#my weight is already centered

[kkglinka]

My favorite way to slightly weird out onlookers is to use my combined sports, martial, and etiquette training to walk up or down stairs without bobbing or twisting my upper body.

[rxttenfish]

Asking because I’m extremely curious about this, how did MonProm’s writing get different over time? I remember you saying that the lore and characters feel different, and that it's missing sincere character interactions, too. I know almost nothing about the lore and I’ve only seen a few people mention the characters, so I’d be interested in a rundown of what aspects you think got worse in the series

I wouldn’t mind a very long response since I’m not that active in the fandom, I need to catch up on what happened

sorry for taking so long to answer this! i kinda waffled on it for a long bit, mainly because i started doubting myself again, and whether or not this was me simply overreacting or being tinted by nostalgia or simply being extremely picky and choosy in what i like (the last of which is true, i seldom get into fandoms at all for this reason and stay away from most popular media, but i wasn't sure if it applied here). i've posted about it already, but i'm in the middle of a psychotic episode where i can't feel a lot of pleasure to begin with + most things i do experience ending up solidly in the "very bad" category, so as you can imagine, i really didn't want to mislead and check that i was actually in objective reality.

as it is, this is also when a lot more screenshots started to be posted in the monster prom tag, and that helped me bridge the gap back into returning to the games themselves and feel like i was making a more accurate judgement. if you're one of those people who have been posting screenshots, i sincerely thank you, and i appreciated seeing you in the tag greatly.

for those not in the know — i've been in the monster prom fandom since it first released, prior to even the first additional ending to be added (the "Punch the sun" ending, and i recall the minor fandom drama that happened at that time due to it). my impression of monster prom is very much influenced by this, as what got me into the first game was the fact that the characters genuinely seemed to care for each other and were friends with each other (not merely tolerating each other's presences nor dressing it up, they sincerely thought of each other as friends and were open about that fact), on top of the wide variety of small details and statements that, if taken at face value, could create compounding complexity in the lives of each and every character and had wider implications for their lives.

no, they were not necessarily explored nor even necessarily "real", with so many conflicting events and statements, but i liked this too, because it meant a wider flexibility in what you could imagine, helping to create a more tailored experience for everyone who thought about these characters. this was what i liked about the early fandom too. what was baseline "canon" was so vague and minimal that you could have wildly different interpretations of the same characters' histories and relationships with each other. you would have radically different perspectives on what the world itself looked like, what it was like, that there wasn't really any wrong answers so long as their personalities remained the same. this is where you got the old headcanon of polly and liam being childhood friends who knew each other as humans, or that the world of monster prom was post-apocalypse where humanity itself had gone extinct or only existed in tiny pockets, or my personal headcanon that both monster and human society existed right next to each other and had minimal crossover for petty cultural reasons. this was also prior zoe-as-ro, and there were wildly different interpretations of zoe's personality, with most going for a far more disquieting creepy-cute than the deep nerd we got.

this is why you get stuff like the timeloop theory, where everyone is repeating the same weeks leading up to prom over and over, and are perhaps vaguely aware of it but broadly unconcerned. this is also why it felt like the joke that, the characters were still in high school but were all fully legal adults with most in their 20's, best landed, because it was absurd and strange and didn't quite make sense, but the world itself was inherently absurd and semi-malleable to begin with. realistically, i felt like everyone understood it was making fun of the trope of having adults play teenagers in american sitcoms and wildly casting outside the age range, but for more in-universe explanations it wasn't any different from the way that you would have a large, dramatic ending in which everything changed, but then you'd restart and everyone would be right back at the beginning with nothing different, or even having conflicting events in the same run. it was a dream-logic that fit with the tropes and, thus, diagetically made sense.

to be clear, i don't mind canon having a set, well, canon on which it refers back to itself. i don't mind expanding that or including more things which are set in stone. but there was a perceivable shift in how the games handled this over time, becoming a lot more... bitter, it felt, towards all of these different branching ideas and concepts that, yeah, the people making them knew wouldn't necessarily be "canon" because "canon" already liked to contradict itself so much. most people weren't even sold on any one idea, and there was a much greater sense of enjoying and appreciating all the varying ideas people would come up with even if you personally didn't share them. making the characters be out of character was the real crime, because then it didn't diagetically make sense in the same way, didn't wholly fit.

(again, this is not to say fanon didn't happen and characters weren't smoothed down into a simplified personality that fit these varying fan-interpretations instead of the game itself. certainly damien love/lust was just as bad as it had ever been, and everyone loved to mangle his character into a more stereotypical "bad boy with a heart of hold" all the time. but it certainly felt less set-in-stone about it than it does now, with any deviation from the norm being considered strange and odd and even broadly shunned from the wider fandom.)

all of this is setup for establishing what the writing, lore, and characters felt like in the earlier days. the characters were the strongest part, with their relationships to each other being equally as important. the lore played it fast and loose and was far less interested in setting anything in concrete because that wasn't the important part. the lore wasn't the important part, which was what made it all the more intoxicating to think about, all the more fun to play with.

montrip is easily the biggest offender when it comes to setting everything in all-or-nothing terms and demanding absolutism from the world. broadly i blame the hitchhiker conversations for the worst of it, but i think ultimately the way they handled the entire premise of the game is where this problem stems from. it's not really an exploration in the same sense that you might explore the first game, discovering different perspectives and different people with different relationships to each other. it's an exploration in the sense of a sequel that over-explains the monster, that takes the most boring option out of all those that were possible and floating around and settles on something that was blatant, obvious, typically rejected not because of how novel it is but how trite and par for the course it is in the rest of the genre.

yeah, okay. humans know nothing about monsters and there's a "monster dimension" that exists separately from the human dimension. there's no crossover between the two of them. of course there's a big grand-scale fight between the eldritch powers that zoe used to be a part of, from which not only are slayers the main organization against them, but also the merkingdom has some horse in this race too. it's an urge to make things so universal in explaining them, in revealing connecting threads which unite everything that's ever happened in here, that makes the worldbuilding and lore immediately much more boring than it ever was before.

and it didn't have to be this way! nothing in the first game contradicts any of this too explicitly (see the above, the first game loves to contradict itself), and i would even be happy if this was basically canon but never stated or confirmed to be the big overarching everything going on underneath it all. i believe you should probably know these things about any world that you create and have them in the back of your mind. the difference is that you can know these things and keep them in mind, even focusing on things where its very relevant, and still not reveal them. this is why you have lore bibles, after all. every horror writer knows exactly how their monster works and the full underlying reason for everything that happens, but that doesn't mean the audience will see it or possess this same information too, and leaving it intentionally obscure will make far better stories.

which, this is bad enough, but it wouldn't be the breaking point for me if this was all there was.

but the worst thing of all has to be the slow decay of the very same characters that sold me on this world, this lore, this game in the first place. monster prom is nothing without the characters in it. it's a dating sim, it has nothing but characters to get you to play, and liking these characters are the entire reason anyone would pick up monster prom in the first place.

and the first game pulls this off extremely well. it's all in the tagline: be your worst self. they are, indeed, all terrible people. yes, even that character that you just thought of right now. they all have points in the game where they commit atrocities, where they kill or hurt people, where they do inexcusable things that could not be ignored in a more serious setting.

but that's the point. i think there's something very powerful in creating a character who not only do you love and love their personality and the way they interact with the world, but who also are inapologetically terrible, and to have the humor and the charisma be so good that you don't get bogged down in the "this is awful". likewise, it never feels the urge to really go out of its way to justify what's going on. this is not to say theres no discussion of if someone "deserved it", but usually there's still the sense that the joke is on them, that this is still an extreme reaction specifically for comedy and not necessarily something that can be justified. you can have damien set leonard on fire and have it feel earned, without prompting the needed reaction of what it's actually like to watch someone burn to death.

this is what sets the prank masterz ending apart from the rest of the game, and really establishes it as the first real "bad ending". because nothing that you do or happens in the prank masterz ending is any different from anything else that happens in any other run. you summon evil beings from other dimensions as a throwaway gag on how visiting one location raises your stats. you kill other people and damn them to terrible fates. you watch as body horror happens. the only difference is that, in the prank masterz ending, the laugh track doesn't play.

the rest of the game and the writing echoes this philosophy, this careful interplay of tropes that keeps everything tongue in cheek and yet sincere enough to make sure emotional beats still land when they're needed. the characters feel true to themselves and their own emotions, even when the world is extreme and excessive, when everything else runs on comedy logic.

this is also what i noticed failing first as time went on.

like i said, fanon has always existed and there's always been very specific ideas as to what characters are like in the same way fanon always flattens down characters into the same tropes over and over. scott is stupid and innocent and doesn't know what sex is. damien is violent and hot and too cool for anyone else. miranda is the idiot girl character. repeat over and over and over until you get sick of it.

but it's been an issue as time has crept on that canon has started to approach fanon and began to merge with it. now, scott is so innocent that he can't even curse. polly starts being mean to her friends and saying things that would be very hurtful to hear. the merkingdom isn't really super evil and fucked up, it's just miranda that's like that. they become simpler, easier to digest, streamlined for social media posts and mass-sharing. they become less and less subversions of existing tropes and moreso just another example of them, something else to add to the collection, not their own individual stories.

even further from this, what more complex traits they had are now stated and not shown. polly is stated to be smart and clever in a way that her party girl persona doesn't imply and to be sincerely rather down to earth with the people she cares about, but we seldom ever see this anymore unless its the game specifically trying to make a point about it, in which case it won't let her do anything that implies cleverness and moreso will just outline it in the narration. vera is stated to care for people in a very genuine and heartfelt way, but seldom will get a chance to do so, and every opportunity for her to do so to their faces is missed while she will just outright state it later. it does not feel consistent, it does not feel like any of these are intended reads of their actions. it feels like the devs have something they want to do but no idea on how to actually do so. and forget it if you want these traits to manifest in small ways that show up in unrelated moments and scenes.

the dialogue becomes harder and harder to tell between each speaker, if you are just looking at what's said and not at the pictures attached to it. the characters' distinct voices have been eroded away, so that they speak more and more like each other, relaying the same terms and ideas in the same words. perspective becomes a suggestion, instead of a must.

this is something that started back in monster camp too, as all of the endings in that game felt ultimately the same as every other ending. it's very hard to place or define the full reason why, why there feels like there's no emotional stakes nor investment, why everything feels moreso like selecting different coats of paint and trying to find all the different ending pictures rather than being interested in exploring the characters as characters.

stranger yet, the series that started with the tagline of "be your worst self" has experienced a kind of... softening, for lack of a better word? what i mentioned about being able to handle the balance between terrible people who do terrible things and the light tone of the game starts to change, as abruptly the same characters who were down with violent murder in the first game start to lose their nerve, acting more and more on more typical morality. it's one of those things that feels like it's starting to damage the tone, as abruptly it's not as absurd as it used to be, demands less suspension of disbelief which could buffer and support the rest of the setting on it. there's even a part in one of the endings in montrip which involves current-polly and current-scott looking back on their monprom selves and reacting in horror at how violent and careless their pranks are, in a way that fundamentally felt like it was undercutting and disparaging all the things that felt fun and made monprom what it was.

which is odd, really, because more and more i feel like the characters in these games like each other less and less. the friendships and genuine enjoyment of each others company that brought me to this game in the first place has gone. now they don't mention each other as much, don't care for each other's feelings and reactions as much, aren't as willing to support each other. they are more and more found on their own, relied on their own, seem to seek out contact and interaction with their own friends less and less. it feels like they're all separating out into their own worlds, but also feels like they wouldn't willingly want to interact with each other if they weren't already forced together by some other outside contrivance.

if anything, i'd compare it to every other dating sim out there, where you, the player, are the most important person in these characters' lives, and they only feel ambivalent or antagonistic towards every other character. which, again, is not why i picked up monster prom or why i liked it so much in the first place.

and it's because of this that it feels like the current state of the series has to focus on its increasingly weak worldbuilding and lore, trying to form a more serious foundation without character relationships being so tightly bound together, without the characters themselves being more developed and rich, without an aspect of absurd humor to rely on.

more and more i've noticed monprom has to rely on referencing other series to make itself funny and create humor, which, again, it's always done. it was just easier to ignore back then, if you didn't know what was being referenced, because there was always more going on in the exact same scene to bolster it and give context clues as to the setup and punchline at play. it feels like the current games are much more dependent on you knowing pop culture references in order to have any fun with it, and i'm someone who, again, is very picky in what i like or what i'll seek out. i'm not interested in a stream of references about other things that i would much rather be doing than playing through a game that feels like it hates that i like it at all, when i could, again, just be engaging with the thing that takes itself seriously and knows what it wants.

