#all of the above option is an option too...

[cheynovak]

Holdover

CHARACTERS: Mark Meachum x YN former coworker/ boss

SCENE: Abandoned Motel, late evening.

THE VIBE: Hurt/comfort, lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers, brutal honesty, slow-burn steam

CW: Language, emotional conflict, hints of (past) intimacy, romantic tension

The door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

YN stepped inside first, her breath ragged, sweat streaking down her dirt-smudged neck. She didn’t even look around. One twin bed. A dead ceiling fan. The motel reeked of rot and neglect.

Mark trailed behind, dropping his duffel with a heavy thud. “This place looks like it hasn’t had a guest since the Cold War.”

“You weren’t exactly giving me options, were you?” YN snapped. “Oh, right. Because you’ve been so good at giving people options.”

She spun around. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means.” Mark's voice was low and bitter. “You’ve been calling the shots since you got that promotion—and God forbid anyone challenge Saint YN.”

“Don’t start with this,” she warned. "You just couldn't handle a woman being your boss."

“No, I will start with this. You climbed the ladder, and somewhere along the way, you started looking down on the rest of us—me especially.”

“Oh, you did that all on your own. I wasn’t harder on you because I hated you, Mark. I was harder on you because you turned into this—this smug, flirty, arrogant son of a bitch—”

“Because you started to give me shitty jobs,” he roared. The room went quiet except for the sound of the broken fan creaking overhead.

Mark took a breath, eyes flaring. “You stopped looking at me like I mattered the moment you outranked me. And then you acted like I was some goddamn liability.”

“You were,” she bit out. “You stopped listening. You undermined me in front of the team. You acted like everything I said was a personal attack.”

“Because it was personal!"

“Then maybe you should’ve been professional enough to handle it!”

"Oh I handled it sweetheart!"

"You quite like a coward!"

They were toe to toe now. The tension coiled so tight between them it could snap a steel wire.

“You know what?” Mark said, voice tight. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me! You took a step back for this task force so you're my equal. No, no, technically I was here first, so you're a rookie."

She huffed "Yeah right!"

He smirked, a green with envy little rookie whose jealous of Oliveras.”

YN blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh please. You’ve been grinding your teeth every time I so much as smile at her. But you threw me away, remember? Or does your memory only work when it’s convenient?”

“That’s rich—coming from the guy who can’t go five minutes without acting like he’s God’s gift to women just to distract from the fact that he’s still hung up on someone who won’t give him the time of day anymore.”

Mark flinched.

“Hit too close?” she said coldly.

“I’m not the only one hung up.”

She laughed—sharp and bitter. “Please. You think I waste one minute thinking about you?”

“No,” Mark snapped. " Then why are you here YN? I think you waste every second trying not to think of me.”

Silence.

Her hands were shaking, and she hated that he noticed. She turned her back to him, biting down the burn in her throat.

“Forget it,” she muttered. “I’m done. You win. I don’t even know why I came on this mission.”

“Because you think we blew this mission, and you always have to fix everything,” he threw back. “Even things that are already broken.”

“Like you?” she said, barely above a whisper.

Mark didn’t respond.

She heard him mutter something under his breath before heading into the bathroom and slamming the door.

The water turned on a moment later.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands were clenched. Her jaw ached from grinding it. But the worst pain sat somewhere behind her ribs—loud and aching and screaming at her that this still mattered

And that maybe she’d been just as much at fault.

She couldn’t sit still.

The anger had nowhere to go. The motel room felt like it was choking her. And so, for reasons she couldn’t name, she walked to the bathroom door. Slowly. Then pushed it open.

Steam greeted her like a wave.

She stepped in. Didn’t announce herself. Couldn’t.

Mark was just a silhouette behind the frosted glass, water streaming over his skin, his hands braced against the tile like he was trying to stay upright.

She leaned on the sink, jaw set.

Steam rolled toward her in thick waves. He didn’t hear her come in—he never locked the door. Water thundered against the tile as he stood in the small stall, back to her, his figure half visible through the fogged glass.

YN stood at the sink, arms crossed, biting the inside of her cheek like it might stop her voice from shaking.

“Did you ever mean it?” she asked quietly.

A beat. Silence.

Mark didn’t say anything for a long time. “Mean what?” His voice came from behind the foggy door, low and unreadable.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Her voice cracked on the edge of the sentence. “All the things you said. The nights we spent on stakeouts. That time in Madrid when you looked at me like I was the only person in the room.”

Silence. Then the water shut off.

He stayed in the stall a few seconds longer, as if bracing himself. Then the door creaked open.

Mark stepped out. Her eyes landed on his face —and he looked raw. Hair wet and curling over his forehead, water still dripping from his chest.water still dripping from his chest, lower over his abdomen to his hips lower to his ....

YN looked away instantly. “Jesus, Mark—”

“Hey, you came in here,” he said, stepping forward, grabbing a towel, wrapping it around his hips “You want to talk, have real answers?”

She kept her eyes on the cracked floor. “Just tell me it was nothing. Tell me I was a fool for thinking any of it meant something.”

Mark was suddenly right in front of her, close enough she could feel the heat from his body radiating through the humid air. His hand cupped her face—not rough, not soft either, just… real.

“You want the truth?” he said. “You terrified me. You got that promotion and suddenly it was like I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more. And I hated that. I hated that you had control and life all figures out. I hated that it still wasn’t enough to stop wanting you. Because I didn’t deserve you.”

YN swallowed. “So you punished me for it.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I did.”

They stared at each other. Just inches apart, but a thousand miles away.

She stepped closer, her voice trembling now. “You made me feel like I was... Like I was wrong for being good at the job.”

“You weren’t wrong,” he said. “You were brilliant. And I wanted to be the one who told you that every damn day. But instead I made it worse. Because I’m an idiot.”

Her breath shook as she looks into his green eyes. Mark’s jaw tightened. His hand came up to cup her face. Gently this time. Tender. Careful.

And then he kissed her.

Hard.

All teeth and desperation and years of unspoken things.

Her hands gripped his damp shoulders like she was drowning. He kissed her like he was trying to burn out the years between them.

The kiss left them breathless—foreheads pressed together, skin flushed, air hot with more than steam.

Mark’s hands were on her waist now, thumbs brushing bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. YN clutched his towel-damp shoulders, half-dazed, lips swollen from how fiercely they’d crashed together.

His voice was low—rough, uncertain, but still cocky in that way that always made her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time

“You started that,” he murmured against her lips.

She swallowed, smirking despite herself. “You kissed me first.”

“After you walked in here like a goddamn fever dream,” he breathed. “You stood there with that look on your face—I thought you were gonna kill me or fuck me.”

“Still might do both,” she muttered.

That earned a crooked grin. “Come here.”

He started to lead her backward, slowly, toward the bed. His hand was warm on her back, guiding, gently urging. His eyes were hungry now—open and bare in a way she hadn’t seen in years.

But YN hesitated.

Her hand pressed flat against his chest, stopping him.

Mark frowned slightly, eyes scanning hers. “Hey,” he said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

She exhaled, flustered. “Nothing.”

He tilted his head. “You sure? Because two seconds ago you were ready to melt into me.

She bit her lip, avoiding his gaze. “I just—look, I do want this. Desperately. But I feel…” She motioned vaguely to herself. “Disgusting. I’ve been sweating all day, my hair’s a mess, I probably smell like roadkill, and you just had a shower and now I’m standing here like—”

Mark blinked, then leaned back just slightly, a laugh catching in his throat.

“Are you seriously stopping this because you’re worried you’re dirty?”

“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “I am! Because I feel like I’ve been rolled in sandpaper and humiliation all day, and if we’re gonna—” she gestured vaguely at the space between them “—do anything, I’d prefer not to feel like I’ve been hit by a dump truck.”

Mark let out a breath that was part relief, part amusement. “Jesus, YN.”

He grinned—then softened.

“You could’ve just said, ‘Give me five minutes.’ You didn’t have to look like you were about to commit a federal crime.”

She gave him a flat look, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t expect to walk in here and end up halfway to ripping your towel off, okay?”

He smirked again, stepping closer, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

“Go,” he said gently. “Take your shower. I’ll still be here.”

“In that towel?”

“Maybe...maybe not."

She groaned and turned toward the stall, but not before he gave her a sly look over his shoulder.

“Oh, and YN?”

She paused.

“I wanted this since Madrid. So take your time. But not too long.”

--

What do we think? Need a part two for ending or not? Maybe back story to their "Madrid mission"

taglist: Jensen: @jackles010378 @libby99hb @winchesterwild78 @suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @deans-baby-momma @ancles @tulipsvanilla @thesilmarillionblog @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @kr804573 @kamisobsessed @hobby27 @globetrotter28 @kindollss @muhahaha303 @shadysoulangel @lyarr24 @spxideyver @impala67rollingthroughtown @panickedbitch @deansimpalababy @livya99 @yvonneeeee @ladykitana90 @stoneyggirl2 @imsiriuslyreal @panickedbitch @roseblue373 @n-o-p-e-never @ariasong11 @lmpala1967 @sherlockstrangewolf @spnaquakindgdom @writtenbyhollywood @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @healojane @star-yawnznn @cevansbaby-dove @deanswifeyy

[blossomcola]

Im begging for lara x reader risky sex, she loves the thrill of knowing the other girls might hear you and realise whats happening behind that closed door. Or just touch you inappropriately under the blanket while you and the girls watch a film together.

Alternately, i LIVE for pervert manon. She loves to listen in on you and lara, knowing whats happening between you two is such a big turn on for her.

pairing. pervy!mannon bannerman x sub!fem reader x girlfriend!lara raj

content warnings. fingering.

lara can be a super sweet and kind woman and a romantic and cheesy girlfriend but she gets a little sick when she’s alone with you. yes, she is the kind of girlfriend who gives you tons of compliments and flowers on every date you two go on, but she’s also the kind of girlfriend who makes you scream into your pillows while she blows your back out with her strap <3

she would probably try to downplay your concerns about the other members hearing you when you two get intimate. something that started with spending time together in your room would end with you two kissing like it was the last time and almost ripping each other’s clothes off, but you would quickly notice the presence of the others in the other rooms of the dormitory — although lara doesn’t care because somehow or other she manages to get you to accept to fuck and telling you that she will try not to be so wild to avoid you being noisy, something that neither of you believes but you accept because you wanted to fuck her anyway!

lara being more than rude because she wants to get the most beautiful sounds out of you, being quick to grab your wrists when you try to cover your mouth and positioning your hands above your head, smiling as she notices how you look at her with pleading eyes filled with tears and making a great effort not to whimper. even your attempt to bite your lip to calm your moans is in vain because she takes your face with her other hand and squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to stop trying to be quiet and giving yourself the last option of being loud no matter what.

and about manon… i’m afraid she has this perverted side that comes out when it comes to your relationship with lara. she would have no problem staying up late at night, where you and lara make sure all the members are asleep so you can finally fuck, unaware that she is waiting for the same thing.

i think she would find this twisted idea very exciting. obviously, manon can’t know exactly what lara and you are doing because you are in separate rooms, but from lara’s slow and soft murmurs and your moans, she can get an idea of what’s going on — manon can only listen and close her eyes to let her depraved thoughts and imagination flow, fingering herself with the sound of your whimpers and the noise of the bed creaking or the sound of skin hitting skin. she doesn’t need much to be able to have fun on her own because your sounds are more than enough.

and of course lara is aware of this. you don’t have to be too clever to notice the way manon looks at your body and always seems to make eyes at you when she’s talking to you, so of course lara will consider her for one of her fun nighttime activities with you.

[concretejunglefm]

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒… 03

Summary: When you were convinced to visit a male strip club, you didn’t anticipate that the guy you locked eyes with on stage and who subsequently pulled you up for a routine, would turn out to be the same guy whose roommate advert you’d be responding to less than 24 hours later.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader, (slight) Jesse Cash x reader.

CW: two idiots in love, reader ogling Noah like he's a piece of meat, Noah in his short shorts.

WC: 5.5k.

AN: Alright, so I’m not sure how many parts this will have. All I know is that this is for fun I hope you enjoy Noah being a lovable himbo.

Dividers: silent-stories.

Fic Masterlist

With a heaving sigh, you throw yourself onto the couch and lean back, resting your head against a cushion you’d moved to the armrest. It was back to the drawing board after yet another failed date, scrolling through the now limited options. If it wasn’t some cheesy line in their bio that put you off, it was the fact they were either clearly out of your league—or out of your radius.

“No, no, no,” you repeat, swiping past a firefighter, a guy who looked like he could be a fighter—or maybe a trainer—some ‘voice actor,’ a real actor, a guy wearing a mask to obscure his face with his whole ass titties out, dubbing himself as being from Arcadia (whatever that meant), a guy who looked like a potential contender… only for you to double-check his profile and see you weren’t his type (read: not a man), and then a young woman about your age with long hair, tattoos, and incredibly pretty, that made you pause until you saw the picture of her with a friend who was clearly far from just a friend.

“I wonder how long before they realize they’re in love with each other,” you mumble to yourself with a sigh.

The final profile—someone who looked potentially like a priest, is what makes you roll your eyes and give up altogether, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to ease the tension headache building behind your eyes.

It’s useless, and you’re making no progress in moving on from your crush on Noah. In fact, you swear it’s only getting worse, especially when you catch him flaunting around in those short shorts while shaking his protein shake.

What man’s ass jiggles while he’s shaking his arms???

You’d like to think the dates hadn’t been all that terrible—except they had.

First, there was Sam: the influencer who insisted on taking selfies or recording everything for their TikTok page, even going as far as wanting to move tables because “the lighting looks better over there.” They spent the entire date talking about themselves, never once asking about you, and rattled off their stats like it was a business pitch—ending with, “Obviously, I get better numbers than you do from streaming.”

Then there was Darren, the magician. He actually caught your attention at first, until he performed his best trick yet: a disappearing act… right as the bill arrived. Asshole.

After that came Lyle, a guy completely obsessed with crypto. He decided to give you a full breakdown of everything from blockchain to Bitcoin, proudly showcasing his NFT collection like a parent showing off baby photos.

Your last ditch effort had been with an older woman, Gillian, and while the date had started out great, it was her sly comment—“What do you plan to do with your life? Streaming isn’t exactly a real job, is it?”—that made your mommy issues flare up, a little too close for comfort.

While you’re scrolling through your phone, a large tattooed hand suddenly reaches down from above and snatches it right out of your fingers.

“Noah!” you huff, pushing yourself upright as he starts scrolling through the options on your screen.

“Wow, these are the dudes you’ve got coming up?” He tuts like he’s personally offended, shaking his head. “This won’t do. You need a better selection pool.”

