#i keep forgetting THIS is what solids is from

[meiplays]

🧨 “Whipped & Wrecked”

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader

Rating: 💥 SFW (but spicy, lap grinding, thigh riding, hickeys, hair pulling, worship, possessive & feral Ben energy)

Word Count: ~2.8k

Warnings: Intense lap grinding, thigh riding, hair pulling, whimpering, kissing, marking/neck kisses/hickeys, teasing, possessive behavior, begging Ben (softly), whipped energy, reader in Ben’s shirt, praise, mutual obsession, canon Ben attitude

Summary:

All Ben wanted was to hold you in his lap. Just cuddle you for a while. But you knew exactly what you were doing the second you started grinding your hips over his thigh. Turns out, Soldier Boy isn’t as in control as he likes to act—especially not when you’ve got your fingers in his hair and your lips on his throat.

A/N: this is probably the spicest thing I've written (as what I'm comfortable with) first time writing soldier boy! Hope you enjoy xo

“C’mere, baby. Just wanna hold you for a while.”

That’s how it started.

You were curled up in bed, wearing nothing but one of Ben’s old shirts—soft, worn-in, and way too big. He was leaning against the headboard, dog tags still hanging against his chest, arms open, eyes soft in a way no one else ever got to see.

And you melted for it. Always did.

You crawled into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thick thighs, resting your body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms came around you instantly, solid and warm and possessive. He let out a quiet breath, one of those rare, content ones, like just having you there grounded him.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck. “Been thinkin’ about this all week.”

His voice was lower than usual, warm against your skin, and it made you shiver in his arms. You could feel his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles on your lower back, fingertips brushing just beneath the hem of the shirt. Nothing urgent—just comfort.

But you weren’t exactly behaving.

You shifted in his lap. Just a little. Enough to feel the way his muscles tightened beneath you. Enough to make him pause mid-breath.

“Careful,” he warned, but his grip on your hips got firmer. “You’re in dangerous territory, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his throat. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

Another shift. This time, you let your thighs tighten around his. The hem of the shirt slid higher as your body naturally moved over his lap, creating friction that neither of you could ignore.

Ben groaned, deep and low. His hands flew from gentle to gripping, fingers digging into your hips as his jaw clenched hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough now, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, playful. “What if I am?”

His eyes darkened.

“Don’t play with me, doll,” he rasped, rocking his hips just barely upward. “You know exactly what you’re doin’. You sit here, all sweet in my shirt, like you’re just here for cuddles—and then you start ridin’ my thigh like it’s an accident.”

“Maybe it is,” you whispered, grinding slow against the thick muscle beneath you. You could feel how hard he was breathing, how tense his hands had gotten. “Maybe I just like being close to you.”

“Bullshit,” Ben growled, dragging you closer. “You know how goddamn sensitive I am to you. You start movin’ like that, and I forget how to breathe.”

You rolled your hips again, this time firmer—grinding right against the curve of his thigh, where his muscles flexed under your heat. Ben’s head fell back against the headboard with a guttural sound.

“F**k, baby…”

His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movement before he even realized what he was doing.

“Keep goin’,” he muttered. “You’re gonna ruin me. Might as well finish the job.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw, whispering sweet and sinful things in his ear as you rolled your hips over and over again, using the thick, strong muscle of his thigh like a toy built for you. His dog tags jangled softly between your chests as he tried to hold himself back.

“Takin’ my f***in’ breath away,” he groaned. “Look at you—makin’ a mess on my leg, actin’ all innocent. You know you’re the only one I’d ever let do this, right?”

You nodded, panting now, clutching his shoulders for leverage. “I know.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, up your spine, pulling you flush against him. His thigh tensed again—harder—and your body shivered in his lap.

Ben kissed you rough, possessive, like he was trying to remind you exactly who had you. When he pulled back, his eyes were blown wide with heat.

“You ride me like that again,” he muttered, “and I swear to God, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

You grinned, grinding once more. “That the plan.”

Ben let out a strangled noise—something between a growl and a prayer—and pulled you tighter against him, burying his face in your neck.

“Whipped,” he mumbled. “I’m f***in’ whipped for you.”

You stroked the back of his neck softly, kissing his cheek as you moved with him. “I know, baby. And I love it.”

You didn’t even realize how far you were pushing him.

Not until you tugged on his hair—and he whimpered.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just a soft, helpless sound that slipped from his lips the second your fingers tangled into that thick mess of his hair and gave it a firm pull.

Ben froze. His breath caught. Then his eyes rolled back just a little like he’d just been sucker-punched straight in the nerves.

You stilled in his lap, straddling his thigh in nothing but his shirt, lips parted in surprise. “Wait… you like that?”

Ben groaned—deep and rough like he hated how much he loved it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice barely holding together. “You’re gonna break me.”

You tugged again, slower this time, watching his reaction.

Ben shivered. You felt it under your hands. He dropped his head back, his lips parted, a low sound catching in his throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, “you really do like your hair pulled.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Instead, his hands snapped up to your hips and dragged you harder against his thigh—his grip bruising, jaw clenched, eyes wild with hunger.

“Baby…” His voice was gravel. “You keep doin’ that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You rolled your hips slow, dragging the heat of your core over the thick muscle of his thigh again and again, your thighs clenching as he flexed beneath you.

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Let go.”

That was it. That was the match to gasoline.

Ben’s mouth crashed against yours, hot and heavy, hands gripping like he needed you to stay there—like you’d disappear if he wasn’t touching every inch of you. His kisses were everywhere: your lips, your jaw, your neck—worshipping.

