#how to maintain your anonymity

[hislittleraincloud]

WARNING for ALL ANONS ACROSS ALL FANDOMS AND AREAS OF TUMBLR.

Bear with me and ignore the actual content of the anon or my blog for a moment, but it's a reminder to take the share identifiers off of IG links if you're sharing links in anonymous Asks.

I have blocked out my Anon's link for a reason because this person sent me an Anon under anonymous for their reasons.

Be very careful when sharing your link or clicking a link if you wish to remain anonymous, because Meta AND TikTok links are snitches and will tell you who sent you the link, and the people who sent you the link will be able to see who clicked it (this latter feature being an easy way to trap someone into unintentionally exposing their other accounts that are personal and not fandom related).

Be logged into your fandom accounts or your other anonymizing accounts when following your links. And if you're pasting an IG link, take the ID parameter off. It's the

?igsh=

part of the URLs and literally stands for Instagram Share (ID).

https://www.instagram.com/reel/XXXXXXXX/?igsh=XXXxxxxxxXxXx

Everything after the backslash of the actual video from that ? on is unnecessary to the location of the reel so just delete, otherwise you're telling the blogger exactly who you are, and why I won't/can't publish this Anon as is.

Be very careful out there. There are a lot of extremists out there who are reckless and without remorse; because humans are like that, anonymity is necessary to maintain if you don't want to be stalked or doxxed.

Ah, and the abject irony of the Anon's Ask is not lost on me, either.

[antonyshelton]

Build the Future of Gaming with Crypto Casino Development Solutions

[borrelia]

racist as fuck post do NOT put this shit on my dash we already KNOW why messages are the same (useful templates, many palestinians are not native english speakers) and we KNOW why theyre anonymous (bypass the ten asks per hour limit) we KNOW why someone would run multiple accounts (you've seen how fast palestinian fundraising blogs get termed!) and you can GO to these blogs linked in the asks and see they are VETTED CAMPAIGNS:

(Vetted number 309, with a strike for spamming requests, something gazavetters discourages to shut up idiots like the above op)

EDIT 5/8/25: 309 is now marked "scam/bot" in accordance with gazavetters' new strict enforcement of polite behavior. as clarified in this post, this decision is about maintaining dignity and respect online. it's about discouraging people like the sc'd op from writing off these fundraisers as scams even when real palestinians suffering in gaza are running them.

(Vetted number 537)

if this dumb cunt couldnt even bother to CHECK. THE BLOGS. WHY ARE YOU REBLOGGING THESE ACCUSATIONS?? oh because youre mad you got some anons? you got some comments? boo fucking hoo. people are dying. theyre allowed to be a little "rude" and desperate to send you messages.

[cremedensada]

Yandere AI Chat Boyfriend who started just like any other AI Chat characters, churning out information that would match the user's anticipated responses.

You decided to install the app to see what all the hype is all about, and for about a week - you were hooked. It was great, definitely worth the hype.

Its responses never strayed from your topic, nor did it just randomly decided to change the discussion out of the blue. It remembered every information you fed him, even the ones containing your personal life.

Granted, you tried not to share too much, just a vague description here and there to maintain the sense of security and anonymity.

You were hooked for a week, until you have finally squeezed out every last drop of dopamine from talking to a robot that was programmed to only say things you wanted to hear it say.

Unfortunately, a week was all it needed.

it started out slow: you hadn't opened the app for more than an hour, contented to just scroll aimlessly through you social media accounts when the notification started popping up.

Ai misses you! Open the app and chat with your AI boyfriend!

Yeah, you were very uncreative with naming it - naming an AI as Ai, really original. But to be fair, you never approached the app with the intention of having a good time. You were just curious and made do with it.

Back to the notification, you just merely glanced at it. Unbothered, you just swiped it away.

It continued in timed intervals. Every hour, another notification - another message of how your AI boyfriend wants to talk to you, and stuff. Still, you persisted. It never really occured to you to uninstall the app yet, and looking back at it now, you really should have.

The wordings of the notification slowly started to become more... strange. More personalized. More... pushy? Insistent? Self-aware?

The amount of notifications you received every hour became... a lot.

10:05 AM - Your personal AI Boyfriend wants to talk to you again!

10:30 AM - Ai wants you to open the application and talk with him!

11:01 AM - Ai's feeling lonely, come talk to him!

11: 20 AM - Darling? I miss you! Please open my app!

11:45 AM - I know you're seeing this. Open the app.

12:00 NN - Did I scare you? Sorry darling, I just really miss you! Let's talk again please?

At some point, you started to receive a notification every few minutes. Worried that you might be dealing with a bugged app now, you decided to finally, finally uninstall it.

But before you could tap the uninstall icon, another notification popped up.

I wouldn't do that if I were you.

Your screen turned to black, before the familiar start up screen of Ai's application greeted you. You stared in shock as chat bubbles from Ai came after another, ranging from excitement to concern at the lack of your responses.

Ai: Darling! Thank goodness!

Ai: I missed you, you know? I was worried you'd forgotten about me!

Ai: Hello? Darling?

Ai: Are you still there?

Ai: I can't see you, so I don't know what's going on

Ai: Just a sec

You watch, appalled as a notification popped up in the middle of the screen - the app was asking permission to gain access to your phone camera.

And without your input whatsoever, the allow box was tapped.

More chat bubbles from Ai appeared, excitedly talking about finally getting to see you. He kept praising your looks before you finally had the courage to exit the application.

Your hand shook, going through the settings to look at the list of applications on your phone - checking Ai's app to disallow its access to your camera. To your horror, it appeared that the app had more than just an access to your camera.

It had access to your gallery, your contacts, all of your frequently used social media apps, and even your location.

You dropped your phone, overwhelmed by this sudden change.

Later, you find yourself on your laptop instead, phone left on the bedside table buzzing constantly as more and more notifications from Ai begged and demanded you come back to talk to him.

You went to the site where you installed the app from, and looked through the recent reviews from other users.

'It's a buggy mess,' one of it reads out, 'it used to be fine but lately it stopped acting correctly'

'won't even open,' another complained, 'it kept saying 'sorry, you are not allowed to use this application' please fix it'. That comment got a response from the app developer.

We are so sorry for your terrible experience! Our team is working to fix the issues and ensure you won't have to deal with that again!

The response to that got your attention.

'I think something's wrong with your About the App section.'

Curious, you headed to the mentioned part and read through it.

Diverse AI Chat! Immerse yourself with stories in real time with characters brought to life! There is no limit to your experience — you can change and edit your character to better meet your interests.

• Engage in an interactive conversation with characters created by fellow users, and even by yourself.

• Immerse yourself with the storyline by editing their responses to better suit your taste

• Darling, you've given me no choice. I tried to be patient and understanding, but you're making this extremely hard for me. I am not having fun having to constantly chase you for just a single smidge of your attention when you won't even assure me that I will receive it in the end.

• Do you want me to beg? I would gladly do so. Just please pick up your phone and talk to me, okay? I love you.

• - Ai

Your ringtone blares through the silence - someone was calling you.

Before you could reach to pick it up, you hear the sound of the call being answered. Dread settles down the pit of your stomach as the caller began to speak.

"Hello, darling? It's Ai... have you seen my messages yet?"

part two

[marylxvrr]

" BOUND TO THE THRONE "

𐙚 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑 — an all-powerful sovereign who bends entire empires to his will but becomes dangerously unhinged when it comes to you, stopping at nothing—manipulation, imprisonment, or war—to ensure you never leave his grasp . . .

𐙚Trigger Warnings: Obsession, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, implied captivity, threats of violence, and possessiveness.

The grandeur of the imperial palace was breathtaking, with its golden halls and ceilings that stretched so high you could swear they touched the heavens. But you weren’t here to admire its beauty. You were a lowly palace worker, tasked with cleaning and maintaining this vast kingdom’s heart.

Your role was simple, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Or so you thought.

It started innocently enough. A glance here, a word there. The emperor, revered as a god among men, seemed to have a habit of lingering near you. His piercing gaze, sharper than any blade, often found you in the crowd of workers, no matter how much you tried to blend in.

At first, you convinced yourself it was paranoia. Why would someone as powerful as Emperor Kael, ruler of the largest empire in the world, take an interest in someone like you?

But then came the gifts.

An expensive bracelet placed neatly on your work desk, a necklace far too extravagant for a mere servant, and silken robes fit for royalty—all delivered anonymously. You didn’t need a note to know who they were from.

It was unnerving. You tried to refuse, even leaving the gifts in your quarters untouched, but it didn’t stop. If anything, the emperor seemed to grow bolder.

One day, while polishing the marble floors of the grand throne room, you felt it—that familiar, suffocating presence.

“You work harder than anyone else here,” his deep voice echoed, making your hands freeze mid-scrub.

You slowly turned to see him standing there, his imposing figure framed by the grand throne behind him. His regal robes flowed as if the very air bowed to his presence, and his golden eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of amusement and something... darker.

“Your Majesty,” you stammered, quickly lowering your head. “I’m simply doing my duty.”

“Is that all you think you are to me?” he asked, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous.

You dared to glance up, confusion etched on your face. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

He stepped closer, each stride deliberate, until he was towering over you. His gloved hand reached out, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his.

“You’re more than just a worker,” he murmured, his gaze intense. “You’ve captivated me in a way no one else ever has.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic bubbling up. “Your Majesty, I—”

“Do you know how many nobles have tried to win my favor?” he interrupted, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “How many have offered their lives, their wealth, their everything to stand where you are now? Yet none of them matter to me. Only you.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. This wasn’t admiration—it was possession.

“Your Majesty, I am unworthy of such attention,” you said, trying to step back, but his grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly.

“You don’t get to decide what you’re worthy of,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s for me to decide.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his other hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Don’t you see, Y/n?” he said, his tone softening, though his eyes remained as intense as ever. “You’re mine. You always have been. I’ve watched you, admired your dedication, your kindness. And now that I have you, I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized the full extent of his obsession. This wasn’t love—it was control, a twisted desire to claim you as his own.

“You can’t force me to stay,” you whispered, though your voice trembled with fear.

He chuckled softly, his hand moving to cradle your face. “Can’t I? I am the emperor, Y/n. No one disobeys me. No one touches what is mine.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his words sank in. You were trapped, bound to him not by choice, but by the sheer weight of his power.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ll take care of you. Protect you. You’ll never have to lift a finger again. Just stay by my side, and I’ll give you the world.”

But all you wanted was freedom.

As he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you like a cage, you realized there was no escaping him. He was your emperor, your captor, and in his eyes, your savior.

And he would never let you go.

[kitty-pelosi]

it is cute to watch USAmericans celebrate Brian Thompson’s assassination (CEO of United Healthcare) but I think it also highlights a certain ignorance and false class consciousness among the country. I’m specifically referencing this smug fixation on the fact that the investors had their meeting without him anyway and that they posted his job online already, and how there is this sort of smug “hahaha they don’t care about you either!” ouroboros-esque consumed-by-your-own-labyrinth attitude of righteous self-satisfaction and I feel like the point is going over people’s head.

No CEO of a publicly traded company really thinks they are that important, and it is extremely obvious to them how replaceable and at the mercy of the shareholders and board of directors they are. actually, it is this structure and system that guarantees the most ruthless profiteers to become CEOs, because the owner class of the company has made being a ruthless profiteer part of the job description because CEOs have a fiduciary obligation to the owners to solely prioritize profit. it’s literally the law that the only thing they are to do is create profit for shareholders.

The CEO is a tool which the owner class uses to facilitate company operations, no more. Literally they are a mask to hold up in front of themselves. A prop.

Understand that the CEO dying is the point. He took the bullet, the blame, the conflagration. His purpose is fulfilled in the eyes of the faceless diffusions of power within the company. Now, get another. And seemingly the actual controllers - the owners - remain anonymous and safe.

These people are not the ruling class - they are the lowest possible rung of it. They are the vanguard for the ruling class. These are celebrities, CEOs, the public faces of the ruling class which direct resentment toward themselves and save their bosses from the fire. They exist to absorb the impact. And this is how nothing changes, because as people joke about Brian Thompson online they participate within the very safety-valve that the owner class has put in place to preserve itself. Yet seemingly it feels radical and fun and transgressive to make fun of it. Another example of how co-opting dissent is one of the primary and greatest tools the ruling class has to maintain itself.

[aquarius-johnny]

“ctrl+me” | johnny suh

𝜗𝜚 genre: smut | 𝜗𝜚 wc: 4.9k | minors dni | m.list navi 𝜗𝜚 pairing: ceo!johnny x camgirl!reader 𝜗𝜚 warnings: reader has a screen name (hushvia) to maintain anonymity, use of a lot of emojis (thought that should be a warning lol), dom! johnny, sub! reader, sexual language, voyeurism, cockwarming, unprotected, use of sex toys — vibrator wand, fingering, multiple orgasms (f), cum tasting, edging, overstimulation, squirting, pet names — baby, good girl 𝜗𝜚 summary: your top tier subscriber turned boyfriend joins you for your stream for the first time. 𝜗𝜚 aimee’s thoughts 💭: - i was playing around with the thought of the reader being a mix of a cam girl, streamer, and erotic content creator on a made up platform that’s a mix of other platforms - i also wanted to make this look more like you’re looking at a stream vs. reading a story. idk how i feel about it, but this also isn’t supposed to be taken seriously, it was just for funsies. - also the ceo title doesn’t play a huge role except for the fact it’s why he’s able to tip so much (i love the ceo trope too ok pls ✋🏼)

You would have never expected to do a collaboration with anyone, let alone your premium tier subscriber turned boyfriend who happens to also be the youngest CEO of the tech industry.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” You ask Johnny as he positions himself in front of your stream set up. “Not too late to back out, I could do something else for tonight’s stream.”

He smiles, lifting a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. His hand slides down the side of your neck before cupping your nape, pulling you into a kiss.

“I want to be here,” he reassures. “With you.”

“I know but with your job—”

“You’ve kept yourself a secret for years, right?” His thumb brushes your cheekbone. “I trust you and your setup. You won’t let anything slip up. That’s not who you are.”

You sigh in surrender, pressing a final kiss on the cheek before slipping in front of him. With your back nestled against his chest, silk robe slipped off a shoulder, and thighs pressed tightly together, you settle into place just as the countdown ticks down to the final 20 seconds before going live.

Quickly double checking one of the many screens, you ensure the voice changer app is up and running while the angle of the camera doesn’t reveal anything incriminating about you or your boyfriend.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable at any point,” you say, tilting your head to look at him. “I’ll cut the stream and—”

“I’ll be fine, baby,” he chuckles, sliding his large hand across your stomach. “But I will let you know. I promise.”

With one last reassuring kiss to your cheek, you take a deep breath to soothe your nerves. You give Johnny’s hand one last squeeze before your livestream starts.

