#💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐💐

[hearts4hughes]

It’s the middle of the night rn but I have to request this before I forget it.

Exbf!Rafe where reader forgot or never got around to removing Rafe from their emergency contact list. And one day the police or hospital call Rafe about reader being in an accident of some sort.

he doesn’t recognize the number at first. some 252 string of digits that buzzes across his screen right as he’s halfway through a voicemail he’ll never send you. he almost lets it ring out—almost.

but something—gut or god or just bad luck—makes him swipe. “yeah?” he answers, short, distracted, a little annoyed like usual. then someone says your name.

~

the hospital is white in all the wrong ways. fluorescent and echoing, two things rafe hates. it smells like something between bleach and breathlessness. like someone died here last night and they’re still trying to scrub the memory out of the tiles.

he’s already pacing when the nurse finally finds him. pale blue scrubs and a clipboard tucked against her ribs like a shield. “you’re rafe cameron?”

he turns. “yeah.”

“you’re still listed as her emergency contact. we tried calling someone else but she didn’t have anyone else listed.”

something shifts behind his ribs. a pinch, a pull. his jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything, just nods once like that makes it okay. like he didn’t spend the last six months trying to not be that person for you anymore.

“she was in a car accident,” the nurse continues, voice dipping gentle. “minor injuries, mostly bruising and a mild concussion. but she hit her head. we’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

rafe chews on his fingernails hard enough to feel a pinch. he drops his hand like its venomous and is already moving towards your room.

you’re asleep when he finds you. curled up on your side in a way that makes you look impossibly small, like a rewind version of yourself— the version he loved first.

your wrist is wrapped. your lip’s a little swollen. the iv hums soft and steady in your arm. he stands there like he’s on the outside of a life he wasn’t supposed to walk back into.

he shouldn’t be here. but you called him, didn’t you? no, you didn’t, your phone did. because you forgot or never got around to removing him. because some stupid form still says he’s the one they should call when everything goes to hell. and for some reason, he showed up anyway.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, staring at the slow rise and fall of your chest. “you don’t even want me here.”

then you shift and begin to stir. you blink hazily in the dim light, eyes swollen and unfocused, but they find him. even now—months and many tears later. “…rafe?”

his name. a ghost in your throat. he exhales. almost flinches. “yeah. it’s me.”

“what are you doing here?”

there’s a pause.

“apparently,” he says, voice quieter now, rough around the edges, “you still think i’m the one who’ll come.”

you don’t say anything. he doesn’t move to sit down. just stays by the door like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“i forgot,” you admit, swallowing hard. “i didn’t mean to still have you listed.”

he nods slowly. he expected that, but it hurts the same either way. “yeah,” he says. “but i came anyway.”

this time, you don’t say anything. you just blink at him. glassy-eyed and something slips through the cracks of your voice when you whisper, “thank you.”

he looks at you for a long time. longer than he should. then he drags the chair closer to your bed. sits in it like it’s always belonged to him. elbows on knees and his jaw set.

“go back to sleep,” he mutters, eyes still on your face. “i’ll be here.” just for tonight. just until they say you’re okay. just until you forget him again.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove

[lacedwithpoetry]

────★𝑺𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝑻𝐀𝐋𝐊 & 𝑺𝐈𝐍 ˙💐 ̟ !!

୭˚. ᵎᵎ summary… BatBoys with talkative!yapper!reader

୭˚. ᵎᵎ contains… Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne x gn!reader (but described as female in the nsfw section.)

୭˚. ᵎᵎ warnings… contains nsfw (18+) content after the warning divider. — mentions of sex, overstimulation, female-receiving!oral, foreplay mentions, dirty talk, missionary, cowgirl, rough sex, slight choking (it’s Jason, duh), praise, bro idek anymore, semi!public sex mention, fingering mention, teasing, etc. wow

• Dick adores it. Dick is naturally social and emotionally in tune, so your chatter is like background music to him — warm, colorful, comforting. He genuinely listens, even if he doesn’t understand 100% of what you’re saying (especially when you go on niche rants).

• You’ll be venting about the emotional downfall of a TV character while he’s brushing his teeth, and he’ll just nod with foam in his mouth, giving you heart eyes in the mirror like, I love this little disaster so much.

