#and it's hard to understand some things if you're from the outside looking in (like statice and nick's relationship for instance)

[bobbiereynolds]

Thunderbolts Preference: Paranoid Depression

A/N: Not requested, but ya gurl has been experiencing a lot of paranoia as a side effect of my new medication as well as not feeling too good this time of year. This is for all my paranoid baddies ilysm!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

SHIPS ARE OPEN / THUNDERBOLTS REQUESTS ARE CLOSED

Bucky knows you've always been a little paranoid. Not in the way of did I turn off the stove? Did I lock the door? More like barricading your locked door at night just in case someone tries to come in. Sleeping on the floor so you can feel is someone is coming. Having something heavy by your bedside just in case you need to use it as a weapon. Rituals that will prevent certain things from happening. He's always been more than a little cautious. He would never judge this way of thinking. This is what has protected you for so long, what kept you safe in unsafe situations, and what makes you feel safe enough to relax and sleep. It's gotten worse lately, though. You can't sleep or eat. You fear all the time that something bad is going to happen, that one of your teammates is going to get hurt or killed and it'll be your fault. He does everything in his power to talk you down, to help, but he understand these thoughts and actions are out of your control.

Alexei, in these moments, takes on a fatherly role. You confide in him that it's been hard to sleep in your room, in your bed. It doesn't feel safe, not anymore, but the floor is too uncomfortable. What if someone comes in? What if someone tries to hurt you and you're too deep in sleep to react? Worse, what if you have another nightmare? Alexei doesn't give it much though, the solution seems so easy, so simple. He smiles when he tells you he will be outside your door all night. If someone were to break in, if someone wanted to hurt you, he would stop them. He doesn't laugh like you feared he would. You know how silly it sounds. No one would be stupid enough to try to break into the tower knowing there were expert killers and assassins inside, multiple super soldiers, and Bob. But still, you worry. He spends as long as you need perched outside your door. He wants you to feel safe enough to sleep and sleep well.

Yelena knows what it's like to be depressed. The whole team has. But your paranoia makes you feel like an outcast. She noticed you've been acting different, but it isn't until you confide in her that she realizes just how long this has been going on and how hard it's been dealing with it alone. Eating and bathing are so hard right now, but what makes it worse is the fear that there's someone watching you, recording you, spying on you. It feels like there's an audience for everything you're doing. She hates the fact that she couldn't help sooner. It takes some patience, but eventually she gets you to shower without feeling like there are cameras everywhere recording you. She checks the bathroom multiple times to ensure you feel safe and sits outside the door in case you need her. When you come out, your hair washed, steam floating out around you, you tell her you feel so much better. Your body still feels heavy and your mind is still so loud, but you feel better now that you smell good and are sufficiently scrubbed.

Ava, for once, is at a loss. She wants to help you through your depression and your paranoia, but it feels like everything she says to try to comfort you just makes it worse. You're so afraid people are watching you. Through cameras and windows and the walls. She tells you no one can get this high in the sky to look through the windows except for people like you, people who have the serum or powers, but instead of the idea being comforting, it just creates more worries. Now you're being stalked by super humans and experiments and assassins, like she said people like you. She goes to help from everyone, gathering information that works and doesn't work for you. She knows to acknowledge your paranoid thoughts without telling you you're right, that they are real. She makes sure you know you can come to her when you're feeling like this, that she's a safe person to confide in and will do everything she can to help you.

John always notices when you're depressed. It's the little things that change, at least for him, to notice. But you've been acting a little differently. You have to do things a certain way or, you think, something bad will happen to your, your teammates, the city, etc. He does his best to talk you out of it, but you can't let it go. You can't let it go because this time will be the time you'll really need the blankets to go a certain way or the door to be locked a certain way or the spoon and fork on this side instead of that one to ensure their safety, to ensure that the world is safe. Because this is the time they'll need it the most. He turns to Ava and Bucky for help, who point him in the direction of Bob. As much as he hates admitting defeat to Bob, admitting that he doesn't know how to help, he does it for you. He gets a lot of help from him on what to do as well as to prompt the idea of therapy being good to talk about it, for both of you.

Bob hates that you're going through this. It happens to him when he's both depressed and manic. He tries to help you in ways that make him feel better: he brings you blankets and pillows to make your room feel cozier, safer. He hands up Christmas lights he found in a box in the basement, too, so that you're not stuck in the dark, but you don't have to turn on the big light. You ask him to wait, to talk until you fall asleep, and he's more than happy to. It's when you're both alone like this that you open up to one another. Bob used to think people were watching him, that there were cameras. Once he even thought he was on a TV show, but he was the only one who knew. There's no jokes, no making fun of each other. You get it, you understand. You make him check under the bed, in the closet, wherever someone might be hiding. He takes this job seriously knowing it'll make a huge difference in how well you sleep and feel at ease here, with him.

[chromieclipse]

Hi, I’m a HUGE fan of your art, and it kind of inspired me to try drawing myself? But I have no idea what I’m doing. Could you give me some beginner tips?

Oh man that's a hard thing to say, because everyone kind of starts out in a different spot - but I can give you some general tips and whatnot as to help you get started

You don't need fancy stuff to draw well. You can draw with crayola crayons, colored pencils, regular markers; don't buy super expensive stuff unless you really want to, it's not necessary for an artist.

Find some tutorial books you like! I started with how to draw anime back when I was a preteen, and i actually have a couple of how to draw dragons books nowadays (no, not like the one in Deltarune, lmao)

Trace photos of people and animals to learn anatomy, but do not post them or claim them as original work.

Focus more on the shapes that make up the body when doing this, so you get a general sense for what shapes make up the body.

Do gesture drawings, anatomy, and studies for anything you want to draw - animals, humans, objects.

Focus on the shapes of anything you're drawing. Gesture drawings help you get the sense for a line of action and the limits of how bodies can move. Learning anatomy helps you learn what you can/can't do with the body, and through that, you can learn to break it.

However, studying the fundamentals doesn't mean sticking to them - it just means understanding how they work and why.

Look at artists' work you enjoy, and study what you like about it. Try to replicate the things they do that you like.

This doesn't mean copy their work, of course, but for instance: one of the things I'm trying to get better at is extreme lighting in my pieces, and extreme shadows. There's an artist on here who, while they typically do more painted works, has a fantastic grip on how to do so - and so I've begun trying to study their work to understand HOW they do that. It's a means of learning. NEVER post heavily-referenced pieces to the internet, or use them for commissions - but learning is free game in my opinion.

Don't compare yourself to more experienced artists, or artists with different styles than you; everyone's art is different.

Kind of a more mentality-focused one, but don't focus too much on how many followers you get, or how much "better" other artists' works are. There's always going to be somebody more experienced or skilled than you, but that's the nature of a skill; you have to practice and learn it. And, just because someone else's work is more intricate, or more layered, or more detailed, or better quality - it doesn't mean your work is then not worth making. Do art for yourself, not to please others.

Get loose with it; don't worry too hard about getting perfect anatomy or shape or proportion all the time.

The number one thing to keep in mind is that you start shitty at ANY skill you begin; the only difference between someone who is an artist and someone who wanted to be but isn't, is that the person who wanted to be didn't stick to it. Let your art be bad, or messy, or imperfect; it will get better, and you'll look back and see just how much you've improved over the years. You don't need to be perfect to have fun. Experiment, do things outside of your comfort zone, and don't restrict yourself to just one medium, either.

If you need, set aside time to just work on developing your artistic skill.

Have an hour a day to just do gestures, or studies, or even just be silly with ocs or characters from media you enjoy. It will build up over time, I promise you that. I've done this before, but I'll do it again; a decade's difference in my artistic skill:

February 2015, June 2025

August 2013, April 2025

I've had years to practice, and I still have so much I want to do, learn, and improve on. You WILL get better, it just takes time, patience, and determination to continue.

[theokusgallery]

I see it now! I was literally reading and listening about their relationship in your podcast! i really thought that Statice and Nick DESPISE eachother. This AU is interesting, I love it vry vry much. Im not fond of it at first because I can't really Imagine Basil. Basil doing all of that stuff. because he's my favorite character(and I can't really see him being like that). But I eventually learnt to separate them and sees Nick as his own character. Like an actual oc(Still sees him a little bit as Basil if you understand what I mean)( can't wait when Sunny's other friend gets revealed or maybe the parents. *Maybe* they're not that important to the story but the CURIOSITY IS TOO STRONG AND SORRY FOR YAPPING HSJSKAK IT MUST BE TIRING TO ANSWER ANY OF MY QUESTIONS I WON'T DO THAT AGAIN)(Also excuse my grammar also, english is not my first language 😣)

-Anon from the previous previous post.

(the aura I felt after asking that is unimaginable. I used to be so shy to ask anything on people's blog so Im a *bit* proud of my confidence!)

Oh I see !!

Yeah Nick is... more or less an OC, he's got very little to do with Basil now. I refuse to cut of all ties to OMORI/Basil because it's very important to his origins and taking that from him would be taking out a lot of how I personally see him, but, well... He wasn't exactly based off of normal in-game Basil, either, so it makes sense that he's very different. He looks different, acts different, has a different family, age, personality, story, nationality even, different interests... He's like, 70% OC and 30% OMORI AU. Basil is also my favorite character, and that's not how I see him at all either.

I understand why you thought Statice and Nick hated each other — to be fair, there aren't a lot of people who don't hate Nick, lol. Being around him and knowing why he is the way he is makes it easier to love him, though.

[lymtw]

Deceiving Dreams

(Toji and His Shy Girl)

Toji woke up sweating, a foul feeling in his chest after what he just dreamt. You were the star and your co-star was not him, but some random dude who was way too comfortable with touching you. His hands would brush over your shoulders and your thighs like he was familiar with your body, but what was absolutely stomach churning, was the way he kissed you softly and slowly. You didn't even push him away, instead you reciprocated the gesture. You did the sweet things that you only do with him, like smiling at this man in that way that makes wonder brim your eyes. You kissed the corner of this stranger's lips, on the same side that Toji's scar is on, coincidentally, and you wrapped your arms around this stranger with that same amount of hesitance you show Toji, as if this person you've known for mere minutes summed up the butterflies and electric feelings your lover makes you feel in that short span of time.

Toji hasn't been this unsettled by something regarding you since the time you cried during an argument that spiraled out of his jealousy. Things got out of hand, but since then, he's learned that he can't do things that way with you. He can't shut you out, and he can't snap at you or you will crumble to the ground.

Patience is a hard thing to learn, and though being with you has taught Toji how to be more careful with his words and to be understanding of your struggles to communicate certain things, at the end of the day, he's still learning. How does anyone deal with this kind of thing in a gentle and unassuming manner? He can't just spring such a question on you without it rubbing you wrong. "Are you cheating on me?" No. That is a recipe for disaster and just asking for unwanted distance. You wouldn't do that to him. He knows it, but that dream... It just seemed so real.

Hey, ma. You awake?

It's two in the morning, and you probably won't answer, but as Toji lies there in his bed, waiting for a response from you, he realizes he can't wait to hear from you, so he does the next best thing—he calls you.

The line rings a couple times, and by the third time, he's ready to end the call before he gets sent to voicemail, deeming his reason for pulling you out of sleep so early in the morning to be ridiculous. It was a dream. You're not cheating on him. You wouldn't do that to him. He knows this, yet, here he is, trying to sleep in your bed with you, like a child who woke up from a nightmare, tiptoeing over to their parents' bedroom.

"Hi, Toji," you answer, your voice quiet and slightly raspy with sleep. "Toji?" You call, again, when you get nothing from him. "Are you okay?"

He feels somewhat embarrassed for having woken you up for this, but if the deed has already been done, then he needs to make the most of it.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'm doing just fine. Everything's fine. Listen, would it be alright if I came over?" He asks, already sitting up and getting out of bed.

"It's a little late, isn't it? It's..." you hum as you quickly check your phone, "...two seventeen," you respond, trying your hardest not to nod off as you lie comfortably on your side, your phone placed between your ear and your pillow, again.

"I know. I'm sorry. You don't have to wait up for me, though. I can let myself in. You gave me your spare, remember?"

You blink, tiredly, and remain silent for a few seconds until Toji calls for you. "Yeah, okay, then. Drive safe. It's raining really hard."

"Will do, mama. I'll see you soon. Love you."

"Love you," you mumble, before hanging up the phone. You went right back to sleep, afterwards. The sound of the rain pouring outside was soothing and the coldness that came with the weather made the perfect contrast to the warmth of the blanket you bundled yourself in.

Toji got to your place twenty-something minutes later. His hoodie was heavily spotted with the raindrops it caught during the walk to your front door from his car. He fishes out his keys from his pocket and looks for a shiny, bronze key on his keyring. Once he has it, getting into your warm home goes smoothly. From taking off his shoes and setting them beside yours, to removing his hoodie so that the wetness doesn't touch you, he moves quickly. He doesn't stray from his path to finding you, not even to grab a snack from your kitchen cabinets like he normally does, no matter the time—he just goes straight to your room.

When he opens the door, Toji is met with nothing more than the adorable sight of you curled up in bed, like a puppy sleeping peacefully under a heap of toasty blankets. He shuts the door behind him, quietly, and moves swiftly, but carefully, so that he doesn't wake you up before he even starts crawling into bed with you. He gently lifts the blanket off the vacant side of your bed, and slides into his place beside you. Instantly greeted by the warmth you generated, he feels the urge to pull you into his arms and just hold you all night.

"Sorry, baby. I know i'm cold," he says, softly, when you stir at the iciness of his fingers dragging up and down the side of your neck.

You blink your heavy eyes open and take in the sight of Toji right in front of you. Him calling you wasn't part of a hyper realistic dream, he's actually in bed with you.

"What's wrong?" You ask, concerned for his reason for wanting to be there in the early hours of the morning, rather than just waiting until later on in the day. You had plans to meet, anyway. What is so important that he couldn't wait until then?

"It's nothing to worry about. Just wanted to be here with you," he responds, not totally lying, but also not telling the whole truth.

"Remember what I told you when we first met?" You mumble, not satisfied with the vagueness of his response. There seems to be more that he isn't telling you.

"You said a lot of things to me that day," he responds, with a low chuckle.

"I did," you agree, smiling softly at the memory. "I also told you something important that day, didn't I?"

You watch the contemplative expression on his face, the outward appearance of his brain whirring. It's cute, even in his handsomeness. "Do you want a hint?" You ask, though when you see his eyes widen a little, you know he won't need it.

"You're better at listening than you are at talking," he recites, with a smirk, like he's patting himself on the back for being able to remember.

"Right. So, if there's something wrong, I want to know about it. I know i'm not the best conversationalist, but you know that I always try for you."

Now that you're more awake, Toji doesn't feel so heartless for handling you like you're merely a teddy bear, so that you're lying on top of him. He wants you close to him all the time, but when you say things like that, he instantly feels the need to bring you closer. It's pure instinct by now.

"You ever get tired of me just scooping you up out of nowhere?" He asks, lips curled in amusement as he watches and feels you wiggling around, trying to make yourself comfortable. Finally, you rest your head on the upper part of his chest and let your arms go limp beside him.

"Never," you respond, simply, smiling when a low chuckle rumbles out of Toji's chest.

His arms tighten around you a little more when the room goes silent, and then he remembers why he's here. He can't lose this. Your warmth, your careful affection, the way you constantly look at him like he's the reason the moon and the stars shine at night. He never wants you to look at him another way. There's absolutely nothing hard about loving you, and if you can't believe it on your own, he'll prove it to you.

"You know how much I love you, don't you, doll?" He asks, his palms finally warm enough to work as heating pads for your back.

"I do," you assure. Maybe this is his concern—that he's not showing you enough love. No, that can't be it. If that was it, he would've waited until later on in the day to see you and talk about it.

"And how much I need you? Do you know that, too?" To that, he doesn't get a response from you. He knows you aren't sleeping, because he can feel your legs shifting against his every once in a while.

"Doll?" He calls.

You let out a soft breath, before responding with your truth.

