b00b13-l0v3r

[b00b13-l0v3r]

AI artwork

[b00b13-l0v3r]

How it feels to live with ADHD, PCOS, Hypoglycemia, and Anaemia.

[b00b13-l0v3r]

This was the prompt:

I want her to carry me to bed, but honestly, I don't want her to be naked- let her keep her black leather bra while I can be fully bare. And yes, marking- why should they be only in the collarbone? I have a full body.

Wanna see how that turned out?

Read the full story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65058595

[b00b13-l0v3r]

Claimed

The party finally winds down, but the electricity between you two hasn't gone anywhere — if anything, it’s humming stronger under your skin.

In the back seat of the car on the ride home, you’re curled against her again, glowing from the night — but she’s not as patient anymore. One strong arm around your waist, the other resting across the back of the seat, casual dominance, like you’re her prize she’s parading around.

And you are.

She leans down, brushing her lips along your jawline — teasing you, waking up every nerve in your body. You shiver just a little, and she smirks, low and wicked.

"You looked too good tonight," she murmurs against your skin. "Had to hold back... not anymore."

When you get inside the apartment, the door barely clicks shut before she’s pulling you against the wall — gentle but desperate.

Her hands cup your jaw, her forehead pressed against yours for a second, catching her breath. You stare at each other, hearts beating wild, the air thick with the night’s energy.

"You’re mine," she breathes. "Say it."

"Yours," you whisper, voice breaking, your hands fisting in her jacket.

She groans softly, like she can barely stand how much she loves you — and then she’s on you, kissing a trail from the corner of your mouth down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

Hot, wet kisses — each one open-mouthed, slow, claiming. She bites lightly at your skin, just enough to make you gasp, just enough to leave the heat of her love blooming there.

Every time your breath hitches, she chuckles low in her chest, her big hands roaming possessively across your waist, your back, your hips.

She marks you again. And again. And again.

Each hickey a promise: "Mine. Mine. Mine."

You tug at her jacket in retaliation, pulling her closer, your voice rough and breathy:

"You're mine too. All of you."

She groans again, deep and wrecked, and buries her face in your neck — nipping you harder now, kissing over each mark she’s made like she’s sealing them in.

When you finally stumble toward the bedroom, you’re both breathless and messy — your skin warm, blooming with deep, pretty bruises where her love lives now.

Later, when you catch your reflection in the mirror — the dark marks peeking out from under your clothes — you smile.

It’s not embarrassment.

It’s pride.

Because you wear her love like a royal crown, a battle flag, a whisper against your skin: You are claimed. You are cherished. You are home.

And so is she — yours, fully and fiercely.