#I'm ugly and sharp and painful to hold

[teaboot]

Your post about art vs content got me thinking about the differences between the two. To me there is no difference besides the mindsets. One is of creator and the enjoyer, the other is content and consumer it removes the personhood, the joy/emotion, from the equation. Like a writer or video creator may not see their work as art so content creator maybe a way to refer to themselves comfortably but it sounds so machine, emotionless and lifeless, like a cookie cutter recipe mass producing something verses people lovingly crafting something...then again Disney uses a cookie cutter recipe for the most part and it brings out bangers cause people lovingly make it their own so maybe I'm thinking too hard on this

Does my long-winded rant make sense?

see, I get what you mean, but I still feel like the willingness to entertain calling art of any kind "content" reduces it to the facet of consumption where in reality, the experience of consuming art is not the sole defining trait of it.

Reducing arts like music, writing, painting, dance, voice acting, theater, etc. to the role of "content"- a thing created to be consumed, measured and valued by how pleasant or easy it is to digest- I feel that it was our biggest red flag to herald the incoming tide of AI "art".

Because if art is "content", if arts are nothing but consumable matter, then obviously the key to success is to produce as much soft, tasty, edible paste as we possibly can at the lowest possible expense.

It's the same issue I have with "meal replacements", diet culture, nutrient slurries, twenty-step skincare routines, 24/7 body padding and shapewear and laxative teas and "grind culture". It's not a cause, but a symptom, of the disease that is late-stage capitalism.

Things must be produced at low cost and remain in high demand forever. Things must be perfect and palatable and the new hit trend forever. People must pay hand over fist to consume without asking anything in return, and if they start dropping like flies at the unending unrewarded thankless demand of it all, then that must be treated as a weakness. We should all take pride in how much we can spend, pay, give, produce, and think as little as possible about what we ask for ourselves.

So, who cares if, of two identical paintings, one was made by a person and one was made by a computer program? It's the same work, so what does it matter? What does it matter?

I am an artist. I make art. I ask a question, make a statement, declare something horrific or challenging or upsetting or wrong or grotesque, and when you respond, we are together experiencing a conversation. We are existing, two people living one life and reaching out and touching across time and space. No matter the work, you're at the barest minimum saying, "I'm alive, and you're alive, and at one time or another we shared this same world, and at the end of the day we aren't too terribly different. My heart is worth sharing, and your heart is worth the struggle of understanding."

An AI-generated piece, a computer-generated voice, a CGI puppet of someone long since dead and gone, they cannot speak. They have no voice. Ay best, they are the most chewable, consumable, landlord-beige common denominator possible that you can sit and listen to like the lone survivor of a shipwreck listening to the same three songs on a broken record, and at worst, they're the uncaring vomit of an empty, unloving, value-addled hack wearing the skin of someone I know over their own.

When you abandon art to say that you make content, that should not be a point of pride. That's an embarrassment. That's not sitting down for an intelligent discussion with an equal, that's kneeling at the feet of the crowd and saying, "what do you want to see me do? I can be anyone you've ever loved. I can be them, I can be anyone, as long as you love me."

I can make content. I can be consumed. What do you want to consume? I'll make myself consumable. I'll make myself just like anything you like. And I'll make so much of it that you'll never have to go anywhere else, because it'll all be right here, and under all the cut-and-paste schlock you've seen before I will sit alone in the dark and the silence and I will know that I am safe, because I am valued, because I am desired, and I need to be desired or else I am worthless like a factory that no longer churns out steel or a hen that no longer lays eggs or a cow that is too old to make milk.

Content, the most literal meaning, is something which is contained inside a container. What it is doesn't really matter, and the best it can hope to be is something worthy of being scooped out and used.

Art is an experience that transcends value. Art is something you can eat without paying for. You can make it out of anything and anyone can do it. It can be crude and vulgar and bad, and that's a strength because it means something. It always, always means something, and it doesn't matter if you like it or not. It's not content because it doesn't fill anything. It's a living, breathing thing, and whether you want to birth it or eat it, then you're going to have to be willing to put the fucking work in

[allhailbuckybarnes]

the love confession

summary: bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try ;)

warnings: fluff/smut, longing, pining, some use of y/n, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, dirty thoughts, tension, body worship, bob is down bad, bob is a MAN, you are just as down bad, yelena is number one supporter, idiots in love, confusion, jealousy, a pinch of angst, just playing: so so much angst, possessive bob, oral sex (m&f receiving), canon-typical violence, nightmares, anger, hurt/comfort, reader gets hurt badly (more on that later), bob is not okay, fear, love, please just kiss alr you two

authors note: ok ok ok, EVERYONE CALM DOWN... you're welcome and i'm sorry

thursday and the mission statement (chapter four)

You're pinned against the wall, a slender hand wrapped around your neck tightly. The callouses scrape your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The pressure is calculated, firm. You stare into the eyes of Robert Reynolds, and you groan.

"Please just fuck me already, Bobby."

His eyes are dark, darker than normal. He smirks, and his eyes rake over your position. You're slammed against the wooden door of his room, and your chest is rising and falling at an impressive speed. One hand is buried within the fabric of his shirt, and the other clings desperately to the nape of his neck.

Bob’s other hand is in your hair, tangled between the strands. His lips caress your temple, cheek, and neck, teasing you. Tasting you.

He ghosts over to your ear, "I'm going to take my sweet, sweet time with you, pretty girl." The sound of his deep tenor voice makes your eyes flutter and your toes curl. You nod against the restraint on your neck and gasp when he bites your earlobe.

His teeth are sharp but gentle. They border on the line between pain and pleasure, and it has you wrecked.

You pull again at his shirt, wanting. You want his chest against yours, you want to feel the rhythm of his heart, to feel it match yours. You want to know that he's excited and nervous, too. Instead, you take the look in his eyes as all the confirmation you need. He is barely holding on.

They are just slightly wide, wild, and observant. Bob watches himself touch the girl he loves, and he melts inside all over again.

After what feels like an eternity of nips and teases, Bob returns his lips to yours, kissing you slowly. The kiss is electrifying; it lights up every nerve end in your body, and you shiver into it.

His tongue is hot and warm, and it finds every groove of your mouth with intent. Bob's lips are generously soft, as they caress your own with desperation. The kiss is full of need, and it tells you just how much he wants you. This is what a kiss should be.

When you suck his bottom lip into your mouth and bite it, Bob groans. He pulls you off the wall and tosses you onto his bed. You hit the mattress on your back, and it creaks slightly.

He towers over you, grabbing your ankles and dragging you to the edge of the bed. Bob stares at you, the same wicked smile curls upwards as he watches you pant, watches you struggle.

He suddenly releases your legs and they clamp together on instinct, longing for friction. He tuts, “Uh-uh… spread for me baby.” Your eyes roll at his dominance. He was so sexy. And the best part was that it was only for you.

Bob wasn’t like this with anyone else, he was sweet and selfless, sure. Always willing to step in for anything, but he never threw himself into a leadership position. It turned you on just how much he wanted to control you in bed. He was yours and yours alone. Your man. But also your sweet boy.

“I can’t wait anymore- fuck Bobby,” you whine as his hands push your hips further into the mattress, grounding you. He leaned over you and kissed you again slowly. He pulls back and half-groans, “We won’t get anywhere if your lips keep being that delicious.”

You smirk, “You’re so down bad Bobby.”

He slaps your ass.

Your eyes widen and you yelp in surprise.

“Don’t get smug on me now, Y/n. This is all for me, but I won’t handle a brat tonight…” he corrects, eyes staring at the red mark his palm left. He massages it slightly, easing the sting away with his fingertips.

Every touch, prod, and graze of his fingers makes you itch deep inside. The attention to detail, the effort he takes, and the way he watches you.

It’s intoxicating.

It’s almost too much to bear. And it makes the thrum inside your stomach grow all the more strong. You are a deep red, the blush dusts over your cheeks and spreads downwards.

Bob finally touches you. His hands grope at your chest. It’s oddly fitting, your breasts lay just right into his palms. You try to pull on his shirt again to kiss you, and he refuses.

“Let me admire what’s mine, sweetheart,” he coos, taking in every little spasm of your chest. You groan at the feeling of his rough grip on your boobs, and he pinches one nipple.

You arch your back into the feeling, crying out, “Oh fuck, that’s so good.” He smiles at your face, all scrunched up in pleasure.

“That’s it, show me how good it feels Y/n.” He prods. You moan, unashamed of the sounds you make, because you’re making them for him. That’s all the confidence you need.

He meets your lips again, drinking in your noises as he holds you, his hand slowly slipping towards your pussy.

"So good for me, look at you." He admires you, kissing your temple and then your mouth.

The feeling of his fingers brushing your mound is almost too much for you to bear, it causes you to moan loudly into his mouth, and he uses the opportunity to stick his tongue in further as his fingers find the wet patch on your vulva through the skirt of your dress. He hums, gently rubbing in circles, and you lose it.

Fuck, oh my god.

His eyes remain on yours as he lingers between your lips, foreheads clashing in lust and desire. His fingers continue to get rougher, taking more and more of you with him.

He begins to grind against you slowly and fuck, he’s big. Even through his khaki pants, you can feel the pure length of Bob, and he is huge. You haven’t had sex in forever, so you slowly begin to worry about it fitting, and your heart begins to race in worry.

Bob immediately notices your brows tense and your eyes start to fade, and he takes his slightly damp hand to tilt your chin towards his face again.

“What’s on your mind, sweet girl?” He asks, making you meet his eyes as he searches yours.

You gulp, “It won’t fit, and… I don’t want to disappoint you…”

His heart shatters, “Baby,” he breathlessly begins, voice full of comfort, “I could never be disappointed. This is something I have wanted for so long now, but we will go at your pace. If it’s too much, we can always go slow, or stop. Okay?” You search his eyes.

They swear to you and watch you sink into the sincerity of his words. Your forehead rests against his again, and you smile softly, “Okay…”

Robert smiles at your relaxed state, and hooks his hands underneath your hips, lifting your thighs to your waist.

“Keep them spread,” he warns, his tone back to the same dark timbre of lust. His lips kiss your stomach over your dress, as his hands wrap around to undo the zipper. Bob runs a hand underneath and lifts you, effortlessly, unzipping enough of the dress to slide it down.

He stops when it reaches the peak of your breasts.

He takes his sweet time, gently kissing each nipple, sucking them into his mouth, and circling them with his tongue. You groan and pull at his hair.

“G-god Bobby, that’s so good, fu-ck,” you cry, curling into his hold. He smiles with his mouth around your nipple and continues to attack it with his tongue. You pull at his floppy hair, curling each piece in your flexed fingers. His mouth lets go with a wet pop, and he begins to kiss your abdomen lower and lower.

Bob groans at the sight of your panties as he drags the rest of the black fabric of your dress down. He licks his lips at the sight, “So fuckin’ pretty for me.”

You are too focused on his eyes, wide and lust-blown at the sight before him, to hear his praise. But your body shudders on instinct. He kisses the space between your hips, and you gasp. You feel the warmth of his restrained breath hit your skin, and groaning, you cry, “Please, stop teasing.”

Robert chuckles at that and uses a hand to brush his hair away from his eyes. He stares for a moment, at your face, meeting your eyes. And he smiles softly.

“I’m going to take care of my girl, okay?” Bob asks as he watches you rapidly nod with need. A high-pitched hum comes from your lips, and you moan as he begins his kisses on your cunt.

He’s sloppy, wet, and slow with every kiss, starting in the crease of your thigh, as he pulls your panties to the floor.

He moves towards your clit, and folds, slowly trailing with kitten licks and sloppy kisses.

When he touches it, you spasm, but Bob holds your hips down again, kissing your clit firmly, and moans at the taste.

You were delicious.

You are a writhing mess beneath his mouth, pulling at his hair and flexing your feet. He watches you from his knees as he licks a long, slow stripe up your seam.

It nearly makes you have a heart attack, the way that Bob hits every nerve in just the right way with his mouth.

He continues to eat your pussy, pulling a hand from your leg and finding your hole. He teases it, swirling around in your flowing juices, barely applying pressure, just enough to make you moan louder.

You cry out for him to give it to you, and he does. With your plea, he plunges his first finger deeply inside of you. You moan loudly, and he curses, “Fuck baby, you’re so tight.”

You clench around his finger so much that he has to stop moving it and focuses on licking your clit just to loosen you up. His mouth is wet and desperate, as he sucks. You continue to cry, thighs fighting against his hold. He slaps your ass again.

Bob adds another finger, curling them deep and hitting the wall of your G-spot. It makes you clench harder, and a string of curses and moans leave your mouth. Bob’s head whips up, “You like that? Right there baby?” He watches, desperate as he fucks that same spot deep and hard with his digits.

You can’t speak a coherent message, so you nod, whimpering on beat with the thrust of his fingers. He takes to you the stars with his hands, and his mouth, and his damn dirty talk.

You feel a cord inside of you twist all the tighter when Bob fucks that spot and sucks your clit into his mouth. You scream, “Fuck! Bobby- fuck pl-ease, please fuckkkk…. I’m gonna come baby- please, please!” He continues, lips whispering something muffled on your mound as he tips you over the edge without hesitation.

You gush around him. Your voice is nearly gone with the way that you scream silently. He fucks it out of you, not stopping his fingers from your clenching.

"That's it, Y/n let it all out for me," he whispers into your leg, watching you fall apart. You suck him in, crying, your arousal coating his fingers. Your walls clench tightly around him.

Bob finally removes his fingers after a minute of overstimulation, raising them to his mouth and sucking the remaining wetness from his fingers.

He stands, pulls you to a sitting position, and kisses you. It's sweet and full of so much care that it brings tears to your eyes. The clock on his bedside table reads 1:46 AM, and you realize just how late you've stayed up.

Bob brings you back to reality, brushing some hair out of your face slowly. He looks you over, seeing the sweat gleam on your collarbone, and he leans down to kiss that too. The salt melts on his lips.

Bob stays like that for some time, just holding you close and seeing you breathe and calm down. You melt at his devotion and kiss his forehead, cheek, and mouth in succession. It completes you.

"I... Y/n, you've gotta know, just how much you mean to me. It's been more than friendship for so long now... It's become something more, more real, and honest..." Bob pauses, wiping a hand over his eyes in nervousness. You giggle at his stammering and kiss him.

"Fuck me then," You whisper seductively into his ear, and he growls.

"Y/n," he warns, lowly. His hands rake down your sides again. Bob throws you back onto the bed, pinning you beneath him. He kisses your neck and bites teasingly. His hand reaches down to unbutton his pants, and he tugs them to his knees. You giggle and push him up, "Let me, Bobby." He nods, breathing harder and heavier.

Robert watches you, willing himself to not blink, as to not miss a moment of you undressing him. You drag his pants to the floor, feeling his legs with your nails. He groans at the sensation and pulls you by your hair to his boxers, you pull them down slowly, releasing his cock.

It slaps his stomach, red and wanting. You take in the sight. It's longer, relatively thick but the length is more impressive. It's covered in veins, long and suggestive as they run down it to the base.

