#I dare someone to do mine >:3

[aspenaspenaspenaspenaspen]

@honejj-pubh

…

sure

type prevs url with your eyes closed in the tags

[sodaneko]

friends tell me lore about a tattoo of yours

[aleksatia]

10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.

[dissociativewriter]

a short sylus x reader drabble; not proofread (wrote this in like ten minutes)

taglist: @dolledbunnytail

You shuffled into Sylus’s room, staring at the floor. He lowered his book and looked at you over his glasses.

“Well, well, if it isn’t a little kitten wandering by.” A smirk played on his lips as he eyed your avoidant expression. “Why the guilty face? I hope you didn’t scratch up my furniture with your claws,” he chuckled.

You looked up at him, fidgeting with your hands over your stomach. “Would you want to do your wonderful, lovely partner a favor with absolutely no judgment or questions asked?” You gave a small, hopeful smile to try and convince him.

It didn’t work, though, and he raised an eyebrow. “I would do anything for my wonderful, lovely partner, however,” he took a sharp inhale, “what exactly would this ‘favor’ entail?”

You looked away again, and Sylus rose from his seat with a heavy sigh. He crossed the room with only a few long strides, standing before you as you continued to avoid his gaze.

“Sweetie, look at me.” You still didn’t. With a click of his tongue, Sylus took your chin between his index finger and thumb, directing your eyes to meet his own. “Now, what is this favor?”

You swallowed before finally whispering, “Can you just lay on top of me? Like full body weight, I want you to crush me.”

Sylus stared at you for a moment, watching your serious expression, before bursting out laughing.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “It’s not funny! I want the pressure, but I can get someone else if you’re gonna be mean about it.” As Sylus tried to catch his breath, you wrenched your chin out of his grip. “Maybe Luke or Kieran would be nicer—“

You could barely take two steps before a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist. “Now, now, kitten,” Sylus drawled. He rested his chin on your shoulder, lightly nipping at your neck. “Don’t you dare ask someone else to fill the role that’s rightfully mine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Big baby,” you grumbled.

“Only for you,” he whispered, tightening his grip.

comments and reblogs appreciated! <3

masterlist

[luna-azzurra]

Story Starters #3

Found Family Starters (for the ones who thought they’d always be alone—until someone stayed)

✧ They said "I got you" like it was no big deal. But no one’s ever said that to me and meant it. ✧ I didn’t know I could belong somewhere until I walked into that kitchen and someone had already set a plate for me. ✧ We fight. We yell. We steal each other’s snacks. And still, they show up every time I need them. That’s love, I think. ✧ I used to flinch when someone raised their voice. Now I roll my eyes and throw a pillow at them. That’s growth. That’s home. ✧ They know what my silence means. They don’t push. They just sit beside me until I’m ready. ✧ I told them the worst parts of me. They stayed. That’s when I knew. ✧ We don’t say “I love you” out loud. We say “text me when you get home.” “Eat something.” “You can crash here.” ✧ I’m still learning how to trust it. How to not brace for abandonment. But they haven’t left. Not once. ✧ I never believed in unconditional love. But now there’s this couch, and this blanket, and this messy group of weirdos who make space for me. ✧ They’re not blood. But they’re mine.

Cold Girls, Soft Hearts Starters (for the sharp-edged girls who love quietly, fiercely, and would rather die than admit it)

✧ I don’t do soft. But they smiled at me like I was worth something, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. ✧ I pretend I don’t care. But I remember their coffee order, their favorite color, the way they hate pickles. ✧ I rolled my eyes at their dumb joke. Then laughed. Then hated how much I meant it. ✧ I pushed them away and they still came back. I hate that. I love that. I don’t know. ✧ I said “I don’t need anyone.” But my voice cracked on the last word and I know they heard it. ✧ I tell them to shut up. I mean “don’t go.” ✧ I’m the tough one. The reliable one. The emotionally constipated one. And I’m so, so tired. ✧ They hugged me and I stood there like a statue. But inside, something broke open. ✧ I made fun of them for being sappy. Then went home and replayed everything they said. Twice. ✧ I’m not scared of being hurt. I’m scared of wanting something I can’t protect myself from.

End-of-the-World Vibes (for stories where something big is ending, and something small, and tender, is beginning)

✧ The world is ending and all I want is to feel their hand in mine one more time. ✧ Everything’s falling apart and they’re still making me laugh. How dare they. How beautiful. ✧ If this is the last sunrise, I want to spend it with them. Quiet. Close. Real. ✧ I thought I’d be afraid. But with them here, I’m just… present. And maybe that’s enough. ✧ They looked at me like I was still worth saving. Even now. Especially now. ✧ We kissed like we were running out of time. Because we were. ✧ I wanted a big moment, but instead it was this—my head on their shoulder, the silence stretching soft around us. ✧ We said goodbye like we’d see each other tomorrow. We both knew that wasn’t true. ✧ Maybe the world doesn’t need a hero. Maybe it just needs someone who won’t leave when things get ugly. ✧ I don’t know what comes after this. But if they’re next to me when the lights go out, I think I’ll be okay.

[dakusan]

F I R S T   B I T E

Vampire!Bang Chan x Reader | blood ritual, silk sheets, first time he finally takes you

🔞synopsis: You weren’t looking for luxury. You were looking for survival. But then he chose you—Bang Chan. Now you sleep in silk, eat like royalty, and bleed for him on schedule. He’s fed from you before. Gentle. Controlled. Ritualistic. But he’s never fucked you. Not once. Tonight, that changes. Because his hunger is showing. His eyes are black. And you’re in that dress he bought you. And when he finally takes his bite—he doesn’t stop there.

💌a/n: OK SO LISTEN 🩸 Yes. I know I answered an ask ages ago about how Chan is so rich. but for this series? i said fuck it. switched it up. because he deserves it. you deserve it. silk sheets and bite marks forever. also no, i’m not making profiles for every member. that’s boring and I’m busy making them FEED AND FUCK INSTEAD 😌 priorities. if you’re not bleeding and shaking by the end, did you even read it? 🔪💋✨ p.s. reblog if it ruined you. reblog if you whimpered. reblog if you said “oh.” out loud. p.p.s. more members coming next Wreck Me Wednesday! p.p.p.s. blood tastes better when it’s yours. ok bye 🖤

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | biting kink | marking kink | blood drinking as foreplay (and during) | fingering + grinding | overstimulation | breeding kink language (explicit) | “mine” possessiveness dialled to 1000 | choking (light, erotic) | mirror of praise + filth | power imbalance | luxury kink | ritualistic aftercare | cum, blood, and luxury bath oils

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Bleed pretty. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Criminal — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:31 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The idea of becoming a Blood Doll didn’t start as a fantasy. It started as a last resort.

You weren’t desperate. Just… cornered. By bills. By bruises you didn’t ask for. By nights too long and mornings that arrived with nothing but guilt and cold toast. Seoul was a city of glass towers and low shadows. You had lived in both.

You weren’t supposed to know about the Veil. About vampires. About what they offered behind silk-curtained doors. But you did. One overheard conversation in a blood clinic waiting room was all it took. A name passed like a secret. A dare:

“LUXE Health. If you’re lucky, someone will choose you.”

So you cleaned yourself up. Not for them. For you. You memorized their rules. Got the bloodwork done. Sold everything else. And when you finally arrived—dressed in borrowed black with lips bitten pink—you didn’t flinch.

Because somewhere beneath the hunger and the silence, you had a single thought: “If I’m going to belong to someone… make it him.”

You saw him before he saw you. Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself now.

Bang Christopher Chan. The vampire who owns medicine. The one whose name is spoken in hushed reverence at trauma wards and whispered in moans between silk sheets.

Abnormal. Born, not turned. The kind of vampire the Veil fears because they cannot predict him.

He didn’t need to feed from you that night. He didn’t even touch you. Just read your file, looked into your eyes, and said—

“You’ll do.”

Not cruel. Not kind. Just… certain. And that certainty rewired you.

That was three months ago.

Now, you live on the top floor of a private Luxe facility in Gangnam. You don’t work. You don’t pay. You just exist—dripping in silk, gliding past glass, touched only by magic and occasionally by him.

You eat better than royalty. Your scent is monitored for health. Your sheets are laundered daily in blood-neutral detergent. Every book you ever mentioned liking? It's in your room. Your bath oils are imported. Your wardrobe is measured by hand.

But he hasn’t fucked you. Not once. Not yet. He’s fed. God, has he fed.

The first time, you thought you’d die from how soft he made it. The second time, you wanted him to bite deeper. The third time? You whimpered his name. He smiled, lips wet, but didn’t take you. Not then.

And yet—he gives.

A diamond choker with a spell-lock that hums when you're near danger. A dress you only wore once, now preserved in a glass case because he liked how you looked in it. Shoes hand-delivered from a Paris atelier, dyed to match the undertone of your skin. Perfumes keyed to his scent.

He gives like a man who has everything—except you.

Tonight, you had been his date. A Veil-chartered event in an underground gallery beneath Itaewon. Not that you paid much mind, except the fact that you stood by him looking all pretty, dressed by him.

And now? Now you’re back in the penthouse.

Your heels click across imported stone. You’ve just slipped off your earrings when you feel it—the hum in the walls. The signal. Feeding hour.

He’s never missed one.

You turn, heart already pounding.

He’s in the doorway. Loosened collar. No tie. Silver watch still on his wrist. And his eyes…

Black.

“Sit,” he says, voice silk-dark.

And you do, because God, you always obey.

He crosses the room like a secret unfolding—measured, lethal, beautiful. His gaze never leaves yours. Not even as he loosens the first button of his shirt. Not even as he sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. The air shifts around him—cooler, heavier. The scent of cedar and clove curled in hunger.

You sit where he wants you. On the edge of the fainting couch, legs pressed together beneath silk that still smells like his cologne. Your lipstick is still intact. Your throat bare. The pulse at your neck, traitorous.

He kneels in front of you.

Not like a man worshipping. Like a vampire calculating.

His fingers brush your ankle, sliding upward in a touch so light it’s almost imagined—up the line of your shin, over your knee, until he’s nudging the hem of your gown higher, just enough to settle between your legs, kneeling. Commanding.

He doesn't speak right away. Just watches you.

Eventually, he reaches for your wrist. Not to feed.

Just to hold. “You're warm.”

You nod, breath shallow. "I always am. After we go out."

Something flickers across his face. Amusement? Possession?

He leans forward. Mouth hovering over your neck. Not touching. Just breathing. "Do you want the bite here?"

"Yes."

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask again. He bites.

You gasp. His fangs are surgical. Smooth. Deep. You feel it in your blood, in your thighs, in the way your dress shifts against your hips as your whole body arches toward him.

It’s not pain. It’s pressure.

One of his hands at your waist, the other on your thigh, grounding you as he drinks your sweet blood in slow. His tongue flicks once. Just once. Over the wound.

And that’s what makes you whimper.

His groan is almost inaudible. Almost. He drinks a little deeper.

You clutch the shoulder of his shirt and try to stay still—but you can’t. You shift. You rub your knees together. You tilt your head further back like it’ll coax more of him out, like it’ll make him—

He stops. Pulls back. Blood on his lips. Collarbone flushed. Hands tighter now.

You’re panting.

"You should rest."

But he doesn’t mean it. Because his eyes are still black. And his cock is hard under his trousers. And you’re still in that dress he picked—silk, slit high, neckline low enough for his teeth to dip beneath.

“You’re still hungry,” you whisper.

He says nothing. But his hand slides higher up your thigh. Just barely. Just enough.

