#this is only barely scratching the surface too

[undeadentropy]

He also wrote up to the gates of Moria before hitting a cataclysmic writing block. it was only resolved years later when he wrote backwards from the ending. But he ended up changing too much so he had to do a whole rewrite more or less. His notes are absolute anarchy. Aragon started as a sandal wearing hobbit named Stepper if I recall correctly. And I'm barely even scratching the surface (might also be remembering some things wrong, so correct me if i got it wrong and ill reblog it). Lotr was a lifelong project that was a clusterfucked mess for a very long time.

You're doing fine, I promise. Just keep going 😁

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

✦✧✦ CHAPTER 5 ✦✧✦

Poor Goldilocks, Nothing Is Just Right

Warning this part contains: Mania, Self- Harm (wanting to remove your skin), Body Pain, Blood & Bleeding, Pain, Cursing, being held down, minor drugging (just to make you eepy) Dark Theme, becoming pwd , mentions of being crippled or disabled, manipulations/manipulative actions, platonic kisses(?), tons of typo, barely proofread and Evil Reader

Note: I forgot to mention but In the previous chapter MC is 8-9 and in this one MC is 10-11 years old, The scary part is only in the first part, second is me just giving you a Victor treatment and a very nice sort of closing for Bruce's part, also again forgive me if Bruce is OOC it's hard to see Bruce/Batman as a cold person when the batman I knew in my childhood is selfless and compassionate and yes batman cries he cried plenty of times before what do you mean?.

MASTERLIST pages ↻4 , 5.....➢

NOW PLAYING ↻◁ ||▷↺ 4ÆM - Grimes ılıılıılılılıılıılı

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My body aches, bones feels like they're breaking and healing again, my skin is so heavy and itched, it itches, it's itchy, I want it off, I want to rip it off, I GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF ME!!!!.

My eyes opened with a sharp jerk of my body I screeched out in disgust, jumping from where I was laying as I used my hand to scratch and scratch and scratch till my nails dug through my skin and let blood seep out from the wounds.

'EVERYTHING IS WRONG! RIP IT! RIP IT! RIP IT! WE DON'T WANT THIS! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF!' We scream and yell as the room reverberates from my voice and the pounding in my head. The shadows rush, bouncing off the walls, and it seems like there's a shift in reality as I feel my soul and body splitting up into many, many pieces.

I can feel my veins pumping too much blood, traveling around and not being received properly, my eyes almost pop off from how hot, searing, and boiling my new blood is inside of me.

'I DON'T WANT THIS! IT'S WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!' They yell out more as they use my hands to hit my head and try to pull the hair out of my scalp.

The room kept spinning and everything seemed to glitch out in my brain as I fell off from something high and landed smack on the floor their hand gripped the back of my head and pulled it back preparing to smash my head on the ground.

As my forehead nears the hard surface, a sudden force tackled me. I become aware of a pair of hands pinning my wrist on the floor making my legs kick out in the absence of my hands in retaliation and raging out trying to twist their hold as my spit mixed with blood foams on my mouth as I yell for them to not touch me.

Another pair then reached out to trap my legs down, hearing someone else voice whisper to me as I slowly became weary and groaned in the ache of the harm caused to my body, focusing up as my vision came back clearer, as air fills up in my lungs and settling my breathing again, my eyes make out the head of Bruce as he stares down at me while my vision gets better.

He was peering down at me wearing a look of fear and guilt on his face as I caught the movements of his mouth realizing that he was talking directly to me, I calmed down, and slowly my body slacks on fatigue as he let go before moving to scoop my body up.

He lays my head on his chest making sure it won't move before standing along with me in his arms and laying me back to something soft and cushiony under my form, I stare back at him with my eyes half-lidded and tired while he sits on the side from what I can discern as a bed.

'It's too fluffy and silky for my taste, this isn't my bed, it's not right' I thought as I watched Bruce study me with a look of sadness as someone was moving behind him, Alfred holding a tray of glass with a pitcher of water walk towards Bruce's side -noting the patchiness of my throat- and setting it down as I observe the two talk, the pounding of my head muffled their voices to the point it's the only the vibrations of my eardrums I can hear.

I kept eyeing them until Alfred moved, pouring the water, and reached out to tilt my head before slowly tipping the glass assisting me to drink and feeling my body weight like lead.

Bruce then leans down and lays a kiss on the top of my brows surprising me even when I'm deep on falling asleep as he holds my limp hand and holds it under his warmer one, gripping it and squeezing in broken rhythm with a thumb over the pulse on my wrist, either to count my heartbeats or maybe to make sure if I'm still alive? I couldn't care less.

'You aren't supposed to notice me, you're not a part of this, you shouldn't be anywhere near me, you don't belong in my new family'

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Staring at the beautiful wooden handcraft cane, I reach out and caress the squeaky clean polish to the head where soft leather wraps around its handle along with a cute carving of a tiny baby bat on top.

Picking it up from the opened box with the fancy brand name printed over the cover where it was situated on top of a black cushion, I held it on my lap and tested its weight on my palm.

A brand new cane made just for me he said, to help me walk around since after the dip in that pit only my right leg was the casualty in the accident, it was all new, and with no study from what it truly is, it's hard to know what really causes the damage on my leg.

Which was confusing since from my basic understanding and knowledge from before, The pit was filled by Lazarus and weirdly enough it's the Joker who found it, even more suspicious is the location of the pits are only a few and the one I was tied to was never near the original one here in Gotham before.

Not only that Lazarus was supposed to heal, to resurrect the dead even give someone powers or just the simple physical enhancements, so why did I become crippled instead? why did it become the opposite instead?!.

Gripping the cane tightly, I huffed and screamed as I threw it away from me proceeding to thrash everything on the table.

"This isn't supposed to happen!! I didn't want this! all I wanted was a normal life and I ended up becoming a handicap!" I punched the wooden surface before kicking myself off the chair.

As I try to get even just one step, My right leg completely fails to carry my weight causing me to fall and painfully drop on the carpeted floor ending me just curling down and wailing in anger.

In the corner of my eye, I pick out their form standing in the corner of the room just staring at me blankly before blending back in the shadows when Bruce entered the field of my vision and kneeled in front of me.

"Hey hey hey you're ok, everything we'll be fine". He lifts up my upper body and hold me close.

"I'll find away to fix this, ok?" He said as he tried to comfort me but I just snap at him and tried to push me away.

'Liar' they slither out behind him and sneer lowering their head on the side of his face and going back like the way they came out as my vision glitched before me.

"Fix? Fix me?!" I shout slapping his hand away. "How?! huh? Tell me how?! This wouldn't even happened if you just listened to me in the first place!".

"I never wanted to have a stupid debut! I never wanted to be kidnapped by that goddamn clown and this is what I get?! becoming a fucking limping idiot for the rest of my life?!"

"Because of you! It's because of you I ended up having my leg practically useless! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!". I spitted out as I balled up my fist and started hitting him anywhere my hands could land.

As I holler and shriek at his face, he just closes his eyes and takes my hits head on not even trying to defend himself.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish I never stayed here! I wish I never met you! I wish you just left me in that orphanage and let me rot ther-".

"That's enough! I know it's my fault that I was too late to save you and I shouldn't have forced you to do anything". He cut me off by grabbing my hands and stopping me as he looked me in the eye.

"But I promise to do anything I can to make sure you live a better life, you're my child and I am your father, you are my responsibility and my only priority from now on". He declares as he lowers his head and lays his forehead on my small knuckles.

They sneak in there and put their hands on top of his as they shake their head 'no' to me before moving out of my sight.

"Don't hate me for only doing what's right for you, I only want to do what's best for you because I am your father, so give me one more chance to make things right". He pleads as I feel small droplets drip on my skin and I see him quietly crying.

I watch him in disbelief, listening to his words and seeing him cry in front of me, for me. He never did that before, not ever Ha! Not even once in any of my resets! this is different, everything about this is different.

'Somethings not right'

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Bruce was acting more and more strange these couple of days, He kept checking up on me, staying or lingering around me and where I went, and even smiled more often when he went out as Batman.

Not the typical Brucie shit smile but a genuine one, a simple soft looking one, and the scariest part it's always on his face when I'm anywhere near him.

'You can't stay here anymore' I hear their voice again in the back of my head but I barely see them anymore.

What's more weird is that the voice keeps getting quieter each time I hear them, the little drawings and the hallucinations start appearing less and less.

I don't know what's happening and I don't have any idea what to do, I lived through many lives before and nothing like this ever happened, What the fuck?

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Staring dumbfoundedly at him and then back at the wrapped present in his hand, I blinked in bewilderment at his words.

"W-what? A portrait? For what?". I asked him as he gently placed the box on my lap as I sat on the leathered couch located in the more private living room in the mansion, A family room I think?.

"An official portrait of just the two of us since the old one with your grandparents looks a little bit lonely by being on that wall alone," He says as he sits on the other cushy armchair next to me.

I follow where he is looking and see the large portrait of a younger him wearing the equivalent of a boy's suit and a big boyish smile on his face in the tapestry with him was his mother, Martha Wayne wearing a simple yet fashionable creamy white dress as she wears her iconic pearl necklace around her neck and lastly was a man behind them, Thomas Wayne who just like Bruce was wearing an expensive black suit and an award-winning smile even for a doctor.

The three look so much like how a happy family should be, all smiles and comfortable just being together and complete.

"As for your present, you can take a look now if you want," He said as he leaned over to look at my reaction I carefully opened the box but not before sending him a weird look.

"It's something for you to wear for the portrait next week" He stated before standing up and standing next to the end of the couch near me.

"I know I might be asking a lot but a portrait is one of the things that comes in tradition for this family" Kneeling down as he lays a hand on top of my head.

"Something that lasts longer, to remember the memories again and I want you to be a part of it, a memory we can always look back on, something nice and has a great sentimental value for us". He disclosed to me before leaning down and pecking the top of my head before ruffling it, walking away, and leaving the room afterward.

Looking down at the clothing on my lap I rub the fabric together and deduce that it's an expensive one based on the silky feel then back at the painting again and study the old portrait on top of the fireplace, the fire's light illuminating the brush strokes and their still faces.

"How funny, I never was in any of your portraits before, was I?" I whisper a smirk curling on my lips as make the decision in my head.

"Well then, maybe this won't be so bad". Grabbing my cane, I get off the couch and slowly walk till I'm standing directly under the painting in front of the fireplace.

"After all a family needs a father right?"

"I'll just have to make sure you become the perfect one first, my new family, my rules". I smile looking at the younger version of Bruce before walking out as well.

"You're not the only one good at manipulating, Bruce".

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Patting out any dust or wrinkle on my clothes I stare at my reflection on the new dresser in my new room that Bruce renovated near his -do I have to call him Father or maybe Dad now?.

Observing my appearance as Alfred was fixing or checking anything on my clothes, I noticed a sudden change in my look, I was the same as always between from before but healthier and less drained, upon inspecting closer I caught a brief glow of something green under the real color of my irises.

'Lazarus Green'. I hear their voice making me smile as I spy them in the mirror, they stand just behind the large bed curtain over my new bed peeking their head over then vanishing in the blink of my eye.

After that, Alfred handed over my cane and led me to a studio-like room a little bit further inside the mansion we entered and saw Bruce talking with someone who I guess might be the painter seeing a large canvas along with some paints and brushes beside them.

Smiling I headed towards Bruce as he introduced me to the painter who greeted me with a hello and a nice compliment in their French accent, I looked at Bruce with a raise of my brow as he just chuckled and smiled down at me.

"What? I wanted the best painter to make our family portrait". He remarked before sitting on a fancy armchair with a red cushion back and cushioned seating fixed on it.

He then pats a stool with a similar design and red cushion seat that perfectly partnered with his chair and helps me sit on it, an exception for me since I can't stand for too long, The painter then walks forward and fixes our poses as we talk.

"And there are many incredible painters here in Gotham as well-" I countered before hesitating and gripping my cane when the painter positioned in over my lap to hold.