Your mouth waters and you lean down to kiss the tip, but Bob stops you just short, panting widely.

He groans, "As much as I want that mouth, baby, if I don't get to be inside my girl soon, I might have a stroke." He pleads softly, pulling you up to his lips and kissing you messily. You smile, "Anything for you, but I want a taste at some point..."

Bob nods in agreement, lifting you up to ride him with his arms.

A loud crash from the hallway makes you both jump, and the bold, glaring alarm from the speaker stings your ears.

Bob jumps up, shifting you back down onto the mattress, running to the door, and checks out the hallway. You yell over the loud sound, "What's going on?" Bob shrugs, "It must be a faulty alarm?" He rubs at his neck, silently willing for this not to ruin the night for you both.

You both hear Yelena cuss over the speaker and then yell, "Walker, Y/n, Bobby! Wake the fuck up already. Emergency mission: Val's guys caught some Hydra soldiers entering one of our weapons bases. We have to leave ASAP!"

Your eyes widen. Why was Hydra breaking into your warehouse? How did they get the location? What did they want? Bob watches you think, and he pulls you to his chest, tightly squeezing you, not wanting to let go of his girl just yet. You each sigh into the hug, don't make us do this.

But Yelena's voice sounds out again, warning you that she will drag your asses to the hangar herself, and you freeze.

Splitting apart, you both hurry to get ready. You run to your room to change into your tactical gear.

Fuck this, just when I might've had the chance to tell Bob I love him.

Once you successfully slip your suit on, you grab your belt with your guns. You throw your hair into a bun as you hurry to the hangar. Bob is there, in his new and improved Sentry suit. He seems to be waiting for you, and once he sees you, he grabs your arm.

You try to question him, but he murmurs, "I have to tell you something," He takes you to a corner of the hall outside, and crushes his mouth to yours, kissing you firmly. You groan into it, confused but happy. He pulls away.

"I'm such a coward, Y/n, I can't even tell you the words I've been thinking for so long. But I have to tell you this before we go out into harm's way. I love you. I have always loved you, and I will do anything to make you know that. From now on, you are my sole focus. I need you to know. But more importantly, I need you to be safe. I can't lose you." He pleads, resting his forehead against yours.

You tear up, and kiss him softly, "I love you too, Robert Reynolds. I am yours, forever. But the safety rule applies to you just as much." He nods, promising you the same.

"Now, let's go kick some Hydra ass." You smile and kiss him again. The pair of you walk back to the Quinjet. Bob's eyes are thoughtful as he stares, thinking of a million ways this mission could go.

Please be a quick and easy mission.

"Oh my... don't you know, boy? It will be." A voice echoed into the darkness of his mind. The dread slowly seeped into his brain. Bob had a bad feeling about this.

~~

author's note: Thank you so much for your patience. I will hopefully be able to crank out more of the story this week. I hope the smut was good for now... Just wait for the rest...

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friday - the crucifixion (chapter five)

[vividly-vermillion]

.·:*¨༺ TIDEBOUND ༻¨*:·.

CHAPTER ONE: The pull of the tide

Masterlist || Taglist || -> Chapter two

༺ synopis: You had to live through your childhood tragedy once more. The ship was sinking and you braced yourself for the inevitable - surely the sea won't show mercy twice.

༺ character: Siren!Rafayel

༺ reader: female | AFAB

༺ wc: 2338

༺ cw: sinking of a ship, descriptions of drowning, mentions of death & dying, injuries, blood, the ugly side of sirens.

༺ notes: I'm a widdol nervous about this so feedback would be appreciated :))

What are the odds of sinking on a boat once?

The statistic floats in your mind like debris, as if knowledge might anchor you to reason in the middle of screaming wind and breaking wood. You'd read it once, years ago on some bored midnight internet search. One in a million, maybe. The sort of once in a lifetime thing that scars your childhood and becomes a strange, isolating footnote you carry forever.

But twice? Twice felt personal.

Twice screamed that the sea gods were angry.

Rain blurred the world into grey streaks, cold and relentless as it drove into your skin. The world became nothing but noise - snapping sails, splintering beams, someone's voice yelling your name before it was swallowed by thunder, yet your body couldn't move, couldn't even scream. The cold has always done that to you, paralyzed your lungs and shrunk your world down to the roar of blood and memories.

You stood near the railing, shoes soaked and hands curled uselessly at your sides. Around you the ship cracked and screamed, groaning like something alive and dying. The wedding decorations - white silk streamers and fairy lights - were in shreds, flapping wildly and trailing across the ruined deck like ghosts.

It all started so gently with your friend's wedding. That's the only reason why you had come, the only reason you were on this doomed celebration cruise. Your friend had begged you “Just one night on the water,” she said. “The ocean’s calm this time of year. It'll help you let go of the past.”

Let go... And now the sea took everything once again.

The deck heaved beneath you, sharp and sudden and you stumbled hard against the railing. Somewhere behind you, a mast cracked in two, the sound deafening and haunting. The panic on ship grew louder now, screams, feet pounding, someone was crying - but none of it touched you. You felt like you were sinking already, before your body had even left the ship.

The cold spray of saltwater hit your eyes and then something else, hard and fast, maybe something metallic based on the sound. A burst of pain immediately bloomed behind your temple, sharp and electric. You didn't even know what it was and couldn't bring yourself to care as you braced for the inevitable. The sea would swallow you whole. It had spared you as a child, but it wouldn't show mercy a second time as your world started to spin.

And then - Nothing.

There was no memory of the fall, no gasp as you hit the water. Just a blur of darkness and the cold, the kind that swallowed breath and thought alike. You surfaced some time later, not knowing how long it had been. Seconds, maybe even minutes? All you could do was to clutch onto a piece of the ship, torn wood slick with seawater and blood. One of your legs hung heavy in the water, as if someone - or something - tried to drag you under. The other stung sharp with every kick while your arms shook with the effort of holding on, of staying afloat. A pulsing ache throbbed from one of your thighs and when you tried to lift your head from the wooden piece, you could taste blood on your tongue.

Above, the sky was a shattered bruise of lightning and smoke, the clouds bleeding violet light. Bits of the ship bobbed in the water like the scattered bones of some fallen creature. You didn't know where the others had gone - whether anyone had survived, whether they were screaming for help or were already at the bottom of the ocean.

All you could do was float, adrift and half awake with your lips turning violet-blue from the cold, heart pounding too loud in your chest and no strength left to call for help. Yet, your fingers refused to let go of the broken plank that held you above water. Splinters began to dig into your skin, but you only held on tighter, as if letting go would mean surrendering entirely. Saltwater lapped at your lips, turning them dry and letting the delicate skin crack as your vision blurred.

And somewhere, far beneath the surface, the sea stirred.

At first, it was only a feeling, a weight, invisible and unspoken that settled over your skin like a change in pressure. You opened your eyes slowly, vision clouded by salt and rain and the plank you clung onto creaked faintly beneath you, the water lapping violently against the sides. Across from you, half submerged in the dark water, something watched.

Only the top of a head was visible - pale strands of long, lavender hair drifting around it like smoke, fanning out in a halo. The water cradled it, eerily still despite the storm. It just floated there with unnatural calm and just above the surface, a pair of glowing violet eyes stared directly into yours. They didn't blink - neither did you.

Your heart should have seized. You should have cried out, kicked or let go to flee. But none of these things happened. Your body was too tired, your mind too disoriented to recognize if this was someone alive or perhaps one of the wedding guests simply...floating. As your vision cleared up, you could tell that this wasn't human, at least not entirely.

On the other side of the wood, Rafayel lingered just beneath the surface, his head barely visible to you and his breath slowed to match the pulse of the sea. He simply watched you drift closer to unconsciousness, each blink slower than the last and your lips were entirely blue with deep cracks. A thin smear of blood still trickled from the cut at your brow - You were fading. Quietly and without protest.

Most of them screamed or tried to put up a fight, it made their panic easier to ignore, and made the line between predator and prey clear. But you weren't screaming, simply staring back at him like you had nothing left to give, least of all to him. No fear, no defiance. Only quiet exhaustion and acceptance.

He should have disappeared by now, not be enamored by your lack of reaction. Observe, lure, drag down, devour. He knew how it goes, it was an automated process that ensured his survival.

Your body slowly sagged lower and the piece of wreckage creaked once more, your weight shifting. Rafayel's eyes followed you with cool precision, noticing the weakness in your limbs, the slack curve of your fingers and the hollow shadows beneath your eyes. You wouldn't last much longer.

You saw him enough to know what he was and what he wasn't and yet, your gaze softened. Not in recognition, but in surrender... Until they closed completely.

Your head lulled forward and with a small splash, you began to slide off the wood. The gravity finally tipped you into the black of the water as your unconscious body couldn't help but to accept its fate - your lungs taking their last breath of air before they would fill with water, slowly, until all of you succumbed to the ruthlessness of the ocean.

He moved before he thought.

One hand shot up from the water and caught you just beneath the shoulders, guiding you back with startling gentleness. Your head rolled against his arm in the process but he simply cradled it above the ocean's surface in a way that the water had no chance to reach your lungs. His instincts told him to devour you whole while you couldn't put up a fight, while you had no choice but to give in to the predator who caught you - but he ignored them, forcing himself to remain calm.

Rafayel held you a moment longer, your weight slight and delicate in his arms, reminding him of a situation oh so many years ago. Then, without a word, he turned and began to swim. Each movement was smooth, powerful, as if the current bent itself around him. He held you cradled in his arms, body limp and not a single muscle stirred. Your breath was faint, but present - like seafoam against his skin.

He had watched you long before you even saw him - only surfaced when he sensed the panic blooming across the wreck. The scent of blood trailed like ribbons through the dark and led him straight to you, and when your eyes locked with his, it wasn't mercy that stilled him. It was thrill. The anticipation of taking a bite, of tearing you limb by limb, of hearing your screams turn into gargles as he mercilessly dragged you beneath water.

Fear always fascinated him. There was something raw and so honest in it that nothing could quite compare. A primal urge, he had seen it in your eyes, in the way your pupils dilated, how your jaw tensed despite the exhaustion weighing your body down. He saw the flicker of knowing inside your eyes, knowing that something wasn't right - that he wasn't safe. You couldn't run or scream, but your fear was ever present. And oh how he enjoyed it.

He shouldn't have lingered, knowing the rules all too well: Do not play with your food or you will end up on their plate. But where was the pleasure in mindlessly devouring? Where was the thrill in dragging something down that didn't even know it was dying? A little fear made the flavor richer, a little dread gave the ending a meaning. But somehow you just… accepted it - and that unnerved him more than he would like to admit.

Your warmth slowly started to bleed into his cold skin which only aided to dull the instinct to feed and be done. Rafayel tried convincing himself that it was pity, a passing whim, but still, his grip on you tightened ever so slightly as if he's scared to risk seeing you drift off with the tide.

The jagged silhouette of a rock formation loomed ahead, slick with the salty water and painted silver by each pulse of lightning that bloomed across the raging skies. It wasn't much, but it was enough for you to breathe, enough to make you believe that you survived by chance alone. At least that was the initial plan - to leave you with salt in your mouth and dread in your bones. To let you believe that the sea had spared you once more.

But as he eased you from the water and laid you onto the stone, his fingertips ghosted across the blood slick gash on your leg. His eyes lingered on the curve of your face, the fragile rise and fall of your chest. And somewhere deep within, something stirred. A sense of familiarity bloomed inside his chest and made him realize that he wasn't sure if he would want to let you go, which somehow frightened him more than the thought of starving ever could.

The world ebbed in and out like the sea itself, each wave of consciousness pulling you further from shore. You weren't even sure when your body was moved onto something solid - cold beneath your skin but still drenched by the sea. But you could feel the jagged stone pressing into your back, anchoring you in your place. Your limbs were far too heavy to lift, skin numb with cold and you weren't sure why the ocean decided to spare you once more.

Your thoughts wanted to form, to try and find a way out of the water and back to land but the voice that came from just below the waves made it impossible to think straight. The voice was low and rich, smooth in a way that felt unnatural, too perfect to belong to anything human. The melody curled through the air like mist, sweet and gentle, almost like a lullaby - but the cadence was strange, the language foreign and laced with sounds that rolled like foam off a reef. You couldn't place it, couldn't tell if this was truly a voice or something your mind conjured in exhaustion to make leaving this life easier, but it wound itself around your senses and refused to let you go.

A soft chill crept over your skin, but something deep inside of you was recoiling, even as your body relaxed. The voice made you feel calm, yes - but not safe. The calmness it brought felt borrowed and false, as though something beneath that melody tugged at the strings of your mind with too much ease. You tried to lift your head and open your eyes fully, but the effort only made them flutter and fall shut completely. Your breathing became more shallow while your consciousness slipped like sand through broken fingers.

The memory of those violet eyes surfaced behind your lids, how they were just watching you with a subtle glow to them and it made your chest tighten. Even though you could no longer see him, you could still feel his presence near, just out of reach.

You didn't want to sleep, not ready to fade yet, but your body was already letting go. Your thoughts were scattered like driftwood as darkness gathered at the edges of your mind, soft and irresistible. The cold, the blood loss, the song - it all wove together too seamlessly. Your last conscious thought wasn't of the wreck, it was that a voice so beautiful could lead you so gently into oblivion.

You didn't see him rise from the water, didn't feel the gentle droplets land on you as Rafayel emerged to settle beside you. His gaze swept over you deliberately, as if he was trying to understand what exactly he had just saved. One hand moved with reverent care to brush the tangled and damp hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment too long against your cheek. A moment later, the smallest smile formed on his lips, not cruel, but indulgent.

“Twice now,” he mumbled and looked out at the open waters. “You really don't have luck on your side, little thing.”

[evcrmoresworld]

Breaking point 𐙚

Carlos Alcaraz x Reader

nsfw [18+] warnings! oral (f receiving), dirty talk

summary, the sun isn’t the only thing burning on the court. After a frustrating practice session, you hit your breaking point, the pain, pressure, and expectations all threatening to undo you. But Carlos is right there, steady and unshakable, reminding you what it means to let someone in, and what it feels like when someone really wants you, both on and off the court.

The sun is ruthless on the practice courts, baking the green turf to a near shine, making the sweat cling to your skin. You toss the ball into the air, twist, and send your serve spiralling—

Right into the net.

Again.

“Fuck!” you curse, the racquet cracking against the ground louder than you intended. Your shoulder aches, the pain dull at first, but angry now after an hour of pushing too hard. The brace beneath your shirt is too tight. Your patience is gone.

From across the net, Carlos watches you silently. You can feel his eyes like heat on the back of your neck, calm and steady, as if he’s waiting for you to implode. Maybe you are.

“Let’s take five,” he says gently, grabbing a towel and walking to the bench.

“I don’t want five,” you snap, grabbing another ball. “I need to get this right. I'm not gonna be the dead weight on court just because my fucking shoulder doesn't—”

The next serve is even worse, the pain flashing white-hot this time, sharp enough that your knees buckle slightly. You breathe in through your nose, trying to will the sting away.