"I don't know if you need me, Toji. When you tell me you love me, I believe it, because I feel it and I know it, but I don't think you need me."

"Don't..." he sighs, not expecting this as a response from you. "...don't say that. Don't you dare say that. What does that even mean? Because I don't fucking get it. I really don't, ma."

Your heart rate picks up a little, but you try to keep yourself as calm as possible. You understand that this isn't something he wants to hear, as the one who's helped you through so much, but you can't help but share how things feel on your end.

"Don't you ever think about how much better it would be for you to love someone who makes things easier on you rather than overcomplicating them? Someone who tells you what they want straight up, instead of having you basically pry the words from them?"

Toji stays quiet this time, not because he agrees, but because he's figuring out how to say things without it being explosive. He knows that those few seconds of relief will be followed up by a tidal wave of regret. It's not worth it. You're his little sunshine and he would never forgive himself if he was the reason for why your light died out.

"I love you, Toji, but I think about that a lot. I want you to know that if you ever get tired of me-"

"Don't finish that sentence," he cuts. "I don't wanna hear it."

There's no playfulness or warmth to his tone. Nothing but the weight of his words. Your heart feels a little heavier, but you brush it off and utter a phrase that you're all too familiar with.

"Sorry."

You feel nervous, and not in the "good" way. Not in the way that makes your cheeks heat up and your stomach swarm with butterflies, but instead the way that makes your chest feel strange, and like there's a knot forming in your throat.

"I don't wanna hear that either, doll," Toji says in response, his tone softer, now, his thoughts collected. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you like that. You know I love you." He presses a kiss to the top of your head and rubs the center of your back in soothing motions. The silence that returns makes your heart beat even faster. You wonder if Toji can hear it through the lack of sound in the room.

"I had a really stupid dream," Toji finally confesses, a low, humorless chuckle vibrating against his chest. "I mean, really stupid. Can I tell you about it?"

"You don't have to ask, baby," you respond. Your cheeks go warm at your use of the pet name, but it felt right in the moment. Maybe this is what's been lodged in his mind this whole time. You want him to feel as comfortable as possible as he recounts it to you.

Toji smiles softly at the term of endearment you used for him. Somehow, the way you said the word made it sound softer and even more cushioned than it already is.

His arms readjust around you, tightening the perfect amount so that you're secure against him and he can feel more of your body's warmth on his. He peppers a few more kisses on the top of your head before going on to tell you about his dream.

"So, I kind of just spawned into a room where you and some random guy were sitting on a bench, and he was getting really touchy with you. His hands were rubbing your thighs and your shoulders and..." He pauses. This is his least favorite part. He didn't like any part of it, but this part took the cake, because no one kisses your lips but him.

"It's okay," you say, encouragingly. You rub his side a few times and endure a squeeze of his arms—the equivalence of a rush of emotional support in a gesture.

"Well, you and him started locking lips, and it looked like you were really enjoying it. Your eyes were sparkly and you were smiling at him all pretty." He sighs, bothered anew, the same way he was when he first woke up. "See, I told you it was stupid," he grumbles, mildly embarrassed. "Obviously not stupid enough for me to sleep in my own bed for the night. It's fucking ridiculous. Sorry, doll."

You utter another phrase you're all too familiar with—not one you say often, but one you hear from Toji plenty.

"Don't apologize," you murmur. A few seconds pass, and you know just what to say. "Toji?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

You say it like it's as easy as breathing, because it is. There's nothing hard about loving Toji. He's good to you. It's a love you've never experienced with another, and you do your damn best for him, which is why him showing up at two a.m. isn't a problem. Him crawling into your bed, and reaching for you with hands that are cold as ice isn't a problem. He needs comfort this time, and all you can do is hope that the way you console him is enough.

"Only you, and that's how it'll always be. Your brain thought it would be funny to trick you, but it grayed on the fact that I suck at talking to people."

That made him snicker. It wasn't a reaction meant to ridicule you, rather one of immediate relief, due to the confirmation you gave him about his place as your only love.

"Not that i'm interested in pursuing others, but how am I gonna go for someone else, when I can barely talk to you?"

Now that made him full on chuckle, and you just lay there on him, withstanding the crushing sensation of his arms squeezing you impossibly tighter. You fear he might break you, but you would endure that momentary loss of breath any day if it means his heart remains whole.

"God, I love you so damn much," he murmurs, low against the top of your head. "I love you," he says, pressing yet another affectionate kiss to the area. "And I need you. I want you to understand that by... now. I need you to understand it, right now, baby."

"I don't think that's how it works," you say, humming out a soft laugh.

"Well, we're gonna make it work. Alright? You're gonna understand how much I need you."

"Okay," you say, resigned to his perseverance.

"Okay?" He repeats.

"Yeah," you confirm, lips curling, amusedly.

"Yeah?" He copies once more, knowing it'll grant him one of his favorite little sounds from you.

You giggle. "Yes, Toji."

With that, he's flipping you over, his position expressively dominant, now. It's dark in your room, so you can't really see much, but you can make out most of his handsome features, and you can feel his body heat embracing you, just as much as it did a few seconds ago. His hands are planted right beside your head and he's peering down at you, smirking at the way you look at him, like you haven't caught up with how he handled you so delicately yet efficiently to switch positions.

"You always look so pretty under me," he murmurs, leaning in closer. You in so that you see nothing but him. His hands ball up the sheets beneath them, carelessly wrinkling them as he remains merely inches above you. You slowly release the breath you've been holding in. "You mad at me, baby?"

"No," you answer, trying to remain calm, despite the heat that is beginning to seep into your face. "You've done nothing for me to be mad about, so why would I be mad at you?"

His lips press against the lower part of your cheek—a deep kiss right above your jaw. "'Cause i'm kinda dumb and do shit like this. I woke you up, and now you're losing sleep," he murmurs, against your skin.

"It's okay, Toji," you gently reassure. "I understand and I'm not mad at you." Your hands come up to his back, tentatively, feeling the body warmth that seeps through his shirt.

"No?" He asks, pressing a soft kiss closer to the corner of your lips. "You promise?"

As if trying to further comfort the giant hovering over you, you rub his back in gentle motions.

"There's nothing to be mad about. You've done nothing wrong and you're always welcome here, love." You smile when he continues planting little kisses on your cheek while you keep talking. "You have my spare key, because I trust you and I have nothing to hide from you. If giving you that key means you show up here in the early hours of the morning, because you don't want to be alone, that's okay, too. So, yes, I promise i'm not mad."

A low hum comes from Toji as his kisses inch towards your lips. A few land on the corner of your lips, then he's just a little bit off, and then finally, his lips center on yours. You feel butterflies begin to flutter around your stomach as he collects kiss after kiss from you.

"You tired, pretty baby?" He asks, his voice only audible between you and him. Not even the thin walls of your room can take away the intimacy.

"I wanna be awake with you," you respond, your voice matching the low volume of his.

"You sure?" He asks, and you do your best to convince him that you are. Your hands pull away from where they once rested on his back and you raise them to cup his cheeks with slightly shaky hands. Your touch is gentle, maybe even a little hesitant, as you begin to slowly stroke the softness of his skin. This is one of the very rare times when Toji accepts your actions in place of your words.

Your thumb brushes over the scar on his lips, and before you can even process it, his lips are on yours, again. You can feel the flourishing warmth of his face beneath your palms as he kisses you with an unexpected amount of fervor. You hear soft panting from him, as a result of him hungrily chasing kiss after kiss from you. He challenges your lungs, letting them feel a slight burn when he doesn't pull away after you've reached your limit. It's not until you're breathing heavily that he lets you go, and begins to scatter soft kisses along the side of your neck.

"Baby," he hums against your neck, leaving another kiss behind. "My sweet, pretty baby. How do you do it?"

"Do what?" You ask, smiling as he continues to let his lips feed off the warmth and softness of your skin.

"How do always manage to keep things so peaceful?" He responds. His heart beats slightly faster when you release a precious laugh at the question. "Things are just... so damn simple with you," he says, softly, as he goes lower down your body. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and begin to slowly roll it above your stomach. He instantly takes note of the goosebumps that rise when his palms graze your bare skin.

"I know how much you try for me, and fuck, i'm not dismissing your effort, but I also want you to understand that it's not hard to treat you right." His hands grip your waist, loosely, and he leans in to place a kiss on your stomach.

"There's nothing hard about being with you..." he murmurs beneath your ribs, "...and waiting for you. You aren't difficult like you think you are, sweet girl."

"You promise, Toji?" You ask, glancing down at him as he continues leaving kisses on your skin.

"I promise," he assures, meeting your gaze as he presses another kiss right beneath your chest. "You want me to stop?" He asks, aware of the lack of coverage for your chest under your shirt.

"You can keep going," you respond, willing yourself to relax under his touch. He doesn't waste any time, and immediately buries his face in your bare chest. For a moment, there's no major movement coming from him, just his breathing. You think maybe he's just savoring the warmth that you've accumulated after spending hours under your blanket, but he full on melts into your body. His arms go beneath you, allowing him to wrap around you tightly once more, and he releases an audibly heavy sigh.

"It's okay," you say, softly. You keep one hand on his upper back, while the other gently plays with his hair.

He's not sure if he deserves the tenderness your touch holds for him. He tries to be as gentle and careful with you as he can, but he's so scared that one day you'll shatter and it'll be his fault. You'll walk away from him with no intention of ever coming back and something that was so good to him will be gone. You deserve to be happy—always. He knows this, but he doesn't want to picture somebody else making you happy like he does. He can't accept that. You're his girl.

"Toji?" You call. You know your little place isn't the most high end of them all, but you also know that it's not falling apart. There's no way for the rain to reach your skin if there's no hole in your roof.

"Toji?" You call once more when he doesn't answer. Your hands still on him when you feel his shoulders stutter. You have your own glum cloud resting on top of you. You feel something wet land on your chest—it's starting to rain a little.

"It's okay," you whisper, resuming the gentle motions on his back and the back of his head. "It's okay." You feel him begin to leave languid, spaced out, featherlight kisses on your chest, and you want to freeze. You want to express how impactful the gestures are, and how they animate the butterflies that reside in your stomach, but you can't. You can't and you won't do it, because it's your turn to prove that you'll take care of him when he's not at one hundred percent.

"It's... it's gonna be okay. I have you," you assure, feeling the softness of his hair between your fingers as you repeatedly thread them through, and the movement of his back beneath your other hand as he breathes. "And you will always have me, and I love you with all my heart, Toji. I need you to understand that, right now," you tease, lightheartedly, echoing his earlier words back to him in an attempt to make him feel better. You hear a congested sound, something between a laugh and a hitch in his breathing.

Not another sound is made for the next few minutes, no words spoken. Your skin catches a few more of Toji's tears as he continues to brush his lips against the entirety of your chest, reveling in the warmth of your skin. Toji can hear your heart beating rapidly in your chest—the way it always is whenever he's around you. Normally, he teases you about it. 'Your heart's gonna explode if you don't calm down.' 'We don't even have to do cardio to get your heart going.' Sometimes, he just holds his fingers against the pulse point on your neck and laughs at the rapid thrumming against his fingertips. He finds it endearing, but right now, it's a comfort.

You don't mind the occasional slight pinch of his lips—the more physical proof of his appreciative affection. You simply remain focused on soothing him and reassuring him of how strong your love for him is and will always be.

"Don't know what I'd do without you, ma," he mumbles, his cheek resting on your chest. He could fall asleep so easily to the sound of your heartbeat in his ears, the feeling of you playing with his hair, and the way you slowly rub his back, but he's torn between staying where he is and coming back up to hold you close through the rest of the early morning.

"I promise I'm not going anywhere," you assure, wholeheartedly.

With that response, Toji makes his choice. He pulls his arms out from beneath you and sits on his knees, between your legs for the quick second it takes him to fix your shirt. After, he lifts the blanket and reclaims his rightful spot beside you.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you into his arms without an ounce of struggle. He waits for you to settle, back against his chest, before fully enveloping you in his warm embrace.

"It sounds like pebbles hitting the roof instead of raindrops."

"Mhm," he hums, into your neck, letting his hand slide beneath the front of your shirt to caress the soft skin of your abdomen. "If your roof starts leaking, you're coming to stay with me." It's not a question or an offer.

You laugh. "The rain isn't that bad."

"Mm..." His lips home to your shoulder, a gentle peck placed on the concealed area. "Love seeing your pretty face first thing in the morning. You stay with me if your ceiling ever caves. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, through a giggle. "You'll be my first call."

"Good," he murmurs.

"I'll make you breakfast later, when we wake up."

And though Toji responds with, "Sounds good, ma," all he can think about is how you're going to struggle so hard to get out of bed because he's going to make it nearly impossible for you to do so. The gears are already turning in his head. He'll pin you down, he'll strengthen his hold around you, he'll roll on top of you "in his sleep". You're too polite for your own good, you most likely won't try to wake him up. He'll swaddle you in the blanket, he'll tie your shirts together in a tight knot-

"Goodnight, Toji," you mumble, feeling your tiredness return as he continues drawing little lines and shapes on your stomach.

"'Night, baby," he murmurs, feeling much more content and at peace with the idea of sleeping knowing that you're in his arms, not in anyone else's.

[your-internet-bf]

We hadn't always gotten along. When our parents got married, we could barely stand each other. How could we get along with some brat we barely knew? Luckily, I had an idea. I bought a clicker - you know, the one they use to train dogs? - and got to work.

I started with "thank you". Every time you said it, maybe at dinner, in the car, at a restaurant, I pressed the clicker. You couldn't tell where the sound was coming from, and nobody else seemed to know what you were talking about. But soon, I started helping you with chores around the house and when we finished, *click*. And without really thinking about it, you'd say "thank you."

A few months passed, and you'd started to notice things about me. I took care of myself. I was clean, and I exercised regularly. You'd hang around when you knew I'd be back from the gym just to catch a whiff of the sweat and metal on me when I returned - our eyes caught once when you got a little too close, and for the first time you saw something primal, a little dark, in my gaze. But it passed in an instant.

We started getting along better, now. So one day, when you were lying on the couch with a snack bowl, I snatched it up and motioned to throw it into your mouth. Well, innocent enough, right? And it wasn't like I was eating much, so it's fine, right? Every time you open your mouth to catch, *click*, *click*, *click*.

Then, I invited you to come work out with me. Every time you did a squat, *click*. I told you it was a metronome to keep your intensity up, but you noticed the bulge in my sweatpants was bigger than usual. Wait, when did you start noticing my bulge, especially enough to know that...?

Finally, it was time. I'd been listening outside your bedroom door for weeks now, and I knew when you'd be asleep. I quietly opened your door and stepped into your room, locking it behind me. You stirred at the sound of the lock clicking, but I wasn't afraid.

I gingerly pulled down the covers and just... stared for a while. I'd never taken the time to really look at how beautiful you are, how gorgeous those curves were. I could hardly stand it. As you lay on your side, I took out the clicker, and *click* it once. Laying on your side, like you were on the couch with the snacks, you obediently open your mouth.

I pull down my pants, my long, thick cock swinging between my thighs. I brush the back of my hand over your cheek, then set it firmly against the back of your head, and push into your mouth.

You wake up almost immediately, but my hand stops you from pulling back as I force inch after throbbing inch down your throat. The more you struggle, the tighter you feel, the harder I push, until you felt your nose press into my hips. You push as hard as you can against me, but I'm so much bigger and stronger than you it doesn't do anything. I don't even budge.

I start to grind into your skull, making you swallow the thick, heavy head of my cock again and again, as I groan in pleasure. I start thrusting harder and harder, making your eyes water as I slam my hips into your face again and again, until finally, mercifully, I release inside you, deep inside your throat. You feel me pulse with your whole mouth, and you struggle to swallow each load of thick, hot, sticky cum while I'm still inside you.

With a shuddering breath, I pull out, letting you breathe properly for the first time in minutes. I watch while you cough and catch your breath, and then I ask, "what do you say?"

You breathe in intending to scream, but then you hear it, just one soft *click*, and all you can say is "thank you".