[screampied]

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader. husband nanami, whiney nanami, brēeding, cowgirl, mdni. adding to this

riding nanami so good that it makes him want to propose. focusing his weight purely on his rocking chair, the continuous creaks sing as you’re rutting back and forth. “s- sweetheart,” he slurs in a dreamy tune, a baritone-like rasp falling on his words. one hand of his grips toward your waist, tracing a thumb against the pretty curvature of your torso. whining yourself, you lean in toward his neck to bury your face near the crook, but he makes you collapse back. “no, no. don’t hide from me, wanna see those eyes,” and as gentle, mahogany irises meet your own, he groans. “good girl, my good girl. jus’ keep lookin’ at me, yeah.”

“kennnn,” you whimper, the repetitive dragging of your hips scratching a bittersweet carnal itch near the insides of your brain. his body heat was scorching hot, you thought you were gonna melt. the insatiable skin slapping against skin makes you deliriously numb, you want more. with your loose jaw hanging itself open, drooping—you lean in to lick a stripe up his neck. “fuck, ‘s good. mhm,” and each time you slam back and forth against him, he kisses his teeth. nanami’s sweating profusely, he barely even notices though because his entire attention’s focused on you. his pretty girl. although, the moment you start to dip your hips in a deep circular rotation, he tosses his head back.

“fuckin’ s- shittt,” he swears, and even his curses sounded so blissful . . sinful. for the first time in forever, nanami whines. the palm of his hand then closes in on your ass to give it a good firm squeeze. with fawn strands covering his eyes, he starts to shake. with his hefty chest heaving and a needy tone pouring from his voice, his gaze meets yours once more. “marry me, m- marry me, i need you to be my wife, please.”

an eyebrow of yours quirk upward at his words as a smile pierces its way against your spit-slicked lips. you throw your arms over his broad shoulders before giving him a sweet reply.

“hm?” and your hips had him going insane—the tempo, it was just right. not too fast nor too slow. the centers of your jittery knees bury itself into the sides of the chair before you whisper into his ear. “did you forget, baby? ‘m already your wife.”

nanami moans, your voice was enough to make him spasm right then and there—you sounded so sweet but your insides felt even sweeter.

your sloppy cunt grips against him tight like a vice, simply clinging onto him for dear life. within each pull and bounce against his lap, your walls were so gummy and goopy. it was just tantalizing. you were nothing but a tease and he only craved for more as each second passes.

taking in every inch of his thick cock, you hold back a noise yourself. digging the edges of your teeth into your bottom lip to suppress an incoming squeal, you kiss his neck — it was slow, you create a soft trail of butterflies with your lips. marking his neck with your own wings that press against your mouth.

“hah, oh . . are we?” he responds, panting. with a hand still glued to your hip like it’s made of adhesive, his eyes meets his ring finger. you and him were definitely still married. he groans, feeling a lump in his throat equivalent to the size of a saucer. “ah, forgive me sweetheart. ‘m sorry, y- your hips are just so..”

he doesn’t even bother trying to finish his trembling sentence before his cock kisses up against your g-spot once more. not just an ordinary kiss though, a french kiss.

it’s sloppy, passionate, and exquisitely thorough.

tangled fingers of yours claw at his cerulean blue dress collar. with cobwebs and cobwebs of slick saliva sloshing against each mouth — he huffs, shivering from your hands to roam further down his work shirt he wore. nanami was sexily slouched back, two thighs spread open for you with a single leg bouncing up and down in anticipation.

oh, he was close. his base sags and hangs as you’re rutting against him quicker and quicker. with a nice amount of fingers scraping through his hair and toying your fingertips with his scalp, you dip your tongue further into his mouth. “m- my love,” he purrs, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard him so whiney. his voice was melodic at most, each breaking syllable making the throbbing between your legs intensify. “don’t stop, please—i love you, i love you.”

“i love you too ‘ken,” you babble, feeling the elastic stretch curve and pull through your walls.

your lips part and you moan before feeling him hold your waist tight. nanami groans against your ear and it’s so low that it was almost a mere growl. it could have easily been mistaken as a growl with the raspiness in his voice. with your knees continuing to plow deeper into the chair, bouncing back and forth, he spanks you, again, and again, and again.

nanami’s about to come, you know once his prettily blown irises roll wayyy back until he’s seeing white and his thin brows curl into a proper furrow.

each sloppy bounce against his lap punctuates so good that he’s barely able to hold his moans back by now. you had him hooked. his faint poking dimples press together as he tries to speak, but instead of words, another dragging whine escapes. leaning up against his ear, your warm breath tickles his lobe. “c’mon, kento. cum in me, ‘s okay. make a mess in me, baby.”

“f- fuck, keep talk to me just like that, sweetheart ‘n i might,” he replies back in a shaky tone, feeling a chill reside up his spine.

your cunt’s addictive warmth was preparing to milk him for all that he’s worth. as he clenches down on his jaw for the umpteenth time, his grip against your waist tightens. “ugh, ‘s gonna be so much. so much for you, my sweet l- love,” and as he’s rambling, a thick load abruptly shoots into your core, dribbling into your womb. it’s hot, and when it rains it pours. nanami swallows thickly, the same lump that lived in his throat was now forming into a ball. your hips steadily slow down and you glance down to see the lewd mess emitting deeply into you. it’s so much—it’s velvety, creamy ropes of cum that quickly fill you up to the very top. as his tip spits such sloppy amounts of seed into your starved cunt, he bites his lip. “oh, ‘s still comin’ out. forgive me, ‘m givin’ you all of me, princess.”

with a soft smile, you kiss near the crevice of his mouth where a tiny crinkle caresses and marinates against his soft features. “don’t apologize for being dirty, ken. ‘s okay.” and his face softens at your words. nanami feels his body shudder with heat from how gentle you were with him.

you’re clinging onto him dry and he’s still pumping you full of ridiculous inches—featuring his beloved, syrupy textured cum. it’s a whopping amount that he could barely process how much he’s gifted to you until he actually looks down. the moment chest deflates, the sensitive crown head of his cock gives your sweetest spot its final chaste kiss. satisfied with being filled to the very brim, you don’t get off just yet. instead, you remain there, gently brushing your hips forward.

“m- marry me,” he repeats, his voice cracking.

nanami hears the squelches and spurts your own pussy makes from the residue of cum spewing from the undersides of your legs. “ah,” and he grips your chin, attempting to kiss you but his lips instead reach toward your chin. you worn him out, he’s barely even reaching your mouth and it’s cute. nanami’s got hooded half lidded eyes and a pried open mouth. he’s almost drooling for you, that’s how whipped you had him. “be my wife, i need you.”

kissing his cheek, you smile at his current pussy drunken state. taking a mental image to savor this moment forever, a thumb brushes its way against his tender cheek. “i'm your wife already, silly,” and his eyes dramatically roll back in rapture again. nanami’s releases always last long, and he’s still getting over it. his dick twitches from the sound of your voice, and he wanted more of his sweet sweet wife. the feeling of your sopping walls squeezing him for every ounce of cum he’s got makes him grunt. it feels so good that it’s almost heavenly. it’s warm and insanely sticky — oozing in ropey wads from your hole before trickling all near his lap. “all yours, ken.”

“all m- mine,” he repeats breathlessly, gently grabbing your wrist up to his mouth.

with a sheepish exhale leaving his lips, a free hand slithers its way toward your tummy. sighing deeply, nanami makes direct eye contact. “my love,” he repeats for a final time, and you gasp once he suddenly pulls out.

pouting for a second at feeling empty, he makes you lie flat on your back. nanami’s got a feral look in his eyes, broad shoulders raising up and down and messy unkempt strands all in his face, he wants one thing tonight and it’s you.

as he spreads your quavering legs open with a single hand, he then creeps two fingers toward your stuffed cunt to smear his cum near your entrance. “since we’re already married, let me g- give you a baby, sweetheart. you’d be such a good m- mommy.”

[evilwoman18]

The first thing Simon noticed when he stepped inside Y/N’s flat wasn’t the weapons case by the door or the neatness of the place, though it was spotless. It was the way the air shifted.

Like the space had been lived in. Owned. Protected.

And then he saw the Doberman.

She stood tall and alert in the center of the room, dark eyes locked onto Simon with razor-sharp focus. Her ears perked, muscles coiled, already halfway to deciding whether he was friend or threat.

“Eros,” Y/N called calmly from behind him, as they shut and locked the door. “Stand down. He’s fine.”

The Doberman didn’t move for a long moment. Then, almost reluctantly, she backed up a step and sat, never once breaking eye contact.

Simon gave a low whistle. “She’s protective.”

“She’s a menace,” Y/N replied fondly, pulling off their jacket and tossing it over the arm of the couch. “But only to people she doesn’t like. Consider this a neutral greeting.”

Eros padded closer, sniffing at Simon’s boots with the silent precision of a trained soldier. She gave a short huff, then moved past him and curled up near the window, one eye still on him.

“Charming,” Simon muttered.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Y/N added, walking toward the kitchen. “You haven’t met Mop yet.”

“Mop?” Simon echoed. “What the hell kind of name is…”

A loud thump interrupted him as a large, orange ragdoll cat flopped down dramatically onto the armrest of the couch, blinking at Simon like he’d just interrupted a sacred nap.

The cat stared at him. Then yawned.

Simon stared back. “…That’s a mop with attitude.”

“Told you,” Y/N smirked, sliding a bottle of water across the counter to him. “He’s fat, lazy, and he runs this house.”

Mop hopped down from the couch, walked directly to Simon, and after a long, deliberate pause. Rubbed against his leg once before plopping onto the floor with a groan.

Simon blinked. “I’ve been accepted?”

“For now,” Y/N said. “He’ll revoke it if you sit in his spot.”

“Jesus. How do you live like this?”

They shrugged. “Keeps me on my toes. Besides…” they glanced at Eros and Mop, both now settling into their preferred spots like nothing had happened. “They’re family.”

Simon looked at the cat snoring under the heater, the Doberman watching the door like a soldier on guard, and Y/N, still watching him carefully, like his reaction mattered more than they wanted to admit.

And then he just said, “They suit you.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “That a compliment, lieutenant?”

“Dunno,” Simon muttered, scratching behind Mop’s ear. “You lot are intense, dramatic, and territorial. But I think I like you.”

~

BONUS

~

Waking up the first thing Simon became aware of was weight. Significant, fuzzy, smug weight.

He blinked awake, disoriented and still half-tangled in the sheets of Y/N’s bed. His arm was draped loosely over their waist, the soft rise and fall of their breathing against him like the world’s most dangerous lullaby. The room was warm, dimly lit by the gray crawl of dawn.