“Hey.” His voice is closer now. Too close.

You didn’t hear him walk over, but Carlos is standing just behind you, towel slung around his neck, shirt dark with sweat. “You’re pushing it.”

“Don’t do that,” you mutter.

“Do what?”

“Treat me like I’m fragile.”

“You’re not fragile.” He sounds too calm. Too understanding. “You’re pissed off. And hurting. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” you spit, turning around too fast, shoulder flaring again. You regret it instantly, biting back tears. “You’re Carlos fucking Alcaraz. Golden boy. You don't get injured. You don't lose your rhythm. You don't get benched and watch everything you've built fall apart.” You let out a groan, fingers pulling at your hair tie. “I’m not letting you down after you’ve risked a lot just to do this for me.”

His brows pinch just slightly, dark eyes scanning your face, your shaking hands. He steps forward carefully. “You think that’s why I’m here? You think I’m doing you a favour?”

You don’t answer. The lump in your throat is thick and ugly, and it’s all too much, the sun, the pain, the eyes on you, his eyes, kind and searching and infuriating.

“I just—” Your voice breaks. “I used to be good. I used to be great. And now I can’t even fucking serve.”

Carlos nods slowly. “Okay. Come here.”

You shake your head. “Carlos, I don’t—”

But his hands are on your waist before you can protest, firm but gentle as he guides you off the court. You resist at first, pushing his chest, but he doesn’t let go.

“Stop fighting me,” he murmurs. “Just let me take care of you.”

That’s when the tears come. Silent at first, then harder. You crumple against him, his chest warm and damp under your hands, arms wrapping around your back like he was built for this, for holding you up when everything else is falling apart.

He says nothing, just rubs slow circles into your spine as your frustration breaks open between you.

Minutes pass like that.

“Fuck,” you whisper into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, fingers in your hair now, brushing it back. “You’re allowed to break sometimes.”

You pull back to look at him, cheeks flushed and wet. His gaze drops to your lips, then your shoulder.

“You need to rest that,” he says.

You nod, but don’t move.

“You’re always so calm,” you say quietly. “How?”

“I’m not. I’m just good at hiding it.”

A beat.

Then another.

And then you say it, the thing that’s been there since the first time he agreed to partner with you. “Why did you say yes?”

His eyes flicker. “Because I wanted to.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re Carlos Alcaraz. You could’ve—”

“I wanted you,” he interrupts, voice lower now, rougher. “Not just as a partner.”

Your breath catches.

The heat between you shifts, subtle but unmistakable. His hand is still at your lower back. Your palm is flat against his chest. The sun is hot, but his eyes are hotter, burning into you like a match.

“Carlos—”

“You drive me crazy,” he says, almost like it’s a confession. “Even when you’re pissed off and yelling at yourself. Especially then.”

Your heart is hammering now. “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably,” he murmurs. “But I don’t care.”

And then he kisses you.

You taste salt on his lips, but the sound he makes, a low groan when your teeth graze his bottom lip, makes your knees weak. Carlos presses into you, all lean muscle and burning skin, his hand sliding up the back of your shirt to splay against your spine.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this for weeks,” he mutters into your mouth.

“You should’ve,” you whisper, tugging his shirt up and over his head in one rough pull.

Your palms roam his torso, golden, taut, slick with sweat, and he hisses when your nails scrape lightly over his abs. His hands are greedy now, cupping your ass through your shorts, pressing you flush against the hard line of his arousal.

The fence scrapes along your back, but you don’t care. Not with him kissing you like this, hungry, desperate, like he needs you to breathe.

“I want to taste you,” he says suddenly, voice wrecked. “Let me.”

You nod, too breathless to speak, and he sinks to his knees, worshipping you, his hands hooked in your waistband.

He peels your shorts and underwear down slowly, eyes flicking up to watch your reaction as he exposes you inch by inch. He presses a kiss to your hipbone, then your inner thigh, then lower still, until his mouth is hovering right where you need him.

And then his tongue is on you, warm, slow, deliberate. He starts with lazy licks, teasing your folds, before his mouth finds your clit and sucks gently, then harder, his hands keeping your thighs spread.

Your fingers knot into his hair. “Carlos…”

“Mmm?” he hums against you, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

“Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

His tongue is expert, unhurried but thorough, licking and sucking in all the right places until you’re gasping his name, your hands in his hair, body arching toward every touch.

He flattens his tongue, dragging it through your folds, then circles your clit with infuriating precision. One hand leaves your thigh to slide between your legs, and his fingers, long, talented, and confident, tease your entrance before slipping in.

You cry out, back arching, and he moans softly at the sound.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, voice low and full of awe. “So fucking perfect.”

He crooks his fingers just right, stroking deep and slow while his mouth never relents. It’s too much, too good, too intense; your legs are trembling, and your body spirals toward the edge fast.

“Carlos—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he says, voice dark and commanding, and then he sucks your clit just right and you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing over you with enough force to make your vision blur. Your hips stutter against his mouth, and he keeps going through every last aftershock, kissing you gently now, soothing you down.

When he stands again, his lips are slick, eyes blown wide, chest heaving like he’s the one who just came.

[sillysillygoofygoose]

Hi hi! Can I request a Toji x fem! Reader who’s really quiet in bed, because of an ex (like, maybe he tells her that the sounds she makes aren’t pleasant and things like that??)

OH MY GOD??!?!? HELLOOO!!! I'M FEELING SO SPOILED TODAY 🤭🤭 yes yes yes yes yes THANK YOU ANON 💗 it's a little angsty AGAIN (don't know what's up with me tbh) but very sweet

Don't Be Shy ★

Everything feels fragile. New feelings, new headspace, new man. Thinking about it made your stomach twist and turn in complicated bows... He's so handsome. So strong. So dreamy. God, what if I fuck it all up?

It was all new... the feeling of his hips grinding up into yours as you grip onto his strong, wide shoulders, biting down into your bottom lip to stop your sounds in their tracks.

"Mm fuck baby, you feeling good?" Toji's grunts and light tap on your hip pulls you from your flurry of worries.

"Uh yeah, yeah, it's really good, Toji." You mumble, feeling your breath hitch in your chest, attempting to hold back you gasps as the pressure of Toji's bulge crashes perfectly with your clit.

"Gotta tell me bubs... I don't know this pretty body yet. Gotta help me learn." He huffs out as your hands travel under his fitted black shirt.

You simply nod, feeling your cheeks warm up as you and Toji exchange the same warm air between quick breaths.

You feel yourself loosen up the wetter you get, biting onto the back of your hand and clenching your stomach, subtly compressing your moans.

Taking a deep breath, you work up the courage to at least talk.

"Okay, fuck okay, I want you inside please." Missing the way Toji smirks, you quickly get your sentence out as fast as possible before a moan can slip out, concentrating hard on keeping your voice as steady as possible.

"Alright, princess, c'mere." Toji flips you onto your back, gently tugging down your pants along with your soaked panties.

You cover your mouth as you feel Toji's hot breath on your quivering pussy, looking up at the ceiling.

Toji's good. Really good. You can tell simply by the way he operates that he's skilled. Experienced.

He's been with other girls. Seen other girls. Heard other girls. And all of a sudden, it all comes back to you.

"Uhm, you don't... you don't have to prep me or anything. We can just do it, I'll be okay." Pushing away his head when you realize he's about to taste you, you situate yourself, sitting up on your elbows.

Toji is shocked as he hovers above you, glaring in confusion.

"Are you sure? I really don't think that's a good idea bubba." Softly, he glides his middle and pointer finger along your slit, assessing if you were even close to being wet enough.

"No, no I'm sure. I'll be alright." Sitting up slightly, you paw at the waist band of his gray sweatpants, watching in delight as his cock strains against the fabric. Pulling them down, you distract him by grazing his tip with your delicate finger, making him shudder.

"Fuck~ alright babygirl..." He mumbles, laying you back down as your legs automatically spread, humping his veiny cock against your heat, getting it as wet as possible.

His sharp, commanding eyes focus on your face as he slowly pushes himself in, attempting to gage any type of reaction from you.

It burned. Really bad, it burned as he slowly stretched you out, feeling like you were being split in half at your core. You laid there quietly, softly breathing out as the pain subsided and pleasure picked up.

The physical and emotional intensity inside your chest suffocated you as Toji began thrusting into you, shallow and slow. It felt so good. He felt so good.

But you couldn't make a noise. You couldn't be ugly. You'd embarrass yourself, you'd turn him off. You'd ruin it.

"You always this quiet, doll? Makin' me nervous." Toji quirked his head to the side, less than pleased as he slid in and out of you and you just laid there, only sign of life being your blinking eyes.

"Yeah, I guess so." You mumble, praying he'd drop it. It's so humiliating. What's worse than being an ugly moaner? Your signs of pleasure are grating and unattractive... at least, that's what he said.

The last man you laid yourself out for, being totally vulnerable with, someone you thought was utterly attracted to you, no matter what. The sex was good... so good that you were moaning and whimpering under him.

God, he was so harsh. You never thought you would be so politely degraded after sex, all over the way you sound.

Tears well up in your distant eyes, and before you even feel it, Toji sees it.

"Shit! Shit, fuck are you okay? Are you hurt? What's wrong bub?" He pulls out of you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his shoulder.

"No, nothing, nothing it's so stupid." You shake your head, wiping your tears as Toji cradles you.

"I should've known sweets, I'm sorry. You've been off. What's on your mind, pretty girl?" You feel the stress building up around you, a warm all-encompassing feeling breaking you down from the inside out.

"Don't want you to think I'm ugly." You whisper into his shoulder.

"Huh? Baby, I'm lookin' at you right now. You're beautiful, you know that." His dark eyebrows furrow as he looks you over.

"No, no. My voice. My sounds. I don't want you to think I sound bad... My ex... he said- he um said that ummm... God this is so embarrassing. Um he said that I sound bad... that I turned him off. So I don't want to um, I don't want you to be less attracted to me, 's all." You sob out, explaining yourself as shame overtakes you, dignity leaving your body through salted tears.

"Oh. What a dumb prick. Don't think about that ass. I want to hear you, you kidding me? Let me hear you... okay?"

Slowly, you nod, detaching yourself from Toji's shoulder, laying back down.

"Okay, bub?" Toji repeats, drawing sloppy circles on your clit with his bulbous head, coaxing a genuine, surprised gasp from your throat.

"Okay... okayy." You gently speak out, a long, staggered breath freeing itself from your system.

"Therrree we go, sweetheart. Just let it out. Such a pretty little girl." Keeping his thumb pressed to your sensitive clit, he slides himself back in, basking in pride as he hears the smallest moan slip from your pretty parted lips. Gotta start somewhere.

"Give it to me, baby," Was the only warning you got before Toji began hammering into your puffy little cunt, forcing gasps and moans from you. Quickly you move your hand up to your mouth to cover your embarrassment, but Toji grabs your wrist, pining it beside your ear.

"Fuck, fucckkk sounds so good baby. Pretty little moans." He praises as he kisses along your jaw, forcing himself deeper into you. He knows he hit your sweet spot when your most blissed-out noise filled the room, signaling to his brain the beginning of his orgasm, bubbling in the pit of his toned stomach.

"Keep moaning like that and I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck, gonna make me cum... you close, bubba? Come on, talk to me." His encouragement works you up even more, making you feel brave.

"Mhm yeah, 'm really close Toji. Wanna cum with you." You moan out as his thrusts increase, then completely still all at once.

Your voice. God, your voice. Just hearing it had Toji gripping onto your hips and cumming on the spot. His orgasm triggers yours, your confident moans almost making him hard again.

"So good. So beautiful. Pretty moans for a pretty girl." Toji grins, breaking the peaceful ambience of the room.

"Wanna hear you for the rest of my life, pretty."

Hope you enjoyed! Xoxo

Thank you so so much anon!! Kisses! 💕

[revelboo]

AW COME ON 😭😭 U CANT CLIFF HANG MY UGLY PUPPY LIKE THAT. I'm on my hands and knees, when you feel good please update it my pubby 😢🥺

sure!

I really wasn’t expecting people to not only know my old stuff but remember it and I’m dying a bit inside 🤣

Worker Bee Pt 30

Waspinator x Reader

• Terrified as you dangle, wrapped up like a burrito in your own curtains, your heart is racing so hard you can’t breathe. And the new alien robot lifts you up with a frown to make you freeze in fear when he vents very slowly. Making you wonder how good their sense of smell is. “You and that little coward been fragging?” Fuck. “Maybe if Megatron lets that little deserter live, he can keep you. Little treat for good behavior. Personally, I wouldn’t count on the bug surviving.”

• And your brain snags on that if, breaking through the fear. “Don’t you fucking touch him.” Trying to kick him with your legs bound just makes you spin dizzyingly as he laughs and hooks you on the decorative coat rack on the wall. Did you actually bother to find a stud when you screwed the thing in? Probably not. Eyes narrowed as your captor stalks around your living room touching everything. “Jokes on you asshole. Wasp won’t come back here. He’ll run.” Because your ugly puppy isn’t exactly brave. He’ll scent this guy and bail. He’ll ditch you.

• Gripping extra energon cubes in his legs as he flies, he makes his way back home to you. Doesn’t know what’s going on in the Nemesis, but the guards were distracted, allowing him to crawl in through some damage in the hull. Feeding until he’d nearly made himself sick and taking extra rations to buy him some time before he has to do it again. So he won’t have to leave you again for a while. Buzzing happily, he wonders if you’ll be pleased with him. You have to be, right? He did good. Maybe you’ll touch his antenna and say so?

• “For your sake, I’d hope you’re wrong,” the stranger growls, servos flexing before he picks up a framed photo to clear his vents and toss it, glass breaking and your jaw clenches, but you’re not about to start struggling in case the stupid hook comes loose and you land on your face. “I’m not the most patient mech.” Wasp won’t come back. Your big, dumb puppy is scared of his own shadow. He’ll run and he’ll live. You? Trembling, you close your eyes and try to think of a way to talk yourself out of this mess. Is there a way out? Or has this alien been ordered to eliminate any humans that discover their kind? You’re not even tied up that tight, but you really can’t breathe. Sucking in sharp little gasps as your chest starts hurting, and you know you’re having a panic attack.

• Landing, his antenna swing forward as he vents and drops his energon cubes. Limbs tapping anxiously against the ground, picking up the scent of another Decepticon. Barricade. Not nice. Wings buzzing, he shifts his weight, still in his alt mode. Wanting to flee, remembering those rough hands hurting him as he drops lower, antenna back. But he thinks of you. His soft, sweet, fragile mate. Thinks of those servos on you. Hurting you like they’ve hurt him. He knows pain, but you don’t. And you won’t.

• “Making a lot of noise, squishy,” he mutters, picking up a book off your coffee table and holding it up by the cover, frowning at the pages fanning before tossing it over his shoulder. Those cold optics slide your way, and you can hear your own frantic, gasping. Can’t stop, can’t calm down. “Where’s that attitude now?” He growls reaching to grip your jaw in his servos. “You broken?” And you both freeze at a crash in the back of the house. Seeing something green barrel through the house, screaming like a banshee as it launches itself at the stranger.