• Big on physical affection while you talk: back hugs while you ramble, kisses to your forehead mid-monologue, tracing patterns on your thigh while you’re going on about your dream wedding color scheme (even though he knows you’ll change it by next week).

• Will 100% instigate more talking with:

➜ “What happened next?”

➜ “Wait, I need all the details again but with gossip voice this time.”

➜ “Hold up — I want the tea but tell it from the drama queen perspective.”

• When you say something wild mid-ramble, like “I could totally fake my death if I had a fog machine and three raccoons,” he pauses and goes, “I believe in you.”

• Sends you voice memos back just so you have something to respond to, even if it’s just him going, “Hi, I’m walking and I saw a pigeon do a backflip and thought of you.”

• Loves how expressive you are. “God, you’re like a comic book panel. I always know what page I’m on with you.”

⸻

• Jason pretends to be annoyed. He is not.

• He sits there looking pissy while you talk for fifteen minutes straight about a dream you had where he was a barista with goat legs, but secretly he’s cataloging every second of it like a favorite podcast.

• Falls asleep to the sound of your voice on the couch — not because you’re boring, but because it soothes him. The safe, repetitive rhythm of you filling space makes his shoulders loosen for the first time all day.

• Will interrupt your long rants with a:

➜ “Babe. Breathe.”

➜ “ You’ve changed topics four times. Go back to the American Dad cult thing.”

• He’s a sucker for when your words start spiraling into chaotic territory. You’ll be like, “And then I thought, what if I just legally changed my name to Knife?” and he’ll be like, “Oh my god. I’d marry Knife.”

• Deep down? It makes him feel wanted. You want to tell him everything. Even the nonsense. Even the little things no one else would care about. That trust means more to him than he’ll admit.

• When you go quiet for more than ten minutes, he immediately side-eyes you like, Who hurt you. Why are you plotting. Are you possessed.

• Sometimes he’ll just look at you mid-rant, blinking slow, and mutter, “You’re exhausting. I’m obsessed with you.”

⸻

• You would think Tim would be overwhelmed by a chatterbox… and you’d be right. At first.

• The first few dates, he’s overstimulated and blinking like a buffering screen while you bounce from topic to topic like a pinball machine. But he gets addicted fast.

• He starts structuring his schedule around “Y/N talk time” because it’s the only thing that can get him to log off his 40-hour research spirals.

• “I’ve been inside my own head too long,” he’ll mumble, rubbing his eyes, “Can you talk about anything? Literally anything. Just… fill the air, please.”

• Loves when you info-dump to him. You have ADHD-coded tangents about mythology, glitter, or reality TV? He’s in. Ask him questions, even mid-rant. Tell him about what evil thing Kim did in ‘Keeping Up With The Kardashians,’ It wakes him up.

• Will slowly become more talkative around you, like you infected him. He starts matching your energy. You’ll be like “—and then I started wondering if pigeons are just spy drones—” and he’ll go, “Actually, during the Cold War they did—”

• Late night calls are filled with you talking and him muttering, “Mmhm,” “Yeah,” and soft chuckles. You think he’s half-asleep. He remembers everything you said the next day.

• Once, during a long ramble, you worriedly stopped and asked, “Wait, do I talk too much?”

Tim looked up with soft, tired eyes and said, “I love that you never make the silence awkward.”

⸻

• Oh, this is Damian’s villain origin story. Or so he says…

• “You are like a crow trapped in an echo chamber,” he’ll scowl, arms crossed. “Why do you have so many thoughts. Why must you share all of them.”

• But he listens. Every time. Even when he’s glaring at you.

• His version of affection is sarcastic commentary during your rants:

➜ “ That is the dumbest theory I’ve ever heard.”

➜ “ Please, tell me more about this dream where you adopted a blood-thirsty dragon and became mayor.”

➜ “ Are you done yet, or do you plan to set a world record for uninterrupted verbal nonsense?”

• He secretly loves that you never stop. Because he never has to wonder what you’re thinking. No games. No manipulations. Just pure, unfiltered you.

