#this was also not supposed to be this long

[writingbluerose]

one more draconic feature | malleus draconia x reader

summary : you've invited Malleus to hang around by your dorm to enjoy each other's companies. Who would've known it ended with you exploring something else instead

warnings : SUGGESTIVE!! like some kissing shit but it's on another level lol ( as well as I can write it lol, I... can't write these stuff too well, but practice makes perfect ^^ )

a / n : this one is based on another comic I saw and also it could be read as another version to this drabble I made some time ago! Enjoy :3

The sun was already up and proud in the sky, giving the birds a chance to sing merrily from their place on top of the branches outside. It was around the end of February, the events at VDC were still a bit fresh but you had resumed your everyday life as always.

Today though, it was a particularly nice and peaceful day. In the now quiet Ramshackle dorm lounge ( after Grim has decided to go into your room to take a "very well deserved nap" ) a figure was sitting relaxed, in their element, on one of the old couches. And that figure was none other than Malleus Draconia. He had been invited by you to spend time together as the VDC had taken most of your time, becoming busier and busier by the day. And come on now, who was he to deny such a request from his beloved? Besides, he's told you many times, the books you've found sitting all dusty and forgotten in this dorm were some of the best pieces of literature he's ever read in his stay at this school, so for him it was a double win.

After some time of waiting, Malleus' ears picked up the faintest sound of footsteps coming in his direction, and then- “Hey there Hornton!” At the sound of your voice, Malleus chuckled and closed his book with a thud “Even now still calling me by the same endearing nickname. You're one of a kind my dear” You gave him a huffed laugh before coming to rest next to him “I didn't interrupt your reading again did I?” Your eyes met his in a quick exchange before he slowly shook his head in reassurance, “No of course not, don't worry about it. I must admit that even I sometimes am not aware of my surroundings, especially when I'm doing something I really am engrossed in” His hand rested on your head before giving you a pat and returning to his book once again. Both of you sat there in silence and after what seemed like an eternity Malleus had noticed you started fidgeting with your fingers, your leg slowly bouncing. A habit of yours he had picked up in the early days you've met, indicating that you were either nervous about something or itching to do something you were not supposed to. The fae's eyes followed your movements a little more before asking : “What is it you're itching to do hm? Are you looking to touch my horns again?” If you could look past the book, you'd be able to see his big smirk hidden behind the hard cover. “No! No! It's not that it's just...mmh — your eyes trailed to the floor, your leg not stopping its bouncing — I was just thinking about your horns. You told me long ago that your horns are a big part of who you are, it kinda represents your family right?” “Indeed so. Our horns are also a very sensible spot, it is the source of our magic, a vital point. Should they break... — his eyes narrowed — well you wouldn't want to know what would happen would you now?” You shook your head at his words before staring at him for a little while “You have other features right? As in, other features akin to a dragon's... I mean you have the eyes, the tail, I wonder if your tongue also looks like one...— ah but nevermind me!” Your mumbling abruptly came to an end after taking a look at Malleus and his shocked expression. What went through that little adorable head of yours hm? Malleus thought. “Well anyway! You know that does remind me of that one story I listened to one of Professor's Trein class...” Quickly loosing yourself in your explanations you failed to notice how Malleus was still looking at you with now a more mischievous expression, his smirk growing into a grin behind his book.

Closing it, not too hard so you wouldn't get startled, his arm slowly started to move towards your chin to grab it, which you failed to notice, still speaking, face red as beet. “Are you truly that curious?” His fingers grabbed your chin ( a bit too hard you would've liked to say ) and forcefully turned your face to his for you to be met with a sight that many people would consider the moment they're about to go to the after life ;

You heard a low growl and an almost mute hissss... as Malleus' mouth opened, revealing his white, long and sharp fangs as his tongue slithered out, long, forked at the tip and flickering through the air, his drool sticking to it and coming down his chin, eyes gleaming down at you like a snake who just caught a delicious prey. You gulped down before leaving a tiny shriek, your form trembling in his hold.

He closed his mouth, tongue licking his lips as his hand came to clean off the drool on his chin. The prince smiled down at you, “Well, did I satisfy your curiosity now, my love?” The tone in his voice left you knowing that he wanted to do much more, but after all, a predator usually waits for its prey's most vulnerable moment. “I-I uhh...uhmmm” He let out a loud snort “So? Is this enough to intimidate you? I'd be hard to believe after all these overblots you've faced” That damn teasing bastard. You signed, stopped, and inhaled again before saying : “Y-you looked... pretty... neat” Voice cracking, not being able to get his expression out of your mind, refusing to look your boyfriend in the eye.

One, two minutes passed before Malleus let out a thunderous laugh, amused and enjoying your reactions to the fullest. “My and here I thought I had frightened you! I must admit, teasing you has become one of my favorite activities to do!” You let out a loud 'HAH!' as if offended, though you both knew there was no venom behind the gesture“You didn't think I was done, do you?” “Wh-h-hey! Malleus!!” The fae prince's hands came to grab your waist pulling you into his lap, his eyes and movements giving an open space to a, new, primal feeling. His fingers found your shirt, unbuttoning it so he'd be given a clear view to your shoulders ; A moment passed before you felt his tongue slowly licking from the shoulder and stopping right under your chin. And he bit down, hard, making you let out a high pitched moan in pleasure. His mouth didn't leave your shoulder yet, and when he felt the first drop of blood coming out, his pupils dilated as he started sucking and licking until he left a deep mark “I haven't even done half the things I wish to do” So he said

His lips quickly found yours, kissing rough and passionate, forked tongue licking your lips asking for entrance. You hadn't dared to tease him or refuse his request, you know better than to do so at this moment. So when you parted his lips welcoming him in your warmth, Malleus let out a groan making you moan into the kiss in return. Grabbing him by his shoulders to steady yourself, his forked tongue hadn't missed a spot. It was so long and fuck did it feel so good it hasn't even been a full minute until you felt drool dropping down at the corners of your mouth.

Without realizing it, your hands went upper and upper until they found the base of his horns. You grabbed at it so hard that Malleus down right growled. So deep it could've come down as a threat for others, but when his hands grabbed your wrists keeping them in place for a split second, before going down to grip your waist, you understood his message : 'Don't you dare take your hands off' so you didn't. In fact, you gripped harder, fingers rising once again on the form of his horns, that's when Malleus parted his lips and moaned, husky and low.

His fingers went lower and lower on your tights, he didn't continue to kiss you right away, instead he came closer, panting in each other's mouths, needy and desperate for more. “Mal... we can't, we can't do this...” Your hands came down to hold his face and the fae closed his eyes at the contact, “Beloved, you cannot lie and tell me you don't wish for this as much as I do. Or do you truly not?” Avoiding his gaze, you inhaled a sharp breath. Of course you wanted to. “I- I do Malleus, fuck, of course I do” “Then please allow me” He lifted you up and positioned you on your back on the couch undoing the buttons of your shirt just a bit more, so he could get a peak at your chest.

Oh goodness, you were in it for now that's for sure

He kissed you on your lips, then traveled down to your neck, kissing slowly and softly down to your chest, fingers gripping and pressing at your skin leaving more tiny love bites in his wake, his ears picking up the faintest of whimpers and tiny moans. Smirking, he continued to press kisses down to your chest, moaning at the same time with you when your hands came to rest on his horns again. His eyes found yours, pupils dilated and face flushed, and for the first time you had spotted a new glint to them. One that only presented a raw feeling of lust and need. When he spoke, his voice sounded more exciting then he intended to let on : “I hope you're ready my love, for I won't hold back in the slightest”

© writingbluerose 2025

[theminecraftbee]

Joel squints as he comes down the mountain. Doc is yelling something about drop shipping. Joe Hills flies by, yelling about how Cub had clearly chosen a font to get into his head as some kind of reverse psychology. He makes the mistake of looking down at his phone to check chat, and what seems to be the world's worst insult war between Ren and Skizz is happening. Somewhere, somehow, he is certain there is a fish, and for some reason, this is very concerning.

He looks over Hermitcraft, and he goes—

"Is war always this stupid?"

Mumbo looks up from his own build. "Oh, um, yes. Absolutely. Generally."

Joel squints a little longer before shrugging.

"I feel vindicated staying right over here, then."

Mumbo nods. "Oh, that's what I'm saying, but, er, I would be surprised if Grian—you know Grian—he probably wants me to do something like... spy? Or build a vault? Or double-cross the vault? Something with permits? I think they're the bad guys, but I like being the bad guy sometimes. I am being a very bad guy this season, by which I mean good, and achieving immortality. Do you think I can make a computer blink?"

Joel sighs. "I forgot you were also stupid."

"Rude," Mumbo says. "For that, maybe I will report you to the PoePoe."

"Oh noooooo," Joel says dryly. "Maybe they'll get me with the fish."

There's a long pause.

"Actually, the fish is kind of frightening? Why am I scared of the fish."

Mumbo pats Joel on the shoulder and goes back to building. Joel tries one last time to make sense of things while False puts up another propaganda poster. No one has asked her to; she is just doing this.

He decides this is all nonsense. He'll get involved later, when his brain is ready to handle the world being nonsense. Maybe he'll get to kill some horses. That seems like it'll infuriate the judge, right, and they're supposed to be fighting for or against the man, he thinks, if they're meant to be fighting for anything at all, which is unclear.

"The life series follows better logic than this," he says, even though he's not really supposed to remember that probably, and goes back to detailing.

[firewasabeast]

Having Your Baby

There's no mpreg in here, just pregnancy jokes between buck and tommy.

“Mm,” Buck hummed, sleepy and sated as he draped his leg over Tommy’s. He gave him a little bite on the shoulder. “You can never leave now.”

Tommy looked over at him, curious expression on his face. “What are you talking about?” They’d gotten back together a few weeks ago. Everything had been going great. They had discussed all their issues and become an even stronger couple than before. Tommy had no intention of leaving.

Buck sighed softly, eyes already closing. “I’m pretty sure you just got me pregnant.”

That was the night Tommy nearly rolled right out of bed with the force of his laughter. It was also the night their inside joke began.

*****

It could happen at any moment, for any reason.

Nothing was off limits.

“I think I should get the last bite,” Tommy said, staring down at the remaining spoonful of chocolate cake.

“You got the last bite last time,” Buck argued, batting Tommy’s spoon away. He scooped up the bite, but wasn’t able to get it into his mouth before Tommy spoke.

“I’m with child, Evan,” Tommy replied, leaning back and placing a hand over his stomach. “Your child. Do you want the baby to starve?”

Buck glared. “I cannot believe you’d use our child to get your way.”

Tommy shrugged, reaching out for the spoon. “Cake, please.”

“Fine.” Buck reached out, but ignored Tommy’s hand, opting to feed him instead. “I’m getting an extra slice to go though.”

Tommy nodded, swallowing down the cake. “Baby says get two.”

*****

It was late, and they’d been at Bobby and Athena’s place for hours. The party was starting to wind down, but Tommy and Howie had been in the middle of a very long and, in Buck’s opinion, boring conversation about movies.

Buck had tried to pull him away twice now, and tell him it was time to go home, but both times Tommy had said it’d be just a couple more minutes.

That was half an hour ago.

So Buck found a spot on Tommy’s lap, resting his head on his shoulder. Tommy didn’t miss a beat, wrapping one arm around Buck’s back and the other just above his knee, continuing the conversation.

A couple minutes later, Jee came up asking her dad to help her with a spilled drink, so Chim excused himself with a promise that the conversation would continue when he was done.

“Tommy?” Buck started the second Chimney left.

“Yeah, Hon?”

He took the hand that was on his leg and moved it to his stomach. “Baby’s tired, and so am I.”

Tommy pressed a kiss against his temple. “Howie and I have been talking a long time, haven’t we?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay,” Tommy replied, rubbing his hand back and forth over Buck’s stomach. “Let’s get the babies home.”

*****

“I cannot believe we’re arguing about this right now!”

“You’re the one who started it, Evan.”

“Because I told you three times to take the meat out of the freezer last night. Three times, Tommy!”

“And I told you I was sorry that I forgot,” Tommy replied, his voice too calm and cool for the situation. It made Buck want to scream.

“I’m supposed to be making a roast duck with carrots and potatoes tonight. Maddie and Chim are coming over! How am I supposed to make roast duck when it’s frozen solid?!”

“The microwave has a defrost setting.”

Buck was sure his face turned beet red. “I’m gonna pretend you did not just say that to me.”

Tommy sighed, walking around the counter to get closer to Buck. “I’m really sorry, Evan,” he said, slowly reaching out and tugging at Buck’s arm. “I’ll run to the store and get another duck. Okay?”

“It needs to be exactly 2.8 pounds.”

“I will do my best.” He took Buck’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “I’m really sorry for forgetting, okay? It’s pregnancy brain.”

Buck pursed his lips at that, fighting against a smile. He waited a few seconds before responding. “Taking vitamins should help with that.”

“I’ll look into it while I’m at the store.” He squeezed Buck’s hand again, until Buck finally looked over at him. “We okay?”