“Feed again,” you murmur.

He exhales. Shaky. Like he’s fighting something ancient. “If I feed again,” he says, voice wrecked, “I won’t stop.”

Your reply is immediate. “I don't want you to stop.”

His hand grips your thigh harder.

A beat. Two. And then—he snaps. His mouth crashes to yours like it’s the only law he’s ever obeyed.

Hot. Wet. Starving.

There’s no finesse. No restraint. Just tongue and breath and blood—your blood—smearing between your lips as he kisses you like he’s waited centuries. You taste iron and cedar and the slick salt of him groaning into your mouth.

His palm slides up your spine, yanks you forward. You gasp. He swallows it. You moan. He deepens it. Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it open, buttons scattering somewhere onto the marble.

“Chan—”

“Shut up,” he growls, biting your bottom lip, licking where it splits. “I told you. I won’t stop now.”

You don’t want him to.

Because you can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t survive if he doesn’t keep kissing you like that—like he’s drowning in you and wants to take you under with him.

He stands, dragging you up with him, your body flush to his. His hands on your ass, gripping through silk. You feel him—hard and heavy—pressed against your stomach. You grind against him. Shameless. He groans into your mouth like you just handed him your soul.

“On the bed,” he rasps, voice ruined.

You don’t walk. You stumble. He follows, eyes black, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide you swear they swallow the moonlight.

Three steps from the bed, you spin and grab him by the open collar of his shirt—what’s left of it—and pull.

Hard.

He stumbles with you, low grunt in his throat, and you fall back onto the sheets like gravity’s been waiting for this moment.

Silk against your spine. Chan above you, braced on trembling arms. His shirt ripped wide open from your fingers, chest heaving. Eyes on your lips before leaning in again. Lips on your own. Tongue hot and deep, one hand gripping your jaw like he wants to brand his name there.

His knee shoves between your thighs and you start grinding against it. Moan into his mouth like a sinner under oath.

Your dress slips off one shoulder and of course he notices and his mouth leaves yours—trailing fire down your throat, tongue flicking the half-healed bite on your neck. You arch like a live wire. He sucks. You cry out. And then he speaks against your skin.

“You don’t understand what you’ve just done,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Letting me kiss you. Letting me taste it from your lips…”

He presses his forehead to your collarbone. His breath shudders. So does your body. “I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve waited—every night. Let you heal. Let you rest. I was good.”

He lifts his head. Stares down at you. “But now you’ve ruined that.”

His hand slides under the slit of your dress. Fingers ghost over your inner thigh. He groans. "Fuck, you're so wet baby."

You whimper.

He leans down again, nose brushing your jaw, lips grazing your ear—

“One more bite,” he whispers. “Then I fuck you. And I don’t stop until your blood knows who it belongs to.”

"Please." You say. Desperate for it.

Chan's lips press against your shoulder, just below the dip of silk where your dress has fallen. He's slow, gentle, taking his time. Before finally, he bites and you gasp, sharp and wrecked.

His fangs in slowly this time. Not like earlier. No urgency. This bite is...savouring.

You clutch the sheets, back arching as he feeds again—mouth latched to your skin, tongue lapping slowly between pulses. Every draw pulls heat to your core. Every sound he makes against your skin echoes between your thighs.

And then you finally feel his hand parting your legs more, fingers brushing over your already soaked panties. You twitch and he groans into the wound.

"Dropping," he murmurs, mouth still on your flesh. "From being bit."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Contact. He traces the seam of your folds with two fingers before running them up again, pressing into your just enough to make your hips holt.

You moan out. That moan ripped straight from the center of you.

He chuckles darkly. Fangs still buried. Your blood on his tongue. Your cunt in his palm.

"So sweet," he growls. "Every part of you."

His thumb starts to circle that bundle of nerves. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, tight pressure—rhythmic, possessive, hypnotic.

You’re panting now. Writhing. Your blood still feeding him as he works you from below.

His free hand grabs your thigh, pinning it open. “This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he hisses, licking over the bite again. “Wet and so so perfect for me.”

Two fingers thrust inside and your head snaps back. A choke moan spills out. You feel everything.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back from your shoulder, licking the wound clean. “Say who owns you.”

“Y-You—fuck—Chan, it’s you—”

“Say it properly.”

His fingers curl just right.

“You own me,” you cry. “You own all of me—*fuck—*please don’t stop—”

“I told you,” he pants, mouth against your lips again, hand fucking you slow and deep, “I’m not stopping tonight.”

Chan finally pulled back, slowly. Fangs retracting from your skin. Mouth now painted with your blood again. He looks wrecked. Hair falling into his eyes. Chest rising like a storm's behind it. But his fingers? They've started fucking into you, a slow pace.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, one hand fucking deep, slow, curling into that spot that makes your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The other hand trails up your waist until it cups your breast through the fabric. His thumb brushes over your nipple.

“Aw, look at you,” he coos, voice soaked in dark heat. “Dripping for me. Can feel it, baby girl.” His fingers move faster now—tight little thrusts that make your cunt clench, soak, squeal.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes—yes, I—”

“I can feel it,” he growls. “All that sweetness pulling around my fingers. Fuck—so tight. So fucking good for me.”

He leans over, tongue lapping at the blood smeared down your clavicle while he finger fucks you harder. “That’s it. Let go. Be good. Cum on my hand.”

You cry out—knees jerking, hands clawing at the sheets, your entire body arching as heat snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you. But Chan doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling under him, cunt pulsing around his fingers, thighs soaked and twitching.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “You give so fucking much. You always do.”

He pulls his fingers out slow, watching the mess string between you.

Then—finally—his hands go to your dress. He peels it off of you, revealing every inch of your body to his hungry eyes. "Now," he murmurs, eyes dark again. "Now I take what's mine."

You barely catch your breath before you hear it—

The sound of his belt unbuckling.

Fast. Sharp. Desperate. He’s done waiting. His slacks fall in seconds. Boxers shoved low. His cock now in full view. Heavy, thick, veins pulsing. He is already flushed, the tip angry red and dripping.

Your mouth parts in awe. Your cunt clenches in instinct. “Look at you,” he breathes, crawling back over you, cock resting hot against your thigh. “Already shaking… and I haven’t even put it in yet.”

He grabs himself—gives one slow stroke, tip dragging along your folds as he lines up. You feel the heat of it.

“You want it?” he rasps.

“Yes. Please—”

“Then take it.”

And he pushes in. Slowly, gently, wanting to savour the feeling of your walls around his cock. You arch with a cry—eyes wide, fingers scrambling to hold onto something. But it’s no use. You’re being split. He’s so thick, and the stretch is perfect—too perfect. Your pussy tightens around him like velvet glove, and he groans low, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby girl—so fucking tight—so good for me—”

He bottoms out.

One perfect grind of his hips. You feel everything. But he doesn't move yet, his hips flushed with yours.

"You take me so well," he whispers. "This pussy was made for me. You were made for me."

You whimper, breathless.

"Please—move—”

"I can. Remind me, who do you belong to baby?"

"You—you, Chan—fuck, I’m yours—”

"Good girl." he whispers. Pulling back and then slamming back in. Hard. Deep. Merciless. His thrusts picking up pace. Harder into you. Your body jerks up over the bed. He grabs your waist, pulls you back onto him.

Over and over.

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, soaked and slick. Your name is gone. All that exists is his name—Chan, Chan, Chan—echoing from your mouth, screamed into sheets, licked from your lips by the man breaking you open.

“You feel that?” he grits, fucking you deep, jaw clenched. “That’s mine. This body. This blood. This fucking cunt—”

He slaps your thigh. You moan.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—yours, yours, yours—”

He groans—fucks you harder. At least for a few more thrusts until he moves again. Shifts. Flips you over. Fast. Rough. Hands firm under your hips. One sharp drag and your body turns beneath him—your chest to the sheets, ass up, knees wide on instinct.

You gasp, caught off guard by the dominance of it. And he just laughs—low, filthy, feral.

“That’s better,” he growls behind you. “Now I can really fucking feel you.”

His hand spanks your ass and you jolt.

Chan drags his cock through your slick folds again. Lining himself up. "Stay still," he commands. "Take it.£

And he thrusts back in. Hard. Deep. Full.

You scream. Into the pillow.

He fills you so completely from this angle, cock hitting new spots you didn’t know existed. And when he grinds in deep—stays there—you feel your whole body shudder.

Chan's hand moves into your hair. Fisting it and yanking your head back just enough that you arch for him. And the other hand? It wraps around your throat.

"You look so pretty like this," he hisses into your ear. "Open. Dripping. Mine."

He starts moving again—fucking you slow and rough, every stroke long and deep and perfectly angled. You’re choking on moans now—your own breath caught in your throat where his hand rests, light but threatening. Possessive.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Gonna soak me like a good little blood doll?”

You nod—whimper—beg.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I—I’m gonna cum—fuck, Chan, please—”

“That’s right,” he snarls. “Do it. Let go.”

He pulls your hair harder. His cock slams deeper. And you shatter. Second orgasm—harder than the first—slams through you like lightning. Your whole body convulses, cunt pulsing around him so tight he groans, slams in deeper, loses rhythm—

“Fuck.”

He lets go of your throat. Pushes you flat to the bed, still buried inside you.

And then? He pulls out—panting, ruined—and flips you again.

“We’re not done,” he breathes. “Not until I fill you.”

You’re breathless. Sprawled on the sheets on your back again after being flipped. Skin flushed, throat kissed red, thighs sticky and trembling.

But he’s not done.

Chan climbs over you again—eyes black, cock still hard, soaked with your slick and heat and ownership. He grabs your legs, lifts them, pushes them up high over his shoulders.

You whimper. He growls.

“One more,” he rasps. “You’re gonna take one more.”

And then he thrusts back in. His thrusts never easing up, except this time instead of being fast, they're harder, deeper. Hitting deep inside your pretty dripping cunt.

Your legs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, your hips arching up instinctively to meet his every thrust. He’s so deep now—your cunt swallowing every inch, fluttering around him like it already misses him when he pulls back.

“So tight,” he pants, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucks into you. “So full. You feel that?”

He leans down—body folding over yours, pressing you into the bed. You gasp at the intensity—your knees practically touching your ears, your body caged beneath him. And before you know it, his mouth finds your throat again. Not the old bite. No.

This time it's lower. Right over your pulse. A new mark. A new claim.

He sinks his fangs in—again. But this time? He cums. At the same fucking moment.

You feel it—his cock twitching deep inside you, spilling into you with a primal, guttural growl against your skin. His hips still grind as he pumps you full, fucking it deeper, deeper, until your stomach coils from the pressure and the heat and the ache.

“That’s it,” he pants against your skin. “Take it. All of it. I’m gonna fill you—mark you—fuck it so deep into you it'll leak all night.”

He’s still feeding, slow now—tongue lapping, lips suckling, like your blood is the final part of the ritual.

And you? You’re crying his name.

“Chan—Chan—fuck—yes—yours—”

He lifts his head, face painted with blood and victory and crashes his lips onto yours.

Wet. Possessive. Full of cum and blood and everything he is.

“Good girl,” he whispers, against your swollen lips. “My good little blood doll.”

He pulls out—slow. Your thighs twitch. His cum leaks from between them. He watches it, chest heaving, and smirks before his eyes move on to you. Eyes no longer black, but softer now, sparklier. You’re wrecked beneath him, trembling and flushed, marked in blood and sweat and cum.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting up your thigh. “You took me so well.”