• When he’s hurt or upset, your talking is the only thing that gets through to him. You don’t even realize it. You’re pacing and yelling about socks going missing in the dryer and he’s sitting there, silently pulling your hand into his lap.

• You’ll ask, “Do I annoy you?” and he’ll go:

➜ “ You enrage me. You bewilder me. You exhaust me.”

➜ Then under his breath: “I am madly in love with you.”

• He remembers every word you say. You’ll make some dumb offhand comment about how you want a custom dagger with your name on it, and six weeks later there’s a velvet box on your pillow.

• And God help anyone who tries to tell you to shut up in public. Damian will ruin them.

(because of course I have to include smut.)

• At first? Dick thinks it’s adorable. You’re talkative during sex like you are with everything else — giggling, gasping, teasing him mid-thrust with things like, “You’re so good at this—wait, have you always been this good or is this just for me?”

• It feeds him. He lives for it. Loves hearing your voice breathy, moaning, overstimulated — and even better when you start talking too much and get flustered mid-sentence.

• He gets handsy and worships you when you’re being noisy. Your voice is his favorite sound. Especially when you’re whimpering and trying to finish your sentences while he’s buried between your thighs.

• “C’mon, baby, don’t stop talking now,” he’ll murmur with his tongue teasing your clit. “You were giving me such a good speech about how much you like my cock—what happened?”

• When you ramble during foreplay, he’ll slowly slide his hand down your stomach like, “You gonna keep talking through this too?”

• Loves slow sex with eye contact while you’re blabbering sweetly and moaning through everything. His favorite thing is when you lose track of what you’re saying mid-orgasm. He’ll chuckle and kiss your neck, whispering, “Thought so, baby.”

• Bonus: If you ever get bratty while talking, expect to be pinned and told, “Put your mouth to better use.”

⸻

• Jason’s obsessed with the way your mouth runs. Teasing, sultry, shameless — especially when you’re being a little too smug in bed.

• You’ll be making jokes, breathless and giggly, riding him and saying things like, “Sooo, how does it feel being Gotham’s most fuckable vigilante?”

• Jason just growls. He grabs your hips tighter and thrusts harder until you’re choking on your own smugness.

• Has a hand on your throat when you talk too much during sex. Not to shut you up — to feel every little sound you make.

• “Keep talking, baby,” he snarls in your ear. “Let’s see how long you can run your mouth when you’re shaking on my cock.”

• If you’re especially flirty and playful, he does not hold back — bends you over whatever surface is closest and pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you until your voice goes hoarse.

• Kink for overstimulating you until you’re whimpering, half-talking nonsense, and he’ll say things like:

➜ “You still got words, pretty girl?”

➜ “Where’s all that mouth now?”

➜ “Thought you had something smart to say while I was tongue-deep in your pussy.”

• But if you’re soft and sweet and praising him through the whole thing? He melts. Growls “fuck, you’re gonna kill me” into your shoulder and loses himself in you.

⸻

• Tim’s kink? Being talked through sex like it’s a shared secret. You describe everything you’re feeling — and he lives for it.

• You’ll be breathlessly saying things like:

➜ “It’s so deep, Tim, I can feel you right there—”

➜ “God, you’re stretching me so perfectly—did you plan this? You did, didn’t you?”

➜ “You love how wet I get when you talk nerdy to me, admit it.”

• He gets red in the face, totally overwhelmed but so turned on. Half the time he’s like, “You’re doing this on purpose—”

• You talk him through his own dominance: “Harder, Tim. Faster. You know how I like it, don’t pretend you don’t.”

• His voice gets all low and breathy once he breaks — “You really don’t stop, do you?” — and suddenly he’s flipping you over and pinning your wrists.

• Loves semi-public sex with whispered commentary. Your breathy, daring little comments like, “You’re so hard right now. Bet if I touched you, you’d lose it in thirty seconds.”

• Will absolutely finger you just to shut you up — but he wants you to talk. To beg. To describe what he’s doing to you like it’s a thesis.

• Bonus: Tim gets dangerously turned on when you moan his name in between teasing rambles. “Tim, fuck—okay okay wait wait—this is so good—wait—!”