“Well, that’s the only one I have. Now can I have my phone back?”

He ignores your request entirely and turns, heading into the kitchen. You push yourself up from the couch to follow after him.

“Noah!”

“And this is your profile?” he scoffs. “You need to liven it up a little. Maybe a few better pictures—we can get Bryan to take some real photographic shots!”

“I’m not using Bryan to take pictures for a dumb dating app.”

“Why not? These do nothing to compliment you.” He pauses and turns to gesture down at you in your shorts and oversized T-shirt, making your cheeks warm at the implied compliment.

“Uhh… thanks?” you mutter. For a second, you swear his eyes rake over you a little too long, lingering, but then he’s back to studying the screen like your love life is a group project.

“Where are the guys?” you ask, glancing around.

As if on cue, the sound of music blares to life from the backyard, followed by the low hum of voices and laughter. That answers your question, and Noah simply points in the direction of the backdoor, eyes still locked on your screen like he’s the one whose dating profile is currently under scrutiny.

Following him outside, he offers your phone back, and just as you step out, Jolly calls over to you from the bench he’s currently sitting on, a dumbbell in one hand that he’s steadily lifting into bicep curls.

“Hey! How’d the last date go?”

“Terrible.” You screw up your face, lifting a hand to block out the sun. “It was like being on a date with my mom—probably would’ve been cheaper, too.”

“Hot,” Folio chimes in.

There’s a chorus of disgusted groans and “gross” comments thrown his way before he quickly backtracks.

“I mean me going on a date with her mom. That sounds hot.”

Suddenly, there’s a shift from disgust to agreement, a few thoughtful hums, and now it’s your turn to be disgusted. You roll your eyes and move beneath the shade provided by the neighbor’s overhanging tree.

It doesn’t take long for your eyes to wander, settling on Noah, who must’ve had breakaway pants on earlier, because now he’s wearing nothing but a tight tank top, showcasing the multitude of tattoos trailing along his arms, throat, and peeking out from his chest and back, paired with a set of tight short shorts that leave very little to the imagination as he starts squatting.

While the guys have their workout circuit going, you’re just standing there, watching until Folio creeps up beside you and whispers, “You’re drooling.”

Naturally, he catches you—staring, ogling, literally drooling. You can never escape him and his keen eye. You roll your eyes, but he just smirks and saunters over to Noah.

“Come here, buddy. Use me as support to get deeper.”

There’s a cheeky grin on Folio’s face—he knows exactly what he’s doing, because the next moment, Noah’s gripping onto him and suddenly squatting lower, whole ass practically out, and your mouth goes dry.

“I’m gonna… cool down,” you mumble—more of a poor excuse than anything—as you march straight to the pool’s edge and throw yourself in.

It happens quicker than you have time to process. Suddenly, you’re being scooped up by a pair of strong arms and pulled out of the water, Noah surfacing right after, tossing his head and hair back like some majestic mermaid.

“What the—?” you gasp, shaking your head as you cling to him while he carries you over to the edge of the pool.

“You haven’t paid this month’s rent yet,” he explains.

Your brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t paid the rent,” he repeats casually, “so you lose your pool privileges until then. Don’t worry, I’ll set up the paddling pool for you.”

You scoff, completely unable to believe what you’re hearing, as Noah lifts you from the water and sets you on the pool’s edge.

“And you’re gonna jump in and drag me out every time I get in there?” you ask, a little bewildered.

Noah stands back slightly, nodding as he runs his fingers through his wet hair. “If I have to, yeah.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath.

“Oooh, someone forgot to pay their rent. Naughty, naughty,” Folio taunts.

“Fuck you,” you snap, half laughing, and splash water in his direction, only for him to dodge, jumping away with a high pitched laugh.

“It’s just until you pay up,” Noah says so politely, despite how matter of fact it sounds. As he climbs up and out of the pool, you almost have to avert your gaze—his now wet shorts have become so skin tight they leave nothing to the imagination.

Size, shape, cut or uncut—you can suddenly make out everything with how tightly they cling to him. All it does is feed the beast you’ve been trying to quell, adding to the ever growing catalog of fantasies rolling around in your mind like some twisted choose your own adventure.

“But I’m not paid until the tenth of the month!” you call after him as he walks past, heading toward the heart shaped paddling pool. He drags it a little further from its usual spot and retrieves the hose to start filling it up, clearly trying to make his point.

“Then you’ll be without privileges for ten days. You know the rules,” he shrugs.

When you hear someone snickering, you look over and catch Jolly doing his best to hide his amused expression beneath the brim of his cap.

“Jolly!” you sigh.

He just shrugs, raising his hands like he’s Switzerland. “Don’t look at me—we’ve all been there.”

With an exaggerated huff, you push yourself to your feet and stomp over to the half filled paddling pool. Still fully clothed and dripping, you step inside and plop down with crossed arms and legs, making your point.

“See? It’s not that bad, right?” Noah looks down at you with that same wide grin and soft eyes.

The expression makes you crack a little, because while his ‘rules’ sound utterly ridiculous, he’s being too reasonably adorable for you to even argue with him.

Later that night, while you’re mid stream, you catch a faint knock on the door and glance over, calling out, “Come in.”

Across the screen, several remarks light up in chat along the same lines—‘surprise guest?’, but thanks to your setup, the identity remains a mystery.

Still, the smile that crosses your face is the undeniable giveaway.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” you call into the mic, pulling off your headphones. You quickly bring up your paused stream screensaver before turning in your chair toward Noah, who stands in the doorway to your room looking like a sad puppy.

“I thought you’d want some snacks,” he offers quietly, holding up one of his premium bags of chips.

“Oh? I thought I’d lost my privileges,” you tease, and that makes a slight grin break across Noah’s face. He relaxes a little, clearly gauging that you aren’t too offended by what happened earlier.

“Well, I can always sneak you some. Just don’t tell the guys I let you off easy,” he says, stepping into the room and settling on the edge of your bed, close to you.

“They might start to think you’re playing favorites,” you murmur, gently nudging your knee against his as you turn to face him more. You feel yourself flush a little at the thought—though you swear you catch the faintest blush at the tips of Noah’s ears.

“Well, you are prettier than Jolly. Maybe not Davis, though.”

“I’ll take that,” you laugh, reaching for the bag of chips he opens and offers. You pop a couple into your mouth as he glances toward your paused screen.

“What are you playing?” he asks, nodding toward your computer.

“Would you believe… Animal Crossing?”

“No way!” His face lights up with excitement, and you shuffle back a bit as he moves closer.

“I wanna play!”

“Wait, you like Animal Crossing?”

He quirks a brow at you as he stands. “The jock villagers are literally my dudes.”

That makes you laugh, because of course they are. Out of all the personality types, that would be the one he’s drawn to.

“Here!” You lean over, pulling your spare chair into place and patting the seat for him. You hand him your second controller. “Are you okay with streaming?” you ask, ready to switch the stream back on.

“I’m your favorite guest, aren’t I?” he teases, flashing a wide grin.

You just nod with a quiet, “Sure,” and switch the stream back on, offering him your spare headset—complete with matching cat ears.

“Well, I guess we do have a special guest tonight.”

That sets the chat off in a frenzy, messages spamming across the screen as Noah eagerly begins creating his character to join your island.

“What are you doing?” you ask, narrowing your eyes as you watch him.

“Moving in,” he replies, not missing a beat.

You scoff and shake your head. “Making yourself right at home already.”

“Like you haven’t,” he teases, glancing over at you, his tongue peeking out briefly—revealing a glint of something silver, before he turns his attention back to the screen.

You’re left momentarily dumbfounded, your stomach doing flips. The butterflies you thought had long since fluttered away now back.

Coming to the club has become a regular occurrence for you, especially on nights when you’re not streaming. Mostly, it’s for the company, because the moment all the guys are out of the house, it feels a little too quiet and frankly, a little too lonely.

When you first moved in, you never imagined you’d actually end up enjoying having multiple guys shouting around you—working out, blasting music, watching movies, wrestling in the pool. The chaos that always seems to ensue somehow became part of the charm, and eventually, all that noise just faded into the background—comforting, familiar, a soundtrack to their constant presence.

Taking your usual seat at the bar, you pull out your laptop with the intention of finishing off a handful of video concepts for upcoming streams. On top of that, you’ve still got side uploads you haven’t even started to piece together. Realistically, you could look into hiring someone to help with editing, but you’re a perfectionist, and your income, while steady enough to sustain yourself, still doesn’t justify bringing someone else in.

“I’ll have a bottle of water,” you say to the unfamiliar voice that asks for your order. When you glance up from your screen, you clock someone who isn’t Matt placing a bottle of water down on the bar beside you.

“Where’s Matt?” you ask the new guy behind the bar, who��unlike Matt—is dressed in a more uniform like style: a collared shirt, black pants, and even a matching black button-up vest. There’s a distinct curl to his hair, and each time he lifts his tattooed hand to card his fingers through it, you watch the strands spring to life before flipping back into place.

“Not here,” he answers quickly, glancing up at you briefly. “Am I not good enough?”

That makes you pause. For a second, you almost assume you’ve offended him, until you catch the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No, just… you’re new,” you say, and he nods, showing off a little as he tosses a bottle for his next customer before smoothly pouring their drink.

“Jesse,” he introduces himself, setting the bottle down and sliding the drink across the bar. He wipes his hands on a nearby rag before offering one to you. You give your name in return.

“You a friend of the guys?” you ask, gesturing toward the stage, already alive with the four male dancers.

He makes a slight face before breaking into a grin. “Yeah. We all go way back. Used to be roommates with Noah and Jolly once upon a time.”

“Oh?” Your brow quirks. “Had to get out the nest and spread your wings?”

He pauses, glancing at you with a slightly raised brow. “That, and someone moved in and stole my room.”

“Ouch.” You lift a hand to your chest in mock offense. “Whoever would do such a thing?”

That sends you both into a quiet, shared laugh.

Watching him struggle was becoming painful. Between the influx of customers and his terrible attempts at tricks with the bottles and drinks, you decided to save him from drowning any further. Shutting down your laptop, you hop off your stool and walk around to the back of the bar—only for Jesse to catch sight of you with a curious eye and a quick, “Wait, whoa, what are you doing back here? You can’t be back here!”

“I’m saving your ass,” you declare, turning to a nearby customer and taking their order before effortlessly starting to make their drinks.

“So you’ve bartended before?” Jesse asks, pausing just to watch how seamlessly you go about mixing the combination of drinks being requested.

“Back in college,” you shrug, giving him a brief glance.

“You went to college?” It comes out more surprised than he probably intended, and you gasp dramatically, reaching over as though to kick him.

“Yes, computer engineering, actually.”

“Oh, so you were one of those pretty nerds.”

“Who said anything about was?” you quip, flashing him a quick wink before turning back to the customer and offering them their drinks.

“What about you?” you ask in the brief reprieve between customers, your eyes skimming along his tattooed forearms, exposed by the way he’s rolled up his sleeves halfway.

All of the boys seem to share a similar style of tattoos—something you can’t help but notice, but his look good on him. Just like Noah’s, they suit him in a way that feels intentional, like a pretty canvas you couldn’t imagine being bare now that you’ve seen it like this.

“What about me?”

“Was bartending always the dream?” you tease, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Oh, no. I did English Lit.”

“Oh?!”

“With plans of being the next great American author,” he explains.

“You need a degree for that?” you tease again, biting your lower lip to hold back your laughter.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he sighs, leaning against the bar as he laughs quietly. “And you need a computer engineering degree for what you do?”

“Streaming?” You quirk a brow slightly. “I didn’t want to make it too easy on myself and do something entirely relevant to my degree.”

Your tone drips with sarcasm, but Jesse picks up on it instantly. Before long, the two of you are batting jokes back and forth with ease, the night slipping by in a blur—only breaking the spell when Noah approaches the bar.

“Want a ride home?” he asks, sweat still dripping down his collarbone and tattooed neck, glitter smudged across his face.

“Yes!” you bounce up from behind the bar, already moving to gather your laptop. “But you really need to learn to hose off before you leave work. I’m tired of glitter in the shower.”

You point at him, but Noah just raises a brow, flashing a cheeky grin.

“And lose an excuse to have you help me? That seems unfair to you,” he teases.

Behind you, Jesse mutters under his breath, “Don’t miss that.”

You shake your head with a quiet laugh, waving at Jesse. “Thanks,” he says, as you cross over to Noah, your laptop bag slung over your shoulder. Your free hand finds the small of his back, guiding him toward the door.

“How’d you do tonight?” you ask, stepping into the cool night air, watching how a light breeze lifts a few overgrown strands of his hair. Even in the moonlight—smeared eyeliner, glitter, and all—he’s pretty.

“Not bad. A bachelorette party was asking about private shows.” He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and shows you a number.

You raise a brow. “And I want this because…?”

“They thought you were our booking agent or something. I don’t know—maybe you could be.” He shrugs as you reach the car. He pops the trunk, tossing his bag in, then opens the passenger door for you.

“You want me as your booking agent?” you scoff, not sure if you heard him right.

“For events and stuff outside the club? Sure, why not?”

“Because I’ve never been an agent in my life?”

“You stream. You’re basically your own PR team. You make your own content, handle your own promotions, moderate your own chat most of the time, and you edit everything yourself.” Noah starts listing things off like a checklist. “You’re a one man band. Why not use those skills for something else?”

“Oh yeah? And you’ll use your skills?”

“If you insist.” He smirks, and before you can respond, he starts to gyrate his hips the same way he does on stage, laughing as he dances toward you.

Naturally, you can’t help but burst out laughing. “You keep up the good dance moves, babygirl, and I’ll take care of you,” you tease, reaching out to give him a playful smack on the ass as you climb into the car and he brings a hand to his forehead while closing the door, dramatically pretending to faint over your charming words.

It’s Noah who starts it.

You’d been happily watching Dirty Dancing alone in what you thought was an empty house—until he wandered in, claimed it was his favorite movie, started singing along, and now he’s sliding off the couch onto the floor, stretching out just like Patrick Swayze on screen, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“How do you call your loverboy?” he sings, playing it up like the natural performer he is.

You’re quick to fall into step, shifting to the edge of your seat, lifting your hand to beckon him with one curled finger as you sing back, “Come ‘ere, loverboy!”

The two of you go back and forth, perfectly in sync with the movie. Noah begins to crawl toward you, slow and dramatic, after easing onto his knees, and you slide off the couch to meet him on the floor, mirroring his movements as you both crawl toward one another.