"F-......Father, if you wanted to start making Gotham a better place, maybe you should look into the lives of the people as well, it's only fair after all" I convey what I meant then look into his reaction.

There he sat with his eyes widened in fascination and surprise before changing it with a large smile and reaching out to caress my cheek.

"Smart thinking kiddo". He then held my small hand in his as the painter asked for us to look at him to start with the painting.

A perfect Father looks out for his Family, Batman looks out for Gotham and this city is my first family, won't be too selfish of me to use you right, Father?

I'm just making sure everything is just right

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yeesh the plot is leaving my head but yes this is the end of Bruce and MC finally now we can head to the rest of the fam.

I don't like some yandere fics out there that straights up just let's MC be captured or under control of yandere's I want to have something different for a change, No hate to the other yandere writers out there y'all are amazing because I know yandere genre is all about that I just want a little twist in mine.

In the end, Y/N will be using what the fam did to them and use it against them to get what they want, Like I said I wanted Y/N to be mature, and calculative and use people to their advantage, their old and hopeful version is no longer with us.

Taglist are still open my peps.

[harmonysanreads]

PUPPY PHAINON IS SO REAL OMG

i think it be so funny (extremely sexy) if he goes absolutely feral because his love got hurt on the battlefield

i'm talking absolute carnage, not a soul alive, people being genuinely scared because wtf man (bonus if his partner only got a minor flesh wound hehe)

Your lover has been acting... strange recently.

Though, the abnormalities have been so conveniently spaced, so intertwined with inconveniences that they could be brushed off as mere coincidences — in hindsight, at least. You'd be found guilty of this practice, as it becomes second nature to assume the best of people that can bear one's trust. There appears the occasional incident, where you find yourself second guessing that faith instead and question the normalcy of this particular genre of human behavior.

“Will you tell me now, who did this to you, melite?”

You find that you need to use force in order to push down the flinch that almost crawled all over your skin, unaccustomed to this tone of his.

You push yourself closer, your nails dig a bit harder into the fabric covering his arm ; sensing his gaze towards your direction. Your grasp is more labored than it should've been, you can feel the tendons beneath your grip flexing in barely held restraint. Murmurs follow their way to your ear, unintelligible in fear of feeding further the hero's wrath.

“I have been telling you this since the beginning, Phai.” in spite of your effort, exasperation bleeds into your words.

You glance from behind Phainon's shadow — pointedly at that — towards the knuckle tight grip he has on the fellow's skull. ‘Unfortunate’ probably does not suffice to describe this random pedestrian's situation. You're not given more time to ponder the validity of that claim as something reminiscent of a crack drifts to your ear, alerting you to hasten.

“It wasn't this man, it wasn't any human to begin with! You have to believe me, please.” you tilt your head and make sure to secure his gaze, ripples of discontent appear on the once placid ocean.

You knew it wasn't exactly unusual for one's protective instincts to be provoked in relation to a loved one, but for it reach this magnitude was concerning in your book. Especially so considering their increasing appearances, over the most mundane matters at that.

The Chrysos Heirs aren't known as without their fair share of eccentricities, you suppose they are suited for ones destined to be heroes. But every new scene over a scratch against a surface, a person standing too close, a different gaze lingering too long has you questioning if Phainon's ‘protectiveness’ can really be excused for long.

Perhaps the helplessness in your eyes had finally pushed through the layers of rage bubbling in his head and the contact with your skin had weakened the flames, as he loosens his clasp on the man's head, before shoving him aside with enough force to make you feel the kick of your heart against your ribcage.

You don't get to check the man's condition as Phainon takes your hand in his previously occupied one, his thumb ghosts over the scratch across its back, the swift difference unnerves you for a second.

You know not to waste your breath though, catching the implications. “It... was that pillar.” you avert your eyes upon feeling his caress halt.

“...Which one?” his curt inquiry alerts you. His fingers flex and relax around yours, you can no longer hear the crowd.

You bypass a breath to grasp his collar, caution clouds your mind. The abruptness of your action startles Phainon, as he meets your frown.

“Don’t.” you warn, the realization that makes itself known on his countenance at your order proves your hypothesis to be correct.

“But that pillar deserves it, melite.” something similar to a pout softens his face and at last you find traces of the Phainon you are so familiar with. “If it's hurt you once, it will do it again. Isn't it better to just remove it to avoid that scenario?”

You let go of his collar and rest your palm on his cheek, unable to restrain the sigh that escapes your lips, “Phai, the pillar is an inanimate object.”

He leans into your touch, you're certain he would've melted from it had it not been for the embers of his previous fury keeping his senses sharp, “So?”

You steer yourself away from face-palming, “So, I'm saying that you shouldn't make more of a scene that you've already had. I just want a peaceful evening with you, okay?”

He blankly stares at you for a moment, digesting each syllable. Only when the ‘with you’ reaches his ears does he seem to have sobered up. Phainon nods, taking your hand from his face to press a kiss on the scratch marring the skin. You notice his eyes straying, you would've missed it completely had you not been paying attention — a side-eye towards the fellow now scrambling away.

You've succeeded in preventing any major incident from occuring today, but your power in maintaining the consistency of this endeavor remains uncertain.

I tweaked the scenario a bit because it was funnier in my head orz but overprotective Phainon is so delicious, ty nonnie!

[erinwantstowrite]

ERIN i cannot believe you are a fan of twisted wonderland too, you have feed me once again with your beautiful art thank you so much 🛐🛐

But who are your favorite tw characters?? And how do you think other batfam members would do in yuu's situation?

i love Twisted Wonderland!! in a sense that I ignore the Mickey Mouse plotline because what even is going on there LMFAO

It's so hard to choose a fav cause they're all so stinky and I adore the idiots so much,,, but my rankings are: Ace and Deuce for 1st place, Grim for second, Ruggie for third, Epel and Kalim for fourth, and Malleus for fifth. And this is if I HAVE to choose. the rest of them are so silly that I can not be contained. I need to torment Azul and shake him around <3

Tim would thrive the MOST in Twisted Wonderland, but we know how I feel about that by now. As for the others... I'm assuming we're going with them but when they were the same age as the first years in Twisted Wonderland (cause it's a school). In all of these scenarios, Crowley does not stand a chance. Also they all steal Grim.

Bruce isn't Batman yet when he's that young, but he's certainly just as crazy as he'll be in his twenties-fourties, maybe even MORE so because he doesn't have the experience of training yet. After figuring out that this isn't a hallucination or weird altered state that he's in (coma, spell, etc), he'd be an unbending force that gives them all a run for their money. He's incredibly smart and I doubt he'd be willing to put up with any bullshit that gets pulled. He would manage to get himself home and refuse to make any friends... but he would probably grow soft for Grim, Ace, and Deuce. Grim because Yuu takes care of Grim, and we all know how Bruce is about adoption. Same for Ace and Deuce, they're so stupid that Bruce would end up worrying about them 24/7. His paranoia about keeping them safe would prevent Azul getting a contract with them, etc etc.

Dick when he was Robin? He's terrorizing Crowley the entire time, with a smile on his face. He's so strong willed that anytime Crowley tries to put him into a situation where Crowley gets to fake being nice and magnanimous without actually helping, Dick calls him out and forces him into actually doing something, lest everyone see how he really is. (They know already but Crowley would try to save face.) He'd make friends with everyone- he'd tame Grim pretty fast and probably see it as an exercise to teach him how to be more patient. Honestly, Grim's temperament would remind Dick of himself when he was just starting off as Robin. It'd be like having a little brother and when Dick isn't stuck angsting about some shit Bruce pulled when being emotionally stunted, he's a good big brother. He'd make friends, but he wouldn't tell them anything about himself, keeping it close to his chest. Secret identities, and all that. Dick would also get himself home very fast, not willing to make B wait long. Plus he really missed Alfred.

He would try to steal Grim though. He would probably succeed, actually. All he'd have to do is tell Grim about the world he's from and how he knows magic users far beyond the level of the teachers at this school who could use a new student, and Grim would likely accept.

For Jason, when he was Robin, he was the sunshine kid. This would be after he's mellowed out with Bruce, when he's started to accept his life with B and Alfred, and started to grow into his own as Robin. They would all mistake his willingness to help as weakness, but Jason can be just as stubborn and clever as any other Robin. It's in their blood. He wouldn't be willing to let them talk down to him- he's used to people looking down on him because of where he comes from. The big fancy schools at home think he's trash from the bad parts of Gotham, and here isn't really any different. They think he can't get by without magic? Boy, will Jason sure show them. He's Robin.

I have a feeling that this, combined with Jason's love of school, would mean that Jason gets a little sidetracked with learning about this world, magic, and history, etc. He and Grim butt heads a lot, but Jason would get protective over him. Jason took care of the kids younger than him before, and his Robin is known for the comfort and kindness he shows.

He, too, would not make B wait a long time for him to come back. He's not as much of a detective as Batman or Nightwing, but he's clever enough to get himself home because of what he's learned. He would also steal Grim. In this scenario, it'd been a long time since anyone had cared about Grim the way Jason does about him. He'd come even without the speech about magic in Jason's world.

Tim... is the only Robin who'd make Batman wait. Not even out of a sense of being an ass about it, Tim would just thrive in Twisted Wonderland. He'd play up a role of being a "damsel in distress" or being silly and carefree and clumsy, etc etc. All the while Tim has been picking apart this mystery in front of him and he's got it all figured out. He's having a blast. It's Batman that comes to get him, and Tim probably wasn't expecting that, but, hey! Batman came to get him!

Damian. Holy shit is he a force to be reckoned with. He gets under everyone's skins, he doesn't bother hiding in plain sight, he demands to be treated the way he deserves. He's the son of Talia al Ghul and Bruce fucking Wayne. You try to put him in Ramshackle and he'll gut you with his sword for the disrespect. I think it'd be funny if Damian was like "this distasteful chandelier was only worth a billion of your currency?" and ADeuce try to kill him. Eventually they get along in the most hilarious way, but they're constantly fighting. Damian takes charge of their group, naturally, but he finds himself on equal footing with ADeuce at some point because they're from Twisted Wonderland and help him fill in the gaps of his knowledge. He's also studious (the PhD thing) and Deuce would ask for his help. Ace would get roped into it.

The only one that he gets along with? Grim. Because he's a cat with fire powers. Damian would think he's so fucking cool, he basically has a fuzzy little dragon. That can fit in his bed and cuddle with him and can talk. Come on. What 14 year old like Damian wouldn't think that's the sickest shit ever? He'd demand only the best for Grim, but would also easily start shaping him up to be a better mage. No, not better- the best. Damian would understand Grim's desire to find his legacy.

And, like, here's the thing. Even with all of that... Damian is a very empathetic kid. If he's about freshman year-aged, he'd be, what, 14? I think? That's after he started letting himself be more empathetic. After he lost his dad for a year and learned to be Robin because of Dick. Literally no one would expect Damian to be understanding or listen to the prefects' insecurities or hurt, nor willing to talk to them about it. But he does. He also hands their asses to them when they fight, but while that's happening, Damian is talking to them.

He steals Grim whether he wants to or not. But Grim does want to go with him.

This got WAYYY longer than I expected it to but this got me to thinking and we know I love to yap. I'd add Stephanie, Duke, Cass, Babs, etc, but I don't want this to get too long.

[isamerceds]

it’s amazing how roles like these aren’t just career milestones, but life changing experiences. they really do transform us, don’t they? and tim laughlin, alongside fiyero and bridgerton? you’ve got a collection of gold right there. i can only imagine what’s next for you because you keep raising the bar for yourself in the best way and honestly you know how proud i am, you’re insanely talented and you deserve the world. stop, you’re too kind, honestly! it’s surreal to already be getting a foothold in hollywood—it feels like i’m barely scratching the surface of what’s possible. but, truly, hearing encouragement like that from someone i admire makes all the difference. you’re so right about rest—until you have those moments, you don’t realize how badly your soul needs them. there is something exciting coming up, but you know how it is—still under wraps for now. but also, superman and last of us season 2 finally becoming a thing is also surreal. i finally dropped a new song as well, let’s see if i’ll have time to write more songs this year. how was the holidays? tell me everything.