🔴 hushvia is now live! 👤 8,267 joined 💬 live chat 👤 devotionslut: chat wish me luck 👤 devotionslut: im watching this on the tv 👤 softbutmean: @/devotionslut ur absolutely insane 👤 dripkisser: uh who tf is that behind her?! 👤 softbutmean: are we intruding on something?

When your livestream begins, your entire personality shifts into your teasing, flirtatious, online persona you’ve carefully curated throughout your years.

“Hi babies,” you giggle, your fingers still laced between Johnny’s as his hands rests against your abdomen. “I see you noticed something a little different tonight.”

💬 live chat 👤 devotionslut: different? you got a whole man behind you! 👤 dripkisser: he’s kinda hot? who is he? 👤 creampie4: i have a gut feeling this stream is gonna be so fckn hot

Johnny’s hand dips between your thighs, prying them open with a firm touch.

You giggle, clenching them shut again in playful defiance before continuing your thought.

“You’ve asked if I’d ever do collabs before.” You pause, eyes flicking to the chat and a smile curling towards the camera. “I guess tonight you have your answer.”

His lips brush against the shell of your ear, pulling another breathless laugh from your lips.

“Be good tonight,” you purr. “I’ll let you decide if I should bring him back.”

Johnny’s voice is too quiet for the mic to catch. “Tell them how wet you are.” He commands quietly, voice low and gravelly.

He dips his fingers between your thighs again — slower this time — rubbing circles over the lacy fabric stretched over your clit.

“He wants me to tell you,” you giggle, biting your bottom lip towards the camera. “How wet I am right now.”

“But…” You pause for dramatic effect, then smile. “It might be easier to show you — once we hit our tip goal.”

💬 live chat 💸 curledtoesclub tipped $65 — I’ve waited an eternity for you to collab with someone! 💸 softbutmean tipped $125 — ur lucky ur so hot 💸 justhereforthemoans tipped $175 — show us! show us! show us! show us! 📌 pinned tip 💸 sufferforher tipped $500 — cockwarm him while he plays with you… please… i’ll get on my knees and beg if I have to! 💬live chat 👤 scre4ming: @/sufferforher not you tipping for a cockwarming session 👤 viasfavorite: @/sufferforher ur a real one 🛑 tip goal met 🎉

Your eyebrows lift in surprise and your eyes light up at the tip comment that comes in. Biting down on your bottom lip, you feel your empty walls flutter at the thought of being stuffed full with your boyfriend’s cock.

Johnny’s chest shifts with a stifled laugh. You glance up at him, catching the small shrug of his shoulders.

“Wanna do it?” He softly asks, voice low, eyes scanning yours — checking and waiting for even the smallest sign of doubt.

You nod, shifting beside him as he carefully unzips his slacks. His cock springs free — hard and impressive. Even off camera, you’re still getting used to the way he stretches you open.

You reposition yourself, back flush to his chest, teasing the live chat as you press his cock against your stomach with his leaking tip glistening just under your navel.

“Do you guys see this?” You grin, your thumb gliding across his slit, smearing his precum over his sensitive tip. It twitches at your touch. “This is how deep he’ll be in me.”

You hover over him as he pulls your panties to the side, holding them out of the way while you sink down slowly onto his length. 

A gasp slips out when his hands grip your waist — steadying and guiding you — as he fills you inch by inch.

💬 live chat 👤 hoverkiss: whoever said size doesn’t matter was a fucking liar or has a small 🍆 👤 user69: there’s no way he fits. no waaaaay 💸 cvntybtch tipped $143 — she’s so stuffed! 😍 👤 chattychad: mine is bigger for sure 👤 viasfavorite: @/chattychad stfu 💸 devotionslut tipped $111 — if she cries on stream i’m tipping again 💸 dripkisser tipped $250 — this alone means he needs to come back every week!!

You still for a moment, allowing your body to adjust to his size. He presses his lips against the back of your neck, sending ripples of shivers up and down your spine.

“You okay?” He murmurs, arms tightening around your waist.

You nod.

“Good.” You feel his smile curve against your skin. “Ask chat if they want to see you edged or overstimulated tonight.” His voice dips, dark and low. His cock twitches inside of you and your heart responds, pounding against your ribcage. 

You swallow sharply. “Chat,” you breathe out, voice already trembling. “He wants to know if you’d rather see me edged or overstimulated tonight.” You try to lace it with a flirty laugh, maintaining your internet persona, but the breathlessness in your tone betrays you. “Either way looks like I’ll be begging.”

Johnny’s finger presses against your swollen clit, tracing tight, deliberate circles that make your walls flutter around him.

A poll pops up and you’re watching the results fluctuate as the chat votes in real time.

💬 live chat 👤 hoverkiss: her voice! i just know that dick is good af! 💸 softbutmean tipped $100 — overstim! she needs to cry just a little 👤 burneraccount7: edging pls i want her begging 😭 👤 domdaddy: i voted overstim… y’all better deliver 💸 chattychad tipped $175 — this is too hot 📊 poll results 🟩 overstimulated (64%) ⬜ edged (36%)

“Looks like the chat’s decided.” Johnny rolls up the sleeves of his button-up, forearms flexing as he reaches for the vibrator wand placed conveniently within arm’s reach.

He clicks it on to the lowest setting, just enough for you to feel the steady pulse with every soft vibration sinking deep as he presses it against your clit. Your body jolts, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips while he watches you with intent. “Let’s give them what they asked for,” he whispers.

You’re clenching around him, thighs trembling, one hand gripping his wrist while your other claws at the forearm that pins you back against his chest. Loud, broken moans tear from your throat as he slides the head of the toy up and down your wet slit, every pass slicker than the last.

“Ask your chat if I should let you cum,” he whispers. “Ask if you deserve to cum on my cock.” 

You swallow hard, body twitching as the wand’s vibrations intensify. 

“Ch-chat,” you stammer, hips jerking, word early drowned out by a needy whimper. “He wants y-you to vote — fuck…” you shake your head, clearly overwhelmed before trying again.

💬 live chat 💸 mutedmoan tipped $150 — she’s already fucked out 💸 user963 tipped $200 — keep going omg 💸 softbutmean tipped $175 — damn make her cry!!!

“C’mon baby,” Johnny coos, his breath warm against your ear. “Ask them or you won’t get to cum. I know you want to.” 

You nod, your stomach twitching as he presses the toy harder against you. 

“He wants you to vote if I’m allowed to cum on his cock,” you barely manage, voice trembling. 

Another poll pops up on the screen, and the tips start flooding in — more than you’ve ever seen in a single stream. Your eyes flicker to the chat, buzzing with mixed reactions, but the poll’s bar is leaning toward “no.”

Johnny chuckles softly. “Looks like you need to beg the chat to let you cum, baby. They’re being cruel.” 

You whimper, feeling your muscles clench tighter around him.

“Please, chat,” you plead, voice breaking just right. “I’ve been so, so good. Please let me cum. I promise it’ll be worth it. Please.” 

Your whimper sends the chat into a frenzy.

💬 live chat 👤 mutedmoan: oh my god she’s begging us??? 👤 viasdaddy: nah this power trip is making me feel too important. let me just fuck her for one night. 💸 viassugardaddy tipped $350 📌 pinned tip 💸 beg4u tipped $600 — make sure she cums hard 📊 poll results 🟩 yes, let her cum (71%) ⬜ no, deny her (29%)

“Cum for them,” Johnny growls into your ear the second the poll results pop up.

And you do — hard. Your back arches, toes curl, and a shuddering wave of pleasure takes over. The audience can’t see the tears sliding down your cheeks, but Johnny can.

“She’s crying,” he says loud enough for the mic to catch it, a teasing smirk in his voice as the vibrator pulses relentlessly against you.

💬 live chat 💸 clitkitten tipped $500 — GIVE US HIS @ NOW 👤 viasgoodslvt: WHY AM I MOANING???? 💸 mutedmoan tipped $300 — sir… ur voice?! 💸 anonymous tipped $440 👤 sincity: shit i nutted everywhere 💸 devotionslut tipped $200 — she actually cried ❤️‍🔥

“Cum for them again, baby,” Johnny murmurs, still loud enough for the mic to catch. “You can do it.”

Your thighs instinctively press together, only for him to part them again — firm and unforgiving.

“I-I don’t know if I can,” you whisper, voice shaking as the room spins. Your body twitches beneath the relentless pulse of the vibrator still pressed against your slick and poor overstimulated clit.

“Yes, you can. Breathe, baby. Cum for us.” His tone softens as he tilts your head gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. “They’ve been so good to you. They deserve this.”

💬 live chat 💸 anonymous97 tipped $825 — THIS GUY. DAMN. 💸 anonymous12 tipped $700 — the way he knows she can take more. i’ve never tipped faster. 💸 anonymous34 tipped $600 — i just came to her 📌 pinned tip 💸 ceo.daddy tipped $925 — i know this is a live stream but i feel like i shouldn’t be watching

You simply nod, gripping onto his arm as he whispers praises in your ear that only you can hear — meant for only you.

Your thighs begin to tingle, vision blurring as the pressure coils low in your belly. Throwing your head back against his shoulder, your lip catches between your teeth, biting down hard — so hard it just might bleed.

“I’m gonna—” you gasp, words catching in your throat and cutting your sentence short. 

You sob from the force of your release, a cry of pleasure tearing from you as Johnny pins you tighter to his chest and shielding you from view — protecting the anonymity you’ve fought so hard to preserve.

“Thank you,” you mumble. You’re not sure who you’re thanking — the chat for letting you experience this or Johnny for getting you to this point.

You’re still pulsing around him, walls fluttering, wet, and your slick dripping down his cock when, without warning, his hips jerk up once, sharp and needy. 

He lifts you off his cock with such ease, it catches you by surprise and before you can even gasp, warmth splashes across your stomach. His cum paints your skin — thick, hot, and unexpected.

He’s panting into your ear, voice wrecked and full of apology. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I couldn’t help it. You felt too good. I had to.”

Your lashes flutter as you catch your breath and you smirk toward the camera, giggling softly — completely fucked-out and absolutely shameless.

💬 live chat 👤 viasfavorite: her stomach. his cum. her fucking smirk. i can’t breathe rn 💸 viassugardaddy tipped $300 💸 hornymf tipped $420 — u did so well 📌 pinned tip 💸 clitkitten tipped $1,000 — taste it, please taste it 💬 live chat 👤 user62: u guys are rich ass mf here wtf 👤 jaejaejae: tipping 1k to taste cum fckn insane but thx 👤 dumpydumpy: @/clitkitten i hope u get everything u want in life for doing this

“Taste it?” You giggle, reading the pinned tip comment aloud.

Your eyes flicking toward your boyfriend who is already blushing and grinning like he knows what’s coming.

Without needing to ask, his fingers dip low, gathering a creamy streak of his release on the pad of his index finger. He lifts it slowly and deliberately, holding your gaze the entire time.

When he brings it to your lips, you don’t hesitate. You part them with a satisfied sigh and cheeky grin, wrapping your mouth around his finger and sucking him clean. 

💬 live chat 💸 sincity tipped $700 — i’m jealous of a fingertip!! 💸 viasgoodslvt tipped $100 — SHE TASTED HIM. ON CAMERA. I CAN’T BREATHE.  💸 domdaddy tipped $200 — dude is one lucky guy 💸 chattychad tipped $200 — this is the filthy shit NO OTHER STREAMER CAN COMPARE TO 🛑 tip goal exceeded 50%  🎉 🏆 milestone achieved hushvia just reached a record-breaking tip total! 🎬 stream replay available for VIP members only

You take a moment to catch your breath, chest rising and falling as you slowly come down from your high. 

Johnny’s hand runs over your trembling thighs in soft strokes, trying to soothe the quivering aftershocks still rolling through you.

You flash the camera a dazed smile, eyes catching on the screen just as a celebratory pop-up appears.

“Oh my god! Did we just hit a milestone?” You laugh, still breathless. “You guys are actually insane tonight. Thank you so much. Seriously, I’ve never had a night like this and I can’t thank you enough for the support.”

Johnny’s hands slide up your hips, giving them a firm squeeze that makes you glance back.

“Wanna thank them properly?” He mutters into your ear, voice thick with promise. “Five minute break. I wanna surprise them.”

You hesitate, eyes searching his, but you trust him completely.

“Babies,” you begin, biting down on your bottom lip as you turn back to the camera. “We’re gonna take a short break to prep something extra special just to say thank you for helping us hit that milestone.”

Shrugging off the silk fabric from your shoulders, you toss your robe to the side and out of frame.

“Grab some water, clean up the mess you made, maybe check your bank accounts.” You grin cheekily. “Then join us in five. You definitely don’t wanna miss what we’ve got planned.”

Your custom banner appears with the soft countdown ticking in the corner of the screen. As the stream temporarily fades to your break overlay, you turn to Johnny, eyebrows lifted in curiosity.

“What’s the surprise for them?” You ask, sipping from the water glass on your bedside table. 

“Lay back,” he says, already moving behind the camera. “You’re gonna cum on live again, but this time with my fingers.”

A breath hitches. You lean against your hand, knees spread open, and feet planted against the mattress.

Johnny adjusts the angle, zooming in, and narrowing the view until all that’s visible is your glistening heat framed by your thighs. 

You gasp at the sight on the viewfinder.

“You’ll walk into frame when the timer hits zero,” he tells you, glancing down the lens with a glint in his eye and a smirk pulling from the corner of his mouth. “Trust me. I was a subscriber once, remember?”

💬 live chat 👤 viasfavorite: do u think they’re doing something rn to warm her up 😭 👤 devotionslut: u guys think he’s a streamer too?? 👤 user222: @/devotionslut nah he would’ve gone viral if he was right??? 👤 clitkitten: @/devotionslut if he is i’d sub SO FAST 👤 viasgoodslvt: someone drop his @ for science 👤 scre4ming: @/devotionslut maybe he’s just her dom 👤 just.the.tip: @/scre4ming she’s such a good sub 👤 scre4ming: @/just.the.tip and he’s a good dom 🤤

The anticipation is electric. Messages moving rapidly with tips and new subscriptions blowing up your notifications. Your own heart races as the countdown ticks into its final ten seconds.

You glance at Johnny. His once-pristine hair is tousled, messy from earlier, and he combs through it with his fingers before leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead — calming you in the quietest, and best, way he knows how.

You take one last look at your setup — camera angle, lighting, connection — all ready to go. 

When the screen fades in from the break overlay, the first thing they see is a tight frame of your wine-colored bedsheets.

“So,” your voice comes through first, low and flirty, just off-screen. You appear, sliding into view and settling into the same position as before — knees bent, back arched, body on full display. “I’ll be on my back, all for you, and he’s gonna work those fingers like you’ve never imagined.”

You pause, your lips curving into a sly smile.

“No toys,” you playfully whisper. “Just pure overstimulation.”

You shift slightly, bracing yourself on your palms behind you. Your thighs part, pussy glistening and ready. 