When the scene shifts, Noah mimics playing air guitar, bent backward on his knees in a way that shows off the flexibility you’ve seen so often on stage. You would’ve taken the moment to admire him—his form, the way he moves, the ease in his body, but you’re too caught up in the rhythm of your shared performance.

Then comes your daring touch. As he straightens up and moves toward you, your hands find his upper arms, fingers pressing lightly into the warm flex of muscle. His nose brushes yours, breath warm against your lips. He’s close—so close you expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in closer, hands settling at your waist. The only time he breaks contact is to mimic the choreography on screen—his head dipping toward your stomach, your hands cradling the sides of his neck to guide him upward again, until he’s pressed against your chest.

His hips sway with the music, his hands on your hips, guiding them as you rise to your feet together, until he finally lifts his head just enough to look down at you.

Even as the scene continues to play, the music fading into a soft lull in the background of the scene, it’s the words that follow that catch your attention—You’re the one.

They stand out like a spotlight, echoing in your head as you gaze up at him. It makes your heart pound, because you can’t help but feel like maybe he is. Or maybe it’s all in your head—wishful thinking, misreading something that isn’t really there, but he still hasn’t pulled away.

His hands slide around to your lower back, gently tugging you closer, your bodies swaying, almost grinding, to the slow, sensual rhythm. The movement mirrors the dancing he does in the club, deliberate and intimate, full of unspoken promise.

“You’re a pretty good dancer,” he murmurs.

That pulls a quiet laugh from you as you turn your head slightly, avoiding his gaze. “Compared to you? I don’t think so.”

“No, I mean it. You should come on stage sometime at the club. I could teach you a few moves.”

You want to ask if he’s teasing, but you know better. When it comes to dancing, to his work, he never jokes. He’s proud of what he does.

Your arms hang loosely around his shoulders, fingers gliding up into the back of his hair. You look up at him, and nod. “Yeah, okay.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your lips. Close enough that if one of you moved even an inch—

Then the back door slams. The sound startles you both, making you spring apart. You quickly busy yourself, flopping back onto the couch and fixing your eyes on the movie—pretending nothing just happened.

Jolly and Davis’s voices filter through the house, followed by the sound of Folio and Nick entering. As Folio peers into the living room, he catches sight of the movie playing on the TV.

“Ah man, he hasn’t tried to get you to do the lift yet, has he?” he asks.

You quirk a brow, glancing between Noah—now seated back near you—and Folio.

“He’s obsessed with trying to get one of us to do that lift. Watch out, or you’ll be next.” He points at you as if issuing a warning, before disappearing into the kitchen just as Jolly announces the food is ready.

Noah practically vaults over the back of the couch, promising to return with your plate, but all you can focus on is the pounding in your chest—the lingering effect of just how close the two of you had been.

Your thoughts drift, dangerously, to the idea of recreating that iconic lift scene, and you realize, more than ever, that you desperately need a distraction from him.

It’s in the local coffee shop that you spot a familiar face—Jesse, leaning back in his chair, a book in one hand and a coffee in the other. Narrowing your gaze as you draw closer, you tilt your head to read the title of the book, saying it aloud to catch his attention.

“Lolita, really?” You raise a brow—part amused, part curious—your lips tugging into something resembling the former.

“Are you really judging the taste of an English lit grad?” Jesse replies, lowering his book and peeking up at you from behind it.

“Hm, depends on your take, I suppose,” you shrug, swaying a little on the spot.

“Probably not something most people would agree with.” He shifts forward, setting his book on the table and gesturing for you to sit. You slide into the chair opposite him.

“So that means it’s pretentious,” you tease.

He scrunches his nose and raises a hand, holding his forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “Maybe a teeny bit.”

You laugh and lean back, taking a sip of your iced coffee. “So, where’s your laptop? Aren’t all aspiring authors supposed to sit in coffee shops with their laptops, looking all tortured and artistic or something?”

“Well, usually yes, but not today. I’m here because I’m supposed to be meeting a date.”

“Oh?” Your brow furrows, and you reach into your pocket, pulling out your phone to glance at the time. It’s not that you feel like you’re interrupting, but the coincidence is just a little too perfect.

“That’s… interesting. I had a blind date a friend set me up on. I was supposed to meet him about five minutes ago.”

“Is that so?” Jesse leans back in his chair, brow raised and a sly smirk curling at his lips—like he’s already pieced the whole thing together.

“Could you give me a second?” you quickly excuse yourself, slipping outside as you hit ‘call’ on Troy’s number. Naturally, he answers within a couple of rings, his voice too bright, too vibrant, clearly aware of what he’s doing.

“How’s the date?”

“Why did you set me up with Jesse?” you hiss down the phone, not bothering to hide your annoyance as you walk further away from the coffee shop to prevent Jesse from witnessing your meltdown.

“Because I saw the way you two have been flirting behind the bar and—”

“That wasn’t flirting,” you interrupt, correcting him with a huff.

“Oh, please. A guy who challenges you in both wit and intellect? You were about ready to eat him alive on the spot.”

You huff again, momentarily silenced by the fact that he’s not wrong. You admittedly have a type, intellectual sparring is your version of foreplay, and Jesse definitely lit that fire beneath you when you helped him behind the bar.

“So, me and Matt spoke—”

“And how are you and Matt?” There’s a snipe in your tone, not hiding what you’re insinuating: that you’re not the only one nursing a crush on someone in the club. Only in your case, it might be two someones.

“I’m still playing hard to get, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes and audibly growl as Troy returns to his train of thought.

“As I was saying—we spoke and decided you two were a perfect match, so we set you up.”

“And you don’t think setting me up with the friend of the guy I have a crush on and live with was a bad idea?”

He grumbles something about not always having the brains to go with his beauty, and you roll your eyes again.

“It’s either this, or you get desperate and go back out with some other Tinder knucklehead. So either suck it up and tell that big, beautiful himbo with the jiggly ass and too little shorts how you feel… or go on a couple dates with Jesse just to get him out of your system.”

“So, Noah’s always been like that, huh?” you ask.

“Oh, the whole ‘taking away privileges and replacing them’ thing? Yeah, he’s a bit of an ass for that,” Jesse chuckles, your hands just brushing as you walk side by side.

“I’ve gotta ask,” he continues. “Do you like him? Noah, I mean. It’s just… I’ve never been on a date where the sole focus has been multiple questions about my friend slash ex roommate.”

You feel your cheeks warm and drop your head, staring at the ground like it might help deflect what he’s insinuating. “It’s complicated.”

“I get it.”

You peek up at him, brow raised slightly, urging him to go on.

“I’m not insecure or anything. I know he’s a charmer—there’s a reason he has a Facebook support group. Which I’m pretty sure Folio moderates,” he adds with a wry look.

You snort, brow furrowing to match his. “It’s just a stupid crush,” you say with a shrug, brushing it off.

Jesse raises his hands in a lighthearted defense as the two of you come to a stop at the end of your driveway.

“I’m not judging, but I like you. I had fun, and if you decide you want a second date—one where Noah isn’t the sole topic of conversation—I’d love to take you out on one.”

You worry your lip between your teeth, nibbling over the thought of a second date with Jesse, and just how much you’d unintentionally—or maybe subconsciously, brought Noah up tonight.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Jesse says, slipping his hands into his pockets with a casual shrug. His tone is almost nonchalant, but there’s something about his posture, the restraint in his expression, that suggests he’s holding himself back. “Figure out where your head’s at… and call me.”

He pulls one hand from his pocket, gently lifting it to your chin, tilting your head toward him. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. It doesn’t feel entirely platonic, but it’s not quite romantic either—something soft, in-between. It stirs a flicker of warmth, but nothing like the heat Noah ignites just by being near you, and that realization leaves you heavy with guilt.

“Thanks, Jesse,” you whisper.

He steps away, and for a moment, you pause—watching him walk off. You catch him glancing back. Your eyes meet, lingering just a second too long, before you both turn and disappear your separate ways.

When you come in, the house is still full, but quieter now, with everyone scattered around the living room, watching a movie.

“Where have you been?” Folio calls over, brow raised with a teasing grin.

You just roll your eyes and sigh, plopping down on the couch beside Noah. He shifts, just enough to make room for you, and as you melt against his side out of habit and comfort, his arm wraps loosely around you.

This has become a common theme between the two of you—light touches, quiet closeness—somewhere between casual affection and what you’d consider flirting, though you weren’t sure if he thought of it that way. Still, you always seemed to gravitate toward each other—like now.

“My friend set me up on a blind date,” you mutter, waving a hand to brush it off as unimportant.

Noah shifts beside you, glancing down. “Good?”

There’s something in his eyes that looks hopeful, but not in the sense that he wants it to have gone well. Maybe the opposite, and the thought catches in your throat, echoing the words Jesse had said just moments ago.

“No. It was… just okay. Probably not gonna happen again.” You shake your head.

You feel the way Noah relaxes beside you before he dips his head, gently nestling it against the crown of yours.

On screen, George is telling Mary, “You want the moon? I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.”

And for a moment, you swear you hear Noah mumble the words softly against your hair—something quiet and almost instinctive. It sends a warm, fuzzy flutter through your chest. You already knew he was a hopeless romantic, but that doesn’t stop it from making you fall just a little bit more.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens  @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @kenjipepsi1 @birdie-in-arcadia @blackcherrywhiskey @saythatuwill @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconic-taurus @flowery-mess @jesuisunchaton @bloody-spades @bluestdai @respectfulrebel @dravenskye

[popcornforone]

Gloriously Dramatic

A Dieter Bravo Fan Fic

Well we were spoilt about 48 hours ago weren’t we? Madness. Pure chaos. Life admin did not happen on Tuesday for me, instead a bombardment happened& since then well… I’ve wanted to give something back, cos if you saw this look & you didn’t think Dieter, then I feel for you.

Synopsis:- Dieter has had a hard day doing a photo shoot, but you’re gonna make the next part of his dah even harder.

Word Count:- 2900

Warnings:- DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE OVER 18! Oral sex, established relationship, Rough PIV sex,praise kink, swearing, Teasing & banter, Mild overstimulation, Unfiltered monologuing which leads into dirty talk, fingering, remember dieter is a sex pedr, mentions of addictions & infidelity in the past.

Thank you all for reading this, hope this keeps you all nice & feral. I hope you enjoyed this.

You find him like this, draped over the pink armchair like a Renaissance painting having a “nervous breakdown” or that’s what he wants you to believe as he huffs & puffs. The green robe is still on, though barely. His legs are sprawled wide, silk boxers slightly rumpled, his hair tousled just right for a man who didn’t lift a finger to style it himself.

He groans, long, dramatic & theatrical.

“I’m spent,” he declares to the ceiling, then turns his head slowly, like he’s in a tragic opera to look at you. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Artistically. I gave them everything, babe.”

You don’t blink.

“You sat in a chair & winked at a camera, I’d hardly call that work.”

“With depth,” he counters, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. “With mystery. &… possibly a hernia. I haven’t ruled it out.”

You roll your eyes walk over & lean against the back of the chair, brushing a hand through his hair. It’s warm. He smells like espresso & ego, your favourite.

“You’re glorious,” you say.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “Say it again.”

You smirk, his smell intoxicating . “You’re glorious.”

His hand snaps out to your wrist with unexpected grace. “You’re goddamn right I am.”

In one Swift yank, he pulls you into his lap in the chair, like he’s dragging you into his gravity field, equal parts needy & smug, before he buries his face in your neck. “Marry me. Or at least order sushi while I emotionally recover.”

“So this is foreplay now?” you ask. It’s the 5th time Dieter has asked something including marriage as an option in the last week, like it’s something so easy to do. Maybe to him it is, but he huffs at your response.

“This is method acting,” he mutters into your collarbone, with grand hand gestures . “They made me smolder, babe. For art.” Dieter groans again, flopping an arm across his forehead. “Do you know how many expressions I had to give? Four. Four! & the chair was aggressively velvet. I’ve been exfoliated & touched up against my will.”

“Tragic,” you murmur, kissing his temple. “First time you’ve ever complained about being touched up” he pulls a face at you before returning back to being a drama Queen.

“It is,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut like a Victorian poet. “No one understands the toll of being this photogenic. It’s a burden. I carry it for the people.” You hum, your lips trailing to his cheek, down the angle of his jaw. He doesn’t react at first, too absorbed in the monologue.”…& the lighting! They asked me to tilt my head thirty degrees. Thirty! That’s chiropractor territory. I think I dislocated charm itself. My face will ache for days, it wasn’t even my good side” another huff. Your mouth finds his “overworked” neck now, warm & soft. You kiss just beneath his ear. His voice falters.

“Babe?” he says, one eye cracking open.

“Mhm?” You kiss lower, the edge of his collarbone peeking from the open robe. Your fingers glide over his chest, down to his stomach, warm, toned, ridiculously smooth. You press a slow kiss there, & his breath stutters.

“What are you… oh. Oh.” His voice is smooth. His tone changes. Less tragedy. More curiosity. You kiss him again, just above his navel this time, & ruffle his hair gently with your other hand. Ready to descend down his happy trail.

“You said you were recovering,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says, but his voice cracks. “Or I was. Now I’m…oh my god.” He props himself up on his elbows, hair a mess, eyes suddenly very alert. “Is this…are you seducing me while I’m vulnerable?”

You smile innocently. “Would I do that? & wouldn’t you do the exact same” you say as you pull off your pink dress so you are left just in your underwear. You both know that once you start you can’t stop. You’re each other’s addiction.

“Yes & yes, I respect it.” His eyes are wide now. Less theatre, more raw hunger. You smile, watching the realization bloom across his face like slow-motion fireworks. “Wait,” he says, his voice husky, “I thought you were comforting me”

“I am,” you murmur, fingers sliding under the waistband of his absurd white boxers. “This is a very specific form of therapy.”

“Is it covered by insurance? Do I need to tell tmz about this?” he jokes weakly, but his voice is already wrecked, breath catching as you start to tug the fabric down.

“Just say you need it,” you purr, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Dieter swallows. “I… Jesus. I need it. Fucking want it” The white boxers come off. He’s already half-hard, twitching under your gaze, the air cool against his skin. He shifts slightly in the chair, trying to look composed. He fails spectacularly.

“This is dangerously intimate,” he whispers. “I feel like a Greek god being worshipped by his mortal queen. Am I glowing? I feel like I’m glowing & glorious.”

You don’t respond. You kiss your way lower. One kiss just above the base, so responsive making his hips jump. Another, slower kiss down the length of him. A flick of your tongue along the underside & he lets out a choked, whimpering sound. Surrendering to your mouth.

“Okay,” he breathes, clutching at the armrests like he’s bracing for liftoff. “Yup. Definitely glowing.”