“You drive me f***in’ insane,” he growled between kisses. “You—this—this sweet little thing sittin’ in my lap like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

“I do,” you whispered, fingers in his hair again, pulling hard.

Ben gasped against your skin—and then whimpered again. Raw. Real. The kind of sound he’d never make for anyone else.

“You like that?” you asked, teasing against his ear. “You like being pulled around like a good boy?”

“F***,” he choked out, rutting his thigh upward under you so hard it nearly made you moan. “I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He started kissing down your neck again, slower now. Not rough—needy. His tongue flicked over your pulse, his lips suckling a spot just under your jaw until you gasped. Then he did it again. And again.

“Gonna mark you up,” he mumbled, dazed. “All over. So you never forget who you belong to.”

“You’re the one who’s whipped,” you panted, grinding shamelessly against his thigh. “You’re the one who begs when I pull your hair—”

“I do not beg—”

You yanked again. Harder.

Ben whimpered. Louder this time. His eyes squeezed shut. His hips jerked upward under you like he couldn’t stop.

“Okay,” he gasped. “Maybe I do.”

You laughed breathlessly, but he wasn’t done with you.

He flipped you gently—fast but controlled—until you were on your back and he was hovering over you, his thigh still wedged perfectly between yours. You tried to protest, but his lips were already on your neck again, his hands sliding under your shirt, skin on skin.

“You make me weak,” he whispered. “You hear me? You ruin me every time you climb into my lap like that, grind on me like you own me.”

“I do own you,” you teased, breathless.

Ben grinned against your collarbone, and you felt his teeth graze your skin right before he sucked another mark into you, just beneath the line of your throat.

“Damn right, you do,” he muttered. “So let me show you what being yours means.”

He trailed kisses down your chest, slow and heavy, tongue flicking, lips sucking, worshiping every inch of skin he could reach without going too far. You tugged his hair again just to feel him twitch. Just to hear that sound again—the little gasp he couldn’t hide.

“You’re evil,” he muttered against your ribs.

“You love it.”

“Damn right, I do.”

He came back up, kissing you breathless, tasting every inch of your lips like he needed them to live. His hands never stopped roaming—your waist, your thighs, your hips—everywhere he could hold you down and pull you close.

When he finally slowed, both of you were panting, chests heaving, still tangled together on the bed. Your shirt had ridden up high. His sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. But neither of you had crossed the line—yet.

“Ben?” you murmured, brushing his hair from his forehead.

His eyes cracked open, and for once, he looked… soft.

“Yeah, baby?”

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You know I’ve never seen you like this with anyone else. You’re not just mine. I’m yours, too.”

His throat worked like he was trying to swallow the lump in it. One of his hands slid up, curling around your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he rasped.

You kissed him again, slow and lingering. “Too late. You’ve got me.”

He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping protectively around your waist as he held you like he was afraid the world would take you away.

And you laid there like that—on top of him, tangled, flushed, and ruined—while his fingers idly stroked your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses into your temple.

Every few seconds, you tugged his hair just to hear that helpless little whimper again.

And Ben?

He let you.

Because he was yours. Whipped, marked, and happy about it.

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

This is another AI assisted story. I had to do a lot of guiding ChatGPT, but finally got something to work with. The photo is also ChatGPT. The funny thing is that it had difficulty with jock straps, and it wouldn't create a photo with the trucker's arm holding the top of the door frame saying that it was sexual. Anyways: ______________

The Trucker in the Doorway

______________

The motel room is still, heavy with the thick, stagnant air of a fading desert night. The temperature’s dropped to 91 degrees—a bitter mercy after the 106-degree inferno just hours earlier. The wall-mounted A/C unit clunks and hums like it’s about to give up. It doesn’t help. The air smells of mildew, old carpet, and something sharp and pissy, like a gas station bathroom left to rot.

The door is open—not out of carelessness, but necessity. There's no circulation in the room. Just stifling, stagnant heat and the low hum of trucks on the highway, distant but steady, like a reminder of where you are and how far from anywhere it is.

He smells the room—the heat-soaked fabric, the body-salt of strangers, and the grime of the road baked into the air. But it’s honest. Familiar. This isn’t a place for tourists. It’s the kind of motel people forget even exists. No manager at the desk. No other cars in the lot. Just a room, a bed, and a window facing nothing.

Exactly what he was looking for.

And in that open doorway—he stands.

One hand grips the top of the frame, arm stretched high and still, muscles like industrial cable under sun-worn skin. The other hand rests by his hip, holding a dented can of beer. He doesn’t drink it—just holds it like a man used to the weight of tools, or weapons.

He’s massive. 6'6", 280 pounds. Fifty-five years old and built like a working myth. Not gym-trained or cut from vanity—just a body forged by decades of lifting, hauling, digging, driving. Heavy shoulders. Thick neck. Barrel chest. Every inch a man made to do hard things the hard way.

His skin glistens under the weak glow of a flickering lot light overhead. Sweat dried into salt. Hair clinging to chest and arms like burlap to oil. He hasn’t changed since the last leg of the drive and doesn’t intend to. The tank top he wears—solid brown, stretched damp across him—reads: Zigmont Trucking.  The slogan of “Delivering Big Loads” is barely legible through the sweat and fading cotton.

Below that: a jockstrap.