And then…

Something moved on his chest.

Simon groaned, craning his neck just enough to see a dense, orange fluffball planted squarely over his sternum.

“Mop,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep. “You’re lucky I won't throw you across the room.”

Mop blinked once, unbothered. Then stretched, settled deeper into Simon’s ribs, and purred louder, as if to say this is my spot now, human.

Simon sighed, glaring at the ceiling. “You weigh more than a bloody vest.”

He tried to move his hand, just to adjust his position, when a new sound broke the sleepy quiet: a low, menacing growl.

His eyes shifted instantly toward the doorway, where Eros stood like a sentry, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on the bed.

More specifically: on him.

Simon glanced down. His leg had shifted in his sleep, knee pressed lightly between Y/N’s thighs, and his arm still rested protectively across their stomach.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Eros took a slow step forward.

Simon froze, whispering low to the Doberman, “Alright, alright. We’re just sleepin’.”

Y/N stirred beside him with a groggy hum. “Simon…?” they murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Why is my dog growling at you?”

“Because your cat is a possessive bastard,” Simon whispered, “and your dog thinks I’m trying to cop a feel.”

Y/N cracked one eye open, took in the sight. Simon flat on his back with Mop sprawled across his chest like royalty, and Eros glaring murder from the doorway.

They laughed, the sound muffled into the pillow. “You’re not winning them over, are you?”

“Didn’t realize I was tryin’ to,” he muttered, gently lifting Mop and placing him on the other side of the bed. “I’m not fighting a cat and a Doberman before breakfast.”

Y/N rolled to face him, their eyes soft with affection and just a hint of mischief. “Maybe they’re just protective.”

Simon glanced from them to Eros, who had finally stopped growling but hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “Yeah, well,” he grumbled, “they’ll have to get used to me.”

Y/N smiled and rested a hand on his chest, over the place where Mop had been seconds ago. “They will.”

A beat passed.

“…Eventually.”

~

If y’all ever want a version with more gender-neutral pet names, breeds, or pronouns, just let me know—I’m happy to tweak it. I don’t really have folks to chat with, so honestly, hearin’ from y’all (even if it’s just fixin’ my mistakes) means a lot.

Thank you for reading!💚

[nanamisgirly]

Body hair?? not stopping him from his meal!ྀི

CW oral (f. receiving), kento calls her 'greedy thing' & honey, he's eating wellll, hairy reader!, college au., once spitting, I had young nanami in mind with his pretty blonde bang, established relationship, pussy drunk!, a bit of plot ig either we're diving right in 😼

you're kissing

messily, hungrily—your lips part with a wet pop as you gasp for breath. kento's full weight is pressed against your body, his thigh slotted between your legs, his lower stomach grinding hard against your core. one of his hands cups your jaw roughly, angling you where he wants it.

“i didn’t know we would go further…i didn’t shave and uh..im quite hairy. even my stomach” you mumble shyly. “i didn’t even shave my armpits. or down there.” your fingers threading through the long strands of his blonde bangs—trying to get his attention. 

you gently push them back, letting your hand slide into his hair until you’re gripping a handful at the nape of his neck—a deep groan escapes his throat at the tug.

doubt is creeping in you…

“i didn't know we were gonna go this far tonight…” you repeat. “i didn't shave. like, anywhere...”

kento pulls away from where he was attacking lovely your neck with wet kisses. his eyes met yours—heavy-lidded, pupils blown so wide they almost eclipse the warm brown of his irises. his brows furrow, not in judgment, but because he genuinely has no idea what you just said.

“honey, i quite literally have no idea what the problem is,” he says, and then drags his fat tongue sloooowly, obscenely, all the way from your collarbone to your jaw. as he feels his glasses slide down his nose, he adds : “actually, take my glasses off. . don't want them in the way while i’m tasting you.”

“but kento—”

“i said. remove. them.”

“it's probably not hygienic,” you whisper. “i mean—body hair and, like… going down on me?”

kento's lips curl slightly. “who said that?” he mutters,  then sinks his teeth a bit harshly into the crook of your neck. “society?” he continues, words muffled against your skin. “tell me this, do you wash your pussy properly?”

“y-yes—” you gasp.

“then where the heck is the problem?” his voice dips into something dark so sure of itself, it turns your whole body to liquid. one of his hands slip under your shirt and slides up, palm pressing against your stomach—and when he feels the soft trail of hair leading down…

“fuuuuck,” he breathes in the soft hair of your neck. “you smell like soap and lavender, your skin's clean and soft. i don't shave either, by the way. i'm not exactly hairless under this button-up.”

he presses down harder, strong abs pressing deliciously against your heated core.

“now stop worrying.” his teeth graze the skin above your waistband as he mouths hungrily at your stomach. 

he's already undoing your pants with one hand, the other braced beside your head like he needs leverage to keep himself from just tearing them apart. he doesn't even slide them down—he rips them past your hips in one desperate motion, underwear bunched and clinging wet to your center. 

there's a split second where he just stare—jaw slack, lips parted.

the soft dark hair above your slit glistens with the damp warmth beneath it, “fuck. fuck—fuck..” he spreads your legs wide—too wide that they ache instantly. he loses no time to bury his face between your legs, nose hitting your dripping folds and sniffing. he swipes his tongue devastatingly precisely, from your clit to your entrance and back again, groaning into the slick mess he's creating.

as your hips jerk up violently, he brings his hands to your hips and pin you down, keeping you in place. his tongue works in filthy little circles, mouthing and sucking enthusiastically your clit. when he pauses to speak, his voice is hoarse and soaked in spit. “this…this hair—” he pants, dragging his tongue right through where you have them the most. “don't you dare wax this pretty pussy. you taste divine, honey.”

he presses two fingers to your puffy hairy lips, spreads them open, and spits—watching it drip down between your folds. he dives back in, slurping so loudly it’s the only thing you can hear in the room.

kento can't help but grind onto the mattress—his hips rutting in rhythm with his tongue that trusts into your hole. The friction against his huge cock, trapped tight in his slacks, is maddening. he's not even trying to hold back the pleasure he’s having from this—choked and whining noises leaving his lips :(

“kento, please—” you sob, pleasure crackling up your spine.

“mm-mmmhh” he hums against you, tongue getting sloppier. to have better access, he lifts your hips, tilts them just right and devours you from underneath, tongue circling your clit only to drop and lap at your dripping hole again, wide flat strokes followed by desperate, suckling kisses. 

he moans loudly as his rough fingers part your folds once again, exposing that sensitive bundle slick and twitching for him. “greedy little thing,” he grins.

“ken—ken…i—t-too much,” you whines.

“too bad,” he growls, voice deeper than usual. he bites into your inner thigh, rough and claiming, then licks over the sting. “thought i'd care about some hair…?” he shakes his head in disapproval. “i want it messy. sooo messy, you have no idea.”

he’s glassy-eyed when he looks up at you—dazed. drunk on taste and scent.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ lose my mind if i don’t stay down here,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, tongue darting back out to drag one more slow, obscene stripe through you. “look at this. look at this mess. it’s all mine.”

“you're just so pretty, honey. i need more.”

  ˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵ 

[yasminawayne]

If I can't have you baby, no one else in this world can!

SYNOPSIS: The Batboys & Cass at their most unhinged, most protective, and most devoted. TAGS: FEMALE Reader! Fluff! Jealousy! Fake Marriage, Mild possessive behavior, Mild innuendo / suggestive banter, Mentions of weapons/violence + Older! Of-Age! Damian NOTE: Don’t take the content or characterizations too seriously! It’s literally just a goofy, for-fun fic :ppp AO3: yenwayne Ko-Fi: buy me a coffee!

જ⁀➴ RICHARD GRAYSON

“I hate these missions,” came Dick’s voice, petulant and immediate in your earpiece.

You didn’t pause. Instead, you stepped delicately around a marble column, your heels tapping rhythmically across the ballroom floor. Your dress shimmered with every movement, a slinky midnight blue number that hugged your form like it had been stitched by jealous gods. Your fingers grazed the low curve of your hip, pretending to adjust the fabric, when in reality you were activating the mic hidden beneath a faux diamond brooch.

“Nightwing,” you said calmly, smiling at a champagne server as they approached. You took a glass with a graceful nod, flipping your hair over your shoulder with casual elegance. “We’re at a gala. There are hors d'oeuvres and a string quartet. Try not to combust.”

“I am combusting,” he muttered, like he was personally being subjected to torture. “You’re pretending to be married to Barry Allen. That’s basically infidelity.”

“We fake-filed a fake tax return together like, five minutes ago,” you said dryly. “Relax.”

Dick huffed—huffed—and you could practically see him brooding on some rooftop, arms crossed like a bat-gargoyle. “I just think I, your actual husband, should be there.”

You let out a quiet sigh, walking toward the ornate staircase where Barry stood chatting up a senator. You could already see the knowing glint in his eye as he spotted you, lifting his glass like a man trying too hard to appear casual.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, smiling sweetly as you closed the distance. “You are literally in my ear. You’re more present than Barry is right now, and he's the one touching me.”

“What?!”

You glanced sideways at Barry. He shifted, his palm resting in the safe, polite territory of your lower back as he leaned in to whisper something to the senator. “Arm, Dick. It’s just an arm. We’re blending in. No need to send in the Batjet.”

“I swear to god if he tries the forehead kiss thing—”

You blinked. “What forehead kiss thing?”

“He does this thing,” Dick said, his voice a little breathless with outrage, “where he smiles all slow and soft and tilts his head, and he leans in like he’s gonna whisper something but instead he does this little forehead press like he’s in a rom-com. I hate it. That’s how he seduced Iris that one time!”

You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress a laugh, shifting your weight subtly as you allowed Barry to guide you toward the center of the room. The music shifted into a softer waltz.

“Pretty sure they were already dating when that happened.”

“Not the point. I should be the one fake-forehead-kissing you at fancy galas.”

You stepped past an older couple slow-dancing near the fountain centerpiece and turned, giving Barry a small apologetic smile as you pretended to be distracted by something in your clutch.

“Would that make you feel better?” you whispered.

“Immeasurably.”

You were about to respond when you caught the faintest flicker of movement overhead. The security camera nearest you pivoted. Just slightly. Just enough.

Your smile vanished.

“Did you just hijack the camera feed to watch me?”

Silence.

“Dick.”

“…No?”

“Dick.”

“Camera’s just doing its job.”

“You are the camera.”

There was a beat of long, silent guilt on the line.

“It’s a security sweep,” he finally muttered, defensive. “Totally standard.”

You turned and stared directly up at the rotating lens, narrowing your eyes. “You’re pouting, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said, full pout in his voice.

You glared at the camera, already knowing the exact pout he was pulling behind the cowl. Barry chuckled beside you, still in his gala-husband role. You looped your arm through his and leaned in with a soft smile, playing along for the watching donors. Wealth glittered across the ballroom. Pearls, tuxedos, and dresses worth more than a small country’s GDP.

And then Dick dropped the line.

“You just had to wear that gown, didn’t you?”

Your eyebrows twitched.

“It’s a dress.”

“It’s a crime scene, actually.”

You nearly snorted champagne up your nose. “Are you okay? Do you need to go punch a mugger and walk it off?”

“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “There are at least six guys pretending not to stare at you right now. One of them dropped a canapé. I watched it happen. I’m seconds from pulling the fire alarm.”

You hummed in amusement and tilted your head, letting the chandelier light catch the sheen of your lashes.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

You swirled the champagne in your glass, then took a slow, knowing sip, the bubbles tickling your lips as you smirked. “Are you gonna rappel in through the ceiling and punch Barry in the face mid-waltz?”

