop you, just to lace his fingers through yours. "you’re such a dick."

"you love it," you muttered, half expecting him to roll his eyes or shove you off like anyone else would. but mark just squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that made your chest tighten.

"yeah," he said, soft and stupidly sincere. "i do."

your pulse jumped. you weren’t used to this—being wanted, being loved, especially not by someone who looked at you like you hung the damn stars. it made you feel exposed, raw in a way that should’ve sent you running. but then mark smiled, all crooked and fond, and you couldn’t help but curl closer, pressing your face into his shoulder to hide the way your own lips betrayed you.

that’s when you felt it—a low, rumbling vibration against your ear, so deep you almost missed it.

you stiffened. "the hell was that?"

mark blinked down at you, confused. "what was what?"

"that—that noise. did you just—" you cut yourself off as it happened again, the sound unmistakable this time. a deep, content purr, resonating from his chest.

your eyes narrowed, fingers stilling against his ribs as you lifted your head just enough to glare at him. the sound was unmistakable now—a deep, rhythmic hum vibrating through his chest, warm and alive under your cheek. it shouldn’t have been possible, but then again, neither was half the shit mark could do.

"are you fucking purring?" you demanded, voice rough with disbelief.

mark’s face flushed instantly, his stupidly long lashes fluttering as he avoided your gaze. "i—uh. maybe?" his voice cracked, and the purr stuttered for a second before doubling in intensity, like his traitorous body was daring you to tease him.

your chest did something embarrassing—tightening, then melting all at once. it was disgustingly cute. like finding out a wolf could wag its tail. here was this idiot who could level buildings with his fists, who talked shit in the middle of fights like it was a damn comedy routine, and he was purring because of you. because you’d scratched his scalp like some kind of overgrown housecat.

you should've mocked him. should've rolled your eyes so hard they'd get stuck, called him a pathetic excuse for an alien warrior—but your traitorous fingers were already moving, sliding through those soft dark curls like they had a mind of their own. your nails scraped gently against his scalp, barely there but enough to make his breath catch, and god help you, you needed to hear that deep, rumbling purr again like you needed your next breath.

"maybe?" you deadpanned, propping yourself up on one elbow to give him your best unimpressed glare, even as your free hand stayed tangled in his hair like you were afraid he'd float away. the way his pupils dilated when you tugged just slightly made your stomach do stupid flips. "since when do you purr? you some kinda fucked up space cat?"

he groaned like you were personally torturing him, covering his face with those big hands that could crush steel but always touched you like you were made of glass. "since always, okay?" his voice came out muffled, embarrassed. "it's a viltrumite thing. i can't help it when i'm—" he cut himself off abruptly, but the tips of his ears burned crimson.

your heartbeat kicked up at what he wasn't saying. when he was what? happy? content? completely fucking gone for you? you stared at him for a long moment, memorizing the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, the faint tremor in his fingers where they covered his flushed face. then, because you were weak and he was yours, you flopped back down onto his chest with enough force to knock the air out of a normal person, pressing your ear firmly against the warm skin over his heart. you needed that sound like a drowning man needed air.

mark yelped, his whole body tensing beneath you. "what're you—?"

"shut up," you muttered, listening intently for that telltale vibration. the purring had stopped, and that just wouldn't do. your fingers trailed down his side, tracing the defined muscles there with deliberate slowness, lips pursing in poorly concealed anticipation when he squirmed under your touch. "do it again." your voice came out rougher than you intended, almost pleading, and fuck if that didn't make your face heat up. but you'd burn the world down to hear that sound again, to know you were the one who drew it out of him.

"i'm not a damn cat," he grumbled, voice already going thick and syrupy as your fingers found their way back to his hair. the protest died in his throat the moment your nails scraped gently along his scalp, that deep vibration starting up again—quieter this time, like a distant thunderstorm rolling in, hesitant like he was afraid you'd pull away.

something in your chest cracked open like dawn breaking. it was stupid. ridiculous, even. but god, it was cute in a way that made your ribs ache—this invincible boy who could punch through mountains melting under your touch, reduced to nothing but warm skin and rumbling contentment. the sound wrapped around you like sunlight through curtains, golden and impossible to ignore.

"huh," you said, voice softer than you'd ever admit, the word barely more than an exhale against his collarbone. "didn't know you could do that." didn't know you trusted me enough to let me hear it, you didn't add.

mark peeked down at you through his lashes, still pink-faced like a sunrise. "you're not gonna make fun of me?" he asked, but the way he leaned into your touch betrayed how much he already knew the answer.

you scoffed, rolling your eyes with all the theatricality you could muster. "oh, i'm gonna make fun of you forever." but your traitorous fingers kept moving through his curls, slow and reverent, and the purr grew louder, vibrating through you like a live wire, like the hum of power lines after a storm, like something alive and electric settling deep in your bones.

you hated how much you loved it. hated how your stupid heart turned traitor, flipping like a dying fish in your chest, how your blood sang in your veins like it had finally remembered what happiness tasted like. so of course you buried your face in the warm expanse of his chest, hiding the way your lips curved into a smile too tender for either of you to acknowledge, pressing closer until you could feel that purr in your teeth, in your soul, in all the broken places you'd never admit existed.

"freak," you mumbled into his skin, but there was no bite to it—just honey-thick fondness dripping from every syllable, so obvious even you couldn't pretend otherwise. your fingers tightened in his hair just to hear that purr stutter, just to feel him shiver against you, and fuck if that didn't make your chest burn brighter than any sun.

mark's laugh vibrated through you before you even heard it, that stupid, sunshine-bright sound that always made your chest feel too tight. his arms wrapped around you like living seatbelts, pulling until every inch of you was pressed against him—your nose buried in the crook of his neck, your knees slotting between his like puzzle pieces finally clicking together. when you tilted your head up to glare halfheartedly, his expression did something devastating; his eyes crinkled at the corners, his stupidly soft lips curving into a smile so warm it could've powered a small city. he looked at you like you'd hung the damn moon, like you were christmas morning and the last slice of pizza and every good thing rolled into one.

"yeah, yeah," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead that made your traitorous heart stutter. his purr kicked up another notch, thrumming through your ribcage until you wondered if he could feel your heartbeat matching its rhythm. "love you too, asshole."

and if you stayed like that for hours—mark's fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, your hands fisted in the back of his shirt like you were afraid he'd disappear, his purr a constant, comforting rumble beneath your ear—well. no one had to know how easily he turned you into putty in his hands.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it became your best-kept obsession—cataloging every way to coax those rumbling purrs from mark's chest. the sharp intake of breath when your fingers found that spot just behind his ear, the way his lashes would tremble against his flushed cheeks when you scratched lightly down the nape of his neck. you'd discovered he was embarrassingly responsive to the smallest affections—your lips brushing his temple, your palm resting warm against the small of his back, even just breathing his name into the space between his shoulder blades in that private tone you never used with anyone else. each time, your ribs would ache with something too big to name, this glowing, golden feeling like you'd struck treasure no one else knew existed. and mark? he'd go pliant against you every single time, his purrs thrumming through your skin like a second heartbeat, his entire body thrumming with quiet joy just because it was you.

tonight, you waited until he was half-asleep against you, his head heavy on your chest as some old movie played forgotten in the background. you started slow—fingertips tracing meaningless patterns along his shoulder, feeling the way his breathing deepened. then, with deliberate care, you carded your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew drove him crazy.

mark made this soft, punched-out noise against your collarbone, his body going lax against yours. "mmph...cheater," he mumbled, but he was already nuzzling closer, his arms tightening around your waist.

"shhh," you murmured, smiling against the crown of his head as that familiar rumble started up, quiet at first then growing stronger as you kept petting him. his purrs reverberated through your chest, syncing up with your heartbeat in a way that made something tender and aching swell in your throat.

"feels good?" you asked, already knowing the answer from the way he'd practically turned to putty in your arms.

mark tilted his head up just enough to press a sleepy kiss to your jaw, his lips warm and slightly chapped from where he’d been biting them earlier. “cause it’s you,” he slurred, voice thick with drowsy affection, like those three words held the entire universe inside them. and maybe they did—because with every purr, every content sigh, he was telling you without words what you already knew: he was yours, completely and utterly, in every way that mattered.

you couldn’t help it—your fingers tightened in his hair, tilting his face up to yours, and then your mouth was on his, slow and deep and burning. mark made a muffled sound against your lips, half-surprise, half-pleasure, before melting into the kiss like he’d been waiting for it all night. his purr kicked up instantly, vibrating against your chest as his hands slid under your shirt, palms warm and rough against your skin.

the kiss turned messy fast—mark biting at your lower lip just hard enough to make you groan, your tongue sliding against his in a rhythm that had him arching into you. his purrs grew louder, more frantic, every drag of his fingers down your spine pulling another broken sound from your throat. you could feel the way his body trembled under your touch, the way his breath hitched when you nipped at his collarbone, his hips jerking against yours in a silent plea for more.

"fuck," he gasped when you finally pulled back for air, his pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and glistening. his purr was a constant, needy rumble now, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear. "you—you can’t just—"

you cut him off with another searing kiss, swallowing his whimper, your teeth scraping over his pulse point just to hear him fall apart all over again. his breath hitches, sharp and wet against your lips, his fingers twisting desperately in your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. you don’t let up—your tongue swipes over the bite mark, soothing the sting just to draw another broken sound from him, and fuck, you could live off this, the way his body arches into yours like he’s trying to fuse your skeletons together.

his skin is fever-hot under your palms as you slide them down his sides, mapping every shuddering breath, every twitch of muscle. when your thumbs brush the sensitive dip of his hips, he makes this noise—half gasp, half sob—his back bowing off the mattress as his purr stutters into a ragged, staticky vibration. you can feel it, the way his control splinters under your touch, his usual confident swagger reduced to trembling thighs and fluttering lashes. you still can't fucking believe you didn't notice such an important thing about mark earlier. he must have used all his strength to suppress the sounds he made to hide this from you for so long. no more hiding, you say.

"look at you," you murmur against his jaw, your voice gravel-rough with want. your fingers trail up his stomach, tracing the outline of each defined muscle like you’re memorizing him for the apocalypse. "all this just ‘cause i touch you?"

mark’s cheeks flush darker, his lips parted around uneven breaths. he tries to hide his face in the crook of your neck, but you catch his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. his pupils are blown wide, his irises barely visible rings of brown, and his expression is so ruined it makes your chest ache.

"s’not fair," he whines, his voice cracking as your hand skates lower, fingertips teasing the waistband of his sweats. his hips jerk up instinctively, chasing friction, but you hold him down with your free arm, pinning him with your weight. the way he goes pliant under you, his body surrendering before his pride does, sends a vicious thrill down your spine.