The old, nearly transparent jockstrap clings to him — a favorite piece that’s become part of who he is. The white fabric—no longer white due to the sweat stands and the brownish-yellow spots in the front—is worn so thin that the fibers are barely holding together, the pouch slightly see-through, stretched from years of use. It’s molded to him, both from memory and recent wear — he hasn’t taken it off in three days, the last time he showered. He wears it when he drives, when he sleeps, when he stalks lonely rest stops and rundown motels in the middle of nowhere like this one. It’s not just another piece of clothing — it’s a second skin, a symbol of his identity. Holds everything in place. Keeps him grounded. Familiar. Like the steering wheel under his palms or the scent of diesel in his nostrils.  He doesn’t feel fully himself without it.

He stands motionless, silent, staring into the room.

Behind him, the night stretches empty—no civilization for 25 miles. Just cracked asphalt, a lone overhead light, and his semi—black and beastlike, purring low in shadows. In the distance, trucks hum down the highway, miles away. But they’re just noise. Not here.

This place isn’t for tourists or families or anyone seeking a clean night’s sleep. Most avoid it—and that's the point. No front desk to ask questions. No guests to notice. No one to complain. No cops.

Not that he plans to do anything wrong.

He’s here for his 10-hour DOT rest. He’ll spend it how he wants: quietly, privately, for himself. His time. His rules. His peace.

He smells the motel’s stink—the pissy, foul heat mixed with mildew and old carpet. But it doesn’t bother him. It’s familiar. Honest. The smell of nowhere. Of no one watching.

His back itches under the tank. The jockstrap bites gently at the hip—a welcome pressure. Sweat soaks everything. Dried, salty, stiff. Clinging to chest hair, trailing down his back, rimmed at his waistband. He could change, shower. He won’t.

He earned this sweat.

He doesn’t announce it. Just stands in the doorway, one boot inside, bathed in lot light’s glow. Watching.

He’s not smiling. Not scowling either. Just there. Present. Unmistakably real. Like rusted steel left out too long weathered but unbreakable. Not a man who makes conversation. Not one who invites it. 

But he’s watching, studying the naked man before him.

And inside, a naked man in his 20's sleeps—face down, stretched across the bed, one arm draped off the edge, the whole room humming with leftover heat and silence.  The sight is more the norm than not at this motel.  Only men seem to stay here, and clothing is minimal if not completely absent.

He's naked but not posed—just collapsed, surrendered to the heat. Breath rising and falling in shallow, slow waves. A college kid, maybe. A loner on the edge of something. Or someone running from a place too loud. You see all kinds on the road.

The trucker doesn’t move. Just studies the figure silently. The curves of his back, the spread of his hands, the sun-dark line along his shoulders. The kid’s young. Definitely a man, but soft in the way the trucker hasn't been in decades. The trucker doesn't leer—he takes it in the way a man notes weather before a storm. A scan. A study. Youth, not too far from grown, but still untouched by hard labor or long days behind the wheel.

He watches. The slow rise and fall of breath. Maybe the kid thought the place would be empty. Maybe hoped it wouldn’t be.  Most likely the kid knew where he was, what he was doing, and who would most likely come to him.  This last one made the most sense.

That makes the trucker’s lip twitch.

The A/C hums weakly inside. Pointless.

He knows how he looks—standing there, soaked in heat and salt, boots planted wide, beer hanging like punctuation. He knows the effect—silence, size, stillness. Not arrogance. Not pride.

Truth.

He takes one step in, slow and heavy. Boot against carpet. The door creaks slightly behind him, swinging inward with the weight of gravity and silence. He glances toward the window—dim light from the lot barely reaching the far wall. The shadows eat most of the room. Just the boy’s shape across the bed and the echo of his breath.

The trucker doesn't speak. Doesn’t plan. He’s just here to shut the world out for ten hours. The Department of Transportation says he has to rest. So he will. His way.

But this motel doesn’t ask questions. Neither does he.  He doesn’t want company. Never does.  

But if someone lies naked in a place like this with the door wide open… that’s not company.

That’s opportunity.

Not violence. Not chaos.

Just what the road owes him.

Whatever happens in the silence of this nowhere room will happen with no audience. No consequences. No questions.

He steps forward—one slow, heavy bootfall into the room—and feels the soft give of carpet underfoot. The air inside is hotter. More human.

He sets the beer down on the nightstand with a quiet clink. The room is still.

He reaches behind him to the door to close it.

Soft.

Automatic.

Final.

[crehador]

which bl visual novel is this

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I’m happy for the little life I built for myself

[lanternlightss]

thank you nameless bard

[bacchuschucklefuck]

LIVING for your ponytail Yugi he’s so cute 😭💖

thank u! i hold dear in my heart the way yuugi is like a little plushie that wants nothing more than to die a noble death

[idlingsomewhere]

i like avoiding listening to things because im scared of how strong an association ive formed between that thing and periods of my life i dont like but then coming back to them months later and not experiencing any strong emotions like fuck yeah! it got reset!

[babyloniastreasure]

this summer illness is going to fucking kill me

[mw00nie]

you’ve been skipping meals.

toji sees it. doesn’t say shit at first. not his style. he’s not some nosy asshole who’ll ask what you ate for lunch or remind you to drink water every five seconds.

but he’s not blind either.

your face is thinner. hoodie swallowing you up more than usual. wrist bones sharper. you pick at food like it’s poison, sip coffee like it’s a meal.

he clocks it. every time.

and he lets it slide. once. twice. five times. maybe you’re just stressed, maybe it’ll pass.

but tonight, he watches you open the fridge. stare inside like you’re trying to convince yourself. standing there like if you focus hard enough, the hunger’ll go away.

he leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“you gonna eat somethin’ or just keep lyin’ to yourself?”

you freeze.