• Screaming and hissing in hatred and terror, his claws and mandibles slash at the other mech. Had his hands on you. Hurting you. And the other Decepticon is snarling, swearing and trying to shove him away, hitting him as his mandibles sheer into plating. Sharp denta sinking in and tasting energon. Frenzied and out of control as he attacks. Taking off one of Barricade’s hands at the wrist as the mech kicks him off, rolling and baring his own denta. Wings flicking, he hisses. So scared, but you’re his. Need him and he can’t fail you. “You’re going to pay for that bug,” Barricade snarls and Waspinator lunges. Throws himself at the wall to snare you in his limbs and throwing you both back as the other mech lunges for him, drawing his weapon. He’s too big right now, crashing into everything, battering himself in his panic to get out of the hive to safety. Keeping his frame curled around you, shielding you, he throws himself outside, wings humming as he flies.

• Heart racing as you hang under Waspinator as he unsteadily flies through the trees with you, you can feel energon slicking your cheek and neck and you have no idea if it’s his or that other alien’s. Or where he’s going. He can’t go back to the house with that asshole there and his own kind had sent that guy. You’re both homeless now. And it’s the cold wind stinging your face and your hair whipping you that makes you realize you’re crying. Relieved he came for you when you been sure you were about to die. That the other alien would kill you just for spite. Fear and relief tangling together as you sob, feeling like you’re about to be sick from anxiety as his legs tuck you closer to his frame and he keeps flying.

Previous

Next

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: sweetheart!anakin x f!reader

FLUFF ❦

The bedroom you were snugly in was dressed in quiet, its walls wrapped up in that heavy kind of silence that only came after a long, exhausting day of twins' parents. As to in their matter, they were finally asleep, snuggled in their sheets after ANAKIN SKYWALKER's bedtime story about a princess and a knight - you quickly had to come up with something else, knowing Leia’s full dislike for such stories. She was the epitome of the definition of not needing a knight to survive. She could have had it all done by herself, at least that's what she's saying.

You laid on the bed, tucked under the covers, chin propped on your hand, watching him move around the room.

Anakin was pulling an old, loose t-shirt over his head—the one that always smelled like him, the one that clung to his shoulders and chest before falling soft over his abs, the lines of his body still sharp and distractingly perfect even after a full day of wrangling toddlers and working.

You stared a little too long. Stared until your stomach knotted itself up in a sad, ugly kind of way.

Because there he was, looking like he could be carved out of stone —

and then there was you.

You tugged the blanket a little higher up your body without even thinking, voice barely a whisper when you finally spoke without much thought; it was already eating you alive.

"…Annie?"

He turned immediately, sensing the shift in your mood like he always did. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

You hesitated, biting your lip.

You hated how small you sounded.

How insecure. But with his eyes gazing straight at yours as he slipped into the black shirt he used to bed, you truly understood what you just caught yourself in. It wasn't like you wanted to weight him down with your problems, he already had a lot on his plate. Yet at the same time, if you'd just brush it off, he'd know something is off, and won't let go of the subject till you'd eventually tell him

You braced yourself at the possible worst thing that could ever leave your mouth; you took a deep breath in, let it sink for a moment

"Are you still… attracted to me?" The words left your mouth too fast, too rushed, as if saying them quicker would somehow make them hurt less than they already did.

Anakin froze, a soft, almost pained crease forming between his brows. "What?"

You dropped your gaze to the blanket, fidgeting with a loose thread.

"I just—" you sighed, voice starting to crack.."I know you love me. But I want you to, you know… want me too. Not just because I'm the mother of your kids or your wife or whatever. But because… because you actually want me." You trailed off, cheeks burning, shame curling in your chest. You didn't dare to look up at him; there was no courage for that anymore "I just feel so… gross lately. Tired. Soft. Fat. Not like the girls you work with or--or just see on TV..And sometimes I look at you—" You swallowed hard. "—and I wonder if maybe you're just staying nice things because you're a good man..and not..because..you mean them.."

The room was so still you could hear the distant hum of the air conditioning.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You thought he might get mad at you; for doubting his love for you when he shows it everyday. He didn't say anything, and you really braced yourself to just brush off the subject but before you could even open your mouth to say anything, you saw him cross the room in three long strides—

and then his hands moved to you, pulling the blanket down, not to expose, but to pull you closer to himself. Anakin knelt at the side of the bed, face right there, one hand cupping your jaw so gently it made your throat tighten.

His thumb brushed across your cheek. Blue eyes burned into your watery ones, being so intense, so present; holding so much love.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice rough and low. "I’m gonna say this once. And you're gonna listen to me, alright?"

You nodded, tears already threatening to spill.

"I don’t just love you," Anakin murmured, his forehead dropping to yours. "I am in love with you. Every fucking day. Every hour."

You whimpered softly, squeezing your eyes shut.

"And your body—" his large hands slid down to your hips, squeezing firmly, grounding. "—your body is the most beautiful thing i could ever imagine looking at. It gave me our babies. It holds my heart. It’s the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I hold at night. It’s perfect, you are perfect for me" with that he kissed the tip of your nose, then your cheeks, then your trembling mouth.

"I don't want anyone else," he whispered against your lips. "I only want you. Always have. Always will."

You broke then, a little sob escaping with hiccuped apologies, and Anakin shushed you gently, pulling you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin. With one hand holding your back, the other twisted to the side to turn the lights off, causing the darkness to touch the room. Then he cuddled closer to you, keeping a rhytmhmical tune slip from his mouth as he pulled a duvet over both of you, tucking you into the bed. "You don’t have to apologize," he said softly, rocking you slightly.

"You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to hurt. But don’t you dare talk about my girl like she’s anything less than a fucking masterpiece."

You clung to him, breathing in his scent, feeling the steady thump of his heart against your ear. And for the first time in days, the knot in your chest started to unravel. Anakin shifted slightly, hands stroking your back.

"You wanna know what I see when I look at you?" he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

You nodded wordlessly.

"I see my home," he whispered. "My safe place. The love of my life."

You sniffled, laughing a little wetly. "You’re sappy."

His lips curled in a little tired smile, a light sound of silent chuckle briefly following "I don't remember you complaining before, Rapunzel" he teased, kissing your hair once again "Thought you loved your Flynn Rider"

And god, you did.

You loved him.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @fredswrite

[wchswift]

hiii there againn linaa!! i hope you're fine!!

ugh, i hate asking this but i can't help. i'm in need of some heavy angst and comfort 😭 please help in writing a HEAVY angst and comfort fic about old man logan 🙏😞 (i've had an argument with my bf but nvm not going to trauma dumping here)

— where it hurts the most

mdni 𖤐 18+ old man logan x reader

Logan pushes you away the only way he knows how—cruel words, distance, and a lie that cuts deeper than any wound. content! angst & hurt/comfort, heavy angst, emotional hurt, self-destructive behavior, arguments, confessions, soft comfort, angst with a happy(ish) ending, mentions of physical injuries (bruised/bleeding knuckles), emotional vulnerability. word count: 1.2k

notes: zayn hiii!!! I love receiving your requests, always feel free <3 and my apologies for the delay, really! I'm sorry to hear that and I hope everything is okay now dear, but know that my dm is always open if you want to talk, okay?? despite that, I hope you like it and that I do justice to your request 🫶

The fight is ugly. Worse than the others.

Logan is breathing hard, shoulders taut, veins standing out along his forearms from where his hands are clenched into fists. His eyes are wild—storm-dark, sharp with something too tangled to name.

You don’t move from where you stand. You’ve seen him like this before—worn down, pushing, clawing for distance like it might save him. But tonight feels different. The air is heavier, the silence stretching like a wound, raw and open.

“You don’t get it.” His voice is rough, a snarl that barely holds back a deeper tremor. “You never have.”

Your heart hammers, throat tight. “Then help me understand, Logan.”

But he just shakes his head. There’s something in his expression—something close to fear, buried beneath the anger.

“You wanna understand?” He exhales sharply, a bitter, exhausted sound. “Fine. I don’t love you.”

The words cut through you like a blade.

You're used to the "you should leave," "you deserve better." talk. But this, this is unexpected. You know he doesn't mean it, that it's something new to push you away for good, but you can't stop the pain.

Your breath catches. The whole world stutters to a halt.

“…What?”

His gaze flickers, jaw tightening—but he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t let himself.

“You heard me,” he mutters, voice low, dangerous. “I don’t love you. I never did.”

It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie.

But it still hurts. So bad.

You force yourself to breathe past the tightness in your chest. “Say it again.”

His nostrils flare, his fists trembling at his sides. “Don’t make me—”

“Say it again, Logan.” Your voice shakes. “Look me in the eye and say it.”

Something cracks in his expression. But he forces it down, swallows it back.

“I never loved you.”

The pain is instant, burning deep, settling into your ribs like something sharp and unrelenting. Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging into your palms to keep yourself steady.

He’s lying. You know he is.

But he’s also trying to break you. Trying to push you so far away you won’t find your way back.

And God, it almost works.

Your throat bobs, something sharp clawing its way up. You force it back.

“I don’t believe you,” you whisper.

Logan exhales roughly, turns away like he can’t stand to look at you.

“Don’t.” His voice is hoarse, worn thin. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” You step forward, hands trembling at your sides. “Don’t stay? Don’t care? Don’t love you when you clearly—”

He moves before you can finish.

Not towards you—away. Shoulders stiff, back turned, head lowered. Like he can’t bear to let you see him like this.

Like he can’t let you see him break.

“I don’t want you here,” he mutters. “You should go.”

You inhale sharply, chest burning. “Logan—”

“Leave.” His voice is nothing more than a rasp. “Please.”

That’s what shatters you. The ‘please.’

You stand there, hands trembling, something cracking in your chest. Then, slowly, you step back.

The silence stretches, unbearable.

Then—

The door clicks shut behind you.

Hours pass. You don’t know how long.

You don’t know what makes you go back. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something heavier, something impossible to sever.

But you find him exactly where you feared.

Collapsed against the porch railing, bottle shattered at his feet, blood smeared across his knuckles like he went looking for a fight and lost. His breath is uneven, his eyes dull and rimmed with exhaustion.

Something in your chest caves.

“…Logan?”

His head lifts slowly, sluggish. His gaze lands on you but doesn’t focus. It’s distant, dazed. Like he’s not all there.

A sharp inhale. Then you’re kneeling in front of him, hands framing his face, forcing him to look at you.

“Logan.” Your voice wavers. “Jesus Christ, what did you do?”

His eyes flutter shut. “Nothin’.”

Bullshit.

You glance at his hands—faintly trembling, bruised knuckles split from where he must’ve hit something. The bruises are already forming. He doesn’t heal like he used to.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I know what you were doing.”

A slow, shuddering exhale. Then, barely above a whisper—

“I don’t know how to stop.”

Your breath hitches. “Stop what?”

A pause. Then—

“Destroying everything I love.”

And there it is. The real truth, stripped bare and broken.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. Your own vision blurs. “You didn’t destroy me, Logan.”

“I had a dream.” His voice is hoarse, scraped raw.

You don’t move. Just listen.

His throat bobs as he swallows, still not meeting your gaze. “It wasn’t a good one.”

A beat of silence. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “It’s always the same. Always ends the same.”

His voice is quieter now, like he’s unraveling, like the fight has drained out of him.

Carefully, you reach out, your fingers brushing over his wrist—light, tentative. He doesn’t pull away.

It’s enough.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say softly. “Just let me stay.”

Something in his shoulders sags, the last of his resistance crumbling.

He lets you guide him inside, where the air is warmer, where the quiet isn’t so lonely. Lets you press a damp cloth to his knuckles, cleaning away dried blood, gentle but firm.

His hands tremble when you hold them in yours. His fingers twitch like he’s torn between pulling away and clinging to you.

“I’m still here,” you murmur, your thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over his skin. “I’m always gonna be here.”

Logan exhales, something breaking in his expression. His breath shudders, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into your touch.

Lets himself stay.

And you take care of him.

You ease him onto the couch, helping him sit, helping him breathe. He’s exhausted, the fight in him burned out, leaving behind something hollow, something aching. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, the strands coarse beneath your touch. He exhales shakily, pressing into the warmth of your palm like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

When you move to pull away, he catches your wrist. His grip is weak, but the intention is clear.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart clenches.

“I’m not.” You adjust, shifting so you can tuck yourself closer, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. He’s solid and warm and so, so tired. “I’m right here.”

For a moment, he’s still. Then, hesitantly, he leans into you, letting his forehead rest against your temple. His breath fans warm over your skin, uneven but steadying.

“I don’t deserve this,” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear.

You close your eyes, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Too bad,” you whisper. “You’ve got me anyway.”

A shaky exhale. His grip on your wrist tightens for just a second before going slack, but he doesn’t let go.

And in the quiet, in the dim light and the warmth of your touch, Logan finally lets himself rest.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

taglist: @blossomingorchids @logaenhowlett @cruel-as-sin (let me know if you want to be added or removed <3)

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Could I request a Pato x Autistic reader fic where she ends up having a meltdown in front of Pato for the first time and he helps her through it :)

I’ve recently got diagnosed with Autism and your Autistic reader fics bring me so much comfort :)

Still herellPato o'ward x Fem!autistic!reader

Summary— what started off as a calming safe date turns into something overstimulating and pato is there to get you through it.

Word count- 724

A/n I'm always happy to write autistic

It started small.

A too-loud laugh from across the café.

The scrape of a chair.

The smell of burnt espresso.

Pato tapping his leg under the table, fast and rhythmic.

A child crying in the background, too sharp, too high.

Your fingers twitched where they gripped your cup. You couldn’t take a full breath. The edges of the world started to blur—like your brain was a bottle being shaken up, fizz building under the cap.

Pato was saying something—something about the next race weekend, you think—but his voice faded into the background, the words smearing into meaningless noise.

You tried to hold it in.

But the pressure snapped.

You pushed your chair back fast, the screech of the legs against the tile sending a bolt of pain through your skull. Your heart pounded. Your hands shook.

You didn’t mean to bolt for the door—but you did.

Pato followed without hesitation. He found you around the corner of the café, near the back wall where it was quieter, hands fisted in your hoodie, breath stuttering in sharp gasps.

You didn’t want him to see you like this. Meltdowns were messy. Loud. Ugly. People didn’t understand—most got scared. Or worse, annoyed.

But not Pato.

He didn’t say anything at first. He crouched down a little, making sure you weren’t feeling trapped, keeping his voice low and steady.

“Can I come closer, cariño?”

You gave the tiniest nod, still not meeting his eyes.

He moved slowly. No touching. No rushing. Just… there.

Your breathing hitched as the tears started, the overwhelming tangle of everything crashing all at once. Too much noise, too much input, too much pressure to stay composed.

“I—I can’t—It’s too loud, I can’t—my head—” You couldn’t get the words out. Your hands flapped once, instinctive, needing motion. Needing something.

