#him and his fragile masculinity

[cahirsmommy]

dilf!!!

d - ang

i

l - iterally

f - ucking hate viktor rubin

[brodyfoxxsmassivetits]

laur and their strange creature thing

[wolves-in-the-world]

the thing about eliot spencer as a character, right. the thing about him.

(and as always your mileage may vary on my analyses so if we disagree that's cool actually)

is that he is in fact a somewhat emotionally constipated idiot who is occasionally sensitive about his perceived masculinity and gets defensive about emotional intimacy around other men (largely hardison, who's much more comfortable expressing affection and embracing a softer kind of masculinity), but eliot displays enough emotional awareness and sensitivity and respect for women etc etc that anyone who's been subjected to that era of television will put on rose-tinted glasses without even looking twice.

(and he is, don't get me wrong, incredibly emotionally aware for a professionally punchy guy with enough trauma to sink the titanic. it still startles me to see.)

on top of which we have the layers and the accessories and the excellent hair with the secret braids and the way he barely has an ego and he's good with kids and protective of his team without taking it too far, and some of us never stood a fucking chance.

[queenincrimson]

Timeless - Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (2.07)

[alaskan-wallflower]

steve’s always been kind of hush hush about his home life. part of him is ashamed to admit he probably gets hit by his dad or yelled at. he’s being a baby anyway. he’s supposed to be stoic and cool. he’s not supposed to cry over a little bumping around from his old man. so he pushes it down and doesn’t tell anyone. until they’re about twelve or thirteen and soda just sees him on the curb outside his house for the first time he thinks ever. he’s got a black eye and a visible handprint on his cheek, though he’s holding a slab of frozen meat he managed to snag before running out. he’s never really told soda the whole story…shoot, the whole reason they became friends in the first place was because they were two “troubled” young boys who were usually having to stay in for recess together because of soda’s not understood impulsivity and steve’s anger issues, but nobody knew where those anger issues came from.

he just breaks down before soda can say anything and gets up to run off before soda grabs a hold of his shoulder to get him to stay and wait and just talk a minute…and he does. by hid he tells him everything. the messy divorce, how he became a cheap prize between his parents because both of them wanted custody over him, the abuse from his dad, the constant hitting and luring back with the promise of money and maybe a home cooked meal…something that certainly wouldn’t have been able to cover or make up for the years of emotional ahd physical abuse…

and everything just makes sense. steve’s anger. his unwillingness to show the slightest bit of negative-or as he dubbed it, “weak” emotions. the way he’d usually try to buy soda dinner or something after a heated argument. it all clicks. and all soda can do is hold in his own tears as his normally emotionally “well put together” friend breaks down in his arms

[huginsmemory]

I think whats so compelling about Sanji is that he's so terribly self conscious about being masculine that anything that performs masculinity better than him (ie, Zoro, obliviously, minus the women-fucking part), or skews masculinity, is a threat to him. Which makes him rampantly homophobic and transphobic. And as he also believes masculinity needs to be focused around being horny for women makes him also rampantly misogynistic cause he can't actually see women past them being a sexual object. Anyways it all culminates in you the audience being fairly certain that this man cannot be straight due to this terribly obvious fragility around his masculinity, and that if he ever got dicked down, it might solve all these issues.

[the-unconquered-queen]

Because I'm seeing cakegate on my dash again, let's stir up some old drama

[boomania-a]

It's ok to experience homosexual curiosity, Basileus. Go live your dreams, kiss a man on the lips.

"I-I'm not! I-I can't!"

" I l-like women! Yeah! "

[emissary-of-dog]

i like thinking about geara's gender (in my hcs anyway); i feel like he's definitely not cis but doesn't think so at all. at least not in a way that's most obvious to him but definitely hints that he's not all... there... in terms of gender

[seasprincess]

bf!rafe and his tantrums

fluff!

warnings: none, short one

Rafe has little tantrums all the time. You knew that better than anyone. You’d be there when he’d shout at some poor guys at a party for being to loud. Or when he’d shout at his sisters for going into his room.

He’s a spoilt little princess sometimes and it is rather funny to watch.

Even if it does mean that you have to calm him down. Usually by kissing, hugging or more…interesting ways.

“Dude fucking play the game!” Rafe shouts down the mic at poor Topper. He just wanted to play fortnite, not be yelled at by his friend. But of course Rafe gets too competitive like usual. Fragile masculinity routed in a fortnite game.

You just look up from your phone while laying on his bed. Rafe is tweaking, fist clenched and eyes locked on the screen. If anyone was to look at him they’d think he was a thirteen year old boy whose life revolved around a video game. Quite accurate.

“Are you fucking stupid!? Oh my god!” Rafe shouts again before slamming his controller down. You look at the screen and see that he’s been killed, coming in second place.

Rafe’s hands drag down his face, taking a deep breath before turning off his headset. Not even saying goodbye to Topper. He’s such a moody bitch sometimes. Even worse than you.

“Rafe, baby, it’s a game.” You say as you place your phone down. Not being able to stop the small smile that appears on your lips.

You’ve reacted the same way when you put on clothes that you thought would match but didn’t. But you still think he’s overreacting.

“Mhm.” Rafe says before biting the inside of his cheek. Stopping himself from saying something snarky back. In his little tantrums he will usually be snarky to you too. But seeing as he’s trying to stop that and being on his ‘best behaviour’ for you.

You can’t help but chuckle before holding your arms open. Signalling for the boy to come hug you.

Rafe sighs before heading towards your embrace, his head on your chest as your fingers find his hair. Well lack of.

You gently rub his head as he sighs. Letting his muscles relax as he slowly breathes in and out, calming himself back.