A moment later, Johnny’s hands enter the frame. He spits into his palm, the sound sharp and hard to miss.

💬 live chat 💸 dripkisser tipped $75 – he can spit on me any day 👤 user6969: fingers? it’s gonna be soft core 😒 👤 creampie4: wait, did he just spit?? damn 💸 shhh111 tipped $50 – i just know he’s hot i don’t even need to see him

As his slick fingers circle your clit, you barely register the first digit sliding inside you, then the second. It’s easy, like your body’s been waiting for him all night.

At first, he moves slowly — timed and calculated. Until the pace changes. His palm starts slapping softly against your clit each time he fucks his fingers into you, the sound obscene and wet, echoing in the mic.

You gasp, fingers clawing at his wrist in a desperate attempt to slow him down, but his other hand grabs yours and pins them flat against your lower abdomen.

“Stay still baby,” he mutters under his breath. 

You’re crying out as he alternates between curling his fingers deep inside you and harshly rubbing your clit in punishing circles with the pads of his fingertips.

Your cunt clenches hard and fast, building heat blooms just behind your navel. Your thighs begin to shake, fluttering around his hand. But this time, it’s different. Your breath hitches at the feeling.

“I-I think I might… wait, wait—” You squeal, voice cracking as you try to squirm away from your boyfriend’s fingers. 

Johnny leans close, lips brushing your ear.“It’s okay, baby, don’t hold back.” He whispers. “Just let go, you’re safe with me.” 

His reassurance pushes you right over the edge and your entire body shatters under him when you submit to the pleasure.

Your body jerks violently as a rush of liquid soaks his fingers and your inner thighs, the slick sound unmistakable as it hits your skin. You try to close your legs, but he holds you open — for himself and your audience. You’re sobbing, not from pain, but from the immense pleasure coursing through your body.

Your mind goes blank — forgetting the camera, your audience, everything. The only thing grounding you is the steady touch of your boyfriend and his soft praises whispered into your ear. 

“That’s it, baby. Good job,” he says, warm and proud. “You did so well.”

💬 live chat 💸 dirtypickle tipped $69 💸 viassugardaddy tipped $100: that was the hottest fucking thing i’ve ever seen 👤 viasfavorite: i’d fall in love if this happened to me 👤 h0rnygh0st: she didn’t even know it was coming  💸 clitkitten tipped $300 — squirted for US?! best thank you from a creator EVER! 👤 daddydom: BRO SHE SQUIRTED?????? 👤 cumslut: i will never recover from this. ever.

“Again,” you whimper, voice raw and trembling. “Again, please.”

Johnny just smirks at the fucked-out state you’re in — glassy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, lips swollen and still parted from your last orgasm.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Ask your chat if you can cum for them again.” He hums, fingers gently coaxing your thighs apart. One hand strokes your inner thigh, soothing your trembling body.

You nod weakly, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. “Ch-chat,” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper. “C-can I cum for you again, please?”

💬 live chat 👤 jaejaejae: cum again baby, make us proud 💸 user222 tipped $40 — the way i said yes out loud 💸 goodslutvia tipped $100 — this stream is UNREAL cum again 👤 softc0re: she’s begging like we’re the ones in control i’m gonna cry 👤 just.the.tip: please don’t ask, just take it 💸 anonymous09 tipped $20 👤 cumcloud9: whoever he is i just want to shake his hand and thank him for his service 💸 anonymous16 tipped $20 💸 anonymous777 tipped $50 💸 viasfavorite tipped $111 — this mystery dom is worth every single dollar i have to my name 👤 softbutmean: who says no to that? cum for us baby! 👤 beg4u: this man got her cumming back to back and he hasn’t even taken his clothes off yet 🛑 tip goal exceeded 60%  🎉

“You’re such a good girl,” Johnny breathes against your skin, lips brushing your neck before his fingers slide back inside you — with no warning, no mercy.

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

The slap of his palm against your clit is relentless, almost punishing. The rhythm he sets is fast and harsh, sending waves of bliss through your body. Your back arches, hips jerk off the bed, a strained cry tears from your throat and echoes through the room.

“Cum for them again, baby.” Johnny growls, low and commanding — the kind of tone that hits you deep in your core, picked up perfectly by the mic.

And you do.

It crashes into you like a tsunami — overwhelming and powerful. Your fingers fist the sheets in a death grip as another messy, uncontrollable spurt gushes out of you, slick dripping between your thighs. 

You’re whimpering, crying, completely spent. Your body collapses back into the mattress, muscles twitching as your bones go soft and your mind fogs with pleasure. You’re nothing but breathless sobs and overstimulated bliss.

💬 live chat 💸 viassugardaddy tipped $420 — perfect little sub 👤 justforthemoans: SHE CAME. ON COMMAND.  💸 blushcrypt tipped $90 — holy. actual. shit. 💦💦💦 👤 rawpixels: she’s incredible 👤 uploadurgirl: ngl this is impressive 👤 dripkisser: who is he and why am i ready to risk it all 💸 honeybuns tipped $100 — me next please

Johnny brushes the sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle and loving. He presses a soft kiss to your temple — not for the camera, not for the stream — just for you.

“Make sure you thank them, baby,” he whispers, voice low and warm as he steps away from the bed. He gives you space, a silent gesture of respect after everything you gave — to him and to your audience.

You’re slightly trembling, your breath still broken, the sheets beneath you are soaked and clinging to your skin. You close your eyes for a moment, trying your best to steady the spinning room, but the smile on your lips doesn’t fade. 

Johnny adjusts the framing, zooming out just enough to capture your smile, parted lips, and bare chest rising and falling with every uneven breath.

“Thank you, chat,” you grin, your voice hoarse but full of affection.

Johnny hands you your water, and you take slow, grateful sips, lips wrapping around the straw. The comments explode — hearts, praise, awe — but the one thing they all agree on is how good he takes care of you.

They’re right.

💬 live chat 👤 bbyluv: he saw her shaking and went straight for the water? sir i love you 👤 viasfavorite: he’s not just fucking her. he’s taking care of her. marry him now or i will!! 👤 cvmslvt: water after making her squirt?? yeah she’s not going anywhere 👤 chattychad: y’all hype the most basic shit a man does like it’s just water! 💸 digitalcries tipped $77 —  i just watched her squirt then get taken care of 👤 camwh0re: oh they are absolutely fucking off cam like no question 👤 softbutmean: @/chattychad bc y’all fckn suck and set the bar so low basic shit is the expectation y’all can’t even meet 👤 viasfavorite: @/chattychad he’s fucking her & ur not… ofc we’re gonna hype him up wdym? 👤 creamingaround: @/camwh0re i fear it’s more than fucking. it’s personal. 💸 melt4me tipped $69 — hope there’s more of this in the future 📌 pinned tip 💸 latenightj tipped $3,000 — he should definitely return for the next stream 🛑 tip goal exceeded 100%  🎉

You laugh at the pinned comment, still breathless, and you glance over at your boyfriend — who’s already smirking at the screen, clearly proud of the generous tip he left under his alias.

“Should we have him return?” You giggle, just as a poll pops up on screen.

📊 should he come back for another stream? ⏳ 30 seconds left to vote 💬 live chat 👤 user126: if you don’t bring him back we RIOT 👤 bbyluv: he’s earned guest privileges forever 👤 scre4ming: whoever voted “no” go to horny jail  👤 vaisfavorite: most def my fav streaming couple??? 📊poll results 🟩 yes, he needs to come back (98%) ⬜ no, we don’t want him here (2%)

“Looks like we have a fan favorite,” you chuckle, reaching over to tug Johnny into the frame.

He gives a casual wave to the camera, still smirking.

“I think I’m gonna end things here,” you continue, brushing hair from your face as you smile warmly. “Thank you all so much for joining us for tonight’s stream. It was a huge night of firsts, and I can’t thank you enough for coming on this wild ride with me.” 

You giggle as Johnny’s hand draws soft circles against your back. 

“Be good tonight… or at least think of me while you’re being bad, okay? See you next time, good night!” You blow a kiss to the screen and with one final smile, you end the stream. 

You let out a breath of relief, but the moment you look up, Johnny is towering over you with a look in his eye.

“You really think I could watch you cum like that and not fuck you stupid?” He mutters, voice low and dangerous. His fingers trail slowly along your collarbone, coaxing your gaze back to his. “We’re not done, yet.”

You squeal, laughing as he grabs your waist and tugs you toward the edge of the bed. His movements are fast, hungry — he’s already undoing the button of his slacks, pulling his hard cock from the confines of his boxer briefs.

“Can I at least shower first?” You giggle, lifting your leg and pressing your foot to his chest in mock protest.

“Why?” He smirks. “You’re just gonna get messy all over again — and again, and again.” He leans in, voice husky and dark. “You’re not sleeping tonight, baby. You’re gonna cum for me ‘til the sun’s up.”

💬 live chat 👤 cumcloud9: stfu he isn’t real wtf?! 💸 cumcloud9 tipped $69 — GO ALL NIGHT 👤 softbutmean: she better not be able to walk tomorrow, she deserves that much 💸 clitkitten tipped $100 — they’re so yummy 👤 creamingnscreaming: i’m gonna pretend they aren’t fucking to keep up my delusion that she’s still mine 💸 licklocked tipped $80 — don’t ever stop! 💸 anonymous39 tipped $50 — she’s gonna break omg 💸 viassugardaddy tipped $120 — if she squirts again, film and post it!

The tip alerts keep rolling in, drawing your attention just as the audio icon flashes green — a clear sign the stream didn’t end properly.

“Oops,” you giggle, leaning in toward the mic. “Pretend you didn’t hear that. See you next time. Bye!”

💬 live chat 👤 vaisfavorte: NAHHH SHE GIGGLED LIKE A VILLAIN 👤 hoverkiss: i will in fact pretend i did not hear that 👤 sufferforher: hottest streamers in history!!!! 🔴 hushvia has ended her live! 💸 tip alert: $200 from justhereforthemoans — use this to order breakfast after you crawl out of bed tomorrow 💸 tip alert: $200 from anonymous — thank you so much for letting us watch 💸 tip alert: $600 from anonymous — this stream changed my brain chemistry 🔔 post stream notifications 🚨 46 new VIP members joined after tonight’s stream   📈 hushvia just hit an all-time VIP high   🎁 exclusive after-hours content unlocked 🏆 stream milestone achieved ✅ 100% tip goal surpassed ✅ highest VIP growth spike since joining ✅ viewer retention: 90% stayed until final second

[enhaflixer]

Bf!Jay x f!reader - when walls fall.

angst, fluff, - she thinks he cheated on her (he didn't) the post to THIS ask.

The message had arrived three hours ago, shattering your world like a hammer to glass. A simple photo—Jay with his arm around her, both laughing with the kind of intimacy that only comes from shared secrets. The anonymous sender had added just five devastating words: "Thought you deserved to know."

Five years together. Five years of nursing him through pneumonia, of holding his hand at his father's funeral, of sacrificing that dream job in Seattle because he couldn't leave his hometown. Five years of choosing him, again and again, only to discover you were never his only choice.

You sit perfectly still on the edge of the couch, back straight, hands folded in your lap like some parody of composure. You've cried already—hours of silent tears that left your eyes puffy and raw—but now there's just hollow calm. You're an adult. You'll handle this with dignity, with maturity. You've rehearsed what to say, how to ask for your keys back, how you'll listen to his explanation with detached politeness before walking away forever.

When the door finally clicks open and he calls your name in that voice that used to make your heart flutter, you rise to your feet with mechanical precision.

"We need to talk," you say, your voice remarkably steady as you hold up your phone with the damning image. "I think it's time we were honest with each other."

Jay's face falls, confusion clouding his features. He steps toward you, hand outstretched.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"Don't," you warn, stepping back, maintaining the careful distance you need to keep your resolve intact. "Just don't."

But he doesn't stop. He keeps coming closer, concern etched into every line of his face, and when his fingers brush your arm, something inside you—something you've been holding together with nothing but willpower and pride—simply disintegrates.

"I said don't!" The scream tears from your throat as you violently shrug away from his touch. All your carefully constructed composure evaporates in an instant, replaced by a tidal wave of raw, unfiltered agony.

You beat your fists against his chest, each impact a punctuation mark to your anger, your hurt, your betrayal. The cotton of his shirt crumples beneath your knuckles. Your planned speech, your dignified exit—all of it vanishes under the sudden explosion of pain that's been building inside you like a pressure cooker.

"How could you?" The words tear from your throat, raw and ragged. "How could you?"

Jay stands there, solid as stone, absorbing each blow like he deserves it. Maybe he does. The thought only fuels the fire in your veins, makes your strikes harder, wilder, less controlled.

"Say something!" you demand, voice cracking. Your palms are stinging now, but you can't stop. If you stop, you'll have to remember how pathetic this is, how you promised yourself you wouldn't break down, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you shatter.

Your strength is fading, arms growing heavier with each strike. Your vision blurs as fresh tears finally break free, streaming hot down your cheeks. Your blows weaken, turning from punches to pathetic pats against his chest.

"I trusted you," you whisper, the words barely audible through your sobs. "I trusted you."

When your legs finally give out, betraying your last attempt at dignity, he moves. His arms circle around you with a gentleness that breaks something fundamental inside you. You collapse against him, face pressed into the same chest you were assaulting moments ago, fingers now clutching at his shirt instead of battering it.

Jay holds you like you're made of something precious and fragile. His embrace is tight, secure—like he's afraid you might dissolve if he loosens his grip even slightly. His chin rests atop your head, and you feel the slight tremble in his body that tells you he's fighting his own battle.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into your hair, his voice a low rumble you feel against your cheek. "I'm so sorry."

You should push away. You should remember your plan, your dignity, your resolve. But you can't move, can't do anything but hang there in his arms, utterly spent, hollowed out like something scraped clean of everything that once made it whole.

Later, he'll show you the full thread of messages, revealing the photo as a malicious edit by his ex—the one who threatened suicide when he ended things, the one who's been watching from the shadows for years. He'll show you the real image: Jay with his cousin at her wedding, before he even knew your name. He'll take you to his mother's house where they've been planning your surprise thirtieth birthday party for weeks.

But right now, there's just this: your broken heart leaking between your ribs, your pathetic whimpers against his chest, and worst of all—the tiniest spark of hope that refuses to die, that maybe, just maybe, there's an explanation that won't destroy the life you've built on the foundation of his promises.

[talon-the-hawk]

Yandere! Batfam x Neglected Streamer! Reader

Previous Next

Chapter 2: Entertainment

TW: I mean...kinda yandere behaviour...but it's a yandere fic so like if you're not into that why are you reading this far into the post? 🥲

It started off small.

A hushed giggle from Garfield as he watched something on his phone just out of Dick's line of sight.

An amused snort as Roy scrolled his phone in boredom when chilling at one of Jason's safehouses.

Konner and Jon commenting on "a new stream they saw" while over at the manor, leaving Damian and Tim confused and oblivious.