Buck rolled his eyes, but nodded. “We’re okay. Can’t stay mad at you when you’re having my kid.”

*****

“Tommy, I- I need you to wake up.” Buck fought against the tears filling his eyes. He cleared his throat, sucking in a breath. “I- We’re here, okay? We’re all here waiting on you t- to wake up. I- Everyone is out in the waiting room b- because I wanted a minute.”

Buck scooted his chair closer to the hospital bed, staring down at their interlocked hands. “I love you, Tommy. We all love you so much. I- I know you know that already. I know you don’t want to be in here.”

Tommy’s chest rose and fell evenly with the help of the ventilator.

“They said th- the other driver was drunk. They weren’t hurt though, of course. But… But, Tommy, you’ve been through worse. You survived a helicopter crash. So you’ve got this. I know you do.”

He leaned down and kissed over Tommy’s knuckles, bruised and scabbed over, dried blood still present. Buck had worked so hard trying to get it all off.

“The others will be coming in soon, but if, um, if you can hear me, I… the baby needs you too.” Part of Buck felt stupid. Bringing up a joke like this right now would get him some looks from his family, for sure. But he didn’t care. It was just the two of them, and if it helped bring Tommy back, he’d make the joke every hour on the hour. “Size of a peach, ya know? All this stress is- isn’t good for her. Yeah, I decided it’s a her. At least for now. Wake up for us, Tommy. Please.”

~

It took three days for the ventilator to be removed.

And another day for Tommy to open his eyes.

But after some groggy hello's and a few sips of water, he reached out for Buck, who wasted no time being by his side.

“H… How’s baby?” Tommy asked, voice raspy.

Buck smiled, a tear falling down his face. He ignored the confused glances from everyone else in the room. “She’s fine, Tommy,” he said, running a hand through Tommy’s hair. “And so are you.”

*****

Tommy was going to throw up. He’d never been so nervous in his life.

Everything that could go wrong, did.

This was actually supposed to have happened two weeks ago, but one disaster after another got in the way.

So now they were at a last minute venue, with no catered food, no floral arrangements, barely any guests, and tuxedos that somehow got altered wrong and were two inches too short.

But none of that scared Tommy. Not as much as standing up in front of the people who were there, with the love of his life standing across from him, knowing he was going to become a blubbering mess the second he tried to say his vows.

A knock on the door shook him out of his panic. “Come in.”

“Hey.” Buck’s voice was quiet and calm. Tommy wondered how in the world those roles got reversed. “I could hear you freaking out from the other room.”

Tommy walked right over and practically fell into Buck’s arms. “I’m gonna screw this up.”

“Wh- What are you talking about?”

“I- I’ve been practicing my vows,” Tommy replied, moving back just enough to look at Buck, “and I start crying every time. I can’t help it. I’m gonna be a mess up there and ruin it.”

Buck cocked his head to the side, looking as fond as ever. “We’re both going to be messes up there, Tommy. Not just you.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had this much anxiety in my life, and we’ve done some pretty insane things.”

“Yeah, we have,” Buck agreed. “But I know one thing I’m not nervous about.”

Tommy bit at his lip, “What’s that?”

“Marrying you.”

“Oh,” Tommy breathed out. “I’m not nervous about that either.”

There was a beat of silence before Tommy continued. “Maybe it’s the baby.” He smirked, puffing out his stomach. “He’s making me nauseous.”

Buck smiled, patting Tommy’s stomach before pulling him back close. “We’re getting married, Tommy.”

There were the nerves again. “I know.”

“No, I mean, we’re getting married. I don’t care if you forget every word you were going to say up there. I love you, and you love me, and we’re getting married.”

Tommy nodded, sighing in relief. The anxiety drained from his face. “Yeah. That’s… Yeah. I love you so much, Evan.”

Buck leaned in, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s lips. “Now let’s go get married before you go into labor.”

[straysinfiltrator]

This is great advice. One thing I’d add is, remember that you’re also evaluating the other person as you’re building the friendship, and you’re evaluating the relationship to see if it’s worth the effort.

I’ve never in my life found it helpful to socialize if my motivation was that socializing is supposed to be good for me. In fact looking back I believe socializing with that non-goal was actively harmful to my mental well-being. If you don’t know what your goal is then you can’t know if you’re going in the right direction. If you’re doing all the steps right while wondering “am I building friendships correctly yet and when can I finally go home to be alone” - that’s not the right way to go about it no matter how well the conversation is going.

It takes time in life to learn what you want from relationships. If you don’t know what that is yet then finding that out is the first part of the journey, and it’s a good question to keep in mind as you go about socializing. Finding an answer to it is more important than amassing an arbitrary number of ‘friends’ so you can check off a mental socializing box.

As an example, in my case I tend to get analytical about various topics, and the people I’ve been able to be friends with are those who occasionally take a similar approach and say things that I find wise and intriguing. For those like me who fall into that category and who like to hear ourselves talk and find our own thoughts awfully interesting, it’s useful to remember that we are evaluating our conversation partner on that basis also, and towards that purpose it helps to occasionally shut up and listen to what they have to say. This sort of goal-driven explanation about the point of social exchanges has helped me more than any number of mechanical rules about how long to talk before letting the other person get a word in edgewise.

Wait, so you said that you can learn to trust others by building friendships, but how does one go about doing that? Wouldn't someone I don't know be creeped out or annoyed if I suddenly walked up and started talking to them?

Friendships are built of repeated low-stakes interactions and returned bids for attention with slowly increasing intimacy over time.

It takes a long time to make friends as an adult. People will probably think you're weird if you just walk up and start talking to them as though you are already their friend (people think it's weird when I do this, I try not to do this) but people won't think it's weird if you're someone they've seen a few times who says "hey" and then gradually has more conversations (consisting of more words) with them.

I cheat at forming adult friendships by joining groups where people meet regularly. If you're part of a radio club that meets once a week and you just join up to talk about radios, eventually those will be your radio friends.

If there's a hiking meetup near you and you go regularly, you will eventually have hiking friends.

Deeper friendships are formed with people from those kinds of groups when you do things with them outside of the context of the original interaction; if you go camping with your radio friend, that person is probably more friend than acquaintance. If you go to the movies with a hiking friend who likes the same horror movies as you do, that is deepening the friendship.

In, like 2011 Large Bastard decided he wanted more friends to do stuff with so he started a local radio meetup. These people started as strangers who shared an interest. Now they are people who give each other rides after surgery and help each other move and have started businesses together and have gone on many radio-based camping trips and have worked on each other's cars.

Finding a meetup or starting a meetup is genuinely the cheat-code for making friends.

This is also how making friendships at schools works - you're around a group of people very regularly and eventually you get to know them better and you start figuring out who you get along with and you start spending more time with those people.

If you want to do this in the most fast and dramatic way possible, join a band.

In 2020 I wrote something of a primer on how to turn low-stakes interactions with neighbors and acquaintances into more meaningful relationships; check the notes of this post over the next couple days, I'll dig up the link and share it in a reblog.

[cutiefulism]

that boy is a monster !

cw. smut, wolf!caleb, bunny!reader, unprotected, p i v, brief headlock, knotting, pet names (honey, princess, pipsqueak) caleb is rough, both of them r freaky and crazy for each other, breeding sorta, use of gege n meimei, soft towards the end, uhh caleb cries idk

wc. 2.3k+

a/n. uh this was supposed to be longer but the old draft was js dragging on so here it is! a genius req by lovely anon, i hope i did ur req justice if not pls don't send me to the gulliotines 😓 ALSO yes ik this is ooc for him but also i kinda dgaf. any n all interactions is loved n appreciated!!

wolf!caleb who is nothing like your sweet puppy.

that caleb is kind and gentlemanly, holding you gently and slathering you in soft, adoring kisses and licks. that caleb kisses the very ground you walk on, wags his tail at every praise or gorgeous smile thrown his way, and begs to eat you off the bone.

he puts your pleasure first and foremost, always heeding your instructions when you tell him to slow down or speed up. he lets you come to him first, he lets you put the collar around his neck and tell him to be a “good boy” with red cheeks and bright eyes.

but this caleb, the one that’s pistoning into you from behind, thick bicep and forearm squeezing your head, does absolutely none of that.

“ungh, caleb, s-slow down—”

another protest from you, one he promptly shuts up with a rough snap of his hips and a flex of his arm. your breath catches in your tightening throat, and tears pool in your hazy eyes as your fingers scrabble at the sheets for purchase.

“you’d wanted this, remember?” caleb whispers in your ear, voice ragged and dangerously low. “goin’ on and on about how you wanted to see what changed and why i’m so different.”

admittedly, it was a little agitating.

not that he was irritated with you, per se, but more with your naivety. did you really, honest to god think that caleb was strictly submissive? that he’d always obey you, never think to unlatch the collar from ‘round his throat, never take off the rose-tinted sunglasses and realize that there is so much more?

you are no fool. surely you knew that your weak charade wouldn’t last for long, no?

you’ve been hiding his keys — tucking them into some niche, undiscovered cranny of his own fucking home. when you two go into public and there’s a group of women staring far too long at him, your bright mood sours, and you spend the rest of your vacation with him inside.

(you would hate to know the sort of looks he gets when he goes to the gym.)

you’ve even gotten to the point where you use facial recognition and scan his face while he’s sleeping to go through his phone. just to make sure there isn’t anyone willing to cut his leash and let him run free.

and, y’know, caleb has to applaud you. seriously. if he were any dumber, he might’ve kept those glasses on, might’ve let himself fall so far into you that there was just no way out.

as a matter of fact, he would have.

but he can’t keep you safe that way.

he has to be the one putting a collar around your delicate neck, keeping you within his own, hand-crafted sanctuary and never letting you leave, because you are far too kind.

if caleb ever expressed the want to be free, then you would let him. you would settle for being just friends with him, just being the colonel’s meimei.

and he couldn’t do that, not again. he’s already spent over two decades of his life just being your gege — now that he has you and that you have him, why would he ever allow you to let go?

no. no, he is yours, you are his, and that is something caleb will never, ever let change again.

this is how caleb has always been, underneath that docile facade.

it takes a manipulator to know a manipulator, as they say.

with every brutal thrust of his hips, his heavy balls slap against your puffy clit, drawing a broken whine from your throat and loosening the knot in your gut.

nothing about this should turn you on.

it’s disgusting and taboo and gross, letting caleb fuck you like a cheap, inflatable sex doll. he should be treating you with love and kindness, worshipping every inch of your body and murmuring sweet, reverent praises into your floppy bunny ears.

and he has. caleb has made love to you more times than you can even count — the quiet summer nights in the backyard on a red checker blanket or the early winter mornings where your sweet pussy has kept his cock warm all throughout the night.

you love those. you cherish those.

but you also like when he gets rough, when that sweet, prince charming mask slips just a bit, and his grip on you is a little too tight in public, or he’s staring at you a little too long when the both of you are supposed to be asleep, hands wandering dangerously close to your boy shorts.

that caleb gets your blood pumping, mind racing and pussy throbbing.

“maybe — s-shit — i was never different, pips. maybe i was always like this, always wanting to fuck ya dumb, and you just didn’t know.”

his hot, sweaty chest is pressed against your back, heart pounding in time with yours, and the delicious coolness of his necklace sends a shiver right up your spine.

your abused walls clench down on the veiny girth of his dick, and caleb groans, a loud sound that filters directly into your ear and makes your open mouth water even more.

drool trickles past your swollen lips and out the corners of your mouth, running down your chin and onto the bicep that’s tantalizingly close to cutting off your airflow.

he chuckles and cranes forward a little, enough to lick the spit and tears from one side of your face. “greedy lil’ thing. always bitin’ off more than you can chew, and then runnin’ to me to complain about it.”

it’s funny how some things never change. you used to do the same thing when the two of you were younger, too.

“caleb, can you finish my burger? i don’t want it.”

“caleb, go on the rollercoaster with me? please? it’s scary.”

“caleb, do you have some gold? i lost a bet . .”

caleb, caleb, caleb.

he will never grow tired of you saying his name, whether it be in the throes of pleasure or the depths of despair. if you can say his name, then you’re alive, you’re safe, and that’s all he can want from you.

that’s all he needs.

you, of course, want to protest. even when his bulbous tip is battering against your cervix, you want to defend your dignity. “i-i don’ . . i don’t do that, hah—!”

a pause, and his hips slow, just a little, big, fluffy ears drooping. “. . no?”

he’s moving before you can even manage a quip. caleb leans back, his arm deserting your face before his claws wrap around your ears, yanking them like reins while his other hand digs into the fat of your hip.

the most pathetic of squeaks falls out of that pretty mouth, and caleb grins — which, really, is more him bearing those pearly white canines than actually smiling.

you don’t get the chance to adjust to the stinging pain of him tugging on both your sensitive ears and your scalp before he’s slamming home again and scrambling your thoughts.

