#Submerge movements

[rat-in-a-cloak]

“all i’ll ever be is an elegy”

[bromcommie]

god I love snow……would love to see some that doesn’t melt into death trap ice sludge within 48 hours……would love to not have it kill me some day

[thethirdbear]

[schadenfreudich]

Gosling!!!

[primusliber-traduzioni]

Movements - Feel Something, traduzione testi

È questa la cosa curiosa dell’amore Non è mai stato un amico per me, solo un nemico artificiale

(da: Colorblind)

1. Movements – Full Circle, traduzione

Chiudere il cerchio Sto cadendo a pezzi

Ancora qui a cercare di rammendare questi buchi nei jeans

Lascio che mi si macchi la pelle sanguinando

Mi arrendo, mi disintegro, mi scindo

Mi giro e mi rigiro su questo letto di cemento

E domattina ci proverò di nuovo

Prego che arrivi qualcosa ad alleviarmi la paura

Invece mi ritrovo con gli arti che tremano

E sembra una cosa infinita

Come se non ci fosse una consolazione al mondo che possa aggiustarla

Si ripete sempre tutto alla fine

Non è questione di “se”, ma di “quando”

È già successo e succederà ancora Arriva a ondate e io vengo trascinato sotto

Non è una cosa soggettiva ma clinica

Mi affogo nella risacca di tutte le mie reazioni chimiche sbilanciate

E si chiude il cerchio di questo ciclo

Si chiude di nuovo il cerchio di questo ciclo E allora mi rimetto al lavoro con ago e filo

Ne ho abbastanza di questo sangue che perdo

Voglio tornare a immettere vita nei miei polmoni

Diradare la nebbia che mi fotte il cervello

Senza uno sforzo non ci possono essere progressi

Anche se il peso mi sta schiacciando

Senza uno sforzo non ci possono essere progressi

Mira a uccidere, resisti alla sconfitta

(Finché poi non ritorna di nuovo) Arriva a ondate e io vengo trascinato sotto

Non è una cosa soggettiva ma clinica

Mi affogo nella risacca di tutte le mie reazioni chimiche sbilanciate

E si chiude il cerchio di questo ciclo

Si chiude di nuovo il cerchio di questo ciclo Ci sono stati giorni che avevo giurato sarebbero stati i miei ultimi

E ho passato mesi a camminare su questi vetri rotti

Per poi avvicinarmi in punta di piedi al pensiero che magari un giorno sarei tornato com’ero prima

La persona che vedevo allo specchio, e non questa sofferenza

E mi sarei sbarazzato di questa nuvola che mi fa piovere addosso e riscivolare nell’apatia

Ma so che prima o poi mi riprenderò

E magari non sarà facile, ma ne varrà la pena, e i risultati saranno profondi

Perché invece di sentirmi messo all’angolo, gli angoli della bocca cominceranno a guardare in sù

Invece di essere ancorati a terra 2. Movements – Third Degree, traduzione

Terzo grado Hai il tuo amo infilato ben dentro di me

Come la tua lingua che spinge sulla guancia

Attirami, cattura e poi rilascia

Una volta avuta la tua dose

Ributtami dentro a sanguinare Ma io voglio tenerti, tenerti vicino a me

Tenerti, tenerti vicino Tenerti, tenerti vicino a me

Per poterti sentire

Sii il mio terzo grado Ma mi sento scivolare e cadere dritto nel dimenticatoio fra le punte delle tue dita

Non si torna indietro

Non c’è una soluzione facile

Perché questo percorso lo conosco per esperienza

Conosco l’altra faccia, l’altra faccia della medaglia

Ci sono stato più volte di quante non mi piaccia ammettere Per cui intendo tenerti, tenerti vicino a me

Per poterti sentire

Sii il mio terzo grado

Marchiati a fuoco dentro di me e lasciarmi il corpo scottato

Così quando decidi di andartene posso scrivere delle mie cicatrici Versa il tuo spirito, raggiungi il limite

Poi bruciami il corpo

Il tuo fiammifero ero io

Sono sotto di te

Mi va bene essere usato

Un’emozione volgare

Potresti mettere fine alla mia vita e io ti vorrei tenerti lo stesso

Tenerti vicino a me

Tenerti, tenerti vicino Per cui intendo tenerti, tenerti vicino a me

Per poterti sentire

Sii il mio terzo grado

Marchiati a fuoco dentro di me e lasciarmi il corpo scottato

Così quando decidi di andartene posso scrivere delle mie cicatrici 3. Movements – Colorblind, traduzione

Daltonico Inspiro

Faccio scorrere le dita sulle cicatrici sulla pelle

Mi lascio fioccare il senso di colpa addosso

Cerco di giustificare la mia ipocrisia

Espiro

Guardo le parole che ti cadono dalla bocca

Suonano belle taglienti, e probabilmente mordono

Sul fatto che ultimamente sono distaccato

Adesso c’è silenzio e tu sei in attesa di me

Potresti ripetere? Non stavo ascoltando Salvati, non vale la pena di perdere tempo con me

Questo fallimento ha radici profonde in come sono fatto

Ho qualcosa che non va?

Questo dubbio è assordante

Perché tu eri oro ma io non distinguo i colori Trova un motivo

Sarà il cambio di stagione?

Magari è semplicemente un colore che non vedo

Magari non è fatto per me

O tutte queste cose insieme?