What a stroppy little princess he is.

a/n: thought of fortnite. wrote this. miss fortnite.

[shidoglazer]

masterlist

ꨄ︎ last updated : 27th june

ꨄ︎ most recent work : past life ( sae itoshi fluff )

nsfw works

★ - over 1k notes

reo mikage

- vibrator in public

- fucking you dumb

- you missed nagi and reo!

- nagi’s best friend ..

nagi seishiro

- nasty size kink

- nsfw & sfw headcanons

★ so lazy to pull out

- jealous boy

- you missed nagi and reo

- nagis best friend

sae itoshi

- cheating on shidou with sae pt 1 ( ryusei shidou solo )

- cheating on shidou with sae pt 2 ( ryusae x reader )

- teach me how

★ car sex

- disciplined?

- vanilla sae

- fucking in your best friends room

- nsfw alphabet

rin itoshi

- overstimulation

★ no protection for the first time

★ his hobbies?

- fingering him while giving him a bj!

- pet play

- hate sex ( pt 1 )

- enemies to lovers ( pt 2 )

★ shy shy shy

michael kaiser

★ first time

- backshots

drabbles

★ somnophillia ( kaiser, sae, shidou, ness, )

- pegging them ( rin, sae, shidou, ness)

others

shhh, we’re at a library ( otoya eita )

beg for it ( dom!reader sub!yukimiya )

dessert time ( hyoma chigiri )

sfw

★ - over 1k notes

drabbles

- showing you off on social media (sae, rin, reo, shidou, kaiser)

- when you get merch of them ( sae, rin, kaiser )

★ moderating your social media account ( multiple)

- acting shocked when they walk in on you changing ( sae, rin,

kaiser, nagi)

- trying to kiss you after finishing your make up ( multiple)

- found family ( rin and sae as your older brothers )

★ fragile masculinity? never heard of it ( rin and sae )

- tasting your lipgloss (multiple)

michael kaiser

- michael kaiser headcanons

- taking the last croissant

nagi seishiro

- colour bomb

sae itoshi

- bad score

★ forgot his sleeping mask

- love language

- princess x knight (angst)

- touch starved x over affectionate

- getting too drunk

- summer in madrid

- past life

rin itoshi

- productive day

★ biting habit

[foldingfittedsheets]

My best friend growing up was a matter of convenience over compatibility. The boy across the street was only a year older than me. We had some common interests but our personality types were a terrible clash. I remember fighting with him just as vividly as any peaceful activity.

We were stuck in the same boat though. There was no other kids to socialize with except our odious older brothers, and being together was slightly less wretched than being alone. Most of the time. Our parents joked that we were like an old married couple, always fighting. We’re both gay now.

His family was better off so he brought more toys and video games to the friendship table. My family had more land so we had animals to play with and secret forest clubhouses. We hung out most days but he refused to acknowledge me at school for the sin of being both a year younger and a girl.

He was a terribly sore loser though. When playing fighting games he’d win four out of five rounds but if I won the fifth he’d turn the console off before letting my character do a victory dance. I was fairly prosaic about this. He liked to play them and I went along. When I won I got to suggest other activities.

Now, I mentioned we both had older brothers. His older brother was only three years above him. They scuffled in a normal sibling manner but the older brother was cognizant that he was bigger and stronger and these fights were more what I would characterize as fencing. There was rules and treaties in place.

My older brother was five years older than me. When we fought it was a no holds barred pit fight. I went absolutely feral. Significantly younger and weaker I unleashed my greatest weapon which was absolute berserker tactics. I bit, scratched, went for the balls, I was a menace. I paid no heed to any injury done to me if it let me land another strike. Most of our fights ended in a stalemate of me pinned or him bleeding too profusely to continue harassing me.

I never considered that I was getting more fighting experience than my friend. When scuffles broke out between us without a controller in hand I won every time. He’d jokingly smack me and we’d go down in a ball of flying hair and monkey screeches, but I always ended on top.

The trouble was, I found, that afterward he was no fun at all. His fragile childhood masculinity couldn’t take these defeats from someone younger and more female than him and he’d always sulk home afterward. I didn’t care for that, especially because fighting him was much more fun than my horrible brother.

Then one day I found the secret. I’d whapped him far too hard upside the head and he began to cry immediately. Full of guilt I whimpered that he’d really hurt my knee. He stopped crying. He hurt my knee? Then we were even! He’d hurt me just as badly and therefore the fight was a draw.

I was delighted by this logic. Every fight thereafter I saw no shame in playing up some injury he’d dealt me retroactively. I had no pride to lose and shamelessly acted beaten to avoid hurting his feelings. Our fights were milder as a result, and we both went away feeling elated by the childhood violence rather than defeated.

[inkykeiji]

purge me, purgatory

character: caleb warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest, noncon that turns into dubcon, a hint of dacryphilia, toxic masculinity, reader is a bit of a brat, size difference, manipulation, praise, caleb can get a little mean, nightmares, toxic relationship, power dynamics, pet names words: 5.3k

notes: i started working on this piece before caleb had even been released and i am SO glad i finally finished editing it. this also wasn’t supposed to be nearly as long as it became but alas, such is my curse (◞‸◟；) please heed the warnings above and stay safe!

You know Caleb has nightmares. You’ve seen the toll they take on him: exhaustion hanging heavy over hunched shoulders, staining sunken eyes with rings of purple, face twisted into a grimace as he collapses in the chair across the table from you, an untouched bowl of apple oatmeal steaming in front of him.

“Another one?” you’d always say, voice so kind and cautious, so wan and worried, bottom lip caught between your teeth muddling the question. 