“i’m not lying,” you mumble.

he raises a brow. “yeah? fridge’s been full for three fuckin’ days.”

“i just.. haven’t been hungry.”

“bullshit.”

you flinch at that. he’s not here to coddle.

he pushes off the wall, walks over, closes the fridge for you. slow. quiet. heavy.

“you think i don’t notice?” he mutters. “you think i don’t see how your hands shake? how you ‘accidentally’ forget dinner, leave shit on your plate, say you ate earlier when i know you didn’t?”

you try to look away. he grabs your chin, not rough, just firm. makes you look at him.

“you think i’m stupid?”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he clicks his tongue. lets go of your face. looks tired now, but not angry. just... done with the lies.

“i used to do the same shit,” he admits. voice low. “back when i fought for cash. had to stay a certain weight. thought starving meant control. strength.”

he laughs once, bitter.

“all it did was fuck me up. made me weak. angry. sick.”

you’re quiet. too quiet. eyes glossy. he hates that look on you.

“you got shit going on? fine. but don’t starve yourself over it. don’t treat your body like the enemy. it’s not.”

you still don’t say anything, just blink too fast. and when your shoulders start to shake, he finally pulls you in. arms wrapping around you, solid and warm.

you don’t cry. not really. just breathe against his chest like you haven’t breathed in days.

he holds you tighter.

“you don’t gotta talk,” he mutters into your hair. “not now. just don’t fucking lie to me. alright?”

you nod against him.

“good. now come sit your ass down.”

you do. legs tucked under you on the couch while he throws something together in the kitchen. nothing fancy. just enough to put something in your stomach.

he sets the plate in front of you. sits down next to you. doesn’t say a word while you eat, just stays close. hand on your thigh. grounding.

when you hesitate mid-bite, guilt creeping up your throat, he taps the side of your knee.

“don’t overthink it. it’s jus’ food. ain’t good or bad. it’s fuel.”

you nod again. quieter this time.

and when you’re done, when your plate’s empty and your shoulders finally drop, he kisses your temple.

“you’re not broken,” he says. “don’t act like you are.”

and somehow, you believe him

♡—————♡—————♡—————♡

A/N: i got the inspo from @sugussugar :>

[digi-diareis]

"We need to talk" Prank

with the LaDS love interests, implied that the LI's are already in a relationship w you

Xavier

Oh he's pulling out the puppy dog eyes immediately, lower lip jutting out and ready to start crying.

"I'm sorry." "What? Do you even know what you're apologizing for? Also, why are you apologizing?"

This guy is ready to admit to any and all the faults he's made the past week, from cooking without permission, eating her secret stash of snacks, forgetting to feed the cat on time, etc.

"Please don't break up with me, please please please please-" "Xavi, baby, calm down, I'm not breaking up with you"

Anyways, the prank doesn't even last a minute because you break the moment he pulls out the kicked puppy look and he starts begging for you.

You guys end up cuddling the entire day because he won't stop sulking and being worried that you're tired of him so you can't really leave him alone because this is your fault.

We love a loser like Xavi <3

Rafayel

Dramatic ass man and pranks like these are like perfect tiktok material.

"Oh, you are NOT breaking up with me. I don't give you permission to." "I don't recall breaking up having to need permission from both parties." "Well, now you know."

Anyways, you're both just bickering over stupid shit now. You've strayed from the "we need to talk" to now pointing fingers at who's the bigger drama queen between the two of you.

Zayne

Oh sweet summer child, takes you very seriously.

"What is it, love? Did I do something to upset you?"

Oh, you just know how guilty you'll end up feeling when you keep up with the prank. You last a solid 3 sentences before you slowly turn quiet because he's listening so patiently and looks like he's truly reflecting on everything you've said.

"Okay, I'm sorry it was a stupid prank but I can't stand looking at you this guilty. You've been nothing but an absolute sweetheart, I could never ask for more."

Zayne sighs, relieved that it wasn't actually something major.

"Please, try not to do pranks like these again. I love you but the way my heart dropped when you said those words is not healthy."

You give him a big hug and lots of smooches to make it up to him, vowing never to do pranks like these on him again.

Sylus

Oh, you are looking forward to this. There's a power trip of sorts when you remember how much power you actually hold over this man. And this is perfect.

Some say this might be a red flag of yours but you're dating a wholeass criminal big boss so it's not really that big of a deal.

When you start the prank, he raises an eyebrow. Feeling like it might be a prank since he did spoil you and didn't do anything to piss you off recently.

"And what is it this time, sweetheart?"

Okay ngl, I think this prank goes way too far because he would correct / contradict / defend every single reason and excuse you come up with. That it just becomes a wholeass debate of whether you even have an actual reason to be unsatisfied with your relationship.

At the end of it all, you are breathless and out of excuses. So you just glare at him. Sylus simply smirks knowing he won this 'argument'.

"I'll get you someday, look forward to the day that you're begging for me on your knees." "Oh sweetheart, I'd get on my knees for you anytime, if you just asked."

Caleb

You feel like this might be the worst idea you've ever had, knowing full well how possessive Caleb can get but anything for the gram or whatever the kids say.

"Say that again, buttercup? I think I misheard you."

Oh, the way his voice dropped an entire octave got you both nervous and also maybe turned on?

You try to be strong and push through, repeating what you said.