Ecco, è questa la cosa curiosa dell’amore

Non è mai stato un amico per me, solo un nemico artificiale

Conosco la sua faccia ma l’ho solo guardato andarsene Salvati, non vale la pena di perdere tempo con me

Questo fallimento ha radici profonde in come sono fatto

Ho qualcosa che non va?

Questo dubbio è assordante

Perché tu eri oro ma io non distinguo i colori E mi sembra che questa noncuranza abbia la meglio su di me

Tornando a dirigermi senza meta verso tutto quello che mi sono lasciato alle spalle

Un volto nuovo, una storia diversa, lo stesso mio disastro

E non imparo mai la lezione perché sono cieco Salvati, non vale la pena di perdere tempo con me

Questo fallimento ha radici profonde in come sono fatto

Ho qualcosa che non va?

Questo dubbio è assordante

Perché tu eri oro ma io non distinguo i colori 4. Movements – Daylily, traduzione

Giglio turco All’aperto per la prima volta da tanto tempo

Lasciati andare, fatti assorbire dalla luce del sole

È da un po’ che non ti senti a posto

Ma presto arriveranno le serate calde

E tu starai bene, starai bene, starai bene All’aperto per la prima volta da tanto tempo

Hai detto che non ti ricordi cosa si prova a sentire qualcosa che non sia il freddo dentro

Ma arriverà di nuovo l’alba

E tu starai bene, starai bene Io dico che è ora di passare un’estate con le nuvole rosa

Perché sei stata troppo tempo senza sorridere

Io dico che è ora di trovare un altro motivo di restare qui ancora un po’

Dovresti restare qui ancora un po’ Mi siedo a guardare, con occhi nuovi ora, l’erba più verde

Mi lascio andare, mi faccio assorbire dalla luce del tuo sole

Il respiro nella brezza come un dolce sospiro

Mi lasci senza parole

Se va avanti così per sempre io sto bene, ah, io sto bene Tu sei il fruscio delle foglie

E sei quell’aria che sa di caprifoglio

Sei la luce del sole

Splendi su di me, splendi su di me, splendi su di me Io dico che è ora di passare un’estate con le nuvole rosa

Perché sei stata troppo tempo senza sorridere

Io dico che è ora di trovare un altro motivo di restare qui ancora un po’

E dico che è ora di darti un tocco di colore

Non ne so granché, ma ho sentito che il rosso va di moda

Io dico che è ora di trovare un altro motivo di restare qui ancora un po’

Io dico che è ora di passare un’estate con le nuvole rosa

Perché sei stata troppo tempo senza sorridere

Io dico che è ora di trovare un altro motivo di restare qui ancora un po’ 5. Movements – Deadly Dull, traduzione

Monotonia mortale Questa è la storia di un uomo che conosco

Un uomo dal cuore d’oro

Ma il corpo che diventa debole

E la mente che l’ha abbandonato

Questa è la storia di un uomo e di sua moglie

E di come lei è morta della stessa malattia

Di come lui è rimasto con lei dopo che il suo spirito se n’è andato

Ma lui non si ricorda la sua morte È una monotonia mortale

Come una spada bloccata nel fodero

Una mente un tempo acuta e piena ora annebbiata e malata Come dev’essere venire cancellati ogni volta che ci si addormenta?

Svegliarsi come tabula rasa senza avere il senso della realtà

E io farò la stessa fine quando invecchierò e mi verranno i capelli grigi

Col tempo che mi lascia indietro a spegnermi, spegnermi? Questa è la storia di un uomo che conosco

Conosce la mia faccia ma non riconosce me

Fa finta di sì ogni volta che ci vediamo

Poi comincia a fare le stesse domande a ripetizione

Tipo “Non ti cacci nei guai, vero?”

“Che progetti hai?”

“Possiamo andare qui vicino a trovare la nonna?”

“L’ultima volta che l’ho vista non ha detto moltissimo”

“Ma se ci fossi io con lei pensa come starebbe meglio”

Gli danno la notizia varie volte a settimana

E ogni volta segue la stessa scena

Va a sedersi fuori e non parla per un po’, poi si dimentica e va a dormire

La vita con un’anima pesante

Morte per una monotonia mortale

Diventerò così anch’io alla fine?

Diventerò così anch’io alla fine? È una monotonia mortale

Come una spada bloccata nel fodero

Una mente un tempo acuta e piena ora annebbiata e malata Come dev’essere venire cancellati ogni volta che ci si addormenta?

Svegliarsi come tabula rasa senza avere il senso della realtà

E io farò la stessa fine quando invecchierò e mi verranno i capelli grigi

Col tempo che mi lascia indietro a spegnermi, spegnermi? 6. Movements – Fever Dream, traduzione

Sogno delirante Mi chiudo dentro al buio

Cerco di fingere una sicurezza

Dove ci sono le cose migliori e la mia ombra non mi può seguire

C’è qualcosa che mi tormenta

Farse e sogni deliranti E mi aggrappo disperatamente a quello che rimane di me prima di cadere a pezzi

In cerca di qualsiasi cosa mi serva per combattere questi nemici

Ma il mio unico nemico ce l’ho dentro al cuore

Perdo amici velocemente quanto perdo sonno

È nuvoloso e io sono sempre a due metri di profondità dentro la mente

Quindi questo è un addio, addio Faccio un giro in macchina

Cerco di trovare la mia realtà

Tiro un pugno al volante

E poi ancora e ancora fino a farmi sanguinare le nocche

Perché voglio provare qualcosa

Preda di un sogno delirante

Fatemi credere a qualcosa che non sia questo sogno delirante E mi aggrappo disperatamente a quello che rimane di me prima di cadere a pezzi