“Yeah,” he’d always respond, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the fatigue from his features. “But don’t worry about me, pipsqueak. I’m okay.” 

You know Caleb has nightmares—but they’ve never been as bad as this one. 

Because tonight, it wakes you from your slumber, roused gently from sleep’s embrace by the rough whimpers seeping through the thin drywall separating your bedroom from his. 

They sound painful, terrified little noises that keep catching on the uneven hitches of his breath or splintering sharply in his throat, unintelligible pleads sprinkled throughout, too muffled for you to make out the content and chopped up by hiccups.

A dull, dense pang sears through your heart at his yelped out No!, emotion growing thick in your throat and stinging your eyes. Fingers curling in linen, you hug your blanket to your chest, a feeble attempt to quell the ache.

There’s nothing worse than hearing your big brother—your one and only protector, always—in such intense agony. 

And it isn’t stopping. 

It’s too much to bear, your nose beginning to twitch with the threat of tears, and you kick your legs free from your duvet, bare feet hitting cold hardwood a moment later. 

“C-Caleb?” your timid voice soaks into the wood of his bedroom door, followed by a soft rap of knuckles. “Caleb, are you alright?” 

You’re met with a deafening silence, so thick you swear you can feel it weighing down on your chest, lungs crushed beneath the force, ears ringing with it.

“Caleb?” you press your ear flush to the door, eyes squeezed shut in concentration—the ruffling of sheets, the quiet groan of a bedspring, and then, a sniffle. 

Something cracks in your chest, splits itself open so big and so wide it has you hunching over in pain, shoulders curling inward as if your body is trying to keep from tearing apart, one hand flattened over your sternum, the other gripping the brass doorknob.

Another sniffle and the knob is turning, the door falling open, your body stumbling through the threshold. 

Your breathing is laboured, ragged and unevenly shoved from your lungs by a rapidly palpitating heart, a choked version of his name mangling itself in your throat.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, but his voice is thin, weak, fragile, fingertips thumbing aggressively at his eyes, flesh mopping up remnants of teardrops.

It’s a tone of voice that you’ve never heard before, a tone that turns your blood to shards of ice in your veins, a tone that has unease blooming at the base of your spine, crawling up the notches one by one. 

Because Caleb has never been afraid before; you’ve never seen Caleb afraid before. Out of the two of you, he’s always been the strong one, the brave one, the ‘I-can-and-I-will-take-on-anything’ one. He’s always been your guardian angel, your watchdog, your shield from all the bad and scary things in the world. 

You thought he always would be—it is what he promised, after all. 

But right now he looks so small surrounded by a crumpled sea of cotton, tufts of hair clinging to his sweat-drenched temples, muscles tense and rigid, like a predator ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

It has you rushing towards him, falling into his waiting arms—trembling, but safe—and clutching at the collar of his worn t-shirt. Instinctively, your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, cedar and peppermint streaming down your throat to fill your lungs with him. Your chest swells with his essence, held deep within your core, a natural sedative, your heart beginning to slow.

Home; your big brother will always smell like home. 

You allow yourself another moment to steep in his scent before you finally pull back to look at him, hands clasped tightly around his neck, fingers toying with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck—a nervous habit for you, a calming sensation for him.

“What happened?” 

“Nightmare,” he chuckles, but the word is shaky. “Pretty standard stuff. Nothin’ to be concerned about, pipsqueak.” 

And his facade of nonchalant is good, but it isn’t good enough to fool you.

Frenetic eyes search his face, noting the sheen of cold sweat glazing his skin, the salt that has dried his lashes in thick spikes, the panic swimming in violet irises, concern weighting the corners of your lips. 

“Caleb,” you begin slowly, “you woke me up.” 

His brow furrows, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I…Did? Has that ever happened before?” 

And that’s all it takes, really, to have Caleb switching into his Big Brother Mode, stern and straight to business, the need to know if he’s disrupted your precious sleep before much more important than the terror he was experiencing mere moments ago, as if your comfort matters more than his own. 

“No,” your fingers push into his hair and his head dips, a hum vibrating in his chest. “This one was bad. I can tell.” 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, his neck curving more, his forehead nearly bumping against your collarbone.

“I’m worried it’ll come back the moment you close your eyes,” you admit, nails raking along his scalp, a shiver coursing through his body, following your ministrations. 

“How many times do I gotta tell you? You don’t need to worry about me.” 

And although it’s supposed to be a reprimand, it comes out soft, no heat to his voice as his head follows your touch, tilting to the side and allowing your fingers more room to move.

He has told you, many times before in many different tones, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually listen. 

It isn’t your fault; you can’t help how much you care for him.

“Just because I don’t have to, doesn’t mean I won’t,” you huff out, a bite to your voice. “It doesn’t matter how many times you say it; it isn’t going to stop me from caring about you, so you might as well—”

He looks up suddenly, brows knitted and eyes hard. 

“Who’s the big brother here, huh?” violet scours your face, his gaze bright and sharp, searching for an answer. “Who’s job is it to take care of who?”

“It is our job to take care of each other,” you say, palms flattening to the sides of his head and inhibiting him from looking away. “It’s a joint effort, Caleb.” 

The hinges of his jaw flex beneath your touch, a forceful sigh flaring his nostrils, his shoulders deflating a little in your stark stubbornness. An argument is nipping at the tip of his tongue, desperate to pry past his lips and reassert authority, but his teeth clench, molars grinding together. 

“Why don’t I stay with you tonight?” you continue, thumb smoothing out that thick vein in his forehead. “Might make you feel better if you’re not alone—kind of like the way we used to make blanket forts in the living room during really bad thunderstorms.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—” 

“Come on,” you whisper, brushing a strand of damp hair back from his temple. “Let your little sister take care of you for once, yeah?” 