He didn’t answer immediately. And that was the worst part.

“…Maybe.”

You laughed under your breath, drawing curious eyes from across the floor. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever married.”

“I’m the only man you’ve ever married!”

“For now,” you teased.

Dead. Air.

You could feel it through the silence. The precise moment Dick’s jaw clenched, the way his hands probably curled into fists on some high-rise ledge. You almost felt sorry for the next criminal who looked at him funny.

“Sweetheart,” he said finally, voice dropping into that dangerous purr he only used when he was 70% teasing and 30% ready to commit felony assault. “If Barry so much as breathes too close to you, I’m driving over there and disguising myself as a waiter just to strangle him with a linen napkin.”

You giggled again, covering it with the rim of your glass and a quick flutter of lashes.

“Relax. You’re still my real husband.”

“I should hope so. I signed that marriage license in blood.”

“You pricked your finger opening the envelope.”

“It still counts.”

જ⁀➴ JASON TODD

The dim light of the bookstore warmed the space, the faint scent of old paper mixing with the musky air of Gotham’s streets. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon. You and Jason had been to this little corner bookstore a few times, tucked away near the flat you shared, where no one bothered you, just the way you liked it.

Today, the place had a sale. And you were taking full advantage. Because, books.

You bent slightly, pulling another book off the shelf. Your fingers lingered on the spine, the title catching your eye, but your gaze drifted briefly to Jason beside you.

He was holding a stack of books you'd already picked up, his strong arms braced beneath the weight. His other hand was occupied, casually flipping through the pages of a suspense novel. His worn-out motorcycle helmet hung off his elbow, the strap digging into his skin like it always did when he wasn’t too concerned about making a spectacle of himself.

The sight of him in his usual attire, tight compression shirt, cargo pants, and those damn ratty boots, was almost enough to make you forget why you were even here. You couldn’t help it. Your husband, who exuded that rough, untamed charm that always made your heart skip a beat, even after everything.

You coughed, quickly pulling your focus back to the shelf, cheeks flushed. You weren’t here to ogle at him. You were here to buy books, to stock up for the upcoming winter nights in your cozy little flat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance over at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he noticed the way you’d momentarily gotten lost in thought.

“You okay there, doll?” His voice was low, but that teasing drawl was there, practically sending your internal warning system into overload.

You snapped back to the shelf, cheeks now officially flushed. “Fine. Just… you know, checking out some new releases. That’s all.”

Jason took a step closer, his hand reaching out to adjust the stack of books he was holding, brushing against your side. You could feel his eyes on you, that damn teasing look in them. He knew.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, clearly amused.

You shot him a glare. “Stop being so obvious.” You grabbed a couple more books, pretending they were the most interesting thing in the store, while mentally trying to avoid imagining how good he looked in those pants.

The moment passed, and you made your way to the counter. But, of course, Jason insisted on carrying all the books for you, despite them weighing next to nothing. Which, really, wasn’t a huge shock. The man could bench press a car if he felt like it.

The cashier, a young guy in his twenties, greeted you with a friendly smile as he began scanning your newest babies.

“Oh, you read The Cruel Prince?” the cashier suddenly asked, lifting the book from your pile with excitement. “I’ve been dying to meet someone else who loves it.”

You couldn’t help but grin, excited to talk about one of your favorites. “Yes! It’s amazing. I love Jude as a character. She’s so strong, and the plot twists? Wild.”

The cashier, clearly eager to engage, leaned in slightly, his elbows resting casually on the counter. “I know, right? I just finished The Wicked King,” he said with a boyish laugh.

“I’m almost done with The Queen of Nothing now.” His eyes flicked up, lingering a moment too long on your face. “You into high fantasy like this, or was it just a one-time thing? ‘Cause if you’re looking for recs… I’ve got a few I think you’d really love.”

You smiled, delighted by the conversation. “Oh, I’m always open to fantasy suggestions. I love character-driven stuff with sharp worldbuilding.”

Completely absorbed, you missed the way the cashier’s eyes dipped briefly down your frame before flicking back up to meet yours. "Lucky for me, you stopped by today.”

Jason, who had been standing just behind you, tensed. Subtly, he stepped closer, the warmth of his body brushing your back as he shifted the weight of the books in his arms. His free hand settled on your waist, low and firm.

It was casual, at least outwardly, but there was nothing casual about the way his fingers flexed slightly against your coat.

The cashier, oblivious or ignoring the shift in energy, handed you the receipt, gaze still lingering. “Seriously, though. A doll like you geeking out over The Cruel Prince? That’s rare. Real rare. Kinda makes a guy believe in fate.”

Jason’s voice cut through the moment, cold enough to make the air around you drop a few degrees. “Yeah,” he said, eyes locked onto the cashier’s now, unreadable but intense. “She’s one of a kind.”

The cashier blinked, clearly feeling the shift, but tried to laugh it off. “Right, of course. I’ll, uh, finish ringing this up.”

Jason didn’t move, didn’t blink. “You do that.”

A moment later, the books were bagged, and the cashier’s enthusiasm had visibly dimmed. He offered a half-hearted smile, handing you the bag. “Enjoy your books.”

Jason took it before you could, his hand brushing against yours as he did. “We will.”

You followed Jason out of the store, blinking at the sudden rush of cold Gotham air. You were about to say something when you caught the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stayed forward.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Jealous?”

He scoffed, but didn’t deny it. “Nah. Just making sure it’s clear. You’re mine.”

You slipped your arm through his. “Always.”

જ⁀➴ TIM DRAKE

“Hi, Timmy Junior,” you crooned, crouching low to the penthouse floor with a dramatic sweep of your coat as it slipped from your shoulders. Your fingers found the cat’s chin, scritching gently beneath the plush fur.

The feline let out a noise of pure bliss, an undignified grrrrrr-rup purr as he leaned his entire ridiculous body weight into your hand.

“You’re so spoiled,” you whispered like a secret, ruffling his ears. “Where’s your dad, huh? Inventing new molecules? Hacking the Pentagon again?”

You padded deeper into the apartment, your heels left by the door, your coat sliding neatly onto the rack with one smooth toss. The air inside was warm and low-lit, cast in that signature honey-gold glow Tim always adjusted for you when you worked late at the hospital. Cozy, inviting. The kind of lighting that lured you toward rest like gravity.

Your gaze landed on him instantly. Folded up on the couch in a soft Gotham U hoodie and well-worn sweatpants, socked feet tucked beneath him, glowing laptop balanced on his knees.

The blue light framed his face like a crime scene photograph. His fingers flew across the keys, precise, fast, controlled. His brow furrowed, and his jaw clenched just slightly, like whatever he was typing deserved war.

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you launched yourself forward like a sleepy jungle cat and collapsed into his lap, head-first, limbs folding as you burrowed in like you belonged there. Because you did.

Tim paused, but only for a second. Then one arm wrapped around your waist, locking you into place as his other hand resumed its furious typing like your sudden weight had simply activated some comforting subroutine. Like muscle memory. Like ritual.

“You’re late,” he murmured, finally meeting your eyes with that gentle, tired smile you’d always been weak for.

“Code blue,” you mumbled, curling tighter into his hoodie. “And two separate idiots who thought knife fights belonged in the ER lobby.”

He hummed low and familiar. “Gotham.”

You exhaled slowly, melting into him. The scent of him wrapped around you—green tea, clean soap, and ozone, like he hadn’t moved from this couch in hours. The safest smell in the world.

But something… tugged.

You felt it now. His body didn’t soften the way it usually did when you came home. His hold was there, but too controlled. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t kissed your forehead.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

Tim’s lips parted like he wanted to deny it, but instead, he let out a breath that deflated his whole chest. “It’s nothing,” he said, almost too fast. “Just… internet drama. Dumb stuff.”

“About work?” you asked, brows raising.

“No,” he said after a beat, tone shifting. “About us.”

You stilled.

Tim blinked at you, then sighed. “You did an interview with Vicky Vale today?”

You blinked again, slower this time. “…Yesh,” you mumbled into his neck. “She was a nightmare in heels, but Bruce said something something ‘positive press,’ ‘curated coverage,’ PR speak, blah blah—”

“Right,” Tim cut in, nodding slowly. Too slowly. “And in that very public interview, broadcast to half of Gotham… you said Nightwing was your favorite vigilante.”

Silence.

You shifted.

“I stand by my words.”

He gasped in faux betrayal and grabbed your hand, holding it up like a piece of evidence. The diamond on your engagement ring caught the light dramatically.

“This is a literal rock,” he said, dead serious. “A shiny, cut-from-the-mountain, six-years-of-our-life-together rock. And that,” he gestured vaguely in the air, “is slander.”

You bit back a grin as he continued, spiraling.

“…Treason, even,” Tim added dramatically, eyes wide with mock hurt. “I should call Bruce. Or the League. Or Alfred. Someone’s has got to arrest you.”

You covered your mouth to stop the laugh threatening to bubble out. “You’re going to tattle on me to Alfred?”

“Damn right I am. He likes me best. He’ll understand.” He pointed a finger accusingly. “And you—you—are officially banned from Titans reruns, YouTube edits, and any content where Nightwing is in leather and doing that thing with his sticks.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “What thing with his sticks?”

Tim looked personally wounded. “You know what thing. The twirly thing! The one with the hip pivot.”

You smirked, throwing your arms around him like a blanket. “Hm. But you're still my favorite fiancé.”

He scowled into your hair. “Not good enough. I want it in writing. Signed affidavit. Notarized.”

“Fine,” you deadpanned. “I, under oath, declare Timothy Jackson Drake to have the second-best butt in Gotham.”

Tim pulled back sharply. “Second?!”

“Best fiancé,” you corrected with a squeal, kicking as he launched a tickle assault. “Best fiancé! Tim! Stop! I swear to—!”

He kept going, merciless and grinning, until you both dissolved into laughter and flailing limbs on the couch. Tim finally flopped beside you, chest heaving, arms still tangled around you.

You were still breathless, clutching your stomach, when he murmured:

“…Still should’ve been first-best butt.”

You reached over and kissed his nose. “You’re number one in my heart.”

“And in Alfred’s rankings.”

“Exactly.”

જ⁀➴ DAMIAN WAYNE

The wind bit at your exposed skin, Gotham’s chill cutting through every crack in your suit, making you shiver despite your best efforts to hide it. You tried to pull the oversized cape tighter around your shoulders, Damian’s cape, and flicked it dramatically, hoping for a bit of extra warmth. It made you feel a little ridiculous, but god, it was warm.

You glanced sideways at Damian, the stone wall of a man beside you, not even acknowledging the cold as he stared down at the street below, his jaw set and his posture as rigid as a statue.

You raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’m freezing my ass off in your oversized cape, and you’re standing there like a stone wall, making me look like a damsel in distress.”

Damian flicked a glance at you, his lips barely twitching into a smirk. "You do look ridiculous."

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the cape again. It really did swallow you whole. You felt like an overgrown child in a giant’s cloak.

"Well, at least I’m warm," you muttered, "unlike some people."

“Tt. I’m fine, beloved,” he said, but there was a little something extra when he said beloved.

Something warm. Something intense. And despite the cold, your heart did a little leap.

Sexy stone statue, you grumbled to yourself. You were so not above it.

The night air crackled with tension for a moment before Damian broke the silence. “Something’s off. Stay close.”

You straightened, your body on high alert, instinctively leaning closer to him. You followed his gaze toward the flickering lights…A bank alarm.

The unmistakable shriek of Gotham’s most wanted sound—bank robbery.

“Trouble,” you said, giddy with the thrill.