You stare at me, confused. I wipe my cum off your chin with my thumb, and *click* again. "Thank you", you say.

"I knew it. You're such a good girl, aren't you? Now," I push you onto your back, "spread for me."

*click*

You raise your legs to either side, exactly like you're doing a squat.

"I don't - I don't understand," you whimper, legs still in the air.

"You don't have to," I reply, reaching one hand between your legs to feel how wet you are.

"You're soaking, little girl," as I bring my hand up for you to see... Then make you taste it. I reach back down and slip in two of my thick, strong fingers, and cover your mouth with my other hand as you moan. I press up in just the right spot, rubbing in tight, quick circles so deliciously that you can't help but arch your back and grind into me. You feel the pleasure build and all thought leaves your mind; the only thing that matters is my fingers inside you, the scent of my hand over your mouth, and the lingering taste of me.

But before you can finish I pull my fingers out, pressing up and out, leaving you twitching and gasping. "Not yet," I mutter, and I move myself down between your legs. I line up my cock, slapping it down on your tummy first. It reaches your navel, and you feel a wave of fear that only makes you wetter. I pull back, then start pushing in.

It's thick, thick, thick, and heavy. I stretch you out wider than you thought possible, pressuring you in every direction, spreading your aching cunt and making you feel full inside for the first time in your life. Long, deep strokes, moving your whole body with every thrust, reaching inside you, my breath coming fast and hard.

And you hear it again.

*click*

"Thank you," you choke out between sobs.

*click*

"Thank you," you moan.

*click*

"Thank you," you plead, tears in your eyes.

My strokes come faster now, slamming inside you like an animal as you continue to thank me for raping you. Finally, finally, finally, you feel me tense up and slam deep, deep, deep inside you, pressing your whole body into the bed, as I cum again. Huge, hot, sticky white loads of my cum shoot inside you, filling you, as my breath comes in gasps, and as I do you feel it too, now, the wave of pleasure cresting, and you cum, your legs squeezing together, your face screwed tight, moaning with the release of months of tension. And as you cum, you hear a new sound, a familiar sound, but it's deeper than the others...

*click*

And you cum harder, knowing I'm training you like a bitch in heat.

I climb up next to you, and just gaze into your eyes for a moment. Then I smile. "Let's go again."

*click*

[casuallyanidiot]

More Yandere Nerd thoughts...

Dead Dove Do Not Eat! MDNI ! NSFW !

Tw. Dubcon/ Noncon, stalking, yandere, mansplainer supreme, voyeurism, dumbification

Yandere Nerd who stares at you every single day in class. He thinks you're so pretty and cute, and he fucks his fist to the thought of you multiple times a day. He thinks you're far too dumb to truly be on par with him, but he likes that you're just smart enough to understand the same things he does.

Yandere Nerd who loves the confused little face you make when he goes off about some niche, hard to comprehend topic that he spends far too much time researching outside of class. You're not a ditz, but he likes being the one to put you in the same place as all the other brainless, pretty faced sluts he sees prance around on campus. No, no see you've got substance, don't you? That's probably the only thing more alluring that that adorable little hole he knows you have hidden so unfairly underneath all of your clothes.

Yandere Nerd who seethes with jealousy every time you get a shred of attention from anyone else. He hopes you're not fucking someone else behind his back. If you are, he loses his mind. How could you go for someone so lackluster in comparison to him? He'd lavish you with gifts, praise and attention if you would just look his way. In fact, he'd give you a lot more than that. He'd pound into you until you were babbling, speechless, and all you had to worry about was how stuffed full of cum you were going to be by the time he was done with you.

Yandere Nerd who is so damn insufferable when he gets his hands on you. He loves the fact that he has a little cutie like you in his life, and sometimes online he'll post photos of your gaping, stretched out entrance onto some obscure forum just so he can brag about how his little fucktoy is the best one there is.

Yandere Nerd who wants to see you wearing shit from his favorite hentai. Microkinis with stockings, cat ears, bunny outfits, maid costumes, virgin killer sweaters: you name it, and he's slapping his card on the table just so he can pound you silly in it. He loves taking photos of you from lewd angles. He makes you sit down and compare the ones he takes of you now that you're "dating" versus the more rushed, unflattering ones he got while sneaking cameras into your old room. He also makes you masturbate to your own pictures. His little darling has got to practice self love, you know?

Yandere nerd who tries to get you into every fandom and interest he has. He'll strap you down and keep you tied to a fucking machine for hours if you get the lore wrong for his favorite video game or book series, so you better pay attention if you don't want to get any dumber.

Yandere Nerd who makes you come up with new ways to reward him every time he accomplishes something academically.

"If I get a 98 or above on this exam, you have to cock warm me with your mouth for at least three hours while you sit on a dildo as a treat. You will do it, right? For me? Don't I deserve a treat for once?"

He doesn't even have to try all that hard to score that high, he just likes seeing you hope that he fails even though you know it's no use. Yandere Nerd is an asshole, and he totally deserved to be rejected by you before you got kidnapped, but how're you going to tell him that when you're stuck sucking on his balls?

[kianamaiart]

The rise of indie is actually very bad for artists born in the late 90's/early 2000's because they weren't old enough to join the industry back when it wasn't complete fucking AI garbo and now they've been permanently screwed out of ever making it big because now the only way to go indie is to be an industry bigshot with loads of connections to celebrities and now it's impossible to ever get those things in the first place. I never even WANTED to go indie, I WANTED to make shows and movies and games as part of the industry because I'm a broke nobody who can't single-handedly fund and run an entire production but now I can't because it sucks ass and people like you completely screwed up the intended process.

I'm not even mad at this because yeah the industry sucks right now and I understand how frustrating it is. I was gonna ignore this one but I'll use it as a way to give some unsolicited advice

If you want to work for Disney or corporate studio, I promise they're still here! I'm not sure what the rise of indie has to do with it. If anything the rise of indie is waking studios up and forcing them to be more competitive (and also realize that audiences want ART and work that is honest rather than watered down versions of concepts).

Connections can be made anywhere! Go outside, talk to your peers, or go online and make friends! While yes, I work at Disney, the voice actors and a good chunk of people who helped me on this project were just people I made friends with on twitter, were friends from high school or college etc. Talented people are out there and a lot of them willing to help with creative projects for the sake of making art. Just ask! That one indie studio making Legend of Maya just landed Kimiko Glenn and Keith David to voice on their project! To my knowledge the people behind it are not "industry bigshots" and aren't huge online either (around 800 followers on twitter). They're just creative folks with a lot of passion, a good pitch and also weren't scared to reach for the stars.

Funding projects is hard, absolutely, but again, there are lots of creatives doing it for the love of the craft and just wanna work on cool projects. I've work on a lot of friends' projects for free just because I believe in their projects and they looked fun to work on! The reverse was same for my friends who decided to help me as a favor.

You're not a nobody. At least you don't have to be. Put your work out there, make your art, find your communities and then make more art!

[plutosunshine]

What changes do you need to make in your life? Uranus in houses

Uranus in the 1st house

If you have Uranus in the 1st house, life is kinda asking you — maybe even pushing you — to embrace your individuality completely. Like, not just surface-level "I'm a little different" — but deep, radical self-acceptance. You're meant to stand out. You’re not here to fit into neat little boxes or live by someone else’s blueprint. And honestly, the more you try to "blend in," the more uncomfortable and restless you’ll probably feel.

Change for you often looks like breaking free from old versions of yourself — shedding layers of identity that don't match who you actually are inside. It's almost like you have to reinvent yourself several times through life, and each time you get closer to your truest, most electric version.

Also, people with Uranus in the 1st house sometimes shock others without meaning to — just by being themselves. If you've ever felt like people either instantly "get you" or are like, "Whoa, what are they about?" — that's totally part of your magic. You're meant to wake people up just by existing. So part of the change you might need is learning not to shrink yourself to make others more comfortable. Your energy shakes things up, and the world needs that.

Basically, life is asking you to be bold about who you are. Own your quirks, trust your instincts, and don't be afraid of people who don't "get it." Your real people will. ⚡

Uranus in the 2nd house

When Uranus is in your 2nd house, life kinda whispers (or sometimes yells), "Hey, your relationship to money, possessions, and self-worth isn't meant to be traditional." Stability in those areas? It's a moving target. You might experience sudden gains and losses, or your income might come from weird, unconventional, or unexpected places — like random side hustles, tech stuff, spiritual work, inventions, or just not the typical 9-5 route.

You're not supposed to cling too hard to stuff — money, belongings, even security in the "normal" sense — because Uranus wants you to find your true value somewhere deeper. It's like life challenges you to stay flexible, resourceful, and open to change. If you ever try to "lock down" your finances too tightly, life might throw curveballs just to remind you: "Hey, you can't control this like everyone else does."

What you’re really being nudged toward is a more authentic, liberated version of security — one that's based on your own inner worth, not just how much is in your bank account or what you own. That can feel wild sometimes, but it’s where your freedom and true abundance live.

Also, with Uranus here, you probably have some super unique talents or ways of creating value — like, skills that aren't "standard issue." Part of your life path is trusting that and not trying to be cookie-cutter about how you "should" earn or what you "should" have.

In short: you’re here to redefine what stability means — on your terms. And once you stop trying to do it the way everyone else expects, the real magic flows.

Uranus in the 3rd house

If you’ve got Uranus in the 3rd house, your mind doesn’t work like everyone else's — and that’s a huge gift. You're wired to think fast, differently, outside the box. Like, while everyone else is still putting the pieces of a puzzle together, you're already looking at the next puzzle two steps ahead. Your ideas can be brilliant, futuristic, and honestly, sometimes even too "out there" for people to immediately understand.

Life pushes you to communicate in your own unique way — whether that’s through writing, speaking, tech, memes, art, whatever fits your flavor. You’re probably not here to just parrot what’s already been said — you're here to spark new conversations. It’s very "I have something different to say, and if you don't get it, that's fine — you'll catch up."

Change-wise, Uranus in the 3rd house wants you to free your voice. Don’t water yourself down just to be understood easily. You're meant to bring new ideas into the world, even if it feels like you're shouting into the void sometimes. You’re also probably here to teach or influence people in unexpected ways — even just by chatting or posting online. You might drop a random comment that seriously changes someone's life without even trying.

Also, heads up: your day-to-day life can be kinda unpredictable. Last-minute trips, sudden changes in plans, weird encounters with siblings or neighbors — that's all very Uranus 3rd house energy. The universe likes to keep your environment stimulating, because your brain craves newness and movement.

So overall, life’s asking you to trust your strange, electric mind — and share it, even if it feels like no one gets it at first. You’re a mental pioneer. 🧠⚡

Uranus in the 4th house

When Uranus is in your 4th house, home and family roots are not exactly "normal" — and they’re not supposed to be. You might have grown up in a household that felt a little unstable, eccentric, chaotic, or just different from what most people around you experienced. Maybe there were sudden moves, surprising family dynamics, or a general sense that home didn’t always mean "predictable."

At a soul level, life is nudging you to redefine what home and emotional security mean for yourself. You’re probably not meant to live a super traditional, white-picket-fence kind of life — unless you totally reinvent what that looks like for you. You're wired to crave emotional freedom as much as emotional connection, which can be a weird balancing act. You want to belong, but not if it means losing yourself.

One big change Uranus asks from you is to detach from old family patterns that no longer support who you are becoming. You might be the one in your family who “breaks the chain” — doing life differently, healing old emotional wounds, choosing freedom over stuck loyalty.

Also, you may randomly move at unexpected times, live in unusual places, have a very unique home setup, or create a kind of “chosen family” of your own. Home for you isn't necessarily one physical place — it’s more about finding people and spaces where you can breathe, be weird, and feel truly safe being yourself.

If you ever feel like your foundation is shaking, it’s usually Uranus asking, "Is this still real for you? Or are you clinging to something out of fear?" And if it’s not authentic, life will eventually push you to shake it loose.

In short: your soul's mission is to create an emotional life based on truth, not tradition — and it's okay if it looks totally different from what you grew up with. In fact, it’s supposed to. 💫

Uranus in the 5th house

When Uranus is in your 5th house, life is saying loud and clear: "You’re not here to create like everyone else. You’re here to shock, inspire, and completely rewrite the rules of self-expression." Your creativity, your passions, even the way you love — it’s all electric, unpredictable, and absolutely unique to you.

You probably get flashes of inspiration out of nowhere — like one minute you're just living your life, the next you’re hit with a wild idea that’s lightyears ahead of its time. Follow those sparks. Your soul is happiest when you’re making or doing something that feels exciting, different, even a little rebellious.

When it comes to love and dating? Yeahhh... not exactly "by the book" either. 😂 You need excitement, freedom, and real connection — not just safe, boring routines. People who try to tie you down too fast or expect you to follow some romance script might make you want to run for the hills. Fast. Love for you needs to feel like an adventure, not an obligation.

Also, with Uranus in the 5th, you're meant to experiment with joy — find what lights you up and don’t be afraid if it changes over time. Hobbies, art, passion projects, even the way you relate to kids (if you have them or ever do) will all have a non-traditional flavor.

The big change Uranus asks of you is to trust your weird, wonderful self-expression, even if it doesn’t make sense to others. You’re not here to color inside the lines — you're here to invent whole new colors. 🎨⚡

And honestly, when you really let yourself play your way, life becomes magic.

Uranus in the 6th house

If Uranus is in your 6th house, life is basically saying: "You’re not meant to do work, health, or daily life the 'normal' way — and the sooner you own that, the freer and happier you’ll be."

You probably get restless with routines that feel too rigid or boring. Clocking into a 9-5 every day doing the same thing forever? Hard pass. Your soul craves freedom in your work life — meaning freelance gigs, weird career paths, sudden changes in job direction, or working somewhere that lets you be independent or innovative. Traditional setups might feel like they drain your life force unless they give you enough space to be you.

And your relationship to health is just as unique. Your body might respond weirdly to stress, routine, diet, or even conventional medicine. Sometimes it’s like your system is more sensitive to energy shifts — so listening to your own intuition, trying alternative healing methods, or mixing different styles might actually work better for you than following the "one size fits all" advice.

The big thing Uranus pushes you to change? Let go of trying to force yourself into boring, mechanical rhythms just because you think you “should.” Find your own rhythm. Make your day-to-day life feel alive, not suffocating. It’s about learning how to serve the world and honor your individuality at the same time — not sacrificing one for the other.

Also — random note — you might suddenly shift habits, diets, or routines overnight. Like, you wake up one day and think, "I'm never eating sugar again" or "I'm quitting this job today." And if you trust those intuitive jolts (and they come from real insight, not just rebellion), they can actually be super healthy for you.

In short: build a life that lets you work and live in a way that feels electric, free, and true — even if it looks totally different from what everyone else is doing. 🛠️⚡

Uranus in the 7th house

If you’ve got Uranus in the 7th house, life is basically setting you up for relationships that break the mold. The traditional "settle down, follow the script" thing? Yeah... not really your destiny. Deep down, you crave connection — but it has to come with a huge side of freedom, authenticity, and excitement.

You might attract super unusual, eccentric, brilliant, rebellious partners — people who are totally different from what your family or friends expect. Or your relationships might start in weird, sudden, out-of-nowhere ways. Sometimes it's instant sparks, sometimes it's chaos, but it’s never boring.

One big thing Uranus asks of you is to rethink what partnership means. You’re not here to merge into someone else or lose yourself in "we" — you're here to form relationships where both people still get to be totally themselves. If someone tries to control you or box you in, your soul is gonna scream, "Nope!" even if everything looks good on paper.

There can also be sudden changes in relationships — fast beginnings, sudden breakups, on-and-off vibes — because your partnerships are meant to reflect growth and evolution, not just stability for stability’s sake. Long-term, the kind of relationship that works for you is one that feels like a conscious choice every day, not an obligation you’re stuck in.

You’re meant to experience partnership as something that’s alive, surprising, and full of breathing room — not something that clips your wings. 🪽

In short: you’re here to build new models of love and partnership, ones that are real, free, and yours — even if they don’t look traditional to the outside world.