"Sure, we can talk. Did I do something wrong? Did I upset you? Did you find out about the hidden cameras? Is it the new guy at work, did he give you any ideas? I knew I shouldn't have stopped at a few broken ribs-" "CALEB WHAT THE FUCK"

Prank is forgotten, you are now giving him an hour long sermon about hidden cameras and not beating up every man who has any interaction with you.

What you say is definitely passing through the other ear for him, he's just pleased he managed to distract you from the original topic. Its better that you feel responsible for correcting him and being stuck with him rather than you getting sick and tired of him.

Caleb - 1 : You - 0

(i tried my best but i feel like these are very ooc aaaaaaa)

[indefiniteavatar]

So basically, in a case about him shoving money at someone so they shut up about him. . .he can’t shut the fuck up himself. I would say something clever and funny here, except the sad part is that this is just so normal in current politics that it’s just. . .not hilariously absurd behavior anymore? Not to say that it’s not absurd - it is beyond such, but it is just. . . predictable, I suppose.

I guess this is how I feel about politics lately? Either I get mad at everything or I try to laugh at everything and normally that works because politicians usually aren’t so tragically stupid so very often, but now I just kinda have to chuckle at the particularly eyeroll worthy things like this, and try to ignore everything else or my brain will explode.

[buckiverse]

☆ warnings: mdni, this is literally just a cock analysis for sylus, zayne, and caleb

☆ a/n: SYLUS HOLD MY HAND—CALEB IS ABOUT TO DRAG ME AWAY!

rafayel and xavier ver.

S8GSBTV - #b0685a

As we all know, Sylus is tall, with a broad, muscular frame and an imposing set of shoulders. He’s strong—insanely strong. The man boxes, for god’s sake. I would hate to take a liver shot from him; he might accidentally send me straight to the afterlife. He’s in phenomenal shape, with stamina to match—because, of course, it’s a requirement for his sport.

And his cock? Well, it follows suit. A solid eight inches (20.32 cm), and yes, he’s a shower. I mean, have you seen that perfect print in his pants??? He doesn’t even know where to put all that. It’s big—long, thick, girthy. No wonder he has a size kink. And let’s be real, so do you. The stretch is delicious, always leaving you working to take him all the way.

The head? A deep, rich brown (go look at the hex code <3). His pubic hair? Trimmed, but left a little longer—just how he likes it. And side note? He loves when you do the same. Says he wants to "explore the jungle." Oh, and let’s not forget: it’s straight and a slightly darker gray than his hair. Perfection.

And the veins—the veins. His cock is thick with them, pulsing, prominent. The most sensitive part? That sweet little slit. Run your tongue along it, and he will hiss, grip your hair, and growl something like, “Don’t do that unless you want me to come in your mouth, kitten.”

And, of course, you’ll keep doing it anyway. Hehehe.

Z7LSLCGBPLT - #9C524F

As we all know, Zayne is tall, with a lean yet well-built frame and broad shoulders. He’s strong—moderately muscular—but more refined in his strength. Being a doctor, he has a natural responsibility to stay in shape and take excellent care of himself.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven point three inches (18.542 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might be deceiving at first, but don’t be fooled—it’s big. Not just long, but with an ideal girth. The best part? It leans slightly to the left, and when he’s inside you, he knows how to move his hips just right, angling to hit that perfect, sensitive spot.

The head? A beautiful brownish pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low—because he understands the importance of keeping some. He’ll never go completely bare, and honestly? He prefers when you don’t either. And yes, it’s perfectly straight.

Unlike some, his cock isn’t overly veined—but what it lacks in texture, it more than makes up for in sensitivity. The head? Insanely responsive. Pull back his foreskin, drag your tongue along his frenulum, and just like that, he might lose control—maybe even come all over your face.

C7GGPTV - #DF9796

As we all know, Caleb is tall, with a lean yet powerfully built frame. He’s easily the most muscular of the bunch—his body honed to perfection. Being a fighter pilot demands peak physical fitness, not just for endurance but for absolute control in the cockpit.

And his cock? It follows suit. A solid seven inches (17.78 cm), and he’s a grower. The print in his pants might not always give it away, but trust—it’s big. Long, with just a bit more girth than average, making every inch of it something to savor.

The head? A gorgeous pink. His pubic hair? Trimmed low for convenience, though he’ll go completely bare if that’s what you prefer. Naturally, though, he keeps it neat, with a slight, loose curl to it.

And let’s talk about that vein. A single, prominent one that runs up the length of his pretty shaft—one he loves when you trace with your tongue. Oh, and let’s be clear—he’s uncut. Don’t care, won’t argue on that point <33

☆

btw this is what the codes mean (excuse my behavior because now that I actually typed it out i realize how crazy i look rn):

S8GSBTV: sylus-8inch-girthy-shower-brown-trimed-veiny

Z7LSLCGBPLT: zayne-7inch-left slant-long cock-grower-brownish pink-light trim

C7GGPTV: caleb-7inch-grithy-grower-pink-trimed-veiny

[bitterrfruit]

Simon forgets how strong he is

18+ MDNI - cw: bruising - ~700 words

just some Simon Riley NSFW brainrot ♥︎ - part 2-ish, and part 3-ish here!!

Simon forgets how to be gentle.

When he's at war, fighting and shooting and killing day and night, all he knows is hardness. Brutality. Ruthlessness. His hands and heart grow calloused and rough in his months away from you. Using his unfathomable strength to survive is what he grows used to, it becomes second nature.