In cerca di qualsiasi cosa mi serva per combattere questi nemici

Ma il mio unico nemico ce l’ho dentro al cuore

Perdo amici velocemente quanto perdo sonno

È nuvoloso e io sono sempre a due metri di profondità dentro la mente

Quindi questo è un addio, addio, addio, addio, addio, addio, addio, addio, addio

Addio, addio, addio, addio, addio, addio 7. Movements – Suffer Through, traduzione

Sopportare Ho costruito una casa di solida pietra che pensavo non si sarebbe mai distrutta

Ma queste fondamenta cominciano a tremare

E io le guardo venir giù queste pareti che crollano

Con il mio trono che va in sfacelo e prendono il suo posto le rovine C’è ancora un fuoco che brucia dentro

Ma fa fatica a restare in vita Vuoi spostare le montagne? Fai pure

Io mi sa che invece sto qui a soffocare

Cambiare aria non farà calmare i terremoti infiniti che ho in testa

Li ho in testa

È tutto nella mia testa E le mie ginocchia sono le fondamenta

E la mia pelle sono le pareti che crollano

E il fuoco che c’è in mezzo è il mio sangue

Ed è freddo e debole e piccolo

E sono qui ad attendere il giorno in cui infine la struttura cederà

E la casa che conosco da sempre andrà in decadenza e io perderò il contatto Il fuoco che bruciava dentro non ha più fiato

Il fuoco che bruciava dentro è freddo come la morte Vuoi spostare le montagne? Fai pure

Io mi sa che invece sto qui a soffocare

Cambiare aria non farà calmare i terremoti infiniti che ho in testa

Li ho tutti in testa, per cui me li devo sopportare

Un secondo fine: è tutto quello che posso fare

Vuoi spostare le montagne? Beh, anche io All’apparenza, non se ne accorgerà nessuno

All’apparenza, non se ne accorgerà nessuno Vuoi spostare le montagne? Fai pure

Io mi sa che invece sto qui a soffocare

Cambiare aria non farà calmare i terremoti infiniti che ho in testa

Li ho tutti in testa, per cui me li devo sopportare

Un secondo fine: è tutto quello che posso fare

Vuoi spostare le montagne? Beh, anche io

Per cui me li devo sopportare

Un secondo fine: è tutto quello che posso fare

Vuoi spostare le montagne? Beh, anche io E ci morirò a forza di preoccuparmi

Le mie tendenze ossessive non mi fanno dormire

Ma non posso scappare, come faccio con tutte le cose

È devastante, ma il mio demone sono io stesso, il mio demone sono io stesso, il mio demone sono io stesso 8. Movements – Deep Red, traduzione

Profondo rosso Pelle morbida, sguardo duro

Sembra sbagliato ma è tutto a posto

Io ci provo, ma mi pare di non riuscire a guardare da un’altra parte, e a te non interessa

Anzi, incontri il mio sguardo fisso e partiamo da lì

Restiamo svegli tutta notte

Amore sul serio per la prima volta

E non riesco a capire se è tutto un sogno o se ci sono davvero

Ma finché sento il tuo contatto proprio non mi interessa, proprio non mi interessa Possiamo far finta di essere solamente io e te?

Voglio fare come se riuscissi a provare qualcosa

E tu non devi per forza fare lo stesso con me

Tanto io non sono in grado di promettere un granché

Vedo in sfumature di grigio e sto diventando di nuovo cieco

Ma quando si tratta di te, il mio mondo è rosso

E vedo sfumature di grigio, sto impazzendo di nuovo

Ma quando si tratta di te, il mio mondo è profondo rosso Pelle fredda continuamente

Mani indolenti, per cui tu stringi le mie

Dici che ti aiuta a non perdere la testa e stringi forte

Sto perdendo la sensibilità nelle dita, ma non m’importa

Restiamo svegli tutta notte

Amore sul serio per la prima volta

E non riesco a capire se è tutto un sogno o se ci sono davvero

Ma finché sento il tuo contatto proprio non mi interessa, proprio non mi interessa Possiamo far finta di essere solamente io e te?

Voglio fare come se riuscissi a provare qualcosa

E tu non devi per forza fare lo stesso con me

Tanto io non sono in grado di promettere un granché

Vedo in sfumature di grigio e sto diventando di nuovo cieco

Ma quando si tratta di te, il mio mondo è rosso

E vedo sfumature di grigio, sto impazzendo di nuovo

Ma quando si tratta di te, il mio mondo è profondo rosso Mi tuffo dentro di te

(E apro le imposte)

Prenditi tutto di me

(Tu diventi la mia guida)

Fammi nuovo

(Per vivere nei tuoi occhi)

Almeno posso finalmente dormire

(Profondo rosso all’alba) Vedo sfumature di grigio e sto diventando cieco

Sogno di giorno, sono impazzito

Sto dormendo di nuovo?