“It’s okay,” Pato said softly, eyes watching your hands, not your face. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

You let yourself slide down to sit, back against the brick wall, knees pulled to your chest. You pressed your palms against your temples. Everything buzzed like white noise inside your skull.

Pato sat beside you, a respectful few inches away, mirroring your posture without mimicking you. You were too far gone to say thank you, but you noticed. Your body noticed.

After a while, when your sobs had faded to hiccups and your breath wasn’t slicing your chest in half, he offered:

“I brought your stim toy. The ring one you keep in your jacket. Is it okay if I give it to you?”

You blinked hard and nodded.

He passed it to you gently. The weight of it in your hand grounded you more than you expected. Your fingers started twisting it in a familiar rhythm.

Silence stretched.

Not awkward. Not expectant. Just quiet.

You finally said, hoarse, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay,” he said instantly. “Unless you want space. Then I’ll wait nearby.”

You glanced at him. He looked so calm, so sure. Not scared. Not judging.

“You’re… not mad?”

“Mad?” His brow furrowed. “Why would I be mad?”

“People usually are. Or they… tell me I’m overreacting. That I need to calm down. That I’m too much.”

His face softened, and it nearly broke your heart. “No one gets to say that about you.”

You stared down at the toy in your hands. “I didn’t want you to see this part of me yet.”

Pato leaned a little closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth from his shoulder.

“This is a part of you,” he said gently. “And I’m not going anywhere because of it. I want to know allyour parts. Even the messy ones. Especially the messy ones.”

A fresh wave of emotion built behind your eyes, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was relief.

You turned your head and finally looked at him, really looked. His eyes were soft, warm, steady. His expression is calm. The corners of his lips lifted just enough to reassure you.

“I’m still here,” he said. “You don’t have to hide, cariño. Not from me.”

You exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. He reached out, offering his pinky finger. You hooked yours around his.

Not too much. Not too fast.

But enough.

You were safe.

And Pato wasn’t going anywhere he’ll make sure of that.

[rubywillkins]

Kiss Me Before the Words Hurt Too Much|oneshots

Charles leclerc

“I had all and then most of you

Some and now none of you…”

The rain had just started to fall over Monte Carlo, turning the city gold and gray in equal measure. The windows of Charles’ apartment fogged slightly as the tension in the room pressed against them — heavy, sharp, and unspoken for too long.

He stood by the counter, jaw clenched, arms crossed. You were near the door, your shoes still on, like you weren’t sure if you were staying.

“You keep shutting me out, Charles,” Y/N said softly, her voice tight with frustration. “I ask you how you’re doing and you say ‘fine.’ I ask what’s wrong and you give me silence.”

Charles looked down, brows furrowed. “Because sometimes I don’t know how to explain it,” he murmured, voice strained. “Because I’m tired, Y/N. I give everything out there—on track, in front of cameras—and when I come home, I’m just... worn out.”

She exhaled sharply, the words hitting her in the chest. “And I’m not asking you to perform for me. I’m asking you to talk to me. I’m not some reporter trying to get a headline, Charles. I’m yours.”

That made him look up.

Those brown eyes — usually warm, now clouded with guilt — met hers. The kind of gaze that felt like it reached right through her skin.

“I know you are,” he whispered. “And that’s exactly why it’s hard sometimes. Because if I tell you how much it hurts, how afraid I am of letting everyone down—of letting you down—then it becomes real. Too real.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. All her anger, the sharp edges of her tone, softened in an instant.

She took a step forward, boots clicking on the floor.

“You don’t have to protect me from the ugly parts, Charles,” she said. “That’s not how love works.”

He didn’t respond. His fingers tapped anxiously on the side of his arm. The silence stretched again — the kind that was starting to break her heart more than the words.

And so, before she could think about what came next — before pride, or pain, or fear stopped her — Y/N walked straight up to him and kissed him.

Hard. Honest. Desperate.

Charles froze for a second.

Then melted.

His arms unwrapped from around himself and wrapped around her instead, pulling her in like he was holding the only thing that tethered him to earth. His lips moved against hers with a quiet kind of urgency, like this kiss was his way of speaking when words had failed him.

When they finally pulled back, breathless and close, his forehead rested against hers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hands cradling her waist like she was breakable. “You’re the only place I feel safe. That scares me sometimes.”

Y/N smiled, brushing a thumb against his cheek. “Then stop running from it, and let me be that place.”

His lips ghosted over hers again — this time slow, reverent.

“I love you,” he murmured, like a promise. “Even when I don’t say it. Even when I’m a mess.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I kissed you.”

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, so did the walls between them.

Lewis Hamilton

“I need you ...

I'm ready to love you…”

The hotel suite was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. London pulsed beyond the windows — alive, indifferent — but inside, everything felt stuck. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful. It was too sharp. Too full.

Lewis sat on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, hands clasped between his knees. Y/N stood by the table, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw set.

She was trying — again. And he was… distant. Again.

“You say you're okay, but I can see it, Lewis,” she said quietly, pain lacing each word. “You come home and you vanish. You don’t let me in anymore.”

He rubbed his jaw, not looking at her. “It’s just been a lot lately.”

“That’s not an answer,” she snapped, a little harsher now. “I’m not your PR team. I’m not asking for a statement. I’m asking for you.”

That made him finally meet her eyes — and what she saw made her stomach twist. Not anger. Not apathy.

Exhaustion.

His voice was low. “Do you have any idea how heavy it feels? To walk around with a target on your back, trying to be perfect, to represent something bigger than yourself—then to come home and feel like even that’s not enough?”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“That’s not what I meant,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, softer now. “But sometimes I don’t know how to carry all of it. So I carry it alone.”

She crossed the room slowly, heart thudding in her chest. “I never asked you to carry it alone.”

Lewis looked down, shoulders tense. “It’s not about you. It’s about me not knowing how to break without letting everyone down.”

A long pause.

Her hand reached up and touched his shoulder, then the side of his face. “You’re allowed to break. You just can’t keep shutting me out when you do.”

He still didn’t speak.

So she kissed him.

Not with fire. Not out of anger.

She kissed him like he was a wound she was willing to hold. Gentle. Firm. Intentional.

Her hands on his face, thumb brushing against his cheek, as if to say “You’re not alone anymore.”

Lewis didn’t move for a second. Then he sank into it like a dam finally giving way.

His hands gripped her waist, forehead resting against hers when they pulled back. His eyes were glassy, raw in a way only she ever got to see.

“I’m scared,” he murmured. “Of failing. Of being too much. Not enough.”

“You’re everything,” she whispered back. “To me, you’re everything.”

He nodded slightly, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Thank you for kissing me,” he said. “I didn’t even realize how much I needed it.”

“I know,” she smiled faintly, brushing his curls away from his face. “That’s why I did it.”

And for the first time that night, he smiled — just a little — but it was real.

Carlos Sainz

“When you love someone ...

You open up your heart…”

The sound of the front door clicking shut echoed through the quiet apartment. Rain had just started outside, tapping softly against the windows, as if trying to fill the space between two people who had suddenly stopped knowing what to say.

Carlos stood near the kitchen, hand running through his hair. His brows were drawn together — not in anger, but in confusion. Hurt. A rare thing for him.

“You could’ve just told me,” he said finally, not looking at her. “If you didn’t want me at the event, you didn’t have to make excuses.”

Y/N stood in the middle of the living room, arms loosely crossed, more defensive than she meant to be.

“I wasn’t making excuses,” she muttered. “I just needed some space.”

His eyes finally met hers. “From me?”

A beat passed.

“I’m not… used to needing someone this much,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “It scares me. When you’re gone for weeks, when I don’t know what city you’re in, when I can’t be part of that world—sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in your life.”

Carlos took a slow breath, his voice low. “And so you push me away.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“But you do,” he said gently. “And I let you. Because I think ‘okay, maybe she needs air.’ But I’m also here thinking—why won’t she just talk to me?”

Her throat tightened. She hated that he was right. He always read her too well.

“Because I’m not good at this,” she said, frustrated now — more with herself than him. “I’m not good at being vulnerable. You’re so calm, so steady. And I’m just—”

“Mine,” he said simply.

That stopped her.

“You’re just mine,” Carlos repeated. “Messy or not. Guarded or open. I don’t care. But you don’t get to decide you’re not part of my life. That’s not your call. I already chose you.”

Y/N blinked. Her heart thudded in her chest.

And before he could say another word — before he could turn away or take one more step back — she crossed the space between them and kissed him.

Not out of victory.

Not to silence him.

But because her chest was full of too much. Regret. Relief. Love.

His hand immediately found the side of her neck, steady, anchoring her like always. He kissed her back with that quiet strength only he had — like he’d been waiting for her to finally just let go.

When they parted, he kept his forehead against hers.

“I wasn’t going to walk away,” he whispered. “But you were letting me think I should.”

“I know,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s why I kissed you.”

Carlos exhaled softly, pressing another kiss to her lips — slower this time.

“You’re not perfect,” he said. “But you’re worth fighting with. And for.”

Franco Colapinto

“When you love someone

You open up your heart…”

The hotel room was scattered with little things — his hoodie on the chair, your charger tangled near the bed, his race schedule on the desk. Comfortable chaos. Normally, it felt like home.

Tonight, it felt… off.

Y/N stood near the open balcony door, arms crossed, eyes heavy with frustration. Franco was sitting on the bed, fidgeting with a ring on his finger, brows slightly furrowed but trying not to seem defensive.

“You can’t just joke your way out of everything, Franco,” she said, her voice low but tight. “Every time I try to talk about how I feel, you turn it into something light. Funny. You smile like it’s all fine.”

“I’m not trying to make fun of you,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “I just— I don’t always know how to respond. I’m not good with serious talks, you know that.”

She let out a shaky breath. “That’s not good enough anymore.”

Franco stood up slowly, the humor gone now. He stepped forward but left just enough space between them that it ached.

“I know I joke a lot,” he said, quieter this time. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. I just… I feel things too much. So I protect it. With laughs. With stupid nicknames. With pretending I don’t get scared of losing you.”

Y/N blinked, a little stunned at the honesty.

His voice dropped more, raw and honest in a way he rarely was. “Do you think I don’t notice when you get quiet? When you stop texting me back as fast? When you pull away a little, like you’re testing if I’ll follow?”

She looked down, heart pounding. “I’m not testing you.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I still chase you.”

Silence fell again — that kind of silence where the truth hangs between two people, waiting to be caught.

So she did the only thing that felt right in the moment.

She kissed him.

Quick. Breathless. Frustrated. But full of love.

Like she needed to shut him up — and also pull him closer.

Franco froze for a second — then smiled into the kiss, softly at first, like “Finally.”

He kissed her back with that familiar tenderness, like her lips were the only place he ever wanted to land. When they pulled back, foreheads pressed together, his thumb traced the edge of her jaw.

“Didn’t expect that,” he murmured, eyes still closed.

“I didn’t want to argue anymore,” she whispered. “I just wanted you to know you’re worth being serious for.”

Franco smiled, this time real. “And I’m still gonna annoy you in the morning.”

She rolled her eyes with a small laugh. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

He kissed her again — slower this time. Sweeter.

“You always win when you kiss me like that,” he said against her lips.

“I know,” she smirked. “That’s why I did it.”

Paul Aron

“I can't help but love you

Even though I try not to…”

The lights in the living room were low, and the quiet buzz of the street outside was the only thing keeping the room from collapsing into complete silence.

Y/N stood in front of the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, while Paul leaned against the back of the couch, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor like it had the answers he couldn’t find.

“You didn’t have to say that, Paul,” she said finally, voice low, like she was afraid of her own volume.

He didn’t look up. “I know.”

“Then why did you?”

His mouth opened slightly, then shut again. A muscle in his jaw flicked, that signature restraint clashing against the rising emotion in his chest. He wasn’t good at this — not when it came to her. Especially not when it was about hurting her.

“You always walk away when I try to talk about how I feel,” she said, louder this time. “So yeah, maybe I pushed. But you didn’t have to throw that in my face.”

Paul’s eyes lifted. Finally. And they were burning. Quietly, but clearly.

“I said it because I didn’t want you to see how much it actually got to me,” he said. “I thought if I made it into something sharp, something you’d back away from, I wouldn’t have to admit it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. “Admit what?”

“That I hate it,” he said, more forcefully now. “I hate how easily you think I’ll leave. Like I haven’t proved to you a thousand times that I won’t.”

She stared at him, the fight in her stomach flipping into something else entirely — guilt, love, need.

Paul took a step forward, hands still shoved in his hoodie pocket like he didn’t trust them. “Do you even know how much I care about you? Or are you still waiting for me to screw it up so you can say, ‘I knew it.’”

Tears stung at her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words tangled somewhere behind her ribs.

So she did what she hadn’t planned — what she hadn’t even fully thought through.

She kissed him.

Hard. Fast. No warning.

Like the apology wouldn’t come out of her mouth but it might live in her touch.

Paul froze for a second — just a second — and then kissed her back like he’d been holding back an entire storm.

His hand moved to her jaw, the other to her waist, like he needed to hold her in place before she disappeared again. When they finally pulled apart, her chest was heaving.

He looked at her, brows drawn, voice rough. “What was that?”

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” she whispered. “And I needed to remind you that I do know how much you care.”

Paul stared at her for a long moment, something soft flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he murmured. “And I hate that I said it just to hurt you.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Then stop shutting down when you’re scared. Let me see you. Even when it’s messy.”

His forehead pressed to hers, breaths syncing as the world outside their window kept moving.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “So stop kissing me like I might.”

She smiled, a little tearful. “That’s the only way I know how.”

Lando Norris

“I think I’m gonna lose my mind ...

Something deep inside me I can’t give up…”

“You always make a joke when I’m trying to be serious.”

Y/N’s voice was louder than usual — not yelling, but tight, strained. She stood in the middle of the hallway, arms folded, heart beating far too fast for how calm he looked.

Lando was leaning against the wall near the bedroom door, one hand running through his curls, the other crossed over his chest like a shield.

“Because everything isn’t that serious,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. “You always want to turn stuff into these big dramatic talks.”

She blinked, like she hadn’t quite heard him right.

“This isn’t a drama, Lando. It’s me saying I don’t feel seen. That I miss you. That I don’t want to be the girl standing in your apartment wondering if you’d even notice if I left.”

His expression shifted — slightly. But he was still hiding behind that smirk, that tilt of his head that made everything feel like it wasn’t really real.

He opened his mouth to say something else — probably another sarcastic deflection — but she cut him off.

“You know what?” Y/N said, stepping forward, hands clenched. “I can’t keep trying to get through to you while you stand there acting like it’s all nothing.”

And then she kissed him.

Hard. Fast. With so much emotion it practically knocked the air out of both of them.

Lando’s body tensed at first — stunned — but then his hands flew to her waist, dragging her closer. His lips caught up with hers like he’d been dying for this. For her. For anything real.

He kissed her back like the words he didn’t know how to say. Like he needed to prove with his mouth what he couldn’t with his tone.