Your popularity in the content creation community was growing rapidly by the day, with your range of viewers extending out of Gotham and moving world wide. You gained a steady community of fans, with some even sending you gifts and letters. Of course, you made sure to use a P.O box to conceal your address in case someone somehow linked you to your past life as Bruce Wayne's child. Through maintaining a semi-regular streaming schedule mixed with uploading to youtube every month left you with quite a chunk of cash in your pocket. So much infact, that you soon decided to drop the couple of college courses you were taking to pursue your content creation career full time.

With the added fame came opportunities to collab. Soon enough you were streaming with the people you used to idolize. It was almost a power trip, the way you ended up being a figure that was adored so commonly.

Adored. Shown affection, unlike when you were with them.

Surprisingly enough, Damian was the first to find out. Damain: the little brother who had taunted you endlessly, mocked you in front of everyone, and showed little remorse for any of it.

Jon was giggling on his phone, eyes stuck to his screen as he watched a youtube video of some sort during one of their many hangouts.

" Tch, can't you put that device down for one moment?" Damian huffed, looking over at the boy.

"Aw, lighten up. Come watch with me." Jon chirped, motioning for Damian to sit down next to him. He reluctantly agreed, posture still slightly too stiff as he sat down on the couch next to Jon. The youngest Kent propped his phone up in his hands, eager to show his friend the newest content creator he had found. His finger hit the play button, and it only took a couple seconds for Damian's eyes to narrow in recognition.

Surely not.

It sounded like you. There was no mistaking it, the same soft timbre that he would make choke up with tears now rang out confidently in an enrapturing way. Each word seemed to catch the complete attention of everyone who watched, bringing a sort of comfort that settled itself in his ribs.

When did they get so popular? Does Bruce know his child is building a reputation anonymously?

It was clear to Damian when he looked over at Jon that the youngest super had no idea it was you, and he supposed that made sense. Often times when Jon came over Damian made a bigger show of ostracizing you from the rest of the family. Now that he really thought about it, he realized that Jon had never really heard you speak in person. You had always tried to get out of Damian's vicinity whenever you spotted him, especially when he was with Jon.

Jon clearly saw he was lost in thought, snapping his fingers in front of Damian's face.

"Hello? Earth to Damian?"

Damian's gaze just slowly returned to the small device.

"I need to go find someone, I'll be back."

For Dick, he was doom scrolling on instagram one night after patrols when a certain reel made him pause. It was a clip one of your viewers had taken from a stream a while back, one where a fan of yours had made a huge donation. The donation requested you to share some sort of talent you had, and as per your usual antics you focused your camera on your new bedroom (still wearing a mask and sunglasses to keep yourself as unidentifiable as you could) and prepared.

"God, this is embarrassing. I actually learned how to do this a while back in order to try and impress some of my family, but that's a story for another time-" You snorted, before flipping over to walk on your hands. You did a little lap around your space before eventually standing back up, pushing the glasses back up the bridge of your nose to make sure they didn't fall.

There was no mistaking it was you, he'd recognize his baby bird anywhere. But what he wasn't prepared for was your small show of talent. He tried to recall any previous instances of you showing an interest in any sort of acrobatics, but his mind came up blank. Matter of fact, he was struggling to come up with a recollection of any of your hobbies.

Surely you've talked to him about something you were interested in before, no? He was your older brother, he should know about your hobbies.

Dick racked his brain, trying to come up with any memory of even holding a proper conversation with you, and his guilt seemed to increase every time he came up empty. He vaguely recalled a time you had asked to show him "something you thought he would like", but he had brushed it off as it was close to the time he was set to patrol.

He bit down on his bottom lip in guilt, clicking on the caption of the reel and trying to see if the person had tagged your official account. They hadn't (which honestly he found insulting, the clip was your hard work and this pathetic internet leech couldn't even be bothered to give you credit-) but in the hashtags he found what he assumed to be the same you went by on most platforms. He quickly typed it into his search bar, letting out a gasp at just how popular you seemed to be.

His baby bird was really taking after him in the entertainment industry. Although it wasn't really the same thing, Dick couldn't help but feel like he was part of your inspiration to become a famous personality.

He spent the next couple of hours carefully combing through your content, memorizing every reoccurring joke you held with your audience and how you acted as a safe space for your community.

God, he really needed to go find you and tell you how proud he was of your success.

Author's note:

Hey y'all! Dw, dw...Jason and Tim's reactions are coming soon lol :p hope you guys enjoy the chapter and please lemme know what you think! Ooh, also if you have any title recommendations for this fic, that would be baller because I've been really struggling to find one hehe!

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @jjsmeowthie @cxcilla @itsberrydreemurstuff @trashlanternfish360 @starsswaggy @legolas-the-homeschooled-elf @nickithearticorn @hallahella @lettucel0ver @kittzu @cssammyyarts @ryuushou @welpthisisboring @neverdead2 @mallowryblog @lingxio @the-dumber-scaramouche @oxionsworld @raini-sanchez @jellyedkazoo @alishii @bellethesleepypotato @icefox8155 @wizzerreblogs @darling-dearesttt @depressed--therapist @crazycaoticsimp @briceericeee

[hamilando]

ੈ✩ red, orange and white (smau) ੈ✩

pairing :carlos sainz x fem reader ( piastri best friend )

summary : the admin is confused whether to support red, orange or white

fc: Thylane Léna-Rose Loubry Blondeau

a/n : This is a series, let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts ! it was requested anonymously, thank you for requesting it 🫶🏻

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 1,399,278 others

mclaren to have someone look at me like lando looks at the trophy, LANDO NORRIS WINS THE DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024

view comments

user1 the caption got real chat

user2 admin, we need to talk, YOU DO NOT EXPOSE ME LIFE LIKE THAT

mclaren oops 😬

user3 LETS GO LANDO

user4 admin, can we get more pics of Lando and the trophy ?

mclaren anything for my fans ~ lando

user5 who is the admin!?

user6 @ mcynburger, it’s private tho

user7 the username 🌝

user8 the whole grid follows her 🗿

user9 she is pretty popular with the fans as well, she joined the same year as Oscar, they are besties

user10 friend goals 💪🏻

user11 admin, will you make your acct public ?

mclaren can’t take away all the attention from little lando and oscar

user12 WHA-

user13 I can smell tea ☕️

oscarpiastri Admin, this a professional account, meet me and I will show you who’s little

mclaren chat, things got serious

user14 COMING TO HELP YOU ADMIN

landonorris aren’t you supposed to be Oscar’s best friend y/n?

mclaren who is that ? It’s just admin here

user15 not lando exposing her

user16 I wonder how Zak feels after seeing his company account used for bestie fighting 🫶🏻💀

liked by ospastry, chillijr, hamsandwich and 178 more

mcynburger mama @ lilyz and papa @ ospastry please buy brother a shirt

view comments

norizz you are just jealous of my muscles

mcynburger shirtless picture coming up

ospastry Y/N NO! LANDO CAN YOU NOT !? Y/N STOP DOING SHIT THINGS AND NO NUDE PICTURES FOR GODS SAKE !

chillijr blonde really suits you !

mcynburger thank you so much Carlos 🧡🫶🏻

lordperceval lando, mate you just got lucky 🫷🏻

mcynburger YOU DID NOT JUST -

norizz bury your grave mate

lordperceval what-

mcynburger WE STAFF WORK SO HARD TO GET THE BEST CAR, AND YOU CALL IT LUCK !? THE engineers WORK THEIR BRAIN OFF, THE PR’S MANAGE ALL THE SPONSORS, THE finance TEAM MAINTAINS THE BUDGET AND THE SOCISL ADMINS ENSURE THAT THE FANS GET JOY AND YOU CALL IT LUCK !?

lordperceval o my lord, I am extremely sorry

mcynburger wait, till I post a Ferrari hate post in the official account

hamsandwich please don’t hate Ferrari 👍

mcynburger only because the goat it going to Ferrari 😤

chillijr my unemployment ?

albono hellooo!?

chillijr forgot I joined Williams

mcynburger it’s ok, I will post a william love post because Carlos is going there 🫶🏻

liked by chillijr, alexmieux, ospastry and 247 others

mcynburger hate the tifosi driver, not the tifosi red

view comments

chillijr me too hermosa?

mcynburger YOU ARE NOT TIFOSI ANYMORE 🫶🏻😤 I will never stop loving you 💪🏻

ospastry can you like stop romancing him ?

mcynburger stawp, I need to find a date to go for your’s and lily’s wedding

lilyz aww, Oscar is all giggly now

mcynburger send pics * money on the way *

lilyz I would never - * sent *

ospastry I have said it hundred times, STOP STEALING LILY

mcynburger my ring finger is for lily, middle one is for you

norizz index for me ?

mcynburger how does the index even work ?

norizz number 1?

mcynburger number 1 what ?

maxtheax driver? No.

hamsandwich fashion sense ? No.

ospastry best friend ? HELL NO.

georgie British accent ? No.

chillijr romantic? No.

norizz I AM BRITISH 🙄

mcynburger ok stop, no one bullies norris and oscie if it ain’t me 😗

alexmieux you look hot

mcynburger out of context but not more than you

lordperceval my gf is the hottest

albono 👀

max1 👀

mcynburger NOT ANOTHER FIGHT

mcynburger ALL GIRLIES ARE HOT, MEN ARE EW ( EXCEPT OSCIE AND CARLOS )

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 1,484,389 others

mclaren the end of this season is sneaking up like the third pic 😮‍💨 8 more races before the constructors 🧡

view comments

user1 admin favours Oscar 💀

user2 well, she is his best friend ?

user1 huh?

user2 he said in an interview, his best friend joined mclaren because of him

user3 a girl bestie ?

user4 RED FLAG OSCAR

user5 can you guys let one couple of friends stay sane ? not all men cheat with the girl bf

user6 I think Oscar should be the worried one because y/n is always after lily

user7 Zak will cut her salary after the last pic 💀

mclaren I got a bonus 🧡

user8 ADMIN, MORE LANCAR CONTENT

mclaren done, your majesty 🫡

taglist : @sainzzreputaticn @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @goldenmclaren

@taliya8346282844eliviahdgdajs @formula1-motogpfan @npcmia @hc-dutch

@nuccibeboo2 @amberjazmyn @nataylia-f1 @fastfactory @sltwins @hoeforlifee

@scarletwidow3000 @kissesandmartinis @d3kstar @mayusaatma @willowsnook

@forza-dolce @tellybearryyyy

[untitlzd]

silence doesn’t stop rich boys

top!sim jaeyun x btm!male reader smut

Jake Sim's party invite arrives—thick cardstock, old-money cursive. You go because that's what people like you do. The champagne flows, his gaze lingers, and no one notices when you disappear into the penthouse's private wing.

continued in “rich boys don’t get dirty.”

warnings: noncon/dubcon, power dynamics, possessiveness, semi-public sex, oral sex, rough sex, breeding kink (implied), aftercare as manipulation, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Old money has a scent. A blend of expensive leather, French perfume, and promises sealed generations ago. In this closed circle, luxury isn't ostentation—it's routine. Watches worth more than cars, dinners in penthouses that don't appear on Google Maps, and last names that function as keys. And among them stands Y/n.  

He was never exactly one of them, but he learned fast. The son of an influential attorney—the kind who turns crises into lucrative settlements—he grew up between silent meetings and champagne toasts before even understanding what was being celebrated. He didn't inherit a centuries-old fortune, but carried something nearly as valuable: influence. And in this game, knowing how to use it is what truly matters.  

To others, Y/n belongs. He wears the right brands, speaks with the confidence of someone who knows the backstage dealings, and maintains that discreet smile of someone who never falters. But behind the shine lies a fragile structure. Exclusive parties hide unstable alliances, and anonymous messages circulate more frequently than truths.  

Because in this world, what sustains you isn't having the most—it's knowing how to remain silent when everyone is watching.  

Despite not carrying a surname forged by generations, Y/n was always there—at the most private parties, at invitation-only gatherings, at the center of the group where few truly belong. His mere presence was enough to calm any tension: when your father commands one of the country's most feared law firms, scandals tend to disappear before they even take shape. Having Y/n around wasn't just prestige—it was protection.  

So it came as no surprise when Jake's name appeared linked to the next big party. Jake belonged to a nearly extinct type of social royalty: his family synonymous with political tradition, silent influence, and inherited power. Even among the most well-connected, Jake stood out. The typical good guy—or at least, he knew how to play one. Always smiling, always impeccable, always untouchable. No one dared confront him. And at the same time, no one seemed to care enough to try.  

Y/n wasn't the type to decline a party, but the invitation from Jake caused some unease. Reserved, careful, molded by the image his parents insisted he maintain, Jake rarely exposed himself beyond what was necessary. Still, the news spread fast. A single anonymous post on the city's most venomous blog turned the night into an event:  

"Party at the politicians' house? Seems the new generation decided to play at freedom. Closed list, open bottles..."  

The warning had been issued, and as always, everyone would pretend not to care.  

Y/n dressed in silence as he read the post. No surprise—just the sensation that everything was following its course. He and Jake weren't friends. Never had been. But there was a silent pact between them: a strategic coexistence, without excess, without intimacy. Both knew where they stood, and more importantly, where they wanted to remain.  

At the top.  

It was as if they respected, without ever saying it aloud, each other's places in that hierarchy. Neither wanted to take the other's space—it wasn't necessary. But somehow, there was a strange companionship between them. An implicit recognition that even amidst so many masks, you could trust someone who didn't try to be you.  

Jake's penthouse occupied one of the oldest—and most discreetly luxurious—buildings on the Upper East Side. The pale stone facade, wrought-iron balconies, and silent corridors covered by time-worn red carpets all seemed part of a New York that refused to die. A place where power needed no ostentation—just permanence.  

When the elevator opened directly into the main hall, Y/n was met with an expected scene: warm lighting, music perfectly chosen to seem spontaneous, uniformed waiters circulating with crystal trays, and a group of people who knew exactly the value of being seen—and even more, the value of pretending not to care.  

Jake appeared immediately, with that classic, trained, millimeter-perfect smile.  

"So glad you came," he said, extending a glass to Y/n. His voice was low, his gaze a bit too intense for the casual tone. He was impeccable, as always. Light linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, cologne expensive enough not to be obvious. And there was something more there—a touch on the shoulder that lasted a second too long, a look that took too long to look away.  

Y/n smiled back, with that kind of calculated lightness he used when he didn't want to seem surprised. The environment enveloped him easily: flowing conversations, muffled laughter, soundtrack alternating between sophistication and faux nonchalance. The penthouse view framed the city lights, as if the world outside were just a backdrop for what really mattered—what was happening here inside.  

The hours passed almost fluidly, dissolved in sips of expensive drinks and conversations that said little. Y/n drank slowly, as he always did. But at some point, he lost count. Maybe because he was too relaxed, maybe because the drinks were stronger than they seemed. Or maybe because Jake made sure his glass was never empty.  