⸻

• At first? Damian acts like your constant chatter is insufferable. He groans when you talk in bed—“Must you narrate everything?”

• But you see it. The way his pupils dilate when you do.

• You’ll be moaning his name and saying wild, reckless things like, “You’re so fucking deep, Dami—God—I think you rearranged my liver—” and he’ll cover your mouth with his hand and hiss, “You are utterly insufferable.”

• But his hips don’t stop moving. Not even a little.

• Loves to tame you. The more you talk, the more he takes control — bending you, flipping you, pushing you into the mattress until the only sound you’re making is his name.

• “Let’s see you speak in complete sentences now,” he growls, and you’re suddenly choking on a moan as he ruins you with slow, deliberate thrusts.

• But when you praise him? Call him your good boy, the perfect man, best you’ve ever had? Damian gets possessive and animalistic. Growling. Biting. Holding you in place like you’re his.

• Secretly records your voice when you’re in bed. Not to be creepy — he just loves hearing you whimper and gasp and beg.

• “You talk so much,” he mutters after you come for the third time, breathless. “But you say the sweetest things when I fuck you properly.”

[hearts4hughes]

would it be weird to request reader with acne… i’ve had it since i was like 14 and it makes me soo insecure😭😭 like i broke up with my last bf cos i didn’t want him to see me so i was wondering if u could write something like that with rafe

you don’t look at him when you say it—you can’t. not with the overhead light catching every scar, every inflamed patch along your jaw. not with your skin pulsing under the weight of it, hot and embarrassed and miserable. not when you feel like this—like something no one in their right mind would want to hold.

“i think we should stop,” you say quietly, avoiding his eyes like the plague. there’s silence. then a sharp, disbelieving scoff. you flinch.

“stop what?” rafe asks, like you’ve just offered to sell his organs on craigslist. his voice is low, that dangerous kind of quiet he uses when he’s holding something back. “us?”

you nod, eyes on the carpet. “yeah. i just…” you swallow. your nails dig into your palms. “it’s not working.”

he laughs. laughs like it’s a joke. like you’re the joke. “right,” he says. “and that’s why you’re not looking at me?” your jaw clenches but you don’t answer. he crosses the room in three strides. crowding you without touching. heat pouring off him like a furnace. “you’re not serious.”

you shrug. “i am.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

“then look at me.” you freeze. “look at me, and say it again.” your eyes flick up, just for a second, and it’s the worst mistake because his gaze is brutal. furious, yes, but worse…it’s soft underneath. already mourning something he hasn’t even lost yet.

your voice cracks. “i don’t want you to see me like this.” your hands signal to your inflamed skin. you look up the ceiling, an attempt to keep the tears from spilling over.

rafe stares at you. he doesn’t blink nor breathe. then, quietly, he murmurs, “you think that matters to me?” your throat closes at his words. “you think i care if your skin’s red or broken out or not fucking airbrushed like-” he cuts himself off, eyes flickering over your face, angry and desperate and so present it physically hurts. “you think you can push me away and i’ll just disappear? you think i’m some fucking high school boyfriend who’s gonna ghost because you had a breakout?”

you wrap your arms around yourself. “you don’t get it.” you bury your face into your knees. shame washes over you like a scolding shower.

he laughs again, but it’s bitter this time. “yeah, no. apparently i don’t. because i thought you trusted me. i thought you knew-“

“i can’t even look at myself!” you snap, voice rising, cracking open. “i can’t stand mirrors. i cancel plans. i cried in a sephora once because the foundation wouldn’t cover this. and you—you’re you, rafe.”

he goes still. just for a beat. “what the fuck does that mean?” he says, deadly quiet.

you swallow. “you’re perfect.”

rafe blinks, slow and disbelieving. then he mutters, like it physically pains him, “you’re so fucking blind.” you look at him, finally, and his jaw’s tight. there’s a twitch in his temple. his eyes are wet but furious. “you think i’m with you for your skin?” he leans in, close enough that you feel the words on your lips. “i’m with you because you’re the first thing in my life that feels real. and i don’t care if you’re broken out. i’m not leaving.”