"tell me," you demand, nipping at his earlobe. "tell me who does this to you."

his breath comes in ragged, stuttering gasps—each one hotter than the last against your lips, trembling like the rest of him as he arches into your touch. his fingers scramble at your shoulders, blunt nails digging crescent moons into your skin, clinging like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. when your palm grinds down firm between his legs, he breaks for you, his purr shattering into a high, desperate whine that punches straight through your ribcage. "you," he chokes out, voice wrecked already, thighs shaking where they bracket yours. "only you, fuck—please—"

and god, you’ll never get tired of this—of how the great invincible mark grayson comes completely undone beneath you, reduced to a trembling, pleading mess with nothing but your hands and your name falling like a prayer from his kiss-swollen lips. you swallow his next broken sound with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, licking into him slow and deep, savoring the way his breath hitches when you curl your fingers just so. his hips jerk up against your palm, chasing the friction, and the noise he makes—a punched-out, trembling moan—goes straight to your gut, white-hot and possessive.

you worship him like this: with your teeth dragging along his pulse point just to feel his purr stutter, with your free hand sliding up his chest to thumb over a peaked nipple, reveling in the way his back bows off the bed. "look at you," you murmur against his jaw, voice rough with awe. "so fucking perfect for me." his answering whimper is devastating—a broken, punched-out sound that vibrates against your throat where his face is buried.

his entire body flushes darker, that sun-kissed skin blooming a heated red from his collarbones all the way up to the tips of his ears, like you’ve lit him up from the inside. when you finally wrap your fingers around him, his hips jerk up into your grip, desperate and uncoordinated, his cock hot and heavy against your palm, the velvety skin stretched taut over thick veins. you stroke him slow and firm, twisting your wrist just the way you know he likes on the upstroke, and the wetness beading at his head smears slick over your fingers, making every drag smoother, messier. his breath comes in ragged gasps against your shoulder, his blunt nails digging half-moons into your biceps as he tries to ground himself, his thighs trembling where they bracket yours. the precome leaks steadily now, sticky and warm, and you can feel the way his stomach muscles clench under your free hand when you swipe your thumb over the swollen head, spreading the wetness in slow circles just to hear him sob your name.

"f-fuck—" mark’s fingers knot in your hair, tugging sharp enough to make your scalp sting, his hips jerking up into your grip like he’s trying to fuck into the tight heat of your fist. his purr is shattered now—glitching in his throat, a staticky, uneven thrum that breaks every time his breath hitches. you can feel the vibrations where your mouth is latched onto his nipple, your tongue swirling rough over the stiff peak before you bite down just to hear him wail, his back bowing off the sheets.

his chest heaves under your palm, sweat-slick and burning hot, every muscle in his abdomen fluttering as he teeters on the edge. you don’t let up—sucking another bruise into the delicate skin under his collarbone, licking a stripe up his throat to swallow the desperate, punched-out noises he’s making. his pulse rabbits against your lips, wild and frantic, and when you scrape your teeth over it, he sobs, his cock twitching violently in your grip.

“gonna—fuck, please—” his voice cracks, raw and wrecked, his thighs trembling where they cage your hips. you can taste the salt on his skin where your tongue drags over his nipple again, can feel the way his stomach tenses under your palm like he’s trying to hold back. his lashes are wet, his lips swollen from biting them, and when you press your forehead to his, his breath fans hot and uneven over your mouth.

your fingers tighten just enough to make him whimper, the slick twist of your wrist deliberate, perfect, and mark breaks. his back arches off the sheets, a choked, ragged cry tearing from his throat as he spills hot over your knuckles, his purr stuttering into a gasp so shattered it hurts to hear. you don’t let go—not when his hips jerk helplessly, not when his thighs clamp around your hand like he’s trying to keep you there forever, not even when his entire body locks up before collapsing, spent and trembling, into the mattress.

you kiss him through it, soft and reverent, swallowing every broken noise he makes—the hitched whines, the shuddering exhales, the way his lips move against yours like he’s still trying to say your name. his skin is fever-hot under your palms, his chest heaving as you stroke his hipbone with your clean hand, soothing now, gentling him through the aftershocks that still wrack his frame.

and god, you’re aching, your own hard-on straining against your boxers, but you barely notice—too busy memorizing the way mark’s wet lashes stick to his flushed cheeks, the way his pulse stutters under your lips when you press them to his throat, the way his fingers clutch weakly at your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. you won’t. you can’t. not when he looks like this—wrecked and beautiful and yours, his usual boundless energy reduced to this boneless, panting mess beneath you.

"look at you," you murmur, thumb brushing the tear clinging to his lash line. your voice is rougher than you mean it to be, thick with something too close to worship. "took it so fucking well, baby."

mark makes this soft, punched-out noise—half protest, half plea—as his body goes lax beneath you, but his purr stutters back to life anyway, faint at first like a dying engine trying to turn over. then it grows, uneven but persistent, vibrating through your sternum where your chest presses flush against his. you can feel it in your teeth, in the hollow of your throat, this quiet, physical proof of his contentment radiating through you like sunlight through closed eyelids.

when he finally slumps back into the sheets, his muscles melting into liquid warmth beneath your hands, his purr shifts into something deeper—smoother, like honey poured over gravel. it thrums against your skin as he nuzzles clumsily into the curve of your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point in a drowsy, open-mouthed kiss. "love you," he slurs, the words thick and syrupy with exhaustion, his arms looping around your waist to drag you down atop him with surprising strength for someone who just came apart under your touch.

and fuck, if that doesn’t hit you like a freight train—the way he clings to you even now, his fingers splaying possessively over the small of your back, his purr kicking up another notch when you settle between his thighs. his heartbeat thrums against yours, rapid but steadying, and you realize with a jolt that this—the weight of him under you, the salt-sweet taste of his skin where your lips press absentmindedly to his shoulder, the way his breath evens out against your temple—feels more like victory than anything else ever has.

3.9k words full of mark purring and reader being obsessed. honestly, if i were in reader's shoes i would've done the same thing- and sorry y'all i was in a freaky goofy mood when i wrote that second half LOLOL! thank you so much to the anon who requested this! literally screamed when i read this in my askbox, cause this is one of my guilty pleasures(?)/headcanons for mark LOL. also hell yeah male reader solidarity—we out here surviving the wasteland one soft mark grayson one-shot at a time 💀

[thydungeongal]

I think people who play D&D despite its combat focus is, and correct me if I heard this wrong from them, but like... the idea is that they don't like combat, so having a big, chunky combat engine is good somehow??? because the rules don't interfere??? with The Roleplay TM.

Or as my GM said it: "I prefer D&D because I don't have to worry about rules when we're Roleplaying TM and it gets combat out of the way"

I don't get it. I don't. I tried asking why the hell you'd play a game with this much Combat Time and I can't get a straight answer. Like, not having combats is somehow impossible. It's required. But also bad, annoying, and must be codified so the GM can turn brain off BUT ALSO have so many rules you are Brain On, wait 15 minutes i gotta check the book heavy.

I think it's legitimately a toxic meme (in the academic sense of the word) being spread to make people think D&D is not about dungeons but "Whatever You Want uwu" or something.

Maybe you can help because I am on the verge of having an aneurysm here.

There's a lot of stuff that plays into this all too common sentiment.

First of all, there's this idea going around in D&D circles that Combat and Roleplay are two things that are not to touch. You see this expressed quite a lot by fans of D&D, the notion that once combat begins roleplaying stops. This is of course a silly notion, because combat is also roleplay, and it's even more silly coming from the players of the game whose rules are 80% combat.

But once you've established in your mind that roleplaying and combat are two, fundamentally incompatible modes of play and the game you're playing mostly has rules for combat and very little rules for stuff outside of combat (and the rules for combat aren't, at the end of the day, all that interesting) it's easy to draw the conclusion that roleplaying and rules are themselves at odds. @prokopetz has articulated this much better than me, and to paraphrase him: in the dichotomy of combat vs. role-playing, combat actually acts as a metonym for rules-mediated play as a whole. So it's your classic role-playing vs. roll-playing dichotomy, which not only smacks of elitism but is also, frankly, idiotic.

Anyway, once a person has drawn the conclusion that rules-mediated play and roleplaying are fundamentally at odds with each other it's easy to see where a person might draw the conclusion that having any rules that touch upon the "roleplaying" side of play would either needlessly restrict the roleplaying or somehow infringe upon the purity of roleplay. Within the dichotomy of role-playing vs. roll-playing role-playing is ultimately seen as basically free play where there are no rules and procedures in play, only to be broken off by the necessary evil of procedural scenes.

Where has this toxic meme come from? Well, sadly it's as old as the hobby itself. A lot of people who are fans of D&D still think they need to inject "real roleplaying" into the dungeon game to grant it legitimacy as a roleplaying game. This is, of course, bull-honkey. D&D, even played as purely a dungeon crawling challenge game with no pretensions of trying to tell a greater story beyond "the story of what happened during the events of the game" is still roleplaying, and ultimately it owes to a lot of D&D players themselves having bought into elitist notions about roleplaying games and not actually even liking the main supported mode of play of D&D.

Because if you take a look at what D&D as a game mostly supports, it's ultimately a challenge-based dungeon game, which is great and cool actually. But if one has a reductive notion of what counts as "real roleplaying," then, well, there's gotta be something wrong with this game. So actually the roleplaying isn't what the rules say and are actually a secret third thing and also it doesn't even matter what the rules say about the game, because system doesn't matter whatsoever.

You might see why, as a person who is passionate about game design and who loves the dungeon crawling challenge game playstyle, I might find this attitude grating.

And I definitely agree that it's a toxic meme, but D&D 5e play culture at this point is mostly a circlejerk about how the game actually is fine and how game design doesn't actually matter and how in those other games the rules actually get in the way of roleplay instead of doing what they actually do: act as a participant in the game on equal footing with the players and with an actual voice as to how the narrative should look like. Even D&D's rules are loudly opinionated about what the act of gameplay should look like, but these people have convinced themselves that the style of play D&D's rules are opinionated about is bad, actually, so in fact any type of rules that are opinionated about play are actually bad rules that get in the way of roleplaying.

Anyway, as a final note, while these ideas have been around for a very long time, there has been something of a resurgence of this idea, and Brennan Lee Mulligan is partly to blame. Brennan is a wonderful comedian and clearly a great entertainer, but he has also espoused the idea that D&D is good because it gets out of the way in the scenes which he is actually interested in (social, interactive scenes) and takes the reins in scenes which he's not interested in (combat scenes, procedural action scenes). I can sort of understand where he is coming from, and in fact the game taking the weight off the pedal during social scenes is great if your players are all extremely funny comedians like you. But it's also basically a playstyle where there are procedural, rules-mediated action scenes followed by essentially improvised, free play cutscenes where the rules themselves don't have anything to say. It doesn't play into the strengths of the medium, which is that the rules of the game are an active participant with an actual voice in the fiction and not just something to be sidelined. So like with all due respect to Brennan Lee Mulligan, but this is something where he simply is incurious and frankly fundamentally disconnected from what the purpose of rules in a tabletop roleplaying game is. The rules aren't there just to handle the boring stuff for you, because in a game you actually enjoy playing there shouldn't be any boring stuff! In a good game engaging with the rules shouldn't be boring! I play older editions of D&D because I like how the rules shape the act of dungeon-crawling and wilderness exploration! I play Monsterhearts because the rules are opinionated about the teen monster melodrama and they produce extremely cool and wildly volatile drama!