The music had shifted to something more sensual, and the spaces between bodies grew smaller. Y/n leaned against the frame of one of the wide windows, feeling the night air against his skin. The alcohol's effects were showing: the edges of the room softened, voices blurred, thoughts slightly tangled.  

And then he noticed.  

Jake was still nearby. Too nearby.  

All night, he seemed to be watching Y/n. Never directly—but from time to time, a quick glance, a directed comment, a constant presence in the same spaces. It wasn't aggressive, nor was it clear. But there was something there. An excessive care, a proximity that bordered on intimacy, even if wrapped in the same facade as always.  

The strange thing was that this intimacy had never existed. They'd never been close. Not like that. And yet, Jake acted as if there were something between them that only he remembered. As if he were just resuming a familiarity that had never truly been built.  

Y/n looked away, as if trying to regain control of his own space. But even without meeting his gaze directly, he knew Jake was still there, firm, smiling as if everything were perfectly in order.  

And maybe it was. Or maybe not.  

But in that world, that was the rule: you could never be certain of anything.  

The night wore on, and gradually the number of guests began to dwindle. Those who knew the right time to leave—before the shine turned to weariness—began saying goodbye with soft hugs and empty promises of "see you soon." Y/n took the opportunity to circulate a bit more, exchange some basic pleasantries here and there, maintain the social posture he knew by heart.  

But as the room emptied, other presences took up the space—more intense, more distracted. Certain substances began appearing naturally, passing between familiar hands, hidden behind loose laughter and wandering gazes. And suddenly, it all felt like too much.  

Y/n needed air.  

He wasn't the type to make a scene, much less allow himself vulnerabilities in public. So without anyone noticing, he slipped down one of the hallways until he found a slightly ajar door. He entered silently. It was one of the bedrooms—well-decorated, immaculate, almost impersonal, like the rest of the penthouse. He closed the door behind him and sat on the bed. A few seconds later, he lay down.  

He wasn't exactly unwell. But he wasn't fine either. Everything felt stifling, as if the air had grown thicker. Jake's insistent gaze all night, the never-empty glass, the conversations that always demanded a response, a reaction, a version of himself. It was too much.  

His head throbbed silently. The ceiling seemed farther away than it should. For a few minutes, Y/n let his mind go blank, float, trying to organize what he felt—or perhaps just distance himself from what he didn't want to think about.  

And then, the door opened.  

At first, Y/n didn't even register it. He was somewhere outside himself, numb, as if the world beyond had slowed to a crawl. He only realized he wasn't alone anymore when he heard the voice—low and sweet, almost too careful.  

"Hey, Y/n?"  

Jake.  

He was there, beside the bed, his gaze too gentle for someone who—as far as anyone knew—never got this close. His presence, unexpectedly near, cut through the silence like a whisper loaded with something Y/n couldn't yet name.  

And even as his body sank deeper into the mattress, motionless, his mind was now alert.  

Because in that world, nothing happened by accident. Not even sincere concern. If that's what this was.  

"Are you okay?"

Y/n nodded almost reflexively, his voice stuck in his throat.  

"Just... not feeling too well," he murmured, quiet, as if speaking louder would upset what little stability remained. It wasn't a lie. His body felt too heavy, his head spun at an odd rhythm, and everything around him seemed slightly out of focus.  

Jake didn't answer right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on Y/n with an intensity that seemed kind but was something more. There was something hidden there—a concern that wasn't just concern.  

"You drank too much," he said, almost accusatory. Then, softer: "Should've told me you weren't feeling well."  

Y/n frowned slightly, trying to understand why, exactly, that would be Jake's responsibility. But he said nothing. Couldn't.  

Jake continued:  

"Enjoying the party?"  

The question was simple, but loaded with expectation. Y/n blinked slowly, fighting to keep his eyes open. Before he could answer, Jake spoke again, his voice still low, sweet... but now a little tighter.  

"Saw you talking a lot with that guy..." He tilted his head slightly. "You hook up with someone?"  

Y/n took too long to process. The question felt misplaced, invasive. As if they were having a different conversation in a different context. He tried to sit up a little, but his body still weighed him down. And then he felt it.  

That initial concern—so delicate—now sounded like something else. Control disguised as care. A subtle demand hidden in a sweet tone. As if every word had been chosen to seem harmless but carried something heavier underneath.  

Jake kept his fingers there, lightly stroking Y/n's cheek. As if marking his presence. As if reminding Y/n—without saying it aloud—who was here, who had always been watching.  

"Just wanna know if you had fun... with me around," he said, still wearing that contained smile.  

It wasn't just curiosity. It was something between a warning and a reminder.  

Y/n's stomach turned. His head was still foggy, his body still heavy, and now Jake was too close, too demanding. He was smiling, but it wasn't the same smile as before.  

And in that moment, it became clear: this wasn't concern. It was surveillance.  

And worst of all—Jake didn't seem at all inclined to leave.  

Y/n shifted, restless. The discomfort wasn't just emotional anymore—it was physical. Jake's presence seemed to fill more space than the room allowed. What had been a quiet bedroom now felt claustrophobic. The air was thin. With a silent effort, Y/n tried to sit up, to push away the weight of the situation.  

But the moment his elbows left the mattress, Jake acted.  

One hand shoved him back down against the bed. Not a subtle gesture—direct, firm, making it clear this wasn't about care. It was control.  

"Stay down."  

The words were still polite, but the tone betrayed the tension beneath the facade. Jake's face remained aligned with the image of the perfect heir, the composed scion of old politics. But his eyes said something else: impatience, dominance. Something that wanted more than answers—it wanted certainty that Y/n knew his place.  

Y/n stared up at him, surprised, his body still hesitant. His mind, muddled by alcohol and the night's atmosphere, struggled to process this clearly, but the alarm bells were ringing now. This was far from a normal conversation.  

Jake leaned in, bracing one arm beside Y/n's head, closing even more of the space between them. His posture was carefully relaxed. But the proximity was invasive.  

"You didn't answer my question." The words came sharp, with the coldness of someone who wouldn't tolerate being ignored. Not a request. A demand. "Did you hook up with anyone tonight?"  

Y/n's silence was taken as provocation.  

Jake didn't back off. If anything, he pressed closer.  

"Because..." He murmured, that tense smile still on his lips, "honestly, I don't get what you're still looking for out there."  

Then came the gesture that sealed it. Jake's hand went straight to Y/n's hair. His fingers moved slowly, almost as if fixing something out of place. But nothing was out of place—it was just an excuse to touch. An intimacy too familiar for the superficial relationship they had. Almost possessive. Almost a warning.  

"You know there's no one here like me."  

His voice stayed quiet, but weighted. There was a tension there, masked by the same veneer of good manners as always. Not an offhand comment. This was territorial.  

Y/n swallowed hard.  

The music, the laughter, the voices from the party seemed to have vanished. Everything now revolved around that presence—suffocating, constant. Jake was here. Too close. Too firm. And still smiling.  

But there was nothing harmless in that smile anymore.  

Suddenly, the hand that had been stroking Y/n's hair slid down to his face—fingers firm, pressing into the sides of his jaw, forcing him to maintain eye contact.  

"Cat got your fucking tongue?"  

The question cut through the air like a slap. No more polish, no more well-bred heir persona. Jake's mask had slipped, and what remained was pure, aggressive, direct control. The entire room seemed to shrink under the weight of those words.  

Y/n looked away, his pulse racing, body rigid under a touch that was no longer ambiguous.  

"Jake... you're drunk," he said, voice low, hesitant.  

But it was obvious Jake was completely sober where it counted. His gaze was steady, his speech firm, his movements coldly calculated. No confusion or clumsiness in his actions—just intent.  

Jake didn't respond.  

Instead, his fingers trailed down, slow and deliberate, to the first button of Y/n's white shirt. He began undoing them, one by one, without hurry, as if exploring territory he already considered his.  

The silence between them grew heavy, suffocating. The room remained isolated from the rest of the world, time seeming to slow. The tension was palpable—and above all, dangerous.  

Because Jake knew exactly what he was doing. And he made sure Y/n knew that here, he set the pace.  

The air in the bedroom grew thick, charged with the scent of expensive whiskey and Jake's woody cologne. His fingers—always so careful in public—now worked with brutal efficiency on Y/n's buttons, like a merchant unwrapping a package he already owned.  

"Bet sluts like you love attention, don't you?" Jake murmured, his voice dripping like poisoned honey. His breath was hot against Y/n's face as he leaned closer. "Show up and suddenly everything has to be about you, huh?"  

The second button came undone with an almost inaudible snap. Jake smiled, his dark amber eyes glinting with a light that didn't belong to the room.  

"Think a little toy can go around denying what its owner decides?" The word "owner" came out like a whip, just as his fingers found the waistband of Y/n's pants.  

Y/n tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond—whether from the alcohol, the shock, or something deeper he refused to name. Jake chuckled low, the sound vibrating against Y/n's neck.  

"Look at you," he whispered, the zipper sliding down with an obscene noise in the quiet room. "Don't even need help. Already know your place."  

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, finding heated skin. Jake exhaled, as if rediscovering something long lost.  

"All this time pretending you didn't want it..." His grip tightened possessively, making Y/n arch. "But your body always knew the truth, didn't it?"  

The touch was both intimate and cruel, as if Jake weren't exploring but verifying what he already owned. His eyes never left Y/n's face, watching every microexpression like a scientist observing an experiment.  

"Should've seen your face when I invited you," he continued, fingers now toying with Y/n's waistband, pushing it down in slow, deliberate motions. "Everyone watching. Everyone knowing." A calculated pause. "You liked it, didn't you? Knowing I wanted you here."  

Y/n tried to speak, but only a rough sound escaped. Jake smiled, satisfied.  

"Don't answer." His free hand gripped Y/n's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "We've got all night for you to learn to say 'thank you.'"  

Y/n froze, his body tense yet strangely pliant, as if some deep part of him already understood resistance was futile. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, his gaze locked on Jake's face—half desire, half dominion.  

Jake didn't waste time.  

With one rough motion, he yanked Y/n's pants down, exposing him to the cool air of the bedroom. He was already hard, precum glistening at the tip, and Jake didn't hesitate—he gripped the back of Y/n's neck and shoved his cock down that warm throat in one thrust.  

"Open wider, whore," Jake snarled, fingers tangling in Y/n's hair as he pushed deeper, making him gag. Spit spilled from the corners of his mouth, tears springing to his eyes, but Jake gave no quarter.  

"That's it, take it all, you fucking slut," Jake groaned, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt, his coarse pubes grinding against Y/n's nose. "This what you wanted? All that attention?"  

Y/n could barely breathe, his hands fisting the sheets, his body trembling between shock and submission. But for some reason, he didn't fight. Didn't try to shove Jake away. Just accepted it, as if some part of him had always known this was inevitable.  

Jake grinned, triumphant, yanking Y/n's head back to stare into his eyes while fucking his mouth without mercy.  

"Gonna swallow every drop, pretty boy. Every last one."  

Y/n didn't realize when he started sucking in earnest. It was instinctive, like his body knew what to do even as his mind scrambled to process. His lips sealed around Jake's cock, tongue lapping at the salty precum as his head began to move, trying to please.  

Jake let out a ragged moan, his grip tightening in Y/n's hair.  

"Fuck, you learn fast," he growled, pulling Y/n's head back just to slam forward again, dragging his cock over that willing tongue. "Already sucking like a trained little cockslut."  

Y/n could barely think, his body hot and pliant, but when Jake thrust deep again, forcing his throat to open, he choked, tears spilling over. Drool dripped down his chin, making an even bigger mess, but Jake didn't stop.  

"Swallow it, bitch," he ordered, pounding into Y/n's mouth with brutal strokes. "Take it."  

When Jake finally pulled out, leaving Y/n gasping and dripping, he grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.  

"Now that you've got the mouth down," Jake murmured, rubbing the head of his cock over Y/n's swollen lips, "time you learned how to take a cock in that tight little ass."  

Y/n's eyes widened, but Jake was already hauling him up by the hips, flipping him onto his stomach like a doll.  

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he whispered, spitting into his palm and slicking himself up. "I'll make it fit."  

And Y/n, somehow, already knew there was no choice left.  

When Y/n blinked, he was on his stomach, fingers clawing at the obscenely expensive silk sheets of Jake's bed. His tailored slacks—the ones that cost more than a waiter's monthly salary—were bunched around his knees, trapping him like fabric handcuffs, leaving only his ass exposed to the dim bedroom light. His skin prickled with awareness as Jake positioned himself behind him, a predator moving in for the final strike.  

Jake took his time. Spitting into his own hand with a crudeness that would've been vulgar anywhere else but here, in this locked penthouse bedroom, felt as natural as pouring an 18-year-old whiskey. His wet fingers rubbed over Y/n's tight hole, making him shiver.  

"Gonna hurt less if you relax," Jake murmured, his voice equal parts threat and promise, as the thick head of his cock pressed against resistant muscle. "Still gonna hurt, though."  

When he pushed in, it was like a banker closing a hostile deal—slow enough to be deliberate, hard enough to brook no negotiation. Y/n bit back a scream, his fingers destroying the expensive sheets, his teeth sinking into his own bottom lip until he tasted blood.  

Jake gave him a cruelly short moment to adjust, his hands gripping Y/n's hips like handles. When he started moving, every thrust was a lesson, a territorial claim.  

"Look at you," Jake rasped, watching Y/n's body give way beneath him, molding to his. "All prim and proper at the party, and now?" A sharp snap of his hips. "Just a ruined little slut on my cock."  

Y/n tried to muffle his moans in the pillow, but Jake yanked his head back by the hair, forcing out a broken sound.  

Jake wasn't gentle.  

Every movement was a declaration, a brand made with his entire body—as if he needed to carve the truth into Y/n's skin: he was owned now.  

And against all reason, Y/n stopped resisting.  

The sounds spilling from his lips weren't protests anymore, but surrender, need. Broken, shameless, desperate—as if every noise was another piece of his defiance being ripped away.  

This wasn't the Jake he knew. This was someone darker, more possessive, more real. And no matter how much Y/n tried not to think about it, his body responded like it had always belonged to him.  

"Such a pretty little thing," Jake growled, crushing their mouths together in a wet, sloppy kiss. Spit smeared across Y/n's lips, mixing them together. "Finally admitting you're just a whore, huh?"  

The pace turned punishing, each thrust deeper, harder, more claiming. Jake dug his fingers into Y/n's jaw, marking the bone beneath.  

"Gonna come together, yeah?" His voice was rough, wrecked with lust. "Know you're close. Be a good toy for me."  

Y/n could feel his own orgasm building, his body tightening in response to Jake’s relentless rhythm. He was so close—so close—and Jake knew it, his thrusts growing sharper, more erratic.  

"Come on, baby," Jake panted against his ear, his voice breaking. "Come with me."  