You can’t help but smirk & look into those big brown eyes alive with fire. You wrap your lips around him, slow & deliberate, taking your time. His head tips back with a soft moan.

“I think I just saw god,” he mutters. “She had your mouth.”

You hollow your cheeks slightly, bobbing your head, one hand stroking what your lips can’t reach. His thighs tense under your palms.

“Fuck I love you,” he gasps suddenly, voice high-pitched with desperation. “I…i know I said that during a massage once & didn’t mean it but this time, I’m… I’m ooooh fuck”

“Shhhh” You pull back just enough to glance up at him. “Less talking. More praising.” You then get back to work, sloppy is Dieters favourite.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “You’re so hot when you dominate me. I’m gonna write you into my memoirs. Chapter seven: ‘Tongue of Glory.’”You hum around him in response. Still making him feel like a king. His whole body arches slightly, one hand threading through your hair, his thighs trembling under your touch.

“I’m gonna…. yes, yes, yes… babe, fuck…”

Always tasting tangy, he spills for you with a shuddering cry, voice echoing off the walls, he’s in heaven now. You pull back slowly, wiping your mouth as he collapses into the chair like someone just delivered a monologue into his soul.

“You,” he pants, chest heaving, “oooh fuck… you’re my religion now. I’m gonna build a shrine. Maybe two.”

He’s still breathless, slouched dramatically in the chair like a man who’s just survived a hurricane of intimacy and has seen things. You lean back on your knees, wiping your mouth with a slow smirk. Dieter slowly lifts his head, eyes dark, lips parted. “That was…babe…that was… That was …. Fuck… that was fucking biblical.” You giggle a little at how over the top he is, as you notice a few drops of cum on your breasts, you decide now is a good moment to take your bra off, your

“You’re welcome.” He reaches out and grabs your wrist like he’s making a pact with a god.

“You just sucked the will to act out of me,” he growls. “I think you broke my career.”

You laugh. “Please. You’re already imagining how to monologue this in an interview. Wondering how this can improve your profile” everything is over the top & an act with Dieter & you secretly love it, you just wind him up to get a raise.

“Correct,” he says, eyes gleaming now. “‘It was transcendental. I was vulnerable. She devoured me like a five-star dessert. I saw the face of Eros. I wept.’”

He pulls you up into his lap, hands suddenly firm on your thighs. That glint in his eye has changed, still playful, but now heavy with intent. Dangerous. Filthy. His eyes gawping at your breasts.”But now,” he murmurs, voice like honey and sin, “now it is your turn to suffer.”You snigger. “Suffer?”

“Yes. In the most exquisite way,” he purrs, nuzzling your neck. “I’m going to make you writhe, sweetheart. Gasping. Shaking. Haunted.”

He pulls back to look into your eyes, completely serious now. “I’m going to give you an orgasm so intense it’ll rewrite your personality. Your tax bracket might change. You might lose your taste for chocolate. You will definitely forget your own name mid-scream.” His hand slides into your panties, palm hot on your sex, your body responds. “Your thighs are going to shake like they’re trying to escape the room.”

“Bold promise,” you breathe, trying to remain composed.

“Oooh No, no,” he whispers, voice deadly calm, “it’s a prophecy.”

He grins wickedly. “So you better sit back, my glorious goddess of throat techniques, because Daddy Dieter is about to…”

“Don’t say ‘Daddy Dieter,’” you groan. The press new nickname for him. He went along with it for a few months but now you’re both collectively bored of it.

“Fine,” he whispers, leaning in to bite your ear gently, his thumb now inside you. “Then just scream it later.”

You rise slowly, teasingly, from his lap, dragging your fingers down his chest as you go. Dieter watches you like he’s hypnotized, still sprawled in his chair, gloriously naked, flushed, & completely wrecked.

You don’t say a word as you pluck his ridiculous green robe off the back of the chair & slip it over your shoulders. It dwarfs you, swallowing your frame, but you wear it like it was designed by gods.

“Wait,” he croaks, brows drawing together. “What are you, where are you going with my robe? That’s designer you know?”

You smirk. “You want to worship me?” He nods, reverently. “Then chase me.”You then roll your panties down & fling them at him, hitting his stomach & landing on his erection landing like a tent. You turn and walk off, hips swaying just enough to tease, leaving him naked, breathless, & stunned… but only for exactly two seconds.

“Oh hell yes,” he mutters, vaulting out of the chair like a man possessed. He’s on your trail in seconds, footsteps pounding down the hallway behind you, growling under his breath. “You minx. You robe thieving siren. You temptress with a throat like a goddamn spell. Get back here…” You squeal, half-laughing, as you burst into the bedroom. You don’t get far.

Dieter catches you at the edge of the dresser, spinning you around & pinning you hard against the wood with a strength that makes your knees buckle. His body is flush with yours, hot, hard, already back in full Bravo mode.

“Thought you could tease me & walk away?” he growls in your ear. “After that mouth? That look in my robe? You bear beneath? Oh no, baby. No escape now.” He yanks the robe open, exposing your naked body underneath. One hand grabs your hip; the other presses into the small of your back, bending you over the dresser’s edge.

“Now,” he says, lining himself up, breath ragged, “you’re gonna take it. Every inch. No soft lighting. No romance. Just me, fucking you like you stole my soul.& you’ll take it good like the little brat you are” You gasp as he thrusts into you in one deep, claiming motion. All the way, balls deep making your knuckles go white as you clutch the dresser.

“Oooh fuck… That’s it,” he growls, pace already rough & relentless. “You wanted drama? This is your climax arc. Screaming. Biting. Standing ovation.” His hips snap against yours, his grip bruising, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing around the bedroom. Your sacred ritual. “Gonna make your legs tremble,” he pants. “Gonna have you drooling on this dresser. So ruined you forget what gravity feels like.” One hand slides around to your front, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles. Your moans pitch higher.

“That’s it, baby. Louder. I want the neighbors to know your name. No… my name. Say it. Say it while I fuck you stupid.”

“Dieter…fuck… yes Diets… fuck” You can barely speak as he drives into you, relentless, focused, feral. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting deep, every thrust slamming your hips against the dresser hard enough to rattle the drawer handles. His fingers never stop moving on your clit, fast, precise, determined like he’s chasing a standing ovation.

“Come on, baby,” he growls into your shoulder. He’s gonna leave marks “Give it to me. I want you shaking. I want you ruined.” You’re close, so close you can’t breathe. The pressure builds impossibly high, & then it breaks like a wave, crashing over you with violent ecstasy. You scream his name as your orgasm rips through you, legs trembling, vision blurring, body convulsing around him. You feel it everywhere, in your toes, your scalp, your soul.

“That’s my girl,” Dieter groans, his voice tight. “God, you feel so good like this…” He keeps going just long enough to push you through the edge again, overstimulating, dizzying before he then snaps.

“Fuck fuckerty fuck…you’re gonna milk my soul out of me… Jesus” With a deep, broken moan, he spills inside you, thick, hot & pulsing. His hips stutter, breath ragged against your neck. For a second, neither of you move. Just panting. Gasping. Processing. Frozen in lust.

Then he collapses ,dramatically of course, dragging you down to the bedroom floor with him in a heap of tangled limbs &wrecked satisfaction.

“I think I broke a rib,” he mutters into your ear his hand still on your heat.

“I think I saw stars” you reply, dazed & fragile. He laughs weakly, one hand flopping dramatically over his forehead. “Next time,” you whisper, breathless, “you should try fucking one of the models from the photo shoot. They might be petter pussy.”His head turns slowly. His eyes narrow. He has a previous of fucking anything with a pulse. Before you tamed him, slightly.

“Don’t,” he says, “you dare.”

You smirk. “Just saying. Models are kind of… dramatic.”

“But you’re the one I love” you blush as he says that. He really does mean it. His jaw drops. “Watch your mouth,” he says, voice low & dangerous. “Or I swear to god I’ll shove my cock right back in it.”

“Promises, promises Daddy Dieter ,” you tease, already grinning. He’s already shifting on top of you again.

“Ooh your in such big trouble now girl”

Moon light pours in through the curtains, turning the living room into a dusky mood.

You wake slowly, a bit sore, deliciously sore, muscles humming in that very specific way that says: I got ruined by Dieter Bravo & I survived to tell the tale. You shift slightly & feel it. His arm, heavy around your waist. His breath, warm against the back of your neck. & that ridiculous green robe, draped over both of you like a cape of conquest.

You’re don’t remember heading back to the lounge but here you are on the couch. Naked. Entwined. Glowing in a sex haze. Dieter stirs behind you, his voice gravelly & sleep-wrecked.

“Mmmph. You’re still here. I didn’t dream you, right?”

“Nope,” you murmur, wiggling back into his warmth. “You asked me to move in remember & to marry me about 20 times” you giggle.

“Thank god,” he sighs, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your shoulder. “If that was a dream I would’ve sued someone for not delivering the tightest cunt… it would Probably be God.” You chuckle. His fingers trail lazily over your stomach, then slide lower, possessive but not urgent. Just wanting to feel. To touch.

“You good?” he mumbles its caring. All roughness & dramatics he can still be a gentle soul.

“I can’t feel my thighs. So yeah. Pretty great.

“You’re welcome,” he says smugly, nuzzling into your hair. “I think We broke a dresser. I feel like that should be in our wedding vows.” You roll over to face him. His hair’s a mess. Eyes still heavy with sleep. That faint stubble burn still marks your neck. He looks ruined. He looks in love.

“You look like you’ve been through war,” you whisper.

He smiles. “I was. You’re the war. & the peace. & the afterparty.”

You kiss him, soft & deep. There’s no rush now. No audience. Just him & you, & the lingering heat that even time can’t cool.

He sighs into your mouth. “I don’t need awards. Don’t need interviews. I just want this. You. Robe-thief. Soul-stealer. Bedroom deviant.”

“You’re full of shit,” you laugh gently, brushing your nose against his.

He kisses you again, lazily, as his hand strokes your hip. “Let’s not get dressed. Let’s just lie here & bathe in the moonlight”

“You’re ridiculous.” You tut before running your hands over him again.

“Thought I was glorious” he raises an eyebrow.

“True Gloriously Dramatic”

“Oooh more than that I’m in love,” he corrects. “It’s worse best thing to ever be involved in”

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Random headcanons about the '03 turtles and their food/drink

This got longer than I expected so I'll put it under a cut! Maybe I'll reblog this every so often to add on if I think of more

Favorite pizza topping headcanons based on nothing but vibes

Leo: spinach and feta, sometimes those red pepper flakes too

Raph: pepperoni, black olive and onion

Don: Hawaiian* (Every family has one. The others boo him but he sticks to his guns)

Mikey: pepperoni, sausage, bell pepper, sometimes garlic and bacon bits

Favorite fruits based on mostly vibes except Leo's

Leo's favorite is canonically apples. He probably slices them with his katanas every time to look cool. If he wants to treat himself he might dip them in cinnamon sugar

I feel like Raph would just house a whole watermelon or a pumpkin for himself (and probably spit the seeds at Mikey to annoy him whenever he thinks Splinter won't catch him)

I headcanon Don with a big sweet tooth so he'd probably like the prepackaged fruits saturated in the sugary syrups like canned peaches and mandarin orange cups

Mikey's tastes are changeable so he may not have a favorite but he does like to test his tolerance by trying all the most sour fruits he can get his hands on. He may even add citric acid to go even further beyond. He's definitely sprinkled citric acid on his brothers' fruits as a prank and told them it was sugar (Don and his sweet tooth will forever hold a grudge for that)

Sour food tolerance:

Mikey: 9/10

Raph: 6/10

Leo: 5/10

Don: 2/10

Spicy food tolerance:

Mikey: 8/10

Leo and Raph: 5/10

Don: 4/10

Favorite ice cream flavors based on mostly vibes except Raph's

Leo: butter pecan with caramel sauce, whipped cream and/or some cinnamon

Raph: mint chip with a ton of extra mini chocolate cups (bro was very clear yelling before the ice cream run in The Ultimate Ninja that he wanted mint chip)

Don: cherry chocolate chip, usually plain but occasionally whipped cream or other fruits like blueberries or raspberries

Mikey: spumoni, with every topping ever. Sprinkles, nuts, chocolate chips, extra cherries, cream, syrups, you name it. No one knows how he manages to fit it all in the bowl

I wrote a whole fic about Mikey making his brothers' favorite pick-me-up chocolates, also based on vibes

Leo: milk chocolate hazelnut truffles

Raph: extra dark chocolate mint cups with a dash of honey

Don: milk/dark chocolate cherry almond cordials (sprinkles optional)

I'm still undecided for Mikey's favorite chocolate as of writing

*A few of their "controversial" food opinions to bicker about based solely on vibes

Leo: Likes black licorice and licorice-like flavors such as anise and black jelly beans. Likes rice and fish but not sushi (he and Don have extensive debates about this logic). Insists the shape of pasta noodles influences the flavor. Finds the Oreo cookie better than the filling. Thinks cheesecake is overrated.

Raph: Don't even get him started on the "right" way to cook a burger or steak or any sort of barbecue. French fries don't need any condiments. Edge brownie > center brownie any day. Liked pumpkin spice before it was cool and is very annoyed that it's now considered basic and stereotypy.

Don: Pineapple on pizza, as mentioned above. Thinks bacon is overrated but he's learned not to say that in Raph and Mikey's presence. Ketchup on scrambled eggs. Creamy peanut butter > crunchy. Cilantro tastes like soap only to him and he's exasperated that he's the only one

Mikey: Will go to bat for candy corn. Insists candy corn pumpkins taste different from regular candy corn but he'll defend them both. Milk goes in before cereal, he likes it more when it's soggy (Raph will try to steal and eat it before it can get soggy so the rest of the household doesn't have to watch it sit and soak)

The Great Soda Debate

Leo: Team Pepsi

Raph: Team Coke

Don: Team Dr. Pepper

Mikey: Team Sprite

The Great Coffee Additives Debate

Leo: Team Milk

Raph: Team Black...when he's not Team Pumpkin Spice (I don't care if it's "outta season", that's what I like, dang it!)