Aren't they just amazing? I feel incredibly lucky to have these two as part of my résumé alongside Tim Laughlin. I have been proud of all my roles throughout my life (I'm looking at you, Disney show) but these ones transformed me. And you, dear, keep landing to enviable roles! Honestly, I can't even be mad about it, you're such an amazing actress. To already be hitting Hollywood at your age is something else. Oh yes, absolutely! Catching up on much-needed rest and spending quality time with loved ones doesn't seem like a big deal until you actually get it, it feels like heaven itself. I'm so glad that you could savor some of it before the new big-wave working comes in. What's next for you? Anything you can share about it, or is it still under wraps?

[bookwyrminspiration]

when homeboy G was making me he just hit copy and paste on my dad and slapped some tits on

[lesbiannieism]

i’ve watched dead boy detectives 4 times now and i haven’t even begun to emotionally process the effect niko’s death will have on edwin

[unboundprompts]

Can you do some more body language descriptions? For different emotions like Worry, sadness, love, etc!! Ty🩷🩷

Body Language Descriptions

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

Worry

She wrung her hands together, her fingers twisting nervously as she struggled to keep her thoughts in check.

He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze darting anxiously around the room.

She pulled at her sleeve, the movement repetitive and absentminded as her mind raced.

He bit the inside of his cheek, a habit that betrayed his inner turmoil.

They hugged their arms tightly across their chest, as if trying to hold themselves together.

She paced the room, her steps quick and uneven as she tried to shake off the nagging sense of dread.

Sadness

She wiped at her eyes, even though no tears had fallen yet.

He let his shoulders sag, his whole body slumping as if the weight of the world rested on him.

She clutched her scarf tightly, her fingers gripping the fabric like it was the only thing grounding her.

He kept his head low, staring at the ground as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

They let out a shaky exhale, the sound heavy with unspoken grief.

She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

Love

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile soft and shy as she met his gaze.

He brushed her hand lightly, the touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

They leaned closer, their knees nearly touching, as if drawn together by an invisible force.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression tender and full of quiet affection.

He laughed easily, the sound warm and unguarded, his gaze never leaving her face.

She reached out to fix his collar, her fingers lingering as she adjusted it carefully.

Guilt

He avoided her eyes, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

She rubbed her temples, her hands trembling.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still.

She clasped her hands tightly behind her back, her knuckles white as she fought to remain composed.

They bit their lower lip, their jaw tightening.

He fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, his movements jerky and hesitant.

Fear

She took a step back, her breath quickening as her eyes darted to the nearest exit.

He clenched the fabric of his shirt over his chest, as if trying to steady his pounding heart.

She froze in place, her body stiff and her movements tentative, like a deer caught in headlights.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he fought to calm himself.

They pressed their back against the wall, their hands splayed out.

She whispered under her breath, her words shaky and barely audible.

Jealousy

He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tightening as his gaze followed her every move.

She tapped her foot impatiently, the rhythm sharp and irritated as she forced a smile.

He clenched his fists at his sides, the tension in his knuckles betraying his calm demeanor.

She cast a sideways glance, her lips pressed into a thin line.

They shifted in their seat, their shoulders stiff.

He ran his fingers through his hair, his movements brisk and frustrated as he fought to contain his thoughts.

Relief

She exhaled deeply, her shoulders dropping as the tension melted away.

He ran a hand down his face, his smile faint but unmistakably genuine.

She laughed shakily, her hand pressed to her chest as if trying to steady her racing heart.

He slumped against the nearest chair, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him up.

They let their head fall back, their eyes closing as a soft, contented sigh escaped their lips.

She smiled faintly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the surface of the table as the weight lifted from her mind.

Embarrassment

She tugged at the collar of her shirt, her cheeks flushing as she avoided everyone’s gaze.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his lips twitching into an awkward, forced smile.

She bit her lip, her hands fluttering nervously.

He let out a strained laugh, scratching the side of his head.

They hid their face in their hands, peeking out between their fingers with a sheepish grin.

She stumbled over her words, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt as her cheeks burned bright red.

[brklynbxby]

Her words about Grant felt shallow, a veil over something deeper, and he knew she was barely scratching the surface. It was clear in the way her voice faltered, in the way her eyes couldn’t quite meet his for too long. His jaw clenched, the name Grant alone a bitter taste in his mouth, for it embodied the mediocrity that had claimed her heart. This wasn’t about him. This was about Daphne—his Daphne—who had, with a quiet resignation, settled for far less than the boundless love she deserved. He longed to reach across the chasm of space between them, to pull her close as he once had, but the distance—the distance of time, of pain—made each gesture, each word, feel laden with an unspoken weight. "You don’t have to sell it to me, Daph. You know you can be honest with me" Milo announced, finally giving in and reaching out to grab her hand, his thumb grazing over the ridge of her knuckles in a gentle reassurance. 

He inhaled deeply, almost as though he needed to ground himself in the moment. All he could focus on was her—her warmth, her presence, the way she still had the power to stir something inside him that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. "I missed you." His voice was low, his words sincere, though they held a trace of regret for blocking her and cutting off any contact that she may have tried to make. He let the silence stretch between them for a moment, just long enough to let the weight of his words settle. There was so much he wanted to say, but in that moment, the most important thing was that she knew. "I just want you to be happy," he added, his voice soft, a quiet plea. "I mean it, Daph. You deserve more than what you’re giving yourself right now." He met her gaze, searching her eyes, trying to see if any of his words had landed, if there was any spark of hope left between them.

All he wanted in that moment was to kiss her—feel the warmth of her lips against his, to hold her in his arms like he once had, to parade her proudly around this bar as though she were the only thing that mattered in the world. But the past hung between them like a damning shadow, a line crossed that could never be uncrossed. Each word, each action was now a delicate negotiation, as if treading on eggshells.

she could feel his gaze on her, and despite the situation they were in, it still sent a warmth through her head to toe. she was grateful for the dark bar, multicolored lights helping to hide the vulnerability that was seeping out of her. she wasn't sure what to make of his response to her telling him she was happy to see him, but she supposed it was as good of one she could hope for. but she was glad she said it, really wishing she'd said more along the line of i love you and i'm so sorry. she knew their mutual friends were here somewhere, and she was sure it was quite a sight to see the two engaged in conversation. but there was nobody else that daphne would rather stand around awkwardly with, and that was saying a lot. she'd go anywhere with milo, do anything for him - and it took her stupid lapse in judgement for her to realize that. a part of her was missing without him.

her face crumbles momentarily at his question, willing the courage to wipe the frown that curves along her full lips as her eyebrows furrow. when it came to milo it was hard to be anything but herself, but right now she wishes she could become someone who was stronger than she was. "um, sure, he's treating me fine." there that word was again, because her brain was already overwhelmed being in his presence, trying to come up with a more advanced vocabulary seemed too hard right now. the truth was that daphne had known for a while before that night that grant wasn't the right guy for her and to put it plainly he was quite literally the opposite of milo in every way that mattered. tonight for example, even though he'd say he was meeting friends out, she had zero doubt that involved getting handsy with other girls.

you deserve to be happy, daph. she's not sure what makes her want to cry more - the sound of her nickname or the fact that he thinks something so sweet about her. there's part of her that believes him, knowing she deserves better than the lackluster situation she's in now. the other part of her feels like maybe she's stayed with her boyfriend to punish herself, also totally unfair to them both. she's especially thankful for the tequila now, but it only slightly bandages the ache in her heart from his words. turning to look at him finally, a small smile graces her face, a little big of light illuminating within her again. she's really looking at him now, taking the time to study the face of her favorite person, eyes so warm she could melt. fuck, she missed him. "you too, mi. so, so happy." she wishes to say be happy with me please, but even she knows that would be selfish.

[wadewnstonwilson]

need you close;

summary: when your busy schedule leaves logan feeling neglected, he craves your attention in his own way—by showing up with small, thoughtful gestures and lingering touches that hint at his pent-up need. despite his rugged exterior, logan’s vulnerability shines through as he tries to remind you he’s still there, waiting.

word count: 1k

a/n: okay so this was originally a headcanon idea but this was my most popular headcanon so I definitely wanted to post it as a one shot! always feel free to leave an ask if you guys want anymore logan themed headcanons or fics!

Logan wasn’t used to being ignored. Or at least, not by you. It had been weeks since you’d been swamped with work, and while you appreciated his support, you couldn’t help but feel the strain on your relationship. He’d never say it, not out loud at least, but Logan was needy, and he craved your attention like nothing else.

The soft scratch of a pen met your ears, but you didn’t even look up from your laptop. Logan stood by the counter, lazily scribbling something on a piece of paper. He’d been in and out of your office all day, never staying long but always making his presence known. His scent—musky, earthy, all Logan—lingered long after he’d leave. It used to comfort you, but now it only reminded you of the time you couldn’t give him.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Logan, I’m really busy.”

Without missing a beat, he crossed the room and placed a steaming cup of your favorite coffee on the desk. His fingers lingered, brushing against yours as he slid the cup toward you. You glanced up and caught the faintest smirk on his lips.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” he grumbled, leaning in closer. His warm breath fanned over your cheek, and you could feel the tension melt from your muscles, despite how desperately you needed to focus. “Been workin’ too hard.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. The way his hands rested on your shoulders—rough yet tender—sent shivers down your spine. He started massaging the knots in your shoulders, his fingers kneading the tension from your overworked muscles. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—missed him—until now.

“You need a break, darlin’,” Logan muttered, his voice low and rough, sending a familiar heat through your body. “Can’t have you burnin’ out on me.”

You chuckled, but the sound was weak. “I’ll take a break soon, I promise.”

Logan let out a soft grunt, clearly unsatisfied with your answer. But instead of arguing, he pulled back, leaving a small note on the corner of your desk before disappearing from the room. You picked it up, your heart softening at the sight of his messy handwriting: Missin’ you. Don’t forget to take a break.

For a moment, you considered following him. You could see the hurt in his eyes, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. But you had deadlines to meet, work piling up faster than you could keep up with. You’d make it up to him later—at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The next few days were more of the same. Logan was always around, but never directly demanding your attention. He’d leave notes scattered around your workspace—short, sweet messages like Thinkin’ ‘bout you or We’re overdue for some time together. He brought you food, sometimes your favorite meal, other times just a snack to keep you going. He’d make excuses to touch you, his hands lingering on your back or brushing against your arm as he walked by.

But you noticed the shift. His touches were growing more possessive, more intense, as if he was trying to remind you that he was still here, waiting for you to give him the attention he so desperately needed.

One evening, you returned home from a long day at work, exhausted and drained. You dropped your bag by the door and collapsed on the couch, barely managing to kick off your shoes. Within seconds, Logan was beside you, pulling you into his lap without a word.

“Logan, I’m—”

“Shh.” His arms wrapped around you, and you could feel the weight of his need in the way he held you, so tight you thought he might never let go. “You’re always busy, darlin’. Let me take care of you.”

The frustration in his voice was clear, but so was the affection. He wasn’t angry—he was hurt. Hurt that you hadn’t been giving him the time he needed. You felt a pang of guilt as you melted into his embrace, feeling the heat of his body against yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your head resting against his chest. His heart thudded steadily beneath your ear, a comforting sound that you hadn’t realized you’d missed. “I’ve been so caught up in work, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop apologizin’,” Logan interrupted, his voice softer than before. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “Just... don’t do it again, alright? I miss you.”

You nodded, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. Logan wasn’t the type to openly express his emotions, but the way he held you now—tight, protective, needy—said more than words ever could.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering against your hair. “I’ve been patient,” he muttered, his voice rumbling through his chest. “But I need you. Not just here, but with me. You get what I’m sayin’?”