When they finally pulled away, breathless and a little dazed, his forehead leaned against hers.

“I don’t mean to shut you out,” he murmured, voice cracked open. “I just… I don’t always know what to do when things feel heavy. I joke because it’s easier than saying ‘I’m scared of messing this up.’”

Y/N closed her eyes, forehead still pressed to his.

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Lando,” she whispered. “I just need you to meet me there when I’m trying.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, no teasing in sight now. “You kissed me like I was about to lose you.”

She nodded. “Because I felt like I was.”

He exhaled, eyes finally locking with hers — really seeing her now.

“Then I’m glad you did.”

Oscar Piastri

“All I know is we said hello ...

And your eyes look like coming home…”

The apartment was still — that kind of stillness that pressed into your skin, filled every breath. The kind where something’s off, even if no one’s raised their voice.

Oscar stood in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his jaw clenched slightly as he leaned against the counter. Y/N stood across from him, arms crossed, frustration bubbling under her quiet tone.

“I just wish you'd react to something,” she said softly. “Anything.”

Oscar blinked slowly. “I’m reacting.”

“No,” she snapped. “You’re thinking. You’re analyzing. But you're not reacting. You're not saying anything that actually tells me how you feel.”

He tilted his head. “Because I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

Y/N let out a soft, humorless laugh. “At least that would mean you felt something. You always play it so calm, so unbothered—like nothing ever touches you.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“Do you think I don’t feel things just because I don’t shout them?”

“I don’t know, Oscar,” she said, shoulders falling slightly. “Sometimes it’s like I’m breaking right in front of you and you just… stand there.”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before he pushed off the counter and took a step closer.

“You think I don’t notice when you’re breaking?” he said, voice low but clear. “I notice everything. I just don’t always know if you want me to catch you or let you fall.”

Her heart cracked at that — not in pain, but in sudden understanding.

She crossed the space between them, fast — and before she could overthink it, she kissed him.

Slowly. Purposefully. Like a truth her words had failed to speak.

Oscar’s hands found her waist immediately, not pulling her closer — holding her there, like he was afraid she’d pull away before he could finish saying everything he didn’t know how to say.

When they broke apart, he kept his forehead against hers.

“You think I don’t care?” he whispered. “Y/N… you’re the only thing that gets through the noise in my head.”

She smiled faintly, lips still brushing his. “Then next time, just tell me.”

“I will,” he promised. “Next time, I won’t just stand there.”

And with that, he kissed her again — firmer this time, like he’d just remembered how much he could feel.

Arthur Leclerc

“Kiss me the way that you would..

If we died tonight…”

“You always turn it around on yourself,” she snapped, pacing in front of the couch, hands flying with emotion.

Arthur sat there, back pressed into the cushions, hands clasped together as he watched her with those storm-grey eyes — quiet, but intense. “Because maybe it is about me,” he said, more quietly. “Maybe I really am the problem.”

Y/N froze mid-step. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not trying to be dramatic,” he said, voice steady but hurt bleeding through. “You said you feel like you’re always the one making the effort. That I don’t show up the way you need me to. And I’m trying to hear that, Y/N, but it just makes me think…” His jaw clenched. “Maybe you deserve someone who doesn’t need to be told how to love you properly.”

The words hit her like a punch. Not because he was yelling. Not because he was angry. But because he meant it. Because he was sitting there — honest, stripped down, looking at her like she was already halfway out the door.

Her voice cracked as she whispered, “You’re not the problem, Arthur.”

He looked up, finally, and it shattered her.

“You never were,” she added, stepping closer. “I was scared, and tired, and I took it out on you because you’re the safest place I have.”

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He just… waited.

So she kissed him.

Slow, desperate, full of apology. Like she needed him to feel every unsaid thing — I love you, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.

His hands came up slowly, almost uncertain — one cradling the back of her neck, the other settling over her lower back like he needed her to stay there. With him. Still.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.

“I don’t need someone perfect,” she whispered. “I need you. The one who listens. The one who notices. The one who always asks me if I’m okay even when I’m lying through my teeth.”

Arthur finally let out a breath — the kind he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You scared me,” he murmured. “You said those things like you were already halfway gone.”

“I’m not,” she promised. “I kissed you because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you over a moment I didn’t mean.”

He kissed her again, slower this time — longer — like the tension had finally melted into something softer. Something safe.

And then, pulling her into his lap, he murmured, “Next time, yell at me less. Kiss me sooner.”

She laughed into his neck. “Deal.”

[yawnderu]

K-9 — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | Part II

Sick as a dog, and just as vicious.

1 2 3 4 5

Simon scores a date with his favorite medic

Or

Simon has to be under her watch after getting a knife to the gut.

"Oi, doc." Simon calls out and you sigh softly, gaze drifting from your patient report to him, his unmasked figure lays on the medical bed, gauze wrapped tightly over his abdomen, keeping his newest injury guarded from anything that could rub on or mess up the stitches.

"Why'd they call you K-9?" One of his thin, eyeblack stained eyebrows lifts as he looks at you, already feeling bored from having to stay still for so long, movement limited by the patched up stab wound on his stomach.

"Long story." You dismiss him, looking back down at the patient report you were writing for him. His medical file was interesting, indicating no pictures of him should ever be taken, as well as additional personal and professional information.

"You got surgery in 2020, what's that about?" You didn't notice any bigger scars whenever he was injured, having already seen his naked torso and part of his legs.

"Curious 'bout me, doc?" His tone is slightly teasing, the smug bastard thinking he's funny by asking that. A single eye roll is enough to get him to speak, a deep, gravelly chuckle escaping his lips before he answers.

"Took a nasty gunshot to the leg, was fadin' fast." He lays back down, gaze drifting towards the ceiling as he thinks about it. He was so close to death himself, only three years ago.

"Thought it'd be more interesting." Your bluntness never fails to make him double take. It's not passive aggressive or mean, just... way too honest. More than he's used to.

"I'll get a proper grand injury just for you, lass." You roll your eyes again, taking a sip from your coffee to hide the way the corners of your lips are tugging up. It's amusing, really, to find out how much Simon has changed throughout the years. Price told you he used to be much more quiet, though after 4 years of working with the task force, he was able to open up, getting more and more used to interacting with a team rather than being a lone wolf.

"That's not necessary, I can give it to you myself if you'd like." Your gloved hand presses on the scalpel on your white coat before going back to writing his medical report, tone laced with subtle humor.

"She can joke." He taunts, trying to sit up before a sharp hiss of pain escapes his lips. You frown, the report taking way too long to finish because you keep getting interrupted.

"Hold on." You walk up to him, hands holding onto his strong back before you try to help the behemoth of a man sit up. His calloused hands hold onto your forearms, a few low, deep groans escaping his lips at the strain his flexing muscles are causing to the fresh injury.

"Fuckin' hell." He mutters and you look up, eyes focusing on his pained expression for a second too long. Simon isn't ugly, really, but when his face is all scrunched up in pain, sweat gathering in the form of clear specks all over his eyeblack stained skin? He looks almost majestic. You get your head out of the gutter, placing some soft pillows behind his back to help keep him up without much strain.

"You should be healed up soon enough, got lucky the bastard didn't stab that deep." You shrug, looking back at the tiny coffee maker in your office before you look back up at him, his brown eyes already staring back at you, pupils blown, as usual.

"Want some coffee?" He shakes his head politely, eyes closing in pain as he tries to get into a more comfortable position.

"A cuppa would be nice." You flick his forehead softly, tired eyes drifting towards the clock on the wall. 0100, yet you simply nod and grab your phone from the desk.

"Try not to die while I'm gone." The door closes behind you before he can reply, brown eyes closing as he sighs when you're gone. He doesn't even know how it all started. Simon is a man of discipline, a soldier, a Ghost, yet the way his heart quickens and his cock hardens whenever he's with you is something he can't control, as if a parasite made home in his brain and is using his body as a vessel, ridding him completely of any self-control.

You come back 10 minutes later, a tray with a cup of hot tea and food placed on his lap, the almost comforting warmth quickly spreading through his legs and body.

"Thank you." He moves the spoon around the cup of Earl Grey, letting the sugar mix in for a hot minute before he takes a sip from it, nodding his head once in approval. He was starving, really, but he tried his best to eat slowly, ignoring his hungry stomach begging him to wolf it all down. His eyes drift back to the tray, attention caught by the singular orange left there.

His hands fumble for one of the knives in his clothes, finding all of the straps were removed by you and placed too far away for his injured body to reach. He looks back up at you, admiring you in silence and truly taking you in. The way you lift your glasses every once in a while even before they can slip down the bridge of your nose, the way your hand fiddles with the pen and your lips turn into a small pout whenever you're not sure how to describe something in the report, the way you look so angelic under the dim lights of the infirmary—

"What are you lookin' at?" You don't even bother looking back at him, feeling his stare on you for the past two minutes. He has such an intense gaze that makes you feel as if he can see through your soul, yet it never intimidated you.

"Nothin', bird, nothin'. Peeled you an orange."

[PREVIOUS] [NEXT]

[shadowww-bunny]

「Care」-D. W.

❥Take care of your injured boyfriend

❥ fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship

"Oh, please, I don't look that bad." Dean says, standing on the doorstep of your room with his usual cocky grin.

Everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for his split lip, the cut on his cheek, and his blood-soaked clothes, hiding even more wounds that made your heart ache just thinking about them. He didn't look fine, he looked tired and battered. But Dean wasn't about to admit that. He didn't want to show weakness and make you to worry even more.

It wasn't something unexpected, Dean came back from hunting, which most likely didn't go according to plan, but of course he would never tell you about it, making sarcastic jokes and teasing.

However, you know him better than that. You notice how Dean tries not to wince with every movement, how he holds his side and how he shifts on the threshold, barely able to stand on his feet.

You take his arm and pull him towards the living room, sitting him down on the sofa. Dean doesn't resist, just winces and puts his hand to the wound. It's already become a tradition, Dean comes to you after a failed hunt, jokes, smiles, and you just shake your head and patch him up. But you don't mind. After all, it's your reckless hunter to take care of.

As you replace his hand with your own, holding pressure against the wound, he emits a low groan of pain. But he tries to sound nonchalant when he responds "What can I say... I know how to make an entrance."

"Oh, I can see. What is it this time?" You ask, pointing at his wound.

He lets out a sharp breath as you undo his shirt, revealing a nasty, gaping wound on his side. The edges of the cut are ragged, and it's still bleeding relentlessly, staining your fingers. "Ghoul." He mutters bitterly, his voice tight. "Ugly son of a bitch snuck up on me." Despite the pain, he manages a grimace that's meant to be a weak smirk, making you smile a little.

You begin to rummage through the bag, pulling out gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape. The situation is serious but also strangely domestic. Dean lies there, trying to keep his breathing even as he watches you prepare. His usually cocky demeanor is replaced by a vulnerability that only you get to see.

As you clean the wound, Dean occasionally winces or hisses, but he stubbornly tries to keep a tough facade, biting back most of his pained noises. "You know, I've had worse." He mutters, trying to alleviate the tense atmosphere.

"You always say that." You counter, rolling your eyes. "But somehow you always manage to top your previous injuries. It's almost impressive, in a dumb kind of way." Despite your sarcastic remark, you continue cleaning his wound with careful and gentle hands.

"Can't help it if trouble finds me." He retorts, his voice strained. "And I'm just too handsome and charming to die." The hunter attempts to smirk but it's interrupted by another wince of pain as you accidentally press a bit too hard on his wounded side.

"Or too stubborn and reckless." You reply dryly, shooting him a look. "But I guess I'll give you points for being handsome."

As you finish cleaning the wound, you start applying the gauze. His hand clenches on your arm. "Damnit, woman, you got a gentle touch, don't you?" He mutters, gritting his teeth. He's clearly struggling to keep his composure, but he's doing a pretty good job, all things considered.

"Oh, shush." You respond, suppressing a small smile. "I'm being as gentle as possible. Unless you want me to be rougher." You tease, knowing that it'll annoy him. As you finish placing the gauze over his wound, you gently tape it in place. "There, all done."

The hunter lets out a sigh. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Seeing me like this." He mutters, though there's no real anger in his voice. Dean wasn't used to people care about him, but for some reason, when it came from you, it felt different.

"Of course I am." You retort sarcastically. "What better way to spend a Saturday night than patching up my dumbass boyfriend who once again nearly got himself killed?" Despite your harsh words, your gaze is soft as you continue checking his body for other injuries.

He lets out a weak laugh that quickly morphs into a wince of pain. "Always with the sweet words." He mutters, his hand still gripping your arm, though his grip is looser this time.

"What can I say? I'm a poet at heart." You reply, rolling your eyes once again. Your fingers carefully trace over the various bumps and bruises. "You really did a number on yourself this time, didn't you?" Your voice is a mix of scolding and concern. "Should I get you some painkillers?"

"I'm fine. Although… there's still something you can do."

There's a long pause, and you look at Dean questioningly, and he, in turn, puts on a serious face, as if he's about to say something important.

Then, the hunter's lips stretch into a sly smile before he looks up at you with sparkling emerald eyes. "Kiss me."

For a moment, his words make you freeze. You should have expected him to try to make a joke even in this state, but even so, your heart fluttered in your chest. Dean Winchester…This guy will joke even at death's door. He's insufferable, your favorite hunter.

Of course, Dean was just teasing you, enjoying your expression. He wanted to add something else, but you beat him to it when you bent down and pressed your lips to his, causing the hunter to gasp in surprise.

You let it last a little longer than it should, and the tension between the two of you is replaced by a pleasant and calm atmosphere before you pull back and smirk. "Is that better?"

Dean doesn't answer right away. It seemed that your sudden closeness, the smell of your perfume and the feeling of your soft lips on his skin momentarily discourage him, but the hunter quickly brushes it off, responding to you with his usual, but now a little embarrassed, but contented smile.

"Much better."

[entity56]

Whumpee's skin prickles every time the makeup brush wipes against a bruise or cut, but they dare not move an inch. Their hands bound behind them, all they can manage is to dig their nails into their palms as Whumper brushes on the concealer, then the foundation, to their neck and face. They clench their teeth, both to avoid moving their jaw and to avoid making a peep as Whumper works on their battered face.

Whumper didn't seem the least bit stressed, by contrast. In fact, they practically floated as they walked back and forth from their makeup tray to Whumpee. They hummed an unrecognizable tune, stopping every so often to take a sharp breath in. It would be soothing if not given the situation.

The vent blows cool air up Whumpee's legs, through the fabric of their expensive clothes, giving them goosebumps. Whumpee can't tell if the shivering is from the cold or the fear.

As Whumper sits back down on their cushioned stool in front of them, they cock their head and tsk disapprovingly.

"Darling, what's wrong?" they ask. "Why are you shaking?"

They lean back a bit to observe the fine garments adorning their malnourished body, and squint.

"Are the clothes I got you not good enough?"

Whumpee stares uneasily. Did they expect an answer? Movement? Last time they'd spoken without permission, they'd been decked across the face. The silence seems to displease Whumper, and they put the makeup brush down and cross their arms.

