#you're just pot and kettle

[marzipanandminutiae]

okay has anyone else dealt with extreme neat freak housemates? because I feel like I'm losing my mind

I'm not a dirty person, I'm pretty sure. a bit prone to clutter, but not actual dirt. I don't like for the house to be dirty. but there's just been a House Meeting called and when I went to ask the housemate who requested it what was going on- because I hate house meetings that I don't already know the purpose of; it feels like a Wait Until Your Father Gets Home situation and I don't even know what I'm potentially "in trouble" for

and basically they all feel that I'm leaving the kitchen "filthy"

"nobody wants to cook there because it's gross" was the exact quote

I feel like I'm losing my mind, because...I don't think I leave the kitchen gross? I wipe crumbs off the counter; I wipe up spills if and when they happen. the most I've ever noticed when I go in there is a couple of crumbs here and there, genuinely. or when I look over the kitchen after I finish up with a meal

(also this housemate once sent a picture to the group chat with like. five single, spread-out crumbs on the counter individually circled in red. but the thing is, everyone else seems to agree with her)

but I'm also very good at hating myself, so now I'm wondering if I AM somehow disgusting

and of course, my House Meeting tribunal has to convene at some point. the last one made me feel like everything I said was pointless because everyone else put up a united front and shot it all down, so I guess I'm headed for more of the same

[starving-mimi]

copies

and now as a sidenote, it's time for mimi rambling/ PSA ! (which might sounds dickish here and there)

I've seen an absolute sudden increase in "daily [characters] blog"[which consist, for those who don't know, of drawing a certain character or thing everyday (or trying to)] and as somebody who's been posting daily for over 2 years (if you ignore small breaks i took on rarer occasion here and there) I feel like I'm in a position where I can say things about these kinds of blogs.

if you're the owner of one of these kind blogs or think about making one, this message's for you

to current owners of such blogs:

do not FORCE yourself to draw/post everyday, much less MULTIPLE TIMES a day

even though it's the goal of these kinds of blogs, do not tell yourself that just because it has DAILY in the name, you NEED to post everyday. Use queue if needed, don't post if you don't feel like it.

You're going to burnout sooo quickly if you just draw slop because you don't want to skip a day, no one LIKES slop posts made just to fill in the day, trust me, i have many! No one is going to hunt you down for forgetting a day or even mention it to you or anything! (or at worse if you know you'll have a period of innactivity, make a post about it to your followers that you can later delete if you really want)

Don't try answering requests as soon as possible just because you don't want to "disappoint" people or whatever! you owe people nothing, and especially not a "quick reply", again, you'll burn out if you force yourself into doing people's request

also this might be more of a personal opinion, but, please keep it to posting once a day (or like twice if absolutely needed), if you're just going to post a ton a day, might as well just post to a main where you just so happen to also post daily (also lazier posts made only because you want to rush multiple drawings every day are just bruh.)

to people considering making one of these blogs:

honestly, don't. You want to challenge yourself into drawing everyday? Do that on your main blog! You have too many doodles/art and want to post it all? Post it on your main! Don't put yourself under the limitations of having a blog specifically for DAILY posting, especially for a SINGLE character. Even if you love a character, you WILL get bored/burned out/just out of ideas for what to even draw with only ONE character

Sure it's cool and everyone else is doing it, but you're also putting yourself under unnecessary stress and limits. Not only your art, but yourself will suffer of these limits eventually

You trust and know yourself enough to know you WILL post daily on that blog? AND won't let it take so much over your life and schedule that you feel terrible when you don't post/decide to abandon it? Then make one, who am i to stop you ig

You wanna make one on a whim because everyone else is doing it and it looks fun? But you don't know if you're going to actually hold up to posting everyday? Yet again, don't. Don't make one. Just post on your account, let people know you by your username, not because of some gimmick (like I mean, ppl know me as (starving-)mimi, not as "daily dst funny" or whatever, do you really want to be only known as "that person who draws [character] everyday" and not as yourself? If you do then ig go make one, but I think it's much nicer to be recognised for who you are than to be just known as "that person who draws a character daily")

tl;dr: don't put yourself under the curse of silly daily posting on a whim just because everyone else is doing it and it's the current trend, and don't post slop art just because you don't want to skip a day POST SLOP BECAUSE YOU WANNA TORTURE PEOPLE WITH IT BHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA cough, i mean. cough.

this might all seems very obvious, but i think people don't realise that daily posting isn't always as fun as it seems :')

TL;DR FOR THE TL;DR post daily cuz you got too much stuff to post that is just too good to all dump in a single post, not just because everyone else is doing it and you find the people daily posting cool and want to get in on the trend

[galarglory]

AITA for making my nemesisship w someone i hate w a blazing fury weird by kinda being into them. not that that matters. not like i wanna do anything about it.

Let me Take the Weight from your Heart

....People's AITA threads on Reddit sure are fascinating. Well ANYWAY that's enough Reddit for the day! Just gonna close the app.

[brainrotcharacters]

"Whoever you think I am, you've got the wrong guy" bitch I know why do you think I'm sure you'll help

[fated-addiction]

Your ability to write fic after fic is kind of insane. You are so talented. How do you come up with all these amazing story ideas?

Stress lmao.

But seriously, thank you! That's so sweet of you. I honestly don't know? I think I really just write the things I want to read. Or I read a really terrible romance novel and go, "oh, erm, no?" and think about how I would fix it.

I can confirm, however, that the inside of my brain is a wild place. I think I'm just interested in a lot of different things and this is a way for me to put them into one space.

[eeldritchblast]

Could we maybe stop reblogging the "astarion is gay" post from LAST SEPTEMBER??? Yall, the point has been made. You are yelling at and being triggered by a dumpster fire that has been burning for months. Just let it go. Block ppl with bad tastes but dont put that shit on my dash AGAIN to make the same point AGAIN. PLEASE.

Apologies for not checking the original date on every post that comes on my dash //sarcasm

[pa-pa-plasma]

guy who was talking over the (critically acclaimed) show/movie & scrolling through his phone the whole entire time: yeah it was fine i guess. i don't get the hype

me: i am going to kill you in real life

[talentforlying]

@ohsunshine: i know people don't like me. / from jon tma — HOW TO BE EATEN STARTERS

' how d'you figure? the antisocial personality bit, or the gettin' people to gab about their life histories with yer fear powers bit? 'ard to say, meself. '

it's weird to think of the magnus institute as a place, sometimes, and not just as the beacon of claustrophobic magical reckoning that it radiates; as an office, with assorted people and politics, and not a massive fucking spotlight with a dozen extra bulbs attached. already the big bloody hub of weird shite incorporated, beholding unlimited, then tack on all the nasty little power games involved with bosses and contracts and coworkers seeing into your soul ... can't imagine it makes anyone any FRIENDLIER to each other. there's a reason constantine stays far, far away from that cesspit.

still, sometimes the solution's a lot simpler than it first appears. he tilts his head thoughtfully, taking a drag off his silk cut and holding it out invitingly to jon, before blowing out the smoke in a cloud of sage advice.