“what did i tell ya about lyin’, honey? your gege always knows the truth. ‘m n-not one of your friends you gotta pretend around,” he sneers, an odd mixture of ecstasy and disdain underlying his playful tone. “just be honest wimme and save us both the— o-oh fuck . . the time.”

your eyes hopelessly slide into the back of your skull, and his hold on your ears is the only reason you’re somewhat upright. your thighs tremble, legs practically noodles attached to your torso, and the need to cum again is almost reaching its limit.

you don’t even know how many orgasms it’s been, brain far too scrabbled and focused on caleb to worry about something so trivial. caleb has turned you every which fucking way but loose, making you cum on his clothed thigh, then his fingers, then his mouth, and, most recently, his cock.

a creamy ring of white encircles his swollen base, a beautiful testament to all the work he’s put into claiming your body, and he’s not going to stop until you’re nice and swollen with a pair of twins. or triplets.

bunnies are prone to having lots of kids, and caleb has no doubts about his fertility.

you’d be such a good mama. he knows it.

your hips wriggle back in a weak attempt to meet his, and he coos.

oh, his desperate girl, constantly wanting to milk him dry.

since you want more of his dick so bad, he guesses he has no choice but to indulge you. you just never learn.

caleb tightens his grip on your fluffy ears as his hips smack into the jiggling fat of your ass. there’s barely any pauses between them, a consistent ovation like your body is applauding him for fucking you so good, for treating you so right. “w-where’s that — ngh — smart fuckin’ mouth, princess? huh? haven’t shot a load down y-yer throat yet, so there’s no, mm, excuse why ya can’t talk.”

you swear you try to talk — the sentence forms in your hazy mind and everything — but all that comes out is a long moan, some sort of jumbled praise that has caleb snarling.

he tugs your ears, and more tears pour down your cheeks. “try again.”

“ow, mmngh!”

caleb tuts, and this time you’re prepared for the punishing tug. “third time’s the charm, honey.”

your throat works to swallow down all the saliva that’s pooled into your mouth, lubricating your dry throat. “cum— i w’na cum! ah, fuuckk, ‘m gonna cum, caleb, mmph—”

of course you are.

he’s noticed the trembling in your legs, the constant fluttering of your stretched hole around his shaft, how difficult it is for you to stop moaning long enough to get coherent words out.

and despite the haze in your mind, you know caleb is just as close. no amount of stoicism can hide the tightening of his breeder balls or the slight whine underneath the rugged gruffness in his voice. his pace is sloppy — he isn’t even punishing you by pulling out all the way anymore, just sharp, full thrusts that smooch your cervix and strike your g-spot every time.

“there w-we go, that’s what — ooh, shiiit — i wanna hear from my pretty girl. k-keep talkin’, and we can . . we can cum together, alright?”

he lets go of your ears just to wrangle you onto your back, pushing your knees up to your ears and making them pop. the new position has you feeling all thick, nine inches of your boyfriend’s (and future baby daddy’s) cock like it’s molded itself to your insides, all deep and snug in your tummy.

your hands slide up his arms so that your nails can dig into his back, leaving long, thin red lines like a personal brand. “y’re soo deep, o-oh my god—”

the praise does exactly what you expect it to do, and you hear his tail thump happily against the bed, brows drawing together in pleasure.

“cum with me, caleb. f-fill . . fill me up, breed me, ngh, do w-whatever—”

you don’t have to tell him twice.

it only takes a few more sloppy, frenzied thrusts from caleb to push you both over the edges, a scream of his name and a whimper of yours following after.

you’re squirting, juices spraying all over the sheets and his abs and that almost curly patch of dark hair right above his swelling knot.

it trickles down as caleb literally trembles with the force of his own orgasm, thick, goopy spurts endlessly filling up your empty womb and precious cunt. combined with the fact he’s impossibly deep inside of you, your stomach bulges, just a little, like it’s trying to tease him.

just as cheeky as ever, even unknowingly.

your worn-out body flops back against the soft mattress, and caleb slumps against you, thick arms wrapping around your smaller frame.

he holds you close, chest to chest, heart to heart, as he lathers you in those familiar licks and kisses, the ones that are full with unwavering infatuation and affection.

he knows he’s supposed to be the big bad wolf, but he can’t help but revert back. you deserve princess treatment, because that’s what you are: his princess. his honey, his pipsqueak, his everything.

you are what gets him up in the mornings. you are what guides him home after long, grueling expeditions. you are what he fights for, what he kills for, what he lives for.

you are his northern star, his evangeline.

tears blur his vision, and he tucks his face further into your neck, nuzzling against marked skin as his chest squeezes.

even post-orgasm and in the low, warm light of his bedroom, you can see caleb’s broad shoulders shaking. is he . .

“caleb?” you call, voice raspy but soft, filled to the brim with concern he sometimes thinks he doesn’t deserve. “are you okay? was that too much?”

he immediately shakes his head, and his fur tickles your skin. “i just . . fuck, you’re perfect.”

and caleb doesn’t think those words do you any justice. you’re so much more than perfect, so much more than the human language could ever be capable of describing that it gnaws at him to not be able to express it to you through words.

that’s what his body is for.

he sniffles and pulls back to look at you, big hands holding himself up off of you and glassy sunset eyes locked onto yours. “i . . i love you so much.”

he probably says it more than enough, but he’ll never grow tired of saying it either. finally being able to properly express his love for you through words, and not small actions that you seemingly didn’t ever pick up on is beyond freeing, like someone lifted a boulder off of his back.

you smile, gentle hands coming up to cup that flushed face, and your thumb brushes away the tears that have fallen free from his waterline. “i love you, too.”

til death do we part.

[beloveds-embrace]

If I might give a brain worm unto you that has been wiggling around my noodle: Dukedom AU x Designationless reader AU.

The boys treat her the way they do partly because of their relationship and the threat she is to it, but also because she’s not like them. The staff of course follow suit.

The reader, while having long since adjusted to the terrible circumstances surrounding her simply just existing, was really hoping that this would be a new start. She’d heard on and on about what a hero and a good man Duke Johnathan Price was and built up a fantasy in her head of what he would be like. Maybe he’d look past what was “wrong” and treat her like a person. He did ask for her hand in marriage after all. That had to mean something, right?

It breaks her heart when she recognizes the scrunch of his nose, the disdain, the explicit barring from nests and bonding expected of a pack. It was the same situation she’d always been trapped in, but in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people.

Or something like that.

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH 😩😩

The first time you see him- truly see him- you believe your heart and mind have played a cruel trick on you.

You’ve heard so much about Duke Johnathan Price. His reputation precedes him, woven into tales of heroism and integrity. A man of honor, a soldier, a leader. A man who chose you. The supposed man of your dreams.

Even now, sitting stiffly across from you on your first dinner as husband and wife, he looks every part of the noble figure painted in stories. Broad shoulders draped in fine fabrics, a beard neatly trimmed, hands steady as he cuts into his meal with a precision that speaks of years spent wielding a blade. He is handsome, powerful. Capable.

And yet, when he looks at you, there is nothing in his eyes.

Not curiosity, not warmth. Not even disdain at first- just a lack of acknowledgment so profound it makes your throat tighten.

Then his nose scrunches, barely perceptible but devastating nonetheless. Because it's not the first time this has happened, and you’ve seen that expression before. It won't be the last, either, but you had hoped...

Your stomach churns.

It is the same look others have given you when they realize what you are. Or rather, what you are not.

Not an Alpha, nor an Omega. Not even a Beta.

Just a ghost of what should have been.

You set your fork down carefully, hoping he doesn’t notice how unsteady your hands get. Across the table, Chef Johnny emerges from the kitchen, setting down a fresh plate for Duke Price with far too friendly smile. The dish is a work of art, beautifully plated, steam curling in delicate wisps.

Your own meal is… not the same. The vegetables are overcooked, the meat a little too dry. A careless oversight, perhaps?

But then you notice how Kyle, the head butler, watches you with an impassive expression. How none of the maids refill your glass as swiftly as they do John’s.

How the room feels colder than it should.

You eat what you can, ignoring the tightness in your throat, ignoring the stares.

This marriage was meant to be a new beginning.

You had dared to believe, just for a moment, that Duke Price would be different. That he would not look at you like you were wrong. But it seems you were severely mistaken.

The rejection from him, thus, is quiet. The rejection from the rest of the duchy, thus, is just as quiet.

There are no harsh words, and no blatant cruelty. But there are barriers. Invisible ones, carved deep into the very bones of the household.

Certain rooms are not meant for you. The Duke’s- because calling him John now feels far too inappropriate for you, his damn wife- study is always closed when you pass. The library, though technically open, is always occupied when you wish to visit. You are never explicitly barred from entering, of course, yet when you step too close, the weight of silence and the stares and the whispers push you back.

And the nesting rooms- warm, safe places where bonds are nurtured and scents are shared- are not for you.

You learned long ago that you do not belong in such spaces from your own parents. But you had still hoped...

The first time you wander too close, you barely make it past the threshold before Duke Riley blocks your way. He is taller than Price, broader in some ways, with sharp, piercing eyes that assess you coolly. You've early on caught to the... relationships your husband has.

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your skirts. “I was just- ”

“Off-limits.” His voice is flat. Final.

You nod, pulse stuttering. You do not need to be told twice.

But it is not just Simon.

Kyle remains distant, fulfilling his duties with impeccable efficiency yet never offering you so much as a fleeting smile. The other servants follow suit eventually, mimicking his detachment. Even Johnny, who seems the warmest of the three, does not linger in your presence the way he does with the others.

But it's the absence of touch that is the worst.

In a household full of Alphas and Omegas, where scenting and casual touches are second nature, you are untouched. Unacknowledged.

Not wanted.

The realization festers deep in your chest, an old wound reopened in a new, unfamiliar place.

You do not cry beyond shedding a few, lonesome tears in your rooms.

Instead, you simply adjust, and that adjustment means the shrinking of your world.

At first, you try to push forward, to do your duty as a Duchess with grace. You ensure the estate runs smoothly, oversee the staff, attend the necessary gatherings.

But the strain of existing in a space that does not want you wears you thin.

So you stop attending the dinners, no longer willing to sit across from a husband who does not see you.

You withdraw from the bustling halls, the grand rooms filled with people who murmur behind your back but never speak to your face.

Even your reflection in the mirror begins to look unfamiliar. The light in your eyes dims, your gowns hang looser on your frame. You hear the maids whispering.

"She’s wasting away."

"Maybe it’s for the best."

"No one can love someone who fades into the walls."

"No one can love someone so different. So... unnatural."

You wonder if it even matters, curled in your bed. They will continue their whispers even if you appear, even if you don't appear.

And still, no one comes for you. No one considers you.

Not your husband, and not his pack that you will never be a part of.

Not a single soul.

[softsunnyy]

morning sex, rough sex??, size kink, reader just wants to be destroyed and Luke can help her with that, Luke was sleeping at the beginning 🚨🚨

this was supposed to be soft sex

divider by @cafekitsune

when you woke up, you were hungry, you needed something, but you didn't know what. However, you soon discovered it when you felt your boyfriend's body behind you, sharing his warmth with you, almost covering your entire body since he's huge.

and oh god he's huge, every part of him, and you've always loved that. You love having to make an effort to kiss him, or the ease with which he can handle you in his hands, as if you were just a doll, his little toy. And you love how, even so, he always tries to be gentle, not to touch you too roughly, as if doing so would break you.

looking down, you see one of his hands, large, squeezing your waist as if he didn't want to let go; strong enough to keep you still, but not enough to leave bruises on your skin.

you start looking at his long fingers and remember how they feel inside you, how easily they slide in, and how much they stretch your walls, preparing you for his cock, so you don't get hurt, so you enjoy it. Those same fingers that also grip your hair when you're devouring him, controlling your movements as he pull your hair, trying not to choke you, not to pressure you.

you start to feel heat between your legs, and you try to rub your thighs together, but it's not enough, and your thoughts make you move, rubbing yourself against his body, against his bulge, which jumped with joy, waking up even while Luke is still asleep. And you want to moan at that, but you hold back, biting your lip and considering your options.

your hand reaches back, feeling him through his underwear, and you have the pleasure of feeling him harden beneath your touch, as if he recognizes you. And that makes your thoughts go wilder.

you need him, now.

you slide your hand under his clothes, touching him directly, feeling his hand tighten around your waist, like a warning. Yet you ignore it, beginning to masturbate him slowly, while you tried to roll over onto your back, or just move.

you need to see his reaction, hear his gasps. You need him to wake up and take you.

when you don't see the reaction you expect, you let out a small huff, taking it as a challenge, so you remove your hand and slip out of his grasp, getting up from the bed and quickly finishing undressing.

Luke is going to fuck you, take you and break you. You don't want his gentleness today, you want him to use you, to abuse his strength and size, to make you understand.

you take off the blankets, and at that moment he seems to unconsciously want to help you, as he rolls onto his back, making your plans easier. So you continue, removing his underwear, freeing his cock, which stands proud, his veins showing, his tip a fiery, desperate color.

if he won't do it, you'll have to start it yourself.

without giving it much thought, you climb on top of him, letting your soaked pussy rub against his cock. And you moan as you feel his tip push through your folds, repeatedly bumping against your clit, constantly rubbing against your hole, which throbs desperately.

you watch as he begins to move beneath you, waking up. It takes him a couple of seconds to understand what's going on, but immediately his hands are on you, unconsciously helping you, which you take advantage of.