Non riesco a schiarirmi la mente

Perché quando si tratta di te, il mio mondo è rosso, il mio mondo è rosso, il mio mondo è rosso 9. Movements – Under the Gun, traduzione

Sotto pressione C’è stato un periodo in cui ogni cosa era veleno nella mia mente

Ho preso tutto quello che avevo finché non è rimasta indietro solo la paura

Ho cercato di portarlo a termine perché dicono che l’amore è cieco

Siamo finiti sugli scogli perché tenevamo gli occhi coperti

E sono stufo di aspettare che cambi la marea

Stanco di dare la colpa a una mente ansiosa

Sono annoiato e sto perdendo la vista

Non posso fingere, ho detto che ti amavo ma ho mentito Mi hai reso schiavo, incauta e astuta

Avevi il tuo trono, ma adesso non sei nulla

Mi hai reso schiavo, incauta e astuta

Avevi il tuo trono, ma adesso non sei nulla Sbiadisco come il trucco dalle mie lenzuola

E io me ne vado, date l’ordine della ritirata

Ho messo a tacere questa guerra che chiamavamo “amore”

È meglio così e quel che è fatto è fatto

Io me ne vado

È meglio così e quel che è fatto è fatto Ma mentirei se dicessi che questa cosa non mi ha ucciso

Sapere di averti fatto del male è la cosa che fa più male

Resto sveglio a letto tutta notte respirando a malapena per questa vittima che ho creato da solo Fermo su una lama che non tagliava

Per cui ho mollato e adesso non c’è nulla

Fermo su una lama che non tagliava

Per cui ho mollato e adesso non c’è nulla, nulla di nulla

E adesso non c’è nulla, nulla di nulla

E adesso non c’è nulla Ho mollato quando l’amore è andato perso

Ho cercato di metterci una pezza, ma ho pagato il prezzo

Ho mollato quando l’amore è andato perso

Ho cercato di metterci una pezza, ma ho pagato il prezzo Sbiadisco come il trucco dalle mie lenzuola

E io me ne vado, date l’ordine della ritirata

Ho messo a tacere questa guerra che chiamavamo “amore”

È meglio così e quel che è fatto è fatto

Io me ne vado

È meglio così e quel che è fatto è fatto Sotto pressione, sotto pressione 10. Movements – Submerge, traduzione

Sommergere Mi tiro via le coperte a calci nel sonno

Lotto col mio senso di colpa mentre sono sommerso in un sogno

Non riesco a non sentirmi impotente

Potremmo cantare in armonia, e la mia anima si sentirebbe intatta

Restando in sincronia con il mondo alle nostre spalle

Per cui mi sa che ho fallito miseramente Forse sto perdendo tempo, ma va bene così

Perché su di me non si può fare luce

Dove sono finito?

Sprofondo nella mia pelle

Forse ho addosso una maledizione

Preso dalla confusione

Si fa strada il dolore

Precipito di faccia

Sommergere, sommergere Se ritirassi tutto e ci provassi di nuovo

Questi motivi mi si ripeterebbero in testa?

Mi accontento di una sconfitta alla fine

Ma queste parole mi danno ancora la sensazione di affogare

Non sarò mai nient’altro che un’elegia Forse ti ho fatto perdere tempo, e va bene così

L’ho fatto andare troppo lontano per trovarlo

Dove sono finito?

Sprofondo nella mia pelle

Forse ho addosso una maledizione

Preso dalla confusione

Si fa strada il dolore

Precipito di faccia

Sommergere, sommergere Annego nel buio

Annego nel buio

Annego nel buio 11. Movements – The Grey, traduzione

Il grigio Attendo un segnale

Perdo la fede

Fermo a metà strada

E sono in cerca di una via d’uscita

Ma due metri sottoterra mi sono scavato la fossa ormai

Non c’è una via d’uscita Sento il sale sotto la pelle, e aumenta di nuovo

Non riesco a mollare la presa e sono quasi al limite

Questi nodi in gola mi avvolgono e mi stringono E sono le giornate che si accorciano

Il buio che sembra stringere la presa

Tutto il ghiaccio che mi riempie le vene

E questo senso di colpa che si manifesta sempre Mi sento così grigio e fuori posto

Piegato fino a sformarmi, ma sempre alle solite

E sto cercando le risposte

Sarò sempre così?

E quando chiamerò aiuto tu risponderai?

Perché sto gridando ma non cambia niente, non cambia niente Sento il freddo in faccia

E basta questo a farmi star male

Per cui mi resta questo amaro in bocca che non potrà mai andar via con un cucchiaino di zucchero

E sono le giornate che si accorciano

E il buio che sembra stringere la presa

Io cerco di andare e quello mi attira

Sono stufo di mandar giù medicine per provare qualcosa Mi sento così grigio e fuori posto

Piegato fino a sformarmi, ma sempre alle solite

E sto cercando le risposte

Sarò sempre così?

E quando chiamerò aiuto tu risponderai?

Perché sto gridando ma non cambia niente Ed è sempre più difficile fingere di star bene con questa testimonianza costante che mi viene trapanata nel cervello

Credo ancora nella felicità e voglio trovare una soluzione

Ma ultimamente il mio intero mondo viene inghiottito dal grigio

Per ora trovo conforto nel silenzio, nella solitudine e nelle giornate di pioggia

Ho sviluppato un approccio scientifico alla mia tristezza

L’unica cosa che posso fare è sperare in un cambiamento

Trovo conforto nel silenzio, nella solitudine e nelle giornate di pioggia

Ho sviluppato un approccio scientifico alla mia tristezza

L’unica cosa che posso fare è sperare in un cambiamento

[kamitv]

Trying “just the tip” with husband!choso <3

He doesn’t even know why the hell he agreed to try this shit with you, he knew you’d drive him insane.