' ... y'ever consider not bein' a prick? i mean, no offense mate, but you don't strike me as a bloke with extraordinary people skills to start with. now, ordinarily i'd say fuck 'em, don't need to be liked, but ... in your position? could certainly fuckin' help. '

[damxnbaird]

Yes calling someone a slur should be at minimum a 5 week ban. Yes the bans for what's basically assault should also be increased from the 1-2 weeks at current. These thoughts can co-exist

[onehundredelevven]

Toji w/ preggy wife + out-of-this-world cravings

Toji stared at the counter. The ingredients you demanded sat before him like a challenge issued by the gods: instant ramen, whipped cream, peanut butter, and pickles. A lineup so vile it could send even the most daring chef into an existential crisis.

"Are you serious about this, or am I just getting pranked?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You sat on the couch, legs crossed, a pillow pressed against your baby bump as you gave him the most innocent look in return. "Dead serious."

"You want ramen topped with this… stuff? And you're gonna eat it."

"Yup."

Toji groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. Of course, you had to pick this moment in your pregnancy to throw curveballs at him. The man was many things—an ex-hitman, a gambler, a loving yet blunt husband—but a gourmet chef? Not so much.

Still, he got to work. He boiled water, ripped open the ramen packet, and eyed the whipped cream like it might explode if he got too close. The sound of the kettle whistling filled the silence, but your voice broke through soon after.

“Don’t forget to add peanut butter! Like a lottt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, spooning a glob of it into the pot and stirring like his life depended on it. The smell was… not great. Toji’s nose wrinkled in pure, unfiltered disgust. “You sure this ain’t gonna poison the kid?”

“It’s what the kid wants, Toji. I’m just the messenger,” you quipped.

When it was finally done—complete with pickles carefully arranged on top—Toji approached you with the steaming bowl in hand. He hesitated, watching your excited expression as you reached for it.

“I can’t believe you’re actually gonna eat this. You’re insane,” he muttered, plopping down beside you on the couch.

“Hey, you married me,” you shot back, grabbing the bowl and digging in with absolutely no hesitation.

Toji watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, as you slurped up the ramen, the whipped cream melting into the broth in a way that should’ve been illegal. He leaned back, arms crossed, still trying to wrap his head around the scene.

“This is actually amazing,” you said between bites, offering him the spoon. “Wanna try?”

He recoiled immediately, glaring at you like you’d suggested he jump off a cliff. “Not in a million years, woman.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t knock it ‘til you try it!”

“Yeah, well, I’ll take your word for it.”

Despite his grumbling, he stayed by your side, handing you napkins, fetching water when you needed it, and even cleaning up after you finished. Disgusted or not, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d let you handle it yourself.

Later that night, as you snuggled into him in bed, you mumbled, “Thanks for putting up with me. And the weird cravings.”

Toji pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting protectively on your belly. “Tch. Don’t mention it. Just don’t ask me to eat that crap.”

But even as he complained, you knew he’d do it all over again if it made you and the baby happy.

[bi-writes]

can we have like a pov of like what MOB would do if something did happen to simon..? luv you!

mail-order bride

your tea is cold when you pick it up to drink it. it burns you, how cold it is, and you cough a little as you set it down, grimacing as you wipe your lips.

maybe it's just one of those days. the rain is hitting a little too hard against the window. the cats have been restless. the dark one shredded your yoga mat by clawing at it under a doorway, and the orange tabby managed to knock over all of simon's plants from the windowsill (which you frantically put back inside their little pots--would plant murder be his last straw?). you left a red shirt in when you washed the whites (you apologized to all of simon's white tees), and when you noticed holes in your favorite sweats in a pattern that matched a cat's claws, you called it a day and decided to make tea (another fail).

you rub your pounding head, taking a deep breath, but you aren't given long to count down from five when your phone begins to ring.

you pick it up, not recognizing the number, but you put it to your ear as you get up to boil more water.

"hello?"

a throat clears on the other end. "do i have mrs. riley 'ere?"

you frown, leaning your hip against the kitchen counter as you turn a burner on and put the kettle over it.

"uhm...yeah. this is she," you say finally. you look at the clock; it's late, much too late. "who is this?"

"this is john. ah...captain john price, ma'am."

you clench your jaw, closing your eyes. "um...i'm sorry, i...what can i do for you? simon's not--"

"we had to call for medevac," john says lowly. "ahh...should be headin' into surgery soon. i--"

"wait--what?" you cough a little, shutting the stove off, and you're scrambling as you make your way to the bedroom. he's talking again, you realize, but you can't hear what he's saying. your eyes are moving around the room, and you frantically start to pull drawers open, grabbing a sweater, jeans, actual clothes to put on. you shed your pajamas, hopping as you slide your jeans on, and he's still talking, but you still hear nothing.

you run into the dresser, the furniture rattling, and you let the phone go, realizing you can't see because there's tears blurring your vision. you wipe them away, looking around for your purse, and when you realize what this is, an emergency--right?--you head for the bookcase in simon's study.

you toss a few books down onto the floor, your hands shaking as your fingers curl around the spine of a leather bible. you set the book down on simon's desk, flipping through the pages before you find your prized paper nestled between the pages of the book of john.

you head back to the bedroom, picking up the phone again, and you shakily dial the number that's on the back of the card. you take a seat on the bed (because where would you go anyways?), and you close your eyes as you wait for someone to pick up.

it rings for too long. you gasp a little, clutching the phone tight, and you beg for someone to pick up, please, please, please--

"'ello?"

"johnny--" you hiccup, standing up. "johnny, he...he told me--"

"wha--who--" on the other end, johnny shouts at someone to get a move on, "--bleedin' christ, who is this?"

"it's me," you whisper. "i'm...simon's--"

"ach...fuckin' hell..." there's a long, deep sigh on the other end. "oi, lass, listen, he's alright--"

"he's...b-but someone said surgery."

"right, i..." he sighs again, and you hear a door shut on the other end. "ye sit tight, luv. i'll come get ye, okay?"

you sniffle, wiping your face, "just tell me he's gonna be okay. tell me i'm worrying for nothing."

johnny chuckles a bit, and the sound soothes you just enough. "gonna be alright. lad's fuckin' dramatic, i'll tell ye tha', big brick fuckin' stepped in front of--"

"okay, johnny, please don't tell me how simon almost killed himself and get your ass over here, okay?" you snap, and johnny halts his laughing.

"right, yeah, forgive me." you hear the rattle of keys. "'m coming."

"mrs. riley?"

your head lifts up. you blink the sleep out of your eyes, rubbing them gently, and there's a petite woman in scrubs smiling at you with her mask hanging around her neck. you have two sergeants at either side of you, captain price settled leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. you have a blanket around your shoulders, and when you slip it off, johnny takes it from you gently.

"you can see him now."

you get to your feet, and when you pass simon's captain, he tips his hat at you respectfully. you hurry and follow the doctor down the hall, and when you see simon's name scribbled on a makeshift sigh on the wall, you eagerly pick up the pace until the door is opened for you.

he looks peaceful laying there. the monitors beep quietly around him, little wires and tubes falling around him, and you let out a breath when you see him blink those dark eyes awake blearily.

"tha' an angel?"

you start to cry. "you're such an asshole."

you come close to the side of the bed, taking his outstretched hand, and you clutch his big hand to your chest. you curl his hand into a fist, pressing your face against the back of his hand, kissing his knuckles there gently. he uncurls his fingers and wipes at your tears gently, shaking his head.

"gave ya a right scare, didn't i?"