Uranus in the 8th house

If Uranus is in your 8th house, you are wired for deep transformation, but it’s not going to be slow, steady, or easy — it’s going to come in flashes, breakthroughs, and total holy sht* moments. Life doesn’t let you stay the same for long. You’re built to shed skins, reinvent yourself, and go through some seriously wild inner changes that shock even you sometimes.

The 8th house is about shared energy — intimacy, deep trust, merging resources, death and rebirth (emotionally, spiritually, and sometimes literally dealing with loss). Uranus here brings sudden shifts in all those deep areas. You might experience unexpected changes with money you share with others — inheritance, investments, debts, etc. But even bigger than money? Emotional intimacy. You probably don’t do closeness the "normal" way. You need freedom even in deep bonds — meaning you’ll crave deep connection but also fear losing your independence if it gets too entangled or heavy.

Part of your growth is learning how to let people in without feeling trapped. And honestly? You're meant to attract people who help awaken you — lovers, friends, mentors — not just keep you safe and cozy. Relationships with you can feel electric, transformative, and a little chaotic because you wake people up, and they wake you up right back.

Also, you probably have some crazy strong intuition about hidden things — emotional undercurrents, secrets, even metaphysical stuff like energy healing, astrology, or psychic phenomena. Uranus in the 8th house often gives flashes of insight into the unseen realms.

In short: you’re here to transform, to trust your inner flashes of insight, and to live through depth without losing your freedom. It’s intense, but you were built for this kind of magic. 🖤⚡

Uranus in the 9th house

If Uranus is in your 9th house, your soul is basically wired for exploration, expansion, and truth-seeking — but in the most wild, non-traditional way possible. You’re not here to just accept what you're taught; you’re here to question everything and find your own truth, even if it’s way outside the "normal" zone.

You might have an intense need for freedom through learning, travel, philosophy, or spirituality — but you’ll always approach those things in your own way. Like, traditional religious systems? Academic structures? "One-size-fits-all" beliefs? Nah, that’s not gonna cut it for you. You need room to roam, both mentally and literally. ✈️📚

Big changes with Uranus here usually look like sudden revelations that totally flip your worldview. One day you might believe in X, the next day you're like, "Nope, it’s Y," because a flash of insight hit you so hard you can’t unsee it. And travel? Yeah — you might have unexpected moves, spontaneous trips, or a restless need to experience different cultures and ways of thinking. Even if you stay in one place physically, your mind is always somewhere new, exploring.

In relationships and life in general, you need people around you who respect your mental freedom. Anyone trying to force you into their belief system or limit your thinking? Instantly a no-go for you.

The change Uranus is pushing you toward is breaking free from inherited beliefs and creating your own understanding of the universe — one that's alive, evolving, and completely yours. You’re here to be a trailblazer in thought, not a follower.

In short: You’re meant to wake people up to bigger, freer ways of seeing life — starting with yourself. 🧠🚀

Uranus in the 10th house

If you have Uranus in your 10th house, you are not here to have a "normal" career or public life — at all. Like, truly, you’re built to shock, inspire, and change the system by just being yourself out in the world.

You might have this deep, restless urge to do work that’s different, groundbreaking, or ahead of its time. Sitting at a desk doing the same thing every day under someone else's rules? Not it. You need freedom, innovation, and the space to carve your own path. A lot of people with this placement either blow up suddenly (like, overnight success out of nowhere) or have a career path that's full of random twists, turns, starts, and reboots. You're not supposed to have a straight-line journey. You’re meant to reinvent yourself publicly over and over.

And when it comes to your reputation? People might see you as rebellious, brilliant, eccentric — maybe even a little unpredictable. Some will admire it, some won’t know what to do with you — but either way, you’re unforgettable. Your energy shakes things up wherever you go, especially in the areas of leadership, fame, career, and achievement.

The big shift Uranus demands from you is: don’t force yourself into traditional definitions of "success." You're supposed to define success on your terms, even if nobody else gets it at first. When you stay true to your weird, genius path, that's when the universe really opens doors for you.

You’re basically a walking permission slip for others to realize they can be successful without selling their soul. 🔥

In short: You’re here to change the game — not play it. 🛸🌟

Uranus in the 11th house

If you have Uranus in the 11th house, you’re literally built to find your people — but it’s not gonna happen in a typical, cookie-cutter way. You're supposed to connect with wildly different, progressive, visionary communities — the weirdos, the geniuses, the rebels, the dreamers — the ones who don't just fit in but want to change the whole damn system.

You’re not meant to just be part of any group; you’re here to help invent new movements, ideas, and futures. You might feel restless or out of place in traditional circles because your soul knows you need a tribe that lets you fully be yourself — no masks, no small talk, no shrinking.

You might also notice that friendships and group connections in your life can be sudden, electric, and sometimes unstable. People can come into your life fast and leave just as fast — but every connection usually brings some kind of awakening or shift, even if it’s short-lived.

Career and dreams? You’re meant to dream big — not just for yourself, but for the collective. Like, you’re here to push humanity forward in your own way, whether that’s through tech, social movements, arts, spirituality, or whatever wild path your heart picks. And honestly, you're usually ahead of your time — you see futures that other people haven't even imagined yet.

The big shift Uranus asks of you is: don’t cling to old friendships, networks, or dreams just because they’re comfortable. Your soul craves growth and evolution. And sometimes that means walking away when a community no longer matches your vibration — even if it’s hard.

In short: you’re here to shake up the collective, connect with your soul tribe, and dream the future into being. 🌍🚀

Uranus in the 12th house

If Uranus is in your 12th house, you’ve got this deep, electric connection to the unseen — the collective unconscious, intuition, dreams, energy fields, things most people can’t even put into words. You’re wired to sense shifts before they happen. Sometimes you’ll just know stuff without knowing how you know. It's like you have a built-in cosmic antenna — picking up on vibes, future trends, hidden emotions, even collective spiritual shifts.

But here's the tricky part: because the 12th house is so hidden, a lot of this Uranian lightning might be happening under the surface, inside you — not always super obvious to you or others. You might feel restless without knowing why, or you might have sudden awakenings that feel totally random but actually aren’t.

Freedom, for you, is an inside job. It’s about freeing yourself from old karmic patterns, unconscious fears, and anything that cages your inner wildness. You’re here to break free from invisible prisons — things like self-sabotage, outdated spiritual beliefs, hidden anxieties.

Also? You’re super plugged into the collective energy. When society goes through chaos or awakening (and let’s be real, it does a lot these days), you might feel it in your body and soul before anything even happens externally. You’re like a cosmic early warning system. 🚨✨

The shift Uranus is asking from you is: trust your flashes of insight, even if they come from dreams, meditation, or deep inner nudges that don’t seem logical at first. And learn how to ground your energy so you don’t get overwhelmed by everything you’re sensing.

You’re meant to be a kind of hidden awakener — someone whose very presence, even quietly, stirs change in others on a deep, soul level. 🌀💫

In short: you’re here to awaken not just your own soul, but the collective dream — and it all starts with trusting your inner electric magic.

[gojosconsort]

loved ur older bf toji i need one for nanami RIGHT NEOW

OLDER BF!KENTO ♡ // HEADCANONS

���➷ CONTENT. you're kento’s sweet little controversial younger girlfirend.

♡ PAIRING. afab!reader x older bf!kento

♡ WARNINGS. mdni. age gap, bondage, fingering, spanking, oral sex (f and m), creampie, deepthroating, praise kink, size kink, possessiveness, degradation.

♡ AUTHOR’S NOTE. my frist request! hope you like it <3

OLDER BF!KENTO who meets you at a quiet café where you’re a part-time barista, fumbling an order because you’re distracted by his looks (understandably). he tips generously, leaving a handwritten note with his number on the receipt.

OLDER BF!KENTO who takes you out for a proper dinner that first night, all gentlemanly charm, but later pins you against his car in the parking lot, kissing you hard and murmuring, “been wanting this all damn night,” before sliding his hand under your dress.

OLDER BF!KENTO who’s huge—like, damn, how’s that gonna fit?—but he’s so good with it. takes his time, easing into you inch by inch, whispering, “you’re taking me so well, baby, fuck, you’re amazing—doesn’t hurt, right?” and it doesn’t, ‘cause he’s so slick with the prep.

OLDER BF!KENTO who smirks when you’re sore the next day, kissing your forehead and saying, “slept well? you’re so beautiful like this,” meaning fucked out. then he’s making you breakfast, all casual like he didn’t just ruin you the night before.

OLDER BF!KENTO who walks you home after every date, even if it’s just down the street, holding your hand and chatting about random things. he lingers at your door, kissing your forehead soft and slow, saying, “sleep tight, darling.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who brings you to his place after a long day, cooking you dinner—then bends you over the kitchen counter, hiking your skirt up, and fucking you deep and hard, whispering, “good girls get rewarded.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who surprises you with a weekend getaway to a secluded cabin with a “pack light” instructions—only to spend half the trip with you naked across his lap, spanking you for teasing him by the fireplace, then fingering you ‘til you’re a whimpering mess.

OLDER BF!KENTO who meets your friends at a chill hangout, and they pull you aside, “isn’t he kinda old for you?” you shrug and say, “yeah, but he fucks too good,” as a joke while he sips his drink, pretending he didn’t hear and prove to you later that he fucks you more than good.

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves to strip you down to just his oversized dress shirt, then tosses you on the bed, and eats you out like a man starved—holding your thighs down when you squirm, saying, “stay still, princess, i’m not done.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who’s always got a hand on your knee when you’re in his car, loving how small you look next to him—like his little passenger princess who doesn’t need to lift a finger.

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves when you deepthroat him after a long day, sitting back in his armchair, watching you struggle to take all of him. he doesn’t help, just pets your hair and says, “you take me so good.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who gets mistaken for a professor when he picks you up from a college class you’re auditing. he plays along, then pins you to his couch later, making you choke on his cock while he lectures, “good girls swallow.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who gets quite jealous when some young coworker flirts with you at a work event. later, he’s got your wrists tied, pinning you to the hotel wall, fucking you rough, “think that kid can handle you? say my name louder,” then spanks you for good measure.

OLDER BF!KENTO who’s waiting outside when you stumble out late from a girls’ night, frowning ‘til he sees you’re safe. he opens the car door for you, saying, “next time, you call me sooner—i don’t like you out here alone.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who tucks you in when you fall asleep on the couch, lifting you gently to bed and brushing hair from your face with a quiet, “can’t have my baby all twisted up out here.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who takes you to a stuffy work dinner where his colleagues whisper about “bringing someone so young,” but he just grips your thigh under the table, murmuring, “let ‘em talk.” because he genuinely doesn’t care.

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves when you’re bratty, pinning you down and spanking your pussy ‘til it’s dripping, then filling you up wiht a low, “this what you were after, huh? my attention—fucking take it then.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who ties you up with his tie after you tease him one too many times, binding your hands behind your back and bending you over before he pounds into you from behind, “tease me again, and i’ll leave you like this all night—fuck, you’re tight.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who loves to tie you up in his bedroom—black ropes crisscrossing your torso, arms bound tight behind your back, legs spread and tied to the bedframe, and then fucks you from behind, “you’re a fucking beautiful like this—can’t move, can you? good.”

OLDER BF!KENTO who wakes you up with slow morning sex, pinning your wrists behind your back and fucking you lazy and deep, always ending with a shuddered, “gotta cum inside you—shit, baby, you’re mine, feel it.” he stays buried in you after, kissing your neck all sweet while his cum drips out of you.

————— ୨୧ —————

⁀➷ masterlist

[hearts4hughes]

can you write head canons for barry’s little sister and rafe being head over heels for her

rafe cameron x barrys!sister!reader

• barry is overprotective; he has always been fiercely devoted to his little sister, ensuring you never get involved in his affairs. you're the one thing in his life he cares about keeping safe. so when rafe starts sniffing around, barry is pissed.

• rafe falls first and falls hard. from the moment he meets you, he is captivated. you're is unlike the girls he is used to. you're unapologetically yourself. you speak your mind, yet are still sweeter than candy.

• “stay away from my sister,” barry warns rafe to back off, but he doesn’t listen. if anything, being told not to just makes him want you more.

• rafe is soft for you. you're probably the only person who can get him to calm down. he could be spiraling, knuckles bloody, chest heaving from anger, but if you step in, place a hand on his arm, and say “rafe, stop,” he listens. every. single. time.

• barry hates it, but you like him back. barry sees right through rafe and knows he’s no good. but the worst part? you actually like him. maybe you like how he looks at you like you're the only thing that matters, or maybe you're drawn to the parts of him that no one else cares to understand. whatever it is, it's happening fast.

• rafe is jealous & territorial. he has zero chill when it comes to you. if some guy flirts with you at a party, he’s immediately there, thrwoing an arm around you, glaring at the guy like he’s one second away from losing if.

• he treats you like you're delicate. rafe is reckless with everything else in his life, but not you. he holds your hand gently, speaks softer when it’s just you two, and looks at you like you're the only good thing left in the world. (of course, he endures many chirps from topper for this… “yo, she's not going to break if you raise your voice above a level 3, man.”)

• rafe is always there. if you call, he’s there. no hesitation. middle of the night? he’s already on his way. trouble? he’ll handle it. you need a ride? his truck is outside.

• of course you can get away with anything. rafe could be furious, ready to snap, but the second you pout or give him a look, he’s putty in your hands. you’re the only one who can tell him to relax and actually make him do it.

• rafe’s obsession only grows the longer you're together. he doesn’t just want you—he needs you. if you're not around, he’s restless, searching for you like he’s losing his mind.

[shotmrmiller]

the tale of how simon got himself a gf without stepping a foot outside of base.

anyone can tell you that alcohol reduces the ability to use logic. to see reason. it lowers inhibitions and blurs the boundary lines you've drawn in the sand.

but indulging in drink tonight is justified. you're in need of reprieve after this shit week: broke up with your boyfriend, deadlines at work appearing out of thin air, a flat tire on your morning commute. you even stepped on the end of your cat's tail.

miserable. (she's okay, just giving you the cold shoulder. you'll buy her some tasty snacks tomorrow.)

but for tonight, you're wallowing in your own misery. some uninteresting show is playing on the television, you're cradled by the cushions of your couch, a fluffy sherpa throw over your socked feet.

if only there was a way to melt this week's accumulated stress away even further.

cue the drunk texting your ex cliché.

anyone can tell you that it's detrimental to moving on. it's akin to reopening a wound that's already begun to heal. a step back when you should only be moving forward. your friends would drag you by your hair for being so dumb.

but there's an incessant throb in between your legs that's only getting stronger with every glass of wine you toss back. you're wound tight, violin strings stretched to the brink. a couple of bow strokes away from snapping.

you'll deal with the consequences tomorrow, along with your hangover.

typing in his (deleted in a fit of heartbroken rage) number with fumbling fingers and send a picture of you with the hem of your sleeping shirt between your teeth, the swell of your bare breasts on full display with a cheeky little missing you <3

he responds in minutes even though it's 2:30am.

send a vid and show me how much you miss me.

it makes your pussy clench around nothing, already slick, drooling, begging to be filled. you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as you bring up the camera.

when simon first gets the text, he's on edge, gripping his phone hard enough to crack. no one should have this number except for price, johnny and kyle. he's made sure of it-- had laswell pull strings to give him a secure line. no scam likely's, no cold calls, nothing.

but then some silly little bird dials his number by mistake and the sweet cherry on top is that you've sent a nude. breasts on full display-- soft looking, hard peaked. it makes his mouth water, his gums itch. he'd love to sink his teeth into them, into you, hard enough to bruise. mark. claim.

but that's for later, once he finds you.

he texts back and what you send him in response fattens his cock. a small hand tucked beneath the waistband of your flimsy knickers, gusset dampened with warm arousal. you lick your bottom lip, leaving it glossy with spit. your chest heaves with the sharp gasps of breath you're drawing.

but there's a problem. he can barely see what you're doing. he doesn't have x-ray vision, your knickers are in the way. while he can understand the allure, he himself doesn't have the patience for it. either you let him see your bare cunt or don't waste his time.

he wasn't expecting you to agree this fast. maybe a bit of push back, a little snapping of teeth until you relent but no. you're an obedient thing. submissive. just how he likes 'em. (if he wants to break someone in, that's what johnny's for.)

soft, inviting thighs spread wide, a couple of fingers curling inside your glistening cunt. (duly noticing how your 2 fingers are the size of 1 of his.) your moans spill from your lips unreservedly when you roll your pearl in tight, precise little circles. he spits on his hand, heavy length resting in his calloused palm and tugs himself at the pace you've set: jerky, quick, messy.

you come with a whimper, eyes shut and pliant body coiled tight. a frothy, sticky cream coats your fingers, dripping down to your arse, pooling on your couch.

you miss me too? sent 3:27 am

(he decides to keep you. simon can't remember the last time he's had a climax that spine stiffening in a while.)