Positioned on top of him with one of your hands carefully angling the flushed and dripping tip of his cock against your aching hole, he felt like he’d found both heaven and hell in this very moment.

Again, why did he agree to this? Oh he has no idea at this point because your hips are just rocking back and forth against his tip, dragging him in between your soaked folds and pulling huffs and puffs from his throat as he only grows more and more impatient by the second.

“Baby,” Choso’s voice is hoarse— he really couldn’t take it anymore, “Just put it in, please? Fu-uuck… I ca-, hah, I can’t take this…” There’s this syrupy sweet crack in his voice as his words leave him in a heavy and desperate exhale. 

You’re hardly listening to the poor man, continuing your torturing little movements as you drag his cockhead up and down your leaky slit, letting the slick juices from your cunt trickle all down along his thick cock. Your liquids dance down against every vein, every throbbing inch, tickling his hot overstimulated skin as his breath gets caught in his throat due to your horrid teasing.

Choso chokes out a heavy pant, “I-I’m gonna die if you don’t-,” He can’t even get his sentence out before your folds are molding around the flushed head of his dick, slowly and eagerly taking him in only an inch or two, “O-Oh s-shiiiit… please,” Choso croaks, hips lifting in tandem to the small bit of yourself you’ve allowed down on him.

His sanity is barely holding on by a thread– to be this damn close to being fully submerged inside you, feeling only a bit of your heavenly cavern he’d felt time and time before, the taunt of it all makes him drool. Precum mixes with your honeyed slick, making such a sticky mess of filth where the two of you are connected.

“Cho,” Your voice is as soft as ever and he swears he almost came right then and there. You’d only said his nickname and yet he could feel the way his cock twitched and slipped against you, sliding out of you once more and rubbing up against your clit in a way that made you let out a delicious little moan. “You promised you’d last-, mmh, remember?”

As you spoke, you began purposefully rolling the dripping tip of his cock against your clit, making your own breath hitch in between your words.

Choso throws his head all the way back and his entire body is wet with sweat, toned chest as tense as ever, “Can’t,” He groans, lifting his hips in another attempt of shifting his cock back toward your enterance, “Wanna-, fuck, wanna be inside you baby, please?” He huffs out as he slowly brings his head up to meet your eyes.

And there you are, so prettily hovering atop of him, your eyes slightly glossed over due to the intense arousal you felt, kiss slicked lips parted as you gasped in response to his shallow thrust upward, and your face as beautiful as ever– God, he wanted to marry you.

You suddenly let out a delighted little laugh and his brows innocently twist up, “Choso, we’re already married,” You remind the poor man, watching as his face twists up in pure and utter awe with the way you move to hold a hand up and show him the ring in which never leaves that pretty finger of yours. 

So out of it, he didn’t even realize he’d said that out loud…

Choso gulps and bats his eyes up at you, his hands gripping onto your hips a bit tighter, “Right, right… shit, m’sorry, can’t thi-, mmgh.. t-think straight, princess…” He mumbles, sounding almost embarrassed by his own actions, “But,” A sudden deep breath is being taken from him, “Since you reminded me, and I-I’ve been such a good husband to you, s-surely you can reward me a little, no?”

That makes you crack a smile, one he adores oh so much, “You wanna be inside me, Cho?”

He’s nodding almost frantically, almost as if he were afraid you’d miss his eager answer, “Uhuh, wanna feel my pretty wife’s pussy on me again, please? Please baby, I’ll be so fuckin’ good f’you… I know I promised t-to last longer but I-”

All that pleading he just did and the droopy desperate look in his eyes made your stomach churn so much that you couldn’t help but reposition his tip against your aching hole and start sinking down on him. His expression as your pussy parts around his cock and finally takes him in is priceless– Choso’s lashes flutter and he looks dazed, eyes practically crossing from the relief of finally going inside you again.

It’s always that initial push that does it for him, the very first thrust is always Choso’s favorite so of course he’s pouring out a pretty moan from his mouth, lips quivering slightly at just how relieving being inside you once more is.

Knowing damn well he could’ve flipped you over twenty minutes ago and fucked you like he pleased, something about letting you tease him to this point made his head spin. He definitely could’ve tugged your body down ages ago and forced you to bounce up and down on his cock like he so desperately wanted but, this is far better than that.

[undyingdecay]

pairings: robert reynolds x reader, slight void x reader cw: smut, afab reader, mention and usage of drugs, food play, oral (male and female receiving), messy sex, unprotected sex, trauma responses, nursing, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum).

a/n: im not taking specific requests but if you have any other characters you want me to write for send them in my asks!

bob was a consuming person.

so much so that when he enjoyed something, he’d try—truly try—to take it in little pieces. like a child with sugar, licking the edges before the center. like a user with a final hit, drawing it out even as his body screamed to finish it. as if savoring was a form of prayer—an act of desperate hope that the thing he loved wouldn’t vanish when it was gone.

you think it’s a condition carved into him from the inside out, from years of addiction that had rewired the marrow of his being. he’d whisper the stories when he couldn’t sleep, his voice cracking as he spoke into your skin. the first time he smoked meth—how the world sharpened and dulled at once, like standing on the edge of a lightning bolt. how it ate time. how he stopped knowing when the sun had set. when his own name had last sounded human.

he only talks about it when you’re holding him. always in moments where your skin is touching his, like he needs the reality of your body to anchor the unreality of his memories.

like now.