“I do,” you replied softly, shifting to look up at him. His eyes met yours, and you could see the raw emotion swirling in them—jealousy, frustration, but above all, love. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.”

Logan grunted, but this time there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I can forgive you, but only ‘cause I know how hard you’ve been workin’. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

You laughed, feeling the tension in your chest ease. “I’ll try not to.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that made your heart race. You could feel the heat of his need, the way he poured every bit of his pent-up affection into the kiss. It was almost overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I’m not gonna stop remindin’ you I’m here,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You’re mine, darlin’. Don’t forget that.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “I won’t forget.”

For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to relax completely in his arms, savoring the warmth of his touch and the strength of his embrace. Logan wasn’t one to be needy often, but when he was, it only made you fall harder for him.

And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what you needed too.

[pseudowho]

ummmmmmmmmmmm so i really haven’t been able to get that nanami thirst out of my head, the one where he has girls vying for his attention at all times but he only has eyes for you. THAT ONE MADE ME WANNA START KNAWING ON MY PHONE I LOVE YOUR WRITING BTW but can i possibly ask for something like how the reader takes nanami home after a nice, long, and full day of girls falling over themselves to get his attention and absolutely rocks his world to show that he’s yours….. you get my drift 🌚🌚🌚 (sorry if this ask is too long ive just been thinking about your writing and nothing elseeee 😭)

Oh, you mean THIS OLD THING? I get you...it's hot.

...anyway:

"I'm just sick of it, frankly. It's disrespectful. A total wild abandon of even the most basic manners..." Kento ranted as you followed him through the door, biting your lip, your smile barely-there. You had been on Cloud Nine all day. Any time you had looked up, his eyes were on you. Any time another woman tried to touch him, he shied away as if she were poison. Seeing Kento completely lose his mind at Gojo's flirtations had been the final straw.

Kento may have worshipped you, but you were obsessed with him. You burned for him. You would walk through fire, if he would ignore the lick of the flames just to hold your hand.

Kento was so lost in his rant, that he could barely look at you, grumbling to himself as he stripped off his tie. He tossed it to the floor, stalking away, infuriated...before pausing, heading back and hanging his tie up with a huff. You heard him pace into the bathroom, hearing the taps begin to run as Kento drew a bath.

Knowing he was climbing into the tub to try to scrub away the covetous stares of other women, you waited. And thought. And pondered. And stewed. Each glance, each fingertip-brush of his sleeve, each filthy pointed glare in your direction. You festered with the audacity. While you were gracious, and magnanimous in public, in private, Kento was yours. You heard him slip into the bath. You slipped into something darker.

The bathroom door swung open, slowly, thoughtfully. You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. Kento lay draped in the clawfoot tub in the bathroom, bespoke, and big enough for him to lie down without needing to bend his legs. Those arms that you loved, thick and corded, flipped over the edges, bubbles tracing down the edges of his biceps. He frowned, his eyes closed, deep in thought.

"I'm sorry." Kento murmured, finally. "I don't try to make other women...act like that."

You hummed, examining your nails.

"I know," you purred, stepping over to him, perching lightly on the edge of the tub, "you're just too...just too much, aren't you?" Kento's eyes flicked open at your tone, seeing your unbridled rage behind some gossamer veneer. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as that hungry, vengeful gaze trailed down his naked body, a soapy Adonis. The bubbles masked how his cock twitched beneath the surface, too primal to restrain itself just for Kento's uncertainty.

"...darling?" Kento asked, swallowing thickly. He may not be in trouble, but he knew when he was in danger. You pressed one finger to his lips, your other hand beginning to trail circles across his chest, your gaze holding his own. The trails scorched, wildfires left in the wake of your touch. By the time your fingertips started grazing light circles over his nipples, Kento squirmed, his lips parting in a humid gasp beneath your finger.

"How could they know how it is, after all?" You whispered, your fingernails scratching lightly down his chest and belly, now. You leaned over Kento, your clothed breasts dipping into the water, bubbles rushing to invade the valley of your cleavage. Kento trembled, his mind going blank as you silenced him, held him hostage, blood rushing to his cock and making him dumb.

"How could they know that you fall over yourself to sink your tongue inside me?" Your fingers grazed through the honeyed hair on Kento's lower belly, and you clapped a hand over his mouth, capturing the muffled little groan in your palm. The tip of his cock, long, thick and ready, bobbed to the surface, pre-cum mixing with bubbles on his slit.

"How could they know the sounds you make when I ride you? The sounds you make when you cum down my throat? Show me them." You released your hand for just a moment, a husky, ragged moan bursting free. Kento's eyes beseeched you, for release from this blissful punishment. You bit your lip again, a wicked smile in your eyes, and god, how he'd start riots and burn cities for you for just one chance one shot for you only yours for your eyes alone--

"Look at you...such a big man. So strong. The truth is, you could pin me down and do whatever you wanted to me. And you do." You laughed, reaching lower to fondle Kento's heavy, aching balls beneath the surface, feeling him cry out, muffled behind your hand again, twisting and arching out of the water.

"But we both know that behind closed doors...I'm the one that has you pinned down, right? You'd drop everything for me...right?" Kento nodded frantically, a bead of sweat dripping down his chest. He saw stars when your hand gripped his cock, the squeeze tight and possessive. You moaned, soft and wet already, just with the silky-steel weight of him in your palm.

"So just remember, when you're dancing away from all those other girls..." Your hand gripped harder, netting Kento's desperate rumbling moans in your fingers, and beginning to stroke his cock, twisting gently from ball to tip until he bucked into your fist. You kept your hand still, letting him fuck upwards into you. You ignored the splashes as hot bubbled water crept over the edge, splattering onto the floor.

"...remember who you're dancing for, Nanami Kento." Kento was lost, overstimulated by your filth, the myriad erotic images you cast upon his vision, the sheer biting ownership you placed upon him...and, god, it was good. You moved your hand faster now, lubricated by the soap, masturbating Kento until he panted, his eyes glazed and hot beneath your hungry cross-examination.

Reaching for the showerhead, still working on his cock, you set the pressure high, and dipped it beneath the water. So lost was he in being wetly jerked off by you, Kento shouted, fucking upwards again to feel you aim the jet at his balls, forcing them to clench and tighten. Kento couldn't think anymore. Being edged so ferociously had him reeling, and his existence narrowed to just your hands on his cock your hands on his mouth the shower jet pulsing hot water at the base of his length.

"--do anything I'll do anything please-- get in here-- let me love you, please-- shit--cum inside you, please, I-- I can't-- can't take anymore--"

He felt his orgasm building at speed, feeling so pathetic, like a desperate rutting virgin, to be spending himself so easily in your hand. You released the showerhead, and he grasped at your thighs, trying to urge his fingers between your legs. He needed to dip his fingers into your pussy to make this orgasm golden, needed that wet heat around his thick digits--

You grasped his hand, licking his forefinger into your mouth, and Kento cursed aloud, crying out in anguish.

"--fuck...darling I promise I promise, I-- I--"

"...you...you...what?" You urged, fisting around his cock harder to drag him towards the edge. With the hook behind his navel, and the lick of your tongue against his fingers, Kento's eyebrows drew together, his thighs beginning to twitch as his balls tightened up, ready to spend himself in your hand.

You stopped, releasing Kento's twitching cock abruptly. Kento gasped, his chest heaving, rendered stupid and confused.

"...remember who takes care of you, yeah?"

Cooler than a winter morning, you stood, your breasts dripping with pre-cum glossed bubbles. Walking towards the doorframe, you turned, and blew Kento a kiss. He watched you with feverish eyes, gasping and twitching, leaned half forwards, white-knuckled hands gripping the tub.

"--don't--don't leave-- darling-- please-- so close, I--I'm so close..."

With one further bite of your lip, you rubbed his pre-cum between your fingers and reached down, dipping them just inside your entrance with a sweet, high moan.

Throwing his head back, cursing, and spitting, Kento came untouched, thick ropes of seed striping up his abdomen. Kento groaned, bucking against thin air and wishing desperately he was nestled, like your fingers, inside your tight little pussy, taken most of the way to heaven just by imagining it as he came.

You touched yourself to the convulsing, jerking image of him moaning your name, for months to come. Knowing Nanami Kento was yours, and knowing Nanami Kento was yours, were two different beasts entirely.

It was only when you heard Kento's hulking form stand from the bath, the water cascading down as if off a demon's back, that you realised it was your turn to be in danger.

[withahappyrefrain]

Just a Game

You and Peter like to play a game. It requires no trivia or plastic pieces. Just two people and feigned innocence.

Warnings: CNC (which has been discussed explicitly) unprotected sex, language, minor breeding kink at the very end

You and Peter like to play a game. 

It's not a board game, though you two enjoy those from time to time. Not a video game, though Peter has expressed interest. 

This game doesn't require any trivia knowledge or plastic pieces. No one has to keep track of points. There isn't a timer. 

All this game requires is a surface and your two bodies. 

Sometimes it was a couch, when you two were in the middle of watching a movie. Other times it could be your kitchen counter, dinner be damned. Rarely, it would be the back of a car, which was your favorite. Peter’s favorite-against a wall- depended on when and where. 

Today the surface was your shared bed. 

It started innocently, like it always does. Peter found you curled up in bed, reading. He hadn’t considered playing today. But then he saw you, wearing only one of his hoodies and those pastel yellow panties that drove him wild. 

It didn’t help that Peter could smell you. Though the cover of your book didn't look out of the ordinary, your arousal revealed the true nature of your reading choice. 

“What’cha reading ladybug?” He asked, curling up to you. 

You put on an innocent smile, keeping the book to your chest, “Oh nothing. Just one of those silly romance books.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Silly? Let me see.” 

Before you could squeak out an objection, Peter snatched the book away, his eyes scanning the page you were on. 

“He pushed her dress up to her hips, revealing her wet core. He dove in, lapping up her arousal like a starved man, his mouth quickly attaching itself to her clit.”

Sometimes you got so caught up in playing your role. Peter had said much dirtier things to you and yet there you were, head in your hands and a warm flush coursing through your body. 

Peter placed the book on your nightstand before bringing your hands away from your face. 

“Oh baby. You’re too sweet to be reading something like that. Why don’t we cuddle instead?”

With his brown puppy dog eyes and sweet smile, he actually sounded genuine. For a moment, you thought he wasn’t inviting you to play. Not when he had his head in your lap, practically purring as your fingernails gently scratched his scalp. 

But then his long, nimble fingers made their way under the blanket, grazing against your bare skin, drawing shapes along your thighs as he made his way up your body.

“Peter.” His name was said in a sweet, sing-song voice, “Thought you wanted to cuddle.”

He sat up, pulling you closer, “I do bug.” Peter's other hand was now underneath your shirt, creeping up to your chest.. 

“Peter,” you could barely breathe, too enthralled with how good his fingers felt kneading your breasts, “This isn’t cuddling.” 

“I know,” He sighed, as if he felt some guilt about what he was doing, “But doesn’t it feel good bug?”

You could only nod, breath hitching up when one of his large hands began to toy with the elastic waistband of your panties. 

The foreplay was fun, but it wasn't the main focus of the game. 

That didn't come until you were underneath him, completely bare and withering as his hard cock slid between your soaked folds. It was a battle, fighting the urge to jerk your hips up, potentially catching him. 

“Peter, w-we shouldn't,” your voice was shaky as you tried to come across as worried rather than in a pleasure laced haze.

“I know. We shouldn’t.” He's panting. Peter's lips ghosted over your bare skin, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses. 

In this game, your birth control and five year relationship didn't exist. 

No. In this game you were wide-eyed and innocent. In this game, both your heads were clouded with lust, longing threatening to overtake common sense. 

“Maybe,” His voice is soft, addictive. “Maybe I-we-just the tip?” 

You throw your head back when the head of his cock makes contact with your clit. Desire racked through your body, fingers creating crescent shaped marks along his back as you searched for something, anything to ground you amidst the pleasure haze that was clouding your judgment. 