[be4chywritez]

sweet like honey | max verstappen

max verstappen x fem!reader

"you're to sweet for me."

Max doesn't like how nice you are towards him.

beachy’s masterlist🐚

prompt list

Max isn't sure why he doesn’t like you. You’ve never wronged him, never talked bad about him, or been rude in any way. But for some odd reason, Max hates you.

Maybe it’s the Verstappen genes kicking in, that innate tendency to be an asshole. Or maybe it’s bred into him to keep sweet things like you at a distance. So, you can imagine his shock and horror when he sees you perched on the couch, flipping through a book in his friend’s Italian villa.

Your eyes meet his, and a smile graces your lips. You place the book in your lap, and he watches as your eyes brighten at the sight of him, the same way they might light up at the sight of a pretty flower.

Your small yellow sundress barely covers your upper thighs, and Max can’t help but stare before quickly looking down at his phone, not wanting to be too obvious about his boyish gawking.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice warm and rich like honey, drawing his attention whether he wants it or not.

He hears you, of course, but pretends to focus on his phone. His thumb moves slowly over the screen, though nothing he sees holds his interest. It’s the way you say his name that sticks in his mind, making it impossible to ignore.

“It’s nice to see you,” you continue, your tone sincere as if you mean it more than you should. You settle back into the cushions, your dress slipping a little higher on your thighs, and he catches himself glancing before looking away again.

Max lets out a quiet huff, his eyes still fixed on his phone, but his attention is all on you now. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, almost guarded.

You shift, crossing your legs under you, the air feeling warmer, closer. “A surprise, I guess,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the kind that lingers, soft and effortless.

Max clenches his jaw, forcing himself to look back at his phone. Still, he’s hyper-aware of your presence, of the subtle scent of your perfume lingering in the room. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, even as his chest tightens.

“Yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s afraid to say anything else, and you let the moment settle, content with the quiet between you.

Just then, his best friend Jamie stumbles in, holding a glass of chardonnay. “Maxie,” he coos, squishing Max’s cheeks together, making his lips pucker. Close behind comes your best friend, Mila—Jamie’s girlfriend.

A few others join the group, a mix of Jamie and Mila’s friends, and Max’s brow furrows as he realizes that they’re all couples. He internally groans, watching your eyes flit around like a lost puppy.

“Alright, everyone,” Mila announces with a clap of her hands, “time to head up. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

One by one, the group starts dispersing, grabbing their things and heading upstairs. Max lingers, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but he’s acutely aware of you standing up from the couch, smoothing down the hem of your dress.

You move with an easy grace, slipping past him with a soft, “Goodnight, Max.” There’s no sarcasm, no bite—just genuine kindness that he doesn’t understand. You flash him a small smile before heading toward the stairs.

Max’s jaw tightens as he watches you go. You’re far too calm, far too kind for his liking. It makes him uncomfortable, like you’re holding a mirror up to the way he behaves, forcing him to see the stark contrast between you.

He takes a deep breath, tucking his phone into his pocket, and follows behind the group. The villa is beautiful, the soft glow of the lights casting long shadows across the walls as everyone makes their way to their respective rooms. His room is at the far end of the hall, and as he reaches it, he notices you standing just outside the door next to his.

“Looks like we’re neighbors,” you say lightly, your voice warm and soft. You hold your toothbrush and a towel, your yellow sundress replaced by pale pink silky pajamas, and there’s something almost disarming about how comfortable you seem.

Max nods, his expression neutral. “Yeah.”

You don’t push the conversation, only smile again as you step into your room. “Sleep well, Max,” you say over your shoulder, as if you mean it.

He huffs quietly, more out of habit than frustration, and slips into his own room. The door closes with a soft click, and he leans back against it, rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, he stands there, in the silence of the room, staring at nothing in particular. He doesn’t know why your kindness unsettles him so much. It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but that’s exactly the problem. You’re too nice. Too understanding. And for some reason, it gets under his skin.

Max changes into a T-shirt and shorts, moving about the room on autopilot. He keeps hearing your voice, soft and sweet, lingering in his thoughts.

Finally, he pulls back the covers and slides into bed, trying to shut everything out. But it’s quiet now—too quiet. And even though you’re just on the other side of the wall, he can’t stop thinking about you.

In the middle of the night, he’s still awake, tossing and turning, when there’s a soft knock on his door. Max sits up, frowning slightly, wondering who it could be at this hour.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads across the room, opening the door just a crack. It’s you, standing there, a little sheepish, your arms crossed lightly over your chest.

“Sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… my room's really hot. I think the AC is broken.”

Max blinks, unsure of what to say at first. Part of him wants to tell you to deal with it yourself, but another part of him can’t ignore it.

His eyes linger on you more than he’d admit—your hair sticking to your neck from sweat, your cheeks flushed, and you nibble your lip nervously. Your tank top has ridden up, a sliver of your hip exposed, and Max does everything in his power to push those thoughts away.

“Uh… you could just crack open a window,” he suggests, his voice a bit rough from sleep. He knows the words sound hollow even to him. He doesn’t want you in his space, yet part of him doesn’t want you sweating alone either.

You fidget slightly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I tried, but it didn’t help. I just thought… maybe I could crash in here?” The words hang in the air, hopeful yet tentative.

Max’s heart races at the idea. The prospect of sharing the bed makes his palms sweat. It’s one thing to be in the same room, but sharing a bed? He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he weighs his options.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of something deeper in his tone. The image of you curled up beside him—too close for comfort—sends a shiver down his spine.

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” you offer a nervous smile, clearly not wanting to invade his space, so you back away, ducking into your room. He watches you until the door is shut behind you.

Max stands in the doorway, his heart racing as he processes the moment. He’s not sure why he feels such a strong urge to call you back, to insist that it’s okay, but the words remain stuck in his throat. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling a mix of irritation and something else—something he’s not ready to name.

As he paces back to his bed, he tries to shake off the lingering image of you standing there, your flushed cheeks and nervous smile. He lies down again, staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you’re just a wall away.

A few moments pass before he hears a soft, muffled noise from your room—a sniffle, maybe? It makes his chest tighten at the thought of you crying because you're uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, tossing an arm over his eyes. He’s not going to sleep if he keeps thinking about you like this.

After what feels like an eternity of tossing and turning, he finally sits up, his decision made. He stands up, his heart pounding in his chest, and makes his way to your door. He raises his hand to knock but hesitates, uncertainty flooding in.

“Why the hell am I doing this?” he mutters, his self-doubt creeping back in. But the thought of you feeling uncomfortable alone is enough to push him through. He knocks softly, the sound barely more than a tap.

“Hey,” you call from inside, and he can hear the surprise in your voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, his voice worse than he intended. “I… just thought maybe you could come back. It’s probably not that hot here.”

There’s a brief silence, and he can imagine the look on your face—surprised and perhaps a little hopeful. “Really?” you ask, and he can’t help the slight smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

The door swings open, revealing you still in your silk-clad pajamas. He rips his gaze away, feeling a tightness in his throat. He doesn't utter a word, just turns around, walking to his room. He can hear your feet padding behind him, and you close the door behind the both of you.

Max keeps his back to you as you quietly follow him into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The air feels heavier now, thick with unspoken tension as you stand there in the dim light, waiting for him to say something. But Max doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight for the bed, pulling back the covers on one side, his movements stiff and a little too deliberate.

“You can take the right side,” he mutters, not looking at you, as he slides under the covers on the left. His heart is pounding, though he tries to act like everything is fine.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to thank him or just keep quiet. Deciding not to push it, you simply nod, even though he isn’t looking at you. You cross the room and slip into the bed beside him, careful not to make any sudden movements.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he can feel the same tension thrumming between you that you do. The bed feels impossibly small now, the space between you a thin sliver of air that crackles with awkwardness.

You lie still, facing away from him, but you can feel his presence—so close and yet so distant. The sound of his steady breathing fills the room, and you wonder if he’s doing the same as you, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep.

Minutes stretch on, and the silence between you is deafening. Every creak of the bed, every shift in the sheets seems louder in the stillness of the night. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice so soft it barely breaks the silence. You don’t expect a reply, and for a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of your own breathing.

Then, finally, Max shifts slightly beside you. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough, but there’s something different in it now. Something that isn’t as cold as before.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Maybe he isn’t as indifferent as he wants you to think. You curl up a little more, trying to make yourself comfortable, even as the tension lingers in the air between you.

As the night drags on, you begin to drift in and out of sleep. The heat from the earlier part of the night is gone now, replaced by a cooler breeze that drifts in through the open window. The sheets are soft, and for the first time since you entered Max’s room, you start to relax.

Just as you’re on the edge of sleep, you feel something shift again. Max turns slightly, the mattress dipping as he moves closer—just barely, but enough for you to notice. His arm brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin sends a small jolt through you.

You stay perfectly still, wondering if he did it on purpose or if he’s just restless. Either way, you don’t move, afraid to disturb the delicate balance between you.

Your mind races—what if you roll over onto him in your sleep? What if you start snoring?—and the nerves bubble up, spilling out before you can stop yourself.

“So… I haven’t slept in a guy’s bed in ages,” you blurt out, staring at the ceiling. Max barely reacts, his only acknowledgment a low, noncommittal “Mhm,” but it doesn’t stop you from talking.

“Yeah, it’s been, like… a long time. I’m more of a 'sleep with a thousand pillows' kind of person, you know? Gotta have the right setup.” You laugh a little, mostly to yourself, feeling the need to fill the quiet. Max doesn’t respond, but you keep going, too nervous to stop. “Oh, and I’m really bad with directions, like, I get lost in grocery stores. Once, I ended up in the freezer aisle for thirty minutes just trying to find the cereal.”

“Mhm.”

His replies are half-hearted at best, but you don’t mind. If anything, the sound of his quiet indifference weirdly helps soothe your nerves.

“Oh! And I can’t swim,” you say with a laugh, thinking it’s just another random fact to throw out there. But this time, Max’s head snaps toward you.

“You came to the amalfi coast, and you can’t swim?” he asks, his voice sharper than before, with a hint of amusement. His eyes narrow slightly, and you can’t help but grin.

“Yeah,” you reply, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Figured I’d just, you know… stay on the shore.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” you say, laughing softly, your nerves easing a bit. “But I’m good at other things. Like… did you know I can recite the entire script of Finding Nemo? Well, mostly.”

Max rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Great skill.”

You keep talking, the words flowing easier now. Your voice fills the room, soft and rhythmic, and even though Max doesn’t say much, you can feel the tension in the air start to shift. His body relaxes slightly, the space between you feeling a little less awkward.

“And another thing, I’m a terrible cook. Burnt spaghetti once. Didn’t even think that was possible. It’s water and noodles, right?” You laugh again, and this time Max lets out a quiet huff—almost like a chuckle, though he’d never admit it.

Your voice is like a steady hum, lulling the room into a gentle calm. You talk about everything and nothing, the words spilling out in a quiet stream. Max listens, his responses becoming softer, almost inaudible, but it doesn’t matter. His breathing slows, his eyes fluttering shut as your voice washes over him.

You don’t notice when he finally drifts off, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. But somehow, you feel it—the way the energy in the room has shifted, his earlier sharpness melted away into something softer, more relaxed.

The next morning, sunlight spills through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You stir first, the warmth of the bed enveloping you, your body reluctant to wake. For a moment, you forget where you are, and then it hits you—Max’s bed, Max’s room. You blink your eyes open slowly, turning your head slightly to see him still there, asleep.

He’s lying on his back now, the sheets tangled around his waist, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. His face is serene, the harsh lines you’ve come to associate with him softened by sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, giving him an almost boyish look, something so different from the hard-edged man who usually glares at you.

You feel a strange flutter in your chest as you look at him, this version of Max—unguarded, vulnerable. It’s a side of him you never thought you’d see, and it’s almost too intimate, too close. You shift a little, trying not to make any noise, but the bed creaks softly under your weight.

Max stirs, his brows furrowing slightly as he slowly wakes up. His eyes open halfway, still hazy with sleep, and for a brief moment, he looks at you without the usual edge in his gaze. It’s like he’s forgotten for a second who you are, where he is.

Then, reality seems to settle back in, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly, though there’s no real malice there. Just a kind of gruff annoyance.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, his voice rough and low, thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply softly, offering a tentative smile.

He shifts, pushing himself up on his elbows, the sheet falling further down his waist, revealing more of his toned torso. You can’t help but glance, quickly averting your eyes when you realize you’re staring.

Max runs a hand through his messy hair, yawning as he glances at you. “You talk a lot in your sleep too, or is that just when you’re awake?” he asks, a hint of that familiar sarcasm creeping back into his tone, though there’s no real bite behind it.

You chuckle lightly, relaxing a little. “Only when I’m awake, I promise.”

He grunts, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence between you less awkward than you would’ve expected. It’s almost… comfortable.

Max stretches, his muscles flexing slightly as he does, and you try not to let your eyes linger too long. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, and you’re grateful when he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “how’d you sleep?”

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he shrugs. “Fine, I guess.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, almost begrudgingly, “Didn’t mind all the talking.”

Your heart skips a beat at that, the small admission catching you off guard. You smile, warmth spreading through you. “Glad to know I didn’t annoy you too much.”

Max doesn’t respond, just grabs his phone from the nightstand and checks the time. But you catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he turns away.

He stands, pulling on a shirt and running a hand through his hair again before heading toward the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast soon,” he mutters. “Don’t take too long.”

He steps out before poking his head back in his face serious, “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he says gesturing a finger around towards you and him, right asshole Max is alive and well.

“Right.” you deflate, but none the less walk to your room. You notice the AC now works. 

The warmth of the Italian sun is already starting to filter in through your window as you slip into your pale yellow babydoll dress. The soft fabric feels light against your skin, perfect for the warm weather and the laid-back vibes of the villa.

When you finally make your way downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries fills the air, and you can hear the familiar hum of laughter and chatter. The villa’s terrace is bathed in sunlight, with everyone seated around the large outdoor table, enjoying breakfast. 

Max is already seated, of course, his usual stoic expression in place. He’s leaning back in his chair, sunglasses on, making it impossible to tell if he’s even noticed you. 

An array of colorful fruits and pastries litters the table, couples chatting and laughing as you offer everyone a warm smile while taking a seat next to Mila, who returns the gesture. “How was the room, darling?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. You can feel a pair of laser beams on your face, as if Max is staring into your soul.

“Oh, it was truly nice,” you reply, feeling the tips of your ears heat up with nerves. Mila seems to buy it and turns to address the entire group.

“So, guys, today we’re going to take the yacht around,” she announces, eliciting a few excited hoots from your friends. Your stomach tightens at the thought of being stuck on a yacht, but you brush the anxiety aside.

As the chatter around the breakfast table grows, the knot in your stomach tightens at the mention of the yacht. You toy with the edge of your napkin, trying to suppress the wave of nerves that accompanies the idea of being out on the water, especially since you can’t swim.