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine—”

“You always say I make everything better, so…” you shrug, eyes searching his. “Let me make this better. Please.” 

The sincerity straining your voice is potent, so much so that he swears he can feel it surrounding him in a suffocating embrace, soaking into his skin and permeating his muscles with something dense and heavy. It weighs him down, roots him to your aura, immobilizing him physically and mentally, the sweetest poison.

Swallowing, he looks away from your piercing eyes.

“It’s not—”

“Caleb,” you whine out, petulant, his name dripping out stringy and thick through a pout. “What is with this reluctance to allow me to take care of you every once in a while? It’s not fair.” 

You sound like a fucking child, and for a moment Caleb is transported back to your shared youth, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has encountered many times before, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has yet to find a defence from, an antidote for.

And you, well, you know this—he knows you know this, your infamous brattiness finally making an appearance, usually a foolproof way to get what you want from him, even it if comes with a hefty dose of reprimand. 

Your gaze, glassy and hard, is framed by furrowed brows, nose scrunched up in typical distaste.

His stare searches your own, and you hold your expression open for him—so willing, so wanting—his own eyes darkening with something you can’t quite place. A shiver skitters up your spine, but you swallow against the unease, continuing. 

“I want to help,” you say. “Please.” 

It isn’t right—he doesn’t need your help, shouldn’t need your help, fated to the role of big brother and, by extension, Man of the House; if anything, it should always be him comforting you. 

Well, that, and the undeniable fact that having you in such close proximity—so intimate, sharing a bed after a nightmare—is tantalizing, and that makes it dangerous. 

But he doesn’t know how to say any of that, how to thread those thoughts into sentences and push them from his disinclined tongue.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because in the end you get your way, just like you always do—just like he always lets you. 

“Alright,” he finally says, the word nothing more than a defeated huff of breath. “Alright.”

Disappointment sinks hard and heavy in his chest, and Caleb bites his cheek, disgusted with himself. It’s stupid to feel such dismay; he should be used to this by now. Maybe he had hoped that this time, he would be strong enough to deny you. How utterly silly of him to believe he was capable of such a feat.

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes, playfully nudging his nose with your own. “Don’t sound so excited.”

But your amusement is not contagious, Caleb’s expression steadfastly dismal, your smile fading as your brow crinkles in confusion.

“Hush, now,” he says, but his voice is gentle, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You need rest.” 

The numbers glowing on his nightstand indicate that yes, you do need rest, you both need rest, and you nod, allowing Caleb to manhandle the two of you beneath his blankets.

The delicate scent of warm toffee and fresh orchid engulf him, one of Caleb’s strong arms curled around your waist, slotting your back up against his chest.

“Sleep,” he instructs, the order rumbling his ribs, his voice low and gruff. “My little protector.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, but your eyes slip shut. “You’ll be thanking me in the morning.”

But Caleb’s not so sure. 

Because despite your presence being warm and comforting and full of home, Caleb can’t fucking sleep. 

Because you are too fucking close. Abnormally close; inappropriately close, and it’s driving him up the Goddamn wall. 

He’s tried everything—first shuffling away a little, just to put a couple inches of space between your bodies; close enough for you to still feel his presence, and for him to still feel yours, but not too close to be considered indecorous. 

When that didn’t work, when your body sensed the loss and instinctually sought out his own, Caleb shoved himself so his back was pressed flush to the drywall—as far as he could possibly get without physically removing himself from the bed entirely—but that didn’t help, either. 

Because you’re like a little magnet, attracted to his body heat, burrowing through wrinkled sheets to glue yourself to his form as if it is natural, normal, entirely intuitive. 

Even in sleep, you’re greedy. 

Caleb supposes he’s even worse. 

Caleb could, realistically, turn away from you—present you with his sculpted back and protect his front from your unconscious attacks; or leave the bed entirely, opting to sleep on the too-small, too-scratchy sofa in the living room downstairs so he doesn’t have to worry about hands with minds of their owns—hands desperate to touch and grope and mark, hands that can’t keep to themselves. Caleb could wake you up and firmly insist that you go back to your own bed, exercising his Big Brother Authority and overruling any and all of your rebuttals and arguments—but he doesn’t, because he can’t. 

Because he’s fucking weak, weak to his own wicked whims, a slave to his sins, drowning in his own desire. It’s too good of an opportunity to give up, his deepest, darkest indulgences presented to him on a platinum platter, crafted by the devil himself. And Caleb isn’t strong enough to resist it’s enticing allure, ironclad willpower melted to sticky silver in the heat of your body, seeping from your flesh into his, poisoning his blood and his brain.

That’s what you do to him; you eat up his logic and spit it back out, mangled and gross, you consume his highly prized self respect and military-grade discipline and reduce him to something desperate and degenerate. 

And eventually, finally, his worst nightmare comes true. 

It’s stifling in his bed, the fabric of his t-shirt damp with sweat—yours, his, does it matter?—and plastered to his body. His tongue has turned to sand in his mouth, dry and grating and heavy. Swallowing does nothing to alleviate the discomfort, the action rough and sticky, the gummy walls of his throat sticking together with the motion.

Water would be nice, but there’s no way for Caleb to slip from your embrace—a thigh thrown over his hip, a palm pressed to his sternum—without ruining your peaceful slumber. 

And you do look oh-so-peaceful; so serene, so ethereal, so fucking breathtaking that it’d be a crime to spoil such a sight.

Moonbeams stream through the window, painting you in strokes of translucent silver. It catches on the beads of sweat adorning your neck, dewdrops that glitter with the steady throb of your jugular, and Caleb feels saliva begin to flood the underside of his tongue, thick and slimy. 