All of which is to say: the idea that the rules of a game are somehow diametrically opposed to the act of roleplay is a silly, toxic meme, and one that is often espoused by D&D players who have latched onto D&D because it was the first game they became aware of and who clearly want something more out of games but they have also convinced themselves that D&D is what all RPGs are and the idea that other RPGs might actually differ from D&D in terms of rules quality, how the act of play looks, and the type of play the rules actually incentivize is completely alien to them. A lot of D&D players have nothing but sneering contempt for the playstyle incentivized by D&D because they have convinced themselves that that playstyle is beneath them and not "real roleplaying," and I think those players should stop playing D&D and instead play games that actually support the playstyles they think are befitting real role-players. Also they should shut up and give me like a hundred dollars for being forced to read their posts.

[matrixbearer2024]

Cruel

[Mr Bill Pines AU: Bill Cipher-Pines x Clifford(Stanford Reincarnation)]

Bill misses his husband and he can’t decide at the moment if this was Karma or just another mistake he’d walked into. Fate could be very kind, but it could also be a very cruel thing.

Inspired by a comic from @honeqq and I decided why not write something related to it! I need to write more stuff for them PLEASE-

Bill had to steel himself once more at the familiar chime summoning him again. He already knew who it was and had a few theories about the reason behind it. The real problem was that he didn’t know if he could take it anymore; each moment felt like a deep cut, with wounds left to fester as his heart battled his mind, tearing apart any semblance of sanity.

He had to mentally prepare himself for every encounter with the lookalike of his deceased husband, the imitation of a man to whom he had once given everything. Just being there was painful—the same voice, the same face, the similar mutation…

But he wasn’t the same man.

Taking a deep breath, Bill stepped in front of the impatient artist, who regarded him with mild annoyance. The artist was blissfully unaware of the constant struggle the god faced just to maintain a decent appearance. For some reason, Bill didn’t dare to explain this to him; it made it easier… sort of.

“Oh, finally. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

Bill mused that someone must be pulling a sadistic prank, repeatedly putting him in this situation where every waking moment threatened to unleash the flood of emotions and grief once more. This man wasn’t the genius he had once loved. This guy wasn’t Sixer, no matter how similar they looked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d call you ‘lucky’ number seven, but you’ve just been annoying. Of all the cosmic beings to seek guidance from, you’d think you’d pick one that hasn’t faded into obscurity.”

“You were the muse for this journal’s author, so I thought you’d be able to help me in some way, somehow. I think.”

At the mention of the journal, Bill wanted to shrivel up and die. It was the only one he hadn’t had a hand in writing. The others he had co-authored with his husband, but this one… this one had eluded him for so long, only to be found by… this guy.

He wanted to bash his skull in and scream.

Stanford was gone; that pill had been hard enough to swallow a thousand years ago. Fate just had to rub salt into that open wound. This whole situation was cruel.

“What’s the problem this time?”

“I can’t decide what I want to paint.”

The empty canvas the other man gestured to seemed to beckon him, the stark white void drawing him in and holding him in a vice grip. The triangle stared blankly at the vacant space; an idea flickered to life in his mind, but he hesitated to indulge it. What if he did? It would only unleash another wave of grief, a haunting reminder of what once was and what he had lost to the relentless claws of time and the cold hands of death.

Bill already knew this was going to be idiotic. He felt it in his bones—he was about to make yet another stupidly ridiculous choice. Yet, before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. Regret settled in immediately after he spoke.

“How about this? What if you painted someone for me? A portrait.”

The reincarnation regarded him with curiosity and interest, and Bill felt an overwhelming urge to gouge out his lone eye at the sight. Don’t look at him like that. Don’t give him the same expression that once held so much love and adoration, the kind that had nearly drowned him. Don’t remind him of those memories. Don’t drive the knife in deeper.

“Sure, I don’t see why not.”

That was the amusement that haunted him: the ghost of a man he had once loved to his own detriment. Someone whose smile caused the edges of his eyes to crinkle with unbridled joy, someone whose gaze never wavered in love and adoration. It was a ticking time bomb to have chosen and loved a mortal; inevitable goodbyes lurked around every corner of his finite life. There was no telling how much time they had left together, yet Bill still felt like Stanford was taken from him far too soon.

What he would have given for just a little more time—one last kiss, one final “I love you.”

He was a god, yet he would have surrendered absolutely everything for just another moment with the man he once called a husband. His equal. His muse.

Bill had to turn away from the other man, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. He quickly blinked them back; after a thousand years, the grief was still overwhelming. It felt like just yesterday he had been in the arms of his lover, and now that love and comfort were nowhere to be found. The ache in his heart throbbed and pounded, emotions turning him soft. What a useless god he’d become. What was once a pleasant feeling had morphed into crippling sorrow.

“If you don’t mind me asking, though… who is it that you want me to paint?”

That was a loaded question, burdened by the lament and grief of a thousand years—a love lost to the hands of time and the embrace of death. The one plane of existence where Bill couldn’t follow. Not as he was. Not when he didn’t have the ability to die. The sickness of an immortal, truly.

“Someone important to me. My muse.”

“You have a muse? Wow. They must be someone incredible.”

Bill could only let out an empty laugh. Stanford was incredible—more than he could ever dare to articulate. Words simply wouldn’t do the man justice; to have a god fall to his knees out of love was an immeasurable feat. The triangle always believed his lover was a force to be reckoned with, a powerhouse and then some. Yet, the relentless sands of time eventually wore him down. Even Stanford's brilliant mind, which had endured so much, couldn’t escape the inevitable; the grim reaper came to collect his dues.

No mortal was spared from that fate.

“Yeah. He was .”

The pain that bled through the triangle’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by the artist, despite his attempts to conceal it. However, the artist chose not to mention it, believing it was best not to pry. After all, it wasn’t his place to interfere; why would he?

Bill cleared his throat and floated up to get a better look at the empty canvas. Every instruction was clear and concise, every requested stroke of the brush executed with intention and purpose. The triangle’s close guidance and precise descriptions of each detail left no room for error; there were simply no mistakes.

As the painting began to take shape, colors and pigments blended seamlessly, crafting an image clearer than crystal. Gradually, the likeness of a man emerged—one with silver hair and a gentle gaze, complemented by a smile that reached his eyes, eyes that radiated immense love and adoration. It was evident that the painting captured an intensely intimate moment; such an expression was not meant for just anyone. Only someone so deeply loved and cherished could inspire a face like that. Only someone who felt eternally young could carry the weight of age with the wonder and joy of a child. The painting became a living juxtaposition.

The artist dropped his paintbrush in surprise; the painting looked so… alive. Under Bill’s guidance, this project had transformed into one of his best works. He couldn't help but wonder if its resemblance to a self-portrait was purely coincidental—an unnerving mirror he had created hour after hour, stroke after stroke, with immense specificity from the triangle beside him. However, the longing gaze from Bill toward the smiling subject made things clear. That action alone spoke more truth than any words they had ever exchanged. Yet, despite the painstaking effort poured into this piece, his eyes were inevitably drawn back to the final product.

It felt… familiar somehow, as if he knew this man, perhaps having met him somewhere before, despite the artist's certainty that he never had.

What was this sense of déjà vu?

The painting was beautifully crafted, distinctly unreplicable, particularly within the eyes of this man, which overflowed with mirth and fondness that clearly belonged to a lover. The expression he wore embodied the true essence of being loved, the purest depiction of happiness.

How had Bill even known about this? Not to mention in such explicit detail…

“Bill—”

“You have your painting, I need some time to think.”

The triangle’s voice trembled with overwhelming emotion, cracking under the weight of his grief. He couldn’t bear to look at the painting any longer. He turned away, unable to face either the finished work or the living, breathing human who looked so painfully similar to the man immortalised in the portrait. Every glance at the painting drove the knife in his chest deeper.

He had been right—this was a stupid idea.

“Just summon me again when you need me,” 

Bill muttered, his voice barely holding together. And with that, the god vanished before the artist could even respond.

Back in his original resting place, hot tears spilled from his lone eye as the grief he’d kept buried for so long finally poured out. The triangle broke down into uncontrollable sobs, curling up against a nearby wall, shivering as anguish consumed him. An agonised scream tore from his chest, shaking the very room. It was a miracle he had managed to stay composed for as long as he had.

Maybe he had wanted to see Stanford again—wanted to remember a happier time, to recall a memory frozen in place. The face of his husband, the man he had loved so deeply. But that love was now buried beneath a thousand years of pain and loss, an ache that had festered beyond measure.

Bill Cipher couldn’t move. He stayed there, weeping through the day, letting the weight of eternity crush him.

If he was truly fated to cross paths with that reincarnation, there was only one truth left.

Fate was just so cruel.

Fic is here as well on Ao3!

[kiaxet]