Part of you wanted to break character so he would fuck you sooner. 

But where was the fun in that?

“But we-fuck- we don’t have a condom?” A box of condoms was currently stashed away in your nightstand. You had been on birth control for years. There was no concern.

Again, not in this game. 

With your wide, doe-like eyes, sweet voice, and withering body, Peter was truly surprised he hadn’t come already. 

But where was the fun in that? That didn’t allow him to play, to take off the friendly neighborhood hero mask and act out his deepest desires. 

His head dropped down to your chest, his thin pink lips quickly latching on to one of your breasts. Your back arched in pleasure, hands grabbing Peter’s soft chestnut locks upon feeling the scrape of his teeth. His hips continue to thrust forward, reminding you of what was within reach. 

“I know, forgot to bring some. It would just-just be the tip,” He sounds like he just ran a marathon. You’re so warm and wet. Everytime the plush head of his cock nudges against your clit, he can feel your walls clenching, trying to catch him, enticing him in. 

“Peter,” the way you moan his name is sweeter than any song he’s heard, “We-no. Peter, don’t.”

He’s already grabbed the backs of your thighs, hitching them up to your chest. Now he has the picture view of his cock sliding through your slicked folds. You have the prettiest cunt Peter’s ever seen and God, does he want to use it.

Your hips twitch as he nudges his cock towards your all too welcoming entrance, entranced by how your walls eagerly suck him in. Eyes roll to the back of your head upon feeling the head of his cock begin to stretch you, nearly forgetting your role in all this. 

“W-wait!” You try to prop yourself up, try to jerk your hips away. 

But Peter is stronger. It drives you crazy, his strength. His hands grasp your shoulders, pushing you back down onto the mattress. 

“It’s okay bug. Just the tip, remember?” The ambered irises are blown out with lust. Combined with the downright wicked smirk adorning his handsome face, he looks more devilish than heroic. 

It thrills you. No one else sees this side of him, only you. Only you does he feel comfortable enough to indulge in these desires. 

For a few moments, it's only the tip, sliding in and out of your tight walls. 

Sometimes he’ll dive right in, other times he'll drag it out, as if Peter is truly at war with his morals when it comes to your sweet cunt. 

“Just….just the tip,” he whispers, as though he’s trying to convince himself, trying to convince you. 

The outcome is clear, but you still nod your head. “Just the tip,” you agree. 

“So…fucking tight,” He watches where you two connect in awe, lips parted, “So warm. God…feel fuckin’ incredible.” 

The praise leaves goosebumps on your skin, almost distracting enough to not notice that Peter has been slowly pushing his cock in more and more with each passing moment. Your body betrays you, hips jerking upwards in a desperate, near pathetic attempt to get more of his cock. 

Sometimes the game is hard to keep up with. There have been times where you both forfeit, craving each other far too much to continue. 

If Peter noticed you breaking character, he didn’t acknowledge it. He’s too mesmerized by the way your cunt eagerly welcomes him. 

“Fuck, baby, m’sorry, it’s-you feel s’good.” His speech is slurred, drunk off your body. Before you can react, he thrusts forward, filling you to the brim. 

Finally. 

“Pete-no! We can’t!” You plead, despite your body enthusiastically welcoming the intrusion, “You said-ah! You said the-the tip!”

His cock twitches at your words, at the feigned concern in your voice. His lips ghost over your face, hips increasing the speed of their thrusts. 

“I know, I know,” it’s almost convincing, that he truly feels bad for this, for giving in to lust. As if neither of you wanted it. 

He picks up his pace, shushing your fake protests. His cock feels incredible, so full. No matter how much prep beforehand, the sheer size of Peter is still an adjustment. 

“You'll- you’ll pull out, right?” You gasp, eyes meeting his. 

“‘Course bug,” He chuckles. 

He won't. But it's the false promises that keep you going.

“As-ah- as long as you pull out, it's okay, right?” You're committed to the role of the naive girlfriend, Peter will give you that. The concern in your eyes is incredibly convincing. 

Sometimes he's so caught up in the euphoria of you that he forgets to play along. All he has to do is look you in the eyes to remember his role. 

“Yeah, it's okay. God, feels incredible. Your pussy.” He hitched your legs further up until they were nearly resting on his shoulders. The change in angle allowed him to thrust deeper, reaching the spot that made you see stars. 

Bliss quickly overcame you, causing you to focus less on the game and more on the coil that was currently winding up in the pit of your stomach, threatening to snap at any moment. 

“God, you're clenching me. Can barely pull out.” His pressed his lips against yours, capturing them in a messy kiss. 

You shake your head, “Y-you should. Peter!”

But Peter continues, relishing in how tight you're gripping him. It's addictive. 

“Everytime I try to pull out, your little cunt sucks me back in. Think she wants me to stay.” His words elicit a downright desperate whimper from you. 

“How’s this? I'll stay ‘till ya cum.” His composure was incredible, his voice so soft you almost believed him. 

Almost. 

Weakly, you nodded as Peter’s perfidious promise promptly pershing into the periphery of your mind. Who could express you to focus, when his nimble fingers were toying with your clit? 

Your pleas to stop fade away, occasionally a feeble no falling from your lips. His massive hands were all over you, kneading at your soft skin, sure to leave bruises. 

It's one of the best things to Peter, waking up and admiring the work he did on your body from the night before. 

But for now, he could enjoy another favorite-you. It was cute, nearly adorable how your legs shook, your hips jerking upwards, desperate to get more despite already being full of him. The pathetic whimpers that fell from your lips, unable to form anything coherent. With each thrust, your breasts bounced against your chest. 

It was picturesque. Peter wished he could grab his camera to immortalize this moment, but that would break the illusion. 

So instead, his fingers skim your soft skin, tracing over your plush curves, downward until he reaches his desired location. 

After all, he promised he'd pull out once you cum. So why not help? 

His fingers on your clit felt like lightning, sending a crack of electricity up your spine. It's euphoric, you can't even bother to play along, hands gripping the strands of his hair tightly as the bedroom is quickly filled with your moans. 

When you finally get pushed over the pleasurable edge, it’s loud. There are no whines or pleads for Peter to pull out. Only raucous moans that fill the bedroom, combining with the erotic sound of his skin slapping against yours. 

“Shit, feel s’good. S’fuckin tight,” He pants, “Babe-baby. You feel s’good. Don’t know if I can pull out.”

His words jolt you out of the lavender haze, reminding you of the part you were still playing. 

“N-No. You can’t!” 

Peter nods his head, though he’s not agree with you, “M’sorry,feel s’good.”

You try to sit up, to put up a fight. But just as you do, you’re pushed back down, your hands above your head, enclasped with Peter’s. His body covers you like a warm weighted blanket, the kind where it’s so soft and deceptively confining, you can’t get up even if you wanted to. The spicy scent of cinnamon that always lingers on his body floods your nostrils, his mouth swallowing your pleas to stop as his hips erratically slam into yours. 

It was blissful. You were enraptured by Peter, by his body, roleplay be damned. Your legs wrapped themselves around his lithe waist, pulling him closer. 

Peter reaching his own high triggers yours again, walls clamping tightly down on his cock as he floods you with his warm. 

“Baby, m’s’sorry, feels too good,” it's then you register he's still rutting his hips against yours. 

Well this is a new move. Usually the game ended at this point. 

The chance to prolong, to try something new was thrilling. 

So you shook your head. “Peter!” Your moan contained more desire than it did distress, “N-no, you need-oh- pull out!” 

But Peter just grunts. It's so animalistic, your thighs clench at the sound. His refractory period was much shorter than anyone else you had been with, no doubt thanks to a radioactive spider bite. 

Now sensitivity is surging through your body, pain and pleasure mixing together. He's hitting the spot that makes you see stars, the spot you didn't think existed until you met Peter. 

It's getting harder to stay in character. But as long as Peter is trying, so will you. 

“Y-you promised you'd pull out!” 

“I know,” he groans in your ear, “Shouldn't have such a fucking tight cunt then. Don't know how ya expect me to pull out.” 

His teeth sink down into your throat, earning a sharp gasp. 

“God, your cunt,” the scruff of his beard scratches against your skin, “Think you want me to cum in ya again.” 

You shook your head, “No! Please!” Fingers claw at his strong back to no avail. He continues with his harsh thrusts, paying no attention to how your mixed arousal was leaking onto the sheets. 

“No- stop!” But that wasn't your safe word. 

He could tell you were already close, your moans increasing in pitch, how your walls were clinging to his cock. 

You just needed a little help getting there. 

“Gonna cum in ya again. It might just take this time. Is that what you want? For me to fuck a baby in ya?” 

The illusion of your feigned innocence shatters, his words igniting a flame in you that can't be fanned out. 

You're now wailing, nodding enthusiastically at Peter's words. Fingers which were once clawing at him now grip his shoulders. Instead of jerking away, your hips move upwards. 

“Y-yes! Want it to take s’bad! Please fill me up!” 

Your voice was nearly unrecognizable; whiny and desperate. It only spurs him on, his cock thrusting into you at a near bruising pace. 

Peter's next high is with your’s, hips stuttering as he fills you once more. He knows he could go again, but everyone needs a break, an intermission before the next act. 

The next few moments, you two are speechless. The only audible sounds are that of heavy breathing and the overhead ceiling fan.

“Well, that was fun,” you chuckled, running your fingers absentmindedly through his hair. 

Peter finally made eye contact with you. His eyes are dark, almost black with lust. The grin on his face is downright wolfish. 

“Oh sweetheart, I'm far from done with you.” 

You were in for a long night. 

[itneverendshere]

a circus ain't a love story - baby daddy! rafe.

request: "baby daddy! rafe where reader and rafe are not together and she’s going on dates with men and he’s jealous but not like possessive jealous but like 🤭 jealous?" @zyafics

warnings: cursing; rafe's an asshole but he's just going through it <3; a lil angsty??; lots of tension and pent-up frustration; they just need to fuck it out honestly.

rafe likes to think of himself as a changed man. 

long gone is the reckless impulsive guy that reigned horror in the outer banks. he’s grown now, the man of the family, and a father. he spends his days working hard, providing for his family, and cherishing every moment with his baby girl. 

but when he learns you’ve been seeing other men after your ‘amicable’ breakup, he feels like he’s nineteen and ranging in misplaced anger all over again. younger days, when his temper ruled his actions and consequences were an afterthought.

old insecurities resurface, whispering doubts and fears into his mind.

you’d broken up before, years ago, and it barely lasted a month before both of you caved in. but now? now, you have a baby together, and for some reason, the breakup feels…permanent. 

he thought you just needed a breather from him, a little space to settle your mind after going through all the changes with your pregnancy. maybe he took you for granted, maybe he became too comfortable, too complacent in the belief that your love was unshakeable. and he’s paying for it. 

“where the fuck are you going?”

he knows exactly where you’re going, he’s just a masochist.

rafe’s always been vocal about his thoughts around you, having virtually no filter between his brain and mouth. it’s something you’ve gotten used to after five years in a relationship, the man is nothing if not blunt and crass. but now, it's different.

you’re not a couple anymore. you shouldn't have to put up with his nagging bullshit. but you have a child together, which means that you’ll never be able to fully scratch him out of your system. 

how were you so good before and yet so terrible once your daughter got here? 

you sigh, choosing to keep your back to him. 

“date.”

you hear him snort, not even having to peek to know he’s shaking his head, blue eyes lingering between your new dress and the ceiling, “my bad. thought you were going to a gala.”

you turn then, hand on your waist as you take him in. it’s hard not to stare at his freshly shaved hair and it only makes you want to slap him stupid for not doing it years ago. what’s the point if you can’t have him? 

“why? it’s not illegal to put in effort.” you tilt your head slightly, ignoring the way his eyes are burning holes through your shiny legs.

he pulls his eyes back to your face, but all you can see is the imprinted vision of your daughter laying on his chest earlier, her chubby cheek pressed against his shirt and her little hand curled around his finger. 

rafe’s heart clenches, the bitterness of your words sinking deep into his bones. he knows what you're implying, knows that you're trying to hurt him.