"yes, you dickhead," you sniffle, and simon chuckles lowly, wincing a little as he clutches his lower stomach. you use your foot to bring the chair behind you closer, taking a seat in it as you look up at him. he turns his head to face you, giving you a pained smile, and you let out the breath you've been holding since johnny came to get you. "what's the matter with you, simon?"

"shit happens."

you try not to roll your eyes, but the anger is not lost on simon. he squeezes your hand gently, his eyes flicking up to the clock, and he grimaces when he realizes it's nearly six in the morning. you must have been here all night, waiting for him.

"is this how it's gonna be?" you ask in a whisper. when he meets your eyes again, it's more difficult this time. what you're asking isn't predictable. it isn't a straight answer. and if he gives you anything that isn't the truth, it feels like a lie, and he can't do that to you. "w-waking up in the middle of the night? hoping that the call isn't...that...hoping that--"

"not that simple," simon interrupts gently.

"well, make it simple, simon," you say firmly. even through your tears, your voice doesn't shake this time. "make it very simple for me, then."

simon purses his lips, and for the first time since you've met your husband, he hesitates. he doesn't have an answer, at least a good one.

"don't wanna lie to ya, swee'eart," simon murmurs, and you stare right back at him.

"then don't."

he sucks on his teeth, looking away, and you tug on his hand, pulling his eyes back to you.

"look at me, simon," you say, and he looks sad. he's going to tell you something that you won't want to hear. he's going to tell you something that's been the truth since he enlisted, a reality that never bothered him until he realized he had a responsibility to keep a roof over your head. there's someone waiting inside of his house. there's a place that's waiting for him on one side of the bed he shares with you. there's someone else's shoes always next to his, and someone else's name that will always be beside his own.

family.

he has a family.

"i'll try and keep ya outta here," is all simon murmurs. you smile at that. it's a promise, but he won't lie to you. always honest, your husband. he tells you things as they are. he doesn't pretend. everything with simon is the truth as he presents it, and it's eerily comforting, even if the truth isn't one that you like.

"i love you, simon," you whisper, and when you touch his face finally, the sting of the gold of your wedding is a welcome distraction.

he vows to make this the last time you see him this way. nothing is worth seeing that face of yours like this--tired, disheveled, the angry crease in your brow. you're not meant for these things. for the waiting, the crying, the worry, it's not a life he meant to give you.

for a moment, he wonders if you'd ever ask him.

will you hang it up for me? will you leave for me?

the most terrifying part, he realizes, is that he isn't sure of what his answer would be. and he isn't sure of what you would do if he told you no.

[kissesz]

𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞

sevika x f!reader | modern au

warnings: see above. mdni. f!sub!reader. dom!sevika. car sex. public sex (but no witnesses). messy & needy & filthy. vaginal fingering. older woman/younger woman, age gap. praise kink. begging. emphasis on begging. teasing. dirty talk. developing relationship. first time together. resolved sexual tension. pet names. vulgar. smoking. sharing a cigarette. kissing. explicit sexual content.

summary: halfway between zero and sixty, ‘nice to meet you’ and ‘make me yours’. is it considered a hookup if you get laid on the first date?

notes: love and hugs, this is pure sex. again. always.

This woman was temptation with bared, carnassial teeth.

You watched, transfixed, as Sevika took another languid drag of her cigarette, ember painting her features in shades of burnished ochre beneath the flickering streetlight. Dusk bled the sky in streaks of bruised violet, casting the gritty outskirts of LA in stark, angular shadows—forged of unyielding chrome and gunmetal, as hard and uncompromising as the city itself.

"You coming or what?" Her voice, low and smoky, snapped you from your reverie. She leaned against her matte black, '98 Carrera Cabriolet, all long limbs and coiled strength, a panther in repose. The car suited her—powerful, sleek, with barely restrained danger. Not ostentatious, but undeniably commanding. Like her.

You shook your head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Depends. You gonna tell me where we're going yet?"

A ghost of a smirk slashed across her mouth. "Where's the fun in that?"

Rolling your eyes, you pushed off the graffiti-splashed brick wall, gravel crunching beneath your boots as you crossed the narrow alley. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a flair for the dramatic?"

She scoffed, twin plumes of smoke unfurling from her nostrils. "Pot. Kettle. Et cetera."

But there was a glint of amusement sparking in those inscrutable dark eyes, softening the usual implacable steel. For a fleeting moment, with silk tie loosened and crisp shirt unbuttoned at the collar, she almost looked approachable. Almost.

Possessed by a sudden surge of boldness that still surprised you, you reached out and plucked the smoldering cigarette from her fingers. Her scarred brow quirked, but she made no move to stop you as you took a deep drag, the acrid nicotine hitting the back of your throat like a sucker punch.

It tasted like her—bitter and earthy with a lingering aftertaste that clung to your tongue. Everything about Sevika was edged with latent threat, from the jagged scar slicing down her cheek to the cybernetic arm gleaming dully in the guttering half-light. She wore raw menace like others wore subtle perfume, an unspoken warning: look, but don't touch.

And yet, here you were. Touching. Toeing lines you'd never dared approach before. There was something about her—an inexorable gravity, a magnetic pull you were powerless to resist, no matter how hard you tried.

Maybe it was the way she looked at you—like she could see right through your bravado to the fragile thing beneath. Like she knew precisely how to break you, splinter you apart piece by piece, but chose not to. There was heady power in that restraint, in the tightly leashed tension coiling. It thrilled you as much as it terrified you.

"You're staring."

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks as you realized you'd been doing just that, entranced by the play of light across the cut-glass planes of her face. Her lips quirked in a wolfish grin—a quick flash of teeth that sent liquid fire rushing through your veins.

"Just admiring the view," you quipped, hoping she couldn't see you blush, even in the forgiving dimness.

She plucked the cigarette back from your suddenly nerveless grasp, taking one last deep drag before grinding it out beneath her heel. "Get in."

It wasn't a request.

The rich leather seat was cold against your bare thighs as you slid in, the heavy door thudding shut behind you with an ominous finality that made your heart skip and stutter behind the cage of your ribs. Sevika slid behind the wheel, all whipcord muscle and self-assurance. The engine growled to life like a hungry beast, the vibrations echoing the mounting tension singing beneath your over-sensitized skin.

With a squeal of tires, she peeled away from the curb, the lurid neon signs and sputtering streetlights blurring into streaks of smeared color as you gained speed, leaving the grime and decay of the city behind. The radio hummed low, jazz spilling from the speakers to curl around you—a bluesy croon extolling the virtues of bad love and worse choices that felt all too fitting, here in this charged liminal space.

"So," you ventured, the first to break the tingling silence, "is kidnapping a typical first date activity for you?"

Her laugh was a gravelly rasp, a sound that scraped down your spine like nails across a chalkboard. "You came willingly, doll. Hardly a kidnapping."

"Maybe I just have a troubling lack of self-preservation instincts."

"Nah." She spared you a penetrating sidelong glance, those fathomless eyes flickering over you in a way that made your skin prickle with tactile heat, every hair standing on end. "You've got instincts. Good ones. S'why you're here."

Your breath caught. There it was again—that uncanny sense that she could see right through you, deep down to the marrow of your bones, peeling back all your pretenses and posturing to lay bare the truth of you, quivering and exposed. It was unnerving. Terrifyingly vulnerable and viscerally, undeniably right.