Don: Team Creamer, lots of creamer

Mikey: Team "Blech, I don't even like coffee"

Hot chocolate additives

Leo: Cinnamon, nutmeg, hazelnut syrup, whipped cream

Raph: Just plain chocolate (He's lying. He snuck in some pumpkin spice), whipped cream

Don: Chai chocolate with a heaping helping of marshmallows

Mikey: Caramel or butterscotch syrup and sooo much whipped cream. He gets access to the whipped cream after Leo and Raph have gotten their share or he'll use it all building a tower in his mug

Tea preferences

Leo: Chamomile

Raph: Rooibos

Don: Chai or cinnamon apple

Mikey: Boba

What do you want to bet Mikey has such a steel stomach because when they were kids his brothers pulled the "Bet you won't lick that. Bet you won't put that in your mouth lol" and he was like "Oh, yeah? Watch this" and then they all panicked because "Wait, no, you weren't supposed to actually swallow it!!" And then they didn't learn their lesson and did it again, rinse and repeat until his digestive system is ironclad

Would a Heimlich maneuver work with their hard plastrons? If it does, they probably learned how to do it at an early age thanks to Mikey

I'm sure at least once someone has pointed at an unidentified object all "What's that?" and he's popped it in his mouth to find out. (I may or may not have done this before myself but it turned out fine, I'm fine :D)

[ficwritersretreat]

Still Spaces Available!!

(Honestly, they usually fill up faster? Am half expecting a flurry of registrations all in one go...)

BUT ANYWAY, YOU (YES YOU) ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO THE

EIGHTH annual Fic Writers' Retreat, first held in Canada in 2016, coming once again in 2025.

To Register, Click Here

When: August 7-10 2025

Where: Five Oaks Retreat Centre, Paris, Ontario, Canada

What is it? Four days spent with other fic writers, from Canada, the United States, and anywhere else we can convince people to come from! There will be a mix of workshops (Topics TBA and open to suggestions), prompts and challenges, and plenty of independent writing time for your own personal projects.

It’s also an opportunity to make connections with people who share your interests and passions, and where you can focus on your own goals and creativity.

Cost (in CANADIAN DOLLARS): $480.00 

(approximately $350 US, €301 and ¥2,511.45, as of this posting)

Here’s what you get for it:

All meals (dinner Thursday to lunch Sunday)

Accommodation (Shared rooms but NOT shared beds - sorry)

Daily workshops and writing sessions (planned and delivered by participants - you too, if you want!)

A retreat in a beautiful riverside setting

WiFi included

Registration Process:

Click on the Registration Link, above.

Complete the form and submit it.

Select a payment option: a) e-transfer (Canadian residents only) or b) PayPal (link in registration form)

Make your deposit of $240 CAD (50% of total cost) to complete your registration

Second payment is due on July 10, 4 weeks before the retreat begins.

Space will be allocated on a first-come, first served basis. There are 22 spaces available, after which names will be placed on a waiting list (no payment will be required unless you are offered a spot).

Travel to the venue is not included. However, shared transport from Toronto (airport or other hubs) can often be arranged with other participants.

Several participants (and the organizer) live in the area, and we have always been able to arrange ride-shares from the Toronto Airport to the various venues. These connections will be arranged after registration.

Contact me with any questions! Or see the FAQ Page

Tags under the cut

@keirgreeneyes @stellacartography @anotherwellkeptsecret @inexplicifics @inevitably-johnlocked @ivyblossom @mkengland @addictedstilltheaddict @totallysilvergirl @kettykika78 @fluffbyday-smutbynight @antheiasilva @blogstandbygo @doctornerdington @rianneeyre @elodieunderglass @myuglyone @cirquedereve @hoppip @helloliriels @muaddib-iswriting @amindamazed @lololollywrites @musical-chan @body-n-soul @gay-pirate-anime @shelleysprometheus @missdaviswrites @thegildedbee @pippn-frodo @otter-von-bismarck

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Your horus x very stressed reader post is rotating so much in my mind.

So have some scenarious that have popped into my mind.

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

The serfs going through different stages of opinions:

"ugh she is so incompetent. At least she isn't mean"

"oh she is trying. Why was she put in charge without anyone to guide her."

"Oh no, our lady is going to die from stress at this rate."

And more.

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

Horus decides to have a few 'vacation' days with his wife.

Day two she is very sick because after so much stress all the possible bugs her body might have accumulated but was unable to deal with from stress are now being dealt with.

-----------

Horus takes his wife on a date. She is performing the being a good wife but slowly relaxs

Horus ends ups mentioning off hand that she should try a bit harder, while talking about different things.

Lady yn goes back to performing the act of being a good wife, now uncomfortable, unhappy and self-conscious. And wanting to leave.

Either Horus doesn't notice or when he notices he doesn't know how to fix it because he doesn't know what was the thing he said that caused that.

Following this. Lady yn trying to work through exhaustion or the start of being ill and just fucking collapsing on her desk.

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

Horus trying to play with his wife's hair and different possibilities:

a bunch, not a lot, falling off.

Him seeing grey hairs, I'm sure he wouldn't know that stress causes grey hairs.

The hair texture is different.

The scalp feels weird?

All of the above

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

Somehow horus learns what prolonged high amounts of stress can do to a human and panics.

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

Lady yn just missing home so much, even if she still loves her husband she starts to resent the relationship itself, and maybe him too just a tiny bit, and regretting meeting him.

One dat Writing down her thoughts on a diary of sorts, or a sparenotebook, that se may or may not feel bad about.

Horus finds it and starts snooping. Even if it is clearly private.

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

THIS! ALL OF THESE THINGS ARE FREAKING LEGIT!

Geez, I'm so glad you shared these with me, because these things are the ones I wanted to point out!

Horus wife is becoming miserable that even waking up and realizing that no, it is not a dream, you are indeed Lady Lupercal, and yes, you still need to fix all those monetary issues that are, in fact, part of your job.

I'm going to go on all of these because they are GOLD:

1) Yes, like YES YES YES. The serfs know that she was struggling with this position from the beginning, and this can cause some trouble for them. But she's trying, okay? She's trying to be a good lady, acting nice to them, trying to mold and play the act, but everyone can see that she's slowly crumbling.

Also, 100 points if she's hearing all of this and just walks away because she knows that this is just true.

2) It's a cute thing, okay? a small escapade, a small run away in some nice place (Fulgrim suggested it, helping to bond more with her)—enough to forget! But the situation is already so bad that a few days on a beach is not like that can help. Also, as soon as she sets foot back on Terra, the problems will come back, so…

3) On his part, Horus did try to make a nice night for both of them. Again, was this maybe suggested by his sons? Like, "You should need a small date! Clear your evening, spend time with your wife!"

I would go with the option that he did not notice it because, in his mind, he just wanted to help her! He didn't mean anything bad! I mean, of course he knows that she's doing her best; she just needs to try a littleharder!

But he will notice, of course...when she collapsed like a dead body in front of everyone, like her brain just shut down in front of all his sons, while he still held her hand, still trying to process the event.

4) ALL…ALLLLL. Things went wild when he heard her crying in front of her vanity, a bunch of her hair stuck in her brush, and the clear view of her scalp.

She'll start wearing some veil on her head, while he'll try to present the issue with some apothecary, hoping for a solution.

5) The realization, when he realizes that all of these are not some strange illness, is not something that you could have gotten on that vacation; this is all happening because you're struggling with your work. He'll start to ask questions, asking about her personal serf and people around her. Then he remembers that date, and his brain just goes wild.

6) He'll do it. He knew about that diary, the one you kept on yourself, that no one touched.

He took it, and he read it, because he wanted to know how deep the thing was going.

He learned about your true emotion, how you started to develop some resentment about everything, about him, and he doesn't know how to react to it.

He failed you? But how come? He did everything right.

How could it be that he was the cause of your pain?

[beannoss]

SxF read along volume 2! (part 4)

Specifically on the moral and ethical worldbuilding in SxF.

I wanted to bundle these flashbacks of Anya's about Yor's lesson to her with fighting:

Both Yor and Twilight operate knowing the impacts and boundaries of the power they wield, one day I’ll write all my thoughts about this being fundamental to the wholesomeness of SxF, but it’s so nice to see it plainly articulated so early on too

👀👀👀 I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Yor and smiling and wondering how often maybe her smiles aren’t… entirely true… and anyway I’m 👀👀👀

… not me feeling like a dummy for trying to puzzle out Yor’s guiding principles from her actions throughout SxF when she just fuckin’ states them from the beginning 😂🫣

In all seriousness, Yor does practice these throughout as regards her contract killing... Endo does this very carefully threaded weave of SxF's internal ethics, how he keeps Yor and Twilight on the 'good' side of grey, where the lines in the sand are regarding antagonists, villains and cruelty. A fair bit of that threading is done with Yor and Twilight specifically, in how they do the morally dubious (at best) things they both do. It's also a careful balance, philosophically, because the only reason there is any sort of moral argument for Garden and WISE is because Ostania is implicitly facing a moral crisis, which is most especially demonstrated through the SSS...:

(I should have highlighted 'surveilling the public' above too; oversight!) This is also such a chilling panel:

Back more directly to the topic at hand, there is a marked difference between the work Yor and Twilight are shown doing, and this introduction of Yuri:

I think potentially one of the trickiest things with navigating SxF is that the internal ethics need be judged by the internal matrices we're shown. Twilight isn't really akin to a real world spy: he can change his face, body shape and voice within seconds, and it's clear that he and WISE are invested in some level of protection of innocent people who get caught up in their missions (or at least mitigation of harms, if Twilight's comment that WISE would look after Yor and Anya post-Strix is indicative). Yor isn't really akin to a real world contract killer: never mind running faster than cars, she can just stand in the middle of the road on one leg and kick a car hard enough it veers into a streetlamp, and otherwise her targets, at least, are consistently shown to be individuals or groups that would, by rights, be brought to criminal trial and that they are not indicates a clear failing in Ostania's criminal justice system. Which makes sense, when we see the explanation of the SSS above.

WISE and Garden are only an ethical option when the SSS is the main arbiter of justice: the SSS's fundamental model is flawed, because it is demanding its citizens see one another as inherently suspect, to surveil one another and ultimately to turn on one another. If the metrics for traitor-of-the-state are things like being a single woman and having extramarital affairs, then what makes for the truly traitorous is diluted to such an extent as to essentially be meaningless. The SSS aren't looking to implement justice; their goal is clearly control under the spurious declaration of order. Control and order are not justice; they are reiterations of power and oppression masquerading as justice and safety, leaving instead a void. And into that void of justice and safety step groups like Garden and WISE, and, jumping ahead for a moment, even the way Olka Gretcher's crime family was described demonstrates them stepping in where the government failed (and the Gretcher successor reneging on that role).

I wish I'd snapped some of the statements from/about WISE in the first volume, but I also tend to think SxF's primary exploration of the intersection of morality and justice is going to be in the contrast between the choices made by the Briar siblings and the potential inevitable clash between Garden and the SSS. And the intersection of morality and safety may well play out between Twilight and Donovan Desmond, and the choices they each make. To that, choice overlays everything, and the contrast of the exercise of power.

[thewitchblue]

"Please, we need you."

Dick was not above begging. He desperately needed your help. You don't bother looking away from cooking your breakfast. He broke into your apartment to plead for your help. Why are they bothering you this time? You retired years ago. You said flatly,

"No."

Of course they would come to you. Your power is biokinesis, and you hate using it. The ability to control the processes within every living thing felt unfair. You could control their blood cells, the photosynthesis of plants, you could use their stomach acid to attack their organs, and there are so many body horrors you can do. You could ruin people. Permanently, if you aren't extremely careful.

You can control vital organs, snap or fuse bones by controlling the calcium, and knit muscle together by manipulating the protein and blood controlling the muscles. It was overpowered, and you felt no joy in your abilities. It's beneficial, yes, but you became their crutch when someone goes rogue, and now that you are retired, you have become their last resort panic button. What's even happening? Did the Justice League become evil again? Doesn't Bruce have plans to neutralise them?

Younger you were in love with being a hero and being the best. Older you now realised how robotic and fruitless the fighting always has been. You gave up your suit. You gave up that life.

"Hate to break it to you, cupcake, but you're needed. Get in your suit."

Jason said as he, too, crawled in your window. He paused to look at Dick. They appeared to have the same idea to recruit you without discussing it among themselves. You sighed. You don't even have your suit anymore. You got rid of it to stop the temptation to return. You retired. You're done. Why can't they respect that?

"Even if I wanted to, I destroyed my suit. I'm not going out there."

The eldest brothers looked at each other as Tim also crawled in. What is this? A clown car? Where did he come from? Tim admitted sheepishly,

"We made a spare suit for you. Y'know... just in case you came back?"

He was rudely shoved out of the way by Damian. The two glared at each other for a moment before both of them gave up on their combined annoyance. Dick said,

"This is an emergency. Every other hero has been taken over except us."

You shut off your stovetop and plated your pancakes with a scowl. They deal with something like this monthly. What is the big issue now? You grabbed your fork and maple syrup.

"This happens all the time. Why do you need me now?"

Silence followed your question. None of them wanted to admit why they came to you. After a long moment of silence, Dick, ever the leader, decided to tell you since nobody else was saying anything,

"Bruce has been taken over as well."

You nodded. That makes sense then. Bruce is their beacon. Who they all turned to for any plan when there is little hope left. Still, you didn't want to come back.

"Constantine?"

"Out of commission."

"Plastic man?"

"Taken over."

"Wally?"

"Outrunning it, but unable to help."

You groaned. Obviously, they would take the League first and foremost, but the backup heroes are also taken over? What about the all of the other solo heroes?

"Am I really your last option?"

You were perplexed. Why are you among the last to be mind controlled? Was it something in the food? Tim shrugged. He explained,

"You were a missing hero. They don't expect you to come out of retirement."

You took a bite out of your pancake as you contemplated what to do. They obviously need your help, but the fight would be taxing. You're out of practice, too, so you'll be more tired than previously.

Nobody can fight someone who could fry their brain or fuse their muscles together to prevent movement, but it would take a lot out of you to fight so many heroes at once. You finally said,

"Let me finish my breakfast first."

And so they all awkwardly lounged around your apartment as you ate, to your amusement and their stress. They all felt a timer going off, but you felt like dragging your feet until you could feel your responsibility to the world suffocate you.

"When did you take this picture?"

Jason cried in outrage, holding one of your various framed photographs. You snickered. That's the photo of Jason cuddling with Artemis, clearly asleep but Jason was smiling so serenely and she was clearly trying to struggle away from Jason's iron grasp without waking him up like a trapped bunny struggling against the inevitable.

"And when did you take this?!"

Dick said as he held up his favourite plushie that you stole. He had to buy a new one after months of searching. In your defence, he never came to you and never asked for it. You said defensively,

"It was a souvenir! I took something from everybody. I stole Tim's old Superboy shirt that's honestly kind of embarrassing. Why is Kon shirtless, Tim?"