Sweat has water in it, doesn’t it? 

It happens before he even has a chance to think it through, a primal desire his body knew needed to be met, tongue unfurling from its cavern slow and sick to trace along that jagged pulse.

Your neck arches into his taste, offering him more—such a good little sister, you are—and he takes, a slave to temptation, tongue flattening against your flesh and licking one long, wide stripe from the notch of your collarbone to the hinge of your jaw.

It’s delicious, better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, and Caleb laps at you again, harder this time, rougher this time. 

Your essence, salty sweat and bitter perfume, explodes on his tastebuds, and something rattles, roars to life, deep within his chest. It ignites a hunger within him that cannot be sated— dark, desirous, depraved as it claws at his sternum, no matter how much he takes, it always wants more, his desperate attempt to feed it only working to make it more voracious.

It awakens the monster rooted at the core of his soul, a sordid creature borne of something illicit and sinister and wrong many years ago. It sparks the ever-simmering addiction kindling in his rotten, charred heart—a craving that flares higher, burns brighter with every passing second, leaving him intoxicated and stupid, drunk on your aura.

If he doesn’t cut it out he’s going to lick your skin raw—how many licks to get to your sugary sweet center?—your saccharine sweat staining his tongue. 

His mouth latches over your collarbone and sucks, tongue swirling around the knob as his teeth scrape, nipping superficially. Tiny tangles of capillaries snap beneath the force, violet flooding the tissues beneath the thin barrier of skin—and oh, how sweet your blood must taste, how shameful to have it trapped beneath your flesh. 

A soft moan vibrates in your throat as Caleb seals the mark with another heavy lave, pressing a singular kiss to the rapidly developing bruise. Pulling back slightly, violet eyes sweep across the mess he’s made of your flesh, fleeting marks that will fade much too quickly for his liking.

A callused thumb ghosts over the bloom, an involuntary whimper catching in his throat. 

“So pretty,” he breathes to himself, caressing the mark again. 

A delicate shiver quivers through your flesh, procured by his airy words, and Caleb coos, tongue washing over your skin again in a crude caress, his hot breath cool against the glaze of saliva he’s painted in its wake. 

“Y’like that?” he whispers, the question barely more than a wisp wafting over your soaked skin. “Y’want me to do it again?” 

You answer with the softest mewl and a groan rumbles his ribcage, his hips snuggling between your spread thighs, a dainty wheeze pressed from your chest as his weight bears down on you. 

His tongue lolls out from between his teeth, thick strings of drool dripping off the tip to drizzle along your neck, sopped up a mere moment later as the slick muscle rolls along your flesh, following the scrape of his front teeth. 

Another gentle tremble ripples through your form—such precious responses to your big brother’s mouth!—and he runs his teeth along the curve of your throat again, revelling in how such simple actions can pull such gorgeous reactions from you, entirely subconscious. 

That must mean you like it, right? Such responses clearly connote your enjoyment, don’t they? You ought to know, on some subconscious level, that it is your big brother doing this—that it is Caleb’s lips and Caleb’s tongue and Caleb’s spit, that it is Caleb that you are reacting to.

It’s impossible to quell the slow gyrating of his hips as he feasts on your flesh, aching cock grinding against your thigh in messy little circles, fully hard and tenting flannel. He can feel the small pool of pre-cum steadily garnishing the slit, leaking through his PJ pants to leave shimmering smears of his perverted pleasure along the silky skin of your inner thigh.

He’s getting greedy—he knows he is, but he just can’t seem to restrain himself, your essence too alluring to resist; a compulsion, uncontrollable and unquenchable.

He should stop before you wake to your big brother gnawing at your neck and humping your thigh; really, that’s what any good, decent big brother would do. Your rest is important, after all. 

He should do a lot of things.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t. 

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. 

The sensations are overwhelming; something he’s spent several years denying himself, something he’s spent several years dreaming about—it doesn’t count if it’s just in his head, right?—and he finds himself drowning in it, embraced in the ecstasy.

“God, fuck,” he whimpers, curse cracking in his throat. “You feel so—so good.”

Forehead pressed into the crown of your head, his breath is sweltering and damp along your hairline, rough little moans spilling from his lips with each rut of his pelvis. 

“Y’so perfect for me, letting me use you like this,” he manages to gasp out, eyes squeezed shut, imagining how stunning you must look in the throes of pleasure; dazed eyes glazed with lust and rolling back in your skull, lips licked raw and mouth dropped open as the sweetest symphony plays on your tongue, spine bowing off his mattress as pure rapture climbs the notched vertebrae.

Oh, what he’d give to see such a sight, just once.

He wishes he could trick himself into thinking that a singular instance of experiencing such beauty would be enough to keep him from committing such a heinous act of indecency ever again, but he knows that isn’t true. 

Because already he wants more, gluttonous for your body, yearning to be buried in the warmth of your sweet little cunt; and he’s barely taken anything at all yet. Caleb can’t imagine what sort of creature this monster would evolve into under such circumstances. Too much is never enough. 

Caleb sure as hell can’t trick himself into believing such nonsense, but he sure as hell can trick you. 

He doesn’t realize you’ve awoken until he hears your tiny voice, muffled by his chest, fingers pressing into his tensing abs. 

“Cae—Caleb?” his hips stutter at the sudden sound—so quiet, so scared—his cock twitching against your leg. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he hushes you, body sliding down yours so he can search your face, so you can see the sincerity, the desperation, shining in his gaze, his cock pressed hot and hard against your core. “Just—” his hips roll once, a groan catching in his throat as his shaft is enveloped by your swollen lips, so easy to feel through the flimsy fabric of your pyjama shorts. “—Enjoy it.” 