As the minutes slipped by marked only by the purr of the machinery and the yellow dashes slipping hypnotically by, the city fell away. Towering glass and steel skyscrapers and seedy, decrepit apartment blocks gave way to low-slung suburbs lined with sun-bleached picket fences, then to long stretches of brush punctuated only by the occasional lonely, leaning streetlamp. Out here, away from the press of humanity and the choking exhaust fumes, the air tasted different.

With each mile marker that fell behind you, it felt as if you were crossing some invisible threshold, leaving the crushing expectations and familiar dissatisfaction of your life in the rearview mirror as you ventured into uncharted territory.

Wasn't that what you'd wanted, after all? What you'd been craving, yearning for with every fiber of your being? To escape the slow suffocation of the neat, narrow path that had been laid at your feet like a noose around your neck? Out here, with the asphalt of the open road disappearing beneath you and Sevika at your side, you felt weightless and unmoored.

Free.

Sevika took the serpentine curves fast and tight—your heart hurried along with it, caught up in the thrill of velocity, of speed, of her. The rushing wind snatched the air from your lungs and tangled your hair, but you welcomed the burn, savoring every stolen gasp as if it were your last.

She drove like she did everything else—with preternatural precision and wild, reckless abandon. But there was a fluidity to her movements, something that spoke of hard-earned mastery, the kind that came only from raw, unfettered experience. Watching her shift gears, quicksilver flashing in the sporadic light—you felt a sharp, sweet ache unfurl deep in your abdomen. It was the ache of longing to be handled with such surety and confidence. To be touched, tasted, known like that: body, mind, and soul.

As if plucking the unspoken want directly from your racing thoughts, Sevika reached over, her hand finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh—the touch searing through the denim of your jeans. Slowly, deliberately, she trailed her fingers higher, skimming with agonizing precision along the trembling expanse of your thigh, growing ever closer to where you burned for her most. There was a promise woven into her teasing caress, a whispered question. Goosebumps rippled in her wake, your nerves singing at her nearness.

"Sev..." you managed, the name escaping on a ragged exhale even as your body arched helplessly into her touch. "I'm trying to be good here."

Her answering chuckle was downright unholy. "Overrated."

But she withdrew her hand, returning it to the wheel, leaving you empty and bereft. You felt the loss of her touch, your flesh crying out for the intoxicating drag of skin against skin.

All too soon and not soon enough, Sevika pulled off onto a secluded little overlook, the car settling into an idle. Below, the sprawl of the city stretched out, glowing, alive with nightlife. But here, balanced between heaven and earth, breathing air untainted by smog or sin, it seemed to belong to another world entirely. You felt as if you had slipped into a hidden haven of stillness—population consisting of only you two.

The silence that rushed in to fill the vacuum left by the slumbering engine was heavy, expectant. When Sevika swung herself out of the car, you followed, as if drawn by some invisible tether.

She leaned against the hood, ankles crossed, dark hair stirring in the breeze as she gazed up at the sky. You settled in beside her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her, the rapidly-cooling metal still warm against your back. This close, you could breathe all of her in—a scent you'd learned to crave like the most insidious drug.

"It's beautiful out here," you said softly, not wanting to break the tentative peace of the moment, that spell holding the rest of the world at bay. "Peaceful."

Sevika hummed in agreement. "Sometimes you need to leave things behind. Get some distance between you and the bullshit to see clearly. Gain a little perspective."

You turned the thought over and over behind your eyes, a faint frown tugging at your brow. "There’s something you're trying to get perspective on?"

She was quiet for the first time in a while, seconds stretching into eons in the yawning space between each inhale. Long enough for the first tendrils of doubt to curl around your hammering heart. When she did finally speak, her normally brash voice was threaded through with an uncharacteristic note of melancholy.

"Lots of things. The whole fucked-up mess of my past. My future." She flexed her prosthetic hand, digits curling into a fist, servos whirring almost imperceptibly in the silence. Her next words were barely a murmur. "You."

You froze, trepidation tangling into an impossible snarl, threatening to cut you open from the inside out. "Me?"

Sevika turned to face you then, eyes snaring and pinning you in place. "This thing between us...it's complicated, doll. For a whole lot of reasons."

"Doesn't have to be." The words tripped off your tongue, propelled by the reckless certainty buzzing through you like a sugary rush, like the sting of good bourbon on an empty stomach. "Not if we don't let it."

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards, the expression more wry than somber. "You’re young, sweetheart. But me? Got enough baggage to fill this whole damn car and then some." She gestured to herself. "You sure you want to saddle yourself with all that?"

You captured her metal hand in your own. Slowly, tenderly, never breaking eye contact, you lifted her hand to your lips, brushing the barest hint of a kiss over the ridged carbon-fiber knuckles. An unambiguous answer. A consecration.

"With you?" you whispered. Unafraid and sure despite the wild tarantella of your heart, you pulled her closer, until you could see the faint sunray-like pattern of molten silver lining her blown pupils. "Yes."

She sucked in an unsteady breath, eyes widening a fraction. Vulnerability, you realized. More naked and exposed than you'd ever seen her, more honest. She searched your upturned face for any hint of doubt, any flicker of hesitation. Found only quiet certainty in the resolute lines of your body, only affection and burgeoning devotion in the sweep of your gaze.

"Fuck, you're gonna ruin me," she breathed finally, voice roughened by a tangled snarl of need and fear and disbelief, the words equal parts aching and awed.

You felt your lips curve upwards helplessly. "Promise?"

Sevika loosed a broken sound, low and guttural and heavy with want. Then, her mouth crashed onto yours, hot and urgent and so impossibly soft you nearly wept from the rightness of it.

You met her with desperation all your own, the empty echo behind your ribs finally quieting as she filled in all your broken spaces, soothing long-untended aches with lips and teeth and tongue. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on her leather-clad shoulders, seeking against​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ the onslaught of sensation, the sheer relief of having what you'd yearned for so long finally, finally within reach.

She gathered you close, arm banding around your waist, and everything narrowed, coalesced into this single, shining point of collision, of completion. Nothing existed outside the slick heat of your twined tongues, the eager exploration of wandering hands, the delicious drag of stuttered breath in starving lungs.

Overwhelmed, drowning in sensation, you wrenched your mouth away to trail openmouthed kisses along the sharp line of her jaw. She arched into the touch like a cat, a grunt catching in the back of her throat as you nipped at her pulse, soothing the sting with lips and tongue.

Her hands found the hem of your shirt, skimming the fever-hot skin of your waist and earning a full-body shudder. Those clever, devastating fingers inched higher, tracing the dip of your spine, the jut of your ribs, leaving trails of tingles in their wake.

"God, Sev," you panted, voice cracking on a gasp as her thumb dragged heavy and purposeful over the swell of your breast, the lace separating flesh from flesh somehow more maddening than no barrier at all. "I want...I need–"

She hummed against your throat. "What do you need, baby?" She nuzzled beneath your jaw, lips and teeth worrying the thin, delicate skin there, hard enough to sting, to mark. To claim. "Tell me. Let me give it to you."

You tangled desperate fingers in her hair, short, silken strands slipping like cool water between your digits—tugged just shy of too hard, just to feel her sigh, to know she was just as affected as you. "You," you breathed into the scant space between your mouths. Cupping the back of her neck, you pulled her down into another searing kiss, licking your way past the seam of her lips to tangle your tongue with her own. "Just you."