HOW ABOUT THAT @somerandomdudelmao DISASTER TWIN REUNION, HUH

Went a little feral to the tune of 2.2K words of self-indulgence. What else is new?

~~~~~~~

Donnie can't sleep. More accurately, he won't sleep. Not until he's done. He'd never been one to leave a project unfinished; death and resurrection hadn't changed that.

He taps incessantly, repetitively, on a keyboard and screen, the motions long since past inputting data and now only serving to keep him awake. The repetition is soothing, easy, and - counterintuitively - he finds his head drooping forward into sleep-

And he snaps back upright. No. Not until he can confirm Leo is okay.

Leo is behind him, he knows. Breathing. In bed. Asleep. Very much alive. And-

He jumps and whips around as a thud sounds behind him. "What the-"

Leo is on the floor.

Well, that answers the question as to whether his twin is awake.

For a fraction of a second, part of him wavers uncertainly. He loves his idiot twin. The question he hasn't been able to answer is whether his reaction to Leo waking up will fall on love or idiot twin-

"Leo!"

He can hear the exasperation in his voice, and yep, it's the latter. He takes a knee next to Leo and hauls him into his arms, lecturing him all the while, and if he can hear the annoyance in his voice then Leo sure as hell can. Sleep deprivation for the purposes of keeping his brother's soul alight had done nothing for his temper. "I swear to God, all you had to do was make a sound! Why are you such a difficult patient?"

He deposits Leo carefully on the bed - "Sit still!" - and checks him over, running every scan he can think of and making sure his brother's new body really is in good working order, spouting increasingly irritated commentary all the while. Of course the fall didn't hurt him - Leo is tougher than that, and Donnie does better work than that - but he still can't help the rising anxiety in his throat.

This almost didn't happen.

"-stupid, stupid selfless idiot!"

Donnie almost couldn't save him.

"Grrhh-"

Leo nearly died for real. Permanently beyond Donnie's reach. Well and truly gone-

"Do you have any idea how close you were to having nothing left to save?"

And now here Leo is, in perfect health, sitting on Donnie's bed with a big dopey grin on his face as Donnie chokes on his anxiety and damn near shakes himself apart-

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Hey. Are you even listening?"

Leo speaks up for the first time since he's woken up, voice shaky from disuse. "D-Donnie?"

And that is not a goddamn answer to anything Donnie has been saying, because of course it isn't. It's Leo. He's always had his own priorities. "Yeah. No. You're not fucking listening." Donnie heaves a long-suffering sigh, sinking back into the routine comfort that irritation at his twin provides. "At least you're talking." Small favors. "Although I'm surprised you're not throwing your stupid jokes at me." Even smaller favors.

He stops short as Leo's hand closes around his wrist, drawing Donnie's arm to Leo's plastron. "You're real," his brother breathes, looking from Donnie's hand to Donnie himself with tears streaming down his face. "You're real!"

And then, in the space of a thought, Leo's joy breaks, his smile turning desperate. "Are you?"

For a moment, Donnie stares at his twin, wondering at the sudden change in expression. He takes a breath-

And the part of him that had lain dormant for so long after he'd woken up - the part of him that had been screaming for his twin's safety ever since they'd recovered the few scattered embers of Leo's soul - gasps to life, blooming like a time-lapse video of a flower and reaching to the edges of Donnie's soul. Leo had called it their twin sense, and Donnie hadn't had it in him to argue after a while. Whatever it is, it's back, connected to Leo's renewed presence, and-

Donnie's heart floods with emotions. Relief and joy sprout quickly and are nearly swept away in a tide of exhaustionanxietyfearfearfearfearFEAR-

But down beneath it all, steady against the rising wall of terror, is the little blue spark of hope that his brother always carried. His core. The thing that let him continue on in the face of insurmountable odds, and lent that same strength to everyone around him. A ninja's greatest weapon.

It's Leo. It's Leo-

And Donnie can't leave him alone in his fear. Not when there's no need for it. Not when they're safe.

He lets that breath out, and sits next to Leo on the bed. "Mhm. I'm alive. And you're alive. We're safe. The Krang are gone." That's all the news that's fit to print, or at least the most important parts. What else does he have to say?

Oh.

"I'm sorry I..uh…"

He's sorry he what? Died? Left a mess for Leo to deal with? Didn't do enough while he was alive to keep everyone else alive in turn after he was gone? Kept his brother's soul in a fucking mug, because that was the only way he could ensure he wouldn't break it while Leo was still fragile? All of the above?

…yeah, it's all of the above.

He owes Leo one hell of an apology, and he's never been good at any of this, so instead he shrugs haplessly and leans forward, pulling Leo into his arms and hanging on tight.

It's a matter of moments before Leo has him flat on his shell on the bed and is sobbing into his arms. Normally he'd hate seeing his twin cry, but it's proof of life - proof that Leo made it, that his soul is intact enough for him to still be Leo, that he's alive and awake and here - and Donnie will take it.

And if he's squeezing Leo back pretty hard himself, well, that's fine too. Nobody else needs to know.

~~~~~~~

Donnie is yelling at him.

Donnie is strong enough to have picked Leo up off the ground, well enough to be on his feet without support, running tests and reading Leo the riot act over his latest boneheaded maneuver - in this case, forgetting he was missing an arm and falling out of bed.

Donnie is yelling at him, because Donnie is here to yell at him.

And Leo is smiling, because he couldn't be happier. He lets the words wash over him, draping over his shoulders like a favorite cozy blanket that he'd lost so many years ago, and he basks in the warmth that is his brother's voice and smiles.

It's enough to interrupt the yelling for a question, though he doesn't really hear it - just keeps smiling, and says Donnie's name, and it's so nice to be able to say it with a smile now, because Donnie is here-

-he is, right? This isn't just a dying hallucination on Leo's part, right?

(It couldn't be- he remembers his death, remembers breathing his last, remembers being trapped- but this-)

He reaches out, taking Donnie's wrist in hand, and pulls his brother closer to him. "You're…real…" It certainly feels real - skin and scales, softer than his own, and his fingers barely fit all the way around the wrist instead of encircling them with room to spare - and he stares down at it, tears rolling down his face as he finally looks back up at his twin. "You're real!"

The Krang show you what you want to see.

The thought strikes him unbidden, turning his joy and relief to ice. It's a well-known fact: a Krang infection can show its host what they want to see, visions of comfort and family and home, and extract intel from the host's reactions. He knows that- he knows that, and-

And he'd died surrounded by Krang- and even if he couldn't see or hear or feel, he knows he'd been held captive-

But it's Donnie- he wants this to be real- he needs this to be real- he wants his twin back so badly he can't think, and the idea that this could be a Krang hallucination is almost too much to bear-

"Are you?" He can hear how choked the words are as they leave his lips, but he needs to know-

And Donnie stops, and sits down next to him, and tells him everything he wants to hear - everything he could've ever wished for. They're alive. They're safe. The Krang are gone. It all sounds too good to be true.

And then Donnie offers him an apology and a sad half-smile, pulling him into a strong hug-

And the ice in Leo's mind shatters in a flood of warmth as his twin sense opens for the first time since Donnie's death. He feels his twin's irritation, and deep-seated exhaustion, and a choking wave of guiltguiltguiltguiltguilt-

And beneath it all, steady and strong as ever, the thrum of unending determination, powered by an unfathomably deep well of love. It's the backbeat to the melody of Leo's life, the point-counterpoint to his own heartbeat- it's something he'd never had to live without until he did, but it's back, rushing in to fill the silence he'd known with the strength to go on and the knowledge that he is loved loved loved, strong and overwhelming and all-encompassing in the way only Donnie can love-

It's something the Krang could never imitate.

This is real. This is all real-

He throws himself against his twin, toppling them both over on the bed as he clings to Donnie, unable to stand even a fraction of an inch of space between them, as though he could push their hearts together through their plastrons, and he cries, sobbing out worry and terror and grief and the slow, crushing exhaustion of a losing battle finally lost. He cries as though the world was ending - and it had, once when the Krang had invaded and again every time he'd lost a member of his family, over and over until he'd sent his last hope through a portal that had cost his littlest brother his life and succumbed to death himself.

And now he's alive. Here, wherever here is, with Donnie. Clinging to his twin, and being held in turn as Donnie gently sits them both up, never letting go as Leo cries himself out.

It takes a while - long enough for Leo's gaze to settle into a stare and his thoughts to settle into a comfortable static. He's alive, Donnie is alive, and he has no fucking idea what else is going on, but he's just going to be okay with that for now.

His thoughts rouse enough to inform him of something wrong - the line of tension Donnie is carrying down his neck and over his shoulders. That won't do. Leo could try to massage it out with one hand, maybe try to get Donnie to talk about it, but Donnie never likes to talk about it, and Leo isn't one for slowly soothing away tension when he can just take an axe to the release valve instead. Plus, it gives him something definite to focus on, instead of…this whole situation. Whatever 'this whole situation' actually is.

Donnie had mentioned his stupid jokes, right?

"H-hey Dee?" His voice wavers from disuse, thick with tears, but he pushes through. "Why did- why did the tree buy a camera?"

"What?" Oh, Donnie is not going to see this coming. Excellent.

"To do a photosynthesis." It's nowhere near the level of pizazz he normally uses for a punchline delivery - he's still too tired and frazzled and clinging to Donnie entirely too hard for that - but that beautiful pause of a terrible joke sinking in tells him it had hit home nonetheless. Donnie moves - he can hear the telltale slap of face meeting palm - and then breaks down into helpless laughter, smacking the back of Leo's shell as the tension Leo had felt in his twin's shoulders abruptly relaxes. Good. It worked.

"This is so fucking stupid," is all Donnie manages as his laughter fades, and he slumps fully against Leo with a murmur. That's...abrupt. Sure, Leo had felt Donnie's exhaustion, but he hadn't realized it'd been that bad. He takes hold of Donnie, gently laying him down on the bed to rest-

Remember what happened last time Donnie fell asleep next to you.

He gasps sharply at the thought - not again NEVER again - and keeps his hand steady as he moves, laying both fingers gently against Donnie's neck and feeling for his pulse. It's easy to find, strong and steady and even, like it had been before the infection had taken Donnie's vitality and then his life.

But he's alive, and healthy, and sleeping. He's okay. And Leo-

Leo moves his hand to the side of his own neck. His pulse is also easy to find, quickened with the adrenaline of an unknown situation and multiple consecutive shocks to his system.

Okay. Take stock. Assess. Figure out a plan from there.

He's alive. Donnie's alive. The Krang are gone. And everything else…is a big fat question mark, with no easy answers and no indication as to where to begin looking for them.

Well.

Uh.