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, just this once.” 

“Caleb,” you begin, and the fear in your voice, tinged with a sick sort of curiosity, has another moan clawing at the back of his tongue, hips rolling into yours slow and purposeful. “This isn’t right…” 

“No one has to know,” he slurs out, nuzzling his cheek against your temple in a crude form of comfort. “We keep so many secrets—what’s one more?”

“No, Caleb—” your hands furl into fists, pushing into lean muscle, and a dark, decadent sound of amusement drips from Caleb’s lips. Oh, how pathetically precious the you think you could ever shove him off. 

But your squirming is beginning to annoy him, that telltale aggression building in his chest—an anger only you seem to evoke, especially when you’re being uncooperative—and he snarls, pulling back a little to fix you with an unimpressed look, his hips pinning you to his bed. 

“Tell me it doesn’t feel good,” he glares at you, his words a cross between a growl and a whine, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a demand or a plead. “Go on, fucking tell me. Say ‘it doesn’t feel good, Caleb. Your cock doesn’t feel good, Caleb’. Come on.” 

Your lids clamp shut in the face of his intense, invasive stare, tears blossoming along the seam of your lashes, a pitiful squeak catching in your throat as your head shakes.

“No? Why not?” A hand wreathes itself around your jaw, blunt nails biting into your cheeks, the pain causing your eyes to spring open. “Is it because you can’t?” 

The question has that same taunting tone he’s used since you were kids—that infuriatingly blasé I’m-better-than-you cadence, the one that proclaims that you’re stupid and he’s superior, that he always wins—and a fierce flame of determination ignites within your ribs, eyes hardened and teeth barred. 

“It—It doesn’t feel—Oh, oh, Cae—”

And you’re trying, trying so desperately to force those words from your tongue, to spit them from your lips and devour the smugness glinting in his eyes, but then he’s moving again, the slick head of his cock rubbing over your clit in precise movements—back and forth, back and forth. 

That isn’t fair, but when has Caleb ever played fair, really?

He’s got you completely trapped beneath his body now, his knees digging into the mattress as he shifts his weight, forcing your thighs open wider.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” 

“I—It’s not—It doesn’t—” A mewl of frustration slices your sentence, chased by a groan of defeat. 

“C’mon, angel, spit it out already if it doesn’t feel good.” 

Squinting in the face of his mocking stare, you steel yourself, throat rippling with a thick swallow of resolve. 

“We shouldn’t—” The sentence splinters with a whine, your words pulled taught between virtue and desire. 

Tears cloud your eyes, rendering Caleb nothing more than a shimmering blur, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to clear them, tiny droplets caught by your lashes. 

“You’re a terrible liar, y’know that?” he breathes, the question damp on the shell of your ear. “I can feel how turned on you are, silly little girl.” 

His hips rock forward once in accentuation, the movement slow and purposeful, as if to prove a point. His clothed cock glides over your drenched cunt with ease and the head strokes your swollen clit again, another torrent of heat rushing to the apex of your thighs. 

“And you know what this tells me?” his voice drops to a whisper. “It tells me you like it.”

Pins of humiliation erupt across your cheeks, tingling heat flooding your face. A soft sob stutters your chest, head shaking in weak denial—a denial that you like it, or simply a denial that this isn’t moral, neither of you can be sure.

“Besides, don’t you wanna take my mind off that stupid nightmare?” His voice drops an octave, deep and devious, chills skittering across your skin. “This—” he rolls his hips once in emphasis, “this will help.” 

“Cae…” 

And he can hear it; can hear the internal struggle reflected in your voice, a tug-of-war between the need to please and the obligation to do what’s right.

“Come on, be a good little sister for me—you said you wanted to make me feel better, right? This will make me feel better. This will make me forget all about it.” 

This will bring him to the crest of bliss, the closest to Heaven he’s sure he’ll ever get. 

“I…I don’t—” 

“Why can’t you just enjoy it with me, huh?” Caleb murmurs, dragging the words along your jaw then planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Give in to it. Just this once.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you’re nodding into his neck, body gone slack beneath his own; you’ve always been so easy for him, so eager to obey even with venom in your mouth and fire in your eyes. Caleb supposes that’s just a big brother’s influence. 

Because no matter how much you retaliate, how much you taunt and tease him, you have always wanted to be his good little girl. Praise from Caleb is sacred, precious, and rarely doled out. It must be savoured, protected, cherished. 

And so you allow your big brother to find comfort in you, in the warmth of your body, in the melody of your moans, praying that this short-lived ecstasy will be enough to cleanse his mind of its nightmares.

“There’s my good girl,” he hums, pleasant and triumphant, the reverence sealed with a chaste kiss to the edge of your hairline. 

Then he’s pulling away and sitting back on his heels, an arrogant little smirk materializing on his lips at the discontented whine that sounds at the back of your throat. Violet stares down at you with such passion it nearly burns, his callused palms pushing your knees open wider, following the V of your thighs until finally, finally, he reaches the apex. 

“Fucking Christ.”

Drenched silk outlines the contours of your cunt—No undies, huh? How naughty—and Caleb reaches out, tracing the shape, pointer finger ghosting over every bump and dip and curve. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathes to himself, gaze hungry and unblinking, enchanted by your body—enraptured by your arousal, captivated by your reactions; the way every graze of his fingertip sends a delicate wave of pleasure tremoring through your flesh; the way his touch makes your lashes dither, unsure if they want to stay open or snap shut. “Let me see it.”

Potent lust leaves his voice husky, and while his sentence is a statement, it comes out as a plead—desperate, desirous. 