Sevika's groan was ragged, muffled against your eager mouth. "Shit. You're so–you don't even know what you do to me. How I've wanted–"

She broke off on a shuddering exhale as your hand snaked between your flush bodies, palming the swell of her breast through the material. The delicate silk was warm from the heat of her skin, the stiff peak of her nipple an unmistakable indent against your palm. You circled the pebbled bud with the pad of your thumb, marveling at the shiver that rippled through her frame at the intimacy of your touch.

"Show me. Want to feel you, Sev, want your hands on me, want–ah!"

Your stream of babbled pleas stuttered to a halt as Sevika ducked her head, fastening kisses to the column of your throat with single-minded intensity. Her hand carved a path downwards, your abdominals fluttering and tensing beneath her touch. In response, you clutched her shoulders, nails digging into firm muscles, desperate for an anchor against the wave of pure sensation threatening to sweep you out to sea.

She didn't stop there—of course she didn't. Sevika had never been one to do things by halves. Fingertips found your nipples, already painfully tight and straining against your bra, and rolled them until you were gasping and writhing against her, hips canting in wanton invitation.

"Fuck," she rasped against you, the word a fervent prayer and a filthy promise. "Can't believe I get to touch you like this. Can't believe you're letting me..."

Her words shredded off into a throaty sound of satisfaction as you hooked one leg around the backs of her thighs, the repositioning changing the angle of your bodies until she was pressed tight and perfect against the aching center of you, separated only by a few torturous layers of fabric.

"God, need you inside, need you to fill me up, I–" Your fever-pitched begging deteriorated into a mewl as Sevika rolled her hips just so, the delicious friction against your swollen clit sending starbursts of color exploding behind your eyelids. You were so wet already that you could feel it smearing onto your inner thighs, a cooling counterpoint to the molten ache throbbing low in your gut. "Sev, please, I–"

"I've got you. Gonna take care of you, give you everything you need, pretty girl."

The words were whispered against the fragile skin behind your ear, shivering over nerve endings already raw and screaming for more. Pinning you with her weight, Sevika fumbled between your sweat-slicked bodies, making quick work of the fastenings of your jeans and shoving the clinging material down your thighs with almost feral urgency. Immediately, the night air kissed your overheated skin, but the momentary relief was quickly replaced by a deeper, sharper ache as she trailed a single teasing fingertip over the wet spot darkening the cotton of your panties.

"Look at you," she breathed, and the sheer reverence in the tone made your heart stutter and clench. "You're so wet for me already, aren't you, baby?"

Your only answer was a pleading moan, head tipping back against the cooling metal of the hood, eyes fluttering shut as you gave yourself over fully to chasing the intoxicating feeling of Sevika's hands on your body. A single digit traced along the elastic waistband of your panties before dipping lower to slide along your cloth-covered slit. She traced the seam of you, touch firm enough to send sparks skittering up your spine but too light to offer any true relief, and your hips twitched traitorously, seeking more of that delicious friction.

"Please," you managed, the word garbled and wavering. Your hands scrabbled at the short hairs at the nape of her neck, anything to ground you in the sensations threatening to consume you. "I need–need you to–"

"Need me to what?" she coaxed, nuzzling the hinge of your jaw, painting staccato breaths against the fever-heat of your skin. Her hips rocked against the cradle of your pelvis. "Use your words, beautiful."

"Touch me," you panted, the shameless need in your voice nearly unrecognizable to your own ears. "Fuck me, Sev, god, please, I–"

She smiled against your neck, a slow curl of approval that you felt like a physical touch. And then, before you could draw breath to beg, she was pushing your panties aside, parting swollen, slippery flesh to press firmly against the aching bud of your clit. White flashed behind your clenched eyelids at the first direct touch to where you were most sensitive, and you keened high in your throat, hips juddering helplessly against the exquisite pressure. Sevika didn't tease you further, seemingly just as desperate as you; her touch was purposeful, two fingers dipping down to circle your entrance teasingly before swiping back up to rub maddening circles around your throbbing clit, spreading the slick evidence of your arousal from slit to hood.

You lost time then, lost yourself too, perhaps—hands clutching convulsively at her shoulders, nails carving bright-hot crescents into her skin as she wrung pathetic, gasping cries from your lips, each one filthier than the last.

When she finally slid one long, calloused finger inside you, the intrusion was a revelation. Your body yielded to her with embarrassing ease, greedy muscles fluttering and clenching around her digit, trying to draw her deeper.

A second finger joined the first, stretching and filling—you whined, high and heady, back arching to meet her on every upstroke. The lewd, liquid squelch of her fingers pumping in and out of you echoed obscenely, sending a fresh rush of arousal through you. Sevika seemed to revel in it, in how wet and open and ready you were for her, crooking her fingers until you were riding the edge of her hand, the heel of her palm grinding perfectly against your clit with every measured thrust.

"Fuck, Sev, oh god, just like that, don't stop, please please please...." The litany fell from your lips unchecked, words tumbling over each other in your desperation. Your orgasm was so, so close, pleasure winding tighter and tighter with each pump of her fingers, each swipe of her tongue against the column of your neck.

"Not gonna last," you sobbed, hips hitching erratically against her hands. "M'gonna come, fuck, Sev, please–"

"That's it," she rasped, the words hot and damp against your ear. "Wanna feel you come apart on my fingers, baby, wanna feel you shaking and tightening around me when I make you scream. Give it up for me, come on, you can do it."

Her voice combined with the relentless pressure of her touch was too much, an assault on your senses that you had no hope of withstanding. Your release crashed into you, making every muscle seize and spasm as it swept you under. Distantly, you registered the drawn-out, wavering moan torn from your throat as you shook apart under her hands, but you were miles away, lost to the pulsing waves of rapture radiating out from your core.

Sevika coaxed you through it, murmuring filthy praise against your skin as she gentled her thrusts, drawing out your pleasure until it bordered on pain. You clung to her, face buried in the curve of her neck. She held you through the aftershocks, digits still buried deep inside you, touching you with a tenderness that made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

"Sev," you managed finally, voice thin and reedy with spent pleasure, muffled against the damp silk of her shirt. "That was..."

"Damn right it was," she finished softly, nosing against your hairline, your temple. "And we’re just getting started."

Carefully, she withdrew from the clasping heat of your body, and you shuddered at the loss, tipping your head up to seek her mouth blindly. She met you halfway, slanting her lips over yours—slow and sweet and devastating.

Addicting. Irresisitible. Exhilarating.

©️ kissesz

[frotting-corporations]

parents don't scream, sob, punch the table, rupture my eardrums challenge

[noheadcanons-juststories]

Vampire!141 x fledgling!reader, who was found abandoned and starved. intro

Ever since the Merge, all sorts and manners of creatures have made themselves comfortable in the realm that humans called home. While most were already longtime residents, others came from pockets, nooks, and crannies previously hidden from mortal eyes. Yet despite the efforts to peacefully integrate non-humans into human society, there have been instances of “unfortunate casualties”.

Like you for example. And with one of the worst you could've encountered: vampires.