Max, still leaning back in his chair, tilts his head slightly in your direction, as if he senses the unease radiating off you. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but you swear you can feel his gaze tracing over you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and you can almost hear his voice echoing in your mind: “You came to the Amalfi Coast, and you can’t swim?”

You swallow hard, forcing a smile as you join in on the group's excitement, even though the thought of being surrounded by water sends a shiver down your spine. Mila stands, gathering everyone’s attention, and starts guiding the group toward the dock.

The villa’s outdoor space spills into a sprawling garden, leading to a private path that takes you to where the yacht is docked. The sunlight glints off the water, almost blinding in its brightness, as you walk with the others toward the sleek, luxurious yacht. Everyone seems thrilled—laughing and talking about the views they’ll see—while you stay quieter than usual, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves.

You tug at the sleeves of your oversized polo, the fabric bunching slightly in your grip as you focus on steadying your breath. The path to the dock feels longer than it actually is, the sounds of the group’s lively chatter fading into the background. You glance at the shimmering blue water ahead and bite the inside of your cheek.

Max lingers just a few steps behind, and you can feel the weight of his presence even without looking. His footsteps are slow and deliberate, as if he’s watching you closely, waiting for any sign of weakness. You try not to dwell on it, though the image of him smirking at your fear lingers in the back of your mind.

As the group finally boards the yacht, you become hyper-aware of the water surrounding you. The boat rocks gently as everyone gets settled, and you grip the railing tightly, trying to hide your discomfort. Max watches you for a moment before walking past you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours.

“Relax,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you, but there’s something almost reassuring in his tone. You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to take a seat with the others, letting the warmth of the sun and the sound of conversation distract you from the vast ocean around you.

As the yacht pulls away from the dock, you try to focus on the scenery. The Amalfi Coast is breathtaking—cliffs draped in greenery, colorful villas dotting the shoreline, and the ocean sparkling beneath the golden sunlight. Everyone around you laughs and soaks up the beauty of the day, but your hands remain clenched in your lap, your mind preoccupied with the endless expanse of water.

Despite your nervousness, you find yourself stealing glances at Max. He’s sitting at the back of the yacht, one arm draped casually over the side, sunglasses shielding his eyes as he stares out at the water. He looks so at ease, completely unaffected by the swaying of the boat or the openness of the sea.

The breeze picks up, ruffling your hair, and as you turn your attention back to the group, you feel the yacht slow down. Mila claps her hands, announcing that they’ve anchored near a beautiful cove, perfect for swimming.

Your stomach drops.

Everyone begins shedding layers, excitement buzzing through the group as they prepare to jump into the water. You stay seated, gripping the edge of your chair as they leap overboard, laughter echoing around you.

Max stands, pulling off his shirt and revealing the defined muscles of his back and shoulders. Your eyes linger for a moment longer than you intend. He catches your gaze just before he moves toward the edge of the yacht, that same smirk playing on his lips.

“You coming in?” he asks, his voice low, almost challenging.

You shake your head quickly, offering a small laugh. “No, I think I’ll just… stay here and enjoy the sun.”

Max arches an eyebrow, clearly not buying your excuse, but he doesn’t push it. He gives you one last look, his smirk still in place, before diving effortlessly into the water.

You watch as your friends giggle and enjoy themselves. Mila waves up at you, and you give her a fake salute. She giggles and goes back to swimming. A few minutes later, several members of the group come up to take a break, Max among them. You hate to admit it, but you watch the water droplets roll off him, his cheeks flushed from the sun, and a tight feeling blooms in your core as you force yourself to look away.

The group is lively, and at one point, Jamie, always the instigator, starts playfully shoving friends toward the edge of the boat, teasing and laughing. You stand at the back, watching, hoping to stay out of the chaos.

But in a moment of playful exuberance, Jamie swings his arm and accidentally nudges you forward. Time seems to slow as you lose your balance, and before you can even process what’s happening, you tumble over the side of the yacht. The water crashes around you, and as you hit the surface, the cold rush envelops you, sending panic gripping your chest. Instinctively, you kick your legs, but the water pulls you under, and you flail in confusion. The world above disappears, and the muffled sounds of laughter and splashing fade into silence.

Just as you start to lose hope, a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back to the surface. You gasp for air, blinking the water from your eyes, and find yourself face-to-face with Max. His expression is intense, irritation etched on his features.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, though his grip is steady and reassuring as he keeps you afloat.

You can’t help but laugh nervously, trying to shake off the fear. “I didn’t want to go in!” you manage to sputter, still clinging to him for dear life.

Max rolls his eyes, the frown returning, though it’s softer this time. “You need to stop thrashing around,” he says, his voice lower now.

As he helps you back onto the yacht, the warmth of the sun hits your damp skin once more. Laughter and cheers erupt from the group as they realize you’re okay, but Max’s presence is the only thing that matters to you in this moment. He doesn’t say anything; his expression remains unreadable as he sets you down.

You catch your breath, water dripping from your hair and running down your arms. “Thanks, Max,” you say, trying to brush off the embarrassment. His usual smirk is absent, and for a split second, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he cares.

But as soon as you’re on the boat, he steps back, leaving you with the others. “Try not to drown next time,” he says, his tone flat as he pulls his shirt back on, the fabric clinging to his damp skin. It feels more like a reflex than a genuine jab, but you let it slide, laughing it off. “I’ll try my best.”

He turns away, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. You shake your head, trying to focus on the laughter around you as Jamie and Mila check to make sure you’re okay. “Really, I’m fine,” you assure them, even as your heart races from the close call.

Just like that, everyone goes back to normal. Lunch is served, and as the yacht heads back to the dock under the fading light, you’re the first one off, eager to touch solid ground once more. You don’t bid anyone goodnight; you’re all too tired for that. You head upstairs to your room, closing the door behind you and shrugging off your damp polo and swimsuit. You hop in the shower, rinsing the salt water off your skin.

After your shower, the soft sound of knocking pulls you from your thoughts. You wrap yourself in a towel and open the door to find Mila standing there, concern etched across her features.

“Hey, just wanted to check on you,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes scan your face, searching for any signs of distress. “That fall looked pretty rough.”

You chuckle softly, waving it off. “I’m fine, really. Just a little embarrassed.”

Mila raises an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “You sure it’s not because of Max? I saw the way he pulled you out of the water. It looked pretty… intimate.”

The mention of Max sends a warmth flooding through you, one that you quickly dismiss. “Oh, please. He was just being a jerk, as usual.”

She smirks, crossing her arms. “Or maybe he just likes the attention.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, but a small part of you can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it. “He’s just… Max. You know how he is.”

Mila studies you for a moment, trying to read between the lines. “Well, just think about it. He’s not always the way he acts, you know?”

With that, she leaves, and you find yourself lost in thought, her words echoing in your mind. What if Max really did care?

Later that night, curiosity gets the better of you. You stand in front of Max’s door, your heart racing as you knock softly.

“Come in,” he calls, and you push the door open cautiously. He’s lounging on his bed, scrolling through his phone, and for a moment, you’re struck by how at home he looks.

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft. “I just wanted to thank you… for earlier.”

Max looks up, a flicker of something in his gaze before he masks it with indifference. “You mean for saving your ass?” he quips, his smirk returning. “Don’t mention it.”

You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room. “You know, for someone who supposedly doesn’t care, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

His expression shifts, annoyance flickering across his features. “What do you want me to do? Throw you a parade for not drowning?”

“Maybe just a little acknowledgment would be nice,” you counter, crossing your arms defensively.

He stands, taking a step closer, and the air between you crackles with tension. “I don’t like how sweet you are,” he says, his tone sharp. “It’s annoying.”

“Annoying?” you challenge, feeling a rush of defiance. “Is that really all you’ve got? Because it sounds like you’re just scared of someone actually caring.”

Max’s eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he might snap back. But instead, he steps even closer, invading your personal space. “You think you’re so great, don’t you? All sunshine and rainbows, but it doesn’t work with me.”

Before you can respond, he closes the distance, and suddenly, his lips are on yours—fervent and demanding. His warmth envelops you, slightly chapped against your own, igniting a spark that sends a thrill coursing through your entire body. You’re caught off guard at first, but your instincts take over, and you melt into the kiss, feeling his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer.

As the kiss deepens, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He presses you against the door, his body firm and solid against yours, radiating heat that makes your pulse quicken. The kiss is intoxicating; every second stretches into eternity—his lips moving against yours in a dance that feels both wild and tender.

When you finally pull away, breathless, your heart races as you search his eyes. “Wait… Max—”

He leans in again, his breath mingling with yours, heavy with longing. “You taste sweet,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, a smirk tugging at his lips.

A rush of warmth floods your cheeks at his words. “Is that all you have to say?” you tease, a smile breaking through your fluster.

Max steps back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he watches you intently. “What do you want me to say? That I’m an asshole who can’t help but want you?”

The air between you buzzes with unspoken tension—a mix of frustration and attraction. You feel exhilarated yet confused, unable to ignore the thrill of being this close to him, the chemistry crackling like electricity.

“Maybe you could start by admitting you actually care,” you challenge softly, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Maybe,” he replies, a hint of seriousness in his tone before leaning in again, capturing your lips with his. This time, it’s even more intense; his hands grip your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he can’t get enough of you.

But as the moment stretches on, you pull back slightly, breathless. “Max—”

He leans in again, and you find yourself needing to physically stop him, your hands resting on his chest. “Wait, we can’t just—”

“Why not?” he presses, his voice low and needy, his eyes dark with desire. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

You’re both panting, caught in an electric moment. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” you say, a smile creeping onto your lips despite the chaos swirling around you.

Max smirks, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, but you like it.” He crashes his lips against yours once more, and as he pulls away, he runs his tongue along his lower lip, a boyish smirk breaking through. “Sweet like honey,” he teases, prompting you to laugh and tilt your head back. Without thinking, you pull him down by his shirt collar, kissing him again, lost in the moment.

[l1tw1ck]

Symbiotic Bonding

Bottom!FTM Peter Parker x Top!Masc Reader

🕸️ Word Count: 1,477 🕸️

AFAB Language Used | [Series]

CW: Non-Con, Yandere Peter, Murder (Blood, Mentions of Corpses), Wombfucking, Creampie

Peter blinks a couple times, trying to wake up from what he thinks is a dream.

Blood is splattered all over the floor. Hundreds of glass shards reflect the bright moon outside. Did he kill someone?

Peter whips his head around. His heart drops. A corpse. With markings around their throat. He looks at his hands, it's not his usual suit color. Black and white. He can clearly see the victim’s blood on this suit.

There won't be any evidence he was here. His suit…or whatever he's wearing, won't leave footprints. His mask is intact, no stray hairs to analyze.

He gulps. He needs to figure out what happened. Maybe he passed out while trying to defend them. Peter lets out a shaky breath before leaving.

Peter still can't wrap his head around what happened. He knows that the symbiote you were studying escaped and chose him as its host. You’ve been looking for it but he's scared to tell you. He also knows that the person he killed was someone who worked in your lab. What he can't understand is why. If it happened in the lab or the building itself, he could blame it on the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. But it happened in their home. In a place Peter would never have a reason to enter. He didn't even know their name until a few days ago.

Then it clicks.

They touched you. He assumes the symbiote has some sort of connection to you. Is it capable of having complex thoughts and feelings? Or could it just see you as its caretaker?

Whatever it is, he needs to get rid of it.

“Peter, you’ve been zoning out lately. I know one of your friends went missing so if you need a break, I’ll make sure you get paid time off.”

“What?” He looks at you, bewildered.

“You didn't hear? Flash disappeared without a trace two days ago.”

What could Flash….

“Oh my God.” Peter covers his mouth. A while ago, Flash had a private interview with you. Long before the symbiote was even discovered. It knows his memories.

“You should go home.”

You're right. He needs to focus on getting rid of this thing.

“You're so soft, Peter.” You gently kiss him all over. “And you feel so good.”

Peter moans as you fill him up.

“I’m glad you killed my husband." Your cock pokes his cervix.

Peter wakes up gasping. Another corpse. The corpse of your husband. He didn't even know you were married. You must've kept your ring somewhere safe, that kind of jewelry isn't safe in a lab. But how did the symbiote find out?

His spider senses alert him of your presence. You're never going to forgive him. He tumbles to the ground. His body begins to move on its own, getting him out just before you open the door.

Peter doesn't stick around to watch.

In the morning, an email is sent to the team. Everyone's getting time off. The place can't really function without you and everyone knows it.

No matter how hard or what Peter tries, it won't leave his body. When he's out of the suit, it just…becomes part of his skin. It leaves…a tattoo. He doesn't like to look at it.

He has blood on his hands. He has to tell you. He knows he does.

“Peter…” You let him into your hotel room. There are bags under your eyes. It's his fault. He did this to you and he can't blame the symbiote. He should've told you. “How did you know I was staying here?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Peter frowns. “It’s my fault, Doctor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The symbiote—” He drops to his knees. Strong feelings of arousal overtake him like waves in a storm. He finds himself grabbing your pants, part of the symbiote transfers itself to you. You start to feel what Peter feels too. You know what he wants. What he needs.

You get down and pin him to the floor. Your aggression causes his head to hit the ground too but he can't feel the impact. Your hands move on their own to remove both of your clothes. “Peter-”

He moans your name and spreads his legs, his pussy dripping slick onto the ground. You're both fully aware of what your bodies are doing and you can't stop it.

“What– what’s going on?” You sound exasperated as your body forces you to penetrate him. Peter can see your pain. He knows how much you hate this. There's nothing he could do to you that's worse than this. It hasn't even been a day since you found your husband's body.

“I’m sorry- I didn't—” He hisses in pain. You're just as big as you were in his dream. “I can't control it-”

As you reach deeper inside him, you start to lose your awareness. You groan with pleasure as your brain removes all memories of your husband and replaces them with ones of Peter. “God…Peter~”

Peter looks at you with confusion.

“You're so fucking sexy.” You slide your thumb around his womb tattoo.

“You- your- your husband-”

“You wanna be my husband, baby?” You smile.

If the symbiote can access memories, it's no surprise that it can alter them.

“I..”

“You're so cute.” You kiss his cheek. “I’ll buy you a ring tomorrow.”

Peter looks at you in fear. He can't get over his guilt. His mouth hangs open once you reach his cervix. He whimpers your name.

“Fuck….I could…” You bite down on your lip.

“Do it.” Peter's mouth moves on its own again.

You bury your face into his shoulder as you thrust inside him. You can hear his adorable voice even better now.

Peter's almost surprised it doesn't hurt. There's nothing normal or realistic about this, it seems reasonable…in this situation. He doesn't understand the symbiote’s obsession with you. Is it amplifying his desire for you or is it acting on its own? He can't tell.

You marvel at the feeling of penetrating his womb. Your horny sounds drown out the guilty and fearful thoughts in Peter’s brain.

It's not a sin to enjoy himself, it's not like he's the symbiote. Does he really have to resist the very thing he's been dreaming about for months? The thing that's drastically increased his masturbation frequency? Maybe the symbiote is just making him act on the desires he was too ashamed of. Maybe he is the bad guy, but…

You shakily moan Peter’s name as you start to fuck him. He can see your excitement painted all over you. If you're feeling good, then isn't that a greenlight? If you're acting like this just from your memory being altered, then technically, you are consenting. Technically.

Peter wraps his arms around you. “More– more~” He moans your name. “It feels so good!”

“I didn't think it'd be possible..” You sloppily thrust into him. “What if I….”

Peter already knows what you're thinking. “Yes~ inside– come inside~!” He already comes at just the thought.

“Peter~” You give his skin a gentle kiss before coming inside him. You pull your head back. “Can I…Can I keep going?”

Peter smirks. He can tell you're still hard. He wraps his legs around your body and sits on top of your lap. He's at the point where he can no longer tell whether it's him or the symbiote in charge. “I wonder how this’ll feel.” He holds onto your shoulders and starts to ride you. “Oh God..” His mouth hangs open. It's even more intense like this.

He picks up the pace, increasing the erotic sounds in the room. If it's not soundproof, you two are gonna have a few complaints. He leans in to kiss you, sealing your relationship with his tongue. He's fully embracing this even though he knows he shouldn't.