"When I ask you a question, you answer. Are you really that ungrateful?" they ask. Whumpee's throat constricts with dehydration, and they gulp thickly and clear their throat before attempting to respond.

"N-- ugh. No," they cough, casting their eyes down to Whumper's knees. "I'm not. Thank you."

"Thank you...?" Whumper prods.

"...Thank you, sweetheart." The words leaving Whumpee's mouth made them sick, but they heard Whumper giggle a little.

"That's better!" they chirp as they pick their makeup brush back up. "Now, eyes back on me. We wouldn't want to smudge your makeup, now, would we? All that work on your pretty little face would be such a shame." They snap their fingers. "Eyes on me, darl."

Whumpee looks back up at Whumper, into their eyes, piercing, almost painful to look at. They shut slightly as Whumper smiles and sets back to work on their foundation. The humming resumes, this time in a recognizable tune-- 'You Are My Sunshine'-- and Whumpee tenses up again. Stiff as a statue; don't move an inch. Don't move an inch. Don't move an inch.

The makeup was itchy and caked onto Whumpee's face like mud. They were grateful their hands were bound, or they'd try to wipe it off themselves. That didn't mean it wouldn't drive them crazy, of course, but at least there wasn't any risk of getting in trouble.

Whumper sighs as they cover the last inch of Whumpee's face, and they stand up and walk back to the makeup tray.

"You know what, Whumpee?" they say lightly, as if discussing the weather, as they browse the eye shadow. "Hold on-- look at me, maybe warm tones?-- Whumpee, you're absolutely beautiful. It's as though you've walked directly out of a painting, hmm? I could just stare at you... all day..."

Whumpee stares at them silently as they pause, collecting their thoughts. They turn over their shoulder at them, studying them hard, as though the next time they'd turn around, Whumpee would be gone.

"So I don't understand... why are you making me taint your beauty?" they ask sadly, resting a hand against their cheek. "Why would you work so hard against me? Why would you make me need to leave such ugly marks?"

Anger-- and shame?-- bubble up in Whumpee's stomach, and they cast their eyes back downwards. They feel their ears heat up with the emotion, and they wish in that moment that they could just be back in bed, even if it was next to this horrible, horrible individual. At least the blankets were warm.

"Answer me," Whumper demands, a slight note of irritation in their voice. Whumpee hears their foot tapping against the tile.

"I'm not making you do anything," they say quietly, their voice wavering as they spoke.

"Hm?" Whumper questions, furrowing their eyebrows and setting down the eye shadow pallette.

"I'm not making you hit me." Whumpee shifts uncomfortably in the small wooden chair. "I'm not making you torture me. I never wanted to be here."

For an unbearably long moment, the room was deathly silent. Whumpee's blood runs cold with regret as the reality of what they just said sets in.

But the silence is broken with soft footsteps, and Whumpee nearly jumps out of their skin as Whumper plops themselves right down in their lap and gently turns their head towards them. What was that expression? Was it anger, perhaps? Ice cold rage?

No. It was love. Affection and tenderness as they lean forward and whisper into their ear "I never asked you."

Their hands rest on Whumpee's shoulders as they lean into their chest and smile up at them, innocent, endearing. "It's okay. You're still a bit misguided. I understand, darling. I'll fix that right up for you, okay? Then nothing will stand in the way. I'll never have to ruin you again."

They rise from Whumpee's lap, leaving them paralyzed with dread at that implication.

"Now, be silent, my love. We wouldn't want to be late for dinner, now, would we? I'll finish your make-up in a jiffy."

They walk back to their makeup tray.

[filmtv2022]

Part III: Our Time is Limited (18+)

Part II Part IV

Pairing: Geta x Reader (Romantic) & Platonic!Caracalla x Reader

Synopsis: Fighting back worry, Reader reveals their concerns about Acacius and Lucilla. In the dark of night, Geta & Reader find solace from the weight of the world in each other, even if the reprieve is temporary. The struggles of the empire are only part of the obstacles that move to keep Geta & Reader apart. Caracalla's illness rears its ugly head proving to Geta that protecting the ones he cares about most may not be a possibility, throwing him closer to the edge of despair and desperation.

Warnings: smut/sexual activity + drug use + violence

A/N: Oof am I excited about this installment of the story! These three have my whole heart and I'm beyond grateful to those of you who are joining me on the journey of telling this story. Some of this will continue to follow canon, but I haven't fully decided how the story will end... therefore if things diverge... don't be surprised. I'm letting these characters dictate where the story goes within the realm of my planning. And as always, please forgive me for any and all mistakes!

** I will start working on the next part soon, but work is picking up for me in the next few days. So I apologize if it takes a bit longer to get part four out!

------------------------------

The cool stone was in stark contrast to the humidity and heat that rose through the heavy air. Steam clouded your vision, marking the water's surface in swirling patterns not unlike the constellations in the night sky. Trusting your knowledge of the room, you tracked through the dark with expertly placed steps avoiding the slippery spots and sharp edges. Barefoot and clad only in the robe Caracalla had discarded before slipping into bed, your mind wandered to the events that had unfolded just hours earlier. 

You dipped your toe into the farthest bath. Warmth radiated up the length of your calf enticing you to sink into its depths. More than ready to shed the tension in your muscles and the ache of your cheek, you plucked at the knot around your waist. The heavy fabric fell off the slope of your shoulder, exposing your skin to the air. Letting it drop to the floor, you kept a firm grasp on the smoking bundle in your hand. Inhaling deeply, you allowed the medicine to sit in your lungs easing the pain and dulling your mind. 

Alone, you stood exposed to the empty space. For a moment, the haze over the water cleared revealing your reflection. Here, hidden from prying eyes you were free to map the passage of time. Youth remained in the pleasant curve of your chest and hips, and yet your eyes… they were no longer the bright windows to your former self. Tired, and anxious, you stepped carefully into the bath. Sinking down on the ledge beneath the surface, the water washed in choppy waves. 

Covered to the top of your chest, you brought the furl of dried flora to your nose once more. The foggy weight of the opium and devil’s breath wafted around you, smoothing your senses. Lost to their powerful hold, you almost missed the emperor’s approach. Geta stood beside you, admiring the glimpses of your skin. 

“You’re late.” Your head lolled to the side to look at him. The makeup he’d worn earlier had been wiped clean apart from the smudge of scarlet that painted the fatigued skin beneath his eyes. Dressed down from what he’d worn during the day, rings still adorned nearly every finger. Their stunning jewels glowed in the dim flickering torchlight that danced about the room. 

“And you are… relaxed.” Geta smiled down at you, amused with just how far gone you were. Standing beside the pool, he twisted the ring on his pinky, an anxious habit he’d picked up in his youth. 

“And I’d be better if you were in here with me. Do you intend only to watch or join?” Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to focus your vision under the influence. The deep fortifying breath you took filled your lungs with moist air and the murky lull of the opium. The pain had long since ceased and yet you continued to partake, the blend doing wonders to ease the nervous jumble of your mind. Unburdened, your free hand slid beneath the surface, teasing your pebbled nipples before dipping between your thighs. 

Under the watchful gaze of emperor Geta, you allowed your eyelids to close, blocking out the rest of the world, focusing on the brush of your fingertips along your core. In your self-imposed darkness, you listened to the muted thump of clothing being discarded beside you. Geta’s robes pooled at his feet leaving him bare and in search of the water’s pleasant heat. With care, he stepped in to join you, the waves lapped harder at the sides as his weight upset the balance. Ripples crashed upon you, marking his approach, but it was the sensation of his presence surrounding you that snapped reality into place. 

Geta’s broad palms came to rest on either side of your head, leaning his weight into his elbows so that mere centimeters separated you. Mesmerized by his beauty, you reached for him, mapping the planes of his chest with your fingertips so that glistening trails reflected back at you. 

“You’re late.” You repeated, this time the plush of his lips brushed yours as you spoke.

“As you’ve mentioned,” Geta smirked into the kiss. The velvet of his tongue exploring yours added fuel to the fire stirring within. Just as he felt you lean forward, chasing more, he pulled back earning a pitiful whimper. “Can you find forgiveness within?” 

“Perhaps.” Emboldened and consumed with need, you tossed away the bundle, its flame extinguishing in the puddle beside your discarded clothes. Entirely free, you ran an eager hand along the soft expanse of his stomach, teasing your way closer to where you knew he desired your touch the most. A sharp inhale tumbled into a choking gasp as you reached for him beneath the surface. Geta was half hard in your hand as you rolled your wrist, passing the width of your thumb over the tip and sealing the rest of the words in his lungs. Swift and gentle, you pushed against his chest, leading him across the bath to rest on the far ledge. Enveloped by steam and the feeling of your hands upon him, Geta’s head tipped back bumping lightly upon the stone. 

From this vantage point, it was impossible not to lose your senses in the delicious features of the man before you. His shoulders heaved, shuttering at your steady grip along the length of his cock. Trusting you completely, Geta’s jaw fell slack, his eyes squeezed shut, blocking out everything besides you. The thick bands of gold wrapped around his fingers bit into your waist as he pulled you closer, forcing you to balance with a knee upon the ledge beside him, your other thigh resting between his spread legs. The hand at your waist held tight while the other kept him from slipping, his hips raising to meet you, desperate for more. 

“Is this what you desire, Geta?” You whisper along the shell of his ear, timing your question with the twist of your hand. A greedy smirk wrapped around the rest of your thought. “Tell me what you want.” 

“You.” Geta’s eyes snapped open, and the dark of his pupils was blown wide, showing the depth of the lust that consumed him. Using all his strength, Gets hauled you into his lap, your lush thighs pressed along the outside of his own. In one fluid motion, the breadth of his hand fell to the base of your throat feather-light over the bruises that marred your skin, while you hastily sunk down on him. Swallowing each other’s moans, Geta devoured you in a heated kiss. Unsteady, you reached for his shoulders, using him as an anchor. 

Devoid of any thought but the storm of pleasure that continued to build, crackling in lightning strikes across every nerve in your body. The pair of you were in perfect harmony, his body moved in unerring time with your own. Leaning back, Geta pursued you, dropping his hand from your throat to lay a line of fire down the column of your neck, traversing the swell of your breasts above the water. 

Focused entirely on you, Geta groaned as your velvet walls fluttered around him. His free hand came between you, laying expertly placed brushes on your clit. The swirl of your hips faltered as did his own. The pair of you worked each other over the edge, the sound of unhindered moans echoed through the room before giving way to shaky breathes. Boneless, and weak, Geta’s strong arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest. Exhausted, he buried his face into the side of your neck. 

“Mine… you’re mine. Always.” You could feel the ghost of his words drift over your flushed skin as he spoke. His confession twisted the knot in your stomach, for you knew it was the truth you both desired, but not the reality that existed. For as long as Caracalla lived, this was all you and Geta could ever be, lovers in the night, shrouded in shadow and hidden from the world. 

“Yours… but only so far as the night allows.” At the sound of your voice, Geta sat back to look at you.

“Only so far as the night allows… though I’ll gladly take what the gods permit.” His response was met with a half smile from you. Geta studied the bleary look that remained in your eyes from the opium and devil’s breath. Even held captive to the influence of the medicine, the worry and fear from earlier at the arena returned. 

“What if the gods have abandoned us?” You murmured, pressing the pad of your thumb along the expanse of his lower lip.

“Where is this coming from?” His head cocked to the side, the scared boy returning in full force at the look on your face. “You promised a confession… that you’d tell me the concern which occupies your mind. You have my ear.” 

“I did, yes. I just… I do not know if what I speak is truth or the anxieties of a mind on edge.” You admitted sheepishly. 

“It matters not. It weighs upon you, and you mustn’t carry this burden alone.” Geta’s wide eyes looked up at you, encouraging you to share the concerns of your heart with him, to trust him in a way that no other had ever dared. For there were many who gossiped to and confided in him as an act, but never had another trusted him with their innermost contemplations. 

“It’s the General and his wife… there is something afoot with the pair of them. The way he spoke before the crowd today… Those were not the words of one loyal to Rome or you. And Lucilla… you should have seen her face when that gladiator stepped into the arena. It was as if the world fell away.” Taking a shaky breath, you reached for him, pulling his brow to rest on yours. “There’s something wrong there, Geta. You must be cautious. I need you safe, both of you.” 

“Acacius… and…” He looked past you, dropping his countenance so that he could stare into the abyss beyond. 

“Lucilla, yes," You repeated hesitantly.

“But they are…” The tremble in his hands radiated over your body as he clung to you.

“Meant to be your closest allies, I know.” 

“It cannot be true.” Geta’s voice cracked, the thoughts catching on the barbs that constricted his throat. Not wanting to lose him entirely, you held his face between your palms, your thumbs sweeping in tender arcs across his cheekbones. 

“And I hope that it isn’t, in earnest I do, but until you know for certain I pray you to keep a weather eye upon them. For I am uncertain where their true loyalties reside.” A shallow nod marked his comprehension. “You know I would not speak of this unless I believed there to be at least a thread of truth in it. Geta, you and Caracalla… you are my priorities.” 

“I know.” Words failed him. Desperate for you to know how sincerely he understood, Geta’s lips met yours. With careful hands, he fastened his hold on you, gripping tight to the back of your thighs as he lifted you to sit on the edge of the bath. The temperature change sent gooseflesh rushing over your skin, causing you to shiver, though the discomfort was short-lived. Geta followed you to the side, his hands skimming from your ankle to the bend of your knee allowing him to see the sway of pleasure at his touch before reaching for your robe. Standing to his full height, but still within the water, he swept the flowing garment over one of your shoulders. Together you threaded your arms through the holes, letting it drape behind you. Satisfied that you were protected well enough, Geta exited the steaming bath. 

Bent at the waist, he reached for his own robe. The bright carmine of the fabric was beautiful against his skin as he donned the cover. Not wanting to slip on the damp stone, you stood at a snail's pace and made your way to him. You grabbed for the ties he held in his hands while yours remained unfastened. Geta relinquished his hold without question allowing you to methodically form the knot. 

“Take me to bed, Emperor. For tonight I am yours alone. Let no fear of the future keep you from me and I shall do the same.” Tugging lightly, you felt Geta pitch toward you, his hands finding your frame to keep from tumbling further. The tip of his tongue wet his bottom lip in contemplation. 

“As you wish.” Geta deftly closed your covering, tying it loosely before reaching for your hand. His own quivered, painting a picture of the tremulous hold he had upon his nerves. On instinct, he guided you both back to his chambers. The journey was short and uneventful, only the two guards beside his door remained awake at this time of night. 

Back in the relative safety of his room, the pair of you undressed and fell into the comfortable plushness of the bed. Already spent from the night’s previous endeavors,  Geta curled into you, his strong arm protective around your middle, holding you flush with his chest. The emperor’s distant stare sat buried in your shoulder, and with each mellowing breath, he inhaled the scent of you and attempted to let go of his thoughts.  You didn’t need to see his watery eyes to know his struggle. Threading your fingers with his, you willed peace upon him, hoping that sleep would overtake him soon and relieve the pain and worry. 