“fuck,” he whimpered, and this time you can feel the strength in his grip. You can be sure it will leave a mark, which you love. “What are you doing, pretty girl?” he looks at you with attention, desire, and curiosity, his cock beginning to ache from the mere desire to take you. However, what bothers you is the hint of doubt in his eyes, as if all the show you're putting on isn't enough to convince him.

“i want you to take me, Luke, to break me, please, use me,” you whimpered, showing him your desperation. “Please, Lu.”

when you got up a little, he was alarmed. However, it all made sense when you took his cock in one hand, aligning it with your hole.

“wait, baby…” you interrupted him by letting yourself fall, inserting his entire long cock into your walls, which drew a loud moan from you, at the same time that he gasped, suddenly feeling himself hugged tightly by your walls that adjusted to his size with some difficulty.

it was at that moment that a switch clicked in his head, and all rational decision-making was abandoned. The urge to possess you swept over him, and he decided to stop ignoring his desires, flipping your bodies over, leaving you beneath him this time. Your legs were lifted by his hands, resting on his shoulders, and soon he began to thrust into you, moving hard, making your body bounce, your tits bounce.

you could feel him everywhere, abusing your hole as if you suddenly didn't matter to him, making you feel a small burning sensation that you're completely loving.

don't get me wrong, you love Luke, you love that he's gentle with you, that he takes care of you, that he tries not to break you, but today? today you need this primal, wild, inconsiderate side. You need to feel him this big, this intense, covering your entire body with his.

you whimper in pleasure when he slaps one your tits, and later you're not surprised when he stretches one of your legs further, giving small bites to your inner thigh. This is what you needed, and you'll do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn't end soon.

and Luke, oh Luke, he doesn't know why he's been holding back so much, when it feels so beautiful to be able to destroy you, to break every part of you until you're crying and babbling. He loves watching his cock disappear inside you so quickly, and he knows it will be even better when he fills you, when he cums so much that there's no way you can keep him inside you and you start staining your thighs with his cum.

he's going to use all his free time to mark you and manipulate your body at his whim, extracting as many orgasms from you as possible, because even though you're the one who woke up hungry, now he's starting to feel it too.

you've ignited something that can't be extinguished, and you'll have to get used to this side of Luke, who will take advantage of being big and rough, who will claim your body until all you can think about is him while you pull his curls and scratch his back.

you don't have to worry or wait, or want too much anymore. Luke will give you what you need, he will be good, and he will make you his personal toy, just like you wanted.

are you ready?

[theinheriteddutchess]

That option should come up before he ever started using his phone in public, and it's also definitely about parenting. Kid doesn't listen to his mother at all. You listen after the first reprimand or else you do get some form of punishment. That's how you're supposed to raise your kids, with boundaries and respect.

So the kids can go through life being aware of others and having some empathy. The culture now is full attention to your phone without awareness of your surroundings and for others.

No one cares if you have fun, as long as you're not bothering others. Loud music of conversations everyone can hear, or constantly on your phone in cinemas or at shows, show this person has complete disregard for the fun and comfort of others. Selfish.

The amount of times someone gets warned to turn their phone off for something and I see people using it during something anyway, is infuriating and their fun isn't more important than mine when they're ruining a show by constantly lighting up my face with their screen. They should be removed.

There should be some consequences because people and kids like this won't learn otherwise.

my unpopular opinion is that i hate tiktok because now people just publicly watch loud ass videos in public spaces with no regard for anyone else. 100% it was not this bad with youtube, it’s such a different thing with tiktok. put on headphones. you are grown.

[wonderjanga]

What if, like, one day Billy's hit with a spell as marvel and the gods suddenly spilt from his mind in front of the league? And then he drops something like "wow it's so quiet in my head!" While the league stands baffled by the literal gods in front of them

Marvel: “Wow! It’s so quiet in my head!” *immediately goes back to fighting with someone with a big ahh smile on his face*

With Zeus…

JL: *still stunned*

Zeus: “DAUGHTER!” *bear hugs Diana*

Wondy: “Father??” *confused, but hugs back*

Zeus: “Oh, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you how proud I am of you!”

With Solomon…

Solomon: *walks over to Bruce*

Batman: *confused as to why this old man who appeared from nowhere came up to him*

Solomon: *puts a hand on his shoulder* “Young Bruce, I can call you that, yes?”

Batman: *alarmed* “Excuse me—”

Solomon: “I’ve always wanted to tell you that out of everyone here besides the Captain you are by far my most favorite.”

Batman: “…thank you?”

Solomon: “Granted, your costume is atrocious and your gadgets could use some upgrading, but you are the only sane and rational person here. I commend you for that.”

Batman: *both insulted and confused*

Bruce was confused because last he checked, his gadgets were top-of-the-line, he’s not even gonna comment on the costume thing, and as for being the only sane and rational person here? Well, that was true.

Solomon: *pats his shoulder* “Good talk.” *looks over to Billy* “Billy, I will be going to the nearest tapas place. We will reconvene at the rock.” *walks off*

With Mercury…

Mercury: “Speedster!” *zooms over*

Flash: “I— uh yes?”

Mercury: “You!” *points to him* “Me!” *points to himself* “Race! Now!”

Flash: “WHA—”

Mercury: *zooms over and drags him away*

Flash: *screams fading as they get farther and farther*

With Hercules…

Hercules and Hawkgirl: *looking at each other*

Hercules: *nods head* “Mace? Respect.”

Hawkgirl; “Club?” *also nodding* “Respect.”

Hercules and Hawkgirl: *join the battle so they can clobber the villain together*

With Atlas…

Atlas: “Hey, do you know where the nearest hotel is?”

GL: “No?”

Atlas: “What about motel?”

GL: “I think there’s one down the block?”

Atlas: “Thank you.” *starts to walk off*

GL: “Wait! Where are you going??”

Atlas: “To find a place to sleep. It’s extremely rare that I get breaks.”

GL: “Are you— Are you even supposed to leave??”

Atlas: “Probably not, but you heard the old man. We’ll reconvene at the rock.” *walks off to find the motel*

With Achilles…

Achilles and Aquaman: *share a look*

Achilles: “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Atlantean?”

Aquaman: “First off, how did you know it was Atlantean? Second, heck yes!”

Achilles and Aquaman: *team up to do a superduper, cool, bro move that somehow fuses the spear and triton for like three seconds and jump in to attack*

Achilles and Aquaman were the ones who finished the fight that day, landing the finishing blow on the villain. Also, unfortunately, for Solomon and Atlas neither made it to their tapas place nor motel because as soon as the villain was defeated all the gods and/or legends went right back into Billy’s mind.

[dxckgrxsonx]

#9 with Jason Todd PLEASE I beg of u

Title: Payback, Backfired. Pairing: Jason Todd x (F) Reader, (Mentions of ExBF!Dick Grayson x (F) Reader). Words: 1.4k Warnings: SMUT 18+ Plot: Prompt 9 from this list. Revenge Sex. (Readers ex is Dick Grayson.) Notes: i literally had so much fun writing this. also hi my beautiful darling @sio-ina-bottle thank you sm for requesting this prompt ily <3

****

“Tell me.” Jason starts the second he sinks the tip of his cock into you, mouth twisted into a fucked up grin, all sharp and triumphant; like getting into your pants grants him some sort of award, maybe something akin to bragging rights. “Is he better than me?”

Your answer circles around a snarl, fury swelling thick and suffocating between your teeth, “Shut the fuck up. The last thing I want to be thinking about is my ex whilst you’re fucking me!”

Hindsight knocks at the edges of your skull, perspective swinging on its head to offer a different look at what you’ve gotten yourself into, because decisions birthed in the face of spite and heartbreak don’t typically have happy endings.

If you’re honest with yourself though, things have limits.

However, a compelling argument to it is this: you’re long past caring.

You’re hurting–more than you ever thought capable–and more than three-quarters of you wants him to hurt too.

You think of the breakup all over again and your stomach rolls, eyes burning, Dick Grayson was supposed to be the one you built a future with; the one you looked at and never turned away from. But he didn’t seem to have much trouble walking away from a relationship spanning almost a year.

“Hm.” Jason almost purrs, bottoming out, stretching your pussy wider than it’s ever been before because he’s thick and so heavy. “Your ex must have been something special if you’re getting all teary on me.”

His hand reaches up, palm covering your cheek so he can thumb away the wetness from your eyes. Under different circumstances the action would make you melt–would probably have you squeezing at his cock like you’re coming–but Dick would do the same thing when your emotions bubbled over and you can’t stand it.

There’s also the look on Jason’s face, the twitch in his mouth, the glimmer in his eyes. It’s almost like he’s conquered something; capitalised on someone else’s failure and taken it as his own.

“Be quiet.” Your voice shakes until you tighten your jaw to settle it. “And take your fucking hand off my face before I chew it off.”

Jason’s hand grabs at your jaw as he shifts, pulling out and sinking back in so your eyes roll to the back of your skull. He laughs, free hand sliding around the back of your knee to stretch you open wider, and you can’t quite silence your whimper as the head of his cock rubs so sweetly inside you.

“You’ve got a filthy mouth.” He hisses, pressing his fingers into your cheek to force open your mouth, the callouses on the tip of his pointer finger digs into your skin and you kick up your hips in frustration. “I take it he didn’t treat you like this very often, huh? You’re clearly not used to anything like this.”

The rhythm Jason sets is easy, a slick glide of his cock splitting you open until the empty space Dick left is filled with pleasure and your own weeping cunt. Something sparks up the length of your spine when he rubs at your clit and you groan, body shaking apart.

“You have no idea of the things he did to me.” Your words are slightly slurred from the way Jason shoves his fingers into your cheek, and the discomfort from it overlaps with the wet smack of his hips. “You’d be appalled.”

In your relationship, Dick was many things to you, a soft touch, a problem solver, clever beyond anything you’d ever seen before. But there were moments in your sex life where he was mean; when he guided you beyond anything you thought possible and made you hurt and beg and cry.

And the truth of it is: you absolutely loved it.

The world tips when Jason flips you over, and instead of being flat on your back–his well muscled body bullying you into the mattress–you’re manhandled onto your knees, face down in the pillows. His cock parts your folds, the tip pushing from your entrance to your clit and back again.

He angles his hips and pushes into you in one long stroke.

You moan and spasm around him.

“How about here?” He asks, pausing to hold himself deep in your pussy as his thumb rubs over your asshole. “Did he ever fuck you here?”

The noise you make is unhinged, a sob stuck between fury and ecstasy. Of course he’s fucked you there, you want to snap, worked you open using his fingers and tongue until you cried so softly for him to please, please fuck your ass.

But you can’t speak. Not when Jason fucks you, sinks his thumb juuust past that tight ring of muscle and praises you for taking it so well.

“Stop talking about him.” You try to say, every part of you shaking and fucked open. “The whole point of fucking you is to stop thinking of him.”

Jason stops talking eventually, which should have been a relief. But rather than putting energy into taunting reactions out of you. He fucks you through orgasm after orgasm until you splinter and crack, calling Jason’s name, overstimulated and vibrating like a live-wire.

His resounding laugh in response holds weight, holds something you’re not privy to.

If you had any sense about you, you would almost think he knows exactly who your ex is, despite the fact you’ve not once mentioned his name. Hell. The whole point of you taking Jason home was out of revenge because maybe, just maybe, Dick would find out and hurt just as much as you.

****

There’s noise coming from the living room.

Sheets off, you shuffle around your bedroom, Jason still sleeping in your bed. He’s completely naked, fabric pooling at his waist. The expanse of his chest is littered with scars, some thin and faded, others thick and pink with raised tissue. Oddly, it makes him more attractive, but you’re not sure if it’s because Dick had scars too.

You should know, after all, you’d pressed your lips against every single one of them.

The closest article of clothing is his t-shirt and you slip it over your head, the hem settling comfortably against the tops of your thighs. Underwear comes next, but the pair you find are torn, seams ripped apart under Jason’s hands. You ignore the arousal still clinging to the gusset of the fabric, the wetness soaked through when you flirted with Jason.

Frustration flares. He’s such a prick.

Finding your pyjama pants you slip them on and move towards the door. Glancing back at Jason you hesitate for a handful of seconds before exhaling and continuing forwards. He can get himself up if things go to shit.

Coming into the living room you freeze.

“What are you doing here?”

Dick stops at the sound of your voice, head snapping towards you so fast you take a half-step back. There’s a box on the coffee table, half filled with his things, in his hand is one of his hoodies–all black with a brilliant blue stripe down the sleeves–the very first one of his you ever wore.

“Getting my things.” Dick answers eventually. He sounds tired. You want to cry. “Figured I’d be able to get them before you woke up.”

You hum, not trusting your voice.

You still haven’t moved.