Tim decided it's best not to answer that question. Kon gave it to him. He found it in a store in Thailand and decided it was funny enough to give to Tim. Neither of them talk about it now, and it turned into a pyjama shirt for when everybody else is out of the house. It was so poorly photoshopped that it would be a shame to throw away. It's better to hide it. They laughed about it every time they looked at it now. Even Bernard found it funny when Tim showed him the shirt.

Damian stared at you with raised eyebrows. What did you take from him? He didn't notice anything missing. You gave him a sharp smile before getting up to do the dishes. You innocently said,

"Jon actually willingly gave me a goodbye picture. Does that cheek kiss mean anything?"

Damian froze as all eyes turned to him. He looked disgusted in the photo, but you could tell there was something there. What's with the Bats pining painfully for the Supes? Bruce isn't any better. They actually kissed (while undercover, but you snapped a photo and blackmailed him for weeks).

"Are me and Dick really the only normal ones?"

Jason was in disbelief. Did they break the Super curse? You scoffed,

"Dick is the only normal one, and even he dated an alien. I know about your past situation with Kara, Jason."

Jason, Jason, Jason. Always the "I'm too tough for love," but he thrives on it.

What is up with all the Bats pining aliens anyway? Tim let his crush go when he aged and met Bernard (who he never shut up about to his friends), Bruce let go of his Clark crush the day after their kiss, but Damian is still hesitant to admit he may be gay and kind of annoyed he is so similar to his father. Even their taste in men are the same, gross.

"Is there a point to your useless questioning, or are you ready to fight?"

Damian asked with crossed arms. You chuckled. He's just mad Jon gave you that photo. You have a lot of photos all over your home. Some petty, some wholesome, some purposely ugly. You had a little bit of everything.

Dick found the photo of Bruce very comfortably kissing a startled Clark. It looked like they were going to make out judging by the way Bruce was holding him and the robbers in the background. Bruce was undoubtedly thinking of a plan, but you managed to snap the picture after locking the tugs into place by fusing their knees together and their wrists to their hips.

Dick decided to question you about this after the fight. Your feet cracked as you walked to the window, drawing their attention back to you. You locked your window and opened it again.

"Fine. I'll fight."

You said before you crawled out of the window. The others quickly followed until everybody realised you had no idea where you were going, so Dick took the lead. You asked,

"What's the plan then? Am I fighting alone?"

Jason looked at you as if you were crazy. Alone? No. They are too antsy to sit around and do nothing. If they can be useful, they will be useful.

"Never alone, cupcake."

Jason said. You didn't know how to feel about that. They are incredibly useful, yes, but you weren't sure if they would get in your way or not.

You put on the suit in the Batcave with a sigh. Back to this chaotic storm. You said after a pause,

"You'll be the guards then. I'll work on frying the control."

The others nodded. That works for them. They need to be doing something, or they would feel useless.

You all arrive to where Bruce was last tracked to be and found a massive base. You scowled as you eyed the ranks. Most of the sidekicks would be easy to take care of, but the big members were more challenging. The control would be more established.

You decided to target Batman first in the meantime. Batman has everything possible in his utility belt, no matter how unlikely something will happen with the wits to back up his fighting prowess, so he's one of the biggest threats to your crew and you. He's dangerous.

"This is going to hurt."

You warned just before shutting down various parts of his brain. You grimaced as you forced the mind control out of him. It was a battle of wits that Bruce eventually was able to join in helping the more you pushed out.

You closed your eyes and winced. Even with the help, whatever is in control was digging their way through you as well. Bruce was the easiest one with his mental fortitude. What will happen with the others? What will you have to do for Clark? Or Wally with his speedy thoughts? Could you even keep up with his thoughts? The idea made you nauseous already. They are going to be the hardest. Wonder Woman might be the next best target. She'll be the next easiest because of her godly genetics, and she can help in the fight against Superman.

You succeeded in releasing Batman's mind control and immediately moved onto Wonder Woman. She's a massive threat already to the Bats. Batman can join the fight, but even he will struggle with Wonder Woman. He'll have to rely on the others for help while he figured out a way to take her out.

You scowled when you entered her mind. The mind control is becoming smart. It moves locations now. You have to chase it through the brain and even through the nerves and veins in the brain.

It's sentient, you realised. You thought maybe it was just a device or someone else, but no. They are a hive mind of living beings. It's a parasite that you have to chase through their brain to "cut" out. You have to cut their feeding ground.

You hissed in pain as you moved through the heroes. You have no idea how you will deal with the aliens like Starfire and especially the Supes. You had to double-check that you didn't transfer the parasite to yourself multiple times.

There are so many heroes and so many devastating combinations that you had to break up. Everybody was in chaos, but the Bats worked as smoothly as a well-oiled machine. It would be admirable if you weren't so preoccupied with both fighting heroes and killing the parasites.

The League was getting overwhelmed. They were struggling to fight off the horde of sidekicks that they trained, and the solo heroes weren't easy to take down either. You were working as quickly as you could, but these parasites are so quick in their squirming and don't give up. You were trying to fry them out and starve them without causing any lasting damage on anyone. You were so, so, so careful in protecting them that it was slowing you down substantially.

You were also being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers. Would it kill the League to stop picking up sidekicks? You managed to share with the telepaths to look out for a parasite and to distract it until you can get to the hero, but they were also struggling by the numbers.

You shuddered. You needed more help. Could you get Constantine to help at all? What about the other magicians? You weren't sure there was any more help to have. The parasites are smart and learn from each other. When one goes down, they all learn. Soon, you'll run out of tricks, and who's to say a similar parasite won't come back again? There could be more out there.

You almost collapsed when you finished the last hero, shivering. There are at least 30 sidekicks turned into newly made heroes, not even counting the League and the solo heroes, but you managed.

Before anybody could hug you or even thank you, you were gone. You slipped away silently, but everybody knew that you saved the world. You were the main and only reason they won.

The earth isn't conquered, and the heroes don't have to be killed by the Bats. You left a note to Batman about everything you learned about the parasite, but you left the clean-up to the telepaths. They can assess any damage done to the heroes better than you ever could.

You did your best to heal the damage done when you had to shut off parts of the brain in your mission, but you know the telepaths will be much better suited than yourself with assessing mental damage. Everybody was perfectly normal and functional, at least, so that had to count for something, right?

You undid all the fused bones and locked muscles as you left the building. The sound of seemingly hundreds of bones cracking back into place again is a sound you wished you weren't familiar with.

The following screams haunted your memory as you watched everybody fall to their knees in agony. You fixed their muscles and bones, so it's to be expected to be agony.

You had to decommission everybody at some point in order to work out the parasite without fuss, so everybody was in severe pain. Nothing but agony follows you, but they are all healthy, and that's all that matters in the end.

You went home after dropping off the suit into the BatCave and collapsed on your couch. Now, you can relax and retire once more. You sighed in relief at the thought. You don't know how many heroes you helped, but it felt like far too many.

You really hated being a hero.

[rose-gold-chains]

Pairing: IIIxIV

Word count: 5443

[WARNINGS: unprotected sex, light bdsm practices, degradation, orgasm control/denial, edging, overstimulation]

18+ content - minors, do not interact.

As usual, feedback is welcome and very much appreciated. Be kind, though!

Iii is in a foul mood and IV loves it.

He doesn’t know what happened to bring on such a sudden shift, but he knows what it means for him: mean, demanding, controlling III. And he’s not one to complain.

All he knows it’s the pattern is always the same, and sooner or later, III will drag him into a secluded room and tear him to pieces slowly, painstakingly. All he can do is wait.

It’s almost methodical, the way he does it. He takes all his anger, and frustration, and anxiety and channels them into being the most dominant he can be.

It takes two hours, twenty three minutes and about eight seconds.

But who’s counting?

“You,” there’s a long, bony finger pointed at him, “go to my room.”

His blue eyes are dark and serious as they stare back at IV, unmoving, stern, and his voice is deep, accent thick with simmering anger, “I expect to see you undressed and kneeling when I come back. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.”

•

All IV can hear as he slowly undresses himself is the ticking of the wall clock hanging right above the bed, and the white background noise of the cars driving some floors below seeping through the half-opened window.

It’s kind of soothing, in a twisted way.

The anticipation is killing him as he sinks to his knees on the soft mattress, naked skin brushing the fancy silk sheets III insisted on buying in all the colours of the rainbow, hairs all over his body standing straight with excitement.

His cock is already half hard, blood rushing south at lightning speed as he imagines everything III will put him through - but when the door opens and shuts, all the coherent thoughts fly out of the fucking window: III looks like an absolute vision. He’s wearing all black - form fitting t-shirt and loose track pants hanging low on his skinny hips, and he’s towering over the bed like a predator ready to pounce on its prey.

“I haven’t even stepped into the room and you’ve already made three mistakes. Can you tell me what they are?”

IV must look like a complete idiot, because as much as he racks his brain for answers, he still comes up blank, and all he can do is look lost and shake his head.

“Think fast, bitch, because ‘I don’t know’ is not an option, and every wrong answer will grant you ten spanks.”

“I— didn’t fold my clothes properly?”

“Mh. You did four things wrong, then.”

Fuck.

“I,” he breathes, thinks, rinse and repeat. Nothing.

“What? Are you too dumb to form words or are you just trying to piss me off?”

“I— genuinely can’t think of anything, Sir,” his voice sounds alien to his own ears, small and vulnerable, “I’m sorry.”

“Fine, I’ll give you the answer. But that means you’ll get the paddle instead of my hand. And you’re getting spanked however many times I see fit, considering you’re too much of a dumb slut to know what’s best.”

From the outside looking in, a person who’s not familiar with their dynamics will think that III is some sort of evil monster taking advantage of poor little sunshine IV.

Fact of the matter is, though, IV is enjoying every single second, revelling in the attention and the dominance; he loves being told what to do, how to act. Adores being punished - or rewarded.

He can get out of his own head and just feel: every hit of the paddle, every smack of a hand on his skin or pull of his hair takes him one step closer to the special place in the back of his head that has him floating on pure pleasure and adrenaline, and he can’t fucking wait to get there.

“Number one: I told you to kneel, I didn’t tell you to kneel on the bed. Number two: I didn’t tell you you could get hard,” he gestures at IV’s dick with disdain, eyes rolling slightly, “number three: i didn’t give you permission to look at me when I came into the room. Now get down from there, I want you face down, ass up on the carpet.”

As much as he enjoys pain, IV is not a big fan of carpet burn.

He can either disobey and face III’s wrath -fun, painful, ultimately rewarding - or obey  - and still be punished, of course, since he did make three, no, four mistakes - but avoid provoking III further, since he’s already in a pissy mood. Choices, choices. 

As much as he loves instigating III, a big part of IV lives for the moment when his volatile partner praises him for being good. And he’ll get his punishment in any case - the way his cock twitches and hardens even more guarantees it - so. Rug burn it is. 

He can feel him walking around the room, can feel the eyes on his naked skin, burning patterns into it with his mind.

The click of the closet door opening sends a shiver down IV’s spine, a tingle of anticipation bubbling in every nerve ending on his body- he knows the paddle is in there, together with a plethora of other devices made especially for him.

He doesn’t hear rummaging, though- the door clicks shut in record time: which means the paddle was ready all along, that he was gonna get paddled either way, no matter how pristine his obedience was. It means III had a plan all along.

“Can you count, or do I have to do that, too?”

IV shifts in his spot a bit, feels the carpet dig into his shins and his knees, “I can count, Sir.”

“Good,” smack, “go on then, I don’t have all day!”

“One, Sir. Thank you.”

They land everywhere: from the round part of his bum to the lowest part of his thighs, the hits rain on him like blessed water mixed with the flames of hell.

His eyes water more and more with each one, and his body doesn’t know if it wants to move away from the pain or towards it, stuck in a loop of pleasure and pain that’s washing over his senses like tidal waves.

His dick twitches at every strike, hangs heavy and swollen in between his legs, leaking, begging for a shred of attention, yearning for some sweet, sweet crumb of friction.

“T— twenty five.”

The sound of the paddle clanking on the floor tells him it’s over, but he wouldn’t dare moving until told.

“You’re not as dumb as you look, then. Get on your knees.”

His arms are shaking as he attempts to raise himself from the ground, and he almost eats a handful of carpet when his right hand slips and loses grip, but he manages.

“Face this way, slut, I have no use for you looking the other way.”

Shimmying his way around is no easy feat, especially since his knees are scraped pretty badly from rubbing against the carpet during his paddling, and every movement sends a jolt of pain through his nerves. He’s pretty sure one of them is bleeding, a tiny dot of crimson leaving its mark on the pristine white fibres.

III takes a long, calculated glance at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. He looks like a giant standing there while IV is kneeling: his impossibly tall and slender body adorned in all black is an imposing presence, ominous almost, towering over IV’s figure with ease. The light hairs of his happy trail glisten with a veil of sweat and it’s mouth watering, hypnotic.

God, IV is so obsessed with this beautiful man.

“Hands behind your back.”

He removes his hands from where they’re hiding his very obvious erection and puts them where instructed, “yes, Sir.”

“Still hard, I see,” his voice is tinged with something IV can’t quite put his finger on: his wishful thinking says it sounds like awe, his rational mind quips that it’s most likely annoyance, “you’re so desperate that not even twenty five strikes will get your dick to go down? Fucking pathetic.”

He blushes a deep shade of red as his dick throbs at the humiliation.

“If you’re so hungry for it,” III spits, as he lowers his pants just enough to get his half hard dick out, “then have at it. And make it worth my time.”

He scoots his way over to him, barely resisting the urge to flinch every time his scraped knees glide on the carpet, and puts his whole nose into the sparse hairs at the base of III’s cock, taking in the smell of detergent and arousal, letting it invade his senses and put his mind at peace.

“Less sniffing, more sucking,” he pushes his hips forward once to drive the point home, “you’re a bitch, but you’re not a fucking dog.”

The weight of III’s cock on his tongue is familiar, yet every time feels like the first: his reactions to getting head are dependent on his mood, on IV’s behaviour, on a myriad of other variables that make the experience surprising in its familiarity.

IV puts his soul into it, sucks cock like he’s paid to do so.

Apparently though, today his passion, enthusiasm and effort are not enough: the moments he puts his right hand at the base of III’s length -just so he can give attention to what doesn’t fit in his mouth- is the moment III steps back completely.

“I told you hands behind your back. I can’t fathom how is it so hard to fucking listen?”

He walks to the closet again, and this time the noise of objects rattling against each other is almost jarring in the deep silence of the room.

He comes back moments later with a pair of— pink plush handcuffs?

“I— Sir?”

“What now?”

“Are those—?”

He would usually go with rope, if he’s feeling frisky. Or tape.