You try to speak. Can’t. All you can do is breathe—shaky, grateful, undone. He leans down. Presses one kiss to your cheek. Another to your temple. Then the curve of your throat where your blood still lingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gentle it nearly makes you cry. “You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”

He moves with eerie speed after that, but never rushes you. One moment he’s gone, and the next—he’s back.

A warm cloth in his hand. Something for your bite marks. A glass of cold water. A square of dark chocolate—your favourite.

“Small sugars after feeding,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Prevents dizziness. Helps the body remember pleasure.”

You nibble it, fingers weak. He watches every movement like it’s precious.

Then he scoops you into his arms. You’re already drifting—high on oxytocin, on safety, on the way he smells like expensive oud and dark cherry blood.

“Where are we going…?” you murmur.

“Bath,” he says, already striding down the marble hallway. “You’re not sleeping with my cum leaking down your thighs onto silk sheets."

You huff a laugh into his chest. "Didn't you say you wanted me to leak all night?"

"I don't remember that. I never said that." But Chan is smiling, dimple smile and his ears are red.

In the bathroom, he takes the time to set you down on the edge of the tub gently while he takes care of filling it up with warm water, adding in jasmine oils. Whilst the tub fills up, Chan steps back to undress fully now, taking off that ripped shirt off.

By the time the tub is filled up, Chan makes sure to ease you in the tub, hands firm yet gentle before sliding in behind you and pulling your back to his chest, arms wrapping around your waist.

"You did so well tonight," he says softly, mouth brushing your shoulder. "I told you id' take care of you."

You nod. Too relaxed to speak.

His fingers draw idle shapes over your stomach, over the curve of your breast, over the softest parts of you that no one else touches.

“Sleep here, if you want,” he whispers. “Stay here. Forever.”

You simply relax, your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttered closed, breathing steady. "Mmm...forever." you murmur.

And Chan leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.

“Forever,” he echoes. “Mine.”

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie

[misayani]

ALL MINE — SQUID GAME WOMEN + THANOS JEALOUSY HCS

◜ featuring ... kang mi-na (player 196), no eul (guard 011), se-mi (player 380), jun-hee (player 222), hyun-ju (player 120), young-mi (player 195), kang sae-byeok (s1 player 067), + thanos (player 230)

𔗨 author's note — just a really really shortttt little something with my women <3 (+ thanos cause he's one of my babygirls) btw pleaaaasee send more no-eul requests [lowercase intended]

warning: literally one mention of a quickie on se-mi's part but this is kinda fluff !

mi na —

- first and foremost, this girl has an ATTITUDE

- like dont expect her to not do something when you're literally getting hit on by a man during breakfast

- and u being oblivious like cmon now...

- as soon as she got her breakfast, she marches her way towards you, who was just sitting on your bed looking at the smirking man in front of you with a disgusted face

- your lips form into a smile once you finally saw your gf, but dropping as soon as you saw her approaching the man with a fake smile

- "what's this?" 

- she will look the man up and down shamelessly, her lips curled as if she was disgusted

- she's the openly jealous type, girl isn't ashamed of it

- what's there to be ashamed of in the first place? you're HER girlfriend

- "ugh, leave my girlfriend alone. can't you see she's uncomfortable with you??" 

- will flip her hair at the man, giving him one last eye roll before he finally leaves

- she's so sassy

- almost made you feel bad for the man but girl fuck him

- your girlfriend can never do any wrong, right??

- "and you, stop being oblivious! he was obviously flirting with you."

- girlie's offended, eyebrows furrowed as if it were your fault

- she crosses her arms against her chest as you pout at her

- "sorry... won't happen again."

- HER EYES SOFTENS FOR A WHILE BEFORE ROLLING HER EYES AGAIN trying to hide her forming smile

- she huffs, "whatever. you better make sure it won't" before plopping down on your bed to sit next to you and then you both finally eat breakfast in peace <33

- overall, this woman's not scared to express her emotions

- like u can literally see it on her face im not even kidding

no eul —

- first of all, how dare you

- no-eul's not the most confident with herself

- and seeing someone hit on you makes her feel down

- she's vulnerable

- will seek comfort through physical touch, either by holding your hand or wrapping an arm around your waist

- you ask her what's wrong and she'll respond in the softest voice EVEERRRRRJDJDJDJD

- "i just.. don't like sharing you.." 

- I PROMISE SHE MAY HAVE A TOUGH EXTERIOR

- but inside she's soft, for you at least.

- she needs extra reassurance bc u are literally the love of her life and she doesn't wanna lose you ever

- she's the quiet jealous type, will mostly let you know she is by her actions

- you make it up to her by setting up a movie night but it just ended up by you taking care of her

- it's up to you to think of how you took care of no-eul <3

se mi —

- when you started dating se-mi you knew you were in for a ride

- she won't hesitate to call out the situation

- just like mi-na, she's not scared to express her feelings

- won't be as sassy though

- she's gonna drop some sarcastic comments instead (she means it)

- "wow, didn't realize i had competition."

- will scoff at whoever's hitting on you

- she's also protective, she's wary of literally anybody in that large room.

- "keep an eye out for that man, he seems dangerous"

- uses humor as a shield to hide her jealousy

- makes comments about the other person

- but if you're stubborn and keep entertaining other people,

- babe

- she will make you jealous in return

- "two can play at this game."

- lol how the tables turn

- enjoys seeing you jealous but will stop eventually if she sees you down

- she'll make it up to you by having a quickie in the restroom

- <33 yum

jun hee —

- she's very honest

- she had a bad past relationship with the father of the baby she's carrying right now

- and she doesn't want the same to happen to you 

- someone's checking you out? she's gonna clear her throat to get the person's attention and calmly whisper something to them

- "that's my girlfriend you're staring at."

- she'll then try and make her best intimidating expression

- BUT AWHHH SHE LOOKS LIKE A MAD BABY BEAR CAUSE SHE'S SMALLLL

- thankfully, the other person is respectful enough to leave you both alone

- don't underestimate her though, she may be small but she's a tough one.

- she will stand her ground if she needs to

- she will protect her girlfriend if the other person was going too far

- but overall, she's calm unless she has a reason to not be.

hyun ju —

- THIS WOMAN IS TAAAAALL

- she'll definitely take advantage of that

- will do her best poker face and will tower over the person you're talking to

- will cross her arms as she scans the person up and down

- she's lowk threatened though, you know how she is with her confidence level

- you'll never make her jealous on purpose, of course

- but once you two are alone she'll blurt out something like, "i don't like them."

- you know, dating hyun-ju means she trusted you enough to be her girlfriend

- so as much as possible, she doesn't get jealous because she trusts that you love her and her only.

young mi —

- POOR BABY'S AN OVERTHINKERRR:(((((

- she'll overanalyze your interaction with the other person and will imagine the worst case scenario 

- then later she's gonna ask you millions of questions

- "do you like her?" 

- "what did she tell you to make you laugh?"

- "did you enjoy her presence..?" 

- :((((

- you, being a good gf, reassures her

- "oh no, honey, i just laughed at her face cause her makeup's so bad."

- she thinks it's mean to laugh but she lets out a soft chuckle

- you're glad to make your girlfriend smile again

sae byeok —

- territorial af

- wants you all to herself

- she's silent. but its obvious to you she's jealous if her body language stiffens

- you think this girl's personality is cold? just wait til you see her jealous side and she'll show you cold.

- theres this one time where sae really got jealous

- she poutED AT YOU RAHDJDJDJ:(((

- it was a once in a lifetime moment

- by the way have i mentioned that this girl's resting bitch face is DEADLY

- her eyes alone will intimidate anyone

- she looks like she's always glaring at something, well— she is

- that's why its rare for someone to walk up to you and hit on you

- cs she's always by your side, acting like your personal bodyguard <33

thanos —

- 'oh they can do that? i can do it better' type

- HE'S NEVERRR GONNA LET ANYBODY ACT LIKE THEYRE BETTER THAN HIM

- just like him sometimes, this man's pride is high

- always tries to one up the other person in doing something

- hell, the person can do a backflip? he can do TWO backflips

- he fails though

- will stand up and brush his clothes while looking around to see if there was anyone who saw him fall to his ass

- "yo man, just get the fuck outta here." 

- will pout if he sees you laughing at him

- softie thanos >>>

- "baby please tell me i did the backflips better:(" 

- HE'S SO UGHHHHHHH i wanna pinch his cheeks

- of course, you tell him his backflips were better !!! his fall was just part of the performance

- plus points for storyline <3

- sometimes he'll act unbothered, but it's painfully obvious he is ?????

<3

@misayani

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot (3) - Mattheo Riddle

The four of you were lounging in the Slytherin common room when the conversation turned to the upcoming Yule Ball. Theo and Enzo were discussing who they might ask when you casually sighed, stretching your arms over your head.

“Haven’t got a date yet,” you mused, your voice carrying a teasing lilt as you glanced at them.

There was a beat of silence before Mattheo turned to you, his brows furrowed. “What?”

You shrugged. “I said, I haven’t got a date yet.”

Mattheo’s frown deepened, looking genuinely confused. “What the hell do you mean you don’t have a date? You’re my girlfriend.”

You bit back a smirk. “Well, yeah,” you said smoothly, tilting your head at him. “But unless someone asks me, I don’t technically have a date, do I?”

Mattheo blinked at you, his mind clearly short-circuiting as he tried to process your words. “But… you’re going with me.”

You stood up, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips, your smirk widening when you pulled back. “Am I?” you whispered, before turning on your heel. “I’ll be in the library.”

With that, you walked off, leaving Mattheo sitting there, staring after you like you’d just spoken in Parseltongue.

“What the fuck just happened?” he muttered, completely lost.

Theo and Enzo exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

“Oh, mate,” Theo said, shaking his head. “She wants you to ask her.”

Mattheo still looked confused. “But why? She knows she’s mine. Why do I need to ask?”

Enzo smirked. “Because she wants the grand gesture, obviously. She wants to be courted, you idiot.”

Realization finally dawned on Mattheo’s face, and then—almost instantly—his expression darkened with something entirely different. Possessiveness.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered, his jaw clenching. “If she thinks for even one second that someone else might try and take her—” He stood up so fast his chair nearly toppled over. “I need to make sure everyone knows she’s mine.”

Theo laughed. “And what exactly are you gonna do?”

Mattheo’s lips curled into a dark smirk, his eyes gleaming with something mischievous. “I’m gonna make sure she never forgets who she belongs to.”

And with that, he stalked off, already planning something that would make sure no one even thought about asking you to the Yule Ball.

That evening, Mattheo sat in the common room, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he plotted. Theo and Enzo lounged nearby, watching with amusement as he scribbled something on a piece of parchment, crumpled it up, and then started again.

“She really got to you, huh?” Theo smirked, tossing a chocolate frog in the air and catching it with his mouth.

Mattheo didn’t even look up. “She thinks she can walk around saying she doesn’t have a date?” he muttered, shaking his head. “Nah. She’s about to get the grandest fucking invitation Hogwarts has ever seen.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow. “Just so we’re clear, this is a Yule Ball invitation, not a marriage proposal, yeah?”

Mattheo shot him a glare before refocusing on his task. He wasn’t just going to ask you—no, he was going to make damn sure that no one in this entire castle would dare even think about asking you first.

The next morning, you were making your way to the Great Hall for breakfast, completely unaware of what was waiting for you. As soon as you stepped inside, the entire room went silent.

Your brows furrowed. “What the—?”

Then, you saw it.