your whole body stills and he sees it. he sees the way you flinch like his love is the real punchline. his voice softens. “you don’t have to be perfect. you just have to let me stay.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. your vision blurs. and finally, you let yourself collapse into his arms. he catches you without hesitation. like he knew you would. like he never doubted for a second.

his fingers tangle in your hair, press against your back. you bury your face into his shirt, skin burning, tears sticking in your lashes. “hey,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”

and you won’t ever doubt him again.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove

[somenights]

CHAERYEONG ♡ Girls Will Be Girls / 250619

[hearts4hughes]

DUE DILIGENCE ~ CHAPTER FIVE

wallstreet!rafe x assistant!reader | no warnings

you can’t stop thinking about the blood. not the kiss, not his hands or the way your name sounded caught between his teeth. not the lilies wilting on your desk, still pristine despite everything. just the blood—a pinprick smear near the toe of his shoe. you try to unsee it, but you can’t.

you search for explanations that don’t make your stomach turn. maybe he cut himself shaving. maybe the car service hit a dog. maybe it’s nothing and it’s just your brain filling in blanks with worst case headlines. but still, your hands tremble when you type. you google things like death in financial district garage and read the articles like an internet sleuth. still, nothing sticks out.

he’s different at work. it’s not all at once, but in the ways that matter. he calls you by your first name during a meeting and doesn’t take it back; he leaves his office door shut when you’re inside; his fingers graze yours a second too long when you pass him paperwork.

“thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. he doesn’t say it to make you squirm, he says it like an instinct. like you’ve always been his. your throat tightens and you nod. but you say nothing. you don’t trust your voice to hold up.

you don’t ask about anything and he doesn’t tell you. because that would break it—whatever this delicate, doomed thing is between you. you don’t want to know what he did, not really, not if it means it’s real.

on thursday, he calls you into his office and says he’s taking you to dinner. “for all the extra hours,” he says. “you’ve earned it.”

he sends a car to your apartment to pick you up, like always. the driver, dressed in all black and everything expensive, hands you a note that was filled with rafe’s handwriting.

‘sorry i couldn’t pick you up myself. hope i can make it up to you ~ RC’

you chuckle at how he signed the note like it was a business deal and not an apology. he was always in work mode, no matter what time of the day.

the restaurant is on the sixty-fifth floor of a building that sways when the wind hits right. your shoes echo across marble floors. you feel expensive and out of place. when you round the corner to the hostess stand, the girl stands up straighter.

“miss. y/l/n, welcome.” she braces her perfectly white teeth. “mr. cameron has been awaiting your arrival.” she flutters her eyelashes at you and leads the way to the private room.

rafe is sitting there in his nicest suit looking like a model straight from a catalogue. you’d always passed this restaurant on you commute around the city. you’d close your eyes and imagine what the food tasted like and how hard it would be to get a reservation. and now you’re sitting at the nicest table in the entire building.

he stands up immediately, walking around the table and pulling your chair out. you can’t help but blush at the sight—your boss, the terrifying rafe cameron, pulling out your chair and avoiding eye contact.

“thank you,” you murmur as you sit, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress like it’s the fabric that’s making you nervous, not him.

rafe rounds the table again, returning to his seat like nothing about this is unusual. like he takes all his assistants to michelin-starred restaurants in glass towers with white tablecloths and crystal stemware. his cufflinks glint under the chandelier. his jaw tightens once when you don’t meet his eyes.

you pick up the menu to give your hands something to do. “i ordered already,” he says. his voice is lower than usual. maybe it’s the room. maybe it’s guilt.

you look up. “you didn’t even ask what i wanted.”

he shrugs, one shoulder. “i know what you like.”

you roll your eyes but your pulse trips anyway. “arrogant.”