“he’s worth all that, huh?”

you shrug your shoulder, pieces of your hair falling back as you attempt to act nonchalantly, “maybe he is.”

rafe’s lips twitch into a half-smirk, half-grimace, a familiar expression that used to make your heart race but now just knots your stomach.

“who is it this time? it’s just kinda hard to keep track of your dates.”

his gaze lingers on you, searching for something, perhaps a hint of the girl he fell in love with, buried beneath layers of resentment and exhaustion.

you grit your teeth, the frustration growing beneath the surface threatening to spill over, “you don’t know him.”

he shakes his head, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “got yourself a touron?”

“don’t piss me off.”

he raises his hands in mock surrender. “i’m not trying to. just curious.”

“his name is mike.”

rafe's lips quirk into a sardonic smile as he hears the name. "mike, huh? sounds like a guy who sells insurance or teaches yoga on the weekends."

you shoot him a glare, unamused by his jest. "can you just be serious for once?"

catching sight of the offended look in your face, he adds, “it’s not my fault you keep choosing the ugly ones.”

you stare at him incredulously, “you don’t even know him!”

“hear me out, okay? if you’re ever going to give charlotte a sibling might as well—“

you’d throw the mug on your kitchen table at his head if charlotte wasn’t sleeping in the room next door.

“you think you’re so fucking funny don’t you?!” 

rafe hushes you, one of his hands rising to his lips, “what happened to no cursing in the house?”

your eye twitches, fingers itching to wrap themselves around his throat. ���i’ll strangle you right here, rafe.”

“you got a new kink, mama?”

his ability to push your buttons has always been unparalleled, and it seems he's mastered the art even more since your breakup. he still manages to evoke a weird mixture of irritation and fondness within you.

“you can’t keep doing this. i like mike, maybe i want to date mike.”

rafe's expression shifts, his brows furrowing slightly as if your words have struck a chord. but then, just as quickly, his facade hardens again. he raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "i’m just trying to help. you said the exact same thing about whatever his fucking name was two months ago.”

you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “see! you’re trying to patronize me.”

“’m not.”

“right,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, “course you aren’t.”

his taunting smirk is more than a little infuriating. “i just doubt this guy is gonna stick around.”

“oh, so that’s it?” you prod him, laughing in his face, hands curling into tight fists. you get closer, staring him down as you look upwards. “we’re back to lying to each other now?”

rafe’s face is contorted into a grimace; eyebrows furrowed, and you can feel his steady breathing before he speaks.

”i can do this all day.” he scoffs, a bitter edge creeping into his voice, “i think the moment you tell him about charlotte he’s gonna run back to whatever hole he creeped out of. you think he wants to be a daddy?”

“who said he has to? that’s your job. maybe i just want to fuck him, you ever think about that?” the admission feels like a betrayal and a liberation all at once.

it’s a familiar dance you two have been doing since the breakup – hurling accusations and blame at each other like weapons in a war neither of you can win.

rafe’s smirk fades into a scowl as your words hit him like a slap in the face. he takes a step back, one of his hands instinctively rising in a placating gesture, but there's a defiant glint in his eyes that tells you he's not backing down without a fight. 

his jaw tightens, “now you’re just trying to get under my skin.”

you throw your hands up in despair, “it’s always about you, unbelievable.” 

you feel like your heart is being vacuumed into your stomach as he stares.

“me?” his fingers dig into his chest, as if you’ve shot him right there, “you're the one who's constantly bringing up other guys, rubbing it in my face like- like i'm supposed to just sit back and take it."

you let out a slow controlled breath and attempt to loose your body movements. “we’re not doing this again.”

rafe knows he's treading on thin ice, but relents, “oh, m’sorry sweets. forgot you hate to be reminded i care.”

“care?” you laugh but it’s void of any humor, “is this your way of showing me you care? making me miserable? slut-shaming the mother of your daughter?”

“didn’t mean it like that, don’t twist my words.”

you square your shoulders, refusing to let him see the cracks in your armor. "you said what you said, and you can't take it back."

his jaw clenches, and you can almost hear the gears turning in his mind as he searches for the right words to say, “you’re pushing it.”

there’s a fiery anger in your eyes that makes his body warm. “so fucking what?”

without a word, rafe closes the distance between you, his movements tentative yet purposeful. his hand reaches out, fingers gripping your cheeks, his rough touch sending your body into a frenzy. you want to push him away, but the pull between you is too strong to resist. you’ve been yearning for his touch for months, no one knows how to pull your strings like he does.

“you drive me fucking insane, y’know that?”

you merely blink, pretending to be bored, “go fuck yourself.”

and then, in a rush of pent-up desire and frustration, rafe snakes a hand around the back of your head to pull you to meet him in a passionate kiss.

it’s all sorts of desperate as if trying to bridge the problems between you, you're arching into him as his hand trails down your spine. his tongue is brushing across yours in a tentative swipe before you’re meeting him halfway, kissing him urgently. there's a hunger in rafe’s touch, a desperation to reclaim what his lost, and you respond in kind, your hands roaming over his back, tracing the contours of his muscles with a familiarity that sends shivers down his spine.

“you’re not going on a fucking date.” he pants between kisses, the way his lips caress your face keeping you close distracting you momentarily.

“you can’t stop me.” 

his hand slides around your waist, over the curve of your ass, grabbing a handful in the process, “watch me.”

[ddejavvu]

remus x animagus!reader where he doesn’t know it’s her yet, and there’s just always this random cat (or other animal) following him around the castle, and cuddling up to him in the hospital wing after full moons

<333

"You shouldn't be in here."

Remus's stern words hardly deter you, especially because by now he's got the strength to push you off of the bed, but he doesn't. Instead he watches warily, neck craned and rolled into miniscule lines of chub that you'd kiss if you were in your human form, as your paws trace a path up towards his head.

"You're some sort of creature," Remus decides, speaking aloud in the deserted hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey only has one other patient now, but they've been quarantined in a separate room due to the infectious nature of their illness. It means that Remus can speak at will, and you're happy to plant yourself over his chest to feel it vibrate at the sound. You're more accustomed to doing so with your human ears, but it's nicer to hear your boyfriend's voice with cat senses.

"You're too smart to be a regular cat," He lifts a shaky hand up to your head, offering you a chance to inspect him as though you haven't already splayed yourself over his chest, "But the castle doesn't allow many magical pets. Which means you're not supposed to be in here at all. Definitely not in the Hospital Wing."

You offer him a soft, plaintive meow, purring when he strokes his knuckles over the space between your ears.

"Maybe you're an omen," He muses suddenly, eyes narrowing, "No one else ever sees you. Are you warning me of some cruel fate?"

You blink at him, slowly, and he decides, "You're not very threatening for an omen."

Remus has professed the exact same observation about your attempts to be threatening in human form as well. Somehow, the tightening of your brows and the downturn of your lips aren't enough to petrify Remus, though it works rather nicely on errant second-years who find themselves confident enough in the castle to misbehave, but too terrified to face the consequences.

You draw back your shoulders and let your fangs glint in the low lights of the hospital wing, mouth open to hiss warningly at Remus.

Your cruel fate is a good night's sleep, you grouse at him, lamenting the fact that he'll never hear the words, you'd rest more if you weren't always dishing out inexhaustible wit.

"Oh, very scary," He chuckles, poking teasingly at your left pointed fang, "I'm not afraid of you, cat, you couldn't hurt me more than I've already hurt myself."

And it's true.

His limbs, long and lanky, bear the scratch marks of his own claws, gnarled nails that lie in wait under the surface to be beckoned by the moon's silvery siren song. There's a tear on his cheek, skin split and blood carefully wiped clean, where he'd fought with himself, with the will of the universe, and tried clinging to his human skin. He's nursing a rolled ankle from thrashing about during his transformation, and a patch of his hair is still reddened with copper no matter how many times Madame Pomfrey had washed it with a wet washcloth. He's barely a boy anymore, more like a string of injuries hanging together with sutures and dittany.

In hopes that companionship works just as well as Pomfrey's healing remedies, you wriggle closer still to his face, draping yourself over his neck and laying your face against his own. It's an awkward position for him, probably more pressure than he's used to on his windpipe, but you keep your weight off of him as much as possible, and purr like the motor of Sirius's bike against his ear.

He's hesitant to accept it at first, which you knew he would be. He needs to be sought out, he needs someone to hold out their hand for five seconds before he decides to take it or not. You wait, one, two, three, four, five, and he exhales, the air hitting your fur.

"Don't be here when they check on me," He murmurs, hand back at his side as your tail curls around his opposite ear, "Thanks, cat."

[millersfinest]

the thing in your chest that beats | e.w

santa barbara!ellie williams & ex-firefly!reader

wc: 5k

mini-series: california (you’re here) | oregon | idaho | wyoming

blurb: you put up a good fight with those rattlers, but it wasn’t good enough—all it got you was strung up near a beach where the sun scorched you dry. abruptly, their set-up gets fucked by their own prisoners, saving your life by only a thread. but the wrath that lingered under your skin was immense, and you’re not the only one to experience that phenomenon. when another damaged soul encounters your brittle state; the dreams that put you in a tough position manifest into reality. along with a few extra miscellaneous things…

cw: angry!r, mentions of fate, santa barbara arc, infected, shooting, lots of exposition, torture, violence, vulgar language, slow-burn romance, eventual smut, proximity trope, both reader and ellie on a path of redemption.

note: this first part is lowkey boring imo, but i hope the angst makes up for it. as always, please enjoy my hyperfixation!!

California

Ropes chafed at your skin; securing your legs and wrists on top of each other to the wooden post. Fog had shielded the setting sun from your skin—after many hours of being scorched. Your muscles ached and your bones were sore. The exposed skin on your shoulders and chest was dry and flaking, exposing an under layer of tenderness. Everything fucking hurt. But you were barely there; head nodding off from the scratching at your stomach and the dryness in your mouth ripping your lips apart.

How did you, a firefly, militarily trained, end up tied to a pillar at the cusp of a beach in Santa Barbara?

You were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. This group searched for people like you—lonely and pillaged by the weight of the world. You were too distracted to foresee their deception; they got lucky with you.

Until the chemical reactions in your brain short-circuited, causing you to act out in the name of self-preservation.

Wrath, by definition, is a trait you’re easily overcome with. It’s not just something that passes through you like other traits and emotions. It holds on. It makes a home in your body and directs you like a rabid dog—a burdening feeling that nestled between your sore muscles. It filled you with adrenaline to kill and destroy—to get rid of the people who tried to get rid of you.

And, every time, you managed to find yourself feeling bad about it. There was no explanation for that. Just your heart being too sensitive for world you existed in—it was constantly broken. By yourself and your circumstances.

It was your own fault that you were captured by the rattlers. You should’ve never left Catalina Island for a pipe dream. There wasn’t anything better than the firefly base—you should’ve known that and never left. Perhaps, if you had remained under the duty of your earned dog tags, you wouldn’t have been thrusted into the situation that you were in.

Wyoming was a lie that you told yourself because you wanted to live a life that didn’t exist.

Locked in a debate with death, your body abruptly hit the dense surface of the sand. The ropes that bound you to that skewer had been severed by a fallen angel. A prisoner you had attached yourself to in the hopes of survival. Her hair was coily and reflected copper under the Californian sun.

You came to from the impact, finally beginning to hear the ongoing gunfire coming from the resort buildings. As you twitched in pain, she cut the bindings at your wrists and ankles. Tucking a pistol into your hand, she muttered words of hope. “Good luck out there, hotshot.”

Your lips moved to respond, but there wasn’t any sound. It didn’t matter, though, because she wasn’t around to hear it. The young woman at once took off in the opposite direction of the chaos with a bag over her shoulder.