He continues, “I think there's some more stuff in the bedroom if you don’t mind.” It’s not a question, it’s a heads up of where he’ll be going next and you bristle.

“You can’t go in there right now.”

Dick’s eyebrows furrow, attention shifting to your slightly ajar bedroom door, “Why not.” He looks at you again, bright blue eyes lingering on the shirt you’re wearing. “That’s not mine.” Everything about his voice is unrecognisable and all the hair along your arms prick up.

Time stutters and stalls when Jason breaks the threshold, still shirtless, jeans hung obscenely low at his hips. The grin on his face is downright mocking, there isn’t a single thing on his face that isn’t coated in near cruelty.

You feel caught up in the middle of something you had no idea about. Jason was a quick, easy fuck. Someone you didn't know, someone you didn't think had any real connection to Dick; someone you could have used to make him jealous.

But right now, looking at the outright horror on Dick's face, and remembering the way Jason looked at you last night, you think he might have played you both.

“What’s up, Dickie.” Jason says, tone scarily even. He slings an arm over your shoulders and stares Dick in the eye, “You don’t mind me fucking your ex do you?”

****

[p1ctur3]

@octdl-lee

Random captive TDL au lore dump and some behind the scenes stuff since you asked so nicely :]

Dark in captivity

victim did use dark as a way to train and get the mercs and him used to the box

victim and agent (i would probably explore their dynamic in this au also, mitsi would haunt this narrative because yes)

some behind the scenes things

additional art

[megapteraurelia]

neighbour!kuroo who leaves his house running a little bit late; his tie still unbound, suit jacket hectically tugged on, and yuck, the shoe horn digging in his ankle, trying to fit into the leather shoes.

cursing under his breath at himself, stomach grumbling because he missed breakfast, only to find you sitting on the ground one door over in front of your boyfriend's home, looking worse for wear. nose running, shut eyes, shallow breaths through your mouth.

"hey, uh, you alright?"

you barely answer him, and he is a little worried, but he's also late, so his hand comes to find your shoulder, hoping the touch is light but present enough to bring you back to the land of the living.

he tries again, "should i call anybody?"

this time, your eyes flutter and your head straightens up from where it threatened to loll over. your voice stuffy and groggy, "huh? i— uh, i texted, uhm, my boyfriend. he'll be there soon."

for the life of his, kuroo tetsurou couldn't even remember how your boyfriend, his neighbour, even looked like but you were convinced that you'll be alright, and the clock's ticking and his boss will have his head if kuroo sauntered into his office again, claiming to having had to help a damsel in distress, so kuroo takes your word for what it was.

only to come home eight hours later and, to his absolute shock and horror, he finds you curled up in front of the door on the cold floor, non-moving.

neighbour!kuroo who is pissed because it was clear as day that you were sick as hell. and there you were: laboured breaths, clutching your phone to your chest like it's supposed to be a lifeline, strands of hair clinging to your skin, damp from the sweat, eyebrows twitching in your unsatisfying slumber. no sign of your boyfriend.

something in kuroo's chest twists deep, aching and painful and he wonders if you had even eaten anything in all those hours.

neighbour!kuroo who struggles opening his door with you in his arms, and he curses at himself again for not having had the bright idea of opening his door before picking you up.

whose heart squeezes when you curled against him in his arms, seeking any comfort and any warmth. whose stomach flips a bit when your face smooths out and the wrinkles of worry and pain lessen.

he makes sure you're comfortable on his couch, bundled up after hurriedly checking where he kept the spare blankets (he hasn't had anyone over for a sleepover in so long), brings you water and props you up to help you drink it, asks you about food and still cooks you the soup his mum made him as a kid when you decline in a delirious state.

the soup's missing a little salt but he keeps it on the lowest heat to keep it as warm as possible, anyway.

neighbour!kuroo who regrets opening his door hours later deep in the very evening when your dipshit of a boyfriend knocks hard (ah, so that's how he looks like), because he's had a long day and seeing the outraged look on his neighbour's face that you are 'allowing' another man to take care of you gets kuroo all pissed.

"listen, man. she's sleeping and you're being way too loud, so keep your voice down. if you want to worry now, you should've done so hours ago."

neighbour!kuroo who doesn't care enough to not close the door in your boyfriend's face.

[soluversworld]

“𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫” - REDACTED X G.N Reader nsfw

14 DAYS WITH YOU is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!-

Words: long

Genre: Smut

If you find mistakes I'm sorry I did not proof read

(Reader is G.N)-(This one-shot is nsfw!)

Summary : To distract REDACTED, you suggested looking at his damn sports motorcycle, Who knew- this would end up in..fuck

Trigger Warnings (TWs) and Content Warnings (CWs):

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Graphic Sexual Content (NSFW, explicit descriptions of sex)

Breeding Kink & Possessiveness (mentions of ownership, possessive language)

Past Childhood Trauma (emotional distress, implied separation trauma)

Body Horror Elements (scarring, burns, detailed injury descriptions)

Overstimulation & Aftercare (exhaustion, body weakness post-sex)

Content Warnings (CWs):

Heavy Dom/Sub Dynamics (praise, possessive language, submission)

Affection & Intimacy Themes (nose kisses, hand-holding, childhood romance)

Food Play/Feeding Kink Lite (feeding partner cake, describing sweetness)

Emotional Vulnerability (crying, reassurance, romantic declarations)

It happened too fast, too slow, exactly as it should’ve. That day—you saw past the lie, past the face, past the teeth bared in something not quite a smile.

And today, they’re yours. Almost. A heartbeat away from fiancé, a lifetime away from certainty. It took time. God, it took time.

You wore the ring that day, but not for love, not for promises, not even for the pleasure of peeling back the layers of REDACTED like rotting wallpaper. That’s a story for another day, sweetheart. For now—

You love REDACTED more than Ren, more than the mask they made to hold the world at arm’s length. You love the rot beneath.

Realistically? A few years. Maybe forever. Maybe never. Ren’s been rewriting himself since before he even knew how to spell his own name, shaving down the edges of REDACTED into something soft, something pliable, something digestible. Someone lovable.

Because Ren, as he is, isn’t enough. Can’t be. He learned that young, learned it deep, learned it so well it’s a reflex now, a gut reaction. A knee-jerk flinch into being whatever you want, whatever keeps you looking at him. But REDACTED—ah. They don’t care. They don’t need to. They know the truth, and the truth is cruel:

You like a lot of things. You like a lot of people. But you’ll never like him enough. Not really. Not the way he wants. And he’s made peace with that.

Ren is Haruko, and Haruko is sweet. Haruko stumbles over words and tries too hard. Haruko is a puppet carved from borrowed smiles and practiced stutters. But REDACTED—RED is sharp, cruel, jagged in a way no one wants to hold. Cold, empty, tired in the bones. If he ever learned love, it was an imitation, an echo—flat, distant, never quite right.

The blushing? Real. The sweating? Also real. The stammering, the nerves, the pathetic little slip-ups? All him, honest and raw, because fuck, he never expected to have this. Angel wasn’t supposed to see him. Ren was supposed to be background noise, an afterthought, a whisper of a person that never solidified. But fate had different plans, and now he’s in too deep.

And this? This is life now. A life built on strings and careful calculations, on the soft lie of Haruko and the hard truth of REDACTED bleeding through the cracks. And you—you don’t know if it’s guilt that keeps you here. If it’s sympathy, or pity, or something worse. You don’t know if he even wants saving.

He’s shit in the saddest way possible. But he doesn’t care. Never has. Never will.

It’s all just—ah.

You’ve accepted REDACTED now, right? Last time, they held you through it—your own personal shield against every jump scare, every flicker of something too fast, too wrong in the dark. You screamed, clung to them like a lifeline, like a fucking lifeblood, fingers digging in, breath caught, and they—cool as ever—just patted your head. Like you were some trembling stray curled up in their lap.

Now? You’re a pro. A veteran. An unshakable force of—no, fuck that, you’re still scared. Still clutching them like a goddamn koala, half-buried in their chest, gripping the fabric of their hoodie like it might save your soul. And they let you. One hand still in your hair, absentminded, rhythmically soothing, the other loose on your thigh like they aren’t watching people get gutted on screen.

Both of your rings—the rings, the childhood ones—sit snug around your fingers. Like wedding bands. Like something binding. Like something permanent. Ah. Cute.

"Scary f’ ya?" REDACTED barely glances at the screen, more interested in the way you’ve tensed up, knuckles white against the blanket. "Want me t’change it?"

"Shut the fuck up." You don’t even look at them, eyes locked on the too-dark hallway stretching across the screen, waiting for something—anything—to lunge. Your fingers tighten in their sleeve like you’re bracing for impact.

They huff a quiet laugh, all amusement, all smug, before shifting. Heavy. Comfortable. Head dropping onto your lap like they belong there. "Suit yourself."

Their warmth sinks into you, grounding. Distracting. You don’t relax, not completely, but you loosen just enough to card your fingers through their hair. They hum, pleased, tapping lazy fingers against your thigh.

You flinch at a sudden jump scare.

They don’t even pretend not to notice.

They hum again, but this time, it’s different—deeper, slower, something deliberate curling at the edges of their voice. The kind of sound that sends a shiver through you, pooling low in your stomach. Their fingers, lazy against your thigh, trace an absentminded pattern, dipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely grazing skin.

"Y’really that scared?" they murmur, turning their head just enough to glance up at you, half-lidded, half-smirking. "Ain’t even watchin’ the movie no more."

"Maybe ‘cause someone won’t shut up," you fire back, but your voice is softer than you meant it to be, breath catching when they press their face into your stomach—right there—like they know exactly what they’re doing.

"Mm." They exhale slow, warm, lips brushing fabric. "Or maybe y’jus’ need a better distraction."

Their fingers ghost higher. Their grip tightens, just a little. Your heart skips.

Yeah. Fuck the movie.

Their lips are warm—almost searing—the weight of them pressed against yours stealing the air right from your lungs. It’s slow at first, teasing, like they’re testing the waters, but the second you start to lean in, the second your fingers curl in their shirt, they take it as permission to devour.

"Mm—" You barely get a sound out before they tilt their head, deepening it, a slow, deliberate slide of lips and tongue that has heat creeping up your spine. Their hand finds the back of your neck, fingers pressing just firm enough to make you shudder.

"Y’kiss back real pretty," they murmur, breaking away just enough to speak, their voice dipped in amusement, something smug curling at the edges. "S’good f’me, yeah?"

You barely get the chance to respond before their teeth catch your lower lip—a sharp little nip that sends a jolt right down to your gut. Your grip on them tightens.

Then your heel catches on the floor, and suddenly, you’re tilting back, balance slipping—

But they’re already moving, already got an arm wrapped around you, holding you steady before you can even process the fall.

They click their tongue, half-laughing, half-scolding, pulling you flush against them like you belong there.

"Clumsy," they chide, and you can hear the grin in their voice, the way it stretches, smug and sharp. Their fingers trace slow circles against your lower back, dipping just under the hem of your shirt. "Y’like bein’ held this close, huh? Don’t even gotta ask—jus’ throw y’self at me next time, sweetheart."

Your face feels like it’s on fire. The warmth creeps down your neck, settling deep in your chest, and you hate—hate—how easy it is for them to get you like this.

"I—shut up," you grumble, voice barely above a whisper, but it comes out embarrassingly shaky. You’re still pressed against them, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of their breathing, and god, their hand hasn’t moved from your back.

They hum, tilting their head, eyes scanning your face like they’re drinking in every little reaction. "Angel, y’okay?" The nickname comes soft, almost reverent, but there’s something else in their tone, something knowing. They’re enjoying this—your flustered little stammers, the way you can’t meet their gaze for too long without feeling like you’ll combust.

"I—I’m fine." You try to sound steady, but it’s hard when their fingers drag slow, featherlight up your spine. A barely-there touch, but enough to send another shiver rolling through you.

"Mm." They don’t sound convinced. If anything, they sound amused. "S’that so?" A pause, and then—"Y’look real cute like this, y’know."

You whimper. Actually whimper.

And they hear it.

Their grin stretches, slow and lazy, all dimples and sharp teeth. "That a little sound y’jus’ made? Cute."

"Shut up," you try again, swatting at their chest, but they just catch your wrist, bring it up between the two of you. Their fingers curl around it, thumb smoothing along your pulse.

"Y’really nervous, huh?" Their voice drops, honey-smooth, coaxing. Their grip is loose, easy to pull away from, but you don’t. You can’t. Not when they’re looking at you like that.

"...No," you mumble, and it’s a horrible lie.

They chuckle, and before you can think, before you can even breathe, they bring your wrist to their lips, pressing the softest kiss against the inside of it.

"You’re adorable," they murmur against your skin, and it’s unfair, unfair how easily those words send your heart into a frenzy. "Y’don’t gotta be shy with me, angel."

You’re going to combust.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before REDACTED tilts your chin up, their lips grazing yours again—slow, deliberate, teasing. They’re watching you, gauging every little twitch, every sharp inhale, every way your body reacts to them like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“D’you want more?” Their voice is low, a lazy drawl against your mouth. “Y’gotta tell me, angel.”