“Indeed,” Damian replied, voice low and dangerous. Before you could respond, he vanished into the night, melting into the shadows.

“Show-off,” you muttered, launching a web and following him across the rooftops.

You landed beside him, crouched above a black van outside the bank. Thugs were unloading duffle bags—money and cologne, Gotham’s finest.

“Someone’s making a withdrawal,” you whispered.

“Then let’s make sure they don’t get too comfortable,” Damian muttered. With a single flick of his wrist, a Batarang flew out, slicing through the air and knocking one of the thieves out.

“Smooth,” you swooned, eyes wide with admiration. “Hey, this might be the best date night we’ve had all month.”

“Tch. I prefer less… crowded dates,” Damian shot back, already taking down another guy with a fluid motion that made it look effortless.

Fast. Precise. Unfairly hot.

You couldn’t help but grin, heart racing as you jumped into the action, doing a flip over one of the thieves to disarm him mid-air. You were all set to land on your feet, ready to keep up the momentum, when suddenly, a shadow slammed into you from nowhere.

The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, sending you crashing into the rooftop with a grunt.

Damian’s head snapped your way, eyes dark, hand flying to his blade. Ready to kill.

"Wait!" you said, breathless, as you pushed yourself up and caught sight of the person on top of you.

"Black Cat?" you breathed, disbelief flooding your chest.

She grinned down at you, that too-familiar cocky smile spreading across her face.

"Hey, Spider," she said, pressing a hand down on your shoulders, keeping you pinned, her fingers firm and possessive. "Long time no swing. You look… deliciously out of breath."

Your brain short-circuited. "Holy shit. What are you doing in Gotham?"

Before she could answer, a shadow dropped hard beside you. Damian. Radiating absolute fury in a tight, concentrated glare.

“Get. Off.”

Two words. Ice-cold.

Black Cat didn’t flinch. In fact, her grin widened.

"Ooooh," she said, drawing out the syllable like she’d just tasted something expensive. “You must be new. You gotta get in line, cutie. Spider’s got fans, you know.”

“I am not a fan,” Damian snapped. “I am her partner.”

You sat up. “Aw.”

Damian flushed.

“In combat,” he added stiffly.

You winced. “Less aw.”

Black Cat howled. “Oh, this is so much better than I hoped. You got yourself a territorial one, huh?” She leaned in close to Damian, eyes twinkling. “Tell me, do you bite?”

“I don’t bite,” Damian said coldly.

“Oh?” she said with a smirk. “Shame.”

“I maim.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Black Cat tsked, her hips swaying as she walked forward with that signature, cat-like confidence. “Relax, Bird Boy. Just saying hi to my favorite Spider.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Guys! Seriously? We are not doing this right now. We’re literally in the middle of a robbery!”

Black Cat flipped her hair over her shoulder, unfazed. “Handled it already, sweetheart. I snagged the bank’s security drive, webbed the goons to their getaway van, and took care of the heavy lifting before I jumped you. You’re welcome.”

“…You webbed—my web fluid?!” you gawked.

“Borrowed,” Black Cat said airily. “Don’t be stingy.”

“I made that with bio-polymers and blood, you kleptomaniac bat-licking menace—”

“Oh, please,” she rolled her eyes. “I'm sure you can make another one of your web knick-knacks.”

Damian’s eyes flashed. “Those cartridges are proprietary.”

“Pro‑pri‑e‑tar‑y!” you echoed, stabbing a finger at her. “He means off-limits, you thieving furball!”

Black Cat rolled her shoulders, utterly unbothered. “I’ll return them. Hm… rented at a fair rate, of course. Maybe half a million an ounce?”

Damian growled low in his throat. “You—I'll—”

“Okay, okay, enough. Look. I’ll put them back before breakfast tomorrow, deal?” Black Cat offered, waggling her fingers like this was a brunch invitation and not felony-level theft.

You opened your mouth to protest because you absolutely did not agree to that, but it was too late. With a mock curtsy and a wicked glint in her eye, she vanished into the shadows, her laughter echoing like a warning shot.

You turned back to Damian, who stood tense, blade still in hand, every muscle in his jaw working overtime.

“I should have let her fall off the building,” he muttered.

You snorted. “You would never.”

“I could have accidentally loosened her grip.” He sheathed his sword with more force than necessary. “No one touches you like that. No one pins you but me.”

Your brows shot up. “So you do want to pin me—”

“Strategically,” he snapped.

“Strategically?" you purred, arms wrapping round his shoulders. "That’s what we’re calling rooftop makeouts now?”

“I—Tt—focus.” But Damian's hands settled at your waist anyway, traitorously warm. “We need to debrief. Secure the scene. Call in the GCPD. Recheck the vault—”

“Oh, Dames…”

જ⁀➴ CASSANDRA CAIN

You were no better than a man.

You were definitely not supposed to be staring. Or, at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you tried to focus on the workout in front of you. But there was no way you could ignore Cassandra right now.

She was… perfect.

Her form was flawless as she moved through her calisthenics routine. Push-ups, pull-ups, even backflips! Nothing seemed to faze her. And here you were, struggling not to turn into a puddle of goo on the gym floor.

It wasn’t fair, honestly. How was one person allowed to be so hot? You were supposed to be stretching, but instead, you were completely fixated on your girlfriend, who was now hanging effortlessly from the pull-up bar.

She wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, you were sitting here pretending to stretch, but your eyes couldn’t stop following her every move. How could you not? She was making calisthenics look like some kind of sexy ballet, and you were feeling some type of way about it.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you barely heard the guy who suddenly sidled up to you. You looked up, confused, to see him standing a little too close.

"Hey, uh…" He cleared his throat, clearly trying to sound casual. "I noticed you were watching your friend there… I could totally show you how to lift weights, you know. Maybe even you."

You blinked at him, trying to suppress a laugh. Your brain was still stuck on your friend? Was that supposed to be his pick-up line?

“Uh… really?” you said, raising an eyebrow as you glanced back at Cassandra, still breezing through her workout like she was in some kind of fitness commercial. You could barely keep your mouth from hanging open.

"Yeah!" He puffed out his chest like he was some kind of Greek god. "I can handle lifting your body weight, no problem."

You blinked again. "Oh??"

"Yeah," he said with a cocky grin. "I can totally do it."

You crossed your arms, trying not to burst into laughter. “Okay, then. Show me.”

The guy dropped to his knees in front of you and looked up, ready to lift you. You tried to brace yourself, but honestly, you weren’t sure what was going to happen. This was either going to be impressive or a disaster, and you were pretty sure it was going to be the latter.

He grunted. Nothing.

You raised an eyebrow, watching as he struggled. His face was turning red, sweat starting to drip from his forehead, and—yeah, this was as bad as you expected. He couldn’t even get you an inch off the floor.

“Need help with that?” you asked, barely able to hold back the giggle bubbling up.

“No—no, I’ve got it!” he snapped, lifting harder, but the effort only made him wobble like a newborn giraffe.

"Maybe next time, huh?" you said with a sigh, holding back your amusement.

Then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, Cassandra appeared. You didn’t even see her coming. One second, the guy was still struggling with the whole “lifting you” thing, and the next, Cassandra was casually stepping between the two of you. She looked at him like he was a bug she couldn’t be bothered with, then lifted you effortlessly with one hand.

You froze.

One hand.

The guy’s face drained of color as Cassandra set you down like you were a stuffed animal she was tossing back on the shelf. She didn’t even glance at him as she flicked her hair back, returning to her workout like nothing happened.

Meanwhile, the guy? He was just standing there. Shocked. Maybe a little bit scared. His mouth was moving, but no words came out.

Could not have imagined a more embarrassing moment for him…

Turning to Cassandra, your grin only widened. “Baby… you just broke his soul.”

Cassandra didn’t even glance your way. She simply raised an eyebrow, then shot you a small smile as she signed, He should have known better.

As you were about to respond, the guy finally seemed to snap out of his daze. He stammered something about ‘his form’ and ‘next time’ before practically sprinting off, likely rethinking every choice he’d made that led him to this moment.

You chuckled under your breath, eyes flicking back to Cassandra. “Well, looks like you just ruined his chances of ever lifting a girl again.”

Cassandra shrugged, clearly unfazed, and went back to her pull-up bar. Not my problem.

As she started packing her things, she shot you a sly smirk. Let’s go home. I’ll give you a workout of your own.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. “That… sounds promising.”

And just like that, the gym, the only thing on your mind now was what your workout would look like tonight.

Goopyness... This was very fun to write!

My requests are open! Please...Uwu

[hearts4hughes]

Rafe who always has his hand on your boob, like literally all the time

you’re brushing your teeth when he sneaks up behind you. his shirtless, warm, and smug body joins your reflection in the mirror. he doesn’t say anything, just plants a palm flat on your boob like it’s a normal way to say good morning. you pause, toothbrush mid-cheek. “…seriously?”

“what?” rafe says, muffled through a yawn, face buried in your shoulder. his hand doesn’t move. “it’s where it belongs.”

you glare at him in the mirror, toothpaste foam halfway to rabid. “you just woke up.”

“and already i’m being accused.” he squeezes gently, like it’s proof of innocence. “this is comfort. this is affection. this is how i center myself.”

you spit into the sink. “you’re disgusting.” he grins. kisses your jaw. doesn’t remove his hand. if anything, he gets more comfortable, leaning all his weight into you until you’re bent over the counter, laughing and annoyed and half tempted to elbow him in the ribs. “rafe.”

“baby.”

“do you ever, like…not grab my boob?”

he pretends to think. like it’s a real philosophical question. “no.”

“ever?”

“maybe when i’m dead. but even then i’ll haunt you with ghost hands.” you roll your eyes so hard they almost fall out. but when you nudge him away, he just groans, kisses your bare shoulder, and mutters, “fine. but i’m holding it in the car later.”

you shake your head. “you’re impossible.”

he smirks. “i’m in love.”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty @bewitchedarchive @yelqze

[holeforzenin]

My best friend got me a bunch of silly stickers today and this is all I can think of :3

Toji trudges through the front door, the exhaustion from a 12-hour shift hanging off him like dead weight. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and lets out a deep grunt as he kicks off his boots, broad shoulders stiff and brows furrowed from weariness. His plain tee is clinging to his chest from sweat and heat, and his hands are rough and grease-smudged—he looks every bit of the exhausted, grumpy old man you’re always teasing about him being.

But when you peek around the corner with a grin on your face and a thick sheet of different sparkly stickers in your hand, something softens in his eyes.

“Don’t even start,” he mutters, walking to the couch with a low sigh and plopping down like a felled tree. “I’m dead. Don’t got the energy for your—”

You’re already in his lap, legs draped over his thick thighs as you straddle him, the worn fabric of his jeans warm beneath you. His hands instinctively settle on your hips even as he groans, head leaning back against the soft cushion. “What are you doing, huh?” he grumbles, one eye cracked open as you peel off a star-shaped sticker and press it gently to the sweaty swell one of his beefy bicep.

You giggle, kissing the corner of his mouth where his scar is. “You looked like you needed a little sparkle”.

He exhales through his nose—something between a laugh and a sigh—and lets you do your thing like always. Let’s you press little hearts onto his pecs, cartoon animals on the sharp cut of his collarbone, even a cute cat right in the center of his sternum. His eyes flutter closed while you work, muscles softening under your touch.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, his voice sounding calm and lazy.

“You love it,” you hum, smoothing a glittery cat onto the curve of his shoulder.

“Mm. Love you more,” he mumbles, cracking an eye open again to look at you—it’s genuine, a little dazed, like you’re the only soft thing in his rough world. “You keep me sane, y’know that?”