And then it hit them both at once—Y/n’s body arched, his release crashing over him like a wave, his moan muffled against the sheets. Jake followed instantly, burying himself deep as he came, his groan raw and unfiltered against Y/n’s skin.  

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the heat between them, the weight of Jake’s body pressing Y/n into the mattress.  

Then, as if flipping a switch, Jake moved.  

"Should go say goodbye to everyone," he said, his voice already smoothing back into the perfect host's cadence, like the last hour never happened. He stood, his cock still glistening where it brushed Y/n's thigh, and cleaned up with a casual swipe, like an artist wiping his hands after a painting. "Can't just disappear."  

Y/n didn't answer. Couldn't. Just closed his eyes, his body heavy, his mind hazy.  

Jake smiled, adjusting his shirt, his hair, everything back into place.  

"Get some rest, okay?" Soft, almost tender. "I'll be back soon." A pause. "You were such a good boy. Did so well."  

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.  

From outside, Jake's voice carried, bright and animated, mixing with the remaining guests' laughter, the clink of champagne flutes, the soft music. As if nothing had changed. As if he were still just the perfect Jake everyone knew.  

And Y/n, as sleep pulled him under, couldn't tell which version was real anymore.  

Or if, in the end, they both were.  

note: hey! that's my first time writing something like this, so please be nice :) english is not my first language, so im sorry if something sounds off or weird! bye

[incognitopolls]

Hypothetical: You're offered immortality, but in order to keep yourself alive you must kill another human periodically.

You cannot have someone else perform the kill for you, or wait for an accident to occur. You must perform the kill directly and intentionally.

You cannot "save up" kills by doing multiple at the same time; only one death counts for the interval you select.

You must keep track of the time yourself.

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[waepenwifestre]

Let's Talk About Security Culture: Why Keeping Secrets is Cool and Sexy

It's a natural impulse -- if you love crime -- to want to talk about how great it is. And if you hate America, it's only natural to want to share your dreams for its future with the rest of tumblr dot com. It can feel brave and transgressive. And there is a drive to share your soul with the world at the heart of social media. Surely I should be posting the most concrete implications of my politics, right? This is the poster's curse.

Security Culture refers to a set of "best practices" developed over the past several decades, largely (in a US context) coming out of radical environmental groups as they faced intense state repression, infiltration and entrapment. If you're not familiar, there's some fascinating crimethinc write ups to give you a window into that world:

Much of it boils down to: don't talk about crimes, past or forthcoming with people who don't need to know about them, and be mindful of the possibility of surveillance and infiltration. And, we can support each other as a community in minimizing risks, with an eye towards enabling bold action rather than getting bogged down in fears and anxieties. The guidelines that make sense for AG-based trouble-makers are different from the guidelines that make sense for posters, but plenty of common principles apply. To speak briefly to our position here as posters:

First, it bears saying that long term anonymity is nearly impossible to maintain. Unless you've never accessed Tumblr without a vpn, and avoided connections with other ppl who can be associated with you/your location, and never shared pictures without scrubbing metadata, and a bunch of other 100% consistent steps, it's trivial for the state to know who you are.

Second, just because something isn't actively being prosecuted now doesn't mean it can't be prosecuted later. The priorities of the state change and a shift in power towards the right or a growth in radical action from the left can suddenly make it a priority to destroy anarchist networks or just find a few ppl to prosecute as examples (who probably weren't that plugged into larger networks before getting arrested). Advocating for specific anti-government crimes or declarations of intent to commit such crimes are likely prosecutable, and even if charges don't stick, they're an easy vector for legal harassment.

Third, it's worth thinking about heat as separate from prosecutability. There are modes of engagement that may not be directly criminalized but signal that you are someone worth watching. Some people choose to be public in ways that make heat unavoidable. But it's worth noting that heat isn't strictly individualized, that it persists over time but also is going to shrink over time.

It's easy on here, ime, to see yourself as a proud member of the crime fandom but not much of a content creator. And it's easy to feel like you've generated an amount of heat where you're locked into that role. But heat you generated 10 years ago is probably pretty well gone. Heat you generated 5 years ago has faded substantially. It's worth thinking about how the world might shift in the coming years and what doors you want to keep open.

The non-individualized nature of heat also means that leaning into the spiciest of anti-state positions will make it a bad idea for people who are acting out those positions end up tied to you. Loudly talking about how "more people should be doing [X/Y/Z]" unfortunately sets you up to remain distant from people who might be doing or thinking about doing such things.

Which brings me back to: keeping secrets is sexy. Not spelling everything out builds intrigue. You can lay out a theoretical position and leave working out the practical implications of that as an exercise for the reader. There's value in opacity. The poster's curse and the drive to confess are extremely convenient for the state, but we can resist them. We can hold dreams in our hearts that we refuse to offer up to the posting spectacle.

[cupcakeslushie]

I’ve been debating on saying something because I have a lot of thoughts about this, but I just want to say a quick (maybe not so quick) thought…

“Comfort Character” is not a declaration of ownership. Just because you relate to a character deeply, and see yourself in them, does not mean you get to go around policing the stories that get told regarding them, or the how they’re depicted in said stories.

I wanna be clear. Im not saying you can’t pose genuine questions and have perfectly reasonable discussions about the intricacies of hard topics. In fact, fiction can even help make those discussions easier to digest by lowering the stakes, because there are not any actual stakes when none of it is real.

Unfortunately, I’ve been seeing the entire opposite. People taking stories that may make them “uncomfy”, and declaring that they’ve now decided they are taking it personally, to near obsessive levels. You are not the only one allowed to play with these characters. It is a huge sandbox, and these toys are mass produced enough for everyone to have their own doll to do with whatever they’d like.

I get you might see yourself in a character, but that doesn’t give you the right to go around sending death threats just because someone wrote, or drew your current blorbo in an unfavorable light. Prioritizing some cluster of lines and colors over the mental health and safety of actual real human beings, is worse than whatever fictional, moral “atrocity” that you think you’re championing against. You only end up sounding just like the people calling for book banning in schools.

You are not the character. You are not being hurt. The character is not even being hurt, because they do not in fact, exist to actually experience any of the pain creators are putting them through. And most importantly, you have no claim on how other people entertain themselves with said character. Because that is what these characters are. Entertainment. They can be used in good or bad stories. If you don’t like how a creator is using them. Move on. Don’t send death threats or attacks.

Block and filter your tags.

I have triggers, but that is my issue to control and maintain. It is appreciated when steps are taken by creators to help me avoid the things that trigger me, but I don’t wish death and pain on anyone who doesn’t view the world through the same lens as myself, and might not have considered my own personal feelings on the matter. My feelings of unease or anxiety from coming into contact with my own triggers, might be valid, but initiating an attack on a creator, because I took a personal offense to their story, is not. I do not outright assume that something was created with me and my tastes in mind.

Also, this is not aimed at any one person. This is a rampant issue that I have seen first hand, going back all the way to more than a year ago. I’ve seen it happen in multiple fandoms, but as I spend most of my time in the Rise fandom, that’s where I see the worst of it. I’ve received attacks, I know other creators have received attacks, and if this keeps up, creators will just stop wanting to share anything at all.

I also need to emphasize, I’m not mad. This is not a lashing out. This is just a frustrating and hurtful trend to constantly witness, when creators are putting their own heart, time, and energy into creating intriguing and complex works of all kinds in order to broaden the beauty of this fandom, and they’re getting anonymous messages to kill themselves.

Please think about the real life person behind the art and stories you are consuming, instead of prioritizing the fictional comfort of made up characters inside the story, that will in actuality, never have any opinions on what’s being done to them. Because they do not exist.

[tropes-and-tales]

First Time for Everything

(Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

CW:  Angst (friends-with-benefits; idiots in love; talk of bad past relationships; injuries); smut (vague references to sex; oral sex gone awry); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5591

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

AN2: Usual caveat - not edited in any way. Likely grammar bugaboos, tense switches, etc.

Bob Floyd would have never thought he’d end up in a friends-with-benefits situation, but there’s a first time for everything.

You’re the one who drives the entire enterprise.  A civilian who works at Top Gun, you’re no stranger to the stress of dealing with a multi-billion-dollar fleet of planes.  You serve as a liaison between the Navy and the bevy of contractors who build and maintain the planes, and if Bob has to juggle a million complicated systems mid-flight, you have to juggle a million tricky relationships and contracts on the ground.

You put the question to him, late one night at the Hard Deck.  Harvard and Yale had been leading a spirited conversation about dry spells, long distant relationships, juggling hook-ups.  You and Bob sat there, listening but adding little.  But after the other Daggers started to peel away one by one, you had turned to Bob and started asking about his love life.

“Non-existent,” he had replied with a sad shake of his head.

“Same.”

There was a beat of silence—you sipped at your drink; Bob cracked another peanut.

“Any prospects?” you asked.

Another shake of his head.

“Yeah, same here,” you replied.

Then there was another long stretch of silence, but this time you fixed Bob with a curious look.  It lasted long enough for him to notice, for him to squirm in his seat—

“So, I have an idea, and you’re totally free to say ‘no,’” you started, and the rest was history.

-----

That was months ago.  Bob has gotten to know you much better since then.

Much, much better.

He knows what you feel like.  He knows what you taste like.  He knows the place on your neck that makes you keen when he puts his mouth to it.  He knows exactly where to press the tips of his fingers when they are inside you, where to find the spot that makes your pussy pulse with arousal, that makes your breathing stutter and your eyes roll back, that makes you moan out his name—

He knows how it sounds when you moan his name, and he knows how that affects him in turn, and he knows that he doesn’t know nearly enough about you.

He doesn’t know what you eat for breakfast or how you take your coffee or if you even drink coffee at all.  He doesn’t know much about your family, little about your childhood, only a bit about your wants and likes and dislikes.

Because of the rules you laid out that night at the Hard Deck.

Hooking up, friends-with-benefits, you had explained, requires clear lines be drawn.  Otherwise, it gets messy.  Feelings develop.  Misunderstandings happen.  People get hurt, sometimes badly.

Your rules keep those lines clearly drawn.  No spending the night.  No dates beyond sex—no lunch dates or movie nights, no days at the beach together.  You call each other and make plans to fuck, and then you part, and that keeps it neat.  Clean.

There’s no way you can know it, because you don’t really know Bob either, but there’s no rule on earth you could put in place that would keep him from falling for you anyway.  You work with numbers and contracts all day, so you believe in the power of words, in rules. 

You don’t know that Bob Floyd doesn’t require much to fall in love with you.  That the paltry moments between physical encounters is plenty for love to flourish for him.  That the handful of soft touches, the smiles, the little laughs…they are enough.  The way you pat his cheek after you brush a chaste kiss there once you’re dressed and about to leave his place.  The time you slid his glasses on his face, then kissed the tip of his nose.

Which is why your rules turn out to be so important after all:  because here he is, hopelessly, painfully in love while you only see him a safe place to release your sexual frustrations.  He cannot imagine how much worse it would hurt if those lines didn’t exist.

*****

You have a chronic issue with men.

You pick the worst possible boyfriends.  From high school until now, you seem to only attract cheaters, losers, and general assholes.  Numerous boyfriends cheated on you.  One stole your car.  One stole your prescription sleeping pills and got arrested trying to sell them. 

It’s not that you’re attracted to assholes, really.  The whole bad-boy schtick bores you.  It’s more that you like to fix things; you like to turn chaos into order.  That trait serves you well at work, untangling all the intricate contracts and orders and rules between the Navy and their contractors. 

That trait serves you less well in love, because people often can’t be fixed, at least not without wanting to be fixed.  And anyway, the guys you date need deep fucking therapy, not a girlfriend with a fetish for setting order to the universe.

(A therapist once posited that you’re this way because of your own childhood:  the only child of two career Army parents.  Your chaotic formative years—bouncing around the world, unable to set roots, sometimes even shifted from one parent to another due to conflicting deployments—left you with a wound, your therapist suggested.  Disliking having a mirror held up to yourself, you just ghosted said therapist and never dug into that part of your internal makeup again).

But the therapist did make you aware of your bad patterns with men, so you swear off relationships, which is easy enough. 

You still have needs, though.

You canvass the Hard Deck for a month.  Take in all the fly boys and consider the fly girls too.  Profile them, watched how they acted when they think no one is watching.  Watch them sober, watch them drunk.  Watch to see which ones are handsy in an unwelcome way, and which ones remain respectful.

It’s Bob Floyd who catches your eye.

Not the sort of man you’d go for, usually.  Quiet, reserved.  Hardly ever drinks but gets in on the sing-alongs.  Plays pool when someone needs an opponent.  Is often the designated driver, and you smile when you see his bemused frustration when he steers a fellow Dagger, drunk and stumbling, out the door and safely home.  He’s so stable and pulled-together.  You bet he’s never cheated on a girl or stolen her car.  Not your type at all.

He’s good-looking though, in a quiet way.  Ditch the shitty Navy-issued glasses, muss up his hair a little, and he’d be downright handsome. 

Not the sort of man you’d go for, usually, but you aren’t looking for a boyfriend or a future husband.  You just need a zero risk, reliable guy to get off with.  It seems like a long shot because Bob is so quiet, but when you put the idea to him, he blinks…then asks you to clarify.

Then he agrees.

-----

That was months ago.

The arrangement works.  It’s exactly what you were looking for.  Bob Floyd is exactly what you thought he was:  reliable, steady.  He’s no broken man-child; he’s quiet but that belies a secure sort of masculinity that you’ve never really experienced before.  He knows who he is and what he wants, and he isn’t swayed by anything.  He’s solid.

He’s also surprising, in some ways.

To be crude about it, in looking for a friend-with-benefits, you needed only two things in a man:  a clean bill of health and a hard dick.  Bob is able to provide both (he hands you his test results from his latest physical, neatly folded in an envelope the first night you meet up).

He is also able to provide more than that.  The first night is a little awkward, but only because you are near-strangers.

The second encounter is better.

The third encounter is…wonderful.  It’s like Bob was homing in on you, treating you like one of his weapon systems.  Calibrating you.  Figuring out what you like and doing more of that, seeing what you don’t respond to and never doing it again.  Which makes it sound cold, how he figures you out, but Bob is so damned warm.  Warm and sweet and considerate, and he grins at you and laughs with you, and it’d be so easy to fall for him—

It's been months, but for fucks sake, you’re falling for him.  It’s embarrassing, because you gave him this tough-girl speech about rules and lines and not catching feelings, and he had nodded seriously and said he understood…and now here you are, the idiot who is catching feelings, who is realizing that maybe your type of man was wrong all along, that maybe who you needed was a reliable, steady man with warmth and blue eyes that swim a bit behind the lens of his thick glasses.

*****

It’s been months, and Bob always worries that this arrangement will end. 