you’re both submerged in the bath, the water thick with oils and salt. it’s not warm anymore, but neither of you cares. you’re straddling him, your thighs trembling against his sides, facing him—always facing him, as he asks. he tells you it keeps him here. grounded. you don’t question it anymore. his eyes are closed, lashes wet and golden, his mouth parted just enough for steam to kiss his lips. you rake your nails through his scalp, the conditioner lathering with a gentle foam as your fingers work slow circles into his head.

he moans—not from lust, not yet—but from the sheer relief of it. as if even this, even the gentle tug of your fingers through his curls, is a high he’s trying to stretch until it snaps.

and it always snaps.

bob needed coping mechanisms. dr. cornish, the one they assigned him after the thunderbolts briefing, liked to call them “rituals.” anchor points for an unstable mind. repetitive comforts that warded off the noise. he tried to adopt some of the healthier ones—you’d find him pressed against your chest like a child some mornings, nursing at your nipple with a single-mindedness that stole the breath from your lungs. the fifth time that day, no less. sometimes with tears drying on his cheeks, sometimes with a smile against your skin.

other times, it was baking.

that's one you could get behind. he was good at it—shockingly so. quietly focused, movements precise like he was defusing a bomb instead of folding batter. maybe it was the control. the order. the step-by-step promise that if he did everything right, sweetness would come out of the wreckage.

but there was still something wrong with how he looked at you when you ate it.

not just hunger. not just lust. reverence. the kind of look that should’ve been reserved for a god—if bob believed in anything higher than your moan when the spoon hit your tongue.

“this is so good, bob,” you’d said once, mouth full of still-warm vanilla cake. you were just being honest. it was good. light, soft, and impossibly fluffy.

but his face went red. and below the counter, you caught the twitch of his cock in his sweatpants. the way his fingers clenched the edge of the marble so hard you heard it creak.

he got hard from that.

from your praise.

and now?

now you’re sat in front of bob, bob’s legs slightly spread on the bed, his cake frosting is everywhere. slicked across his stomach, smeared over his thighs. he’s got a piping bag discarded on the nightstand, and the tip of his cock is flushed deep pink, glistening with milk pre and vanilla-sugar cream in a mess you can’t tell apart.

his mind is like a bee hive, he’s high, high off your touch, the mere thought of this moment. you want to taste what he made. you want to taste him. every pass of your tongue makes him sob.

“love when y—you do that,” he gasps, hips jerking up to meet your mouth. his fingers tangle in your hair, frosting slicking your scalp. “wanna bake for you more. wanna feed you. wanna be ‘s good for you.”

it’s breathless. mindless. the kind of manic devotion you used to hear in his voice when he described scoring meth on a dirty downtown corner, how it made the sky fall away and time collapse into a tunnel of white.

only now, it’s you. your praise. your mouth on him like some kind of holy retribution for all the years his body went unloved.

you take him deeper, and the milk pre leaks out in thick drips that mix with the frosting. it’s obscene. sticky. it clings to your lips, your chin, your tongue. bob groans like he’s being sanctified.

yeah, baking was good.

healthy. normal. or at least whatever normal meant for the two of you. a rhythm that made sense, something you could explain if ross’s team ever asked how he was coping. you could say, he’s staying clean. he’s baking. he’s using his hands for something that doesn’t kill people or break bones. and it would be true.

but what you couldn’t explain—what wouldn’t make it into his logs or therapy sessions or mission briefings—was bob’s infatuation with your arousal.

that wasn’t healthy. it wasn’t even about sex, not really. it was closer to need, the same primal, destabilizing kind that used to claw up his spine when he was coming down off meth. back when his body would turn inside out trying to chase the next high, chewing through hours, days, memories, just to feel anything again.

it’s obscene. sick, even.

the way his golden eyes gleam when you’re spread out for him like an offering, the slick between your thighs catching the light like it’s sacrament. he stares like a man who’s found god at the bottom of a spoon. he shudders when you drip—literally shudders, full-body tremors rolling down his spine—and then his mouth is on you like nothing else matters.

he’s whining into your core, greedy and wet, his mouth messy with your slick. not dainty licks. no performance. just raw hunger. sloppy and animal. his nose grinds into your clit with every upward drag of his tongue, breath sharp and hot as he pants against your folds.

pink lips swollen and glazed with arousal—your arousal—he moans like he’s being spoon-fed ambrosia.

you feel the mattress jolt rhythmically beneath you, and that’s when you realize his hips are rocking into it—humping like a teenager, rubbing himself against the sheets with frantic, desperate friction. he’s not touching himself. not really. his arms are locked around your thighs, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, but his cock drags uselessly against the bed, leaking precum onto the sheets in long, creamy smears that soak into the fabric.

the bed is wet beneath him—obscenely so—and you don’t know if it’s spit, slick, or that heavy stream of milk-pre that keeps dripping from the flushed tip of his cock.

you try to pull away once—just to breathe—but his arms tighten instantly, almost bruising.

“no,” he gasps against you. “no, baby—need it. please. i’ll be good, i swear—i just need to finish—need to taste all of it—”

you go still at the tone. that shaking, stuttering panic in his voice that sounds exactly like the way he spoke the first time he described a come-down. that same hoarse terror of having tasted heaven and knowing it would leave him.

and now? now your body is his new fix.