“accurate.” he tilts his head down and looks into your eyes. your stomach erupts with butterflies.

when the wine arrives, it’s red, full-bodied, already breathing. he doesn’t toast, doesn’t clink glasses or make some flirtatious comment about how pretty you look in low light. he just watches you over the rim of his glass like he’s trying to memorize the taste of something he’ll never get to drink again.

the food is ridiculous—hand-rolled pasta and truffle everything, a dessert menu that reads like a poem. the waiter speaks in hushed tones, like you’re royalty or famous.

rafe doesn’t say much, he lets you talk. and you talk alright. you vent about the latest quarterly projection headache or how the intern called you “ma’am” like you were someone’s aunt. he listens, really listens. like he’s filing it all away in some locked part of himself only you’re allowed to access.

and just when the quiet starts to feel like a weight, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “you’ve been quiet this week,” he says. “more than usual.”

your fork pauses midair. “you’ve been nice this week. more than usual.” his mouth curves. not a smile, but a ghost of one. as if he wants to laugh but thinks better of it. you lower your gaze back to your plate. “i didn’t know you could be soft.”

“i’m not,” he says, like it’s a warning or an insult. “not really.”

you look up at him then. he’s watching you with something hungry behind his eyes. something that doesn’t belong here, in this room, in this city. something ancient and ruinous. something you’ve never seen before. “why did you bring me here?” you ask.

he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. he sighs and just says, “because you deserved something beautiful.”

your breath catches. you don’t say much for the rest of the meal. not because you’re shy, not because you’re flattered, but because your brain is still trying to unscramble what he just said. because you deserved something beautiful. it echoes, taunting, like maybe it wasn’t meant for you at all. like maybe he’s said it before to someone else who cracked him open in the same sharp, accidental way.

you try not to look too hard at the way his voice had gone soft. how the words didn’t sound right coming out of his mouth, not the rafe cameron who rips people apart in conference rooms and carves power from silence. it sounded…like grief or guilt or the first chapter of a lie he tells to girls who blink twice at him and pretend not to know better.

and maybe that’s what stings the most—how much you want to believe he meant it. how much of you is already folding around the hope like it’s something holy.

when you leave the restaurant, you don’t kiss at the door. you don’t ask him to meet you back at your place. and he doesn’t push, he just brushes your hair back behind your ear and lets his knuckles trail the length of your jaw. the car is already waiting at the curb.

“mine,” he says, but not to you, to the air; to the wind. it’s a vow he’s making to himself. you get in the car and you don’t look back.

~

you’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. you scroll without thinking.

death in financial district garage now suspected to be foul play.

you freeze. toothbrush still in your mouth. you click the article. it’s short, clipped, a few sentences that mean almost nothing—except for one.

the victim, connor lloyd, was employed as an analyst at cameron capital partners.

your stomach turns.

police are currently reviewing all communication leading up to his death. the last recorded email in his inbox was from a fellow employee.

you don’t have to scroll to know it was you. you drop the toothbrush in the sink. the water keeps running. outside, the city glows like nothing’s wrong. like men don’t die for making the wrong woman look bad. and you? you squeeze your eyes shut and pretend not to feel the monster you might already be loving.

taglist ~ @sweetstrawberrianne @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @wishfairies @kieeslove @jacklesluvr @futuremrscameron @rafesdaintyfawn @winterbarnesblog @starkeyszn @drphilssoulmate @xobimbobunnyxo @foolishseven @starsluvrr @luvonstyles @k4yr14 @sultryg0dess @restinpaece @leather-n-velvet @rafestoothbrush @katecokeed @her30910 @rafeeekam @rafesdearest @donaldsonsgirl @l0vest1les @bungurus @bambi-bvnny @strawberrymilk99 @bethslameblog @mak1777 @nightchanges777 @sdfghyuiopyeji @lulllabunni @wovenribbons @pearlypnk @mialuvsrafe

[storybook-souls]

and oh my GOD, a round of fucking applause for britt fucking lower!!!!!!!! playing someone who's not only pretending to be someone else but the someone she's pretending to be is sort of kind of her and walking the line of making it clear without making it obvious deftly enough that the entire internet has been arguing for a week....THE ACTRESS THAT YOU ARE!

[loudlyunladylike]

The Dyke Project manifesto printed on the back of estradiol and testogel boxes

[lovegasmic]

[helloanthy]

06.04.2025 💚 today's anthy!

i like the way chiho saito drew anthys green dress in the manga ... the cute little choker 🙈 still wild to me that nanami didnt exist in og manga either i wouldv loved to see saitos renditions of nanamis outfits

[image description by @kallistoi: digital illustrations of nanami kiryuu and anthy himemiya from revolutionary girl utena, both wearing their dresses from the ball. nanami is laughing haughtily and raising a hand to her face, while anthy folds her hands in front of herself and looks down with a demure smile. end description.]