Your fingers clutch at their sleeves, grounding yourself. The way they speak—it’s like they already know the answer, but they want to hear it. Want to pull it from you.

You swallow, heat curling in your stomach. “Yeah.”

A quiet hum vibrates against your lips before they press another kiss there, just as slow, just as consuming. Their fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your waist in a touch that barely lingers but leaves fire in its wake.

“That feel good?” They murmur between kisses, voice dropping an octave. “Tell me where.”

You almost forget how to breathe, arching just slightly into their touch. Their hands are so big, so warm, and when they drag their teeth along your lower lip, you can’t stop the way your fingers tighten in their clothes.

They chuckle, the sound deep and pleased. “Y’can’t even think straight, huh? S’cute.”

Your face burns hotter, and you bury it against their shoulder for a second, trying to compose yourself. But they’re not having that. Their hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, their lips brushing your ear.

“I don’t think y’can take all of me, angel.” Their voice is velvety, teasing, full of that patient kind of amusement that only makes it worse. “You’re practically stuffed full already.”

A whimper catches in your throat, and their hand tilts your head back, forcing you to look at them.

“Mm. Look at you.” Their thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and their eyes flicker down to where your lips are definitely a little wet from their kisses. Their smirk turns downright sinful. “You’re droolin’. Feels that good, huh?”

You can barely get a word out before their lips are back on yours, deeper this time, and—god—they’re not letting you go anytime soon.

REDACTED's mouth is still warm on yours, their breath mixing with yours in a way that makes your head feel light, like you’re toeing the edge of something sharp. Their hands don’t leave you—not yet, anyway. A thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip, a palm firm against your lower back. Secure. Unmovable. Like if they let go, you’d slip away. Like they don’t want that.

But your brain is drowning, so you do what you do best: open your mouth and let words spill out like you aren’t just trying to distract yourself from the way they have you pinned.

“…You have a motorcycle.”

A beat. Then, a slow blink.

“…Yeah.” Their voice is still low, still rough, like they haven’t quite left the moment behind. But their brow lifts, bemused, like they’re trying to understand how this is what you’re thinking about right now. “What about it?”

“I wanna see it.”

They stare at you. Like you just asked them to pull the moon out of the sky and hand it to you on a silver platter. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them look so…confused.

“It’s just a bike.”

“It’s your bike.”

Another pause. You watch the way their mouth twitches, some unreadable thought flickering behind their eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of ridin’ it, are ya?”

You scoff, dramatic. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little.”

You gasp. They smirk. The moment is broken—mostly. Their hands are still on you, after all. Their voice still has that drawl, like they’re tasting every word before they let it leave their mouth.

“Fine,” you huff, shoving at their chest (not that it moves them).

“…Alright,” they say finally, giving you one last kiss—slow, lingering—before pulling back. “Let’s go.”

REDACTED takes your hand like it’s second nature, like they don’t even think about it—just interlaces their fingers with yours and leads you through the mess of their garage.

It’s a wasteland. A graveyard for things they once cared about and then didn’t.

You see the car first, buried under dust, the tires slightly deflated. You remember when they bought it—thought they drove one, figured they might need it for you. But you should’ve known. A car was too…normal. Too practical.

The motorcycle, though—that fits them like a second skin.

Sleek black, polished even though they barely take it out. It suits them in a way the car never could. The sharp edges of it match the sharp edges of their jaw. The deep black mirrors the ink on their arms, the piercings that gleam under dim garage lights. And then there’s their eyes—blue, cutting through the dark like high beams. Jesus.

“I knew you’d be into it,” they murmur, watching you take it all in. There’s that teasing lilt in their voice again. The one that says they know what you’re thinking.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers twitch at your sides. You wanna feel it.

So you try to climb it.

And immediately almost fall on your ass.

REDACTED catches you like they knew you’d do that too.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, angel,” they laugh, hands firm at your waist, pulling you up like you weigh nothing.

“I got it!” you insist, except you don’t because this thing is heavy as hell, and you don’t know the first thing about handling a bike like this.

“Uh-huh,” they hum, clearly not believing you at all, but still helping you settle onto the seat anyway. Their hands linger at your hips, warm, grounding. They lean in, just a little, just enough for their breath to brush against your cheek.

“Y’look real sweet up there,” they murmur, lips just barely grazing your ear. “Too sweet.”

You swallow. Your heart does something weird in your chest.

“…Are you gonna show me how to ride it or just stand there flirting?”

They grin, slow and sharp. “Can’t do both?”

REDACTED chuckles, low and warm, like they heard the sound you just made—like they felt it vibrate against their chest.

They climb on behind you, and suddenly, you’re caged in. Their legs bracket yours, their arms reach past your sides, hands covering yours on the handlebars. You feel the weight of them, solid and unshakable, and then—

Their hands slide to your waist. Adjusting. Correcting. But fuck, they don’t have to be this slow about it.

“S’posed to sit like this,” they murmur, pressing you back against them, firm, like they know you feel everything. Their breath is warm at your ear, their lips barely brushing skin as they lean in to reach the ignition.

The bike rumbles to life. You feel it first in your fingertips, then up your arms, then—oh. It sinks into your thighs, a steady hum between your legs, and you swallow down the noise that threatens to escape.

REDACTED notices. Of course they notice.

“You feel that?” they murmur, voice all honeyed amusement. Their grip on your hands tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “S’nice, huh?”

You nod, maybe too quickly, because their laughter comes slow and smug against

You turn. Maybe too fast, maybe too eager, but REDACTED doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they welcome it—because the moment you do, their hands are already there, steadying you, holding you like they knew you’d come to them.

And then—

Their lips.

Soft. So much softer than you expected, given everything else about them—the weight of their body, the roughness of their hands, the way they talk, lazy and deep, like they’ve got all the time in the world. But this? This is different. This is gentle.

Like they’re savoring it. Like you’re something to be tasted slow, something they don’t want to rush.

Your back meets the sleek body of the motorcycle, and they follow, leaning in, caging you in, their weight pressing into you in all the right ways. You feel them—all of them—towering over you, surrounding you, drowning you in their warmth.

And then their fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face just right, deepening the kiss, making you feel it, and fuck—

They break away first. Just barely. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Y’taste sweet,” they murmur, thumb brushing slow over your lower lip. Their eyes are half-lidded, like they’re already thinking about going back in. “Knew you would.”

You’re breathless. Maybe a little dazed. Maybe a little—

Their lips ghost over yours, teasing, like they want to make you beg for it. Like they want to hear you say it, admit how badly you want them. Their hands? Firm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles against your skin, like they’re mapping you out, like they’re memorizing the feel of you under their touch.

“Y’should see yourself,” they murmur, voice like a lazy drawl, all heat and hunger and patience that makes your skin burn. “Spread out on my bike like this. Look so fuckin’ pretty.”

The way they say it—like they own you, like they’re claiming you—it sends something hot curling low in your stomach.

Then their hands slide up, up, teasing under your shirt, knuckles dragging against bare skin, slow enough to make you shiver. “Feel good, angel?” They dip lower, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants, like they’re waiting for permission.

And then—fuck—their teeth. They nip at your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark. You feel the way they smile against your skin, feel the way they hum in satisfaction, like they love marking you up.

“Want my hands on you?” A little squeeze at your hips. “Y’gotta tell me where.”

Their fingers press in slow, teasing, just barely skimming where you need them most. It’s intentional, the way they hold back, the way they make you feel every inch of the wait.

“Fuck,” you breathe, hips twitching, chasing the contact, but they don’t give in. Not yet.

They chuckle, low and dark, a sound that sinks into your skin. “So impatient,” they murmur, dragging their knuckles up your inner thigh, agonizingly slow. “Y’been thinking about this, huh? How long?”

Their words feel like a game—like they already know the answer but want to hear you say it anyway. You swallow hard, your breath uneven as you try to focus, try not to let them see how wrecked you already are.

Their lips return to your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse, while their hand—fuck, their hand—finally moves where you need it, fingers pressing firm and knowing. A sharp gasp leaves you, your head tilting back against the bike, exposing more of your throat to their teeth, their tongue.

“That’s it,” they murmur against your skin, voice thick with satisfaction. “Take what y’need, angel.”

And then they press in deeper, their touch turning slow and deliberate, coaxing out every little sound they can pull from you. Their other hand drags up your side, pushing beneath your shirt, fingers spreading wide as if they want to feel every inch of you.

It’s overwhelming—the heat of their body against yours, the steady rhythm of their touch, the way they watch you, like they want to memorize every reaction, every shudder.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” they rasp, pressing their forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips. “Could keep you like this all day.”

And from the way they’re touching you—like they have no intention of stopping—you’re starting to think they mean it.

You're not sure when you started shaking. Maybe it was the moment they first pressed you down against their bike, the cold metal sharp against the heat pooling in your stomach. Maybe it was when their lips barely grazed yours, teasing, promising, making you desperate. Or maybe—fuck—maybe it was when their hands started to roam, those strong, practiced fingers dragging slow over your skin like they were memorizing every inch of you.

And now? Now you’re undone.

They’ve got you caged in, their body flush against yours, their hands firm but patient as they press against your stomach, fingers spreading wide, palms warm as they pull you closer like they don’t want a single inch of space between you. Their breath is heavy against your lips, teasing, tempting, but they don’t kiss you yet. Not properly. They’re waiting. Watching.

They love watching.

“Y’know how fuckin’ pretty you are?” they murmur, dragging their fingers lower, pressing into the soft dip of your stomach, just enough to make you feel the possessive weight of their hands. “Could spend all night just lookin’ at you like this.”

Their words make something tighten low in your gut, an embarrassing whimper slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Their smirk sharpens, dangerous, and their hands move—one sliding down to squeeze your thigh, the other trailing up to your wrist, fingers brushing against your palm before lacing with yours.

Yeah. They love your hands too.

You feel the press of their lips against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, their tongue flicking out just slightly before they sink their teeth into the sensitive skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark.

“Mine,” they murmur, voice a little rough, a little distracted, as if the word just slipped out without them meaning to say it.

Fuck.

Your breath stutters as they lean in, their teeth dragging over your throat, nipping at the skin before soothing it with their tongue. They don’t stop there. They trail lower, their mouth finding your collarbone, then your chest, their hands still mapping you out, still pressing and teasing, like they want to touch everywhere at once.

Their grip tightens on your thigh as they spread you wider, their other hand still locked with yours, fingers squeezing tight. Their lips move lower, kissing a slow path down your stomach, mouthing at the sensitive skin, sucking, leaving marks, branding you as theirs.

"Y'feel so good," they breathe against your skin, voice thick with something raw, something real. "So soft. So perfect."

Their breath fans over your stomach, and they press another open-mouthed kiss there, their tongue flicking out to taste before their teeth sink in, leaving another mark—deeper this time. You shudder, a helpless moan slipping out, and they groan at the sound, their grip on your thigh tightening.

And then—fuck—then you feel it.

The cool metal of their piercing drags against your skin as they mouth lower, teasing, biting, before pressing their hips flush against yours, letting you feel everything. The sharp contrast of heat and steel makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in theirs, and they smirk, pleased with your reaction.

“You like that?” they ask, voice pure sin, hips rolling just slightly to let you feel the full weight of their arousal against you. “Y’like feelin’ how fuckin’ hard you make me?”

You whimper, head tilting back against the bike, but they don’t let you escape. Their grip on your hand tightens, grounding you, making sure you stay right here with them.

“Tell me,” they murmur against your stomach, lips brushing over each mark they’ve left, soothing, worshiping. “Wanna hear you say it, angel.”

Your breath shudders, your free hand moving to tangle in their hair, tugging just enough to make them groan. “EH- REDACTED? I love it.”

Their reaction is immediate. Their hips press against you again, firmer this time, more deliberate, letting you feel the piercing drag against you as they grind down slow, savoring it. Their mouth trails up, capturing your lips in a deep, heated kiss, their tongue teasing past your lips, taking, tasting, claiming.

“Good,” they breathe between kisses, pressing their forehead to yours, panting against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel. Just lemme take care of you.”

Got it. Buckle up.

The metal of the bike is cold against your burning skin, but you barely register it over the heat of him. [REDACTED] has you spread over his lap, thighs trembling where they bracket his, hands gripping the handlebars behind you for balance. You can feel him, hot and thick, stretching you open inch by inch—again. Your legs are shaking, overstimulated from how long he’s been toying with you, but he just won’t stop.

“Y’make the most lewd fuckin’ sounds.."

His voice is a slow, honey-thick drawl against your ear, and then—fuck

You try to turn your head away, but his free hand is already gripping your jaw, keeping you locked in place.

“Nuh-uh, angel."

He pulls you down hard against his lap, forcing every inch of him deep inside you, dragging that metal along your walls just like before. The sound you let out is shameless, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him.

“There it is,” he murmurs, smug as sin, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Knew I could make y’sing like that again.”

His hips roll slow, lazy, dragging out every second of your torment. You can feel every piercing along his cock, the cool bite of metal making you jolt, overstimulated and desperate, but he’s barely even paying attention to you—like he’s just using your body for his own pleasure.