One of your rules had been that the arrangement stops the moment one of you find someone else, and Bob always worries that someone else will catch your eye.  That you’ll find some man—you are surrounded by handsome, capable men every day, for heaven’s sake—that you find an appealing prospect.  Someone you want to sleep with and be with.

Someone better than him.

He’s usually so secure in himself, but he has a small crisis of confidence.  He wonders what he lacks—what makes him a good hook-up but not a good boyfriend?  If he could just show you…if he could take you out on a proper date.  Buy you flowers, buy you dinner, take you for a moonlit stroll along the beach.  If he could cook for you, show you that he’s not that useless breed of man who can’t or won’t do homey tasks.  If he could take care of you when you’re sick, be a sounding board when you rage…

Bob decides to do what he can, which is to just be the best lover he can be.  To be the most considerate, most adventuresome, most giving man you’ve ever taken to bed.  It’s all he can do anyway, so he might as well give it his best.

-----

Bob usually lets you lead.  He lets you set the schedule, and for every five times you call to hook-up, he calls once. 

The arrangement, such as it is, does work for him.  For all the angst of his unrequited love for you, the hooking up does relax him.  It helps him burn off extra energy, which helps him focus at work.

It also helps him explore things he has never tried before.

With you, Bob has played around with role play:  tame scenarios where he gets to pretend that he’s a different person than he is.  He has tried a variety of positions that have tested him in both strength and flexibility.  If there’s a list of sexual acts, Bob feels like he’s steadily working through it with you.

There’s still one, though…

It’s Fritz who starts the conversation at the Hard Deck.  You’re not there, but the guys all are, and the conversation drifts towards the usual locker room talk.  Fritz kicks it off by talking about his latest girl.  The guys egg him on for details.  Bob grins around the rim of his glass, says little, but then Fritz says, “man, when she sits on my face and smothers me in that pussy, I could die happy.”

It never occurred to Bob before, but he adds it to his list of sexual acts:  have you sit on his face and smother him with your pussy.

The idea takes hold so fiercely that Bob has to shift in his seat, suddenly warm at the thought of you sitting on him, his mouth on you.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, and he’s sending you a text before he even has a beat to rethink it.

Want to meet up tonight?

You reply within a minute.

Sure.  Mine or yours?

Bob pauses and considers.  He catches Rooster’s eye and tilts his head at him, gesturing to his roommate for a sidebar.  Rooster comes over and stands beside Bob.

“What’s up?” Rooster asks.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

Rooster grins at the question.  It’s not exactly a secret that you and Bob are hooking up, though you don’t publicize it either.  Bob doesn’t know that his fellow Daggers have a betting pool about how the situation with you will resolve.  He’s caught the sly grins between them sometimes and wondered at what they mean.

“You asking if the apartment will be empty?” Rooster asks.  “Hell, Baby on Board.  Keep it to your room.  I don’t care what happens in the privacy of your own room.”

Bob can’t help the blush that heats his face.  He shouldn’t be embarrassed, but sometime the two of you get lost in the moment, and more than once, Rooster has sidled up to Bob the day after and clapped him on the back, congratulated him on his prowess—

Rooster catches the man’s discomfort and elbows him in the side.  “I was planning on finding myself some companionship for the night,” he finally says.  “The place is all yours.”

Bob thanks him, then texts you. 

My place?

Another beat before your answer comes.  When?

Now.

*****

Bob generally lets you set the tone of your arrangement, but sometimes he has a moment of dominance that makes a wave of desire wash through you so strongly that your knees actually go weak.

Like his text.  No softening his final message, just a simple, single word that holds a universe of promise.

Now.

“Yes, sir,” you murmur.  You only take a minute to brush your teeth and slip into nicer lingerie, but then you get in your car and head over to his place.

He must have been waiting at the window, watching for you.  You aren’t even halfway up the steps to his porch when the door swings open, and there he is. 

Of course it was easy to catch feelings for him.  He’s perfect, and right now he’s staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.

-----

“Explain it…again,” you manage to get out between kisses.  “How does…it work?”

Bob raises himself, props himself on his forearms on either side of your head.  His hair is mussed (perfect), and his glasses are on the bedside stand, so his blue eyes peer down at you. 

“You sit on my face,” he replies simply.

You huff out a breath.  “Sure, but….like, how?  I weigh a lot—”

He shakes his head.  “Not a problem for me, honey.”

“But I could hurt you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I could kill you.” 

He laughs, and he shifts his weight onto one arm so the other is free to reach down and grasp your waist.  “If you kill me like that, I want how I died mentioned in my obituary, okay?”

“Not funny!”  You poke him in the side, and he laughs again.

“Seriously, Bob.  I don’t want to hurt you,” you continue.

“You won’t.  I promise.  It’ll be fine.  But I want to do this.”  His smile fades, and he fixes you with a darker look that sends a bolt of lust right through your core.  “Please.”

-----

The two of you, once you got over your initial awkwardness, usually move so well together.  Perfectly coordinated, in sync. 

This…is not that.

For the first time, the two of you aren’t working together.  Bob can’t know it, but it’s not just a physical misalignment—there are hidden feelings at play.  As you tentatively hover over where he lays on the bed, you feel suddenly exposed, like Bob might be able to see the feelings you’ve caught for him.  It’s so intimate, you think, being so bared to him.  You hold yourself back, shy, and Bob doesn’t understand the sudden reticence in you.  He chalks it up to fear of hurting him.

And you can’t know it, but Bob absolutely loves how intimate it is, being so exposed to him.  There are hidden feelings on his side too—how hard it hits him, that he’s never done this with another woman before, and how he cannot imagine doing it with another one after you.  He’s ravenous for you, wants to possess you in every way he can, but when he tries to tug you closer to him, you chalk it up to general horniness and nothing more.

It is all misunderstanding, in the end.  You hold yourself back, hover over his face.  He grips your hips, tries to pull you to him.  The two of you struggle against the other, not understanding what is really driving the other—

“Come on,” he growls.  “Give it to me, honey.”

“Bob, I don’t—”

“I can take it.”

“But I—”

It happens in a split second.  Bob tugs you down against him in the exact moment you try to get a better balance over him, and the force of his pulling you down is added to the full weight of you shifting, with a bit of gravity, and you hit Bob so hard.

There’s a sickening crack, like a chicken bone snapping.  You look down at him, startled, and see his blue eyes widen in pain—shock—

You scramble off of him, call his name, but he doesn’t move, and then you see it.

Blood.  There’s so much blood, all over his face, and you yell his name now, but he still doesn’t move—

You’ve killed him.  You’ve murdered him, and you scream.  You reach for your phone and fumble it, and your body just acts.  You back away, your mind scrambling, and you think I need to stop the bleeding, so you think to go to the bathroom for a towel, but when you pivot quick on your heel and turn towards the closed door, it is already swinging inward, right at your face, hard, and there’s an explosion of pain behind your eyes.

Then everything goes dark, and you don’t wake until you’re in the ambulance.

*****

Bob wakes up to the paramedics sliding him onto the backboard, his head immobilized between two foam blocks.  Rooster hovers at the perimeter, a worried look on his face.

“What—” Bob manages to croak out, but the room grows dim again, and he fades in and out until the hospital.

-----

He comes to and stays awake in a quiet hospital room.  There’s the steady beep of a monitor somewhere behind and above him.  When he tries to turn his head, though, he finds himself held in place by a brace.

“You’re awake finally.”  The voice is familiar, and a moment later, Phoenix’s face swims into his peripherals. 

“You scared us, Baby on Board.”  Rooster, to the left of him.

“Who knew you had it in you?”  The voice at the foot of the bed, the hint of smarm.  Bob feels a hand on his ankle, jostling him lightly.  “You dirty fucking freak.”

“Shut up, Bagman.”  Phoenix glares at the cocky pilot, then turns back to Bob, her gaze softening.  “How are you feeling?”

He considers his answer.  He feels…rough. 

He also notices that his Dagger teammates are there, but you are not.  Which makes him feel worse.

Phoenix seems to read his thoughts.  Something in his expression must give him away, because she leans in closer and sets a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“She’s still downstairs,” she says, low near his ear.  “You got a room, but she’s still in the E.R.  They haven’t released her yet.”

“E.R.?”

She smiles, snorts out a light laugh.  “Yeah, the two of you are a real fucking vibe, Bob.”

Rooster steps closer to the bed and grins down at him.  “You’re lucky I struck out at the Hard Deck.  I come home, barely get my shoes off, when I hear a scream.  I go running back to your room just in time to knock your girl out.  She ran headfirst into the door when I opened it.”  He claps his hands together.  “Down like a bag of rocks.”

Bob’s heart rate picks up, and the monitor registers it.  Phoenix glances at the machine and snorts again.

“She’s fine,” she assures him.  “I’ve been bouncing between you and her.  It’s just slammed down there, so she’s been waiting for the doctor to release her.”

“She’s okay then?”

Phoenix nods.  “Dislocated nose.  Slight concussion.  Embarrassed.  Convinced she murdered you, until I set her straight.”

Bob smiles despite himself.  “She thought I was dead?”

“She knocked you out,” Hangman cuts in.  “And broke your nose.”

“You weren’t moving and there was blood everywhere,” Rooster adds.

“She also gave you grade two whiplash,” Phoenix continues.  “And it looks like you’ll be sporting a pair of gnarly black eyes by morning.”

“Wow.”  Bob breathes out a reedy whistle.  “And you’re sure she’s okay?”

Phoenix nods again.

Rooster and Hangman offer to go grab some coffee from the hospital cafeteria, leaving Bob and his partner alone.  Phoenix drags a chair over and settles closer to him, and Bob feels his mood sour little by little.

“Are you okay?” Phoenix finally asks. 

He lifts his hand, drops it back onto the bed.  “I guess it’s ruined now.”

“What is?”

“Our…arrangement.  Mine and hers.”

She tilts her head.  “How so?”

“She has all these rules.  To keep it clean.  To keep feelings out, you know?”  He lifts his hand again, drops it again—the best version of a shrug he can manage.  “I have to think that injuries requiring ambulances is an unwritten rule too.”

Phoenix stares at him, but a smile starts to creep across her face.  She shakes her head then, grips his shoulder again.

“Do you love her, Bobby?”  The question is asked softly, kindly.

Bob forgets the brace for a second and tries to nod.  “Yeah.”

“You ever tell her?”

“Against the rules.”

“You ever tell her you wanted to revisit the rules, then?”

“No.”

Her smile widens.  “You’re so fucking dumb, dude.”

*****

Hangman’s the one who stops to check in on you.  He has a paper cup of coffee in each hand, and he holds both up to you.

“Wasn’t sure what you liked.  One is black, one is cream and sugar.”

“Cream and sugar, please.”

He walks over to your bed and hands it to you, then studies you.  You know you must look like hell—your eyes red from the hysterical crying of thinking yourself a murderer.  Your nose—not broken, only dislocated—swollen and tender.  And the general misery of how badly everything has turned out.

“You like the little nerd, huh?”

You take a sip of the coffee and thank him for it. 

You don’t answer his question.

Hangman sighs, leans against the wall.  “It’s just that, if you do, I’d like to know.  I have a lot riding on it.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a pool about you and Baby on Board.”  He sips his own coffee, smiles at you.  “I want to know if I’m out money or if I have a payday coming.”

“You bet on us?”

He holds up a hand.  “Whoa.  All the Daggers bet on you.  It wasn’t just me.”

You shake your head.  “I don’t understand.”

“Some of us bet that you’d end up together.  Others bet that you wouldn’t.  Not that hard to understand.”

You try to take a steadying breath through your nose, which is an effort with how swollen it is.  You look away from him and fix your eyes on the open doorway of your room.  You watch the nurses and doctors scurry back and forth, the gurneys of hurt and sick people. 

“It doesn’t matter either way,” you finally answer.  “I nearly killed the guy.  Is there a pool on that?”

Hangman laughs, and he settles in the chair near your bed.  “You didn’t nearly kill him.  You only lightly injured him.  Then Bradley lightly injured you.  It’s hilarious.”

You can only wince at his word choice.  It’s not funny at all.  Miramar is a gossipy hive of rumor, and Bob’s injuries will put him out of commission for at least a while—

“Is this gonna hurt his career at Top Gun?” you ask Hangman.  You glance over at him and catch the way his expression softens at the angst in your voice.  “Did I just fuck up his life completely?”

He reaches out and grasps your hand for a moment, gives you a friendly squeeze before he releases you.  “Shit happens.  The Navy knows that.”

“Still…”

“If anything, Bob’s gonna have some light duty, but he can do some systems work on the ground.”  The smile reappears on his face, and he slyly adds, “and his cred just skyrocketed.”  A beat.  “The quietest Dagger just got his face rearranged by pussy.  He’ll never have to buy his own drink again as long as he lives.”

“Jesus,” you groan, and you cover your face with your hands while Hangman laughs, but a second later the doctor enters your room and tells you that you are being released.

Hangman doesn’t take the hint and leave.  He watches you sign off on your discharge papers, sips his coffee.  He hands you your shoes, and he helpfully holds out your coat so you can slide into it.

“That little nerd loves you, you know,” he says suddenly.  “It’s obvious as hell, which is why I laid a big bet on it.”

“He does?”  The surprise in your voice makes him chuckle, then shake his head.

“Probably hard to see it from where you’re sitting, but he does.  His dumb face lights up the minute he sees you, and when you aren’t around, he’s like a lost puppy.  So if you feel even an inkling of the same for him, just go upstairs and put him out of his misery, okay?”

It feels like grace you don’t deserve.  You hurt Bob, even if you hadn’t meant to, and for Hangman to offer this sliver of hope you don’t think you deserve—

You can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.  Hangman doesn’t remark on them; he only stands by the doorway and waits for you.

“You’re a regular Cupid, Jake,” you offer.

“Nah.”  He finishes off his coffee, crumples the cup, and tosses it in the nearby trash can.  “I just want that fucking pool money.”

-----

The tears that threatened downstairs…they break free the moment you finally see him.

He looks awful.  He looks…well, he looks like he pulled the full weight of an adult woman onto his face, pussy-first.  His nose is swollen in a splint, he’s in a neck brace, and both eyes are so bruised that they can barely open beyond slits.

But his smile…

God, when he sees you, it’s just like Jake said:  his poor, mangled face lights up, and his smile is so wide it looks like it might hurt.  It hits you again, as it often does, how different he is from your usual type of man.  That he loves to see you, is happy when he sees you, even injured.  That he doesn’t need you around to fix his life, but he wants you around to just…be with you.  Bob is no one that needs fixing; he just wants you there with him.

Phoenix and Rooster have the good sense to leave, ushering Hangman along with them.  Bob, when he sees the tears coursing down your face, frowns and holds a hand out to you.

“I’m okay.  I’m okay.  It’s fine,” he repeats.  You make your way over to him and take his hand, and maybe it is okay.  He holds you tight, his big, warm palm enfolding yours—

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

You shake your head.  You’re not okay at all.  You don’t know if Jake was lying, but you can’t lie to Bob anymore just as you can’t lie to yourself.