At the center of the Great Hall, hovering in midair for everyone to see, was an enormous banner made of swirling green and silver smoke, charmed to hover like a Dark Mark in the sky. But instead of a skull and serpent, the words spelled out:

Y/N L/N—YOU’RE MINE. MEET ME AT THE CLOCK TOWER AFTER CLASS. WE HAVE A BALL TO ATTEND.

– M.R.

Your jaw dropped.

The hall erupted into whispers, students staring between you and the display. The Gryffindor table looked horrified, while the Slytherins were either smirking or looking vaguely impressed.

At the far end of the room, you spotted Mattheo at the Slytherin table, leaning back lazily in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, smirking like he had just declared victory in battle. Theo and Enzo sat beside him, shaking their heads, clearly so done with his antics but enjoying the show nonetheless.

You exhaled through your nose, biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling. Of course he had to be dramatic about it. Of course he had to make sure everyone in the school knew who you belonged to.

With an exaggerated sigh, you shook your head and made your way over to him. The second you were close enough, Mattheo reached out, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you effortlessly into his lap.

"See, princess?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Now everyone knows you have a date."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through your chest. "Possessive much?"

Mattheo grinned, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your neck, not caring that half the school was watching. “Obsessive,” he corrected. “No one else was even allowed to think about asking you.”

Theo, shaking his head, muttered, “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Enzo just laughed. “This is why no one else even tries to compete with him.”

You turned to look at Mattheo, raising an eyebrow. "You do realize I was always going with you, right?"

Mattheo smirked. "Yeah, but I had to make sure no one else got any ideas." His grip on your waist tightened. "You're mine, Y/N. Always." His expression softened slightly. “Besides, I know you wanted the gesture and if it’s important to you then it’s important to me.”

You sighed dramatically but leaned down and kissed him anyway. “Lucky for you,” you murmured against his lips, “I like when you get possessive.”

His smirk grew. “Oh, princess, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

[mariasont]

can you do aaron x wife reader who also works in the bau with him & on a case a police officer openly flirts with aaron in front of the team and reader so she stakes her claim on her husband && the team ( mostly derek & pen ) are teasing the two of them for it ??

Marked Territory - A.H

A/N: AHHHHH thinking ab claiming aaron hotchner as ur man has me giggling & kicking me feet

THANK you sooooo much for requesting angel <3 hope you like it!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

wk: 1.2k

pairings: aaron hotchner x wife!bau!fem!reader

warnings: heavy makeout, jealously

You stood a few feet away with a watchful gaze, arms locked across your chest. The consultant was laying it on thick, her eyelashes sweeping up and down in a practiced rhythm aimed at Aaron. It made you want to throw up. You couldn't help but let out a soft, almost inaudible scoff. The consultant's laughter pierced the quiet, an exaggerated display that felt out of place. Her hand rested on Aaron's arm a moment too long. Your glare could have set the room on fire, you were sure of it, and it only seemed to intensify when Aaron offered a polite, yet distant smile in return.

"Careful there, sugar," Derek joked, sliding into place beside you as he nudged your side. "You're about two seconds from turning this into a crime scene."

You offered a half-glance towards him, "I suppose I can't fault her taste," you said with a forced lightness, even as a twinge of jealously coiled tightly within you, your attention fixed on the hand that dared to claim familiarity with Aaron. "But good taste doesn't come with good sense, apparently."

Penelope swept in with a gasp that could rival a Greek chorus, her eyes wide with a feigned shock. "Wow, I could practically taste your fury from down the hall! Mrs. Hotchner, are we in strategy mode, or should I grab some popcorn?"

You rolled your eyes with a dismissive wave. "You two are ridiculous. What do you expect me to do? Drag her by her hair? Please, I trust Aaron," you stated firmly, because, well, you did. This, however, didn't stop the tiny spark of irritation that flickered within, unbidden and unwelcome, but you squashed it with a laugh. "Besides, if I started a catfight every time someone flirted with him, I'd need my own filing cabinet for all the assault charges."

A glance was all it took for Garcia and Morgan to share their amusement. "Sure, sure," Garcia drawled, her voice dripping in sarcasm.

Morgan's eyebrow arched in silent agreement as he smiled knowingly. "Of course, you're calm. But we both know if that bubble of anger pops, it's going to be one hell of a show."

You tried to ignore it; you really did. You buried your nose in your work, determined to keep your mind off that infuriating woman. You shuffled papers, dove into your case files, and tapped away at your computer with a vigor that doesn't go unnoticed by the team. Every time you caught a glimpse of Aaron, there she was--the consultant--hovering like a shadow. It's almost comical how she mirrored his every move, but you were not laughing.

You found reasons to be anywhere but where Aaron was, taking your coffee break when he's in the break room, opting for the stairs when he took the elevator. It's a dance of avoidance that has you mentally exhausted, but you're trying to channel your inner zen, and being around that woman is doing you no favors.

The office air is thick with tension, a tangible presence that envelops your desk, your focus splintering with every laugh and hushed conversation that drifts over from Aaron's direction. You're the very image of concentration until you see it--the consultant, her proximity invasive, her hand lingering on his shoulder with a familiarity that sears through your veneer of calm. It's the tripping point, the moment your restraint fractures.

You stand, a fluid motion that betrays her anger that charged the room with an energy that has the whole team's attention snapping to you. They recognize the signs--the firm line of your jaw, the fire in your eyes--a rare display that signals an unstoppable force is about to be set in motion.

"Hotch," the name is a clear, firm declaration across the room, a tone you usually reserved for the field. "Can I speak to you for a second?"

The room falls still, a collective breath held by the team as Aaron excuses himself and follows you into his office. The door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving just the two of you. His gaze meets yours, a furrow of worry creasing his brow as he takes in the tempest swirling in your stance.

"Honey, are you alright?" he asks, the professional facade giving way to a soft undertone of worry, as he takes a deliberate step towards you, his eyes searching yours for signs of distress.

With a swift assurance of privacy, your eyes lock on the drawn blinds, and you waste no time diminishing the space between you, hands clasping up to his neck with an urgency that pulls him down to you. Your lips found his in a fervent collision, coaxing a surprised murmur from him. He softly pulled back, his chuckle deep and knowing, as his hands encircled your waist. 

"Honey--I, we're in the office."

His words may have carried a hint of reprimand, but the gentle exploration of his hands across your back drawing you nearer seemed to contradict him. An innocent smile graced your lips as your fingers wove through his hair, eliciting his head tilting back in contentment. "Just missed you is all."

An eyebrow lifted in amused acknowledgement. "Mm, is that so?"

Gently tugging his head closer, your lips crashed against his with a desperate intensity, your hands gripping him as if he were a lifeline.

With deliberate strokes, you raked your fingers through his hair, creating artful disarray. Your hands glided to his tie, tugging it just enough to break the perfect line, then across his jacket, crumpling the fabric with feigned carelessness. Each touch a strategic step in enhancing his unkempt image.

A gentle exhale escaped you as he pressed you back against the desk's edge, his hands forming a cage around you, both protective and possessive.  Your lips curved into a smirk, your teeth capturing his bottom lip and tugging with a teasing pressure, probably a little harder than you should have, causing him to pull back. "Christ, sweetheart."

Instinctively, your hand rose to trace his bottom lip, smoothing over the swollenness your teeth had caused. A soft smile graced your features as you took in the delightful disarray of his appearance. With a satisfied nod, you left a featherlight kiss on his cheek and glided towards the door. "I love you, Mr. Hotchner."

His eyebrows knit together in loving exasperation as he observed your retreat, his hand absentmindedly caressing his lip. God, you kept life interesting. "I love you more, Mrs. Hotchner."

Emerging from Hotch's office, your hair perfectly disordered, a small smirk etched on your lips. You watch as the consultant's eyes stretch wide, a flush of embarrassment covering her cheeks. With a sly wink tossed her way, you glide towards Penelope and Morgan.

"Well, well, well," Morgan drawled, a sly grin spreading across his face as he watched the scene unfold, arms folded confidently over his chest. "I had a feeling those claws were just waiting for the right moment to strike."

"That's our girl! Showing the world whose boss without breaking a sweat." Penelope chirped. "Well, I mean, maybe a little sweat. I'm seriously striving not to speculate about what you two were doing in there."

A playful smirk dances on your lips as you peer over your shoulder at Hotch's door. "Just wait for it," you tease, fingers poised for the dramatic reveal as you count down. "3, 2, 1.."

Right on cue, Hotch steps out, looking every bit as ruffled as you'd intended. His tie hangs crooked, his suit crumpled, and you didn't miss the dark red tint around his bottom lip. The sound of Morgan and Penelope's laughter filled the air as you offered a nonchalant shrug. 

"It's all in the day's work, besties. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do."

[pixiefelixie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ THINKING 'BOUT YOU, THINKING 'BOUT YOU

: ̗̀➛ pairing — nonidol!felix x fem!reader : ̗̀➛ word count — 2.8k : ̗̀➛ content — fluff, mutual pining, first kiss, drinking, did i say fluff

hi guys!! its been a while since ive posted so in honour of spring finally being here, here's a little something ♡

listen while you read 🎧

you didn’t really know what to call it—this thing with felix.

you weren't dating—at least, not officially. but there had been late-night calls that bled into 3 a.m. giggles, inside jokes only the two of you understood, lingering looks, and “thinkin bout you” texts. there were shared secrets beneath shared clothes, hands that sometimes brushed against yours like it meant something, and a thousand almost-kisses.

you step back out into the yard, cold drink in hand, and the whole place practically buzzes with life. fairy lights are strung overhead like stars trying to compete with the real ones, glowing warm against the inky sky. there’s a group crowded around the lawn chairs, someone’s half-passed out on a beanbag, and rocky is thumping through the speakers like the heartbeat of the night. the bass pulses through the grass, the kind you can feel in your chest.

your red cup is already slick with condensation, and you wipe your hand on your jeans shorts as you weave back through the party. you bring the cup to your lips and take a sip—immediate regret. you grimace, jaw clenching slightly at the mess you dared to call a drink. who told you beer and liquor was a fun mix? oh right, you did, thirty minutes ago when you thought you were some sort of backyard bartender.

you’re shaking your head to yourself, when a voice cuts through the music.

“there you are,” it says, and you already know who it is before you even look up.

felix.

your heart does that stupid little flutter like it always does, even though you try to play it cool. he’s got that knowing smirk, the kind that’s equal parts trouble and charm, and he's dressed in all black like the night wrapped itself around him and called it fashion. his pants hang just right on his frame, and his blonde hair’s all messy in that on-purpose kind of way. there's a glint of something mischievous in his eyes, soft but sharp, like he’s been watching you this whole time and finally decided to make his move.

“hey, stranger,” you say, with that smile he always put on your face.

“hey, hotshot,” he shoots back, his own grin spreading. before you can blink, he plucks the red cup right out of your hand, holding it up between you two like he’s inspecting it for poison. “what's this?”

“you're gonna hate it” you say, biting your lip, already bracing for his reaction.

but of course he drinks it. because he’s felix. one hand holding his own drink, the other bringing yours to his lips like it's nothing.

you giggle as you watch him tilt it back, just a small sip, and then bam. instant regret written all over his face.

his eyes squeeze shut, and he kind of recoils, dramatically pressing the back of his hand to his chest. “oh my goodness,” he says, voice half-hoarse, half-laughing. “that’s horrible. what did you do?”

you’re already cracking up. “i told you!”

he’s still looking at the cup like it just insulted his family. you reach for it, but he holds it away from you. “i am not letting you go back to this. here, take mine.” he offers you his own cup, and his tone softens, eyes a little gentler now.

you pause for a second, the switch in his voice catching you off guard. he’s watching you carefully, like he’s been paying attention, like he already knows what you’d like. and not just the drink.