Stuck in a dilemma, you didn’t move for a few moments. Eyes stuck on the weight in your weak hands. It was nothing but a black semi-automatic—it weighed nothing compared to bigger firearms. However, it sunk your hand into the sand as if it weighed a ton. You couldn’t even hold a gun with the same conviction that you used to. Yet, the fallen angel had faith that you could.

Taking in a deep wheezing breath, you tried to stand to your feet. You got up enough for your knees to bend, but once you extended them, you crashed back into the sand with a thud. In temporary defeat, you looked to the people still suspended on the pillars. They were unmoving, rotting away from the inside out. That could’ve been you if it weren’t for her cutting you down.

In mourning them, you gave standing another attempt. Keeping your hands low to catch your fall. But you didn’t fall. The muscles in your legs were weak, trembling as you stretched them. With a hunch in your back, you grabbed the gun, adjusting it in your hands. Your professional form remained the same as remnants of your training. Placing your hands over one another on the handle, supporting its weight. Aiming the barrel toward nothing specific, just to get the feeling again. It’s been months since you had opportunity to defend yourself.

With as much quickness that you could muster, you went through the resort to grab supplies. A backpack, medkit, and some food.

Setting your mind on leaving, you tried to sneak through the gunfire between the prisoners and the rattlers. But that simply wasn’t in the cards for you.

Before you could escape the resort, one of them had a bone to pick with you. It was the same rattler that was your deceptive captor. She used her femininity to convince you that she needed help—that she was weak and she needed your help. If anything, you have a bone to pick with her.

She had come at you with her bear hands, pushing your face up against a wall. She tore the backpack from your back, throwing it to the side. Where did her wrath come from? Somehow, you managed to get the upper hand. Straddling her body delivering punches that you haven’t in awhile. It felt natural to you to release such violence against another person.

Through beating her bloody, you found your power again. Tearing off the shimmering dog tags around her neck that had previously belonged to you. Heaving, you looked down at her. She had split your lip and broken your nose, but you could argue that you did worse to her. Her nose was cracked in multiple places, as she coughed up her own blood and teeth. It slipped down the crevices of her face, dribbling into her brown eyes.

“Fuck you.” You firmly speak, picking up your bag from its straps, swinging it around your shoulders.

From the fight, you had stumbled into a room of firearms. Still weak, you limped around. Causing you to walk away from the damage with a Beretta A300 shotgun and ammunition.

Like it was a prize after a big challenge.

You found yourself stumbling along the sand of the beach you were stuck on. This time, closer to the foggy waters of the coast. Ignoring the throbbing sensation in your thigh. You were barely sentient, running on nothing but fumes. But you knew you had to get as far from Santa Barbara as you could.

All of sudden, darkness began encapsulating your eyes from the outside in. Your limbs grew heavier, slowing down the pace of your movements—you collapsed into the sand like the damsel you had become.

When your eyes fluttered open, you were laying on an itchy couch. Waking up felt like awaking from a coma. Sitting up was a chore because of the tightness of your muscles. You felt it like a sickness in your chest. Trying to move your legs, you sucked in a pained breath. A hole that was cut into your ripped jeans was covered by white wrapping. Gauze.

A single lantern in the middle of the living room illuminated the space. It was placed on a dusty coffee table—off-center. Your backpack and weapons leaned against an entertainment center; a large cabinet that combined the use of compartments as well as a space for the tv to fit.

Blinking slowly, you tried to remember how you got there. Fingers gripping at the cushions, experiencing a crazy amount of brain fog. A wrapper crackled under the weight of your hand as you shifted. It was a granola bar tucked under the pillow that you laid your head on.

You stomach scratched at your abdomen, so you wasted no time in retrieving it—ripping open the wrapper and biting into the nutty granola. The side of your foot kicked over a metal canister, accidentally. Clashing toward the scratched wooden floors, it startled you. Reaching down, you shook it in your hands. There was a liquid inside. Screwing the lid off, you realized it was only water. Something else your body demanded of you.

Who put all this stuff here? It couldn’t have been you.

A creak from the side of the room, caused you to snap your head in that direction. Chewing slowly on the oats in your mouth, your eyebrows scrunched. Your free hand felt your hip from the cool metal of that gifted pistol, but there was nothing but the fabric of your jeans.

By the time she came into your view, your body froze. Your gun was across the room, she had the advantage. She loomed in the darker parts of the room as if she were hiding from you—in a way that was prey-ish, rather than predatory.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up…”

Her voice was raspy, and she spoke with a slow cadence. When she came into the light, she kept her distance. By the corner of the entertainment center cabinet—on the opposite end of where your bag was laying. Her auburn strands were choppy and tucked behind her ears. She wore a white t-shirt that was filthy with, what looked like, blood and dirt. Hands fidgeting with each other in front of her body as she eyed you with concern. She was missing her pinky and ring finger from her left hand. “You’d been out for hours… I, uhm, stitched up a wound on your leg— thought you might’ve caught an infection.”

She lacked conviction when she spoke to you. Voice leaving with a sort of emptiness, or perhaps, guilt. “Where’d you find me?” You asked, gritting your jaw. Holding onto the metal canister tight enough to use as a weapon if need be. That last thing you wanted was to be fooled by a stranger again.

She cleared her throat. “The beach.”

That’s when it hit you. The memories of your weakness hit. You remember dragging your legs through the sand, catching the glimpse of a body sitting in the water beside a vacant boat, then falling into a deep sleep. Of course, you, somehow, offered yourself up to a stranger.

It was just your luck, huh?

“There were others you could’ve helped… Why me?”

A scoff fell from her lips. Scarred eyebrows jutting together; an attitude washing over her freckled features. As if your words were charged with something else besides cautious curiosity. “I was expecting more of a thank you...”

You blinked, sucked your teeth. “I don’t know you from a can of fucking paint— so, you should lower your expectations.” You retorted, boring your eyes into her slender figure. What alarmed her was how your voice scolded gently. It cut deeper that way. “I mean, what is that on your shirt? Blood? Would you wanna thank some stranger in a bloody shirt?”

She crossed her arms, shaking her head. “Have you seen yourself?” Her thick eyebrow raised, voice dropping an octave. “You look like shit—“

You glanced at the shirt that clung to you perspiring body. It also had remnants of blood and dirt and sand. Leaning your elbows on your thighs, you leaned forward. “Fuck you! You have no idea what I’ve been through—!”

“And you know what I’ve been through?” She countered, scoffing after her words.

You talked over each other—barking like unfamiliar dogs. Wrath came easy to you; and, apparently, it came easy to her, too. Her words silenced you, but you grit your teeth. “I should’ve left you where I found you— fuckin’ joke’s on me.” She ran a hand through her short hair, taking long strides out of the living room. Preparing to sink back into the corner she came from.

Clearing your throat, you swallowed your pride. There was a sincerity behind her eyes that you couldn’t ignore. Her anger radiated off her epidermis is such a way that it was familiar. “All right,” You sighed, positioning your body slowly to face her departing figure. She’d stopped in her path, peering over her boney shoulder. “I don’t recognize you from the cells… Or the pillars. Who the fuck are you?” Your eyebrows furrowed, voice weakening by the mention of your greatest failure: becoming a slave to the weirdest assholes known to man.

Wheels shifted in her mind, her olive eyes flickering around in the dark, in thought. Lips opening and closing, trying to formulate her words—but there was no use. She decided to resume her steps, sequestering herself in a bedroom. You heard the sound of the door shutting and locking the door behind her.

Groaning, you shut your eyes, leaning your head against the soft, itchy pillows, frustrated.

Unbeknownst to you, she’d locked herself in that room because she found herself overcome with emotion—hot, streaming tears. She didn’t know you as much as you didn’t know her, and she wasn’t going to share her own greatest failures with you. If what you were saying was true, you were victimized. How could someone like her talk to someone like you? After the things she’s done… After the things she was prepared to do.

The sun ascended, with the two of you lingering in separate rooms. You had eventually fallen asleep after some hours in your thoughts. Wondering about the story of the woman sheltering herself from you. Multiple times, you had to stop yourself from dwelling. This is what got you caught up with the first time. Instead, you began to think about what your plans were.

Were you going to resume your journey to Wyoming, in the hopes of finding that settlement? Or were you going to hitch it back to Catalina Island? And hope to God that they take you back with minimal consequences. Dwelling on those thoughts, instead of her, is what brought you to sleep.

When you woke up, you finished the metal canister of water. Giving the room a proper once-over. Sun rays cascaded through the dusty windows like beams, illuminating the room, angelically. Taking a deep breath, you decided to walk around. The soreness in your body hadn’t changed—you still felt burdened by your own body.

The home was a single-leveled Tuscan inspired home. Its interior was riddled with browns and beiges. Dragging your feet against the wooden floor, you entered the kitchen. All the cabinets were blown open and searched through. You assumed it was that woman who you’d met—still, you didn’t know her name.

Looking down at the counters, there was a yellow-paged note on the furthest one from you. The island closest to her bedroom. It was lying under a pill bottle. You shifted as quickly as you could to the note, sliding the pill bottle to the side, but not without a glance. They were antibiotics.

Found the antibiotics in the cabinets this morning, there’s only two left. Take them both.

I left to go hunt for some food. Stay in the house if you know what’s best for yourself. There’s infected around.

I’ll be back soon.

— E

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “If I know what’s best for myself…” Pressing into the top of the bottle, you unscrewed it. With nothing but your saliva, you knocked back two of the pills just like she told you. However, not because she told you to. There were many reasons for you to catch an infection from the wound on your leg—the wound you didn’t even remember how you got.

“I can handle infected.” You muttered to yourself. It’s been awhile since you really dealt with them face-to-face, but it was an innate ability. Why wouldn’t you be able to defend yourself from infected? Your only limits were your body stuck in its state of pain.

But, where you come from, sometimes it took movement to heal pain. Pushing through soreness and tightness was the only way to move forward.

So, instead of waiting around for E to come back around. You decided to explore some of the nearby houses. Ones that were only a few paces away from the house that you were currently in—you weren’t that stupid.

You secured your backpack around your shoulders, hooking the strap of your shotgun around your arm, and sticking the pistol in the back of your jeans. The first stop was next door. Slowly, you had climbed through a broken window. Landing in a bedroom decorated with childish posters. Focusing, you found yourself busy with looting the home. Taking things of importance and putting them inside of your bag.

You didn’t run into anything shocking until the third place you visited—three houses down. Thankfully, there was no clicking, but there were the familiar wailings of a runner. Catching a glimpse of coily copper hair, huddled over sobbing in her hands, you crouched behind a wall. Eyes shifting from side to side, trying to digest the visual.

Good luck, hotshot.

Perhaps, it was her who really needed the luck. Slowly, you removed the gun from your shoulder, leaning it against the wall. The breaths from your lips fled in chunks, pulling the gifted pistol from your waistband. You had known her for the entirety of your stay at that treacherous resort—she was your anchor. She helped you with your anger, keeping you under an emotional routine. Later, it worked for the worst instead of the better, but she tried to help you in there. She was patient with you.

You stepped from the wall, aiming the chamber of the pistol at the back of her head. You didn’t know her for that long, but you knew she wouldn’t want something like this for herself. She had plans just like you did—she wanted out of California. Leaving her to stumble around this broken home would be fucked up.

She freed you. Now, it was time for you to free her.

“You deserved better than this, Honey.” She was sweet and tangy like honey; that’s why you called her that. It wasn’t even her name—you didn’t know her name.

Your index finger squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet straight through her unsuspecting mind. Her whines were more coherent, meaning that all of that just happened. The infection had just taken over. A tear had slipped down the fat of your cheek when her body hit the ground. The shot echoing against the walls and through the neighborhood.

She lasted no longer than a day on her own, and those rattlers were nothing but the blame. They drained you enough to make you suffer but keep you working. But, out on the road, you stood no chance.

There was a piece of notebook paper on the floor by the baseboards of the wall Honey’s body laid beside. With a lump in your throat, you plucked it from the ground, holding it delicately in your hands.