"What the fuck," Leo whispers to the room at large, as though the walls could answer.

~~~~~~~

(A world away and still very close, a younger pair of twins cling to one another the way a drowning man clings to driftwood: desperately, clutching tight, as though letting go will spell their doom. Neither of them know where the emotions came from, or why; all they know is that each of them are damn glad the other is alive, and they'll do everything they can to make sure that continues to be the case.)

(What the fuck, indeed.)

[laserbobcat]

I was asked how can I draw so much

-I'm unemployed lol, just got out of a super shitty job after a 4 months sick leave for back hurty and burnout/depression- I'm A-OK now don't worry. The job was basically the reason for it all. So I have a lot of time!

-I've always drawn fast, I rarely do complex or polished picees, my art is "quick get this thing out of your head before more ideas drown it"

-Speaking of ideas, therapist told me I was HIP/HEP? I'm not a genius lol (HIP is super misunderstood) but language and narration and creativity are my brain's comfort zone, and said brain is often firing way to fast for me to follow. Mental hyperactivity can be a pain in the ass, it's really hard sometimes to come down to earth. But I could tell endless stories. I could be book grandma near the fire.

-I had a total of 5 years of art school in my bag. I abandoned the idea of doing it professionally, but it helps a lot to draw the blorbos obviously. Fun fact, I've never drawn better and with more fun than when I decided "fuck art as a job" and started to just. Draw the blorbos. Pressure kills creativity for anxious people. I feel bad for "waisted studies" and for "Not drawing as well as I should" I'm working on that. I'm far from the only one in this position.

-Let's be real I enjoy the attention fanart gets. Personnal art gets less attention because the emotional traction isn't there for most people, and we humans run on emotions. So it's normal that people are drawn to things that they already know and love. And I like interacting, which is why I love ttrpgs. I need back and forth to create, I'm social on that end. It can be a bit of a trap, because the stimulation is a lot for an already hyperactive brain lol. But I'll take it.

That being said, the people who like my actual personnal stuff live rent free in my heart. If you like Luke and Ranec and the rest of my idiots, don't underestimate how happy it makes me. I'll go back to them when this hyperfixation is over, they're my favorite little puppets to play with. They're eternal.

-I have generalized anxiety and I'm bipolar, drawing is a very nice soothing escape. I really need to come down to earth and stop living in stories, and I get better and better at it! It's haaaaard tho, I'd rather lay down and eat chip #meditation #sports

Well that was long, but I don't like when people compare themselves to strangers on the internet and think they fall short. I hope this broke some misconceptions you could have.

You don't know people's lives. You don't see the advantages and hindrances they have compared to you. You don't know how hard or easy the things you admire are for them. Maybe they have a lot of support and time. Maybe it's their escape from life. Maybe they're cheating lol. Maybe they're dorks. Maybe they're old. Maybe they're young.

You don't know shit, stop comparing yourself to strangers. I know it's hard af, but do your best!

[failingvrath]

hellooo I’m having a real shitty time irl and I love your blog, so I’m here with headcanons.

first time with Scar, because I’m obsessed with him an unhealthy amount. I’m imagining him being sooo gentle and sweet with whoever it is (let’s just say Grian) at first, but once they both get comfortable and into it he starts going wild. its a tight fit for the first time with how big he is, Grian probably feels like he’s getting a factory reset. How’s he ever supposed to go back to being normal after being stuffed with that? The fact that it’s Scar makes it so much better, he almost comes as soon as Scar is finally all the way in. Scar probably goes slow at first because he knows he’s big, he’s not an idiot, and he doesn’t want to hurt him. Too bad Grian is in absolute bliss. Queue a 9 hour fuck session

Bonus points if being vex means Scar has a shorter refractory period, or none at all.

~ 🌻 (unless that’s taken)

oouuugggg anon... first of all, SUCKS that life is Attacking you like that, second of all I think you've given me wings. Yes I do believe Grian should get to be stuffed full of Scar, as a treat <3 SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!! i got sooo carried away... this is just a snippet, lookout for the full fic on ao3 👀

> More below the cut ♡ [Trans FTM Grian]

Scar's just so considerate, so slow and gentle at first. He takes his time making sure Grian is ready and comfortable—and despite the nerves hammering at his ribcage, he makes sure to perform. When he slowly backs Grian up onto the bed, he's nothing but delicate and sensual, an adoring smile accompanying the hunger sneaking its way into his warm eyes.

He leans down to crowd around Grian, supporting himself with his elbows on either side of Grian's head and effectively caging in a bird of flight against soft bed sheets, though it does nothing to make Grian feel trapped. Scar presses his lips to his lover's collarbone, tentative kisses trailing down as he whispers, "is this alright?" 

At the quick nod he receives, he moves one arm down, tracing the soft 'V' shape where Grian's torso meets his pelvis. "You wanna go all the way?" 

The temperature in the room rises. Of course, he feels more than hears the shaky exhale that Grian offers him before a slight nod. He needs words- and he tells his lover as much.

In response, quiet and embarrassed but no less sure, "please. I—... need you..." 

And that's enough for Scar. He tugs Grian's trousers down, purposefully leaving his boxers up just to smile at the wet patch on the front, such clear evidence of the pure want radiating from Grian. He shifts down the length of the bed to mouth at the hard peak in Grian's boxers, warm breath ghosting over the wetness that continues to spread. After a few whines from Grian get the better of him (and his own arousal is straining against the fabric confining it), Scar sits up and brackets his lover’s legs with his knees, if only for better balance. Finally, he moves to tug Grian's boxers down. 

He wastes no time getting his mouth on Grian's dick, sucking in softly just to hear those pretty cries as Grian bucks his hips up against Scar's lips. Grian's already wet, so eager to take Scar in and they've barely even started.

Scar brings a resting hand to feel at the entrance of Grian's front sex, teasing him with just a finger running over his entrance, never fully dipping in- barely holding back from giving Grian exactly what he wanted. Scar just wants to make his lover feel good, after all.

"Scar, just—stop teasing!" Grian's impatient whine comes out not as strict as he wanted it to sound, more simply desperate. Scar can work with that. He shifts away a bit, moving up the bed to press open-mouthed kisses to just below Grian's jaw, one arm moving to support himself right above Grian's head, the other still guiding fingers across a wet cunt. 

Scar doesn’t warn him. His hands are gentle, though, when he pushes a single wet finger into Grian, drawing out a soft and embarrassingly high gasp. A sigh of Scar's name, and another joins it, stretching Grian out and massaging his walls. Scar isn't trying to make Grian cum right now, but God, he's so close already. He knows that two fingers are nothing compared to what's been promised for later this night, but he's already so close.

Scar spreads his fingers—knuckle deep—inside of Grian, smiling against his lover's warm neck as he feels the way Grian moans shamelessly at the feeling of being stretched. A third finger stuffs him full, and a fourth finger makes his wet cunt ache, and fuck, he can't wait to take Scar.

Four fingers rubbing against his sweetest spots and stuffing him so nice and full quickly lead him to throw his head back as his vision blurs, clenching helplessly around Scar's fingers. It takes less than a few minutes for Grian to come down from his high. He's so eager, after all.

When Grian opens his eyes again, unsure of when he had closed them, he's met with the hungry warmth of Scar's own. He nods nonsensically, murmuring out little please’s and Scar’s as he squirms impatiently atop the warm sheets. He can hear the ruffling of clothing, but he's not really paying attention to what he's seeing until he sees a large, scarred hand resting atop exactly what he needs inside of him, at this very moment.

The little moans that Scar lets out as he strokes himself with a hand covered in Grian's slick could be recorded and worshipped, Grian thinks. Grian also thinks, similarly, that he wouldn't mind getting on his knees to worship right now.

Scar's unfairly even voice (Scar really hopes his nerves aren't seeping through) snaps him out of that fantasy, however. Another time. "You all ready, Songbird?" A brief pause follows him.

Quiet, and still. For a moment, only their heavy breaths occupy the barely-there space between.

Then, "yes, please—Scar, I want you." He's almost surprised at how sure he sounds, but then again, he's always been sure of this want; this yearning and desire has always been fact.

He doesn't have control over the way his hips twitch upwards. Not when he feels the head of Scar's cock prodding at his cunt, spreading the wetness to his oversensitive clit and drawing a high whine from him. Scar leans down again to greet Grian's jaw with soft kisses before slowly easing the tip inside. 

And oh, God—Grian’s so gone already. Scar’s cock stretches him out so perfectly, fills him out in all the best ways with every inch that presses deeper inside. His eyes had shut some time ago and he can’t even bring himself to try and remember when, not when he feels this good. He knows Scar isn’t all the way in yet. Logically, he does know—but he also doesn’t quite process that. There’s so much of Scar inside of him that every slip further in just pulls Grian’s breath straight out, again and again, drawing him dizzy and dazed by the time their hips are flush.

Grian's head is thrown back against the pillow, mouth open in a long, now silent moan, and he revels in the feeling of being so full. He's never felt like this before, never felt so ultimately complete. Never until now, every shift against the bedsheets making Scar’s cock rub so deliciously against Grian's inner walls.

Even as still as they both are—Scar panting above him, giving him time to adjust—Grian can feel every vein along Scar's cock. He feels the way his lover fills in every crevice, the tip pushing against his cervix with an aching kind of pleasure that'll turn to bruises come the morning, far beneath where anyone will be able to see. 

Grian’s getting impatient now, with every moment that passes by while Scar's not fucking him into the mattress. He knows his lover is being nice and considerate, letting him adjust—but Scar's just so big. Grian's literally never going to get used to him, so there's no point in waiting. 

Plus, Grian wants to feel him.

It takes about a minute of his insistent whining and grinding his hips against Scar's for his lover to finally break and start to move. The slow drag of his cock pulling out to the tip drives Grian mad, even more so when he pushes in again, taking his sweet time to meet Grian's hips with his. Grian wants Scar to snap his hips hard and fast, make it ache. 

“Scar… Mmn, are you—are you that close to cumming already?” He's trying to get a rise out of his lover. Scar's not the reactive type, but Grian is just so desperate for it, he's not above being a brat.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Forsaking All Others 1

Part 11 of my Accidentally on Purpose Series!

Warnings: Anxiety, angst, mild smut, robbery, TW: violence, kidnapping, TW: possible claustrophobia trigger at the very end, guns and gun violence, cliffhanger.

A/N: Splitting this into multiple parts cause I write too damn much. Also, my house is making a lot of random ass sounds right now as if someone's in the house with me but I know I'm alone.

The city whirls around you, spinning in and out of your vision as you rush through the streets, trying to make your way to Anvil.

You can barely focus on the blur of people and cars moving past, mind still caught up in the conversation you just had with your mother.

It had been painfully heated, your throat squeezing at the reminder of what was said, at the truth in her words and the storm they’d started in your head.

She was right. That was the worst part.

You stop suddenly as a car zooms past, almost clipping you. The streets of New York had to be one of the worst places in the world to be distracted.

Still, you can’t get your head out of that phone call, you’d rang her the minute you’d wrapped your head around the papers in your hands.

She’d made accurate assumptions based on the things Dominic had said to her previously. The rings specifically, had helped her put all of it together. 

She’d even called the seller, investigative as ever and inquired as to when they were commissioned. 

She’d figured out that you’d been forced into the marriage, with no way out.

Like an idiot, you’d denied everything, but the facts were too significant to be outweighed by your little excuses.

You loved him. You said as much to her.

Her rebuttal had speared into your heart.

“Do you really? Or is that a comfort you’ve found in the cage he’s built?”

It had made your voice shake.

You didn’t know the answer.

Only a fool would deny that this marriage was a trap, only someone ridiculously stupid, would look at your relationship and call it real love. It could barely be called true, love was not something that could be made under these conditions, it was something free, right? Freely given, free to walk away, light as a feather, this couldn't be love.

Your heart grows heavy with your thoughts.

Did that make you a victim? Billy, your captor, and you, his captive? There was not supposed to be words like ‘love’ in between that.