“what do i do?”

your voice cracks slightly, softer than you meant it to be, but you don’t take it back. “is there anything i can do?”

you’re in one of the old auxiliary lounges, where the plaster is peeling from water damage and the overhead light flickers like it’s choosing its own rhythm. the thunderbolts base isn’t exactly warm—ross’s money goes to suppression collars and clean containment zones, not comfort—but the space here feels lived-in. abandoned cushions scattered across the floor. a broken projector in the corner, dust covering the lens. the scent of weed hangs heavy in the air like incense from another world—slow-burning, warm, and strangely grounding.

ava and yelena are here already, sunk low into mismatched cushions. you didn’t expect to find anyone when you pushed open the door. least of all them—yelena with her ever-present smirk and chip on her shoulder, and ava, distant as a half-finished ghost. the air is thick with smoke and the quiet echo of some half-finished conversation. you catch it in fragments—something about schedules, about the facility’s restrictions tightening again after he broke through another training room wall.

you hadn’t planned to talk about bob. not really. but the words slipped out like a loose thread you pulled too hard. thankfully you hadn’t told them everything, not the titty sucking, not his unusual obsessions, just the necessary. 

“i need bob to develop a habit,” you said, pacing slightly, arms folded tight across your chest. “a healthy one. something small. something that helps.”

ava didn’t say anything for a moment. you thought she was ignoring you, lost in whatever tension was holding her shoulders so rigid. but she looked up, and her gaze was steady, the kind that makes you feel like she’s already weighed your heart on a scale and found it just barely balanced.

“well,” ava finally said, lifting the blunt in her hand and eyeing it like it was a practical tool rather than a vice, “this is something.”

you frowned. not out of judgment—but hesitation.

“it’s still weed.”

yelena raised an eyebrow. “and?”

“he used to be an addict.” you didn’t say the drug. you didn’t need to. they both knew. the shadows of bob reynolds’s history clung to every whispered briefing and side-eyed glance from new agents. “i’m not sure it’s safe. what if it’s a slippery slope?”

yelena exhaled sharply, not annoyed—more like someone trying not to laugh at something that isn’t funny. she leaned back, arms draped over the edge of the couch, her russian accent thicker than usual as she said, “you know what else is a slippery slope? repressing everything until he explodes a ceiling panel.”

you didn’t smile, but your lips twitched.

“he’s… overwhelmed,” you admitted. “there’s nothing between him and the world anymore. not even the wrong things. no armor. no filter. just him.”

that quiet you always feared settled over the room. the kind of quiet where everything that needed saying sat too close to the surface.

“he’s not going back to that,” you added quickly. “the meth. i know him. he’s—he’s past that. but the rest of it… i don’t know how to give him something to hold onto.”

yelena tilted her head. “you don’t. not alone. he has to want to hold it.”

then ava shifted, and for a moment you thought she was going to disengage again. but instead, she reached beside her into a small tin box. quietly, without drama, she took out a slim, clean blunt wrapper, a soft brown papery roll, and held it out.

“don’t light it,” she said. “don’t smoke it, not until he’s ready at least, just—hold onto it. think about whether it’s worse to give him nothing than to give him something small.”

she handed you a small sealable bag too. not heavy. just enough flower to roll a tight, simple blunt.

the paper crackled slightly in your hands.

“does this help you?” you asked.

ava’s expression didn’t change. “sometimes. when i phase too much, i can’t feel gravity. can’t feel my own weight. this pulls me back. not always. not perfectly. but enough.”

that stayed with you.

not perfectly. but enough.

you looked over at yelena. her eyes were sharper than usual. maybe she’d smoked less than she let on. maybe she was always sharper than she acted.

“i’d rather him have a little control over something,” you murmured, “than none at all.”

yelena smiled faintly. “then you’re already ahead of half the people who’ve tried to manage him.”

the weight of the blunt paper in your palm felt strange. like it carried more than it should. but it wasn’t loaded yet. not with meaning. not with history. not until you brought it to him.

you didn’t know what he’d say. if he’d flinch. if he’d beg for it. if he’d refuse.

but maybe this wasn’t about curing him. maybe this wasn’t about fixing a man who could crush continents and still wake up crying in your lap.

maybe it was about giving him a moment. just one moment where the static faded and he could feel something gentle.

you slide the window open with both hands, the metal frame groaning softly as it gives way.

the air outside is cool, not cold, but crisp in that way that promises storm clouds far off on the horizon—maybe days away. it smells like ozone and dirt and trees that have long since surrendered to the lab-converted facility grounds. you leave it wide open, enough for the scent to reach the bed and lift the heaviness from the air inside.

two weeks.

two weeks since ava gave you the small little bag.

you reach into the drawer like it’s something sacred, fingers curling around the soft bag ava gave you and lifting it out with quiet reverence. you don’t speak, not yet. just move with purpose. calm. like this is a habit you’ve done before. like you aren’t still caught somewhere between guilt and resolve.

bob watches you from the bed.

he’s stretched out across the mattress, loose grey t-shirt tugged slightly at the hem from the way he’d been curled there moments ago. there’s always a quiet tension in him, even now—like his body doesn’t know how to be still unless it’s pressed to yours, wrapped around you like a question he can’t stop asking. his eyes follow your every move, curious but cautious, like he’s trying to decode something you haven’t said aloud.

you climb onto the bed beside him, moving slowly. no words. you place the small bag between you like it’s something fragile. not a drug, not a solution—just something else. something new. it sits there, nestled in the folds of the comforter, light as air and heavier than guilt.

it feels like offering something at an altar. just the two of you. a very, very small cult of your own design.

bob stares at it.

then at you.

a slow smile breaks across his face—gentle at the edges, stretched thin with something heavier beneath it. it isn’t mocking. not quite playful, either. it’s soft and cautious, the kind of smile someone offers after surviving a collapse. his gold-flecked eyes seem to flicker with recognition. not of the bag itself, but of what it means for you to give it to him. to trust him with it.

there’s history behind that look. shared history. unearthed in your bed, in the quiet tension of his comedown nightmares, in every time he’s reached for you instead of something chemical.