There was a risk to living a solitary life in the countryside, in that no one would hear your cries for help. Not to mention some vampiric myths didn’t apply to the undead. Such as the “no entry without invite”, which led to you being attacked in your own home. The vamp who attacked you was only a few decades old. Experienced but no sage. His bloodlust controlled, but he lacked discipline for his age. He got the jump on you as you were entering your cottage, 6 pm sunset. An unfortunate circumstance. Took a bit too much and didn’t want to leave a dead body behind. More or less.

Afterwards, he was gone.

You spent the next few days isolated in your home. Laying in bed, clutching your stomach in pain as you starved. Emancipated and paler than you should be with your new complexion. You didn't call anyone, friends or family. Not that you had many left after you decided to go off-grid.

Not even your place of work. If you told them what happened, it would be over for you. Your boss was required by law to inform authorities of any “incidents” involving monster attacks. In your case, they would send someone from the Night Council to retrieve you. A fledgling without a sire is a disaster waiting to happen. You'll either be assigned to a “foster clan” or put down, depending on certain factors.

You hear that the latter is a common practice, as very few clans will take in a fledgling that isn't their own. Even then, it's not guaranteed that the clan will treat you well.

It's better to wither away, you tell yourself. Don't be a problem. Don’t be a burden.

Of course, your boss noticed your absence long before a month. The old man, a faun, had immediately taken a shine to you when you first walked in his shop, “Pots and Kettles”. You, a small thing, asking if he was hiring two years ago, perfectly timed after one of his employees moved out of town. You, one of his best baristas at the café, suddenly gone, without a call or a letter or a note.

Sweet and silent as you are, your missing presence was mourned.

He goes to your cottage within the week, ready to knock upon your door when he smells it. Like copper and rot, it lingers in the doorway. He calls for you, worried for your well-being, your health, you.

“Go away,” you tell him, your voice weak and quiet. “I'm unwell.” When he asks what happened, he's met with silence. He assumes the worst, and he's ready to put his training into use.

But he stops himself. If he calls the Night Council…

No, he won't do that to you. And he won't let you wither away.

You need care, support, and guidance, and he knows just the people to give it to you. They owe him a favor anyway. The old faun just hopes the contacts are still the same after so long.

It was two weeks later.

You're practically skin and bones. Your softness and weight, gone. Your eyes, deep crimson and sunken in. Your fangs, constantly itchy and in pain. And your stomach feels like blades, twisting and jabbing to carve out room for a meal that will never come.

Turns out that starving only amplifies the bloodlust, frantically urging the body to feed for nourishment. Yet despite the agonizing hunger and the creeping madness, you will yourself to remain home. Still wrapped in your bed sheets and letting yourself go to waste.

That was the plan.

Until a knock at your door sounded. Possibly the Night Council, you assume. Boss must’ve called them.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable, you force yourself off the bed, keeping the bedding wrapped around your body as you slowly creep to the front window. Peeking through the curtains, you see four gentlemen in odd gear. The one in the skull-plated mask catches your attention first.

They aren’t from the Night Council.

Another knock from the man in front then your name. “We know you’re at the door, kid. Just open up.” He’s got well-groomed chops and blue eyes with wisdom far beyond his visible years.

Enter the 141, a subclan of the MacMillan House. The old faun, a soldier in his youth before the brass booted him with honorable discharge, knew them in passing. The four men, with decades to centuries under their belt, were also let go, but they stayed in service with their loyalty to Lord MacMillan.

John Price, the elder and Captain, yet MacMillan's youngest. Simon Riley, Lieutenant and right-hand, second-oldest. Johnny MacTavish, Sergeant and tracker, a few decades younger than Simon. And the youngest, Kyle Garrick, also Sergeant and John's only progeny.

Countless years on and off the battlefield brought more than just friendship between them. It gave love, stability, and belonging. Which you would definitely be better off with.

next Masterlist

[mv1simp]

Kiss It Better ♥️

Max Verstappen x Friends w Benefits! Reader

no one else gonna get it like that, so why argue? You here, here to take it all back (kiss, kiss it better baby)

Work’s got you stressed. Lately, you’ve been ignoring friend’s messages, coming home late and haven’t had a home cooked meal in weeks. Max decides that as your friend, he needs to intervene and look after you…by taking your mind completely off work and completely onto him, instead. Turns out he's as good at it as winning F1 championships.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, friends to lovers, overworked girlboss! Reader basically gets overstimulated by Max hehe, dom/sub, size kink, praise kink, light bondage, choking, degradation kink, all the good stuff, WC 2.8k

Easy chatter buzzed in your cozy apartment as your group of friends finished up the lively dinner and drinks you’d hosted tonight. It’s so good to see you, Maya sighed, slumping back in her chair and patting her food baby. I’ve missed your pistachio tiramisu dearly.

You laugh at her satisfied expression, and others in the group chimed in about how tasty your dessert had been and how it's been ages since you had been free to catch up. You waved them off with an apologetic I know, I know, explaining that work had been so much more hectic the past couple months. You worked as an advisor in the financial sector for Redbull Inc, a very prolific job that's led you to meet many of their star athletes. That included Max, who’d become one of your good friends and intently watches you talk now, his handsome face resting against his hand. You didn’t want to bring the vibe down of the dinner party, so you brush off your friend’s concern with a joke that it was hard work finding investors to fund Max’s millionaire contract, after all.

You’re met with laughter, and the conversation slips into light teasing that you needed better stress management techniques. Maybe finally time to get on Tinder and get yourself railed by a hot Monaco tourist? Can personally recommend that as great relief. Emily, another friend proposed with a wink, earning more giggles. You roll your eyes fondly, biting back that you’re sure most guys on Tinder wouldn’t even be able to find the clit, it would just make you even more wound up. Mock groans rise up from the boys sitting at the table, while the girls enthusiastically cheer their agreement. As your gaze flits around the room, your eyes shining with happiness for the first time in weeks, you can't help but catch Max's pretty blue eyes again - focused on you intently.

You brush it off, not thinking too much of it as the dinner party winds down and your friends start filtering out. You turn down their offers to help clean up, saying your housekeeper would be by tomorrow to sort it. You almost get a heart attack later once everyone leaves, as you begin humming along to your Spotify playlist and beginning to wash the dishes - only to hear a gentle clink as someone sets the wine glasses down next to you. Jesus Christ, Max! you exclaim, hand to your chest. You scared me!

He raises an accusing eyebrow at you. I knew it. You don't have a housekeeper, do you? Despite your numerous protests, he insists on staying to help you. How did you know? you ask curiously, conceding defeat. About me not having a housekeeper, I mean. No one else caught onto that. Pretty normal for working professionals in Monaco to have one, after all. Grabbing a teatowel and drying your dishes as you washed them, your friend the F1 millionaire and driver Max Verstappen warms your heart with his surprisingly caring and observant nature. Clearing his throat, he replies that you're way too much of a control freak. There's no way you'd trust a stranger to clean your house. He smirks knowingly when you splutter, feeling mildly insulted and hitting him with a There's no way you're accusing me of being a control freak. Have you met yourself? That's like the pot calling the kettle black! He swats you with the teatowel, rolling his eyes, but he's laughing at your accurate remark. Later, once your apartment is in sparkling condition, you and Max enjoy a late night glass of sweet wine out on your balcony. You've been talking for a while about silly topics, currently ranting about some random relationship drama of a friend when Max cuts you off, his mind clearly on something else.