You barely register making it to Anvil, chest aching with your thoughts, that what you were doing was wrong, that loving him was wrong. The elevator doors close, and you feel the air around you thicken until breathing is difficult.

Where are you even going? You wonder as the elevator doors open, were you going right back into the arms of the man that had trapped you?

He's not in his office, and it somehow makes everything worse, you lean over his desk, one hand pressed to your chest because you don't understand what you're feeling, the world swarms around you like static in your head and you can't focus on anything except the frantic beating of your heart and the thickness of the air in the room-

You jump when the doors swing open.

“Hey sweetheart.” He says softly, eating up the space between you till you're pulled into his arms.

You stiffen for a moment, taking a small breath, breathing in his cologne, feeling something unknot in your chest.

Your shoulders drop, hands coming around to return his hug, his arms squeezing the dear life out of you in response and you accept it eagerly.

“Hi Billy.” You whisper, feeling your body turn to mush in his arms.

“Missed you so much little wife.” He kisses your ear.

“It's only been a couple of hours.” You laugh.

He chuckles with you, fingers under your chin to tilt your head up, waiting a second for your smile of consent before he dips his head to kiss you.

You moan into his mouth, not expecting his kiss to feel so good, he draws back too soon for your liking and you whine, bringing your hands to his cheek to pull him back down again.

Where your heart was once so heavy, it flutters, fills with neverending emotion for him, and you find difficulty in questioning how wrong it is.

He's just as taken as you are, pressing his mouth harshly to yours, bringing a hand up to grip your jaw, encouraging your lips to part so that he can press his tongue into your mouth.

“I fucking love you.” He voices between kisses, hands in your hair, roaming over your body as if he's never had you before.

You giggle into the kiss, voicing your love for him too, hearing him groan in delight as you say it.

A few moments later, the phone rings, and he groans in displeasure, which makes you laugh as he reaches for the device.

“Yes?” He answers, listening to someone on the other end, his hand reaching to interlock with yours.

You hear him let out a frustrated breath, and even that is hot, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks into the phone.

You’ve been kissed absolutely stupid, leaning against his office desk trying to remember anything about yourself while he's busy.

“I'm coming down, then, prep some gear for me.” He says before hanging up.

“Another training sim?” You ask, a little sad he'll have to leave.

“Yeah, I'm sorry baby.” He says softly, making you smile, you reach out, fingers dancing over his tie.

He catches your fingers, bringing them up to his mouth to kiss, rubbing his beard lovingly over your skin.

“Wanna come with me? You can watch?”

“Yeah.” You say eagerly, nodding, following along when he tugs at you, fingers intertwined.

You feel like a silly girl as you follow him, hanging onto his every word, begging for him to look back and smile at you. 

When he does, you feel like there's a hook in your heart and his hand on the line, tugging you closer and closer.

And in those moments, you're not thinking about anything other than him.

.

There was not a damn thought going through your head right now, your eyes glued to the screens in front of you, eyes scanning for him, drinking in each glimpse you can get.

The way he looks in full tactical gear makes you wet beyond belief.

Worse than that, it reminds you of your recent castle date, and the sound of his knife dragging against the wooden panels on the wall makes your stomach tighten eagerly.

You clear your throat, trying to appear calm as you sit in the back corner of the room, monitors cover the wall in front of you, capturing various angles of the training room below. There are other people here, some representatives from one of the intelligence bodies, tactical specialists from Anvil, and a few other people that you hadn't been introduced to because they'd come in late.

One of the agents you'd met earlier finds her way to the seat next to you, and you can feel the air thicken with unsaid words. You glance over at her, smiling politely in hopes that she speaks, so that she can leave you to fantasize about your husband in peace.

“What do you think about the simulation so far?” Agent Madani asks.

Great, now you had to formulate thoughts? You almost want to tell her that you're wondering how scratchy all that gear Billy's wearing would be on your thighs.

“It's… really intense, hard to wrap my head around the idea that this is normal for some people.” And now that you thought about it, you realise that this is what Billy probably looked like in action, in those tours he'd done… this was the soldier you didn't see often.

She gives you an understanding smile.

“It can be hard for civilians, but it's the shared experiences that helps us cope.”

And exactly what the fuck did that mean?

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, finally looking at her, curly hair and sultry eyes, an intelligent smile that could make you feel like you were dumber than her.

“I suppose, it's good to have friends that get what you've been through.”

She nods, eyes still on the monitors ahead, but you can read the subtext of what she really wants to say based on how easily she agrees with you, that it was even better to have a partner that could share your burdens.

That, tells you everything you need to know about her. When Billy had introduced you two earlier, it had been very casual, nothing that raised any alarms. But now you were beginning to realise that Agent Madani had an expert poker face.

“How long have you known Billy?” You ask softly, eyes travelling back to the screen, where you watch him give silent orders with gunfire going off around him. You knew it was him, even though the footage was smokey and he was wearing a helmet, you knew his frame and mannerisms, even if you've never seen him in battle like this.

“A few years, we met at a training just like this one, when his company was still very new. His strategy knowledge really helped us work better.”

“Bet you're really glad you met him.”

You catch her turning her head to look at you in your peripherals.

“I suppose so.” She murmurs with a contemplative nod, “What about you? How long have you known him?”

“Maybe two years? We met a while ago at a company party.” You explain, trying to keep things as vague as possible.

“And, if you don’t mind me asking, how long have you two been married?”

You knew where this was going to go, no doubt the comment that Billy wasn’t the type to get married. You’d heard it so many times. It really made you wonder what type of person he seemed to be outside of your relationship.

“Not long at all, maybe a couple of months.”

She seems to nod, either deep in contemplation of your words, or focused on the simulation, you couldn’t really tell.

“Not sure if he ever mentioned it, but a long time ago we used to date.”

Oh?

“Sorry, no he didn’t.”

She shakes her head with a small smile.

“Not surprised, it was a long time ago and it didn’t last long. Neither of us were interested in commitment, so it kind of surprised me today when he introduced you.”

Bingo. You can’t believe she was distracting you with something as useless as this when your husband was literally being the hottest person on the planet right now. Case in point, when you focus on the screens, you see him, on one knee, peeking out from behind a wall, firing shots lower than the other team expects.

You want him to eat you out in that exact position.

“I just mean that he never seemed willing to do the whole marriage thing.” Agent Madani says, interrupting your thoughts.

“I know what you meant. I just can’t add any real input. I don’t know him that way.” You say, very tired of this conversation.

“You must have really made an impression.” She mutters, and for the first time, you hear a touch of jealousy in her voice.

Agent Madani was effortlessly beautiful, seemed strong willed and had the confidence to suit. If you’d met her at any other point in your life you might have shirked under her eyes. It was kind of amazing though, that he’d been with her, and could clearly get her easily if he wanted, and yet somehow, he’d gone through the trouble of catching you.

You resist a smile. You should not be feeling this pleased that he’d gone through such lengths to trap you. 

But he did. He manipulated his way into knowing you, learned everything about you against your will, used it to get closer to you, took advantage of a weak moment to permanently seal himself into your life, and then he’d unlocked something in you, a darkness that you worried could match his own. 

The reminder of it made you burn that much hotter for him.

You turn your head slowly to Agent Madani, smiling as she meets your eyes. She could like him how much she wanted, he’d never spare her a glance. You were sure of that.

“Maybe I did. Excuse me, Agent, I’ll be right back.”

The basement is large, maybe the size of a warehouse, in the middle is the training floor, easily changeable for various maze formations, that can also be converted into two levels when necessary. There’s an observation deck wrapped around the entire basement, so that you can look down through one way glass and have a better idea of the formations and clusters that each group takes on during the simulation. The Watch Center that you just walked out of, rests in one of the corners of the deck, farthest away from all the fighting.

It’s easy to spot him from where you are, moving through the maze, pausing to peek around corners, his team following dutifully behind him. 

You’re not really sure why he’s there, if it’s because he’s the best at what he does, or maybe he just felt like joining them today. You don’t really follow his day to day business, and you make a mental note to pay more attention.

Phones weren’t allowed on the training floor, but you’d noticed earlier that Billy had his smartwatch on, and you were about to use that to your advantage. 

You keep it short and sweet, and not as lewd as you want to be, just in case anyone reads it.

.

His watch buzzes at some point between scoping out his surroundings, and directing his team. His phone is set to do not disturb, with a few contacts allowed to actually interrupt him: you, your security, Frank and his family.

Hurry up. I miss you.

The little brat.

His stomach flutters, And he smiles, turning his body to face the general area of the Watch Center for a moment so that you know he's read your message.

He definitely should not try to speed up the sim, because running into a fight with no backup helps no one in a simulation like this. But God does he want to. His girl wants him, and he wants his perfect girl.

He clears his throat, gives a shake of his head. If he plays this well, he'll be out of here soon.

His watch buzzes a second time when he has his LVOA-C raised, Using the scope to scan for passing shadows before giving the all clear to move.

He directs his team forward, letting them take the lead so that he has a chance to glance at his watch again.

Should I start without you?

You were playing a dangerous game.

He thinks about you touching your pretty body without him there, feels his blood boil. There are better places to get hard, and during tactical training, surrounded by veterans is not one of them. He can’t even adjust himself, because he knows there are too many eyes on him, not just here, but in the Watch Center as well. 

He’d have to manage his discomfort here, but after, he feels amusement grow within him, after this, you were in so much-

Someone on his team gets hit in the chest and goes down. Of course, the bullets are non-lethal, but that doesn’t mean it’s painless. 

The ambush comes next, pinning them in position, and he has no doubt in his mind that if he hadn’t been distracted, he would have seen it coming.

This team is good, but his is better. And he even decides to pull some of his tricks to give the other group an advantage. 

After a few minutes, the simulation is over, and a buzzer sounds to signal the same.

His team helps the others, checking on any unfortunate wounds that might have happened, directing them to the exits, gathering gear and guns that have been discarded in the melee. 

Billy groans, tugging his helmet off, unstrapping his vest that had been constricting his breathing for the last two hours.

He can feel sweat running down the back of his neck, handing his gear off to one of his guys so that he can run a final sweep of the terrain. Sometimes, the map can have people so disoriented by the activity that they don’t hear the buzzer go off, thinking that the sim is still going. 

He takes his time, starting from the back and making his way forward, hearing the extractors start up, pulling the smoke up and into the air filtration system. He rounds a corner and stops short, when he finds you standing in front of him.

He takes a second or two to read the look in your eyes, the way your lashes flutter so seductively when you blink. He can feel that primal urge roaring in his head, the need to take you in this very second, right here, where everyone can see or listen in.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” He warns calmly, approaching, observing, “I haven’t cleared the space yet. You could get hurt.”

You shrug, a toss of your hair and he’s all but ready to grip the back of your neck harshly.

“I’m not worried, I know you’ll keep me safe.”

Of course he would, but the thought of someone hurting you, even a little, could probably make him blind with rage.

“I would, sweetheart, but why take the unnecessary risk?”

You pout, and Billy swears internally, he was going to buy you the best flowers money could get later. Maybe he should take you out on a date somewhere nice.

“I missed you.” You answer, repeating the words he’d said to you earlier, and if he wasn’t in the line of sight of the camera to his left, he would have pressed you against the wall behind you and kissed you stupid.

Instead, he smiles in amusement, extending a hand for you to take.

“Come on, stay behind me while I finish my sweep.”

.