You deepen the kiss and grope his body. He moans into your mouth. The two of you come at the same time, cum dribbling out of his pussy.

Peter relaxes his body, his breaths in sync with yours. He soon falls asleep in your arms, finally catching up on all the hours he missed this month.

It's been a week and everything has been completely altered to benefit Peter. He has no idea how but the story of your dead husband was twisted into a false story. Now, reports say your friend who was staying over got caught in the crossfire between criminals. They got into your apartment and used your ‘friend’ as a hostage. Not a single person or website has any information about you ever being married. Although, that'll change once you two set the date.

He knows it's awful and completely contradictory to his beliefs, but he's glad it worked out. He loves you.

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · NOBODY'S DAUGHTER · : ˚ ✦

pairing ☆ batsis!reader x dick grayson (platonic), roy harper x reader (implied relationship)

word count ☆ 2.8K

summary ☆ after holding all your feelings, you finally confront your brother about everything he has done to your life after jason's funeral.

warnings ☆ AU where Dick knew Jason had died and didn't attend to the funeral deliberately, kinda neglected batsis, you are blood related to Jason (and look like him physically) you are part of the Titans, I probably made some things up, let's just vibe with it. Also this is pure angst, absolutely none comfort, mentions of death, funerals, cigarettes

a/n ☆ i got super inspired by seeing the ending of season 4 of The Bear, when Carmy says that he leaves the restaurant and Richie and Syd crash out. Also if you guys like it MAYBE i do a part two

main masterlist | letterboxd

"What do you mean you're leaving?" Roy raised his voice louder than you could handle, and you flailed your hands in frustration.

You were in the roof of Titans Tower while everyone else argued inside over which movie to watch on your first free night in weeks. You and Roy had stepped out for a smoke. At first, it was just that, now you were caught in a fight you didn’t know how to get out of.

"Exactly that," you shrugged with a grimace. "I'm leaving."

"Why?"

Roy’s jaw was tight, and he was smoking faster than usual.

You’d lost track of how long you’d been on the team, but Roy had been by your side from the very beginning. He knew Jason almost as well as you did, and he’d never treated you differently after the incident. The two of you had become friends in a strange, roundabout way, and now he was the person you cared about most on the team. He'd spend hours in your room when you didn’t feel like going out with the rest, always managing to convince you in the end, because he’d be there, and everything was a thousand times better when he was. You couldn’t bring yourself to say you loved him. No one knew. But you did.

"Because I don’t know how to do anything else," you snapped, sniffing and taking a cigarette from the pack in Roy’s hand. You pulled your lighter from your pocket and struggled with it for a moment until the wind finally cooperated.

Roy sighed, pulling off his cap and running a hand through his bright orange hair.

"What the hell does that even mean?" he asked, pleading.

Roy thought he knew you. He knew you were weird (in the best way), that you had hundreds of issues you’d never talked about and that your social skills were practically non-existent. But you’d let him in. You’d shown him a piece of what went on inside your head, and he’d embraced it, kissed the scar. But now he didn’t understand anything you were doing.

"I’ve spent too long fighting knock-off villains, burying my thoughts in punches, ignoring how bad I really am," you swallowed. "How broken it left me."

"Then talk to me," he reached out a little, and you stepped back. "Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me how bad it is. You don’t have to hide."

"It’s not that simple, Roy." you bit the inside of your cheek, watching the ash fall onto your shoe.

Roy clicked his tongue and looked away. You felt cold, like a terrible person, dragging him into this unnecessary fight.

"Nothing’s simple with you." he muttered tensely.

"I don’t know how to do anything else, okay? I don’t know how to live outside of this chaotic mess."

Roy frowned, took one last drag, and flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it underfoot. He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you like he could force you to stay with his eyes. Like if he stared hard enough, leaving would hurt more than staying. But he didn’t understand, it already hurt.

"And walking away from everything’s gonna fix it?" he finally asked. His voice was lower now, more controlled. It cut through you. Like it hurt him to even ask. Like he was reluctantly accepting he had no say in your choice. "What the hell are you gonna tell Dick?"

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, not daring to lift your head all the way.

"Dick only let me on the team out of pity."

"Pity?" Roy let out a bitter laugh. "Are you listening to yourself? You see yourself as a victim. You think we all see you that way, like someone who needs fixing. But that’s not true… I don’t see you that way, dammit. And- and you belong here. Donna and Kory adore you..."

"I don’t even know what I’m trying to fix anymore," you said quietly. "Jason’s dead. Bruce only talks to me through Dick. And I’m giving whatever I’ve got left, and no one sees that there’s barely anything left."

You tried not to hold it against Bruce, how he wouldn’t talk to you. How he couldn’t look you in the eye. Everyone said your eyes looked like Jason’s. Same look, same nose, same stance. Even your voices were alike.

Roy shook his head, fast, frustrated.

"You’re not Jason" he said, voice trembling with pent-up rage. "You’re not your brother. No one expects you to be."

You hugged your arms around yourself, like that might keep everything in. The need to cry, the need to scream that you knew that, but it killed you to live in the spaces Jason had left behind.

"I’m not trying to be. No one left me another choice."

Roy stepped closer, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

"I don’t believe you. Not after everything you’ve done, everything you’ve fought for- for others, for yourself. You can’t say no one gave you a choice when you’ve always had one: to stay. To keep going. To speak up."

"For what? So I can keep being the shadow of someone who’s not here anymore?"

"You’re not a shadow!"

Roy grabbed your wrists, gently but firmly, forcing you to lift your head. To look at him. To stop hiding behind that tiny voice you only used when you were about to break.

"What if I don’t know who I am without him?" you confessed. And it felt like you’d ripped something out of your chest with your bare hands.

Roy looked at you like he wanted to say a thousand things at once. Like it hurt not being able to piece your heart back together himself.

One tear fell down your cheek. "I hate being here, Roy. I hate having to follow Dick’s orders, I hate that he won’t let me kill the Joker, I hate that he calls me his sister in front of everyone and ignores me every time we’re alone."

Roy let go like your words burned him. He stepped back, hands in his hair, frowning.

"So what, you’re running away because Dick’s a self-righteous asshole? Surprise!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms up. "We all hate him sometimes, but that doesn’t give you the right to quit. To leave us."

"I’m not leaving you," you snapped, hurt. "I’m saving myself."

"From what?" he roared, wounded. "From us? From me?"

"From myself!" you screamed back, shaking. "From this version of me that drags herself through the halls waiting for someone to tell her she’s not completely broken! I’m sick of living with Jason’s ghost and pretending I’m okay just because I have the same damn last name!"

Roy was about to reply when the rooftop door burst open. Dick stepped out with a calm smile, unaware of everything.

"Hey, we’re waiting on you guys," he said, pressing his lips together. He looked at you first, your trembling lip and a tear on your cheek, then at Roy, already on his third cigarette, not looking at either of you. "Everything alright?"

You didn’t try to answer.

"She’s leaving." Roy said, nodding at you.

You sighed and finally lifted your head.

"What? You’re what?" Dick asked again, hand on his hip.

"I’m leaving, Dick. I’m done. Don’t ask again like you didn’t hear me." you snapped, voice broken but firm.

Dick blinked, unmoving. That damn Nightwing face again, like nothing could affect him. Like it was just another mission. Like you were just another mission.

"And this decision… you made it on your own?"

"I don’t need your approval to make decisions, Dick."

"That’s not it," he replied, sharp. "It’s just, when you’re part of a team, those decisions affect others. You’re part of this team. I thought you knew that."

"Me? Part of the team? Do you even know what being part of something means, Dick? Or do you just know how to lead it?"

It hit him. You saw it. A subtle flinch, like he didn’t expect that from you, of all people.

"I don’t know what the hell you want me to say," he muttered, low but sharp. "That I should beg you to stay? Hug it out and lie that everything’s going to be fine? Because I’m not that guy."

"I know," you whispered. "That’s why I’m leaving."

Roy lowered his head. Dick huffed through his nose and took a step closer.

"You can’t just walk away. Not without talking it through. Not without- without explaining. You don’t get to break something just because you’re broken."

"And what the hell do you know about what I’m breaking?" you said through clenched teeth. "You weren’t there when Jason died. Not for me. You went around telling everyone you’d look after me like a brother. All you did was keep me at arm’s length like I was about to explode."

"Because I didn’t know how to help you without breaking myself too!" Dick suddenly yelled, and Roy flinched at the outburst.

Silence.

The wind whispered around the rooftop, and the murmurs from inside the Tower felt like they came from another planet.

"I lost him too," Dick continued, quieter, jaw clenched. "And I barely held it together. All I knew how to do was lead. Give orders. Keep going. And you… you reminded me of everything I couldn’t protect. And I couldn’t look at you without feeling like I failed him."

"You did," you said softly. "You failed me too."

Dick nodded once. Slow. Pained.

"I know."

You crossed your arms, trembling. Wanting to stop this conversation but unable to.

Dick walked over to Roy, grabbed the cigarette pack and took one.

"What the hell, Dick?" Roy blinked. "You don’t smoke."

"I know," he muttered, cigarette between his lips, fingers fumbling with the lighter. "Fuck."

He gave them back to Roy, eyes down. Silence returned. Roy looked between you and Dick, trying to understand. You stared at the ground, dirty sneakers, crushed cigarette butts, nail marks on your arms.

"I went to the funeral."

You swore your heart stopped. You remembered the day—five people had attended Jason’s funeral. Six, if you counted the preacher. And Dick hadn’t been one of them. You’d never talked about it, but you held a grudge after Barbara told you Dick hadn’t gone because he couldn’t bear it. Because the loss felt too heavy.

You never thought you could hate someone more than you did after that talk with Babs. Until now. Dick kept proving he could crush every expectation.

"You’re a fucking liar, Dick Grayson." you stepped closer, grabbing his shirt, pulling him so your foreheads touched. "You should’ve been in that warehouse instead of Jason."

Roy took a step forward, alarmed, but didn’t intervene. Not yet.

Dick didn’t move. Didn’t push you. Just looked you in the eyes, lips trembling, your rage clinging to his skin like static.

"Say it again," he whispered. "Say it if it helps. If it makes you feel better."

"It doesn’t help at all!" you broke. Rage poured from your eyes, hands, voice. You pushed his chest with both hands, not hard, just desperate.

"I sat in the car," Dick muttered. "I couldn’t bring myself to go in."

"Oh, poor little Dickie, couldn’t say goodbye to someone who wasn’t even his fucking brother!" your voice rose with every word. "If I could do it, if I could watch my little brother be buried six feet under, so could you, you fucker!"

You pushed him again, fighting your tears.

"You’re a coward," you hissed.

Dick didn’t react. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend himself. He just stood there, taking it like a bullet to the chest. Closed his eyes for a second, like it hurt physically.

"You’re the one walking away." he said, looking down at you.

"Dick." Roy finally intervened, stepping forward. But before he could say more, you slapped Dick across the face.

He didn’t react at first. His head turned slightly with the hit, hair falling in his eyes. His expression tight, like the pain wasn’t physical but something deeper. He looked at you, not angry, not hateful. Like you were a shattered reflection.

"Don’t talk to me like you have the moral high ground of having buried him," he said at last, voice broken and trembling. "You don’t own pain."

That hurt worse than any shout, any accusation. Roy stared at the ground like this was killing him. Like he was witnessing something too intimate.

You took a step back, chest heaving like you’d run for miles. Your knuckles burned. Your eyes threatened to spill over again, but you wouldn’t cry, not in front of him.

"I don’t hate you." you said suddenly, surprising even yourself.

Dick looked up, confused.

"I wish I could," you continued, eyes on your hands. "I wish blaming you was enough to make me leave. But it’s not. Because if I hate you, I’d have to hate myself. And I already do enough of that."

Roy let out a shaky breath, half frustration, half fear.

"Then don’t go." he murmured, barely audible.

"I have nothing left here, Roy."

"You have me."

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was dense. Like the world paused to see if you’d answer.

"And that’s the only thing that hurts to leave," you whispered at last, more a confession than goodbye.

Roy pulled you into his arms without asking. You didn’t say anything. Just closed your eyes and let him hold you, knowing it was the last time.

Dick watched silently, fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t do anything more. He shouldn’t. He’d lost that right long ago.

"When you leave," he said from where he stood, "just promise me you’re doing more than running away."

You pulled back slightly from Roy, just enough to look over your shoulder at Dick.

"I’m not running. I’m finding a way to live that doesn’t kill me inside."

Dick nodded. No anger, just exhaustion.

"Then good luck."

Roy lifted his head from your shoulder, looking into your eyes. He leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead. You froze for a second, eyes closed, feeling that unmistakable gesture, so him, so full of warmth in the middle of this chaos. When he pulled away, you clung to him tighter, like he was your anchor.

"I won’t forget you," Roy whispered, like a vow. "And you won’t forget me."

You didn’t know what to say. Your voice was caught in your throat. You brushed your lips against his, tenderly.

Dick turned away, still standing tall, but softer now.

"If you leave, hold your head high," he said firmly, trying not to sound wounded. "No one here wants you to disappear, even if it feels that way."

Roy nodded, his hand still resting on your back, steady.

"And if you lose your way again… we’ll be here."

Silence settled again, gentler this time. The tears wanted out, but you held them back.

"Thank you," was all you could say.

[sukunasteeth]

Marks

Sukuna doesn't understand the hold you have on him.

He's never particularly been a people person. In fact, people annoyed him. This has held true ever since he was a child with his twin brother, Yuji. That is, until Yuji brought you home one fateful day in middle school, claiming to have met a new friend. 

You, with your sweet little smile, and your boundlessly generous heart. You with your giggle that chimes through his darkened soul like a golden bell. With the innocent rosy lips that he'd dreamed of having his first kiss with until high school, when it finally came to fruition. You had been irrevocably his ever since then, and it had been almost seven years.

So why does it still feel like you're the one with all the power here?

Why does it feel like you could create a monster out of him if you truly wanted to? Why does it feel like he's constantly at your beck and call? Why are you the one person on this green earth that reduces him to the feeling of an emotion as pathetic as helplessness?

"'Kuna...hurts..."

He'll admit, he takes it out on you.

Like now, when you're lying naked beneath him (his favorite spot to have you in) and begging him to take it easy on you. He's got you covered in sweat, exerting you to your ultimate limit. He loved to see you train until failure, after all. Adored the way your legs quivered when he relentlessly made you keep riding him, despite your exhaustion. Cooed at the way you begged him to be gentle, even though he knows you prefer it rough. You were quick to submit when he had you behind closed doors, despite how independent you appeared outside of them. Sukuna knew you better. Knew how much you loved following his direction. Receiving his praise.

You were lucky you were such a good girl.

Sukuna was torturing you now already, and you hadn't even disobeyed him. He can't imagine what he would do if you were unruly. Actually, he can. And the thought has him salivating even more as he sucks relentlessly at the nape of your neck. You're covered in marks from his teeth or the raw scrape of his tongue. Your throat has been tormented by his worship to the extent that he's even broken skin in the spots where he can feel your pulse beneath his lips.

Even Sukuna has to admit that you didn't deserve this abuse. You hadn't done a thing out of line, besides selfishly tearing the heart out of his chest for good. It was yours now.

The thought makes him growl against you.

God, you weren't even trying.

Your victory over him was so effortless.

It pissed him off.

He doesn't realize that he's bitten you particularly hard until you're suddenly recoiling away, burrowing yourself into his pillows with a small yelp. Your hand has sprung up to press your palm over Sukuna's mouth in some weak attempt at getting him to stop. Your other hand holds your throat as you purse your lips at him, which have also seen a good amount of Sukuna's biting that day.

You looked good in his teeth marks, what can he say?

"Are you mad or something?" You're blinking up at him like a confused little deer. Sukuna can't help that it makes him hungry. You were a perfect prey to him and he would be chasing you to the end of this lifetime. He could tell solely in the way that your stupid little nickname for him makes his heartstrings snap.