I think the others were onto something, you know, he starts, low Dutch voice making you feel warm in the cool night air. At your confused expression, he continues. You've been really stressed lately. I've barely seen you around at padel or online streams these past two months. And you've lost weight, your apartment was messy which it never is, and the other week my accountant got emails from you at 3am...plus you haven't gotten your nails done, which is weird because you're always the group chat every two weeks what colour you should get.

Your eyes widen at the realisation that Max was paying much more attention to you than you'd thought. You hadn't known he was so perceptive towards your mood, and it made unfamiliar feelings flutter in your stomach. You try to reassure him, half truths that you were fine now, truly, he didn't need to worry! You absolutely didn't want to be a bother to someone as busy as him. Seriously, I'll just download Tinder and let off some steam like Emily suggested, you joke to try and change the dubious expression on his face.

But his next offer blows you out of the water. Suddenly avoiding eye contact for the first time all night, Max's handsome face blushes as he murmurs that he could help you take your mind off things. When you stare at him blankly, not comprehending, he takes a deep breath and fixes that intense gaze back onto you, looking determined. Unwind the tension. Or, rail you good, like Emily said. Like a…friends with benefits situation. And before you start saying how you don’t want to be a bother or whatever - trust me, you aren’t, and I wouldn’t offer to help if I didn’t want to.

You’re flabbergasted, half laughing at the insanity and half gasping in shock. I don’t understand, you say finally. What’s in it for you? This seems like way too much work to just be doing a friend a favour. Max smirks at you, a bit deviously, and although you've seen the expression when he pulls an aggressive move to win a race, you've never seen it directed at you. It sends a shiver running up your spine and an aching need shooting straight in between your thighs. Proving I know how to find the clit, he says rather smugly.

You whack him over the shoulder with a pink throw cushion, rolling your eyes and changing the topic to diffuse the sudden sexual tension. He lets you off the hook as you quickly change conversations, flustered with the sudden interest from Max. But over the next few days you can’t stop thinking about his proposal constantly. You’ve always had a bit of a friend crush on Max - I mean, who wouldn’t? He was a tall, handsome racecar driver with a wicked sense of humour. And a very cute accent that sounded very sexy when he lowered his voice. You wondered what he’d sound like whispering something naughty in your ear, tangled up in his soft bedsheets, his large hands wandering where friend’s hands shouldn’t be-

You abruptly bring yourself back to reality, cheeks going pink at the fantasy you’d gotten carried away with. Over the next week, work gets ridiculously busy again and you find yourself completely absorbed in the same toxic cycle, getting home late and ignoring your friend’s messages. You’re working late one evening, frowning as you glare at your computer screen, thick files scattered across your desk. You’re too distracted to notice that Max is calling your name until a warm hand gently brushes your shoulder. It turns out he’d been in the building to sort out some legal paperwork and had decided to come by and see you. You’re surprised, but he narrows those intense blue eyes at you, saying you’re not looking after yourself again, are you?

Despite your protests that you are (lie), really, you don't need him to help you at all (another lie), he orders delivery from your favourite Italian restaurant and joins you for dinner in your office. Soon you’re laughing, caught in conversation and genuinely enjoying Max’s company until your phone starts ringing. You sigh, remembering the mountain of tasks you still had, and look apologetically at Max. But the handsome blonde is having none of it. He smoothly takes your phone out of your hands and declines the call, making you yelp for it and reach across the desk-

Only to find yourself pulled onto Max’s lap, his strong arms easily wrapping around your smaller waist. Enough, he whispers into your ear, his husky voice just as deep and as sexy as you'd secretly fantasised about. Let me take care of you, please? You look up at him with wide eyes, your back pressed against his muscular chest, as you manage to nod. And oh, does Max take care of you. Your innocent dinner as friends is transformed into a dirty office hook up, as Max's skilled tongue slides into your gasping mouth and his even more skilled fingers slide your tight pencil skirt up and finger you through your panties. And when you've soaked them through, he swipes them to the side and fucks you on his fingers, his impressive strength easily keeping your plush hips pinned firmly against his hardening erection as you buck and writhe helplessly in his lap. And he’s not stopping until you're moaning his name into the deep kisses and having one of the most intense orgasms of your life. Feels good, doesn't it prinses? he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as he takes in the pretty sight of you blushing and panting in his lap, silk blouse fallen off your shoulders and tight skirt pulled up after you'd falling apart on his fingers. All for him, he thinks with a feeling rather similar to possessiveness unfurling in his chest.

"Good" would be a massive understatement. Once Max proves to you just how effective of a stress management technique this is, you can't stop. He's over at your place after hectic workdays, at first, giving you slow deep kisses as he gets you off on his thick thighs. Any hint of self consciousness you'd had becoming so undone in front of the very attractive athlete dealt with by the praise he showers you with. That’s right, use my thigh baby, you’re doing so good, you're gonna cum all over my jeans for me, okay? His voice sends you spiralling over the edge, letting out teary whines and moans as he coaxes you through another orgasm, letting you fall apart all over again in his arms before putting you back together with dinner and laughter filled conversation in the shower after.

Soon he’s there on the weekends, eating your tiramisu first before spreading your legs wide on the dining table after he'd placed you on it. What did I say about doing work during your weekends, hmm? He says in mock disapproval, gently kissing your aching pussy through your panties before teasingly slapping it. You whine breathlessly, embarrassed to have him in between your legs for the first time, but once again he dampens every insecurity of yours that bubbles up. He eats you out like a man starved, and oh, Max Verstappen definitely knew where to find the clit. Your dark red nails, freshly manicured after he’d taken you to the salon earlier, tug at his soft blonde locks as his talented tongue kisses your sensitive bundle of nerves. He groans against your pussy, the vibrations sending you over the edge and squirting onto his flicking tongue as he smirks up at you. Oh, Max! Max! Right there, please don’t stop-

He’s a little too adept at distracting you. You don’t have any inhibitions about holding back anymore, openly begging for him to make you feel good again and again and again. You’ve become more curious with him, wanting to try new things in the bedroom you’d always wondered about but been to shy to ask for. But with Max, who you trusted as a friend first, and who spoilt you, it was easy to test your boundaries. You make him blush the first time you hold up some toy handcuffs and cutely ask if he could pretty please try them on you? His intense blue eyes darken with desire as he looks down at your pouting face, batting your lashes up at him almost innocently despite your naughty request. You love that Max wants this, wants you, just as much as you want him.

The handcuffs set off the more...dominating side of Max in bed and you're absolutely addicted to it. Soon enough he has you face down ass up in his bed most nights, delicate lace lingerie you'd started wearing under all your classy corporate outfits half ripped, as he roughly pounds into you from behind. You loved when Max used his predatory strength against you, applying just enough to make you dizzy with pleasure but never enough to come anywhere near hurting you. One of the bear paws he calls his hand wraps snugly around your neck, over the sparkly collar you’re wearing, and the other one smacks your bouncing ass red, using all the power of a high performance athlete who worked out daily. You're sobbing and screaming his name into the mattress, his sheets long ruined from your drool and your mixed cum trailing down your legs. You just love when I completely control you like this, don't you prinses? Max says with a smirk, his tongue licking up your tears as he used his hand on your neck to tilt your crying face towards him. My pretty girl, so needy and stressed, your brain just can't take it anymore right? Need me to take over and fuck you stupid? A rough slap to your ass has you scrambling to answer him, frantically nodding yes, yes Maxie, please take all the tension away, it feels so fucking good-

You can't even lay a hand on him because yours are tied tightly behind your back, well and truly giving all your power to Max. And he uses it to talk you through multiple orgasms, murmuring in your ears as he relentlessly thrusts into you to let go for me, that's right, just like that pretty girl, gonna fuck you so hard you’re only going to be able to think about my cock for the next week. I want to feel that tight pussy cum all over my cock in five, four, three...