“you sure?” you ask, voice a little smaller now.

“positive,” he says, pressing it gently into your hand.

you smile, soft and a little shy despite everything, and then—without thinking too hard about it—you lean in and press a light kiss to his cheek.

it’s quick. barely there. but it leaves behind something electric.

felix’s smile freezes for half a second, like his brain short-circuited, and then it stretches wider, softer. his eyes crinkle a bit, and those dimples—those stupid dimples—make an appearance as he looks at you like you just handed him the stars.

he tilts his head just a little, eyes still locked on you like nothing else at this party exists—not the music, not the lights, not the dozens of people laughing and dancing around you. just you. his thumb brushes the edge of his own cup absentmindedly, but his focus is all yours.

“if you keep doing stuff like that, i’m gonna start thinking you like me or something.” he says, voice low and velvety,

“maybe i do,” you say, your voice playful, but your heart is thudding hard enough you wonder if he can hear it over the music.

he grins, eyes flickering to your lips just for a split second before he looks back up. “good. ‘cause i’ve been thinking about kissing you for, like… a really long time.”

you blink at him, momentarily stunned, because he says it so casually, so sincerely, like he’s telling you the sky’s blue or the stars are pretty tonight. and yet it lands right in your chest.

his fingers brush against your elbow, featherlight. “can i?”

your breath hitches.

it’s like the world slows down for a second—the music fades into the background, the laughter becomes a distant hum, and all you can hear is your own pulse thudding in your ears. your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your heart has pushed up into your throat and your body’s forgotten how to be normal.

he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile and precious, like he doesn’t want to spook you—but also like he knows. knows how much you want this. knows how long you’ve been dancing around it. knows you’re nervous, and he’s not in any rush to push past that.

you nod. barely. just enough.

and he moves in slow.

one hand comes up to brush a piece of hair away from your face, his fingers so gentle you almost shiver. then, finally, his lips meet yours—soft and warm and careful, like he’s pouring every unspoken feeling into something that barely even needs words.

it’s not rushed. it’s not messy. it’s just perfect.

his lips part just slightly, inviting but not demanding, and you follow instinct more than thought, leaning in a little bit closer. you taste the faint tang of beer on his tongue, cold and bitter and so distinctly him. it lingers for a second before it’s swallowed by the heat curling between you, the way his mouth fits against yours like it was always meant to.

you both pull away, slowly, reluctantly—like neither of you really want to, but you need a second to breathe, to process what just happened. your eyes meet his, and it’s like something clicks. like some invisible tension that had been stretched tight for so long finally snaps in the gentlest way.

his lips are still curved in the softest smile, his cheeks a little pink, and you can tell he's feeling just as dazed as you are. but then—you both lose it.

you burst into laughter at the exact same time, this messy, giddy kind of laughter that bubbles up out of nowhere and shakes your shoulders. the kind that makes your heart feel so full it almost aches.

out of sheer embarrassment, you lean forward and press your forehead to his chest. he smells like cologne and spring and something a little smoky, like the fire pit still burning a few feet away. his arms come around you instinctively, wrapping you up like he’s been waiting to do it for ages.

you stay like that for a moment—pressed into his chest, tucked into the safety of his arms, giggling softly like the two of you are in on some secret the rest of the world hasn’t figured out yet. his fingers rub slow circles into your back, and his chin dips to rest lightly on the top of your head. neither of you say anything, and you don’t need to.

it just feels right.

around you, the party continues, but it’s gone a little hazy now—like someone turned the dial down just enough to let the moment breathe. the fairy lights overhead glow in a soft gold haze, muted like candlelight behind frosted glass. smoke drifts lazily from the fire pit, curling through the air like it’s dancing to the beat of the music.

shadows flicker across the lawn. people are lounging around now, sprawled in chairs or slow dancing in the grass, voices hushed and blurred together like a watercolor painting. everything feels dreamlike, like you’ve slipped into a different world just slightly off from this one—a little quieter, a little warmer, a little softer.

felix’s fingers tighten gently around your waist, and he leans down, voice brushing your ear like velvet. “wanna sneak off?” he says. then, with a mischievous curl to his lips,

you don’t even hesitate.

you look up at him, eyes wide and nod.

he grins—giddy and boyish—and immediately reaches for your hand. you lace your fingers with his, and together you start weaving your way back through the crowd, ducking past conversations and the trailing edge of someone’s scarf, stepping over a half-empty bottle on the grass.

inside the house, there’s a group crowded around the kitchen island shouting over each other, someone sitting on the counter peeling an orange like it’s the most important thing in the world. someone else is singing way too dramatically into a tv remote. the lights inside are warmer, buzzing, a little dizzying.

you quickly tilt back the drink felix gave you, finishing it in a few smooth gulps. you toss the empty cup into the flooded garbage by the hallway door, turning just in time to see felix standing behind you, holding your old red cup—the one with the infamous death mix.

without a word, he raises an eyebrow at it dramatically, like it personally wronged him. then he throws it straight into the garbage can without giving it a last sip.

you and felix exchange a look—wide-eyed and stifling laughter—and quicken your pace, dodging between people and whispered excuse me’s and the occasional sticky beer puddle on the tile floor.

the second you step out the front door and onto the road, the night wraps around you like a breath of fresh air.

cool, quiet, and soft with the kind of calm that only shows up when everything else has faded. the street is dim and empty, lit only by the faint glow of porch lights and the hazy orange halo of a streetlamp down the block.

you and felix cross the road, sneakers scuffing quietly against the pavement, hands still intertwined like muscle memory. the houses across the street are asleep—lights off, windows shut, the occasional curtain fluttering with the breeze. it's the kind of silence that feels sacred, like the world paused just for you.

a little farther down, you spot it—a small building tucked between two tall hedges, maybe a community hall or some long-closed shop. it’s plain and quiet, its brick wall catching the dim glow from the streetlamp above. you tug felix’s hand, moving toward it without saying a word, drawn to the way it just feels still.

you reach it first, and as soon as your back touches the cool wall, you slide down with a soft sigh, knees folding up to your chest. the grass is damp and smells like spring. you pat the spot next to you, eyes flicking up at him.

felix doesn’t hesitate.

he drops down beside you with a soft thud, stretching his legs out and leaning just close enough that your shoulders brush. the second you rest your head on his shoulder, he exhales—like maybe he’s been holding that breath since the kiss.

you sigh again, softer this time, letting yourself melt into the moment.

his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles, slow and absent like it’s second nature. you watch his hand in yours for a beat before turning your eyes to the quiet road, the stars barely peeking through the haze above.

no words. just warmth. just stillness.

and the slow realization that maybe, just maybe, this night has only just started.

then, his voice breaks the silence, soft and low, like he’s afraid of disturbing the calm.

“you know…” he starts, eyes still trained on the road in front of you. “i don’t think i’ve ever really said this. not like this.”

you glance up at him, but he doesn’t meet your gaze just yet. his fingers squeeze yours just slightly before he goes on.

“you mean a lot to me,” he says. “like… a lot. and not just in the ‘i think you’re cool’ kind of way. it’s more than that. you make things feel lighter when they’re heavy. you make me feel like i don’t have to try so hard to be anything other than… me.”

your heart stumbles over itself, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. you smile, small and unsure, warmth flickering in your chest—but there’s something else too. something tugging at the edges of your comfort.

you don’t know why he’s being so sappy. it’s not that you don’t like hearing it—it’s sweet, it’s felix—but something about the weight in his voice, the way he’s looking at you now, finally meeting your eyes like he’s bracing for something.

and that realization settles in your stomach like a drop of cold water.

you try to keep the smile, to hold onto the sweetness of the moment, but your fingers tense in his just slightly. “why are you saying this now?” you ask, your voice quiet, cautious.

he hesitates.

felix goes quiet for a beat, eyes flicking back down to your intertwined hands. his thumb is still tracing slow circles against your skin, but now it feels more deliberate—like he’s trying to steady himself.

you feel the breath he pulls in before he speaks again.

“and i keep thinking… what even are we?” he says, voice low, like he’s afraid of saying it too loud might make it feel less real. “we’re not nothing. we never were. but we’re also not—” he cuts himself off with a breath, shaking his head again, softer this time.

“i don’t want to keep pretending like i’m okay with the in-between. because i’m not.” he glances down, then back up at you, his expression gentler now—like he’s not just saying it, but feeling every word. “and tonight… i don’t know. being with you like this—it makes everything else feel so far away. and it hit me.”

he looks at you then, full-on, no flicker of nerves this time. just him. honest and open and so felix.

“i want to be yours,” he says, steady. “and i want you to be mine. for real.”

your breath catches again, and you’re too stunned to look away.

he leans in just a little closer, like he needs you to hear it perfectly, no confusion, no room for misreading.

“will you be my girlfriend?” he says, voice soft but certain,

and just like that, all the air in your lungs evaporates. your heart feels like it’s trying to climb its way into your throat. you weren’t wrong—he was building to something big.

just not in the way you feared.

you blink, a slow smile spreading across your face despite the shock. “you absolute dork,” you whisper, eyes stinging a little with the pressure of how full you suddenly feel.

felix grins, sheepish. “that a yes?”

you squeeze his hand, lean in, and kiss him again—soft and sure, the kind that says yes a hundred different ways. you feel him smile into the kiss—just the smallest curve of his lips against yours, and somehow, it makes everything feel even more real.

you pull away slowly, your noses still brushing, breath mingling in the soft space between. his eyes flutter open, hazy and full of something gentle and glowing.

you stay close, forehead resting lightly against his, both of you quiet for a second. just listening to the soft rustle of the grass and the low thrum of the music still floating from the house in the distance.

“no take backs, lix.” you say, playful but breathless, like you just made the best kind of deal with the universe.

his eyes sparkle. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

[lovelytsunoda]

everything everywhere all at once | ollie bearman

I’m feeling everything everywhere all at once I feel stupid and clueless like what the fuck! did I just step in some love?

summary: an influencer who's never had a boyfriend finds her storybook romance with one of formula one's most promising rookies

pairing: ollie bearman x influencer!reader

TIKTOK - YN YLN just posted a video

music - "don't look back in anger" by oasis

COMMENTS

user old honda gang unite!! these shitboxes will outlive us all

-> yn.yln i have outfitted mine with five different cds that stopped being popular in 1999 and a bath and body works air freshener. we are living the dream!

user i can't wait until she starts dating...i'll be following along like a proud mother (im only 29)

user girl which liam gallagher show were you at???

-> yn.yln montreal! tickets were cheaper there than my hometown so i drove across the border with my dad

user we need to do for her what we did for nick and cassie!

-> user oooh you know who she'd look cute with? olliebearman !

INSTAGRAM

yn.yln just posted!

liked by yourbestie, bff2, olliebearman and 600 others

yn.yln bought a cute new bikini top, its such a shame i dont have a cute boy to help me take it off

see all comments

yourbestie SLAYYYYYYYYYY

user oooooo i love that bag in the second pic! where did you buy it?

-> yn.yln just sent you a link!

user girl that caption is unhinged (and i feel it so hard)

user chat, did you see ollie bearman in her likes???

-> user no who is he?

-> user a formula one driver! he's 19 and someone on tiktok said they thought he and yn would be cute together

-> user ooo i see i just googled him and he's actually such a cutie!