But it's your softness he remembers, to keep himself sane. It's all he thinks about. Dreams of.

The way the flesh of your hips, your ass, your breasts, your belly, pillows so deliciously between his fingers when he squeezes his handful - so warm, so supple. The way your vanilla-balmed lips graze his scarred skin so tenderly, however undeserved your sweetness is.

And when he finally returns home, after months of missing, craving you - when you stand in the door, honey thighs bare by virtue of the black panties you wore just to torture him, soft tummy peeking out from under your crop-top - he just can't restrain himself.

You greet him with your sugary smile, stretching up on your toes to curl your loving arms around his neck - your gentle voice, music; "Si, ah! I'm so glad you're okay…"

The moment your velvet skin touches his, his shackles crumble. Like a beast starved, he clutches you. Mammoth arms curl around you, constricting, gripping you eagerly like you might be a dream; liable to turn to a memory, to smoke.

His avaricious embrace lifts your feet from the ground, though he doesn't mean to - he burrows his nose and mouth into the crook of your neck, lets the curls of your hair smother him and fill his chest with the faint scent of your fruity shampoo. Fights every urge to take a bite, like you're a ripe nectarine.

Growls into your skin, through his jaw; "I fuckin' missed you, love. Christ, you have no idea how much I missed you."

"I missed you too, baby…" you coo into his ear, even your breathing is tender - he can't take it.

So he ferries you immediately to the sitting room, scoops you up like you weigh nothing, lets you coil your buttery thighs around his waist as he sits you on his lap on the sofa.

His wide hands take their greedy handfuls of your body - of your waist, of your hips, of your thighs, of your ass. Finally indulging the impulses he had dreamed about for so long - the very image he had fucked his fist to more times than he could count while parted from you.

With his teeth on your shoulder, tongue laving your warm skin; "So fuckin' soft," he grumbles deeply, and urges, "pretty thing. So soft. Fuck, I missed you."

His cock is hasty to grow boulder-solid under his trousers, and he chastises himself - but you answer with a cloying giggle, grinding your mound against its rigidity as if to torment him.

"Mm, you did miss me," you tease, little brat.

Then in an instant, all he can think about is the softness of your syrupy pussy, the gumminess of the inside of your cunt as its walls caress and milk his cock like it was built just to fit him.

You make him fucking ravenous, so voraciously eager to have you that he doesn't even notice his hands turn to vices around your flesh - fingers burrowing so deeply into the cheek of your ass that he might break through the skin.

"Ah!" You yelp, "Ow - Simon - you're hurting me-"

Your squeak of pain is enough to immediately shatter him - so he rapidly lifts you off of him, protecting you from his impulse. Stands you on your feet so that you're no longer victim to his inability to control himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry-" he grunts under his breath, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's-" Your brows curl in worry, turning to look at where he had clawed you - and he sees the purple bruises where his hand had wrenched the flesh of your ass, the red lines where his fingernails had nearly punctured you. "Oh," you breathe at the sight, "…wow."

Drowning in visceral shame, he can barely bring himself to touch you again. But your soft hand caresses his hair, running through the sandy tresses - you, somehow, the one to comfort him.

"It's okay, baby, I know you didn't mean to," you purr fondly, and he leans forward to shamefully press as soft a kiss as he can into the bruise he gave you. Fucking monster.

"I'm sorry," he croaks into your skin, hoping his guilt will reverse his barbarity. "I just missed you."

"I know," you croon, turning to plant a loving kiss into his hair. "It's okay."

You guide him to lean back, mounting his lap again, letting your pelvis grind against the erection you were quick to reawaken.

His hands barely ghosting over your skin, he restrains himself, touches you carefully.

You whisper, into his stubbled cheek; "I'll show you how to be gentle again."

[jaesblogstuff]

Don’t forget who you belong to

as much as i love to write smut, i love softness and fluff much more. So here’s this ig??? (smut tmr if you’re lucky)

The house is quiet.

Save for the sound of Simon strapping his combat boots on in the hallway—low, heavy movements that echo against the walls like a clock ticking down. You hear the creak of leather, the muted grunt as he adjusts the holster under his jacket, and the metallic click of a blade sliding home.

He’s not late. But he’s rushing.

You dry your hands on a towel, fold it neatly, purposefully, and cast a glance at the clock. Then you walk out of the kitchen and down the hall, toward the door where he’s gearing up like he’s about to step into hell. Maybe he is.

You’ve stopped asking where he’s going. He tells you what he can, when he can. That’s enough. You don’t need details. You just need to make sure he comes back from it.

Simon doesn’t look up when you step into the room. His eyes are already hard. Distant. That part of him—the one you fight to keep buried at home—is surfacing fast. And it’s not just the gear. It’s in his shoulders, the way he moves. Measured. Final.

He’s halfway gone.

You stand there and wait. Silent.

He feels you before he sees you. But when he finally does look up, his gaze latches to yours like it always does. Like it’s checking in, one last time, before he puts the mask back on.

“I’m going,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

A twitch of his mouth. Almost a smirk. It dies just as quick. You step forward, fingers brushing the edge of his collar, smoothing it down without ceremony. He lets you—stands still for you like he always does. Even now.

“Did you eat?”

“I’ll grab something with the lads.”

You click your tongue. “No, you won’t. You’ll drink. You’ll act like you’re bulletproof. And halfway through the night, your blood sugar will tank and your hands will start to shake. So no. You’re eating now.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares.

You jerk your chin toward the small pack on the table. “It’s already in there. Sandwiches. Painkillers. Something with protein. And the granola bar you actually like. Not the ones you pretend to.”