Zip ties occasionally, and if he’s in a sweet mood, probably silk.

But pink plushy handcuffs are a first - and IV can’t for the life of him figure out where the fuck they came from. Or better yet, he knows where they came from: his fucking browser history.

He’s always had delicate skin, and he doesn’t mind the marks on his body - truly doesn’t. But his wrists always hurt for days after, insistent red welts blossoming on his wrists every time he ends up bound or tied, and sometimes he finds himself browsing for something sturdy yet soft, something that will keep him in line without the added strain on his already damaged skin.

He just never thought—

“I— don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you will do, I believe.”

His voice is still stern, but there’s a hint of affection in his tone that he can’t mask or hide.

“Thank you, Sir,” look at him, tearing up at the sight plushy handcuffs like a degenerate fucking idiot, “thank you so, so much.”

When they click in place on his wrists, the soft material is a stark contrast to what he’s used to: they’re firm, the sharp tug he gives them confirms it, but they don’t hurt, they won’t leave angry marks.

No matter how mean III acts, how punitive and cruel his actions look from the outside looking in, IV knows he’s cherished.

III taps his jaw once with his index finger, and the warmth of his skin against his shakes IV out of his thoughts, “open wide.”

It’s all the warning he gets before III’s cock is shoved so far down his throat he almost chokes on it.

Every sharp snap of III’s hips threatens his precarious balance, and all he can do is focus on breathing through his nose and engaging his core muscles so he doesn’t topple over on his ass and make a fool of himself.

Just when it was getting good - IV had found a rhythm with his tongue that allowed him to give iii pleasure without choking, and III had started making these gorgeous, choked half-moans every time the tip of his cock hit the tender back of IV’s throat - III stops.

And IV can’t help but make a slight noise of complaint.

“Shut the fuck up, Jesus,” his voice is fucked like he’d been the one taking a dick down his throat instead of giving it, “get on the bed.”

Getting up is no easy feat, especially with his hands locked behind him and throwing off his balance, but the promise of something more gives him the strength to obey as quickly as his body would allow.

“Ass up, I’m tired of looking at your pathetic face.”

•

“I’ve opened myself up already, Sir.”

“Playing with your sorry hole like a slut doesn’t mean you’re ready for me.”

As much as IV would love nothing more than being fucked into oblivion sooner rather than later, he knows proper prep is a non negotiable for III: no matter how mean he’s being, he’ll always make sure there’s plenty of lube and plenty of time spent on it.

It doesn’t matter if they fucked the day before and IV feels still loose enough; or if he tells him he’s prepped himself beforehand, III will always, always double check.

Rationally, he knows it’s a good thing.

But the desperate, horny, greedy, impatient part of his brain still sometimes registers it as a nuisance - but he still sags against the sheets, props his ass up high, and waits.

“God,” III whispers as the first finger breaches IV’s hole, “you were made to be fucked, weren’t you?”

IV is glad he’s not facing him, because he’s pretty sure III would start giving him shit for how much he’s blushing at the makeshift compliment, warmth spreading from his face all the way down his chest like wildfire, unforgiving and unstoppable.

“Look at this,” he speaks like he’s talking mostly to himself, voice quiet, no longer as commanding as it was before, “your hole is so hungry for it, for me,” he pushes a second finger in, the slide made easy by copious amounts of lube and the fact that - as much as III doesn’t want to believe it - IV had actually already opened himself up as he said, “isn’t it?”

“Only for you, Sir.”

Two fingers soon become three, pumping in and out of him at a leisurely pace like they have all the time in the universe, and IV wishes III didn’t know his body as well as he does because he’s purposefully avoiding that sweet, sweet spot inside him that makes him see stars: this is methodical, a means to an end, and the end goal is apparently not IV’s pleasure.

He's still impossibly hard though, knees spread wide and cock hanging heavy between his thighs - he’s pretty sure he’s been consistently leaking since the fucking handcuffs clocked shut on his wrists, mind getting fuzzy at the edges, body feeling light like a feather and heavy like a block of lead at the same time.

The moment III’s fingers slide out of him leaves him and get replaced by his cock leaves him gasping for air like a fish out of water, mouth agape and desert dry, “o-oh fuck.”

The rhythm is ruthless from the get-go, every thrust as punishing and fast as the previous one, and each aimed at that perfect angle that makes him feel as if his sanity is about to slip away from his grasp any moment.

IV feels like he’s hanging on by a thread as moans and groans are ripped out of him every time III’s cock slams back inside.

The noises III is making are not helping his predicament: he grunts with every thrust, moans every single time he pulls far enough away that the head of his cock catches on IV’s rim just to slide back inside with ease, then grinds against him like a feral beast in heat, pushing as deep as he can go and brushing all the right places - it’s maddening for both of them, animalistic and primal and so, so fucking dirty.

IV is aware he’s sweaty all over, skin so damp he feels like he’s gonna slide off the stupid silk sheets any minute now but he can’t stop writhing, twitching, moaning - hell, he’d probably pull his fucking hair out if his hands weren’t bound behind him.

He would be grossed out by himself if he weren’t so fucking close, tethering dangerously over the edge of the precipice and so fucking ready to fall over and let the void take over his senses.

His mind is foggy at best and incoherent at worst, and all he can think is pain pain pain pleasure pleasure pleasure, with the way his ass and thighs burn so good every time III’s hips slap against his abused skin, new redness forming over top of the purple spots that were already there, and his burnt knees catching in the folds of the fabric with every forceful thrust.

He’s only vaguely aware of III saying things to him as he fucks him from behind, random words making their way into his muddled mess of a brain, things like “brat” and “slut” and “baby” spoken directly against his ear as III keeps a firm hold on his hair, bending his back in positions that any sane person with functioning eyes would probably deem impossible to achieve.

“I’m gonna come,” he’s not aware he’s spoken until it has happened, and he’s only sure it was him because he’s gone, but not gone enough that he can’t recognise his own voice, thank you very much.

III has him trained so well that he wouldn’t dare come without permission in any circumstance, no matter how taxing.

“No, you’re not.”

He realises he’s crying only because his tears feel salty in his mouth.

That’s all it takes to pull him under.

He can vaguely register himself talking.

It feels as if someone else outside of his body is stealing his voice, speaking for him like a ventriloquist’s puppet, and it’s nothing but a mantra of “please, please, please,” and “need to come, want to come, let me come”.

It’s embarrassing, it’s desperate, it’s his brain losing all filter as reality quickly slips from his grasp.

The moment III’s buries himself balls deep inside him feels like coming home, like IV is floating on a cloud of sugar dust and rainbows and morning dew: the warmth spreads through him as his insides are painted white, and suddenly the urge of coming is overcome by the overwhelming pride of being good.

He managed not to break the rules, he made his Sir come like he’s supposed to, he’s done what his body was carved out for, all those years ago: pleasuring III and nothing else.

•

“Baby,” his eyes feel sticky and gross as he tries to pry them open, “hey? You with me?”

I’m good, he wants to say, but his throat is tight and rough - he nods as best as he can, head feeling too heavy on his weak neck, and attempts a smile that doesn’t come as easily as he would like it to.

There’s delicate fingers carding through his hair and a big hand holding on to his cheek, stroking gently in comforting patterns, lulling him into a sense of safety and home, “you were so good for me, angel. So, so good.”

“Sir,” is what he manages to say as he attempts to find his voice, pain shooting through his throat at every noise, “t-thank you.”

A tall glass of water gets pushed to his lips and he drinks and drinks and drinks until it’s all gone, drops falling from the corners of his mouth and onto his chest, sending shivers down his spine as his overstimulated body registers yet another sensation.

He’s sitting up, he realises.

There are no cuffs on his wrists.

And III is looking at him like he hung the fucking moon- so. That’s something.

The next thing he notices as his body starts making peace with his brain, is that his ass hurts like a motherfucker: he’s probably all bruised up, pinks and purples and reds creating sunsets on the fair skin of his butt and thighs. His hole is also leaking from the remains of III’s load, making a wet, uncomfortable patch under his abused ass.

The third thing he notices is that, despite being sore and battered, despite having blacked out for god knows how long, he’s still rock hard.

“Ngh,” he’s still not capable of forming coherent words, apparently, but III’s attention is on him in a split second despite his muffled noises.

“What’s wrong, angel?”

“…please.”

The smirk that spreads on III’s face is devious, “I don’t understand what you’re begging for, baby. You’re gonna have to be more clear.”

If IV had the strength, or the mental capacity to lift himself up, he would slap the shit out of that smug face.

As of now, though, he can barely keep his head upright.

“Sir, please, I need—”

He stops himself, hyperaware that he needs to play his cards just right if he wants even the slightest chance of going to sleep without blue balls.

“Go on, don’t be so bashful,” he chuckles to himself and it sounds almost devilish, “if you want it so bad, then you should be able to ask for it.”

“Can I come? I’m still hard. Please, sir. It hurts.”

“I thought you liked pain, no? Thought you enjoyed being my little pain whore.”

If III is not budging, then its time for the heavy artillery. It’s only fair.

“Please, daddy.”

*

IV isn’t sorry about the “daddy” thing. It was a cheap shot and he knew using the D word after III had already come would have been dangerous, but as much as he loves pain and edging, death by blue balls isn’t on his “favourite ways to die” list.

That said, what III is doing now feels more like retaliation than release. One hand on his throat, firm orders not to touch himself, and two long thick fingers curled in his ass, and a few minutes that felt an eternity later iv feels like crying.

He must have been, because III tuts, patronizing and merciless. “Poor baby” he says, and if IV wasn’t crying before, the mocking tone he’s using would for sure bring on the waterworks, “so, so sad.”

He isn’t sad, he’s so horny even his dick is crying, as III can very well see, but the guy is really being a bastard this evening. Not that IV could verbalize that.

He moans brokenly and tries to rock his hips against III’s hand, and all he gets is a swift slap for his trouble. And the pressure on his prostate never lets up, multitasking king that III was.

Cheek smarting, IV squeezes his eyes. “Be good” he hears over the sound of his shallow breaths, as III wraps his hand on his throat once again. He’s not actually choking him, it’s more a warning, orders to behave, so of course he skirts the line and bears down even more on iii’s fingers in his ass.

IV hears the smirk in his voice and god, he has no intention of opening his eyes and looking at III’s face. Not now, not while he’s nearly sobbing, body on fire, dick weeping on his belly. The sight of III’s malicious expression could do him in. So he just begs, like a prayer in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. “Sir, please, daddy, I just need to...”

“I’m giving you what you want, and you’re still whining. Maybe I should just leave you manacled to the bed and let you sleep it off.”

“Nononono. Please please please...”

The squelching sound is disgusting and hot, a mixture of sweat and lube and cum making IIi’s fingers slide in and out of him without resistance.

The fact that he can read IV’s body like a children’s book is clear from the fact that every single time he’s about to come, the pressure on his prostate relents just enough to bring him away from the precipice, only to start all over again.

And again.

And again.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” the word falls from his lips like a prayer, like a broken record - that’s all his brain can process, all that’s left in his muddled thoughts.

It’s “I’m begging” and “thank you” and “I love you” all wrapped up in a neat bow of desperation, body and mind overwhelmed by the sensations as he fights to stay present, fights to stay anchored to reality as his last slivers of sanity threaten to leave him once more.

It’s an eternity - and a million lost orgasms - later when the words he’d been begging to hear finally leave III’s mouth, “go on then, come for me.”

They sound like an hallucination, a figment of his imagination, far away and muffled, but still his body obeys on the spot, back arching as he spills all over himself like a trained puppet.

III milks him through it, doesn’t stop even when IV’s body feels like he has nothing left to give.

He feels as if a fire has been ignited from the inside out, burning bright hot as pleasure washes through him and mixes with pain and renders him unable to do anything but lie there and take it.

“Again.”

He’s begging for the opposite reasons now: he’s over sensitive and sore and he needs it to stop, needs this to be finally over.

“Please I can’t— I— Sir!”

“You begged like a bitch to be able to come, now what?” the hand on his throat squeezes just enough to drive the point home, “Can’t take what you asked for?”

He’s sagging in the sheets and they’re all bunched up now, wet and sticky and gross - it looks like a scene from the most low budget porn movie, the way the silk glistens with with lube and fluids in the low light of the bedside lamp.

Despite his prayers to stop though, IV’s cock never went down, and he can feel the tell-tale signs of another orgasm approaching, heat spreading through his gut and his groin as his body, taut like a guitar string, snaps once again.

He sobs through it, tears spilling freely from his eyes as his dick twitches and throbs with his second orgasm of the night, wetness pooling on his belly on top of the mess that was already there.

When two orgasms become three, though, there’s not much left to it: it’s almost dry, nothing but a few drops sliding pathetically down his spent, reddened cock.

“One more.”

He can’t do it. He can’t.

He wants to be good, wants to obey, but he doesn’t have it in him, he’s too spent to even think about coming again. His balls hurt, his cock is sore, his hole is now so swollen and achy that he will most definitely have trouble walking without a limp tomorrow.

“Please sir I can’t- I— daddy. I can’t.”

“You can.”

“No, no, please. No more!”

“Then use your safe word and this stops immediately. Until then, you’ll give me one more.”

Avocado.

It’s on the tip of his tongue.

He could say it and the abuse on his poor hole would be over, he would receive his much needed aftercare and probably a bubble bath with the strawberry body wash he loves so much, the one that’s so bubbly that almost feel like it’s gonna spill out from the tub and smother the bathroom in a foamy inferno of bubbles and doom.

But III says he can, and he wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think it, would he?

“I— really don’t think I can.”

“Safeword,” he curls his fingers again with force, pushing against IV’s prostate like he’s trying to punish him for complaining, “or shut the fuck up.”

He debates in his mind the best course of action, but he keeps getting lost, losing his train of thought, losing his fucking mind.

“Avocado.”

And just like that, the fingers that were inside him slide oh so carefully out, and the hand on his neck is removed in favour of caressing his cheek.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t be mad,” he’s crying again, he probably never stopped, and his voice is small and frantic, “I really couldn’t do another one, I’m sorry.”

“Baby, hey,” it’s impossible to think that this is the same person that mere minutes ago was calling him a slut, voice sugary sweet as he addresses IV, “never apologise for having to use your safeword. Never apologise for setting boundaries, do you hear me?”

“But— I let you down. You thought I could do it a-and I couldn’t.”

The words are barely comprehensible, with all the sobs shaking his whole body.

“You didn’t let me down one bit,” his eyes are deep and sincere and so fucking blue, “I love that you give yourself to me so freely, that you trust me so deeply. You did so well.”