He takes a frustrated breath through his nose over your hand, nipping at your fingers over his mouth like a muzzled dog. Before you can pull them away, he's grasping your wrist tightly, his unforgiving grip a warning in itself. Easily, he pins it to the side of your head, rendering you halfway useless.

"Don't interrupt." He murmurs, his gaze burning into yours.

A helpless sob escapes you, but otherwise you stop trying to squirm away from him. You allow the onslaught to continue without a peep, bracing yourself each and every time a new hickey is being bruised into your skin. He doesn't offer you any words in terms of praise, but his grip on your wrist eventually loosens a bit. He never fully lets you go, though.

While he appreciates your cooperation, you eventually go almost too quiet and Sukuna thinks for a moment that maybe he's pushed you too far. He pulls away from your neck to look at you, finding your pink little face screwed up in an intense mixture of pleasure and agony. He feels a content smile spread across his face but it's cut short when his eyes hone in on your lips, which you're currently biting hard enough to draw blood from.

His free hand reaches up and grasps your chin, pressing his thumb below your bottom lip and forcing you to relinquish it. You blink slowly, your logical brain having exhausted itself up until this point. You easily let him pry your teeth apart, panting in his grasp. 

"Mouth. Open." He commands.

You squirm in your overwhelming frustration, whining. "It hurts, 'Kuna!"

Sukuna hums in a mock sympathy, watching you suffer with a satisfied grin. You would have these marks for weeks. There were so many now, some more intense than others, and he wasn't even close to being done with you.

"You're being cruel." You accuse, watching your own hardship twinkle back at you in the reflection of his eyes. Your pout is purple and bruised from your attempts to keep quiet. Sukuna leans in closer and presses the sweetest kiss to your lips, as soft as the brush of a feather.

What was cruel was the fact that you had broken down everything Sukuna had ever known about himself. His strength was putty at your feet. His hatred for the world was a joke in your presence. His pride, a mere memory at the touch of your fingertips against his soul.

"You think this is cruel?" He whispers, mocking you. His voice is the taunt of a devilish trickster. "I think I've been going too easy on you. Allow me to rectify that."

There really is no curse more cruel than love.

[mingapace]

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇʀ!ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ꜱᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛɪᴛꜱ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 3ᴋ

Darkness still embraces you when your eyes snap open.

At first, you don’t understand why. The bed is still warm from his body, the scent of moss, rain, and ancient incense lingers in the air like a subtle caress. But then it comes—the sound.

A thunderclap breaks the silence like a broken scream, violent, sudden. The whole house seems to tremble. You tense up, sitting on the mattress with your heart already pounding in your chest.

A storm.

Rain lashes the windows with the fury of a thousand fingers, and the wind howls like a pack of ancient wolves. Shadows dance on the walls in rhythm with the lightning. You rise slowly, your fingers brushing against the cold of the empty sheets beside you.

He’s not there.

You knew that, of course.

Remmick went out, like every night, with that gaze of his veiled by a calm that smells of eternity, and lips that brushed your forehead like a promise.

“I’ll be back 'fore you're up, love.”

He always says that. And he always does. But tonight… something clenches your heart.

You slide out of bed. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Every sound in the house is amplified: the creak of wood contracting with the humidity, the sigh of wind slipping under the beams, the relentless drumming of rain on the windows. You pull your robe from the corner of the chair and wrap it around you, but the chill you feel has nothing to do with temperature.

You slip on your slippers in the dark and head down to the living room. The hallway lights he had turned on before leaving are flickering. The steady ticking of the clock on the mantel keeps company with the rumble of the storm.

It’s 3:45.

You approach the living room window. You check to see if he might be outside, like that time a few months ago. You’re sure that if he could, he would’ve torn the door off its hinges or broken a window to get in and avoid being scolded for forgetting the one thing he was supposed to remember—the keys.

But the porch is empty. There is only the fury of nature out there—the world has vanished. The contours of reality have blurred into a shroud of driving rain and shadow. Even the road leading to the clearing is no longer visible. Only a gray, liquid sea swept by wind. The air smells metallic, saturated with electricity and fear.

You clutch the linen robe tighter, trying to contain the shiver running up your spine.

Remmick has told you so many times about his hunts. How he can feel the blood pulsing in the bodies of forest animals, the whisper of arteries, the scent of life. How he could spend hours in the woods. He spoke of it with such passion and obsession that you often feared he might get carried away and forget that the sun, in the end, always rises.

You make yourself some tea—more to keep your hands busy than to drink it. The kettle whines, steam curling into the air like a shy ghost. You pour it into your favorite cup, the one he gave you during your first month together. His hands touched it. His lips laughed when you said it looked like something from another era. But now your hands tremble. The spoon clinks too loudly as you stir.

At 4:30, you’re at the window again. You open it slightly and peer through the half-closed shutters that keep the rain out. You just stare into the night as if you could carve it with your gaze, as if wanting it hard enough would make him appear. The air slaps your face. Forces you to close it.

You begin pacing the house.

In the living room, you stop to tidy the books on the shelf. Pointlessly. Then you adjust the blanket on the couch, fold it, unfold it. In the kitchen, you dry a clean cup. You bend down, pick something off the floor—a dried petal, maybe, fallen from an old bouquet. Every gesture is without purpose, but if you stop… you feel too much. A shadow in the pit of your stomach. A sense of absence pressing against your ribs.

Fucking Remmick and his sense of order.

At five o’clock, you sit in front of the door.

Not in front of the window. Not on the couch. Right in front of the door. On the step before the threshold.

You stare at it, as if it could reveal where he is. Now and then, you think you hear a footstep. A beat of wings. A distant, muffled sound, dulled by the rain.

But it’s not him. Not yet.

You hug your knees and rest your forehead on your arms. The now-cold cup remains abandoned on the hallway shelf.

Once, you asked him if bad weather bothered him.

“Bad weather?” He had laughed, resting his chin on your stomach to look at you. “Darlin', I’ve lived through plagues, revolutions, and over a thousand years without so much as a fire in the grate and you're askin' if a bit o' rain bothers me?”

Then why…? Why was he so late?

Maybe the hunt went long. Maybe he was too hungry.

Maybe he heard a heart beating too loudly and couldn’t resist. And then another. And another.

Maybe he’s still out there, in the forest. With heavy breath, claws and teeth sunk into flesh.

At 5:17, a thud on the porch halts your dark thoughts and lifts your head from your knees. Then you hear the unmistakable sound of keys turning in the lock and leap to your feet before the door even opens.

Remmick closes the door behind him and furrows his brow when he sees you standing right in front of the entrance.

He’s there, soaked, his dark coat heavy with water. One eyebrow arches in a surprised, slightly amused expression.

“Why're you outta bed?” he asks, running a hand through his dripping hair, shaking it out a little. Water slides down his forehead, past his temples, framing that chiseled face—damned as it is desperate for affection.

You just sigh. Slow, deep. Relief bites you gently, but you’re not going to let him off that easily.

He approaches with his usual feline grace, a half-smile curving his lips, a clever light in his eyes. He reaches out to embrace you, but you stop him with two fingers planted firmly on his forehead.

“Not so fast, Count Dracula,” you murmur in a flat tone. “Chair. Fireplace. Now.”

Remmick laughs—a low, hoarse laugh that rises from his chest and dissolves into a smirk.

“You’re heartless. I’ve been trudgin' through muck and thorns for hours, and you go treatin' me like some mangy stray…”

“A mangy stray that reeks of rain and trouble,” you retort, turning away and leaving him with his melodrama. But you don’t see the way he looks at you as you walk off—the look of a man who never really knew what home was until you entered his life.

When you return, you’re holding a white towel and find him already seated by the fireplace, the embers still glowing, casting coppery reflections on his pale skin. He’s taken off his coat, left in a bloodstained shirt, lit by the hallway light.

You slide between his open legs, lying in front of him, without a word.

You start with his head, brushing his skin with the warm cloth, your movements measured, careful. Rubbing his hair to absorb as much water as possible.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the touch.

“You were late,” you finally say in a low voice.

He mutters something in a language you don’t recognize, but you’re pretty sure it’s a curse.

“Sure the storm put the fright in all the big ones — deer, boar, the lot of them. I had to go in fierce deep.”

Your cloth stops. You look at him, serious. A faint wrinkle forms between your eyebrows.

He notices. And smirks.

“Ah now, don’t be makin’ that face. No werewolves took a chunk outta me. No forest spirits, no Custodians neither. I’m here—alive, drenched, and still devilishly handsome, as always.”

But you don’t smile.

“You’re ruining all your shirts. That’s the fourth one this week…”

Your irritation is clear.

Your hands keep moving, sliding down his arms, then patting his chest. But you do it with a kind of affectionate harshness, like you’re trying to punish him through the cloth.

The blood had stained it almost to the hem this time, and it didn’t seem like it would come off. And Remmick, stubborn as always, insisted on wearing a new one every time instead of reusing the ruined ones.

“Oh no. The pout,” he snorts. “That grumpy pout’ll be the death of me, I swear. It’s the only thing that ever takes me down.”

Then, as if the punishment wasn’t enough for him, he starts to pinch your waist. His fingers, ice-cold, slip beneath the thin fabric of your robe, seeking out that exact spot where you’re most ticklish.

You flinch. Try to pull away, but not quite fast enough.

“Remmick!” you protest, half amused, half annoyed. “Stop it, you’re getting me all wet.”

And then he begins to tickle you.

Until you squirm, laughing, trying to swat his hands away.

“Remmick—stop it! You’re such a—”

You shove his hands off, but you’ve already lost the battle. The smile tugs at your lips and you hate him for it.

And he sees it. And he doesn’t let it go.

“Ah, you were worried, weren't ya?” he says, teasing but warm, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “You thought I got meself lost. Or went a bit mad altogether. Or maybe ran off with a new lass in the woods—some doe-eyed beauty struttin’ around like a queen—”

“Stop it,” you cut in, face flushed. You try to wriggle free, but he’s already quicker.

His hands lock around your hips, holding you to him with a firm yet tender grip.

Suddenly, you’re in his lap, your protest drowned by a kiss that steals your breath before it even forms thought.

Remmick always kisses like he’s proving how deeply he adores and desires you.

His tongue finds yours with wild urgency, and you often struggle to keep up with his pace—but it doesn’t matter. He loves taking control just as much as he loves surrendering it.

You feel your robe shift, the ties loosening until your chest is bare, your skin pressed against the cold, wet fabric of his shirt.

His mouth still tastes of rain and coppery blood. He groans into the kiss with that strange mix of desperation and devotion only he seems to carry—like he never wants to stop, like your mouth is the only thing that can soothe his eternal hunger.

When you pull away, you’re breathless.

“Rem…” you scold softly, sighing and rolling your eyes as you feel his hands slip past the edge of your robe and settle on your hips, clothed only in your underwear.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing your throat. “Easy now, you’re all knotted up. Let me take care o’ ya.”

His palms are cold, but it only make your skin burn hotter. You gasp softly as he grab you there, possessive, like he needs to anchor himself.

“You can’t always solve everything with sex…” you mutter, though you clearly had no real objections.

“Is that so?” He murmurs, as he brush his lips on your jaw before pulling his back against the chair and look at you with a devil grin on his stupid face.

You’re ready to argue again or punch him in the face when one of his hands leaves your hip and moves up to his mouth. Yours goes dry when you see him lick a long trail of drool off two long fingers and you think it’s the most pornographic image you’ve ever seen.

His hand moves away again and his satisfied smile returns to tease you.

“Do I have the all-clear, then?”

You glared at him but your eyes still dropped, drawn to the slight pull he was exerting on the waistband of your panties, separating it slightly from your skin. A clear request, his fingers slick against the soft flesh of your thigh, waiting.

You didn’t need to speak. The way you leaned into him, the soft hitch in your breath, the way your fingers slipped into his damp curls and tugged just a little—it told him everything.

He used his dry fingers to push your panties aside just enough and you held back a shiver when you felt his cold, wet fingers press against your naked center.

“You’ve always taken care o’ me, haven’t ya? Now let go, darlin'. Let me make you feel good.”

He murmurs sweet words to you when you arch slightly, biting the inside of your cheeks. To him, you are a vision. He will never tire of watching you give in, breaking the mask of indifference and sarcasm you wore most of the time. Unraveling on him, thanks to him.

“It’s late…I have to wake up soon…I—” you try to wriggle away but the hand still resting on your hip wouldn’t let you move an inch. He was always stronger, when he fed.

“Let me, love.” He looks at you with those puppy dog ​​eyes that you can never say no to. “I’ll only use me fingers. Won’t take long, swear it.”

His high confidence in his abilities pisses you off but you don’t have the audacity to argue back. Remmick was really good at what he did.

You nod, leaving a caress behind his head and closing your free hand on his shoulder to steady yourself astride his closed legs.

His knuckles return, but this time, the contact is more concrete. They separate your vaginal lips and rub inside, making you gasp and tilt your hips lower, wanting more.

“There she is, my good girl.” He hums, stretching his fingers into a V and letting them slide out, clearly wanting to torture you some more. But before you could go back to your old self, all bossy and everything, he’s pinched your clit between his fingers, making you throw your head back from the pleasurable discharge along your spine.

“Rem…”

“I know, darlin'. I know. Just be patient for me.”

His gray eyes fall to your breasts and he leans over one of them as he continues to torture you.

You winced at the wet sound and the wave of heat that ran through you as he pressed the flat of his tongue to your sensitive nipple and sucked hard, closing his lips around it.

Your fingers closed in his hair, just the way he liked it, and you tugged a little, making his moans vibrate against your flesh.

He moves a little in his seat, shifting your body with his movements, as if he were seeking relief himself, but he was almost immediately still, continuing to care for you.

“There,” he whispers after pull of your nibble leaving behind a flushed, wet mark. “There. That’s where ye belong.”

You watch him — how his pupils dilated, how his jaw tensed as he starts to push his thumb against your clit, now all wet and ready.

He found it with maddening precision, drawing small, slow circles that made your breath catch in your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low. “Let me feel ye. Let me give this to ye.”

You rock your hips gently against his hand. He groans like you’d hurt him in the best way.

“Always so perfect like this,” he whines. “On me lap. Letting me have ye. Letting me love ye like this.”

You whimper as he slid one finger inside, slow and deep. He kiss your throat, your jaw, your cheek, never once stopping the movement of his hand.

“Gods above, ye're suckin’ me finger right in…” he choks. “Yer body’s so honest.”

You cling to his shoulders, breath hitching as he add a second finger —stretching you just enough to make your legs shake. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing slow and steady as he curl his fingers just right inside you.

You moan — softly, brokenly — and he groans in response.

“That’s it, darlin'. Let me hear it.”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t stop the way your hips moved in tiny, helpless circles, chasing the rhythm of his fingers, the heat blooming low and deep in your belly.

You grip his shoulders tighter, hips jerking as the coil inside you tightens.

“Ye gonna come for me?” he asks, leaning back again to meet your eyes. “Right here, in me lap, so I can feel it?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

“Go on then,” he stammers. “Let go, princess. Show me how much ye missed me.”

You shatter with a cry, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash through you. Remmick kiss you through it — holding you tight, grounding you, worshipping every sound you make.

You collapse against his chest, shaking. His fingers stays inside you a moment longer, gentle now, soothing — coaxing you down, back to yourself.

He kissed your hair.

“Did I do good?”

Him and his constant search for approval.

“I can’t fuckin’ think straight…you did just fine…”

You hum, voice ragged.

“Just fine.” He repeats.

You smile, eyes closed. “Mmhm.”

You felt his breath shift. A tiny hitch. Then — nothing. Until suddenly, he lifts you off his lap in one fluid motion, standing with you in his arms like you weighed nothing at all.

Your eyes blinks open, your hands closed instantly at his neck. “What are you-?”

He doesn’t answer.

He carries you — slow, steady, controlled — out of the living room and down the hallway. You see the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes. That particular expression he wore when he had something to prove.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot making you laugh.

“Just fine…I’ll show ya just fine."