He glances. Then back at you. “You’re not my mum.”

You fold your arms. “No. I’m worse. I’m the woman who knows all your passwords, your triggers, and where you keep the spare knife taped under the mattress. And you’re still dumb enough to test me.”

That earns you the smallest flicker of something in his eyes. Humor, maybe; but it’s fleeting.

You shift closer.

“I know how you get when you’re with them. Johnny starts barking and Gaz pulls some stupid stunt that should get someone killed. You go from zero to Ghost in five seconds flat.”

You grab the front of his vest. Not rough, but not soft either. A simple grip, grounding. Real.

“So let me be very clear,” you say, voice low and steady. “You go out there and start acting like you’ve got nothing to lose, I will show up. In my robe. In my slippers. Face cream still on. And I will drag your fully-armed, testosterone-fueled, world-ending ass out of that pub by the collar.”

Silence.

“You hear me Mr Riley?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t nod. Just stands there. Alert. Because he knows you. And he knows you’re not bluffing.

You keep going. Calm. Deadly.

“You’re not just their attack dog, Simon. You’re not some weapon for hire. You’re mine. And if you forget that even for a second—if you let one of those idiots hype you into acting like the world won’t miss you—”

You lean in, voice softer now, barely above a whisper.

“—I’ll remind you.”

Simon swallows. His jaw works slightly. The edge in him, that cold razor-wire coil, loosens just enough to let the man underneath breathe again.

“I hear you,” he says finally, quiet.

You reach into the pocket of your robe and pull out the granola bar, press it into his palm. “Eat that now. And the rest later. You don’t get to come home to me half-dead because you couldn’t be arsed to eat.”

He takes it. No argument.

Your hand finds his chest, solid beneath the gear, and you feel him exhale under your touch. Just for a second.

“You come home to me whole,” you say. “Or I come out there and finish the job myself.”

His eyes soften at the edges. Only a little. The corner of his mouth shifts, half a twitch.

Then he grabs the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and opens the door.

But before he steps out, before the world takes him away again, he turns back, just slightly. That cold, distant thing starting to creep into his face again. But his voice cuts through, low and rough

“Love you.”

You don’t smile. “uh huh, right”.

You just watch him go.

And he knows, without question, you’ll still be right here when he returns.

[ceramini]

LOSER IN LOVE ⋆˚࿔ BUT YOU LIKE IT, RIGHT?

pair loser!jake x hot!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags size kink, domestic fluff, jake is clingy, soft dom! jake, jake is lwk a himbo ✿ scene living with jake means bad cooking, clingy cuddles, and sex that’s way too good for someone who doesn’t know what a dom is. but he loves you stupid, and its the best part ────── library ⊹ ࣪

like + reblog appreciated <3 click to join taglist

LIVING TOGETHER ⋆˚࿔ jake & his dumb shenanigans

✿ loser!jake who puts your expensive perfume in the fridge because he heard “scents last longer that way,” and then acts smug when you say it actually worked. He’s like, “See? I’m smart sometimes,” while holding your toothbrush upside down over the sink.

✿ loser!jake who sits crisscross on the floor while you do your makeup, staring at you like you’re doing magic. “What’s that one do?” he asks every product. You tell him the same thing every time. He never remembers.

✿ loser!jake who forgets to defrost the chicken, so he just cuts up hot dogs and puts them in mac and cheese like it’s a Michelin-star meal. You eat it anyway. He beams. “You love my cooking, huh?”

✿ loser!jake who insists on doing laundry but turns your lingerie pink, shrinks your skirt, and still has the audacity to be proud because “At least I folded it all.”

✿ loser!jake who walks around the apartment shirtless, thinks he looks normal, but the sweats are hanging way too low, the hair’s fluffy from a towel-dry, and the veins in his arms pop whenever he opens a jar for you. He has no idea why your knees go weak.

✿ loser!jake who cuddles into you so tight at night you can’t even roll over, muttering, “no…don’t leave, it’s cold,” with his nose smushed into your shoulder and his morning wood poking your ass like it’s not 6:13 am.

IN THE BED ⋆˚࿔ yes he IS a freak in the sheets

✿ loser!jake who can’t tell you what a dom is but still pins your wrists with one hand while his other slides under your shirt like it’s muscle memory. Whines in your ear like he’s the one being ruined.

✿ loser!jake who doesn’t get why your eyes roll back every time he goes deep. “Wait…is that a good face or a bad one?” he whispers, staying balls deep because your body keeps squeezing him too tight to move.

✿ loser!jake who is obsessed with your tits. Will literally start pouting if you cover them. “Nooo don’t hide,” he mumbles, mouth already latched to one while rutting into you slow, saying dumb shit like “they’re so soft. like little clouds.”

✿ loser!jake who genuinely apologizes every time you cum too hard. “Was that too much? I didn’t mean to make you cry…fuck, baby, I just wanted to feel good, not break you..oh my god.”

✿ loser!jake who never really talks dirty but blurts the filthiest things out in the heat of the moment like “I love your little hole, it’s so warm in there” and doesn’t realize what he’s said until you repeat it. He blushes so bad he forgets to keep thrusting.

✿ loser!jake who goes so long thinking he’s average until one day you physically can’t fit all of him and you’re whining for a break. He stares down, all wide-eyed, “wait, you’ve never needed to stop before?” then looks way too proud after.