[sracha]

anyaaa :-) 🩵

[artist-rat]

commission for @/meanestlesbian on bsky ⚔️🧡

[sicklysweetgf]

💗✨💕💗✨💕💗✨💕💗✨💕💗✨💕💗✨

if you’re reading this you have a crush on me no takebacksies

💗✨💕💗✨💕💗✨💕💗✨💗✨💕💗✨💕

[kittycarabiner]

pause because i need to talk about the magic of ✨️domme femmes✨️🍷

women who dress up to the nines in perfect pencil skirts and tights with those sleek black heels, white button-ups undone just enough to show off the tops of their lacy bra

women who will tie you up in silk ropes, perfectly on display for them so they can admire you, dragging pointed nails across your skin to elicit goosebumps

to have your thighs spread open, her fingers spreading your pussy so she can coo about how wet you are, and what a cute little attention whore you are, so desperate for her to just touch you

to have her lay you down, sit on your face, and ride your tongue, taking what she needs from your eager little mouth. her moans are like melodies as her clit bumps your nose and you stare up at her with such adoration and need.

women who will fuck you with their strap, jewelry clinking together as she ravages you beneath her, indulging in your soft, whiny moans.

and she won't stop when you cum, of course not. she'll keep going until she's satisfied, fucking you until you're a shaky, sniffling mess. only then will she untie you, cleaning you up, massaging the rope indents on your skin.

oh, and she'll take care of you so well afterward, praising you for being such a sweet girl for her

- this post is 18+ wlw : minors/men dni -

[florealegiardini]

This is your sign that Spring is here 🌺🌼🌺 ~ humminglion

[4ranghaes]

bang chan x reader [fluff, gender neutral!reader]

23:37 - “is this… bang chan… coming to bed before midnight?!” you gasped.

your boyfriend chuckled, rolling his eyes slightly, “yes. shut up. changbin and jisung needed to focus on something with the producing tonight so i’m… free?”

you giggled, watching as he, clad in plaid pyjama bottoms, no shirt and a towel draped over his hair, came and sat on the side of the bed. you crawled out of your duvet cocoon, sitting behind chan’s broad body and beginning to use the towel to dry his hair.

“you should use a t-shirt,” you commented, thinking out loud as you dried the curly locks as softly as you could. “or a softer towel.”

“its okay,” chan shrugged, “i’m gonna straighten it anyway, no point taking care of it.”

“chan,” you said in a stern voice.

“what?!” he laughed, taking the towel out your hands and moving so he was sat against the wall, pulling you to straddle his lap.

“i love your curly hair,” you said, cupping his face, “i want you to be proud of it.”

he shrugged, smiling shyly, “i know you do, but i just—”

“no buts, chan,” you said, getting up to get a brush, and some of the curly hair products that had gone long disregarded by your boyfriend. “why not? maybe you’ll like it once you actually take care of it.”

chan just sighed, shutting his eyes and relaxing into the feeling of you playing with his hair.

“you don’t need to do all of this,” he said, “really. i’ll just go back to not doing it when i’m by myself.”

“well i guess you always need me around then, hmm?” you smiled, your eyes trained on his hair as his eyes watched your face, “you need someone to take care of you.”

chan sighed, shutting up and allowing you to finish dealing with his hair before you cuddled into his side. he pressed a kiss to your head as you fell into silence.

“thank you for taking care of me. i know its not easy.”

you hummed, kissing the hand that was slung around your shoulders, “it would be easier if you stop being stubborn. my beautiful boy.”

chan opened his mouth to protest before you looked up, given him a stern look. he bit back a laugh, allowing your point to stand.

the two of you shifted into a more comfortable sleeping position; face to face, chan’s arm loosely slung around your waist, your leg hooked over his hip. his hand stroked your back gently, your hands balled into fists resting against his strong chest.

“sleep now,” he whispered, kissing your closed eyelids, “it’s late.”