You lean down and kiss him again—this time slower and more tender, your fingers resting against the sticker-covered expanse of his chest. “And you let me turn a grumpy old man into a human sticker book. We’re even”.

“Oh you’re sooo lucky you’re adorable,” he mutters as he pinches your cheek before dragging a heavy palm up your back, holding you close to his chest like he never wants to let you go. “Real lucky”.

[buckysleftbicep]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

[fleurbly]

── WHERE CLARK bench presses his girl like it’s nothing. 𝜗𝜚

drabble warnings: fem!reader, pure fluff, clark being hopelessly in love, gentle teasing, readers weight not mentioned.

pairing: fem!reader x clark kent

The gym Clark used was tucked into a quiet corner of the city, just enough off the grid to be private, but still filled with warm yellow light from the high windows and the faint hum of indie music playing through the speaker in the wall. A place with worn in floor mats and mismatched dumbbells, the kind of spot that didn’t scream superhero, but still felt like it belonged to one.

You were curled up on the padded bench near the wall, legs crossed beneath you, your paperback propped open on your lap. The scent of old rubber mats and faint cologne lingered in the air, along with the occasional clink of weights.

Clark was somewhere in the center of it all. Sleeves rolled up, jaw set in focus, lifting like it didn’t require any effort at all. His gray workout tee clung to his chest and shoulders in a way that should’ve been illegal, and you were only pretending to be immersed in your book at this point.

You flipped the page with one hand. He caught your eye in the mirror.

“Getting some good reading in?” he asked, walking over with a towel slung around his neck, slightly out of breath but still flushed from the set.

“Barely,” you said without looking up. “Too many distractions.”

He raised a brow, clearly amused. “Distracted by what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you hummed. “The six-foot-something demigod doing deadlifts in front of me. Hard to focus when the main character of my book has competition.”

Clark smirked. “You’re dramatic.”

“Says the man who did warm ups with a literal car last week.”

“It was compact,” he said, mock defensive.

You grinned, biting the inside of your cheek. “How’s training going?”

“Better now,” he said, grabbing a water bottle and taking a sip. His eyes flicked toward the open space near the bench. “Wanna help with the next set?”

You blinked. “Me? Help?”

“Mhm.”

You lowered your book. “Clark, I’m not exactly—” your sentence was cut short by him. He leaned down, tilting his head so your eyes met. “I want to bench press you.”

You stared.

“You want to what?”

He shrugged casually, like it was no big deal. “Just once.”

“That is not a normal sentence.”

He smiled that soft, warm Clark smile, the one that always made you give in, even when you shouldn’t. “C’mon. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

You hesitated, watching the way his eyes softened even as he held out a hand. “Clark. What if you drop me?”

His mouth twitched. “I won’t.”

“But what if—”

“I won’t,” he said again, voice gentle, steady. “I’ve got you. Always.”

You sighed, setting the book aside. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” he said, helping you up with both hands like you were made of glass. “Now, lie back.”

He guided you over to the padded bench with ease, hands at your waist as you lay down, half laughing through your nerves.

“This feels extremely questionable,” you muttered, eyeing him.

“You’re doing amazing already,” he teased, hovering above you now, palms slipping gently under your back. “Ready?”

“Not in the slightest.”

And then, with a slow, easy inhale, Clark lifted you.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His breath left his lungs in one calm, amused exhale— like he was settling into something familiar. His arms never wavered. His grip was steady and secure. He lifted you with the kind of ease that made everything else feel still, his smile growing softer as he looked up at you, hovering above his chest.

“Clark,” you said anxiously, trying not to wiggle. “What if someone walks in and sees this?”

“They’ll be jealous,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

You laughed, cheeks burning. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re adorable,” he said, holding you still for another breath. Then he slowly, carefully lowered you back to the bench, his hands steady the whole way down.

When you were fully back on the mat, you sat up and looked at him, wide eyed. “Okay. Fine. That was… actually kind of cool.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, grinning. “Told you I wouldn’t drop you.”

“You didn’t even blink.”

He leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re always the easiest thing to hold on to.”

You rolled your eyes, even as your heart thumped wildly in your chest. “Gross.”

“Romantic,” he corrected, nudging your nose with his. “But sure. Gross works.”

[catboybiologist]

Today I just found out that the woman who's been the most supportive of me in my transition believes that trans women shouldn't be able to compete against cis women in sports. Do you happen to have any good peer reviewed resources on the effects of estrogenizing HRT on someone's athletic abilities. Said woman in question doesn't seem to believe there's been any research done, which I deeply doubt. Thank you so much for your continued advocacy for us transfems.

I know you're turning to me for scientific guidance, but I'm just so fucking done with this issue overall. To quote contrapoints: I have nothing left but rage.

I've been on this road before. I could give you some. In most ways, trans women match cis women of their height and weight. But there aren't a lot. Yeah, its a problem. But fucking NOBODY will even study it because of how hot this issue is right now.

But more importantly: There will never, EVER be a study that meets their standards. There's always SOME physical metric that has differences between trans women and cis women. It's become essentially an iteration of the multiple testing problem- if you keep on doing statistical tests, eventually something is going to land.

I don't fucking want to provide studies. I don't want to cut myself down. I don't want my defense of myself to be "oohhh look at me I'm just as weak and pathetic and infantile as cis women"

Is this fucking feminism? Really?

I'm fucking done. Call me the evil hysterical woman, but this entire conversation reeks of misogyny to its fucking core. Organized sports as we know them are made by men, for men, to celebrate male accomplishments and excellence. Cis women can and do equal or excel men in many, MANY physical metrics. But the arbitrary set of rules, the arbitrary set of bouncing balls and scoring systems, are all made to reward the physical abilities of men. We create spin offs and systems of score tracking and variations of the same things over, and over, and over again, to give the fragile little male ego more and more reasons to stroke itself.

Let's take a look at some whiny as piss men not being able to handle the thought that women could EVER be physically notable.

Olympic target shooting used to be mixed gender. A woman won one year. The next year, it was segregated. Not only was it segregated, but the scoring system changed so that the scores of men and women could never be directly compared again.

Last year, Donald Trump sat on stage with Riley Gaines, the transphobic swimmer who whipped up the vitriol about Lia Thomas, and bragged about how it wasn't fair she lost her competition because he, Donald Trump, a 78 year old out of shape wax sculpture of a man, was male. And that he could beat Riley. A trained D1 swimmer. And Riley took it, because it advanced her grift.

There's a now infamous poll that 1 in 8 men think they could beat Serena Williams in a tennis match. Its pretty old at this point, but I'm guessing that number is even higher now.

This entire conversation centers around "trans people crushing the dreams of female athletes" but oh my fucking god, are we not doing that as a society already? This entire fucking "debate" is just an excuse for more and more cis men to sit their, stroking their fucking egos on live television about how big and strong and powerful and fucking WHATEVER men are, and even the trace of maleness in trans women is enough to permanently make them some kind of ubermensch that destroys cis women by every metric imagineable.

I don't give two shits about saving sports, one way or another. I detested organized sports long before I transitioned. Ya wanna talk natural advantage, and how sports rewards exactly the kind of physical ability that a certain brand of cis man pushes themselves to? I have a very mild ankle deformity that means jogging for long periods of time is painful. My best mile time is over 11 minutes. And yet I don't see any of the fuckers that are "better" than me out there in the ocean, clinging to the bottom on a single breath for minutes, or up there with me on top of Whitney. Only one of those skills is celebrated.

Fuck me that was a tangent. My point is, I've long since realized that sports are a self propagating system for the egos of people with a very particular kind of physical prowess. The only exception to this is when its exploitative of people with that kind of extremely specific physical prowess, and leaves those it exploits in the fucking gutter. I don't need to start bringing up CTE, I know y'all know exactly what my take would be on that.

but what is sending me over the fucking edge is how I'm supposed to be the crazy one. I'm the delusional tranny for pointing out that we have lost the fucking plot entirely. This is recreation. Its entertainment. And we are using it to punish people. Fuck this.

I'm so sorry OP, but just don't engage in that game. If you need a calm, measured argument, try attacking the misogyny of it all. The only way to "fix" sports is to create more events that reward and celebrate the physical abilities of cis women: flexibility, extreme long term endurance, and fuck I'm not a sports person nor do I want to waste brainspace on more than that. We need a system for cis women, one that doesn't tell them "here, have this shittier, less viewed, less supported, less encouraged, less celebrated version of something a man is good at". Trans people would find some place in that and in theory, there would be nothing to complain about.

Jesus fucking christ, if I see one more male news pundit start talking about trans women in sports I'm going to straight up devolve into a misandrist.

[thatonegrimm]

Since we had the reader seeing and loving their demon form, can we get a spicy continuation of it? I need more spiciness with the demon saja boys

Thank you for the request! I have no idea why but I was laughing way to much writing this. Here you go!💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Reader – After You Said You Liked Their Demon Form (A Little Too Much)

Continuation of: Reader who…Loves their demon side (a lot)

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

🧿 Jinu 

You didn’t stop touching them.

The glowing violet lines that spiraled from his chest, over his collarbone, down his side — you traced them like they were a roadmap. A puzzle. A secret only you knew how to solve.

He tried to keep his breathing even. He really did.

“You’re doing it again,” Jinu said, voice low, unsteady.

“Doing what?” you asked innocently, your fingers now following the curl of the mark just below his navel.

He hissed softly. “That.”

You looked up at him, smile too soft to be fair. “You glow more when I do it.”

“I told you—these lines channel power. You can’t just—”

“But I like it when they pulse.”

He swallowed. His claws twitched.

You kissed the center of his chest, right over the center of his demon markings.

The glow flared.

He groaned like it hurt. Or like it was too good.

And when he kissed you—sharp, hot, finally—your back hit the nearest wall with enough force to rattle it.

“You like my marks?” he growled, voice gone gravel-deep. “Then let me show you where else they go.”

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

💪 Abby 

Abby’s demon form always came with heat. With pressure. With weight.

So when he hovered above you — cracks of violet glowing across his shoulders, muscles shifting like stone given life — you reached up and touched his cheek.

“I want to feel all of you.”

“You already are,” he said, voice thick with restraint.

You shook your head. “No. I want to feel what you’re holding back.”

His eyes flared.

“You sure?”

“Break the headboard,” you said. “I won’t blame you.”

He went still.

And then he smiled — slow, dangerous, reverent.

“Then you better hold on.”

The headboard shattered first.

Then the bedframe cracked beneath his grip.

Then you forgot how to speak for a while.

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

📚 Mystery 

Mystery let you trace his claws.

At first.

You curled your fingers under his palm, your thumb brushing the dark edge of a talon. He tensed every time, eyes flickering gold, breath shallow.

“They’re sharper when you’re flustered,” you whispered, letting your fingertip follow the curve.

He exhaled through his nose. “You like playing with fire?”

“I like playing with you.”

He inhaled sharply.

“You know what happens when you tempt a demon, right?”

Your hand stilled. “No,” you said softly. “Show me.”

His clawed hand slid under your chin, tilting your head up.

And then he snapped.

Mouth on yours. Hands gripping your waist with careful, reverent force. Claws dragging—not cutting, but close—along your thigh.

He kissed like he was starving.

When he pulled back, eyes glowing and wild, he said, “Now you can’t pretend you didn’t start this.”

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

💋 Romance 

Romance was showing off.

Of course he was.

Golden eyes lit with power. Claws curled delicately as he leaned in, every movement full of dark confidence.

“Staring again,” he teased, brushing your hair back with a single sharp nail. “You planning to keep me, or just admire?”

You pulled him by the waist, letting your lips brush his ear.

“Both.”