TIKTOK - YN YLN just posted a video

music - "kiss the dirt (falling down the mountain) by inxs

COMMENTS

user omg!!! you look so cute girlie! i hope you have a great time

user proud mom moment (im 36 and recently engaged)

user that's such a great scent! you look good and you smell good, he'd be a fool not to love you

kimiantonelli he's so excited to finally meet you!

-> olliebearman KIMI SHUT UP

INSTAGRAM

yn.yln just posted!

tagged: olliebearman

liked by yourbestie, olliebearman and 700 others

yn.yln hey google play "kiss me" by sixpence none the richer

see all comments

yourbestie SCREAMING

yourbestie TEXT ME IMMEDIATELY

yourbestie HOW DARE YOU POST BEFORE TEXTING ME

olliebearman I had a really great time today <3

-> yn.yln me too! i can't wait to do it again :)

user damn my girl is acting up for a man born in 2005

-> user HES JUST A BABY OMGGG

-> user and so is she??? they're like five months apart

INSTAGRAM STORIES

TEXTS FROM OLLIE TO YN

INSTAGRAM

yn.yln just posted

montreal, quebec

liked by olliebearman, kimiantonelli and 890 others

yn.yln boy you make my heart beat fast, ferrari

see all comments

olliebearman babe you know i drive a haas right?

-> yn.yln doesn't flow as nicely

haasf1team it was so much fun having you in the garage this weekend! you make our boy very happy!

user god it hurts to watch other people live out my dreams

yourbestie SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

yourbestie YOUVE GROWN UP SO FAST

yourbestie side note also thanks for inviting me and the bf along! we've both has such a great time with you guys

user chat did i pull through by getting ollie hooked on her tiktoks or what?

-> kimiantonelli actually i did that way before you did

BONUS

[femmeftal]

⠀. ּ ֶָ֢⠀⠀⠀₍ ^⠀. .⠀^ ₎⠀⟆⠀ ۟ ❨ ᥍͟𝗍͟𝖺͟𝗋͟𝗌 𝗼𝗯ׂ𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 ❩

۪ ⋆ 𝓅𝒶̄𝗂𝗋𝗌 : mark!variants x reader

𝗁ℯ𝒶𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 : what each different mark variants are into, and why they are into it.

𝓌𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀s : p links, kink listing, 18+ content

 .’﹙ ℳ𝗈𝗁𝖺𝗐𝗄 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 ： 𝓅𝖽𝖺 ﹚

mark’s biggest turn on is PDA, the feeling of your soft delicate skin on his just flips a switch in him. mark’s lips are always on yours no matter what time it is or where you two are at, his favorite place that he kisses you is infront of him viltrum empire loving the feeling of eyes on him.

the same hands he had killed thousands with were wrapped around the curve of your throat do softly, applying enough pressure to make your eyes slightly blur. Mark did not want to lose a doll like you he claimed, being do possessive over his little nymph.

Bonus points if mark is able to convince his little blythe to match mohawks with him!! always pressing his forehead to yours and making out with you, his tongue wrapping around yours and sucking. The taste of him wasn’t foreign to you anymore the amount of times he kisses you, which is always..

but during sex is so much more..romantic, loves making you feel like the queen you are even sometimes setting up roses on your shared bed when he wants to have sex with you. his poundings are so ruthless and rough, always managing to pull screams out of your throat ( ♡︎ )

 .’﹙𝓈𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝓂𝖺𝗋𝗄 ： 𝒷𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 ﹚

you need to pray every time you start your cycle, and he knows exactly when too. so when he pops up randomly behind you groping your ass and tits while his bulge is pressed against the curve of your ass, you know EXACTLY what he is here for.

the sloppy wet sounds of your period blood and his saliva mixing together makes you cringe in embarrassment, he had you sprawled out in an abandoned hotel that he hadn’t destroyed just yet.

“fuck - keep these open. “ he was devouring your bleeding cunt like it was going to be his ever last meal, making sure no blood had slid down the cheeks of your ass. he was licking you raw at this point, and even if you tried to run from it he’d give you a harsh slap on your already sensitive pussy.

“ this pusshys mine to eat..mgh fwuck sho good “ mark had a habit of getting drunk off your pussy, always rambling on how if he ever caught you with someone else that person would be dead in a instant. mark always wasn’t a good sharer with his toys. ( ♡︎ )

 .’﹙𝓇𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝗆𝒶𝗋𝗄 ： 𝗉𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅 ﹚

this mark is so bossy, always telling people about his empire, so its natural that he bosses you around too. just his orders are more.. explicit.

he loves it when you call him king or emperor it boosts his ego so much and he would probably reward you with allowing you to watch him stroke his hardened cock in front of your innocent naive face, his mewls and whimpers bring you to the edge all the time and even if you dare to turn your head away from the scene he is giving you.

he will punish you, slapping his member against you face and probably even smearing in against your facial cheeks. if you cry about how it hurts when he slaps you with his cock he’ll just do it harder next time, smirking at your pathetic cries.

he doesnt just ask for sex, no no no he demands it. he expects you yo be on your knees mouth wide open with your tongue hanging out when he wants his fat cock sucked, and if he wants to fuck you, he better see you in a wide mating press with your small fingers spreading your pussy for him.

retro mark is like those men on broadcasts who claim women have to only do 3 things, and your 3 things are to worship his cock, pleasure him, and give him your lovely attention and he probably has a collar and leash for you too when he is pounding you from the back. ( ♡ )

 .’﹙ℴ𝗆𝗇𝗂 𝓂𝖺𝗋𝗄 ：𝓈𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄 ﹚

i can imagine that this mark is a little bit muscular than the others, always focusing and working out 24/7.

thats why when he is pressed against your body, making you stand on your tippie toes to kiss him, his mind goes extremely blank.

so blank to the fact that his cock is springing back to life, he sometimes wonder how’d you look in a chokehold while being fucked so good bye him.

mark has a big dick, everyone knows that but when he has his member hovering above your stomach to show you how deep he is gonna go your little face panicking just makes his dick jump and bounce against your stomach.

god you’re such a fucking vixen mark thinks, always distracting him when he works out and you just claim “ i wanna help you! “ but your tight yoga clothes say other wise. he wants to take you here and tower over your small frame bending your body into the desired position he’d like. and so he does, he can feel his tip trying to prod open your womb and force itself inside

your eyes were blown wide open, jaw slacked and drool smothered all over your chest and jaw. he loved you like this, destroyed and ruined from other men but him, the way your pussy could only accommodate to him after this would leave you shocked. ( ♡︎ )

[arxiwon]

hi!! can i request a childhood friends to lovers smut where sunghoon gets really jealous and possessive? thank you so much in advance — i love your work<3

We try to do our best every time you guys say you love our work<3

Mine to Take

The way he was watching you sent a shiver down your spine. Sunghoon sat back against the couch, legs spread, jaw tight, fingers digging into his thigh like he was holding himself back from something dangerous.

You knew that look.

It was the same one he gave guys at bars who got too close to you, the same one he had when someone dared to put their hands on you during a party. But this time, it was directed at you.

And all because you had been laughing a little too much with someone else.

You bit your lip, tilting your head. “What’s your problem?”

Sunghoon didn’t move, just stared, his tongue running over his teeth like he was deciding something. “You really wanna know?”

You crossed your arms, heart hammering as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

A low chuckle. Dark. Unamused.

“Alright.”

And then he was on you.

In a blur, Sunghoon grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, twisting your body until you tumbled onto the couch, right beneath him. Your back hit the cushions as he climbed over you, caging you in, his breath hot against your skin.

“You really think I didn’t see that?” he murmured, his fingers sliding up your thigh, pushing the hem of your skirt higher. “The way you smiled at him. The way you let him get close.”

Your breath hitched. “Sunghoon—”

A sharp nip at your jaw made you gasp. “No. Don’t fucking say my name like that when you were looking at another man a second ago.” His hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. His pupils were blown, his lips slightly parted, and fuck—he looked hungry.

“You’re mad over nothing,” you whispered, but your body betrayed you, arching up when his thigh pressed between your legs.

“Nothing?” His laugh was dark, low. “Then why are you shaking, baby?”

You were shaking.

Sunghoon leaned in, brushing his nose along the curve of your jaw. “Wanna know what’s funny?” His lips grazed your ear. “He’ll never get to see you like this. No one else will.” His teeth scraped your skin. “Because you’re mine.”

Your stomach clenched at the possessiveness dripping from his voice.

“Say it.”

You swallowed. “S-Sunghoon—”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers pressing over the damp fabric of your panties. Your body jolted, a whimper slipping past your lips.

“Not my name, sweetheart.” His fingers teased, rubbing slow, lazy circles. “Say what I wanna hear.”

You bit your lip, too stubborn to give in so easily.

Bad idea.

Sunghoon growled under his breath and suddenly yanked your panties to the side, dragging a single finger along your slick folds.

Your back arched. “Fuck—!”

“Try again,” he murmured, smirking against your throat.

Your mind was spinning. Your skin was on fire. Sunghoon’s touch was relentless, teasing and slow, but you could feel the threat in his movements—the silent warning that if you didn’t give him what he wanted, he’d make you.

“Yours,” you finally gasped, gripping his shoulders. “I’m yours, Sunghoon.”

A satisfied hum. His fingers pressed deeper.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “And I’m gonna make damn sure you never forget it.”

And then, all hell broke loose.

Sunghoon crashed his lips against yours, swallowing your moans as he pushed two fingers inside you, stretching you without warning. You clawed at his back, body jerking, but he just pinned you harder, thrusting his fingers at a brutal pace.

“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to watch your expression twist in pleasure. “God, look at you. Dripping all over my hand. You love this, don’t you?”

You could barely think straight, the heat of his body, the roughness of his hands, the way his knee was pressing down to keep you spread wide for him—it was too much.

He suddenly withdrew his fingers, and you barely had time to whimper before he was yanking your top off, exposing you completely. His hands were everywhere, gripping, touching, owning.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking just hard enough to make you jolt. “Mine.”

You gasped, tangling your fingers in his hair as he devoured you, his hands sliding down to undo his belt. Your heart pounded, anticipation making you dizzy, especially when he pulled back just enough to let you see the way he was fisting his cock, stroking himself as he looked down at you.

“Gonna let me ruin you, sweetheart?” His voice was low, dark with need. “Gonna let me fuck you so good you never even think about another man again?”

Your walls clenched around nothing, a desperate whimper escaping your lips. “Yes—please—”

Sunghoon groaned, grabbing your thighs and dragging you closer.

“That’s my girl.”

And then he was inside you, stretching you open with one sharp thrust, making you cry out as he buried himself to the hilt.

Sunghoon cursed under his breath, his grip on your waist bruising. “So fucking tight,” he growled, rocking his hips slow, making sure you felt every inch of him. “Gonna ruin you, baby. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

His pace was ruthless.

He fucked you like he wanted to brand himself into your soul, each thrust deep, hard, making you arch and claw at his back.

“Who owns you?” he gritted out, his breath ragged against your ear.

“You—”

His hips slammed into yours. “Louder.”

“You—fuck—Sunghoon, you!”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Damn right.”

His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. “Now be a good girl…” He kissed you, slow and filthy, his hips rolling in an unforgiving rhythm.

“…and take it.”

Sunghoon was losing his mind.

The way you clenched around him, your body arching up, the wrecked look on your face—it was all too much. His control was slipping, his jaw tight as he watched you fall apart under him.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You think I’m gonna stop here, sweetheart?” he murmured, dragging his tongue along your jaw before biting down, hard enough to leave a mark. “Nah. I’m gonna take my time with you.”