You comply with his request, keeping a step behind him as he goes through the rest of the maze, eyebrows raising when he finds a discarded handgun, probably misplaced during the fight.

“Isn’t it really bad if someone loses their gun in a fight?” You ask softly, wondering what the consequences would be.

“Yeah, but it’s a learning experience, sometimes a rookie leaves it behind if they’re switching guns in the heat of battle. It’s why the sims are important, so they learn to think under pressure.”

You make a hum of agreement, deep in thought, not really paying attention to where you’re going, listening to him and watching scorch marks from bullets and the occasional smoke grenade type thing.

It really looks like a battle zone, you’re not sure why it surprises you so much, maybe because you’ve never seen one up close, amazed at the way things go down in real life, the way it looks absolutely nothing like the movies.

When he tugs on your arm suddenly, you gasp in surprise, stumbling forward, feeling his body crush against your back, pressing you into one of the walls of the maze. When you make a squeak of surprise, you feel his hand reach to cover your mouth.

His slow exhale says everything.

“You liked watching me work?” He teases, his voice a low vibration in your ear. You struggle for the fun of it, just to feel him press you against the wall harder.

“Answer me, wife. Did you have fun distracting me with your messages?”

You whine behind his palm, and you almost yelp in surprise when he tugs your skirt up roughly so that he can slap your thigh. Tilting your head back, you catch the smell of gunpowder residue on his hands, making you ache for him.

You wiggle your hips, hoping to urge him into a reaction that would be more pleasurable for you. You hear him grunt, before his hand reaches under your skirt to grip your hips.

Another sound of bliss leaves your throat, and you realise that the way he grips your hip is arousing all on its own.

“You have no idea what you do to me, wife. The ways I want to fucking ruin you, and you tease me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep myself together around you?”

God, you arch your back, silently begging him to undo his pants and take you right here.

“I bet you're already so wet for me. If my hands weren't covered in gunpowder residue, I would make you come on my fingers right here.” 

Please, you want to say.

You hear him laugh.

“Look at you squirm, baby, you want your husband bad, hmm?”

You nod, glancing back at him, trying to see him in your peripherals.

“Why don't you show me how wet you are.” He hums, pulling you away from the wall to give you some space.

“Go on, baby, reach down, under that skirt, and touch yourself for me.”

You do as he says, not really knowing if you were being seen by cameras or not, but knowing Billy, he'd probably picked an area with a blind spot.

You reach under your skirt, fingers sliding shakily under your panties, and you make a sharp breath when you realise exactly how aroused you really are.

“That much?” He asks, reading into your reaction, a smug smile in his voice.

“You get so wet for me, don't you? Always so ready for your husband, isn't that right?”

“Mhmm.” You agree behind his palm.

“You have no fucking idea what that does to me. It's hardly fair.” He breathes, “Go on, rub that little clit for me.”

You do as he says, sighing into his palm as you gently slide your middle finger teasingly over your bud.

“Is this what you meant when you wanted to start without me? Did you really think you could?”

You were honestly beginning to think that you'd been all bark and no bite this entire time.

He tugs your skirt up higher, the coarse feel of his pants against your bare ass makes you press your fingers harder on your clit.

“That's it, baby, work yourself for me.” He guides, right in your ear and you moan into his palm, breathing in more of the sharp gunpowder smell.

You whimper too, shuddering as you press down firmly on your clit for a few seconds, blinking, dazed at the way you feel.

“Good,” he breathes out, his face pressing in firmer, voice full of unsaid passion, “So good for me.”

Your eyes roll back in your head, eagerly playing with yourself, desperate to come, but standing on your feet pulls too much focus to let yourself go. 

He pulls his hand away from your mouth, spinning your body till you're facing him, your fingers still pressed to your clit as you gaze into his dark eyes.

“Let me taste you.” He says, and you shudder, tugging your hand out of your clothes, raising it to his lips, watching as he seals his mouth around your fingers.

He moans, eyes rolling shut for a few moments as you feel him pull your taste from your fingers.

When he's done, you withdraw your hand, waiting for his next words eagerly.

His breathing is laboured, eyes clinging to your face, you can almost see the way he tries to pull his thoughts together.

“When I'm done here, I'm going to take you up to our office, lift that skirt up and make sure you come hard on my tongue.”

He rubs the backs of his fingers over your cheek, watching you smile happily at his words.

“After, would you wanna get some dinner with me?”

“Like a date?” You ask, trying to hide your excitement.

He nods in affirmation.

“I'd love that.” You murmur, leaning in to kiss him, breathing in the wisps of gunsmoke and husband that reminds you he's distinctly yours.

.

He walks you to the elevator before going back to the Watch Center for a quick debriefing.

It's not easy to focus when he knows you're upstairs eager for him, he can almost feel the press of your thighs around his face and he has to struggle to keep himself together.

After, when everyone's mostly gone, he knows there's nothing good coming when Dinah finally approaches him.

“She's too good for you.” Dinah says while he's gathering his stuff. He pauses, feels the anxiety spear into his chest, keeping a poker face as he turns to look at her.

“Maybe, but does it really matter?”

Billy watches Dinah lean against the table, a relaxed appearance to make it seem like she was just trying to be honest, and not what she was actually doing- attempting to manipulate him by needling at his insecurities.

“When she finally sees who you really are, she's not going to stay. Who knows, she probably already has an exit plan prepared.” Dinah shrugs as if this is the most obvious thing.

“Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Agent Madani.” He responds, continuing to gather his things.

She shakes her head, letting out a small laugh, reminding him why he'd never really liked her. When she was upset, she lashed out, uncaring of what she said so long as she got the last word in.

“I'm just trying to be honest, I know you, I know the dark shit going on in your head, a girl like her will never understand.”

Dinah was so wrong and she didn't even know it. Billy didn't have to worry about that, you'd seen him, the real him from the very start, and the more of himself he showed to you, the less inclined you seemed to turn away.

“Thanks for the advice, Dinah, If you don't mind, I'm gonna go spoil my wife rotten now. Enjoy your evening.” Billy finally says, turning away and leaving Dinah behind.

Now, more than ever, he feels that darkness overwhelm him. Of course you were too good for him, and maybe there was a high chance you'd have an exit strategy already prepared. 

But Billy had worked hard to have you, and he would not let you leave so easily. 

.

You glance up when you hear the door open, sitting on your desk reading through one of your reports, you drop it when his freshly showered and dressed form steps into his office.

He's got one hand tucked behind his back, and you hear rustling as he approaches swiftly, his free hand slipping behind your neck to pull you into his mouth.

You moan against his lips as fireworks go off behind your eyes. He kisses you harsher than normal, tormenting your lips with his, making your head spin, dizzy delight dancing on your tongues.

You chase his mouth when he pulls away, your eyebrows lifted, peeking a look at him through half-lidded eyes.

You give him a dopey grin, that he mirrors, before pulling his other hand from behind his back to present you with a bouquet of red roses.

You let out a surprised giggle. Reaching out to take them, admiring The black wrapping paper and red ribbon.

“What's the occasion?” You inquire, bringing the roses up to your nose to breathe in their flowery scent.

“I need one? I'm so fucking obsessed with you that I can't think straight. Is that a good enough reason?”

You smile bashfully, pressing your face into the flowers to hide, grinning widely into them in hopes that he doesn’t see.

You peek at him, to find him looking at you with warm eyes.

He sucks in a deep breath, glancing off for a moment before speaking.

“I wanna take you out, show you off, I want people to look at you and be jealous that I'm the only one that can touch you. What do you think?”

The idea honestly terrified you. In what world could you ever be considered a prize?

Yet, your found yourself willing to try, for him.

“There’s a charity gala I was thinking we should attend,” You offer up shyly, face still buried in the roses, “It’s on Saturday.” You extend the folder you were just reading out to him, with all the details that you had about the charity.

He takes the folder from you, flipping it open and you watch his eyes scan the page.

“Are we doing security for this?” He asks, deep in thought.

“No, Phoenix is,” You answer, almost laughing as Billy turns his face up at the mention of a business competitor, “That’s on the other page.”

You watch him flip the page, waiting patiently for him to come to a decision. You hoped he would appreciate the cause, a scholarship fund for kids. You also hoped it didn’t strike too much of a chord.

“It’s good publicity too.” You offer up softly, and he nods in understanding.

“I like it,” He finally says, snapping the folder shut and looking up at you.

“I’m in.”

You smile, lifting your head, Billy drops the folder in lieu of bringing his hands up to either side of your head to kiss you more.

You hum into his mouth, moving the flowers from between you, placing it gently on the desk without looking. He takes the opportunity, sliding his hands under your ass, encouraging your legs to wrap around his hips before he lifts you.

He walks you over to his desk, which has less of a clutter on it, placing you down gently before swiping a rough hand over everything, sending his items scattering to the floor.

It makes you laugh, watching the disaster he creates in an attempt to have you. He catches your laugh, laughs too, shrugs his jacket off and drops it to the floor.

“What's funny?” He asks lowly, stepping back between your legs, uncuffing and rolling up his sleeves right in front of you.

“Is needing you funny?” He taunts, pushing your skirt up until he can see the cut of your panties between your thighs.

You watch his eyes drop down, he groans as his eyes lock to the apex of your thighs, pushing his clothed erection against your cunt. You gasp at how remarkably hard he is.

He grips the back of your head, tugging you close until your lips just barely brush.

“Are you laughing now?” He taunts.

.

You'd decided on a sage green dress from an amateur designer. Meeting with Sam again had been a welcome surprise, and she'd compiled an even more extensive list of dresses based on what she'd seen you admire last time. 

The dress in question was covered in embroidered flowers, with an elbow length puff sleeve, and a low neckline that just looked very fun to wear. You hoped it was okay that you were picking the fun option, and not the classy, or even sexier pieces.

You ponder if you should get Billy's opinion, worrying that it might not work into his idea of showing you off.

You snap a photo of the dress, sending it to him with a little message.

Thoughts?

You see the typing bubbles show up after a few seconds, and then the little symbol goes away before popping up again. You frown, watching him struggle with finding something to say and you feel a little sadness that he might not like it and you'll have to pick another.

You'd look stunning in it.

The words aren't enough, and you find yourself craving the reassurance.

Sure? I can pick something else if it's too… flowery.

No way, I think you'd kill me in this dress.

You let out a surprised laugh.

Are you sure? There are other options.

You take a photo of another dress, a red one to send him as an example.

Save it for another time, the first dress is beautiful and looks like it could be fun to wear, and more suitable for a children's charity.

You make a good point.

Of course I do, I'm a genius.

Name one smart thing you've ever done.

Don't make me put you over my knee, brat. 

Touchy.

I'll show you just how touchy when I see you 😌

Keep it in your pants, Russo.

Trying my best, you're just so pretty.

You giggle, rolling your eyes.

.

He catches you unaware in the walk-in closet while you’re picking out the shoes you’d decided on for the dress.

“Oh my god.” He growls into your ear, arms wrapping around your midsection. Your hands rise to cover his, as you smile and turn your head to look back at him, mostly dressed save for your shoes.

“You look so fucking gorgeous, little wife. I can’t wait to show you off.”

You let out a small breath of air, smiling up at him happily. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, husband.” You say jokingly, finally glancing back and almost moaning when you catch his attire.

All black, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, contrasting beautifully against his pale skin.

Jesus H Christ.

“What?” He asks, looking down, and you blink, realising you’d spoken that thought aloud.

You make a pained sound.

“You’re… uh… hot.” You stutter out, tilting your head downwards in shame at your loss of control.

His chuckle of amusement warms your stomach.

“Am I?” He asks, a lone finger presses to your chin, encouraging you to tilt your head upwards.

You meet his eyes, deciding to be honest instead of deflecting.

“Yes. Any woman-” You gulp, “-would be-”

“-I don't want any woman. I just want you.”

You let out a shaky breath of air, eyebrows pinching for a moment in disbelief before a weak smile pulls onto your face.

This is his attempt at manipulating you, comes the intrusive thought, a voice that sounds very much like your mother.