He froze for half a second—just long enough for you to push him down onto the couch.

Now you were above him.

Your hands slid beneath the open collar of his shirt, tracing the violet demon marks along his chest.

His mouth parted. Just slightly.

“Darling…”

“You’re always seducing me,” you murmured. “Let me return the favor.”

He melted under your touch like silk thrown on fire.

“You do know,” he whispered, voice shaking as you bit his neck, “if you keep this up, I’m never letting you go.”

“Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

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

🔥 Baby

Baby hadn’t forgotten what you said.

“I want to worship you, fire and all.”

Now, sitting on the edge of your shared bed, he watched you with glowing gold eyes, marks pulsing with heat.

“You said it,” he murmured. “Your words.”

You dropped to your knees, pressing your lips to one of the flickering marks that lined his ribs.

“I meant it.”

His breath caught.

“You know,” he said, voice almost trembling, “most people run from me like this.”

“Then they’re cowards.”

He growled, hand tangling in your hair, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“You think worshiping a demon is sweet?”

“No,” you whispered, trailing a kiss down his stomach. “It’s dangerous.”

“Good,” he breathed, fangs just barely showing now. “Then let me show you how good it feels to get burned.”

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

They thought they were too much. Too powerful. Too inhuman. Too unlovable.

You proved them wrong with every touch, every gasp, every whisper.

And they gave themselves to you fully—demon, power, hunger and all.

Because you weren’t afraid.

You were insatiable.

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

M-List

[wannaliveattheholidayinn]

i think my posture has genuinely started to get a bit better since i started working out, specifically lifting weights, and it's kinda insane to me

[screampied]

the thought of being fucked full-nelson style by sukuna while sitting on his throne won’t leave my mind

☆ ໋𓈒 tags. fem! reader, tf! sukuna, full nelson, size diff + size kinks, dirty talk, unprotected, brēeding, mentions of tummy bulge, ( little one, princess, brat . . ) mdni.

“hn. how pathetic,” the notorious demon snickers, baring a single fang as he watches the tip of his swollen angered cock disappear between your runny folds. your thighs shook instantaneously, and he’s lazily slouched back on his throne. a bawled up fist rests near his chin as he watches you with crimson eyes filled of nothing but pure amusement and a mocking head tilt. “don’t make me fall asleep, now. you said you could take me ‘n you’re not even halfway in, princess.”

you bite the inside of your cheek at his playful taunts — so annoying, he just wouldn’t shut up. “ ‘m trying, ‘kuna,” you moan, the stretch of his throbbing cockhead making the center of your mouth salivate. the sleeves of his kimono were slightly ruffled from you tugging on it. he’s got the smuggest grin as your legs part themselves just a bit further. seconds go by before you sigh, slumping into his chest. “help me, ‘kuna. please.”

“so easy to give up,” he mumbles in a gruff tone, bringing one of his big hands to pat the back of your head. you lean into his touch, and as you’re so close to him—you’re engulfed by his natural loud musk. “finee,” he sharply adds, and you gasp once he turns your body around, positioning you in such a way. you’re still placed on his lap but he grabs both of your legs, pulling them upward. “i’ll help you, little one. now now, lie back ‘n allow your king to give you a nice ‘lil stretch.”

your mouth slightly drops, dramatically going agape once he restrains you in a safe manner . .

sukuna’s got you taking his heavy cock again, but this time, you feel the stretch reach everywhere.

he’s got two pairs of arms locking behind your head with the other two clinging onto your thighs. a few sharp nails dig into the fat of your skin, leaving a plethora of marks he’d want to kiss over later. “fuck,” he grunts, hearing the squelching whimpers of your sweet cunt. everything’s slow, it’s as if time stood still as you’re trying to take him. you swallow a lump near the back of your throat that seemed to be growing every second.

the demon sat underneath you was big—he liked pounding you ruthlessly in full nelson because more than anything, he loved seeing you stretched.

the dumb sounds you make, it rings through his ears. speaking of, he gets up close to the lobe of your ear, flicking his forked tongue against it. “s- sukuna,” you whine, and with a ‘pop’, you felt your ass grind right into his lap. already, he’s molding a tiny tummy bulge near the center of your stomach. he’s so deep, once he starts, it’s practically over for your limps. “ngh, ‘s big, ‘kuna.”

“keh, obviously. the perfect size for you, princess.” he groans, tightening his grip just a tad bit against your legs. a hand of his feels the bulging spot near the center of your tummy before he hums. “ ‘kuna’s riiiight fuckin’ here, brat.”

he’s got you in a secure lock. his arms felt warm, and through your blurred peripherals, you glance at his ancient cursed markings that paint all across his bulky, burly arms.

so big, you’re already drooling as you’re bouncing on his cock. the crushing compressing weight of both bodies—mainly yours, causes his throne to be more rickety. it’s whining and groaning out creaks each time your speed against his lap increases, and he’s practically treating you like a doll.

a porcelain doll he didn’t want to ever break.

at least, not yet. .

“fuckin’ nasty girl,” he huffs, one of his hands going toward your face. he smears a palm over your mouth, your pouring drool that streams from the corners of your lips landing on his hand. he’s got a wolfish smile, hearing your babbled whimpers get louder as he’s stretching you silly. “i spoil you too much, spoil this sloppy pussy too much too, hmph.”

“mmph. suku— sukunaaa,” your sweet stammers of moans grew more bouncy as you bucked your swiveling hips further onto him. it didn’t take long before your raw vocal chords start to die out, growing strained and weak. you dramatically elongate each syllable of his name that streams from your lips as his cock plummets into you full. the sweltering hot crown of his shaft kisses all around your gummy walls, reaching so deep that you’re practically yanking roughly on the edges of his silky kimono sleeve. “fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum, ‘kuna.”

a throaty chortle from sukuna makes your cunt twitch as he holds you upright — so cute, he’s so much bigger than you, merely dislocating your limbs with a few sets of his arms. he barely had to do anything and yet you were easily overpowered by his body. your mouth hangs open as he’s shoving such thick inches in and out of your slobbering pussy, coating his entire base with your cascading slick. “are you asking or are you just sayin’ y’r gonna cum, little one?”

the insides of your thighs were so sticky, already sticking together and you’re a babbling mess as his dick continues to make you stupid. “lemme cum please, ‘kuna. please, pretty please. stuffin’ me so full, fuuuck.”

“there’s those sweet manners,” he purrs in a husky tone—the back of his lips meets near your ear, giving it a soft peck as you continue to move. you feel a swarm of fluttering butterflies circle inside the pits of your tummy, but you knew that could also be the bulge of his cock constantly rutting deep into your clingy insides. “ah,” he snarls, his tip thrashing vigorously against a certain spongey spot. right there, you let off a sweet squeal as his sloppy thrusts start to punctuate again and again until your candied coated moans reverberate throughout the walls of his regal royal chambers. “fuckin’ shit,” he hisses, and as your hips continue to slam onto him, he’s realizing he’s coming close too.

your eyes were droopy as he’s still got you in such a lewd position — he’s so strong, proudly holding you up to where you’re just a doll bouncing on his cock. his throne remains wailing out moans of its own from the heavy masses of weight jerking on top of the furniture. he’s balls deep into your core, feeling how sweetly your cunt’s being massaged.

“c’mon, messy girl. give it t’ me then. make a sloppy mess on your king, princess,” and his sable-darkened nails gently scrape against your skin. it’s almost soothing, he’s got you in a tight safe chokehold hold and you’re basically chasing your own breath.

you whimper as his warm breaths tickle such a carnal itch in your brain. sukuna allows for you to bounce on him quicker and harder until eventually, your release came. your sweet little cry of finishing rapture was adorable—he hears how even after you’ve creamed all down his cock from the salacious skin slapping, your irregular breaths never falter. “ugh,” he grumbles, feeling his own release eventually match up as if it was right on cue. he bellows out a rough animalistic growl before he’s cummimg, shooting blanks. satiny ropes shoot into you, its balmy hot temperature making you gasp. it’s thick and slimy, pumping you full to the brim so good that it even leaks out.

he loosens his taut grip on your numb legs that were positioned in the air before he sighs—it’s still coming out, his angered tip was tucked inside your pussy as you’re just defeated, collapsed back on his chest.

“good girl,” he pants, hearing the erotic sloshes of his own cum continuing to spurt and ooze deep inside you. now, you’re an entire puddled mess. he creeps a broad open hand between your thighs, dragging a thumb down your slobbering slick to gather up a drop of his filthy dribbling cum. “my, my, look at thaaat,” he coos lowly, and you moan once he resumes, dragging a plump thumb down your sloppy cunt. a bit of his own mess soaks onto his finger before he brings it up to his mouth, lapping at your fresh juices, getting a taste himself. “mhm, she’s as sweetest as she’s ever been,” and you let off a gasp once another one of his palms rudely spanks your wet cunt.

“messy baby.”

[belovedroach]

hear me out.....

Sander Bugs...... it's them but it's bugs..............

does anyone share my vision-

im not the best at drawing insects, so in case it's hard to tell: Virgil is a spider, Roman is a butterfly, Remus is a moth, Logan is an ant, Janus is a wasp and Patton is a bee.

(click the thingy if you'd like to indulge me in more details lmao)

Virgil, the spider: he already has spiders motifs. Also, spider webs can work as a metaphor for falling down an anxiety spiral (one step down a slippery slope and you're unable to get out).

Roman, the butterfly: the (mostly agreed upon) prettiest bug, for the prettiest boy in the party™. They're not overly romanticized in media for nothing lol. And of course, he's a "monarch butterfly".

Remus, the moth: "like moths to a flame" that represents self-destructive behaviour (unable to go against a desire that ultimately harms you, and could be your doom). Also, he shares the buttlerfly similarity with Roman. Plus he's a nuisance to your wardrobe

Janus, the wasp: they can sting without dying, having more of a defense purpose. Acting as Thomas' self-preservation, he acts like a last line of defense. And the yellow and black color scheme suits him nicely.

Logan, the ant: they're hard-working, resourceful and persevering. Those are pretty much words that easily describe Logan as well. And if anyone would be able to carry two times his own weight, it would be him (?)

Design fun fact: his extra set of arms are retractable! He uses them when he needs and extra pair of hands (lmao). Patton can do this too

Patton, the bee: hard-working too, but more centered in providing for others: he provides the others with affection and dinner (lol). He's sweet as honey. Their existence is helpful to the environment, and Patton's existence is helpful to my mental health /hj

i'd love to hear your own interpretations or even assign them different bugs !!! dont be shy

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Save a Horse, Ride a Bob

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Taking someone to your hometown is a huge milestone for you, and seemingly Bob fits perfectly with everyone and everything, except for the fact the he managed to unknowingly place upon the “hat rule” on you. But hey? At least it works out in his favour.

A/N: This 100% was based on when John said “ride Bob into the sky”

WC: 2.7K

⸻

Bringing someone home had always felt… foreign.

Not because you weren’t proud of where you came from, quite the opposite. It was stitched into your bones, the red dirt roads, the smell of warm rain on fence posts, the summer nights heavy with fireflies and the distant lowing of cattle. But this town, with its long memory and watchful eyes, didn’t forget things easily. And it didn’t take kindly to people who didn’t understand its rhythm.

You’d never wanted to share it with anyone. Not really.

Until Bob.

It started small, the way he’d lean in to listen when you talked about riding horses at dawn, or how his lips quirked when you mentioned growing up in a place where the diner served pie before noon and the deputy coached Little League. He never interrupted, never made fun of it. Just listened like he was storing every word somewhere private.

And maybe that’s when you knew.

That if anyone was going to see where you came from, the soft underbelly of your story, the place where your heart had first learned how to beat… It should be him.