After months of captivity, I’ve found myself in a situation that I could have never imagined. I didn’t notice when the clicker bit me, everything happened so fast!

It hurts now, though, a lot. And the anticipation of the infection is worser than I expected it to be. This is the part where I put a gun in mouth to end it all.

I’m too tired to do that. For once, I don’t wanna fight.

I apologize to those who end up witnessing what I have become.

The palm of your hand covered your mouth in shock as you read the letter. Honey must’ve been horrified. And it hurt to know that she went through it all alone.

Catching you in a grieving state, E had vaulted through a broken window with her gun in hand. Her olive eyes landed on you, subsiding the subtle look of shock on her face. “I thought I told you to stay in the house.” She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, sighing. “You’re in no condition to travel alone…” Her eyes casted onto your frame leaning over a marble counter, reading over the letter silently.

Hearing her footsteps, you folded up the letter and slid it into your back pocket. Taking a final look at the dead woman on the floor, a reflection of your friend that didn’t exist anymore, you brush past the the auburn-haired woman. Shoulders grazing as you achingly climb out of the same window she came in from.

Without saying, what happened to Honey worried you. Loneliness was a cruelty that many could afford—you experienced it. But loneliness along with bodily ailments wasn’t a problem you wanted. If it weren’t for E, you could’ve been in the same position as Honey. What made you worth saving and not her? A ball of fury, like yourself, should’ve been the first to go.

Yet, a level of gratefulness washed over you. Were you ready to thank the freckled stranger for her saviorship?

E followed you back to the house, binding the front door with furniture. Entering, you noticed two rabbits attached to a string laying on the tiled counter. Impressed, you hummed, while dragging your feet toward the couch you had slept on. You shrugged off your backpack and leaned your shotgun against the wall.

The auburn-haired woman peered at you, messing with rabbits, pulling them off the string to prepare to cook them. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She breathed. Her voice coming out like a muttered sigh, but it was loudly quiet in the house. Therefore, your ears picked up on her words.

You ignored her, pulling out the note, and kicking your feet up onto the couch to read it again. Analyzing the messy handwriting on the page, tainted with dried tears and dirty hand prints. E had brought in a metal trashcan to cook the animals she hunted for the both of you. Every so often, peaking at you with interest and wonder.

When the rabbits were cooked, she brought it over to you in a chipped ceramic bowl. “Thanks…” You mutter, barely meeting her eyes.

“Yeah,” She answered, slightly taken off guard.

The two of you eat separately, on different sides of the room. E didn’t retreat back into the room had the night before. Instead, she propped herself on the stool by the island table. Where she could keep her intense olive eyes on you—attempting to read you without asking questions.

You were impressed by the rabbit presented to you. Back at the base, you were familiar with chicken more so than rabbit, though. There was a hesitation when taking the first bite. But the rumble in your belly was satisfied by the animal, and that was all that mattered.

Feeling a strong gaze on you, peering to the side was a natural reaction. She’d snap her eyes back to her plate before you could fully catch her. Sighing, you set the plate on the coffee table in front of the couch.

In your looting, a bottle of wine called out to you from the basement of one of the Tuscan homes. You limped toward the kitchen with your calloused hand wrapped around the sloped neck of the bottle. Placing the bottle at the middle of the island, you take a seat at the furthest end from her. “I thought I would properly thank you for saving my ass…” You cleared your throat, awkwardly. Choosing to keep your eyes trained on your fidgeting fingers. “It’s Cabernet, I think. The label’s kind of rubbed off.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

You pursed your lips, flickering your eyes to peer at her. “Hm.” You hum. “Okay, well, more for me, I guess.” You shrug, reaching for the wine. The plan was to drink it either way—if she wanted it, or if she didn’t. Peeling off the wrapper, you were happy to see that it was a screw top instead of an imbedded cork.

Taking the first sip, its sweetness spread over your tongue. The alcohol percentage was fairly high, so you were expecting a pleasurable feeling within the next few minutes. If you kept gulping at the bottle. You deserved a bit of man-made solace after what you’ve been through. After the things you’ve seen. Taking another sip, you prepare to go back to the couch you were sat on, with the bottle in your hand.

However, E places a hand on the cool tiles. “Wait…” She rolled her eyes. “One sip wouldn’t hurt.” In her silence, she realized that she also deserved a few moments of calmness—self-care.

The corners of your lips curled, sitting back down on your stool. You slid the bottle close enough for her to reach it, leaning your head against your fist.

Orange rays of the sun shifted through the room; setting so the moon could take her place. You and E had found comfort in the wine and in the space between yourselves. Scooting close to each other until there was only a single stool in the center of you. Talking about the more joyous parts of your lives—which, surprisingly, wasn’t much. The pair of you managed to keep the important information off the record. Upholding a level of vagueness between your truth.

When E had brought up her son and girlfriend, that’s when the energy shifted in the room.

“You have a family? Then… Why are you out here?”

A beat slivered between you, circling your bodies like a ribbon.

“I recognize those dog tags… You’re a firefly? I thought they shut down years ago.” She spoke with rigid shoulders, taking a swig of the Cabernet.

Your hand reached for the thin metal around your neck, decorating your exposed collarbones. There was a disconnect between you and the facility you had grown up in. While you loved the support of the community, as you got older, you wanted something different. “Yeah, after everything shut down, another popped up here—in California. It’s the only one left, I believe.”

She chuckled, cheeks flushed from the alcohol accumulating in her system. “Hm. Are you gonna try and recruit me into your little cult? Is that why you’re still out here?”

Deepening your eyebrows, you peered down at the grout between the tiles under your hands. “Probably… If I still was a firefly…” Slowly, you enunciated. “I haven’t been one for months now.”

“Ah, you went rogue.”

“I wouldn’t say that… But, yeah, I guess.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for the wine bottle. She put it in your hand, leaning her elbow against the counter. E left room for you speak, just boring her hazed eyes into your frame. “I was done with being an asshole for a living— I don’t want to just survive anymore… I want to live.” You take a large swig of the wine, lamenting subtly.

Look where desiring life got you. Locked up as a slave for another bunch of assholes. “I heard from some people that there was a place in Wyoming that wasn’t anything like the fireflies.” You inhaled, sharply. “I could live a normal life there— maybe it’s a stupid idea… I don’t know.”

E deepened her thick eyebrows, leaning forward. “Are you talking about Jackson?”

“Yeah, I think so. There was a map in my bag that had the name. I lost it when the rattlers got ahold of me.”

With scrunched face, she stood to her feet. Running her hands over her face, releasing a tired sigh. “It’s not that stupid of an idea…” Looking back at you, she placed her hands on her hips. “That’s where I’m headed— Jackson, Wyoming.”

“Oh…”

Was this the fated reasoning behind why the both of you met? Both harboring an inner pain and guilt for something or someone. Two damaged souls meeting in the middle—this could be a productive exchange. But what would E receive?

She swore under her breath, running her fingers through her hair, stressfully. “You could come with me, it’s not like you’d get far in your condition alone.” She blinked, casually. You scoff at her words, sucking your teeth. She could never just be kind. Sure, it was obvious that you were injured—in horrible shape—but you weren’t inherently weak. You were a trained individual, something that most people couldn’t say.

“I’d feel like an asshole if I didn’t at least offer. It’s a long journey—“

“Oh, you still come off like an asshole, but I appreciate the offer.” You nod, jumping from the stool. “Those fucks threw me off track— I wouldn’t even know where to start up again… So, yeah, I’ll go with you.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“You don’t make me regret this. I have a bad history when it comes to trusting strangers.” You pressed your lips into a line, leaning against the island for support. There was a slight sway to stance, as the world around you didn’t feel stable.

“Okay, well, you have my word.” She affirmed, sliding her hands into her back pockets. “Do I have yours?”

You inhaled, sharply, glancing at the ceiling. “Yes, you have my word… On the condition that you tell me your name.” She narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her lips curling. “We can’t possibly travel together if we don’t know each other’s names.”

The auburn-haired woman picked up the backpack she threw against the lower cabinets, slinging it over her shoulder. She was preparing to huddle into that bedroom again. Before leaving you in the dim hue of the few lanterns in the room, she spoke. “Ellie. My name’s Ellie.”

She waited by her door for your answer, with a raised eyebrow. You gave her your name, plainly. Straightening the hunch in your back—feigning a level of stoicism.

The only response she gave was a hum, before locking herself away. Releasing a sigh of relief, you smiled. Wyoming wasn’t the pipe dream you thought it to be. Yeah, the experiences you had leading up to that conversation weren’t the best. In fact, those experiences scarred everything about you. But could this have been the reason behind your hellish encounters?

[jweekgoji]

can u write some more yandere d-16 pls 😭🙏

D-16/Reader.

tw: yandere themes, power dynamic, size difference/size kink, soft yandere!d-16, cogless!d-16, cogged!reader, idol/fan relationship, jealousy/possessiveness, 18+ content. word count: ~720. a/n: FUCK russia for that huge fucking explosion in my city when I was writing alien-robots sex.

Normal D-16 is a total head over heels for his idol. Yandere D-16 lacks any sense of dignity when it comes to even the slightest chance of meeting you.

You can tell he's inexperienced, by the way you briefly trace the tips of your fingers over the side of his waist, the smaller bot on top of you shivering in pleasure, biting his lip.

His bright orange optics focused on the slightest of your action as you guided your servo higher, to his chassis. Was it really happening? Or is he dreaming? Maybe it was all Orion's fault, and he just hit his head hard enough during this race, so now he's imagining things...

“gonna overload now?” you purr softly, tracing your index finger over the edge of the hole on his chassis, just where his t-cog supposed to be.

“i—i am not,” he tries to protest, which sounds so weak that he's not even sure if he even believes himself.

he can't just...overload from a bit of foreplay, can he? it would be too embarrassing, you're his hero, his idol— he doesn't want to look pathetic in front of you, now that he's got such a chance, it would be foolish to lose it all now.

you push another finger deeper, teasing the cold edges of his hole, he can't help but thrust forward, his optics fluttering closed. you hear a soft ‘mmph—’, before he hides his face against the crook of your neck.

how cruel of you to tease the hell out of the no-cog? being with your own cog all your life, you had no idea that these areas could be...quiet sensitive for the cogless. you wonder if you can make him overload just from that.

you can feel his servos awkwardly moving towards your waist, tightening slightly. are you fine with it? with his servos right here? or should he put them somewhere else? his processor running with millions of thoughts, but when you gently guide him to continue moving his hips, he groans.

“i don't want to...not now, please,” he mutters softly against your neck, his breath heavy, as he struggles to control himself and not just melt right next to you.

you tilt your head, raising an optic bridge at that. you can only think about how he feels right now, his spike buried deep inside you, and your soft, warm walls around him just feel too good, too perfect for someone who spent cycles fragging his own servo in dreams of this moment before.

for you, it was barely something. he's short, only reaching your waist, at best. you can easily cover the whole length of his spike with your servo if you want, but there was some kind of sick pleasure in it, watching him squirm in his place, keeping his hips still so he wouldn't just overload in you here and there.

D-16 is so sensitive, it is almost amusing how he is considered one of the strongest and toughest among the other miners. you think, is it because of lack of intimacy? or was it just you, driving him to nearly short circuit? it's so unfair, but can he really hate it now, when it's exactly what he dreams of every single day?

he wants it to be perfect, so he could make you feel good, so you would beg him to take you, moaning his name just so everyone would finally understand that you're his. he's so sick and tired of being jealous, watching you smile and pose next to your fans, giving them your attention and affection when it was him who was supposed to have all of that? you're his, his, his, he's going to try so hard to claim you now, so maybe then everyone would just—

but when you press your digits harder, lightly scratching the metal surface of the empty t-cog slot in his chassis, he tenses up, arching his back in pleasure. the muffled, shaky moan escapes his lips, as he hides his face further against your neck, now trying to catch his own breath.

wait. did he just overload inside you?