Vying fingers pull your sleep shorts aside to reveal your glistening cunt, a whine vibrating deep in the back of his throat. Chest heaving with yearning, his trance stays unbroken, his mouth parted and his tongue pulsing with each of his heavy breaths. 

For a moment everything is still, silent, Caleb revelling in the radiance of your body.

Then something snaps, the final thread of thin resistance broken, and he’s surging forward, teeth catching on your upper lip as his mouth collides with yours, procuring the prettiest little yelp to crack in your chest. He swallows it down greedily, tongue breaking through the barriers of lips and teeth to lavish your mouth in his spit. 

His hips are moving again, shoved snug between your spread thighs, sharp hipbones carving bruises into supple flesh. Each forceful roll of his pelvis has his cockhead catching on your hole—so close, so close—a vicious shudder coursing through his form.

And he can feel it, he can feel your cunt through the thin flannel of his pyjamas—teasing him, taunting him, tempting him, each gentle contraction begging for him to stuff it full—another groan rattling from his mouth into yours. 

It’s all simultaneously too much and not enough, the soft breaths of his name exhaled hot and heavy onto his waiting tongue and the eager fluttering of your cunt desperate to suck him in and the nails scrabbling at the back his neck and—and Caleb feels like he’s going to burst out of his fucking skin, flesh starting to split at the seams, if he doesn’t get more, now. 

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing, moving on pure instinct as a hand snakes between your bodies and paws at the waistband of his pants, the heel of his palm pushing it down just enough to free his aching cock.

A faint Caleb, no, wait! tugs at the back of his consciousness, blotted out by sheer lust as his palm wraps around the base of his cock, head bumping purposefully against your hole. 

The cry that shatters in your throat as he shoves himself into your cunt is nothing short of gorgeous, his own responding whine straining his throat. One quick, hard thrust to bury himself to the hilt is all it takes before his cock is throbbing, filling you with copious amounts of cum—so much, too much, and Christ, when has he ever cum like this?

It’s so intense that it has his whole body tensing, pleasure whiting his vision and wiping his mind and all he can smell, feel, taste is you, you, you—toffee and orchid shooting straight to his brain, your body knotted with his, hips rocking up in desperate little movements as you try to fuck yourself on his spent cock, your sounds of pleasure sweet on his tongue and he licks into your mouth, starved for more. 

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!” 

“M’here, baby,” he slurs against your mouth, rubbing his lips into yours. “M’here, come on, make a mess for me.” 

He isn’t even sure you cum—something he’ll berate himself for in the morning—but in the moment it doesn’t even matter, his brain so poisoned by the pleasure that it’s turned to a pulsating mush, intoxication flooding his veins as he submerges himself in you. His hips stutter as his cock twitches with those last few ribbons of cream, almost as if he’s trying to fuck his seed deeper into you, before his trembling muscles finally give out, Caleb collapsing on top of you. 

“God,” he gasps out, lips moving against the crown of your head. “Th-Thank you.” 

The gratitude is punctuated by a kiss to your hair, his breath hot and erratic on your scalp. 

“Thank you,” he says again, a singular arm twined around your waist as he manhandles you both onto your sides, your body cradled close to his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, Caleb falls into a peaceful sleep. 

[sentryvvorld]

Maybe it’s just me, but this fleeting scene/moment in the movie where Bob is 1. wearing tactical gear (his sweet and fragile nature being paired with a traditionally “masculine” uniform made me feral) and 2. smiling as he gets shoved in the back of the military utility vehicle, knowing that (in his mind, to be part of something bigger than him, even if it was just for a little while) made him feel more alive than he could have ever imagined before.

[fayevalentiinee]

Shanks is the kind of man who lets you be as emotional as you want — immature, pouting, whining, scoffing, you name it. He takes it all with a soft smile, a knowing pat on the head, because he knows exactly how to handle your high-maintenance ass.

And on the rare days he’s not up for it — maybe nursing a hangover from one too many drinks with the crew? — he still knows how to shut you up. With his singular hand, he pulls you into his lap. The warmth of his body, the heavy scent of alcohol on his breath invading your nostrils, it all wraps around you until you forget whatever the fuck you were nagging about.

Dumbstruck, you just stare up at his pretty, pretty red hair, that infamous cloak hanging at his sides like a shield around you both.

Moments like these remind you: no man can handle you like Shanks does.

With him, you get to live in dreamland. No pressure to over-communicate, no constant effort to “work on the relationship.” He’s mature as hell. No fragile masculinity in sight. He does all the thinking for you — because you’re his.

All big muscles and a broad chest, ready to conquer all kinds of seas just to keep you safe and spoiled.

mlist. -> here

[blood-smiles]

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

After a day of hard work you deserve a break, don’t you think so? Well, if that’s the case I’m sure your adoring lover is waiting with open arms!

You best hurry, you don’t want the water to get cold, do you?

It isn’t rare for Alejandro to suggest to bathe together, in fact, he wished the both of you could enjoy a warm bath together more often.

The act of being naked in each other’s company isn’t always intended to be sexual. The love between you is much more than skin deep, it’s something intimate, sacred even.

You could love the other in their most natural state, without a cage of fabric stopping you from feeling the each other’s warmth.

The air was of passion with the slightest hint of ‘Rose vanilla’. You tried out that riveting word on your tongue once again, Passion—A gentle flame of fervent adoration, unique to you, only your (delicate/calloused/steady) hands could hold that fire without getting burnt.

Sultry candlelight casted upon Alejandro’s unblemished fair skin, his deep scarlet eyes flitted to your form.

You could get lost in those stunning hues any day, they were hot and alive like blood, like the substance that runs through your veins.