His grip on your throat tightened as he snapped his hips forward, pulling a sob from your lips.

Sunghoon groaned. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

You were so fucking loud, your moans echoing in the room, and fuck if it didn’t make his cock twitch inside you.

“Sunghoon—”

“Shhh.” His thumb brushed over your swollen lips, his pace slowing to an agonizing grind, making you whimper beneath him. “You’re so fucking needy.” He smirked as you writhed under him, desperate. “Wanna come, baby?”

You nodded frantically, body trembling.

His smirk widened. “Beg for it.”

You let out a broken sob, fingers digging into his arms. “Please—Sunghoon, please—I need—”

Slap.

Your gasp filled the air as the sharp sting of his palm against your thigh left a burning imprint.

“Not good enough,” he growled. “Try again.”

Tears welled in your eyes, frustration and need overwhelming you. “Please—fuck—I need you, Hoon. Need you so bad, wanna come all over your cock—please, please—”

Sunghoon’s groan was pure sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed, gripping your waist as he slammed back into you, the force making the couch creak. “That’s what I fucking like.”

His hand wrapped around your throat again, pinning you beneath him as he fucked you raw, each thrust hitting deep, bruising, relentless.

“Mine,” he rasped, his lips brushing yours. “You’re fucking mine, you hear me?”

You nodded, sobbing against his mouth.

Sunghoon groaned, kissing you hard, messy, filthy, swallowing every cry as he ruined you completely.

And when you finally shattered, legs shaking, body convulsing, he didn’t stop.

“Too much?” he murmured, watching your blissed-out expression.

You whimpered, nodding weakly.

His grin was downright feral. “Tough luck, baby.” His hips rolled, forcing you through it, making you cry out as your overstimulated body jolted beneath him.

“Sunghoon—!”

“That’s right, say my fucking name.”

His hand found your clit, rubbing fast, merciless, dragging out another shattering orgasm before he finally groaned deep in his chest and came, spilling inside you as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

Sunghoon collapsed onto you, chest heaving, his breath warm against your throat.

For a moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing.

Then—

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice hoarse but still dripping with possession. “I’m not done with you.”

Your eyes widened. “Hoon—”

He grinned.

“Round two, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he was flipping you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up, positioning himself at your entrance again—

You barely had time to breathe before he was sliding back in.

[luv4arinn]

Bayverse!Raph as a Boyfriend Headcanons <3 (but I psychoanalyzed him way too much)

Parenting: Raph x Female Reader

Warnings: Low self-esteem, body dysphoria, this is more serious, sorry, yeah nsfw

This man is the definition of “I’m a mess, but if someone even looks at you, they’re dead.”

In the Bayverse movies, Raph carries a deep-seated resentment toward himself. It’s not just his aggressive attitude or his constant need to fight—deep down, he’s convinced that he doesn’t deserve anything good. And when it comes to love… God, it’s even worse.

In his mind, it’s impossible for someone to see him as anything other than a monster. Not a mutant, not a warrior, not a man—a monster. And even though he’d never say it out loud (because, to him, admitting it would give it power), every time he sees you—every time you smile at him, every time you talk to him like he’s not some freak of nature—his brain just short-circuits.

Because what could he possibly offer you?

Donnie has intelligence and could talk to you about a million fascinating things. Mikey would make you laugh and shower you with love without hesitation. Leo… well, Leo has always been the strong one, the one who makes the right decisions, the one who is everything he isn’t.

But him? He’s just Raph. Impulsive, hot-headed, stubborn, and with a track record of messing up at the worst possible moment.

And the worst part is that even though he loves you in silence, even though he wants you more than he’d ever admit, he would never dare to do anything about it. Because… what if you realize he’s not worth it? What if you snap out of it and realize you could have someone better? What if one day you look at him and see what he sees in the mirror?

That’s why Raph would never make the first move. He’d never stare for too long, never dare to cross that line. But his possessiveness would betray him. The way his brow furrows when you talk to someone else. How his jaw clenches when someone gets too close. How his knuckles go white when he feels like someone else has what he’ll never be able to have.

And if you do return his feelings… God, Raph won’t process it. He won’t believe it. He’ll convince himself it’s a mistake. That he’s going to ruin it. That he doesn’t deserve this—that you deserve better.

But if you prove him wrong—if you stay, if you choose him every single day—he’ll be the most fiercely loyal and protective person you could ever have by your side.

Because even if he never says it out loud, even if he never fully admits it, even if he still doesn’t quite believe it himself… knowing that someone sees him as more than a monster is the only thing that could ever heal the wounds he’s carried his entire life.

Raph doesn’t know how to love halfway. He doesn’t know how to be lukewarm, how to be indifferent. His love is a wildfire—one that consumes and leaves scars if left unchecked. And that’s exactly why he hides it. Because he’s afraid that if he lets it out completely, he’ll end up burning the thing he loves the most.

He’s a passionate lover. But not the kind who sweetens his words or whispers promises in hushed tones. No. Raph loves through actions. He loves by protecting, by holding on, by remembering every little detail, by always being there even when you don’t ask. His love is something you feel in the tension of his muscles when someone gets too close, in the way his gaze darkens when someone makes you laugh a little too much, in the way his hand—his massive hands—grip your waist as if you might disappear at any moment.

But as fiery as his love is, his insecurity is just as cold as a bucket of ice water. He’s not the type to throw tantrums or make a scene just because someone else talked to you. No. His jealousy is quiet, internal, corrosive. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust himself.

Every time he looks at you, every time his eyes land on you, his mind is flooded with the same whirlwind of thoughts:

“God, she’s so beautiful.”

“I love her.”

“Mine.”

“Incredible.”

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“She could have anyone else.”

…

“I don’t know how she chose me.”

“There are better men than me.”

That last thought is the one that hurts the most. Because no matter how many times you prove him wrong, no matter how many times you stay, no matter how many times you choose him over and over again—deep down, the idea that you could leave never fully leaves him.

That’s why he holds on, even if you don’t notice. Not in a desperate way, not in an obvious way. But it’s there. In how he always walks in a way that keeps his body between you and any other man. In how his fingers sometimes grip the fabric of your clothes just a little too tightly when you’re around others. In how his gaze turns sharp and lethal, even without saying a word.

Because Raph is a warrior. A soldier. A fighter.

But when it comes to love, he doesn’t fight with the same confidence.

Not because he doesn’t want to—

But because he doesn’t believe he has the right to.

Raph isn’t afraid of many things. Not of pain, not of fighting, not of facing an enemy who could kill him at any moment.

But he’s afraid of heights.

And he’s afraid of himself.

Sometimes, on the darkest nights, when the world is silent and there are no distractions to keep him occupied, that fear eats him alive. It burns through his chest like acid. Because he knows what he is. He knows he’s not like Leo, who can think before he acts. He knows he’s not like Donnie, who can analyze things without letting emotions cloud his judgment. He’s not like Mikey, who can let things go with a smile.

He is rage.

He is fire.

He is violence contained within a body too big and a mind too tormented.

And if that rage were ever directed at you…

That thought alone is enough to make his stomach twist. It sickens him, makes him want to throw up, to punch something just to distract himself from the possibility. Because Raph knows what it’s like to lose control. He knows what it’s like to feel his vision go red, to not realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

But never, never could he allow that to happen to you.

And yet… he’s human. (Well, as close as he can be.) And he makes mistakes.

If you ever fight—if his emotions ignite like an uncontrollable wildfire, if the heat of the argument blinds him, if his voice rises until it becomes a roar—God, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying. The words spill out like daggers, sharp and unfiltered, filled with frustration and things he doesn’t mean. And deep down, as every syllable poisons the air between you, his throat tightens, his tongue tastes foul, like he’s chewing on something rotten.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is when, in an impulsive act—because he’s always impulsive—his fist slams into the wall right beside you.

The sound echoes. A sharp, heavy thud.

Loud. Too loud.

And when the dust settles, when the echo of his own fury stops ringing in his ears, that’s when he sees it.

Your eyes.

Wide open. Shocked. Scared.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

That fear in your gaze hits him harder than any enemy he’s ever faced. It’s like a punch to the chest, a bullet straight to the heart. His breath catches. His entire body freezes, and the fire inside him—the one that fuels him, the one that’s always raging��suddenly dies out.

There are no words to describe what he feels in that moment.

Shame. Guilt. Self-loathing.

He’s not afraid that you’ll hate him. He’s afraid that you’d be right to.

That you’ll finally see what he’s always known: that he’s not good for you. That he’s dangerous. That no matter how much he loves you, his own nature will always be his worst enemy.

And if he ever loses you because of that…

He doesn’t even know if he’d be able to keep breathing.

Your footsteps fade into the distance, echoing against the damp concrete of the sewers, and Raph stays right where he is.

Still.

Not moving.

Not doing what every fiber of his being is screaming at him to do—run after you, stop you, grab you, tell you he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to scare you, that he didn’t mean to make you cry.

But he doesn’t.

Because he can still see it in his mind. Your expression, that look in your eyes that wasn’t anger, wasn’t sadness—

It was fear.

God.

He clenches his fists and lowers his gaze. He wants to convince himself that he’s not following you because he’s too proud to apologize, because he hates admitting when he’s wrong (and he was wrong—he always is when it comes to these arguments). He wants to tell himself that it’s because he was already in a shitty mood from arguing with Leo earlier, that it’s not his fault his temper is a ticking time bomb.

But deep down, he knows the truth.

He doesn’t follow you because he’s scared.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say? What words could erase what just happened? How could he possibly fix this without making it worse?

So he does the only thing he knows how to do—

He hits.

His fist collides with the wall again, pain shooting through his knuckles like a reminder of what he is.

Of what he can’t change.

And yet, hours later, there he is.

Standing outside your window.

From out here, he can hear you. Not loud sobs, not heart-wrenching cries, but enough. Shaky breaths, the faint sound of your sniffles. And he—he almost turns around right then, almost runs because he doesn’t know if he can take it.

But he doesn’t.

Because he fucked up. And if anyone deserves to carry the weight of this, it’s him.

Slowly, he opens your window (locked, but you gave him a key). He makes no sound as he climbs inside, though the floor creaks slightly beneath his weight. He finds you sitting on your bed, gaze lowered. And when you finally lift your head and your eyes meet his—

It’s like the air is knocked right out of his lungs.

He doesn’t know what to say.

He’s never been good with words. Never known how to express what he feels without his tongue getting tied, without his voice betraying what he really means to say.

So when he finally speaks, his words are clumsy, short—

A failed attempt at explaining the unexplainable.

But you see it.

You see the way his shoulders slump, the way his eyes avoid yours like he’s not worthy of looking at you. You see the tension in his jaw, the war between his pride and his regret.

And then—he does it.

A step forward. Then another. And another.

Until he’s right in front of you.

His massive hands take hold of you with an impossible gentleness, and in one swift motion, he pulls you against his chest.

It’s firm. Warm. Encompassing.

There are no words that could say what this says.

His breathing is heavy, his heartbeat pounds against your ear. One arm wraps around you completely, the other cradles your head against his neck—like he’s making sure you can’t leave, like he can’t lose you again.

And then you feel it.

A faint touch against your hair.

A kiss.

He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” out loud. He doesn’t need to.

His actions say it all.

And you know it.

So yeah. Reconciliation.

But as he holds you, his forehead pressed against yours, his hand still gripping onto you like he’s terrified to let go—

Raph can only think one thing:

“I just hope I don’t fuck this up again. And if I do… God, please let her forgive me.”