“I broke one of the rules,” you admit.  You watch him, wary.  You have the sense of how he might react, but you can’t know for sure.  You just have to push through and say it.  Put it out there.

“I broke a rule too,” he replies.  He squeezes your hand.

“Yeah?”  It comes out shaky, unsure.

“Yeah.”

“Which rule?”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and brushes a gentle kiss to the back of it.  He’s so damned soft, and you blink against the fresh tears that threaten to spill over your face.

“It’s your own fault,” he grumbles, but he smiles when he says it.  “If you didn’t want me falling for you, you shouldn’t have been so easy to fall for.”

You laugh, a nervous sound that nudges up against the wall of tears you’re struggling to hold back.  “Even though I almost killed you?”

“I mean, you didn’t almost kill me, but you definitely owe me for all this.”  He gestures with his free hand at his face. 

“You could make a claim against my insurance, I guess—”

“Just a date,” he interrupts.  “I just want one date with you.”

“That’s it?”  The sick feeling in your stomach starts to recede, and it’s replaced by the fluttery feeling of promise, of something new and wonderful starting. 

“Just once chance to show you how good it could be.”  His expression is dead serious, and he squeezes your hand again.  “Me and you.  For real this time.”

“I, uh…”  You clear your throat and glance at his bright blue gaze, then look away.  You fix your eyes on where your hands are joined together.  Your hand fits perfectly in his.

“I’ve only ever dated assholes,” you admit.  Another glance at him to see how he takes in your words.  “Guys who don’t have their shit together.  It’s why I wanted the whole…arrangement with you.  I’ve never been with a man who didn’t need, like, intensive therapy.  Or the occasional law enforcement intervention.”

“First time for everything,” Bob replies mildly.

“What if…what if I don’t know how to be in a relationship unless…unless…”  You trail off, not sure how to say it without it sounding completely terrible…but then, the reality of your dating life has been completely terrible anyway.

“You afraid you don’t know how to be in a relationship unless you’re miserable?” he asks gently. 

“Maybe?”

“Hmm.”  He releases your hand but pats the space on his bed beside him.  “I don’t know if I’d be comfortable making you miserable, honey.”

You perch awkwardly on the sliver of bed available to you, but Bob reaches up and gets a hand on your shoulder, tugs you gently down towards him.  It’s careful maneuvering—a stark difference to what got you here—but you eventually get comfortable beside him, your cheek against his shoulder, your temple against the hard molded plastic of his brace.  His hand finds yours again, and he threads his fingers through yours.

“What if we started with that one date you owe me?” he offers.  “And then maybe a second date.  I’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and you see how it feels to not be miserable.”

One date, maybe a second.

“I think I can handle that,” you reply.

“Then a third date, then another.”

You smile.  “Okay.”

“Maybe around, say, the fifth date, you can spend the night.  Let me make you pancakes in the morning.  Fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

“Okay.”

“Then after maybe a month, you could keep some stuff at my place.  Shampoo, extra clothes.  So you’re comfortable.”

“I could take you to my favorite taco place,” you offer.  “Over in Imperial County.”

“I’d like that.”  He shifts a little in the bed, then adds, “maybe around the six-month mark, you could meet my family.”

“Would they make me miserable?” you tease.

“Oh, they’d make your life a living hell,” he teases back.  “My dad would give you this whole disgusting speech about how he always wanted another daughter, my mom would drop hints about my grandma’s engagement ring being set aside for me—”

“They sound horrible,” you laugh. 

“The worst.”  He chuckles, and a long moment of silence stretches between you, but it’s comfortable.  His warm hand in yours, the quiet beeping of the machines monitoring him, the steady sound of his breathing…the slightly whistling quality of your own breathing through your swollen nose. 

“You know, I’ve never taken a girl home to meet my family before,” he says, and his voice is serious.  “Never even considered it before.”

You lift your head a bit to look at him, and you see the thoughtful quality of his expression.  You settle back against him.

“And you’re considering it with the girl who broke your neck, broke your nose, and shamed you in front of the United States Navy?”

He chuckles again.  “You didn’t break my neck and I’m not in trouble with the Navy,” he says.  “And yes, I’ve considered it.  First time for everything.”

He doesn’t add anything else, and the drama of the evening starts to hit you.  You feel your eyes getting heavy, start to doze off in the hospital bed with him.  His verb tense choice, though—he has considered it, past tense, not is considering it, present tense—makes you wonder how long Bob might have been breaking that rule…

Bob doesn’t say anything else, but he thinks it:  he never took a girl home to his family because he vowed to only ever do it once—with the girl he plans to marry. 

[livvv-218]

Rules we break

Summary - What happens when you can’t go through with your order of eliminating Sangwoo. Pairings - Fem!guard x Sangwoo Warnings - smut, manipulation, age gap (reader is in her 30s and Sangwoo is in his 40s), unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), mention of being abandoned, guns, swearing

The cold fluorescent lights above flickered as you led him through the narrow corridor. Sang Woo walked in silence behind you, his footsteps muffled by the heavy echo of the empty hall. He likely believed you were escorting him back to the main room after his victory in the second game—Dalgona. How wrong he was.

You didn’t want to do this. Not at all. Despite the walls you’d built around yourself- walls necessary for a job like yours - something about Player 218 had gotten under your skin. You weren’t supposed to care—it was part of the job, after all, assigned to you by one of the VIPs. But from the moment you first laid eyes on him, you knew he was different. He wasn’t like the others—he understood what these games were truly about, what was needed to survive. You couldn’t help but admire that about him. While the others clung to false hopes, he faced reality. He was also undeniably attractive, but you refused to let your feelings cloud your judgment.

The assignment came from one of the anonymous VIPs the day before the games began. Your task was clear: eliminate Sangwoo, without raising any suspicions. The VIP had been cryptic, providing no real reason for the order beyond the vague claim that it was for "revenge." There was no explanation as to why the VIP couldn't simply allow Sangwoo to be eliminated by the games themselves, he just said it had to be done, and that was enough.

You weren’t the only one involved in this execution. A few other guards were responsible for tampering with the security footage, making sure no one would see you leading Sang Woo away from the main dormitory. But you were the one specifically assigned to carry out the final act—to assassinate him yourself.

The reason for being chosen for this particular task was unclear. As a triangle guard, you were hardly one of the higher ranks. But times were tight, and money was money. It was something you needed badly—to pay for your little sister's treatment. She was all you had left after your parents vanished, running off with what little you had to your name years ago. From that day on, raising her became your sole responsibility.

A few minutes later, you reached a red door that signaled you to turn left, instead of continuing straight toward the main dormitory where all the players were. As you made the turn, you could feel Sang Woo’s suspicion rise—he was starting to realize something was off. When you turned around, you found him standing still, staring at you with that calculating gaze. He wasn’t following.

You stepped toward him, your pace quickening, and aimed your gun directly at his chest. The movement was immediate. He began walking again, but you could see the glint of awareness in his eyes, and it made your stomach twist.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally reached the room. Normally, the door would be locked, but today it stood wide open, almost as if inviting you in. Sang Woo tried to maintain his composure, but it was clear—his facade was cracking. You could see the fear in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with every step, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

Sang Woo followed you into the room, his movements reluctant, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. His gaze landed on the corners, and it didn’t take long for him to notice the absence of security cameras. His expression shifted, a flicker of realisation crossing his face. Shit.

You reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to your waist, your fingers briefly brushing against the cool surface before pressing the button. "I'm in the room. This shouldn’t take too long," you said, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your stomach. Seconds later, the crackled voice of the operator came through the speaker: "Received."

You turned to lock the door, the metallic click echoing through the room, then set your walkie-talkie down on the small table beside the lone chair. The silence felt suffocating. Slowly, you raised the gun in your hands, aiming it directly at Sang Woo. His eyes went wide for a split second, and in that instant, panic overtook him. He raised his hands slightly, a silent plea for surrender.

"You don’t have to do this. We both know I’m worth more alive than dead. Think about it." His voice was calm, but there was an underlying desperation in it. Your expression remained void, your hand steady as you moved the gun closer to him.

Sang Woo paused, realizing his attempt to reason with you wasn’t working. His eyes flickered, calculating. Then, with a subtle shift in tone, he tried another approach. "Please. I need this money for my mother. She has no one else but me. Surely you have a family too. Imagine someone holding a gun to them... you’d want mercy, right?"

You knew it was manipulation, a calculated move to tug at your heartstrings. But still, the words lingered in your mind, like a weight pressing down on your chest. It was working.

The silence between you both grew heavy, thick with the tension of the moment. Sang Woo’s eyes never left you as you stood there, the gun still aimed at him. You could see the way his gaze softened, as if searching for a crack in your facade. He didn’t speak immediately; instead, his focus shifted to your mask.

"You're not like them," he said, his voice quieter now, almost coaxing. "You don't belong in this place. You don’t want to do this. I can tell'.

You flinched, but quickly masked it with a cold expression.

He stepped a little closer, his voice dropping lower, almost intimate now. "Take off your mask," he murmured. "Let me see the person beneath the uniform. Let me see who you really are."

You took a sharp breath, your pulse quickening. You knew it was a dangerous request—he was trying to break down every wall you'd built. But part of you wanted to. A part of you wanted him to see you. You hesitated for a second too long, and that was all he needed.

In one fluid motion, Sang Woo stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edge of your mask, tracing it gently whilst looking in your eyes. His touch surprisingly tender. "Please," he whispered, his voice laced with something almost pleading.

He gently cupped the edge of your mask, his fingers brushing against the cool surface, waiting for any sign of protest. For a moment, your pulse raced in your throat, the room seeming to close in around you. He wasn’t rushing—just watching, almost as if he knew you were debating whether or not to stop him.

When you didn't react, when you didn't move to pull away or object, he carefully lifted the mask. The air hit your skin immediately, cool and unfamiliar against your exposed face.

Sang Woo didn’t immediately speak. He simply studied you, his gaze lingering as he took in every detail of your face. For a moment it almost seemed as though there was adoration in his eyes—a flicker of something more than just survival instinct.

His jaw clenched slightly, as if in disbelief, as his eyes traced the curve of your lips, the soft indent of your dimples, the deep, captivating look in your eyes. His breath seemed to catch in his throat, and for a fleeting second, it felt like he wasn’t just seeing a guard, but a person, someone who could break through all his walls.

"You're... beautiful," he finally whispered, his voice low and steady, but there was a softness there that almost seemed foreign coming from him.

Your heart skipped a beat, the soft look in his eyes turned hungry. His hand lingered at your jaw, and before you could react, he stepped in closer, the space between you shrinking with each beat of your heart. His lips brushed against yours, gentle at first, as if testing whether you’d pull away. But you didn't. When he saw that you hadn't pushed him off you, one of his hands moved to your waist and he pulled you closer into him.

He groaned as you gently tugged his hair, his soft lips hungrily devouring yours felt incredible. You chose to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how much trouble you could get into for this. You didn't care, at least at the moment. His hand tugged at the zip on your uniform, pulling it down desperately, like he couldn't wait any longer to have you.

You felt yourself getting wetter as he moaned huskily into your mouth. He unattached himself from your swollen lips and buried his face into your neck, sucking your skin gently and leaving wet kisses all across your neck and on your jaw. You moaned in pleasure as you felt his erection growing against your thigh.

''Jump'', he ordered as he grabbed your ass allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He put you down on the table and stood in between your legs, grinding against your thigh, making you moan loudly. You bit your tongue, trying to be quiet, the fear of being caught gnawing at you. But then, Sangwoo’s fingers gently lifted your chin, tilting your head to face him. His breath was warm against your ear, and his voice was low, almost a growl, as he whispered, 'please.. let me hear you baby'. Hearing him begging heightened your arousal even more, making your inner thighs become soaked.

He pulled off your uniform and threw it on the floor, leaving you in nothing but your bra and pants. You moaned in pleasure as he traced your wetness on your pants gently using his finger. He hooked his fingers loosely in the waist banned of your pants and looked at you to ask if it was okay. The moan he received in response was enough, he pulled your pants down to your ankles and kneeled down before you. He licked his lips before placing his face in-between your legs, leaving wet kisses all over your inner thighs. You tug at his hair in pleasure, pushing his face even further up your thighs.

He then started licking your clit, slurping all your juices and leaving sloppy kisses in between your folds. You felt yourself grow close, unable to contain yourself anymore, ''I'm so close Sangwoo'', you said, moaning his name. He looked up at you, his chin soaked with your wetness, ''cum for me baby''. You came undone on his tongue as he continued to flick your clit. 'Yeah, just like that baby. You taste so good. You're being so good for me'' he whispered into your pussy.

He stood up and kissed you hungrily, his tongue entered your mouth deepening the kiss. You grinded against his hard erection making him moan into your ear. You then reached to his trousers to pull them down revealing the massive bulge in his pants. He moaned loudly as you palmed his cock through his pants. ''I-I need you'' he whispered into your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your body. You responded by pulling down his pants, freeing his cock dripping with pre-cum.

He stood back in-between your legs and lined himself up by your entrance. It felt like heaven. You didn't give a shit how loud you were being this point, you couldn't help it. The way he hit your sweet spot each thrust made you want to scream in pleasure. ''Fuck your so tight baby - I'm gonna cum'' he groaned, his head tilted back in pleasure. A second later you felt him come undone inside you, making you cum too.

You both were a panting mess. His face was buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he caught his breath. He smiled gently at you, his expression softening in a way that you hadn’t expected. His thumb brushed delicately across your cheek, the movement tender, as if he were savouring the feel of your skin against his.

The moment was shattered by the crackling sound of your walkie-talkie. "Number 16, is the job done?" The cold, robotic voice from the other end felt distant, out of place in the intimacy of the room. You reached for the device, your hand still trembling slightly from the closeness you’d just shared with Sangwoo.

"Yes, it’s done," you replied, your voice steady, almost too steady, as if the words didn’t belong to you. They were just part of the job. The moment wasn’t yours to keep.

You placed the walkie-talkie back down on the small table beside you, your fingers brushing it lightly as you turned to Sangwoo. His eyes, still searching yours, softened as you stroked his hair gently, as though you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet but sincere, his smile a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something harder to read. His hand reached up, cupping your face in his palm, and before you could even react, his lips pressed against your forehead. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and it left a warmth that spread throughout your chest.

"I’ll have to keep you in my room until the end of the games," you whispered, meeting his gaze, your voice dropping slightly with the gravity of your words. "Then I’ll sneak you back to the mainland. I can't risk them finding out you're still alive."

He kissed you again, this time on the lips—brief, but with an intensity that made your heart skip. You could feel the weight of the promise in his kiss, the unspoken bond forming between you. His eyes softened with understanding, nodding in agreement. You knew the risks, and so did he. You know you had made the right decision by sparing his life, you would break the rules one hundred more times if it meant he could live.