✿ loser!jake who pants your name like a prayer, holds your thighs wide and keeps whispering “thank you, thank you, thank you” into your skin like getting to be inside you is some kind of miracle.

LOVES YOU STUPID ⋆˚࿔ even if he thinks ur out of his league

✿ loser!jake who buys you matching keychains shaped like frogs because “you like cute stuff,” and grins every time you put yours on a different purse.

✿ loser!jake who always brags about you like, “my girlfriend? she’s literally hotter than every girl on Instagram,” then shows his friends a blurry selfie of you in pajamas like it’s solid proof.

✿ loser!jake who kisses your cheek so many times you have to push him away when you’re getting ready, and he always goes, “Okay, okay..just one more,” and steals three while giggling.

✿ loser!jake who gets pouty when you’re busy. “What do you mean you’re working?” he mumbles, tugging your sleeve. “I’m right here. I’m bored. Just look at me. I’ll sit still. Please?”

✿ loser!jake who blurts out “I love you” when you’re literally just walking to the fridge. Says it like he can’t help it. Like it hits him fresh every time he looks at you. “I love you. Like, a lot. It’s actually crazy.”

✿ loser!jake who gets angry if someone flirts with you but doesn’t know how to act on it. Just clings to you harder, puffs his chest a little, and later grumbles, “You’re mine, y’know. I’ll fight someone. Like, I could. Probably.”

✿ loser!jake who lies on your stomach while you scroll your phone, pressing his ear to your skin to hear the noises it makes. “There’s like, a lil song in there,” he mumbles. “It’s your tummy symphony.”

[multific]

The Gentle Heart of Rome

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: Geta's wife is overwhelmed by the violence of the Colosseum, but your sensitivity only deepens his love for you.

The sun hung high above the Colosseum, casting golden light across the sand-soaked floor of the arena. The crowd was roaring, nobles and commoners alike standing on their feet as blood stained the earth below.

Gladiators fought with savage precision, swords clashing, screams echoing across the stone walls.

But amidst the chaos and brutality, there was one figure that did not belong.

You.

You sat beside your husband, Emperor Geta, dressed in flowing silks the colour of rosewater, your eyes wide and trembling behind the delicate veil you wore.

The scent of iron was thick in the air, and though Geta sat straight and proud, enjoying every second of the spectacle with his brother Caracalla on the other side, you could barely breathe.

You turned your face, eyes squeezed shut as a scream pierced the air, followed by the sickening sound of metal sinking into flesh.

The crowd cheered louder.

“Love,” Geta leaned in, his voice gentle, though tinged with confusion. “You are not watching.”

You couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry… I thought I could, but-”

Another cry.

Another flash of blood.

You felt your stomach churn.

Geta’s smile faltered. “You are unwell.”

“I can’t… I can’t bear it,” you whispered, voice quivering. “There’s so much blood, and they’re hurting each other."

Caracalla laughed from beside Geta. “She’s soft, brother. Doesn’t have the Roman stomach.”

You flinched, heart pounding.

You didn’t belong here. You never had.

You weren’t a woman of war or vengeance.

You loved flowers and quiet mornings, and Geta’s soft hands when they weren’t calloused by sword hilts.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you murmured. “Forgive me.”

Geta’s expression changed then.

The pride and amusement faded from his face, and something more tender replaced it.

He looked at you, not as a disappointed husband or a stern ruler, but as a man who loved a woman too delicate for this brutal world.

Without another word, he stood.

“Brother?” Caracalla asked, raising a brow.

“I’ve seen enough for today,” Geta said, offering his hand to you.

You hesitated, eyes flickering toward him. “But… it’s not over.”

“I don’t care,” he said softly. “Come. Let’s go home.”

You rose with him, unsure, and followed quietly through the stone corridors until the roar of the crowd became a distant hum.

When you were finally alone, back in the quiet of your garden within the palace walls, Geta sat you down gently on the marble bench beneath the olive tree.

He knelt before you, a hand on your knee. “I didn’t know it would upset you like that.”

“I know you love the games,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to be a disappointment.”

“Disappointment?” he echoed, frowning. “You think your soft heart is something to be ashamed of?”

You looked down. “It’s not fit for an emperor’s wife.”

Geta reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “It’s exactly what I need. Do you think I wish to come home to more blood and fire?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are my peace. My gentleness. My reason not to become like him.”

You knew who he meant, his brother.

Caracalla, who thrived on carnage. Who bathed in it.

“You could have any woman,” you said. “Someone brave. Fierce.”

“I don’t want brave,” he said, lifting your hand to his lips. “I want you. The way you gasp when butterflies land on your fingertips. The way you cry when you read poetry. The way you hate to even see a bird wounded.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the clarity in his voice.

“You keep me from losing myself,” he said. “Don’t you see? If I forget what it means to be gentle… I’ll become a monster.”

You threw your arms around him then, burying your face in his shoulder. His arms came around you instantly, warm and solid, his hands stroking your back with comforting tenderness.

“I love you,” you said against his skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I love you, my gentle Empress.”

Later, as the sun dipped into dusk and the air turned cool, Geta led you through the gardens, your fingers laced in his.

No crowds. No violence.

Just the sound of birds and the rustle of leaves.

And that night, he held you tightly in bed, his breath at your temple.

“I won’t make you go again,” he murmured. “Not ever.”

You smiled into his chest. “Thank you.”

He kissed your hair, pulling you closer. “I’d rather lose the crowd than lose you.”

And from that day on, though he ruled Rome with strength, the people said Geta had grown softer.

They didn’t know the reason was love.

.