Loving Raph is complicated.

Not because he isn’t worth it, but because he makes it difficult. Because every day is a battle against his own fears, against the thought that maybe—just maybe—he’s not enough for you.

But if you’re wondering about the… intimate side of things.

Well.

We all know Raph isn’t exactly innocent.

In his mind, he’s already had you in every way possible. He’s already imagined you gasping his name, cheeks flushed, breath ragged, looking at him like he’s the only thing that exists. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to slip away, lock himself in the bathroom, and let his hand do the work while his mind recreates you in vivid detail—every little thing he’s memorized about you.

And when he really can’t take it, when the need is unbearable and his body begs for any kind of release, he just tells Mikey to sleep on the couch.

It’s selfish. He knows that. But he doesn’t care.

Because that night, he needs his space.

He needs your scent still lingering on his pillow, needs to bury his face in it and close his eyes while his hand moves at a frantic pace—imagining it’s your skin he’s touching, your mouth around him instead.

But outside of his mind, outside of his most desperate fantasies—

Things are… different.

So far, the farthest you’ve gone is mutual masturbation. And God.

He thought he was going to die when he felt your lips around his length, when your tongue slid along his shaft and your eyes met his. His back hit the wall, and he let out a groan so deep he swore someone in the lair must have heard him.

And when he had you riding his fingers, gripping onto his arm as you unraveled in his hand, he swore his self-control was hanging by a thread.

But he always stops there.

Because Raph is big.

Not just in size, but in strength, in intensity, in everything. And no matter how much you want him, no matter how many times you assure him that he would never hurt you on purpose, that fear is still there.

That damn fear of hurting you.

Because if he were human, he already would’ve had you. He would’ve taken you the way he’s supposed to, given you everything you want—everything he craves with every fiber of his being.

But he’s not human.

And even though his hands were made to protect you, he can’t stop thinking about what would happen if he ever slipped up. If he ever lost control.

Loving him is complicated, huh?

But if there’s one thing for sure—it’s that you could never get bored of him.

Because there’s something incredible about the way he holds you when he jumps across rooftops, the cold air hitting your face and the night sky reflecting in his golden eyes. There’s something addictive about the feeling of being in his arms, adrenaline rushing through your veins as he moves with lethal precision, like the city belongs to him.

And if you train with him… well, that’s a whole different story.

Because Raph loves seeing you strong, seeing you challenge him, seeing you throw punches at him with all the determination in the world. And even though he’d never admit it out loud, he enjoys it way too much when you sit on his shell while he does push-ups.

Not just because he likes the weight of you on him, but because every time he pushes up and down, he can feel your laughter against his neck, your presence wrapping around him like a second skin.

And God knows—there’s nothing in the world that makes him feel more complete than that.

[witchthewriter]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐭'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ female, Valyrian blood (dragon rider), and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

a/n: APPARENTLY THIS IS A GUY NAMED DAVOS BLACKWOOD. But he literally IS Bloody Ben. So he's staying Bloody Ben.

P.s. I'm ageing Benjicot up so he's around 24 or whatever age you want him to be that's over 18 <3

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・It wasn't an arranged marriaged. No, not by any means.

・You had been sent by your Queen to remind the Houses of Westeros their pledge to her. And Rhaenyra had chosen you to go to the Blackwoods.

"I expect you will be welcomed warmly," her Grace said with a warm smile.

You bowed your head and returned the smile.

・You always felt safe around Rhaenyra, she was someone very close to you. Someone who you would fight to the death for.

・The first time Benji saw you, his heart stopped...which was a very fair reaction as you were atop your fearsome dragon, The Cannibal.

・You bonded with the wild dragon when you were 13 - it was the first day of your periods and you were sick and tired of being without a dragon.

・It was in your blood. And you were done waiting.

・Your first flight with Cannibal was difficult - although the blood magic seemed to be strong between the two of you.

・You were the exact person he was waiting for.

・So when your duty came to aid Queen Rhaenyra; she did asked for you to unite with a House through marriage

・That was heavy - a big duty that you did not think would need to happen, since you bonded with Cannibal. Wouldn't you be put on the front lines straight away? Her answer was no.

・But you knew the realities of war and faced your duty head on (you know Cannibal will always defend you)

・Your marriage was a significant one. All the Blackwoods were invited, and Rhaenyra was there to oversee the ceremony.

・However, having all of your family there would have been another Red Wedding, so only a few choice people from your side could be invited.

・Nonetheless, it was absolutely beautiful.

・Dragonfire lit the skies, chasing away the dark. Even Cannibal was having a good time. There were tributes made to him - sheep, cow, goats galore. You swore you saw him smiling.

・What you absolutely weren't expecting was Benji to INTERACT with Cannibal...

・He brought up a bull from the biggest hoard they had. Benji watched as the dragon practically gulped the animal down. However, he wasn't scared - he was impressed. And intrigued.

・You were absolutely moved by Benji's act. Truly. Because it showed his bravery. His daring. And of course his caring. You knew, you could feel the way Cannibal was feeling - and he trusted this Blackwood.

・So you decided to give him a wedding present. A fly.

・By doing so, you broke down every single one of Benji's walls and he knew you were the one for him. His wife. His firt and only one.

・After a tough day, and you both go to your chambers; he'll grab your arm and kiss your wrist. A physical way of saying "I'm so glad you're alive and mine."

・Learns High Valyrian for you. He wanted to surprise you with it. And surprise you he did.

・You call each other: Ñuha jorrāelagon (my love), Ñuha prūmia (my heart),

・ A very particular sentence that Benji says a lot is: Nyke pendagon nūmāzma ao everyday (I think about you everyday)

・Of course he knows you can protect yourself; but that doesn't stop him from defending you. You're his world now. You mean so much to him.

・No body thought this union would work as well as it had.

・So, Bloody Ben & The Rider of Cannibal became a formidabble pair that made men tremble wherever they went.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Like Calls To Like

The Gomez & Morticia Adams

"Think they'll try us?" x "Fuck I hope so."

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Unbreakable Bond

Growth through Adversity

Bickering and Banter

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter

The Politics & The Life by Daniel Pemberton

O Verona by The City of Prague Philharmonic Orchestra

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, makes me feel weird if you read it.

・Gives you complete and utter respect both in and out of the bedroom.

・Has never and will never push you to do anything you don't want to do

・The first time you were together, it felt like your bodies were on fire. Meant to burn together. The words kept replaying over and over in your head as he touched you. A deep yearning overtook you and suddenly time stopped.

・His lips were warm, his hands cold but when he took off his clothes, you couldn't help but grin.

・There's such desire between you two that even your mount can sense it.

・Your sex life is very active - at least once a day. Maybe you're in your Honeymoon period, but you cannot keep your hands off one another when you're alone

・And when you're at feasts, Benji's hands find their way down your thigh, and slowing inching inbetween them.

"Really, here? Now?" You asked n a hushed tone, trying not to draw any attention to either of you.

"Yes. Here, now. Or we can go into the hallway and I will ravish you there. Upto you, wife."

[neeeooon]

video game lover !

3 | hiori the mouse boy

cw. cussing

“that looks like a block of cheese,” you scoffed into your mic as you stared at hiori’s minecraft house. since the last game you played together was about fighting, something hiori had a lot of game experience in, you decided to pick a game more catered toward your experience. since it would take too long to teach hiori the sims 4 controls, you settled for the next best building simulator: minecraft. “why would you build with the sponge block?”

hiori’s character’s head craned between you and his house. “cause i like it? i think it looks pretty good.”

you snickered and glanced back at your chat, which was moving much quicker than usual since you were streaming live with hiori yo.

chat: y/n girl just let him do it.. we all know who the winner’s gonna be

chat: spawn a creeper next to his house… it’s for the best :)

chat: WDYMMM THE SPONGE HOUSE LOOKS SO CUTE

chat: i love hiori but….. he is not winning this round </3

chat: hiori mouse boy confirmed?? 🤔💭

“my chat is calling you mouse boy,” you read before turning back toward your own house.

“my chat is telling me to burn your house down,” hiori said back, a bit too quickly for your liking.

your jaw clenched, grip tightening around your house as you moved your character into a defensive stance. “don’t you dare.”

hiori’s character didn’t move, nor did he speak into his mic, but you feel the evil grin on his face. it burned your skin and made you grimace. “leave my house alone, hiori yo!”

you made him promise (he had to swear to your chat) not to touch your house, especially when you finished first. with your free time, despite being in creative mode, you decided to explore the map on your own.

chat: are u sure we can trust him around our house alone?

chat gifted 10 subs: GET HIM A PET SHEEP AND THEN EAT IT

you thanked your chat for the subs, apologized for not complying with their request, and continued wandering while talking to your screen. “can i trust him? no. but i know some of you are disloyal and watch both streams. you’ll warn me if he gets too close.”

chat: yes ma’am 🫡

chat: let’s kiss

chat: okay jokes aside hiori’s kinda hot right

“oh my gosh!” you cried when you stumbled across a little white bunny rabbit. its red eyes were trained on your character as you crouched and pulled a carrot from your inventory. “i’m gonna keep you.”

the rabbit got close enough for you to put a lead on it, keeping the carrot in your character’s left hand so the bunny wouldn’t freak out. “i’m gonna name you hina, and you will be mine. chat, isn’t it so cute!?”

chat: um

chat: girl

chat: y/n…….

chat: YOURE IN LOVEEEE

chat: UGH SHIPPING THEM SO HARD

chat: what if she kills it yall 💀

“what’s wrong with the name hina?” you asked, confusion seeping into your voice as you read through your chat.

chat: DID SHE JUST SAY HIORI

chat: please don’t name the bunny hiori then call it cute wtf 😭😭😭

your brows furrowed in confusion as your chat suddenly picked up speed. reading a few messages, you shook your head. “what are you guys talking about? i said hina.”

chat: NO YOU DIDNT

chat: SOMEONE CLIP IT

chat: y/n babe i can’t defend u :(

chat: hioyn is real guys

chat: you literally said hiori

your jaw dropped. someone sent a clip in your discord, and sure enough, the words that came out of your mouth were: “i’m gonna name you hiori, and you will be mine. chat, isn’t it so cute!?”

slapping the side of your face, you stared bug-eyed at the screen. “guys, oh no. he’s infected me. he’s in my brain! do you not see how evil he is?!”

chat: mouth says evil but heart says pretty

chat: says the same person who can’t insult him without complimenting his beautiful blue eyes 🥰🩵

“you all hate me, i swear,” you grumbled before returning to your house with hina.

masterlist // previous (ch 2) // next (ch 4)

notes -> trying the tags thing out! hopefully this works :’)

tags -> @lovingmayday @hioriyolover @mymeloreo @l1f3isf00d @bigclownshoes @x3nafix @luvsymai @s4turnx1 @ravenbc @ohagiyoo @miss-aesthetic-13 @academiq @practicoi @n0tbelle @sevarchive @inojinieeee @narcjsistx @ihsoti @pixelpancakes @ume356 @blu3-l0v3r @mivqko @n0ah-hal00 @starlvcied @kyaanii @ro4love @heididaily104 @idexmids @jimabbenamara @kuronarnze @demiitria @pctterheadd @kaz-0e @sapphireluv @kim1chii @90s-belladonna @literallyushiwaka @itz-phantomz @tired-child00 @realrintaro @5-laska @akis-crazy-world @sagging-saging @minlahzz @sickly-cute @risagichi @shaeies @sasukevrz @milkbugzz @dontmindtheevie

© neeeooon, 2025