Your smile drops, and you turn away before he can read the expression on your face. You reach for the shoes you'd been initially reaching for.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

You close your eyes, finding the willpower to keep your voice even.

“Mhmm,” you say eagerly, “We should leave soon or we're gonna be late.”

You glance back at him with a smile, and the lines on his forehead disappear.

He extends a hand.

“I'll put them on for you.” 

You smile, passing the simple velvet green heels over.

.

“Relax,” he murmurs, spreading a hand over your back when he feels your shaky breath, “Everything is going to be okay.”

You nod at him as the car comes to a stop.

The door opens, and the flashes of cameras temporarily stun you as he steps out, extending a hand to you, which you take, focusing on him in order to cope with the constant flashing.

The bubble in your ears pop, and suddenly you can hear everyone shouting around you.

He'd warned you it would be this way, and his descriptions didn't do the din justice.

You glance over at the crowd, unable to focus on any one thing with the lights and the sound being so intense.

You paint a soft smile onto your face, waving as his hand interlocks with the other, guiding you along.

The press is good, you remind yourself, not just for Anvil, but for the charity as well, and you feel your insecure self be buried under a more confident you.

Your smile widens, your shoulders relax, you try to imagine the crowd as one being for now, as they try to get you to look in specific directions.

You pause at one point, allowing photos to be taken of you. It's then that you and Billy finally meet each other's eyes.

He leans in, lips to your ear, the flashes coming faster.

“You're doing amazing.” He says reassuringly, drawing a genuine smile from you.

You look up at him, heart pounding at the way he looks at you, before turning back to smile at the crowd.

It's over after that, you make your way inside where your ears ring for a few minutes, unable to hear much as you're seated.

His hand remains locked with yours, never leaving your side as the events begin.

You’d never been to one of these events before, and it amazes you how much actual thought goes into the entire charity. Though, it’s quite clear that this specific occasion is designed to stroke rich people’s egos. 

You’re interested to see how the charity has benefitted children, though you know that the photos you see are definitely staged to paint the charity in the best light possible. You’d done a bit of digging into the organisation, and though there were some hiccups along the way, you hadn’t found any serious red flags of note.

You wished you could focus on the speech, hear anything going on and internalise the words, but your brain kind of stalls, anytime you look over and catch sight of Billy.

The black shirt and pants combo is very similar to what you saw him wearing that night- the night you got married. 

He’s so at ease beside you, his hair styled to perfection, your ring on his finger, a delicate silver chain hanging around his neck.

He looks like sin, like your dirty fantasies come to life. If he asked you to kneel, you suspect you very well might.

When people applaud, you refocus on your surroundings, softly clapping too, though you have no idea what’s going on.

There's an exhibit set up for your perusal, art pieces donated by organizations, even a smaller exhibit to view some of the art made by the students of the program. 

Mostly, it's a reason to mingle, for rich people to join with other rich people and pat each other on the back for the tax cut this is going to give them.

It kind of makes you hate them a little.

Still, you smile and shake hands with all the wealthy people, watch them give you some kind of knowing look that you’re supposed to interpret.

Why anyone thinks you’re a gold digger is beyond you. Weren’t people like that supposed to be the epitome of attractive? It made you roll your eyes internally.

What if he’d chosen you because no one would ever believe he’d done what he’d done to you? Why would he have his pick of the most beautiful women on the planet and still fight for you?

It’s your mother’s voice again, and you swallow, dropping your head meekly as a conversation with an older couple ends, and they move away from you.

You feel his hand on the small of your back, drawing you to look into his eyes.

“Are you okay? Want to take a break?” He asks softly.

You gaze at him for a long moment. What if he’d been manipulating you into liking him this entire time?

No, not liking… loving.

“Can I have some water?” You whisper softly.

He knows something is up, you can tell, but you watch him nod, excusing himself to head to the bar.

You let out a long sigh, turning away and walking deeper into the exhibit, in hopes that he takes a few moments longer to find you.

You needed to think, but this was the worst place for it. Did you really love him? Or were you just getting comfortable in his cage?

You were beginning to unravel.

You're at the very edge of the room, at the corner of the exhibit when the first few bangs go off.

You flinch at each sound, the noise cracking in your head, further amplified by the acoustics in the room.

Your ears ring, and it takes you a moment to register that there’s screaming.

The shrieks get cut off by a loud shout, an instruction for everyone to get down on the floor.

You gulp, eyes widening as you feel your heart begin pounding, you couldn't see what was going on, and maybe you didn't want to. The choice was taken from you by your own body that refused to move at all.

You couldn't hear anything after that initial shout, too far away and it would be dumb of you to get closer to see what was going on.

Where was Billy? Probably knelt on the ground somewhere waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

It's what kicks you into gear. He'd need backup, which means you'd need to go get help.

There's a door at the end of the exhibit, and you turn, walking that way quietly, trying your best to stop the soft clicking of your heel as you move.

You have the door in sight when someone calls out loudly behind you.

“Don't move.” They say.

You turn, stiffening once more when you find a man dressed head to toe in black pointing a gun at you.

Your heart squeezes in your chest.

He eats up the space between you until he grabs your arm forcefully, the gun presses into the middle of your back as he guides you back toward the middle of the room.

Your thinking unfortunately stalls, the rush of adrenaline makes you dumb, your brain in panic mode because this was a real life scenario with real people that would kill you, and not your husband, playing his games.

You can feel your shoulders trembling as the man pushes you into the room.

“I found a stray.” He announces to the other men standing about the room in full black gear with various types of guns in their hands.

You scan the room, searching for your husband, but unable to spot him.

One of the men approaches you, You can see nothing but his eyes, an average brown, through his mask.

He presses his handgun to your cheek, turning your head forcefully with it. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“What's your name?”

You stutter out your first name.

He presses the gun deeper into your cheek until you whisper your last name.

“What was that last part?” The man in front of you presses.

“Russo.” You say louder.

The man behind you, gripping your arm, releases it the moment he hears your last name, and you open your eyes just in time to see him reach forward and push the other man's gun of your cheek.

“Stop. We don't want to cause any trouble with her. Let her sit with everyone else.”

The man draws back angrily, twisting his gun from the first man's grip.

“The fuck are you on about?”

They both move a step away from you, and even though the first man drops his voice to a whisper, you still hear it.

“Don't you know who her husband is? She's more trouble than she's worth.”

“Isn't that the point of this? To cause trouble?”

“Trust me, man, that's more trouble than you want.”

You almost sigh with relief, the knowledge that Billy's name could keep you safe definitely eases some of your anxiety.

Except that the second man doesn't listen to reason, and he's right back in your face, his gun pressed to the center of your chest. The barrel isn't as cold as you'd expect, and you wonder if this was the gun that was fired earlier. 

How many shots did you hear? Five, you think. How many shots did he have left? You had no fucking idea.

“Give me all your stuff. Now.”

You blink, glancing at the first man, seeing him raise his hands in surrender. Realising he won't intervene further, you raise your shaky hands to tug your earrings off, and then your simple necklace, placing them into the man's open and waiting palm.

“And the ring.”

You stiffen.

“No.” You answer, as if you had any means of stopping him.

“Give it to me,” he says calmly, “or I hit you until you do.”

You were practically shaking.

“It's not valuable, it's worth nothing. Please.”

He pulls the gun from your chest, and you sigh in relief as he turns away.

You don't see his fist coming.

He hits you with the hand holding the gun, and you stumble, falling almost comically on your ass as your jaw aches. You feel tears spring to your eyes. 

In your disoriented state, he reaches down and rips the ring from your finger, despite your sluggish efforts to hold on.

Your face stings, but you don't think he hit you hard enough to cause any real damage, your tailbone also hurting from where you hit the ground.

You want to cry so badly, beg for your ring back, but the fear is overwhelming, almost nauseating. 

You sniffle, shuffling back, away from the men quietly arguing with each other, while there are two other men gathering valuables from the crowd.

It makes no sense to steal from these people, these aren’t items that can be pawned off without raising red flags, these items would probably have to leave the country to be sold, and even then, they’d still be traceable.

They finish grabbing what they came for very shortly, and when they group together, the man that hit you earlier turns to look at you. 

It’s easy to tell them apart, he was the second tallest in the four man group, and the man that had defended you, was a little shorter, almost your height.

You scuffle away faster as he moves to approach you, and you know exactly what’s coming.

He grabs you by the arm and pulls you up, your ankle twisting in your heel before you can get your feet under you.

It hurts, but you can’t worry about it because you’re being pulled along with the group of men.

“She’s gonna slow us down, I thought we agreed to pick someone with flat shoes?” One of the unknown men says.

His hand tightens on your arm.

“If another one of you questions me, I’m putting a bullet in your head.” He hisses out, pulling you along.

You try to stand your ground, to pull away, but someone else grabs your other arm and you’re suddenly being more pulled along than anything else.

“Stop.” You grit out, wriggling in their grips, “Let me go.”

They don’t answer you, moving fast through the side exit, and towards a sleek vehicle.

It blends in with the rest, and when they try to force you into the back seat, you lean away, bringing your hands up to brace them against the car to stop yourself from going any further.

It’s then that you lash out, knowing the scary statistic of being taken to a secondary location, you swing a kick at one man, elbowing the other as hard as you can.

It barely does anything, your manoeuvrability is difficult in your pretty dress, someone uses your disadvantage to grip your wrists behind your back.

“Fuck this- open the trunk.”

You struggle more, someone grabs your feet and then you’re picked up, tossed into the trunk, your body aching at the impact.

The trunk slams shut, and all you can hear is your own disoriented breathing and the muted thudding of the other doors in the car closing. Your body jerks as the car takes off rapidly.

.

.

.

[urno1luv]

Your gang leader siyeon with an extra feminine girlfriend made me so weak in the knees, can I please request more of this ///~/// literally melting

so sorry to keep you waiting omg... it's been months

pt2 of gang leader siyeon x reader

siyeon, whose aftercare is so good, you never suspected that she would be killing men and torturing others in her free time. sitting in between her legs in her large bath tub, warm water soothing you as her hands ran through your hair, kissing your shoulders gently?? that CAN'T be the same girl whose drug dealing ring is one of the most powerful in the world... right?

siyeon, who did everything in her power to stop you from finding out her real occupation. "siyeon? why do you have this whole collection of gu-" "i'm a collector and those are... uh... antiques...?" luckily siyeon was blessed with a dumb girlfriend who didn't push it ♡

siyeon, who often times just sent you to resorts or shopping adventures with your friends (her bodyguards hiding but watching closely) as she took you to Italy for her "business meetings," her sweet kisses after you come back to her penthouse making you completely ignore the fact that you barely spent the day together... but was she drinking red wine without you?? there seemed to be a large stain on her navy coloured blazer...🤔

siyeon, who once made a mistake by calling her elder sister, to come over... because you saw the news earlier that week that a certain kim bora was wanted for a murder of a corrupt heiress... safe to say siyeon was NOT pleased with the scream you had let out beside her.

siyeon, who never got mad at you, even if you did things that annoyed her to the point of ripping her hair out... how could she? her kind, loving, idiotic girl never means any harm :(( so she takes her frustrations out on you in the bedroom instead🤩

siyeon's previously mentioned pink strap that you loved so much would dig deep into you after a bad work day, you face shoved into the pillow, mascara running down your face. how could you not cry? she was fucking you so deep, her teeth into your shoulder, drawing blood, and the mixture of pain and pleasure made your brain fog completely >_<

🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️please forgive me for taking so long