••

He’s laying in the bathtub, warm water and bubbles all around him and III perched on the edge behind him, carefully massaging coconut and vanilla shampoo in his hair, when the realisation hits: he is in love with this beautiful, beautiful man.

He also realises that the thought made its way into his mind once already during the night, as he was being tortured with orgasm upon orgasm: in the mess that was his brain, fuzzy and overstimulated and lost, the thing that kept him anchored to his sanity was that he’s in love, and he’s pretty sure it’s mutual. So.

Something to think about.

“You’re awfully quiet there, love,” III’s voice is like a soothing balm on his soul, a salve to ease all troubles and pains, “something on your mind?”

“Jus’ tired, that’s all.”

IV is an awful liar, the way his voice tilts upward at the end of his sentence gives away the fact that he’s not being completely honest, but if III noticed, he doesn’t push further.

“Alright,” there’s a last splash of water to the back of his head, probably to make sure all of the shampoo suds have been rinsed away, “shall we get some lotion on that cute butt? Then we can get some food in your precious belly. How’s that sound?”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can process that he’s speaking, and the way he shuts his mouth is testament enough to the fact that he did not mean to say it out loud, not while he’s wet and naked and still partly out of it.

Fuck.

And III isn’t replying.

Why isn’t he replying?!

“I—I’m sorry. It just— came out. I didn’t mean to make it weird or-”

He stands up as fast as he can as the last of the water runs down the drain, frantically trying to turn around without smashing his face on the wet, slippery tile of the bathroom.

He needs to look III in the face, needs to understand why he’s not saying anything.

III is still there, perched on the edge of the fucking bathtub, trousers wet from bathing IV with all the care in the world and IV finds himself thinking he looks absolutely glorious even while he’s rejecting him.

He’s down bad.

“Say something?” the fact that he’s on the verge of tears is evident in his shaky voice, the knot in his throat making it hard to speak properly, “III?”

And III is… smiling?

That’s good, right? It has to be good. IV needs for it to be good.

Or maybe he’s laughing at how pathetic he is, falling in love with his best friend who he sometimes hooks up with, after being fucked within an inch of his life.

“You fucking idiot,” that’s not a good start, not when IV’s mind is spiralling in every direction and thinking of every possible worst case scenario his mind can conjure up, “took you a while there to catch up.”

“I— you- what?”

“I’ve kinda, sorta been in love with you since the first time you drunkenly kissed me and then gave me a handjob and covered my dick in black paint.”

“That was last year.”

“Well,” he shrugs like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just made IV the happiest man on the face of the planet, “yeah.”

III wraps a big, fluffy towel on his shoulders - he didn’t realise he was shaking, droplets of water drying in his body at the contact with the cold air.

“So, about that lotion? I don’t want your butt to be sore tomorrow.”

And if IV grabs him by the front of his sopping shirt and kisses the daylights out of him, nobody but them has to know.

[insociometry]

"Some of the guys would honestly probably get off on jacking off on her thighs or something while she ignores them too so there’s always that as an option" ron!hyunjin would be so willing to do this 🛐🛐🛐🛐

(Referencing this ask!)

NSFW, vaguely post-RON/future fic, ~2k words

You’re lying on the couch on your phone when a shadow falls over you. You ignore it, at first; the summer heat is making you sleepy and lazy, and your boys come to check on you near-constantly as they come in and out, lingering and watching you without any participation needed on your part until something clicks in their alpha brains and they leave you be, satisfied.

This doesn’t seem to be that kind of interaction, though. “Hi bunny,” a voice murmurs sweetly, couch cushion deflating with added weight, “I missed you.”

When your eyes flick up, you find Hyunjin, as expected: kneeling between your legs still in his outside clothes, jeans hanging low on his hips and t-shirt sleeves pushed up to his shoulders. His hands hover loosely over your knees, but when you look at him, they lower, thumbs rubbing loose, light circles into your thighs.

His blockers are wearing off, a smoky, urgent tinge of arousal coloring his scent. When you take a cursory peek, you find a telltale bulge in his jeans.

“Hi, Jinnie,” you say back, smiling at the bashful tinge to his grin, the way he bites his lip cutely. “How was your day?”

“Good,” he murmurs, maintaining eye contact even as he bends down, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of your knee that nonetheless makes your pulse flutter. “Need you.”

As he speaks, his eyes flick down your body — nearly bare, only covered with Jeongin’s t-shirt and a pair of panties, unwilling to dress further in the heat. The house has air conditioning but you like letting the temperature stay a little high when you’re home mostly alone, and even with this level of proximity, you warm fast from his body suspended above you.

It’s obvious what’s on his mind, especially as his big hands take to kneading at your thighs, moving steadily down. He subtly spreads your legs in the process, kissing your knee again, then just a little higher, then again, lowering himself each time. At this rate, he’ll be on his elbows in no time — and he knows it, too, eyes already laser-focused on your panties, pierced tongue swiping quick over his lip.

He’s so sexy, and you consider him thoughtfully. Minho fucked you to exhaustion this morning before his later schedule, and you’re still feeling a little shaky in the legs, but—

Then your phone buzzes, and he loses your attention, just like that. Automatically, as you start to read your new text, you bend your leg to pull it closer to yourself, knocking off Hyunjin’s hand in the process.

He pauses, cocking his head to the side, voice soft. “No?”

You hum, reaching out to pat his arm soothingly. “Sorry, Jinnie,” you say, still looking at your phone, “I’m kind of busy.”

It’s not really a no; you all have your own ways to communicate varying levels of disinterest. But it does mean you’re not about to have a full-on romp on the couch. Hyunjin lets you go, sitting back on his knees, thinking.

“Can I just,” he breathes, and when you look up, you find him just as hard, his scent just as pressing, biting his pretty lip and looking at you with big, pleading eyes. As you watch, he hooks his thumb in his waistband, fingers hovering over the bulge in his jeans. “I won’t bother you, but can I…?”

His eyes flick again down your bare legs. You hum, watching him: his pretty face, the elegant line of his nose, the way his bangs are just long enough to fall into his face again. As you watch, he takes a break from the baby-doll eyes to blow a lock away — which makes you laugh, which makes him laugh, beaming at you crescent-eyed like he isn’t asking to jack off over you.

“If you want,” you shrug, continuing to grin as your eyes drag slow down his body. He shivers at even that much attention, hands clenching into fists on his thighs.

Then you flop over, almost kicking him in the process, and return to your phone. There’s a second’s pause before Hyunjin adjusts with the change, hovering above your knees.

You really do go back to your text conversation, so you’re not paying much attention to the sounds behind you: a zipper and a quiet exhale, the sound of spit and then a wet slide. You’re aware of it, in a vague kind of way — but you’re more focused on looking up noodle restaurants with Mikyung. You think Hyunjin would pout to death if he knew — but then, you guess he does. He’s just so desperate to get off that he doesn’t care.

Some time passes — enough that it startles you when Hyunjin’s hand lands on your thighs again. “Sorry,” he mumbles when you jump, pulling away — but you just shake your head, peeking over your shoulder at him.

“It’s okay,” you say, taking the opportunity to check him out again — oversized shirt bunched up under his arms to get it out of the way, muscular chest and abdomen exposed, jeans unzipped and underwear pulled down, his pretty cock clutched in his fist. It’s red and weeping, and when you lick your lips without thinking, it twitches, more pre-cum dripping pearly down his knuckles.

Then you turn back around and wiggle your butt. “You can touch a little,” you say absently, returning to your screen. “Just not too much, okay?”

“Okay,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your tailbone over your shirt before slowly, gently pushing it up. “Thank you.”

You lift to help him bunch it under your waist, exposing your lower back and panties. It’s kind of nice; it’s getting hot quickly with Hyunjin’s body above you and his hand on your skin, settling firm on the small of your back as though to hold you down the way he sometimes does when he fucks you. You arch your back in response as an absentminded, instinctual response. Hyunjin gives you one last kiss — to your shoulder, this time — before returning to his previous spot hovering above your knees.

It’s a little harder to pay absolutely no attention this time, because now that he has permission, Hyunjin is touching you: not excessively, and not even overtly sexually, just the occasional brush of fingers along your thigh, or a hot palm settling above the back of your knee. Still, texts keep coming, so Hyunjin and his lovely hands and lovely cock occupy only a back corner of your mind, even as his pre-cum drips onto your skin, even as little sounds fall from his lips.

It’s taking him a little longer than usual today, made evident by the impatient huff he lets out. Still, his voice when he speaks to you is perfectly sweet and wheedling. “Bunny,” he asks, desperate, nearly shy, “can you talk to me about what you’re up to?”

You glance at him over your shoulder — the sweat on his brow, the pout on his lip, his bangs still falling into his eyes. “It’s really boring,” you say, eyes already straying back to your screen. “Not sexy at all.”

“Everything you say is sexy,” he objects, and you can hear the pout so clearly, even though you aren’t looking at it anymore.

It makes you giggle. “Well, Mikyung wants to hang out soon,” you say absently, “and she has a whole list of places she’s been looking at, so I’ve been looking them up…”

Your voice trails off as a new message comes in. Hyunjin prompts you just a few seconds later, needy and breathless. “Do any look good?”

“They all look good,” you mumble, typing your next message in. “That’s the problem.”

Hyunjin whines at your inattention, but when you continue looking at your phone, he settles down. His hands wander more, though: grabbing at you instead of just touching, taking handfuls of your thighs, kneading at your skin. When he wanders high enough, you jerk — hips jolting up, thighs pressing together. He takes a breath — and at that same moment, you realize, suddenly, that you’re turned on.

It makes sense, you think as you ignore the wandering hands with red cheeks and a bitten lip. A very handsome man that you happen to be in love with is kneeling above you touching you and jerking off. Anyone would be turned on, you decide.

Still, it’s — distracting. Hyunjin never quite goes beyond your ‘not too much’ instruction, but he definitely grows increasingly bold as the scent of your arousal blooms in the air: thumb tucking between your thighs, increasingly high, fingers digging possessively into the flesh, even slipping his fingers under the bottom edge of your panties or grabbing at your ass.

And as a result, it’s harder and harder to focus on your messages. You eventually give in and tell Mikyung your replies might be sporadic, pushing your hips up and back into Hyunjin’s touch. Hyunjin swallows, his scent thick in your throat, hand pushing so high up your leg that it just barely brushes the gusset of your panties.

You gasp, and Hyunjin does, too. “Bunny,” Hyunjin says, raspy and nearly begging, “bunny, can I—”

His hand hovers over your panties, and when you don’t object, he presses his knuckle shallowly into your entrance through the fabric, wet with your slick. You gasp again, head dropping, forehead pressing into the couch — and Hyunjin moans before pulling your underwear to one side and sinking his thumb inside you.

You swallow your moan as best you’re able — but Hyunjin hears it anyway; of course he does. He laughs, breathless and almost disbelieving, the sound of him touching himself growing louder and wetter.

“What about your friend, pretty girl?” he breathes, a teasing, dominant edge creeping over the obedient taffy-pull of him. “I thought you were busy.”

Twisting to glare at him over your shoulder, you say, just as breathless, “And I thought you weren’t going to bother me.”

His thumb crooks inside you like a hook, knocking any thought from your head. His giggle is high and silly, but his voice is dark.

“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks. “Bothering you?”

This time, you don’t bother replying, shakily picking up your phone and unlocking it with the determination that only pure brattiness can supply. Hyunjin laughs again and pulls out of you obligingly, hand leaving you entirely for the first time in a while — only for you to immediately hear the sound of him sticking his thumb in his mouth, sucking on it around a loud, shameless moan.

You’re suitably more distracted for the short period of time it takes for Hyunjin to come, made somehow worse by the fact that he isn’t touching you at all anymore. Instead, you can tell just by the sound that he’s using both hands on himself, and you picture it, because you’ve seen it so many times before: one attending to the head and the other stroking the shaft, wet with his own pre-cum, flushed and thick and pretty. You can picture his expression, the way his brow furrows and his head tosses back, exposing the long line of his neck, his vulnerable throat and bitable Adam’s apple. And you can smell him hurtling towards his peak, especially when you open your mouth to taste it behind your fangs: musky and thick and smoky over that distinct rosy scent, increasingly hot and urgent, making your heartbeat stutter and slick drip down your thighs.

When you’re touching him, you can get Hyunjin so loud it feels like it should be shaking the walls. This time, when it’s just him, he’s quiet; you don’t even realize what that long, drawn out whimper signifies until you feel the hot spill of his come on your thighs.

It’s so much — and it’s always so much, but it surprises you every time, dripping down your skin, pooling where your twitching thighs are pressed tight together. Hyunjin doesn’t even give you the chance to catch your breath before he’s dipping his fingers into his own mess, rubbing it into your skin until you’re absolutely drenched in his scent.

“Mine,” he sighs dreamily, still in that post-orgasm high as he strokes himself a few more times to come down.

And you have a smart reply ready on your tongue — but before you have to chance to actually say it, Hyunjin is yanking your hips up and your panties down, uncaring of the way it makes his still-hot come drip down your legs on its inevitable descent to the cushions below.

“Are you still busy?” he asks, face so close to your now bare pussy that you can feel his breath hot on your skin.

Your pride holds out for about five seconds before you throw your phone to the other side of the couch.

[norgeant]

Something something Lando and Logan

Lando is such a fox to me but I keep having to debate what Logan is, like obviously it's funny if he's a bald eagle bc 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸AMERICA🦅🦅🦅 and ya know he likes fishing

But... give me pigeon Logan or something, give me the lore of how rock doves were domesticated then just left or dog Logan bc he literally looks like a golden retriever. Idk I can't pick 🙏😭

Future me here: god dang pigeon logan got me in a chokehold! It was a half joke tbh but then I spent an hour and a half of my life looking for these! LOOK!

[kennyomegasweave]

Kuea grabbing Pin's arm and hand was horrifying. Not just because he did it to Pin, who we know doesn't like him at all, but because he did it to a woman at all. The men were willing to let Aon die rather than touch a lady for CPR and yet Kuea felt comfortable grabbing Pin? Notice how he dropped her hand immediately when he heard someone coming. He's way out of line, even by the standards of the time.

And then he kicked the tree when Prik was able to get Pin out of there?

[cowbot-lumberjane]

you know, I don't really agree with Stephanie Sterling's review of Avowed. I'm not done with the game just yet, but idk. It felt kind of disingenuous. Like, idk the right words for it, expecting too much? It kind of just felt like she decided very early on it was bad and didn't really do much to try and gather anything to put up a counter point. One woman's opinion about another woman's opinion though.

[la-galaxie-langblr]

Year abroad declaration of intent due in 12 days and I'm kind of freaking out about it 😭