He had removed his glasses, his stunning hair pooling over his shoulders and dipping into the warm soapy water.

“Join me, won’t you?” He coaxed, arms moving and water sloshing in the tub.

You stared for a while longer, his face really was one of a masculine maiden, you quietly admired the small details of his perfect features. His side profile was that of a delicate doll. Alejandro’s nose bridge was tall, the tip of his nose was upturned and his jawline was sharp but still elegant. It was as if he had been molded carefully by a master sculptor. He was the perfect balance of fragility and strength.

You couldn’t help but look down at his lips— Full and plump, a soft shade of cherry blossom pink and possessing the sweetest, most perfect cupids bow you had ever seen. Ah! How could you forget that pretty dot of melanin below those lovely lips. 

You wondered how his lips would look in a scarlet lipstick shade, oh.. how you would love to witness such a display.

A deep chuckle resonated from the object of your admiration, dragging you back to the moment.

You cleared your throat and hurried to undress, the act of removing the day’s clothes was as if shedding a second skin and putting your worries to air out. You exhaled gently, brushing some hair behind your ear as you slowly submerged your body in the lukewarm water.

You closed your eyes in bliss, shoulders relaxing completely as you sunk further in the water. You felt like a rubber ducky drifting peacefully on a blanket of bubbles.

You were so in your zen that you didn’t even notice the soft sound of movement in the bathtub, you barely even registered that you weren’t leaning against the cool ridge of the bathtub anymore but on the soft heaving chest of your significant other.

His long, slender fingers ran over your slick skin, rubbing oils into your aching muscles, lathering soap over your hair peppering your neck with chaste kisses as he did so.

“Long day?” He asked, the deep, velvety timbre of his voice lulling you into a bit of a half conscious half unconscious state.

You simply answered with a hum, resting the back of your head in his shoulder, accidentally giving him even more skin to mark with little bruises.

You sat between his legs, watching rose petals floating around the bathtub like little fish.

Alejandro always found a way to snake romance into each and every one of your interactions, be it with a kiss in your cheek, carrying your bag or just.. being there, hand grasping yours tightly.

You felt his violet tresses sticking to your temple, the silky feeling against your skin making you being a hand up to swipe it from your face.

“My turn..” you murmured, scooting away from

him and gesturing for him to turn around. He smiled tenderly, turning his back to you and pulling his damp hair out on his back.

You always admired his long hair, your fingers slid through the strands finding not a single knot.

You helped him wash his hair, not missing a moment to not touch his pretty locks. You carefully rubbed in soap, praising the softness of it while you washed the suds off.

You dragged a fingernail over the various beauty marks in his skin, looking like intentionally placed ink dots. Your finger ventured down his spine, causing Alejandro to straighten his back in reflex. You felt the shiver climb down his vertebrae, quickly removing your touch before he could get.. frisky.

He peered at you from over his shoulder, if you hadn’t payed a little more attention you’d missed the slight pout on his lips.

Suddenly water splashed on your face, you gasped in faux offense, putting an appalled hand on your chest as you replied with another splash of water his way, wetting his already drying face again.

His fringe stuck to his forehead, his expression lighting up with amusement.

“Ah.. I see how it is..” he teased, raising his arms playfully before pouncing like a cat capturing a yarn ball.

He laughed as he caught you, arms tightening around you in an all consuming death grip, like a boa wrapping around a defenseless mouse.

“Got you!” He whispered-yelled in your ear with the most obvious undertone of pride and snark. He bit your cheek affectionately, chest pressing against your back so closely you could feel the steady drumming of his heart.

 You giggled, letting him drown you in his overly sweet gestures. Hands gently holding onto his own, your fingers had begun to prune, the wrinkles on your pads reminding you it was time to get out of the water.

The water had begun to turn cold, yet another reason why to dry off and retire to bed.

“Your hands are getting all pruned..” Alejandro noticed, his hand interweaving with yours as he inspected your palm close up, eyes squinting lightly.

“Let’s dry off, okay?” He emerged from the bathtub, drying his body off briefly before turning his attention to you, gesturing for you to follow after him.

He swaddled you in a large towel, rubbing the water off you, making sure he doesn’t miss a spot of undried skin or hair.

 As he worked, you looked out the window, admiring the way the moon looked in the sky, the stars twinkled like one of those old fairy tale movies.

Alejandro admired you this time, his gaze lingered, adoring and revering. He pondered how he acquired such a perfect person? How you would willingly give him something as precious and rare as your love?

To him, you were far more beautiful than any flower, brighter than any star and more precious than any rich a stupid mortal like him could acquire, he wondered— After all this pain he had endured, were you his reward? 

His hand held your face, his kiss was feather-light a soft brush of his lips against your forehead. The hand cradling your head trembled, as if he would tighten his hold you would crumble like a fragile sugar cube. Time seemed to slow, the only thing registering in his ears being the soft breathing coming from your form, the warmth of his love lingered like fairy dust in the air, he turned your gaze to him, thumbs rubbing against the apple of your cheeks.

“Oh, my love..”

Deep violet stuck to his cheekbones, garnet eyes   glistened, his throat bobbing before finally speaking.

“I would scorch my hands time and time again with your light just to graze a hair on your head.

I would set myself on fire if that meant I would be allowed to burn alongside you, mi dulce lucero.”

There was an ask that requested bathtime with Alejandro!! Took me like 200 years to write because I was having trouble thinking on what to make him do but uh!!! Here you go!! I hope it’s to your liking!!

also.. Take a listen to the song “Tuyo” by Nico Play!! It’s AWESOME!! I listened to it like 30 times while writing this :p !