Whew, his fans would go batshit crazy if they found out that their celebrity crush does, in fact, talk you through it in bed. You would feel bad about taking up so much of his time, but you’ve started to realise how much stress relief you offer Max, too. Like when he’s had a bad race weekend (rare, but still) and you walk into his apartment, seeing his tense shoulder and frowning face as he continues gaming after grunting out a Hey.

You hmmm, shrugging out of your pretty blouse, lacey bra on display, and making yourself comfortable in between his big, muscular thighs. Stressful day? you ask, leaning down to rest your cheek against him. He glances at you as you teasingly massage his impressive legs, coyly looking up at him as you tease the waistband of his sweats. Wanna fuck my mouth, Maxie?

That certainly got his attention, a lazy grin appearing on his face. Fuck me, I've really made you addicted to my cock, haven't I schat? he says lowly. He loosens his sweats for you, letting you lick his inner thighs teasingly before softly kissing his rapidly hardening cockhead. Large hands tangle in your hair, undoing your elegant twist, as Max guides you all the way down his length. You whine, looking up at him with those sweet doe eyes and choking slightly as you’re still not used to how big every part of Max is. And somehow you still look so fucking innocent, despite your drooling lips wrapped snugly around his cock. His hand possessively tugs at your curls, making your teary eyes roll back as you moan from the rough treatment. Max smirks at the delicious sight of you on your knees for him, clenching your thighs desperately. You wanted this, pretty girl. Wanted to be my obedient slut and have me throatfuck that slutty mouth of yours, right? Should've been careful what you wished for if you couldn't handle it.

He emphasises his filthy words with an initial thrust all the way to the back of your throat, making your breathing hitch as you struggle. Giving you a second to adjust to his full length, he tells you one last promise before he ruins your throat. You’re going to have to cancel all your meetings tomorrow, prinses. There’s no way you’re going to be able to talk after I’m done with you.

_____________________________________________

A/N: AHHHH IM ATTEMPTING TO BE BACK IN BUSINESSS and keep all my pookies fed 🍗 My tactic for getting tf out of my writers block hell is only looking at max edits on tiktok cause everytime I open insta I see another lovey dovey couple max and pregnant gf post and get a fucking jumpscare (I mean obvi happy for them but my delusion….my delusions!!!)

Let me know what you guys think!! I’m cooking up a dark Max who’s talked into being a gym trainer for oh so innocent reader hehe so dark max girlies I gotchu xx send in ur requests!!

[smokeypeaches-and-honeyplums]

may I request headcanons for Wukong, MK, Red Son, and Macaque finding out their crush or S/O has a snort laugh that they try to hide?

please and thank you

PLEASE?????????????? GOD I HAVE A SNORT LAUGH TOO AND THIS FEELS SO PERSONAL I'M GONNA BLOW UP

Reader is Gender Neutral by default

MK

S/O

MK absolutely LOVES to make people laugh and you are no different

So when he finds out you have a snort laugh, he REVELS in it

To him, it's a sign that he's doing a really good job and! It's really fucking adorable for him

If you're self conscious about it, he won't push you too much about it

He'd never want you to feel uncomfortable while you're with him, so he'll never push further than he's allowed

He'll always express how much he loves it when he gets the chance to though, don't get me wrong

Eventually, it gets to the point he develops his own and it's a never ending cycle between you two

It feels nice to have a bit more of a positive about your snort, but it does hurt after a while--

MK gets worse when he purposefully does what he knows makes you laugh the most

Your nose and throat hurts by the end of it

If you're laughing especially hard, he'll be grinning ear to ear at just the sound of it

He's glad to have ONE consistency in his life, what with everything that goes on

So if he can listen to your laugh before the next crisis, that's enough for him

(THEY TOOK MY YELLOW TEXT--)

Crush

(darkskinredsontruthertilIdie)

You so happened to slip up one day when Redson heard it the first time around, immediately trying to hide it right after

He didn't think much of it, not in the way you'd think at least

He always associated it as another irritating staple that he loves so much about you and infuriates him that it is

Like, excuse me

How dare you have the most charming, cute and cheeky laugh he's ever heard?

A peasant like you shouldn't be making his heart soar so much and so easily all the damn time

What the fuck >:(

Redson wouldn't trying to fish for it as much as the others, his pride prevents him

But he does savour the moments you do do it, don't get me wrong

However, when he sees you hide it every time right after, a part of him wants to try and ease your worries. At least, that's what he thinks

"You know... you shouldn't feel like you should hide your laugh."

"For all the annoying little quirks you have, this one is..."

"It's... endearing."

Silence.

Silence...

"Redson? Are you going soft on me?"

"NO! No- Do not-"

"D'awwww, you care!!"

"Redson cares for me!!"

"Know what?! Forget I said anything."

Cue the laughter, only this time with a bit more snorting given his reassurance in his own special, Redson way

In your fits of laughter, you miss a small smile growing on the demon prince's lips

In all your teasing, it's worth it to see you like this

Crush

Wukong has a tendency to be cheeky to the tenth degree and then some

So trust and believe he already knows

And he REVELS in it

He likes the sound of your laugh in general, so the fact he manages to get you laughing so much that you start snorting makes his heart do flips

He doesn't like that you try to hide it, but he'd be the last person to talk about not hiding something you're self conscious about

Given the whole shared headcanon of glamour, it becomes pot and kettle

Has that ever stopped him tho?

No

So why would it now?

He tries to get you to feel more comfortable with your laugh because he finds it very important to him

Is it another reason amongst a sea on why he loves you?

Yeah

Will he admit it?

No-

Well?

Not now-

Ahem

Anyways, when he hears your genuine laughter, he's shining like the sun and absolutely BEAMING with joy and whines when you hide it

"NONONO, don't hide it! I love your laugh!"

"Don't hide it please :("

Pulls out the big guns (puppy dog eyes) just to make you agree

"Fine"

Happy Monkey <3

Of course, he genuinely does try to make sure you're comfortable about it and reassures you in his own Monkey King way, so don't be too worried.

S/O

Like Wukong, Macaque is the last person to tell you not to hide something, the scoundrel

Motherfucker is hiding EVERYTHING

Smoke and Mirrors the character™

But, that has never stopped him before

With that established, given how all doom and gloom this brooding monkey is, he finds solace in your laughter, and he's picked up on your snorting even when you try to hide it

He hears all

But, unlike the others, he won't push you or try to convince you to reveal something you don't feel like revealing

He would know how that feels personally

And if Macaque is anything at all, he's self aware. enough

He'll let you get comfortable laughing in front of him to your fullest at your own time, while giving you quiet reassurance now and again

Once you're sure he won't judge you for it and you're fully comfortable, your laughter makes him the warmest he's felt in so long

Who would've thought? The Six-Eared Macaque has a heart!/j