Bob Reynolds, with his soft voice and calloused hands, with his quiet smile and wide, storm wrecked heart. He was timid in the way kind people often are, like he didn’t want to take up too much space. But you knew, deep down, that this town would take one look at him and fold him into its patchwork soul like he’d always belonged.

⸻

You and Bob would drove up the winding roads in your beat-up truck, talking about your plans to show him the ranch, have dinner with your folks, maybe take him riding the next morning.

But then as the old house came into view, porch light already glowing golden against the falling sun, there were more than just your parents waiting. A half-dozen trucks were parked haphazardly near the barn, lawn chairs sprouting like dandelions around the fire pit, and you could hear laughter and screen doors slapping shut before you even killed the engine.

Bob looked at you, startled.

“…I thought it was just your family?”

You winced, a smile pulling at your mouth. “It was I guess, until I told my mama I was bringing someone home.”

He blinked. “You told her this morning.”

“Exactly.”

Bob’s brows lifted in slow, dawning realization.

⸻

When he stepped out of the truck, the warm twilight hit him first, that kind of golden dusk you only get in wide, open places. Crickets just beginning to chirp. The slow hum of cicadas. Dust kicking up around boots. The porch steps creaked under familiar weight as your mom came flying toward you, apron still dusted with flour, arms thrown wide. She hugged you like you’d been gone years instead of months.

And then she turned to Bob.

“You must be Robert.” she said, using his full name like she’d already claimed him.

He opened his mouth, but your father stepped up next, tall and sun-worn, giving Bob a long look before offering his hand. “You ride?” he asked, like it was a greeting.

“I… don’t think so?” Bob admitted sheepishly.

Your dad nodded once. “We’ll fix that.”

And just like that, it began.

Neighbors streamed in with casseroles and lemonade. Old classmates you hadn’t seen since graduation hugged you tight and gave Bob speculative, amused once-overs. Kids ran wild near the pasture fence, and someone’s dog had already claimed Bob’s shoes as a pillow. Your best friend from high school elbowed you with a grin, murmuring, “Damn, girl. You did good.”

Bob stood beside you, stiff at first. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Not like this. Not like someone’s person. But every time he reached for your hand, you gave it to him, steady and sure.

And slowly, he began to unfurl.

Someone offered him a cold sweet tea. Another told him he would look good in flannel. The neighbor’s teenage daughter asked him what he did, and when he gave her the world’s gentlest answer. “I’m just trying to be a good man” She sighed like she was about to write a love song about him.

You caught him later on the porch swing, ankles crossed, Henrietta the Chicken glaring at him from across the yard like she was sizing him up.

“Do I pass?” he asked you, voice low, amused.

You leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder.

“No one’s ever passed faster.”

⸻

That Friday night, you took him to The Spur, the town’s only bar-slash-dancehall, where the beer was cheap, the music was loud, and the wooden floor had seen generations of boots scuff it up with laughter and two-step.

You made sure Bob was dressed right. It took effort. He had the boots now, worn and scuffed. You made him wear jeans that actually fit. And a pearl-snap shirt in dark navy that made his shoulders look criminally good. The hat was the finishing touch, black, low-brimmed, rugged.

When he stepped out of your room, adjusting the collar and looking shy as hell, you damn near whistled.

“I feel like a theme park character.” he said.

“You look hot.” you corrected, walking a circle around him.

“Do people… wear this for real?”

“Every weekend,” you said. “Now c’mon, Reynolds. Let’s teach you how to dance.”

⸻

Inside the bar, it was all twang and laughter and the thick smell of fried food and whiskey. The band played fast and wild, and people hollered out each note. Bob stuck close to you like a lifeline, eyes wide as folks clapped him on the back, calling him “Hollywood” and “City Man” and asking how he landed you.

You taught Bob how to two-step.

Well, kind of.

“Left foot, then right. No- Bob. Other right.”

“I am using my right!”

“You’re stepping on my foot!”

“Sorry!”

You ended up just swaying with him in the middle of the dance floor, flushed from beer and embarrassment, his hands tentative as they found your waist. You tugged them tighter, grounding him, and that’s when something shifted. The tension in his shoulders loosened. His smile changed, real now.

He smelled like cedar and soap and just a trace of the cologne you told him to wear, the one with the little notes of vetiver and pepper that made your knees weak. The heat between you crackled with something unspoken, and for a few minutes, everything around you blurred into music and motion.

At some point during the night, after another dance, Bob tugged off his hat to run a hand through his damp hair. His face was shiny with sweat, his curls stuck to his forehead, and he looked dazed in that beautiful, happy way, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here. Then, without thinking, he reached over and plopped the hat down onto your head, shaking his hair out to cool off…

It was a small, tired gesture.

But the moment it happened?

Electric.

The entire bar erupted.

Someone behind the bar bellowed, “WOOOOOO-EEE, RIDE THE COWBOY!”

“HOLY HELL!” someone else shouted. “BOBBY KNOWS THE HAT RULE!”

You stood very, very still.

More hooting. Boots stomping the floor. Someone whooped loud enough to rattle the windows.

Bob blinked, clearly lost, clearly panicking.

He looked at you, eyes wide. “I- uh- what did I just do?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear with a smirk. “You don’t know the hat rule, do you?”

“…No.”

You reached up, adjusted the brim so it sat just right on your head, and said sweetly, “If a cowboy puts his hat on someone else’s head, it means they’re going home together.”

Bob turned scarlet. You’d never seen a man blush that fast.

“Oh.” he said, voice tight. “That’s- uh. That’s a rule?”

You shrugged, already spinning away with a teasing smile. “Town doesn’t make the rules. We just enforce them.”

Bob watched you walk toward the bar like you’d just turned his whole world upside down.

And from behind him, someone slapped his shoulder and howled, “Better saddle up, Bobby boy! That hat rule’s legally binding!”

He just stood there for a long second, still blushing, mouth parted in that stunned little way he got when you caught him completely off guard. Then you glanced back, cocked your head, and gave him a wink.

⸻

You drank, you danced, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

The old dive bar buzzed with warmth and off-key covers from the town band playing on the makeshift stage. Sticky floors, half-priced beers, and a neon sign that flickered like it had a secret, it was the kind of place that didn’t care what time it was, only that you were having a good time. And you were. Maybe more than you had in months.

Bob didn’t stop smiling, not once. Not when someone spilled a drink down the back of his jeans, not when the bartender got your orders wrong three times, and definitely not when he nearly tripped over the jukebox cord trying to avoid Henrietta, who had somehow followed you to the bar like a bad penny . His cheeks flushed pink, more from laughter than embarrassment, and he mouthed a frantic “save me” before ducking behind you like you were his personal shield. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your beer.

The night wore on in golden, blurry edges. You danced like no one was watching, even though they definitely were. Arms loose around his shoulders, his big hands hovering just shy of your waist like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. But with every song, he drew in closer, more confident, until you were moving as one. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath your fingertips, the soft warmth of his breath near your ear when he leaned in to tell you something stupid or sweet or both.

And hours later, when the crowd thinned out and the music turned slow and drawling some old country love song that could’ve been from your parents’ wedding, Bob didn’t ask. He just offered his hand, gentle and sure, and you took it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into a quiet dance, his movements tender and deliberate, as if he was afraid to break the moment. Not once did he step on your feet. Not once did he falter. His arms wrapped around you like a safety net, loose but strong, and for a long time, the world felt small, just you, him, and the soft hum of a steel guitar in the background.

The cowboy hat stayed firmly on your head the entire time. Bob gave it a reverent little tilt when he looked down at you, like it was some kind of crown, like you were someone special, someone he’d waited years to find. And under the dim bar lights, with your head resting against his chest and his heart beating a little too fast, it was then he decided you really were.

⸻

The night air was warm and thick with the scent of wildflowers and summer sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, earth still holding onto the day’s heat. Crickets sang in the tall grass, and fireflies blinked like they were keeping time with your footsteps.

You walked back to the ranch under a million stars, boots crunching gravel, Bob’s fingers twined with yours like he never wanted to let go. He kept glancing over at you, smile crooked, eyes glassy with just enough of a buzz to make him bold. You were both a little tipsy. The good kind. The kind that made everything shimmer around the edges, like the world had softened and spun itself into something just for the two of you.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as you neared the porch. “This was… a really good night.”

“Even with Henrietta managed to track you down into the bar?”

He laughed loud, boyish, real. “Especially because of that. I got to hide behind you like a damsel. Very dignified.”

You giggled, heart drumming somewhere in your throat. And then you were at the door, old, creaky, paint chipped from years of weather and wear, and the moment you pushed it open, something shifted in the air between you. Something quiet and charged, like static before a storm.

Bob kissed you before you’d even kicked your boots off.

It wasn’t tentative or careful, not anymore. His mouth was warm and insistent, and you gasped against him, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, tugging it loose. You stumbled backward into the hallway, knocking into a console table and nearly sending a mason jar of flowers tumbling.

“Door.” you murmured, laughing between kisses, trying to remember where your old bedroom even was.

“Where?” Bob’s voice was low and ragged, one hand splayed wide across your lower back, the other still cupping your cheek like you were breakable and sacred all at once.

“Left- no, other left- BOB-!”

You both slammed into the wall beside the staircase, right beneath your childhood photos, your third-grade rodeo ribbon nearly fell off its nail. You couldn’t stop giggling, and Bob kissed the sound right out of your mouth, breathing hard like he’d been waiting days to stop being so damn respectful.

He finally found the door, flinging it open with more enthusiasm than grace. You tripped over the threshold in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing on the bed in a puff of quilted covers and heat. Bob followed, all long limbs and broad shoulders, kissing you like a man starved.

Clothes came off in messy, half-laughing pulls. His shirt over his head, your dress yanked down around your hips. Boots hit the floor with loud, lazy thuds. He paused to help you with the stubborn zipper, grinning when it caughtand you laughed so hard he had to hush you with another kiss, mouths brushing and breath mingling in the dark.

Then he pulled back, just for a second. Long enough to look at you.

To really look.

You were flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of your bra, his cowboy hat still perched crooked on your head. You blinked up at him, lips kiss swollen, eyes wide and a little wild.

Bob stood there like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Gotta live up to the hat rule, right?”

You bit your lip, reaching for him. “You better, Reynolds.”

And with a soft, reverent touch, he leaned forward and set the hat straight again. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there with him, beneath him, in every version of the life he hadn’t dared to picture before now.

And then he kissed you slow. Not the urgent kind from the hallway, but something deeper. Something that lingered. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask,it told. That you were wanted, worshiped, known.

The mattress creaked beneath you as he joined you, the old springs singing their familiar tune. You let your hands roam his back, mapping muscle and freckle and scar, and he whispered your name like a saying. Over and over. Until it was the only thing that mattered.

His fingers trailing down your spine, gentle but certain, pulling you closer until every breath you took was shared. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was like coming home, steady, real, grounding. His lips moved from your mouth, to your jaw, to the curve of your neck, leaving soft promises with every touch.

You tilted your head, exposing more of yourself to him, your breath hitching when his teeth grazed your skin just enough to stir a fire. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, steadying you in the sweet chaos of your shared desire.

You didn’t rush. You let the moment stretch, every heartbeat syncing between you. There was no need for haste, no need for words—just the quiet music of two people who had found something worth holding onto in a world that often felt too loud.

When his mouth finally met yours again, it was slow and deliberate, a dance of trust and tenderness. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if to memorize every inch of him.

And outside, the stars burned on. Quiet witnesses to the beginning of something you didn’t have a name for just yet. Something real.

Something that felt a lot like home. He was home.

⸻