A new day broke over the imperial palace. Within hours a hectic flurry of action would overtake the relative calm of the early morning, but for now, a tenuous peace remained. Geta, still free from the perils of the waking world, did not so much as stir as you gingerly pulled yourself from his arms. Dressing quickly, you found your way back to Caracalla much the same as the day before. The dull ache from your wound had returned with the absence of the opium’s presence in your system. At the back of your mind, you noted the itch to reach for more, to pull from the supply that sat ever present in Caracalla’s chambers. To your better judgment, you ignored the desire. 

Sunlight trickled into the vast room, not yet strong enough to illuminate the space in full. Heaped upon the bed, Caracalla lay tangled beneath the sheets, his bare chest milky white apart from the marks that littered his otherwise perfect skin. Dundus’s elated chirp announced your arrival. The tiny creature picked its way across the table, seeking attention and affection. Dressed in clothing fit for an emperor, Caracalla’s faithful pet and companion lept from the back of the chair he’d crawl on to get closer to you, landing upon your shoulder. Tiny hands plucked at your clothes, tickling the exposed skin at your neck. 

“Good morning, my little friend. Thank you for keeping him company.” You collected a piece of fruit from the nearby bowl and handed it to Dundus who happily accepted the gift. Like this, you made your way to Caracalla. The young man stirred in his sleep, more aware of you than you’d previously thought. At the side of the bed, the faithful animal departed, scurrying off in another direction as you pulled back the covers to join the emperor. 

“Where did you go? I woke and could not find you.” The groggy croak of his voice caught you off guard. 

“I know, forgive me.” You tucked yourself into his side, your head resting on his chest, hiding your face from him. “But I am here now.” 

“I do not like it when you are gone. I am lost.” His confession was barely more than a whisper, so low you were uncertain whether he meant for you to hear it. The bridge of your nose burned, the guilt of leaving him behind was always present, but hearing him speak candidly… it hurt more than you were prepared to handle. 

“I am never truly gone, Calla. You can always find me, here, even in the dark.” You pressed the width of your palm to the place above his heart. Caracalla’s hand came to rest on top of yours, keeping you close without asking for more. Silence descended upon you both, leaving far too much room for your mind to spin. Like this you waged war with your thoughts, counting away the minutes until the sun rose fully above the horizon. 

Almost done dressing, you ran your hands over the pleats in your stola, fixing them in place. The black and gold swirled together impeccably, fierce and sharp. Caracalla’s unassuming frame came into view beside you dressed in matching attire. Your gaze fixed on the mirror before you assessing the picture of unity the pair of you presented, but the look in the emperor’s eyes faltered the rhythm of your heart. Turning to face him, you noted the absent feel of his gaze. It was as though you barely existed in his current reality. 

Caracalla reached for you, his slender arm extended weakly, just close enough for his fingertips to brush the gold inlay of your clothing. His touch wandered haphazardly over your stomach to the curve of your hip, dragging higher and ghosting over your breasts to your collarbone. 

“What are you doing?” You stilled his movement, holding him in place. “Talk to me.” 

You craned your neck trying to look into his eyes again, but nothing came of your request. The emperor remained silent. 

“We should go, your brother is waiting… your public is waiting.” You took a step to his side, floating past him a fraction of a pace before an iron grip clamped around your bicep, ripping you backward. Off balance, you tripped over the flowing cape that draped down your back, smacking into the wall with force. A sharp pain shot through your shoulder causing you to gasp. Flat against the stone, you didn’t have time to think when another blow landed. Caracalla’s nails bit into the tender flesh around your chin, your face held like a vice in his hand.  

“Calla, stop… ” You pleaded knowing it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. You grabbed for his wrist, struggling to speak, “You’re hurting me.”

“You're mine, whore,” was all he uttered, fresh blood trickling down your face as skin tore. The slamming of the chamber doors reverberated powerfully through the room breaking his concentration long enough for you to slip from his grasp. You stumbled forward, arms extended to try and keep from falling. Your knees crashed into the unforgiving ground and rattled your thoughts. A voice called in panicked waves from whomever had entered the room. Distantly, you recognized your name but could not respond. 

As carefully as he could, Geta who had come to collect his brother, lifted you from the ground. Back on your feet, you tried to focus. You felt the strength in your knees give way as Geta wrapped you into his chest. Over the top of your head, he locked eyes with Caracalla. Still trapped in his delusion, Calla started toward the pair of you forcing Geta to bark an order. 

“Macrinus, take her.” He gestured to the silver-haired man behind him whose face was absent of emotion. 

“I’m fine.” You tried to protest, but your argument was shallow given the crack of your voice and the droplets of red that welled like shining jewels from your wounds.

“You’re not.” As gently as he could, Geta passed you to Macrinus who guided you to sit upon a nearby chair. With keen attention still on the brothers behind him, the man pulled a cloth from somewhere deep in the pocket of his robes and handed it to you. 

Across the room, Geta held onto this brother, a hand tense on his shoulder and the side of his head, keeping Caracalla's eyes from drifting toward you. Quietly he whispered, his words not powerful enough to be audible from a distance. But it did not matter, even without them, it was obvious what transpired. The struggle to bring Caracalla back to reality grew more strenuous with every fit that overtook him, each bout taking more time to end than the last. 

The world refocused around you, allowing you to really look at the relative stranger who stood beside you. Mapping his features, you noted the way time had been kind to him, such beauty lingered along with the scattering of lines that shaped his face. As if he could feel eyes upon him, Macrinus’s focus fell to you and it chilled the blood in your veins. A hardness enveloped his being, a calculated focus left his eyes void of life as though everything human about him had died. You stood to meet him, forcing the man to continue to pay attention to you rather than the emperors. 

“Leave us.” You demanded, no longer wishing for his continued company.

“What?” He scoffed in disbelief at your boldness. 

“You heard me. Leave us. Your presence is no longer necessary.” You stepped in front of the man, your hand ghosting closer to the blade strapped to your thigh. Shoulders pulled tight, you cringed at the pain that radiated down your arm, but held firm in place, preventing any ludicrous idea that he might draw closer to Geta and Caracalla.

Macrinus's eyes flicked between you and the brothers. Giving into your request, he raised his hands in resignation, humanity returning to him as he backed up before turning away from the scene. You waited for him to navigate out of sight before returning your attention to the emperors, and it was heartbreaking. Slumped cross-legged on the floor was Caracalla, his head swaying from side to side, Geta knelt before him still holding onto his brother. Tears streamed down Calla’s rosy, pockmarked cheeks. The worst of the spell appeared to have ended leaving behind the childlike shell of the once lucid emperor behind. You knew this version of him intimately. Gone was the violence, replaced by a soul-deep desperation for closeness. 

With cautious steps, not trusting the strength of your legs, you made your way to the pair. Geta chanced a look back at you over his shoulder, his own eyes wet with emotion. As you got closer you attuned your ears to Caracalla’s senseless mumbles, ignoring the warm trickle of crimson down your chin and neck. The words he spoke would have seemed meaningless to an outsider, but they were far from it.

“Lost… lost… I can’t find…” Still muttering under his breath, Caracalla reached for his brother trying to make him understand, but failing to communicate. Stepping into the space next to Geta, you lowered yourself beside him, using his shoulder for support. Your attention was focused entirely on Caracalla, but you could feel Geta’s eyes on you… watching. 

You tested the waters, making contact with the man seated before you, treading lightly with your words, “I’m here. I am not lost.” Calla’s face snapped to yours, and in an instant, he was crawling to you.

His uncoordinated limbs wrapped around you in a fierce embrace. The crown of laurels that decorated his fiery hair pinched uncomfortably at the side of your head as he buried his face in your neck. You could feel him shaking in your arms, sobs wracking his body. Locked together in a never-ending maze of time and memories, you sat back on your heels, twisting to finally sit on the floor. You gripped him tighter as you rocked smoothly from side to side. 

Geta burned to touch you, to hold you, to tend to your hurts and nurse you back to health, and yet, here with his brother, he was trapped. He pleaded with you silently, praying to the gods for forgiveness. He failed to do what he’d promised, keep you safe. The weight of the empire rested on his shoulders, its tenuous balance almost too much to bear. It was never supposed to be this way, him working alone. But all of that paled in comparison to the bone-deep guilt that chipped away at this heart when he looked at you. 

A heavy sigh fell from Geta as he ran a hand over his decorated countenance, wiping away the tears and smudging the color that surrounded his eyes. Sensing his sorrow, you extended a hand, begging for him to take it. For a moment, he hesitated, terrified of needing you and simultaneously petrified at the thought of losing you. With a simple nod, you invited him once more to take your hand, and by the mercy of the gods he did. The weight of his fingers laced with yours seemed to right the injustices of the world, giving you both the strength to carry on.

[neowqing]

If Sirius remembered his life from birth, he would claim that from his first day in this world, everyone treated him like a king. No matter what the Blacks were like, Sirius was the heir who got whatever he wanted. Just as Sirius could afford to brag about everything he had. So, running after Severus and keeping everything a secret is something unusual and new. Sirius follows him around, keeps quiet in front of friends, obsessively asks him out on dates, and when Severus ignores him, his kisses turn into licks and end with a loud moan of pain.

"I'm tired to be the only one interested " Sirius declares.

"So you want to break up," Severus states, as if it doesn't concern him.

"Don't put words in my mouth, that's not what I said," he has a right to be angry now that Severus remains so indifferent.

"Whatever," Severus waves him off, returning to his business, paying no attention when the door slams shut.

At first, it seemed like just a childish whim of Sirius's, not to talk, not to come anymore, when Severus catches him alone in the corridor, Sirius just waves him off.

"I'm giving you space, just like you wanted," he says, looking at the small braid in Severus's hair, the same one he braided during their last private meeting. Black did this all the time, and he was the one who would undo the braid and braid it again.

Severus was different. He was a half-blood in Slytherin, with the highest grades and the worst clothes. He was ugly, many people said so, but there were also those who said that his features were soft, sometimes gentle, which was strange considering how sharp his tongue was. Severus dreamed and desired, but got nothing, so he stopped dreaming. He was a nobody in the muggle world and a nobody in the wizarding world. Not like everyone else, different. So it was time for him to take a step too.

Lunch was the busiest time in the Great Hall. Severus looked from behind his plate at the Gryffindor table, where people came to the gloomy and sad Black, and he had the same answer, "Everything's fine," and then looked at one point, dramatic. But Severus is not the one to say when a raven flies in through the window, circling under the ceiling and landing near Black. Everyone knew that the only one who did not have a owl was Severus Snape, who had a raven. Rumour had it that the bird had been picked up near the cemetery. The raven nods its head, holding the howler in its beak. Sirius first runs his hand over its feathers, touching it only slightly, and when the bird moves closer for a caress, Black scratches it, taking the letter. Just one glance at the Slytherin table, where Severus is not looking, examining the corn in his plate more interestingly.

Black unfolds it, holding his breath.

"Sirius Black," Severus's voice is steady, deep. "Will you go on a date with me?" That's it, something short but meaningful.

Sirius ignores the others who are watching, laughing. Is this some kind of joke? Considering their relationship and status, it's simply impossible for it to be true. Or did Snape lose a bet to someone and now has to carry it out?

But Sirius knows better, he could have come up and told him alone so that no one would know whether he agreed or refused, and Sirius stands up to take a deep breath and shout loudly.

"Yes! A thousand times yes! I'll go with you to the ends of the earth!"

Severus is different, quiet and closed off, keeping everything in his head, he doesn't make loud mistakes, he even took revenge quietly, thoughtfully, but if he did it for Sirius, disregarding his own words, then Sirius will continue to be that annoying puppy that Severus so desperately needs.

[jinxposting]

Jason Todd x Jinx! reader Chapter 7

Mask

Your new friend has been busy.

The streets whispered tales of the Red Hood nowadays. How relentless he was. How merciless. How troublesome.

You loved it.

It's been so long since someone stirred things up. You grew weary of the usual suspects. When you live in Gotham - and are raised by Joker - you've seen everything. And when you've seen everything you grow bored quite easily. It was a delight to have a new party to help combat this boredom.

Red Hood was fundamentally different than you. You didn't have much to speak of when it came to morals, you just do whatever you please, whenever you please. He on the other hand was ruled by his morals. Driven by them. He overtook the drug rings just to stop them from selling to kids, sure he got money out of it but if that was the goal he wouldn't care who bought the product. Despite this, he aims to kill. No remorse or regret.

He fascinated you.

Today had been a lazy day. Slept in late, out all night. No business to speak of, simply tagging several billboards with spray paint. Graffiti relaxed you.

You shivered at the brisk breeze in the air. The temperature had been dropping recently, winter approaching. Soon you'd have to bundle up. You grimaced at the idea of having to cover up your fashion.

You stepped back to look at the finished piece you'd just graffitied. Blotches of blue and pink painted the Bat himself, his cowl forming two sharp devil horns. And of course a jagged frown to match.

"We're going for impressionist I see."

You whipped around, gun in hand, to see a familiar shade of red.

The man raised his hands. "Easy. I come in peace."

"Since when?"

"Since I need to talk to you."

You eyed him warily. You could just shoot him. His helmet is probably bulletproof, same as his armor. You holstered your pistol.

"Talk."

"You need to leave Joker."

"... Pfft-! Ha! That's a good one."

"I'm serious."

"I know, that's what makes it funny."

"Listen, I know you're loyal to him. But things are about to get very ugly very quickly. Consider this a courtesy call."

"Thanks but I'm a big girl. Nothin' I can't handle."

"You always did overestimate yourself."

There it was again. Familiarity. He acted as if he knew you.

"Alright, you want me to trust you? Start being honest." You took a step closer to him. "Who are you?"

"What?"

"You act like we've met before, but I think I'd remember a six foot something, built like a brick shithouse man in red. So spill it, who are you?"

"You do get the point of a secret identity, right?"

"Ugh! You're such a pain in the ass."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

You give up. This guy is a major headache. You haven't had this much snarky banter since...

No.

You eyed the man suspiciously. "... Take off the mask."

"You're seriously that desperate?"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way." You flexed your hand over your gun.

"Don't make me hurt you."

"Don't make me."

You jammed the pistol into Red Hood's stomach. Unfortunately armor plus muscle equals immunity. You both struggled for the gun, you could tell he was clearly holding back. He really didn't want to fight.

You both wrestled for a while, no actual malice present. No, this fight was more... desperate. You who needed to see his face, and him, needing to hide it.

All it took was one wrong move. One miscalculation. Red Hood hadn't been paying attention to his footing, too preoccupied with keeping you at arm's length. Before he knew it his heel slipped from the billboard walkway. You grabbed him.

By the helmet.

His dead weight combined with your pulling resulted in him landing harshly below you. His feet hit the ground with an echoed slam. There in your hands was the infamous Red Hood. Hollow and silent.

You gazed over the edge. There stood the man, black hair whipping violently in the cold wind. A streak of white stood out in the darkness. He stared up at you, a snarl on his lips.

You knew that face.

"... Robin?"