“Look at how fuckin’ good y’look on my cock,” he drawls, watching your reflection in the mirror across the garage, watching your lips part and your lashes flutter as he thrusts up again. “You were practically droolin’ before. Y’must love bein’ stuffed full, huh?”

You whimper, but that’s not enough for him.

“Go on. Say it.”

He punctuates the command with a sharp snap of his hips, grinding you down so deep you feel him press against that perfect spot inside you, and your head thumps back against his shoulder.

“I—I love it,” you gasp, back arching, thighs squeezing around his waist.

His chuckle is low and dangerous, and then his mouth is on you—kissing, sucking, nipping at the base of your neck as he starts rolling his hips in earnest.

“My angel always does such a good job,” he purrs, barely above a whisper. His hands trail down your thighs, squeezing, teasing, spreading you open just a little wider. “Y’already know that, don’t you?” His fingers dip between your legs, pressing just where you need it most. “’Course y’do. Can feel you squeezin’ around me right now.”

Your fingers dig into his arms, nails leaving little half-moon imprints in his skin as you rock against him, chasing your high, but he tsks, stopping all movement entirely.

“Ah-ah. Not yet.”

You whimper, hips stuttering in desperation, but he just smirks.

“Be patient, angel.” His hands slide back up to your chest, pinching, teasing, making you whine. “Y’can cum when I say so.”

And if you start rutting against him for friction, panting and desperate, he just chuckles, smug and infuriating.

“Look at you. Y’just can’t help yourself, huh?” His breath is hot against your ear, teasing, taunting. “S’alright. S’what I made you for, ain't it?”

And when you finally fall apart—when you finally shudder and break, crying out his name as your whole body trembles—he groans, dragging you down hard against his cock, pushing himself as deep as he can go.

“Fuck,” he rasps, breathless for the first time all night. His hands slide up, one tangling in your hair as the other grips your hip, keeping you locked in place, making sure you feel everything. “Y’took me so fuckin’ well.”

His lips press against the curve of your jaw, almost tender, before he murmurs, “Y’did so good for me, angel. So, I’ll let you pick.”

His fingers trail down your stomach, teasing, possessive.

His words curl around your brain like smoke, thick and intoxicating, clouding out anything but him. Your breath stutters—just enough hesitation for his smirk to sharpen.

“Aw, angel.” His voice is a slow, rolling drawl, lazy and smug. “Y’can’t even pick, huh?”

His fingers drag along your stomach, teasing, possessive. The motion sends a shiver straight down your spine, your overstimulated body twitching in his grip. You’re still stuffed full of him, stretched wide and trembling, but he waits. Like he enjoys watching you struggle to speak, to even think through the haze he’s wrapped you in.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your temple, deceptively soft. “Which d’ya want more?”

Your mouth opens, but all that escapes is a shaky breath. His fingers flex against your hip, gripping, kneading—waiting. And then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips.

The noise that leaves you is barely human.

“Fuck—”

The sound of his chuckle is all teeth.

“There it is.”

His hand slides up your throat, tilting your chin so he can watch you—your dazed eyes, your parted lips, the way your body twitches at every lazy, deliberate grind of his hips. His gaze is half-lidded, burning, drinking in every inch of you.

“Feels good, don’t it?” His voice is syrup-thick, dragging down your spine like a physical thing. “Being stretched open like this, takin’ everything I give you…”

You swallow, barely nodding—too lost in the heat, the weight, the slow, devastating drag of him inside you. And he sees it.

His grip tightens.

“Y’can’t even fuckin’ talk, can you?”

You shake your head, eyes slipping shut, body keening against him. He hums, low and satisfied, kissing just below your ear.

“Don’t worry, angel.” Another slow thrust, dragging against that perfect spot inside you, making your whole body jolt. “I’ll decide for you.”

He shifts, pressing deep, locking you against him—and stays there, buried to the hilt, his breath warm against your neck.

“Be good,” he murmurs. “And take it.”

And then—heat. Possession. His arms tighten, his breath shudders, and you feel him let go—deep, slow, branding you from the inside out.

He groans against your skin, dragging his teeth along your pulse, and fuck—he doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull out, just keeps you there, completely filled, his cock still throbbing inside you.

“Guess we gotta keep goin’ till.."

His fingers trail down, smearing sweat across your skin, touching and teasing as he shifts beneath you—still hard, still inside.

And from the way his smirk curls against your jaw, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, kneading, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Your whole body shudders as he grinds against you, still buried deep, his cock twitching with every shaky breath you take.

“Fuck, angel,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “Takin’ me so well—so fuckin’ deep—”

His hips roll, pressing just a little further, like he’s testing how much more you can take. The stretch is already too much, your body trembling against him, but the way he stays inside, stuffed to the hilt, makes you feel—

“Bet y’d look so good like this all the time.”

Your breath stutters.

He hums against your skin, slow and teasing. “All full of me. Carryin’ my cum inside that pretty little hole, leakin’ down your thighs…”

His fingers dip lower, just barely brushing over the mess he’s already made of you. A whimper slips out, and his smirk sharpens.

“Mm. Maybe I should make sure it sticks.”

You don’t even have time to process before his hands are gripping your hips tight, tilting you just right—before he thrusts up in one slow, filthy motion, grinding deep, making sure every drop of his cum stays right where he put it.

Your whole body jolts, overstimulated and trembling, but he just grins.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your jaw, pressing lazy kisses to your flushed skin. “Think I wanna see you full of me all the fuckin’ time.”

He rolls his hips again, still slow, still teasing, but his breath is coming rougher now, his grip tightening.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low purr against your ear. “Let me fuck you open every night, make sure you’re stuffed full—”

His fingers trail down your stomach, possessive, like he can already see it, like he wants to see it.

“Y’gonna let me breed you, angel?”

Your whole body clenches around him, and his groan is pure sin.

“…Yeah,” he breathes, voice all heat and hunger. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he moves.

Slow, deep, pushing you down to take him as he fucks his cum further inside, groaning at the way you twitch and shake, overstimulated but still so needy. His hands roam, pressing you close, dragging his nails down your sides like he’s marking his claim.

“Gonna fill you up every fuckin’ time,” he murmurs, lips trailing over your pulse, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Till y’can’t even think of anyone else.”

"But, I- only think of you all the time.."

His grip tightens instantly. The second those shaky little words leave your lips, he stills—buried deep inside you, chest rising and falling against your back, hands locked around your waist like he needs to hold you there.

“…Say that again.”

His voice is lower now, rougher. Almost dangerous in how sweet it sounds—like he’s barely holding himself back.

You swallow, thighs trembling where they bracket his. “I—” Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deep, like he’s savoring the way you squeeze around him. “I only think of you—only you—all the time.”

That does it.

A sharp, ragged breath escapes him, his fingers digging into your skin. His control—his usual lazy drawl, that smug, taunting dominance—cracks.

“…Fuck.”

And then he moves.

Not slow this time. Not teasing.

This is needy.

Desperate.

Like you just shattered something inside him, and now he needs to prove it—to seal that claim inside you, make sure you never even consider anyone else.

His pace turns messy, all deep, rolling thrusts and ragged groans against your ear. He’s so worked up, so fucking sweetly possessive, whispering between every shaky breath:

“Mine.”

“You’re mine.”

“No one else gets you like this.”

“Fuck—no one else even knows you like this—”

His hands roam, clutching, nails scraping your thighs, your hips, your stomach, like he wants to mark you with every touch. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your shoulder, pressed to the shell of your ear, murmuring between ragged gasps:

“You’re made for me.”

“Fuck—feel that? So deep inside you, fuckin’ claiming you—”

And then he loses it.

He slams into you, grip tightening, burying himself as deep as he can go—and he breaks, moaning into your skin as he spills inside, body shuddering with the force of it.

But even after he’s spent, even when his breath evens out, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, keeping you full, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles against your neck, still murmuring in that soft, wrecked voice:

“No one else.”

“Only me.”

“You promise, angel?”

And when you nod—when you whisper, "Only you, always,"—he sighs, pressing a kiss against your pulse.

“…That’s my good fuckin’ angel.”

His breath shudders against your skin, lips tracing the curve of your jaw as he stays inside you, keeping you locked against his chest, filled, owned. His hands, still trembling from the aftershocks, roam your body—soft now, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

And then, in a voice so quiet, so wrecked it barely sounds like him, he murmurs:

“We belong to each other, don’t we…?”

His grip tightens, pulling you closer, like he needs to hear you say it—needs you to confirm what he already knows.

You nod, dazed and pliant against him. “Y-yeah…”

But that’s not enough.

He tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes in the dim light of the garage—dazed, dark, utterly consumed by you.

“Mind,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your temple.

“Body,” another kiss, lower now, lingering against your cheek.

“Soul,” a gentle bite against your pulse, like he’s branding the words into you.

Then, lower—his hands sliding down your stomach, possessive and warm, pressing against the soft swell where he knows he’s still buried deep inside.

“…Everything.”

He groans, grinds against you just to feel it again, to make you squirm in his lap. His voice turns desperate, aching as he breathes against your ear:

“Your hole—fuck—your whole self—”

He kisses you then, messy and hungry, like he wants to swallow you whole, drag you even deeper into him until there’s nothing left between you.

He’s obsessed with watching you. The way your eyes flutter, the way your breath catches, the way your body reacts to every little thing he does. It’s intoxicating. Addictive. He needs to see it—needs to know exactly what makes you shudder, whimper, beg for more.

That’s why his favorite positions always keep you close. Always let him watch.

Missionary, but with your wrists pinned above your head, fingers entwined as he rolls his hips slow, deliberate, drawing out every little noise you make. He’ll whisper filthy things against your lips, drinking in every reaction, every quiver, every desperate squeeze around him.

Lotus, with you straddling his lap, chests pressed together, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He loves the way you tremble in his hold, loves how deep he can go like this, how your body reacts so perfectly to every slow, deliberate thrust. Loves when you bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting down to muffle the sounds—he always grins when you do, his voice a husky tease in your ear:

"Y'don’t gotta hide from me, angel. Wanna hear every fuckin’ sound y’make."

And when you do let go, when you whimper his name in that breathless, wrecked voice—that’s when he loses it.

It’s never just about the act for him—it’s about you. About making you feel so thoroughly ruined that you never want to be anywhere else but here, tangled up with him, hands clasped, bodies moving as one.

His voice is a breathy, wrecked whisper against your lips:

“Look at me, angel. Wanna see your face when you fall apart for me.”

The second the words left your lips, the moment that trembling, breathless "I love you, [REDACTED]—" spilled from your mouth, everything changed.

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, chest heaving against yours like you’d just knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, just a second, he didn’t move—just stared, eyes blown wide, lips parted, the slow realization of what you said crashing over him.

Then he broke.

A shuddered breath, a groan, and suddenly his arms were around you, crushing you against him, face buried in your neck. His body trembled—he trembled. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, and then—fuck—he was whimpering, voice cracking as he choked out,

“Say it again.”

His hands tightened—one gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go, the other threading through your hair, pulling just enough to make you arch against him. His lips pressed to your skin, open-mouthed and desperate, his breath hot as he begged,

“Say it again, angel. Please.”

Your fingers curled against his back, nails digging into his skin, and you gasped as he rolled his hips deep, so deep it sent white-hot pleasure curling through your core. And even though you could barely breathe, barely think, you still gave him what he wanted.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I—I love you, I love you, I love y—ahh—”

He snapped.

A sharp, choked sound spilled from his throat—half-groan, half-sob—and then he was fucking you like he was trying to ruin you, like he wanted to carve your words into his soul. He didn’t care about pace, didn’t care about teasing, didn’t care about anything except chasing that feeling, that overwhelming, all-consuming rush of belonging that had his vision going hazy.

“You—fuck, you love me—” His voice cracked, rough, wrecked, like he couldn’t even believe it. “You—you really—ah—”

You felt something wet against your shoulder, and that’s when you realized—he was crying. His body shuddered with every thrust, every ragged breath, every desperate whimper he tried to swallow down. His fingers laced with yours, squeezing tight, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“I love you,” he rasped, voice breaking as he slammed himself deeper, dragging you closer, closer, closer. “Love you, love you, fuck—I need you—”

And then he ruined you.

The sheer desperation in his voice, the overwhelming emotion in the way he held you, the way his body trembled with each ragged thrust—it sent you over the edge so hard you screamed. Pleasure crashed over you in an electric wave, body convulsing against his, vision going white, mind shattering as he fucked you through it, chasing his own high.

The moment you tightened around him, he broke completely, moaning your name like a prayer as he buried himself deep, shaking, gasping, tears hot against your skin as he came hard, filling you with everything he had—everything he was.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just tangled bodies, heaving chests, skin slick with sweat, breathless, wrecked.

He held you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to your damp skin, hands tracing soothing patterns down your back. And when his breathing finally evened out, when his heartbeat slowed, he exhaled shakily, voice hoarse when he mumbled:

“Gonna make you say it every time, y’know that?”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he nuzzled into your neck, voice still thick with tears, still so incredibly soft.

“Need t’hear it. Need t’feel it.”

Then, with a slow, teasing roll of his hips, he hummed,

“Think y’can say it one more time for me, angel?”

He came for the last time...

His cum is thick, dripping slow and warm from between your legs, and [REDACTED] watches with a lazy, satisfied smirk, eyes half-lidded as he traces a slow, possessive hand down your stomach.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb dragging through the mess he made before pushing some of it back inside. “S’like your body don’t wanna let me go.”

His voice is deep, wrecked, still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s barely moved, still pressed against you, still inside you, his cock twitching at the way you whimper from oversensitivity. And even though you can feel him softening, you know he’s not quite done with you yet.

Because when he finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, he groans at the sight of his release leaking out of you, thick and white, dripping down your thighs. His fingers spread you open just a little, just to watch, to admire the way his cum still clings to your hole, and he lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle.

“Bet y’didn’t know that was one of my favorite sights,” he drawls, smug and easy, but there’s a hunger beneath it, something darker and deeper that makes his breath hitch. His fingers tease at your entrance, gathering up what’s spilling out before pushing it back in.

“Gotta keep you nice ‘n full, angel.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, but he just leans down, kissing your temple with something achingly tender.

“S’my favorite way to mark you,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your jaw, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Better than hickeys. Better than bruises. ‘Cause even if no one else can see it…” His breath fans warm over your lips.

“You’ll know it’s there.”

His hand lingers for just a second longer before he finally sighs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before rolling out of bed.

"Stay put," he orders, voice soft, indulgent, like he's speaking to something fragile.

You hear the rustling of fabric, the quiet drip of water, and then—warmth. A damp towel glides over your skin, gentle and slow, as he wipes away the evidence of everything he just did to you. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body all over again. And when he finally deems you clean enough, he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, tilting your face toward him.

“Y’good?”

His voice is quiet now, searching, scanning your features for any hint of discomfort. And when you nod—when you lean into his touch, pressing a sleepy kiss to his palm—his lips twitch into something almost fond.

“Mm. Good.”

Your whole body feels like it’s floating—boneless, weightless—except for the ache between your legs and the warmth still pooling deep inside you. You're barely clinging to consciousness, vision hazy, skin flushed, legs utterly useless after how hard he wrecked you. The bike’s cold metal bites against your overheated skin, but you barely notice—too busy trembling in his lap, still impaled on his cock, still dripping with him.

[REDACTED] presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, voice still thick and breathless as he rasps, “Look at that, angel…” His fingers trace slow, teasing circles over your stomach, dipping lower—just enough to feel the way his cum is seeping out of you, trailing down your thighs.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, like he can’t fucking believe it. His hand drags lower, gathering some of his release on his fingers, pressing it back in—slow, teasing, possessive. You jolt, over-sensitive and trembling, but he just smirks.

“Y’think you can walk?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Your limbs feel like jelly, muscles twitching in the aftermath of too many orgasms, and your hands are still gripping the handlebars behind you for dear life.

“Tch. ’Course y’can’t,” he murmurs, amusement curling in his voice.

And then, without warning, he lifts you.

A startled gasp tears from your lips as he scoops you up, arms firm and steady beneath your legs, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. His warmth envelops you, his scent thick in your lungs—leather, sweat, sex—and you can feel the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat where your head rests against him.

He carries you effortlessly, his grip firm yet careful, keeping you close. And fuck—there’s something so intimate about it. The way his fingers flex against your thighs, the way he presses a kiss to your temple without thinking, the way his breath hitches slightly when he adjusts you in his arms—like he just loves holding you like this.

His voice is softer now, a low, affectionate drawl as he hums,

“Think y’need a bath, angel.”

You barely have the strength to respond, just nodding weakly against his chest. He chuckles, shifting you higher in his arms, pressing you even closer.

“Don’t worry. I got you.”

His lips brush against your forehead, tender, lingering.

“I always got you.”

The bath had been too warm, too soothing, and between the exhaustion settling deep in your bones and the way [REDACTED] had kept tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh under the water, you'd nearly drifted off in his arms. He’d washed you—hands reverent, careful, like he was sculpting something delicate out of soap and steam—before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to the bedroom.

And then he’d leaned against the doorway, still damp from the bath, towel slung low on his hips, eyes dark

You'd barely had time to process before his hands were guiding you down, pressing you against the mattress, the cold air prickling against your freshly washed skin.

And fuck—he was so deep, stretching you all over again, hands gripping your hips as he fucked into you with slow, deep thrusts, dragging pleasure out of you until you were shaking beneath him, moaning into the sheets.

He’d taken his time—murmuring soft, possessive praise against your skin, watching the way your body took him, how it clung to him, milking him with every thrust until he finally spilled inside you again, filling you up just like before.

And even then, he hadn’t let you move.

He’d just stayed there for a moment, cock still buried deep, hands stroking down your sides as he hummed, pleased, murmuring something low and smug about "keeping you full for just a little longer."

And only when you whined—utterly wrecked and oversensitive—had he finally pulled out, chuckling at the way you shuddered, at the way his release dripped from you.

Now—

You’re in the kitchen, barely dressed, legs still unsteady as you focus on the dessert you’re making. [REDACTED] is behind you, clinging—all broad chest and heavy warmth, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles lazily into your neck.

“Y’ain’t gonna let me help?” he mumbles, voice still slow and drowsy with leftover satisfaction.

“You never help,” you tease, nudging him lightly. “You just stand there and hug me.”

A lazy smirk curls against your skin. “S’important job, angel. Gotta make sure you’re warm.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move to shake him off. If anything, you lean into him a little more, enjoying the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers flex gently against your stomach.

Then, without warning, you turn and press a kiss to his jaw.

His breath hitches.

Just a second. Just a tiny pause, barely noticeable—but you feel it.

And then he’s tilting your chin up, his gaze dark and unreadable as he leans in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried, indulgent, his tongue teasing against yours as he takes his time tasting you. His arms tighten around you, pressing you closer, like he never wants to let go.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he murmurs.

His fingers drift lower, toying with the hem of your clothes, dangerous in their intent.

"...Y'ever thought about letting me have dessert first?"

[REDACTED]’s breath catches. Their fingers twitch slightly in yours—scarred, burned, rough in all the ways that tell a story they’ve never spoken aloud.

You don’t press. You never do.

Instead, you lift their hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to each calloused knuckle.

Their face is unreadable—staring down at you, something flickering in their dark eyes, something raw, something fragile. Like they don’t know what to do with the warmth of your touch. Like it hurts.

And then, as you shift closer, your ring glints under the dim kitchen light. The matching band on their finger catches, too—two small, simple things, yet carrying the weight of a lifetime.

Childhood lovers. Meant to be.

Their grip tightens around your hand, just slightly. Just enough to tell you they’re holding on.

“…If you hadn’t taken his hand that day,” [REDACTED] murmurs, voice rough with something unreadable, “…would you have still said yes?”

Your heart aches at the memory.

That day, years ago—small hands reaching, fingers brushing, the quiet promise sealed with a ring—before Leon’s sneer cut through the moment, before cruel hands tore you away, before [REDACTED] had been left alone with nothing but the sting of rejection and the echo of their own heartbeat.

You squeeze their hand tighter. Hold it against your chest, where they can feel the steady rhythm beneath your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly. “Maybe my childhood self wouldn’t have understood love the way I do now.”

[REDACTED] swallows, jaw tightening.

“But…” You smile—small, warm, certain. “I’m happy that life gave me another chance with you.”

Something in them cracks.

They look at you—really look at you—eyes shining, throat working around words they can’t quite say. Their lips part, but no sound comes out, and then—then they just press forward, pressing their forehead against yours, squeezing your hand against their chest like they’re the one afraid you’ll disappear this time.

“…You love me?”

A whisper. A plea.

You cradle their face, thumb brushing over the dampness clinging to their lashes, and you whisper back—

“I love you, [REDACTED].”

And finally—finally—they let go.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of everything else.

[REDACTED] shudders—a small, barely-there breath that stutters in their throat, like they don’t know how to take in the weight of your words. Like they can’t believe they deserve them.

But you just hold them closer.

“Only you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to theirs. “The real you.”

Their fingers tighten around yours, almost desperate. You can feel it—the way their body tenses, the way their breath hitches, the way they struggle against something unseen.

“I’ll tell you this for the rest of my life,” you promise, voice steady, unwavering. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes. Just so you know.”

Their eyes flutter shut. Their lips part, like they want to say something, but no words come—just the smallest, strangled sound, like something breaking apart in their chest.

“You,” you whisper again, softer now. “The real you is the one I feel the happiest with.”

And that’s when they fall.

Not physically. Not in any way you can see.

But you feel it—the way their last defenses crumble, the way their breath shudders out of them, the way they just let go and sink into your arms, forehead still pressed to yours, fingers tangled with yours, body trembling as they clutch onto you like you’re the only thing keeping them together.

“…You’re not leaving,” they whisper, barely a sound.

“I’m not leaving.”

Their lips find yours—not desperate, not rough—just deep. Slow. Like they’re memorizing the way you feel.

You giggle at the way [REDACTED]’s eyes soften when you press the small cake piece to their lips. “C’mon, try it,” you coax, voice light, teasing. “I made it just for you.”

They huff, but there’s no real resistance—just a tiny, reluctant smirk as they take the bite from your fingers.

A pause. Then, their expression melts.

“…S’ good,” they murmur, lips still brushing against your fingertips. Their voice is softer than usual, almost boyish in its honesty. “Sweet… tastes like strawberries.”

You beam. “See! I told you you’d like it!”

Their gaze lingers on you—eyes half-lidded, warm, fond. And then, in one slow, deliberate movement, they lean in and press a kiss right to the tip of your nose.

It’s so soft, so unexpectedly sweet, that your breath catches.

And when they pull back, licking the last traces of cake from their lips, they hum lazily, “Mm. You’re sweeter, though.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

"Cheer up, angel," they say, voice dipping into that low, syrupy drawl. "Can’t have you lookin’ cuter than dessert itself.”

You’re definitely not blushing. Not even a little bit.

[swtheartz]

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

[fresne999]

Rant to follow, but here’s the thing. I worked my ass off in ‘24 to get anyone other than Trump elected. Like real world volunteering, not just social media posting. But also social media posting begging liberals to just show up. Course, come the election, a whole bunch of liberals didn’t show up.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t shake the sense that the same people bashing Tesla car owners are performatively doing some sort of liberal purity test that got us Trump in office.

So, let’s just start with I’m judging OP unfairly, but whatever.

I don’t know anyone who bought a Tesla because they had a + opinon of Elon. In the SF Bay, it’s very common to know someone who has been through the horrors working for Elon. Here’s the thing, the horrors are very common for anyone working for technology companies. That’s kind of how people thought about Elon. Horrible CEO in a sea of horrible CEOs.

I appreciate we were supposed to know that particular pile of shit was going to grow into a mountain, but we were focused on voting with our votes and pocket books on doing something about climate change instead. 

Twenty years ago, that meant lots of people were switching to hybrid cars. A decade ago that meant folks started switching to Teslas, because it was the first EV that was comparable to a regular gas car. Decent range, fast charging, and large enough to do car stuff. Sure, the Tesla UI is frankly horrific made worse by Elon choices, and there are huge swaths of country where they were targeted as *woke* cars, but it was the kind of capital investment towards green energy a normal person could make while also having a car that could function as a car. 

Fast forward to now, the tax incentives to buy EVs are gone, and switching cars isn’t easy on a normal household budget. So folks are buying stickers because they don’t want to get keyed or firebombed over a car they bought to do something about climate change while they figure out what to do next.

Want to trash talk Elon, great. Been doing it for years. Want to protest Elon, do it. In fact, there are protests going on all over. Here’s a substack containing a map and lists of protests

Want to really stick it to Elon, get involved in the Wisconsin Supreme Court election, because Elon is dumping tons of money fighting to flip the supreme court there conservative. Here’s a bunch of ways to get involved.  

Or this 20 minutes or 20 calls link. 

Want to take a long shot to help flip the house by flipping house seats in Florida, great idea.

Or don’t.

truly do not understand or sympathize with those "I BOUGHT THIS BEFORE HE BECAME A NAZI" stickers people have been putting on their Teslas because there has never been a point in time when he was doing even a halfassed job of appearing as a potentially Normal Guy. when he first started making waves in the news it was immediately obvious to anyone with half a brain that he was a dumbass who bought his way into every position he held because he doesn't know jack shit about technology. he started out as the stupid person's idea of a smart person and went downhill from there. if you ever held a positive opinion of him you should be ashamed of that and deeply investigate whatever personal shortcomings led you to that conclusion

[starheavenly]

I haven't read any of the TF comics, but who's roller? He's Locket supposed favorite uncle right?

I know, I'm terrible, and I haven't actually drawn Roller yet… So, long story short, a very, very old friend of Ratchet's!!!

He's also a little sweetie pie so 10/10 uncle.