“i’ve smoked weed before, if that’s what you’re stressed about,” he says, voice featherlight and teasing, though there’s a question buried somewhere in it. “when did you leave—to get it?” his tone shifts. less joking. a flash of something a little wounded. like he’s asking, did i lose time again? did you go somewhere and i didn’t follow?

you settle beside him again, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight. the room is quiet in that specific, padded way it always gets when bob is calm—calm enough not to break it. you glance at the bag, then back at him.

“ava gave it to me. she said it helps her come back into her body. when she phases too much.”

bob nods, just once, slow. his hands don’t move. they stay crossed over his chest, protective, hesitant. like if he reaches too fast, the intimacy will collapse and he’ll shatter something.

you hesitate. “i thought it might help you. i didn’t want to push anything. that’s why i waited.”

he stares at you for a long second, then lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “i already have things that help me,” he mutters, lips pink and pouting, breath catching a little. “can we just do what we usually do?”

and you hear what he’s really asking: are you getting sick of me? am i too much today?

your answer is immediate.

“yes. of course.”

his next question is soft, almost startled by your quickness.

“now?”

you barely nod. but that’s all he needs. the moment doesn’t erupt—it dissolves, like a sugar cube dropped into hot water. melting on contact. losing shape. sweet, cloying, overwhelming.

bob melts into you with a desperation that feels ancient, almost reverent. his cock is flushed, leaking, and slick with need already—just the sight of you has him soaked and sticky, dribbling messily onto the dip of his stomach. your fingers wrap around him like muscle memory, and he chokes on a whine, thrusting helplessly into your palm. his head buries into your chest as though he could crawl inside your skin, mouth wet and needy against your breastbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses over your sweat-damp skin.

you stroke him slowly, firmly, and his hips stutter. but after a long, trembling second—he pulls away.

“wait,” he gasps, his voice tight and hoarse. “wait—wait, i want—”

you expect him to say he wants you to keep going. or to finish him. or to ride him until he forgets his own name. that would’ve been simpler. expected.

but he slips from your grasp like something slithering down a drain and drops between your thighs with the urgency of a man crawling to an altar.

you suck in a breath.

bob’s fingers hook into the band of your underwear and he pauses when he feels it—how soaked it is, how ruinously wet. his eyes flutter. a tremor runs down his spine. when he breathes out, it sounds like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

then his tongue flicks out—just once. a single taste against the damp fabric. a sample. a test.

the moan that follows is guttural. obscene. he shakes like something short-circuiting.

then he tears the fabric aside entirely.

two fingers push into you fast, curling upward immediately like he’s been here before, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. and he does. you feel it in the way his breath catches, in the way his shoulders hunch as he groans into your inner thigh.

“fuck,” he chokes, voice thick, reverent. “fuck, there it is. there you are—give it to me, please, i promise i earned it—”

his fingers are soaked in seconds. slick strings down his knuckles, dripping messily onto his wrist, his forearm, pooling into the pale hairs of his arm. he doesn’t stop. he watches it coat his skin with wide, worshipful eyes—like he’s just been handed a chalice of liquid salvation.

he slides his fingers back through your folds. deliberate. tender. dragging every last drop out of you and smearing it across his palm, like he’s anointing himself with it.

“i need all of it,” he murmurs. “please. don’t—don’t stop me. i need all of it.”

and you let him. because it’s not want in his voice anymore—it’s need, low and cracked and vulnerable. as if this isn’t sex anymore. as if this is what keeps him tethered to his body. to reality. to you.

then he’s off the bed. ungraceful, stumbling a little as he moves. his boxers cling halfway down his thighs, and his cock bobs with every shaky breath he takes—angry red and shining with precum, twitching like it’s still reaching for your hand. but he’s focused now. possessed.

he reaches for the tin on the nightstand with trembling hands. opens it with care, reverence. fingers still glossy with your slick, he spreads the weed. adds more with a shake of the tin. he doesn’t wipe his hands before rolling. he doesn’t want to. instead, he drags his wet fingers along the paper, smearing your arousal into the crease with slow, circular motions. the mixture is darkened, muddied. his hands are filthy with it.

there’s no hesitation. no shame. he groans as he does it, low in his throat, the sound pure and broken.

the weed darkens. your slick coats it in glistening trails—milky and viscous, seeping into the crumbled flower like a slow infection. he mixes it with methodical slowness, hands dirty and glistening, not bothering to clean himself. he doesn’t want to. every movement is a sacrament.

then he lays out the paper. flat and clean. a blank page, soon to be rewritten in you.

he spreads the weed. presses it down with your wetness still on his fingers, dragging sticky circles into the paper’s seam. it stains dark. faintly pink, faintly cloudy. a corrupted ritual.

he doesn’t wipe off the excess. just rolls, slow and precise. the blunt comes together loose and heavy with wetness, a messy thing wrapped in prayer. and when it’s time to seal it, he doesn’t even blink.

his tongue drags along the edge—coating it with spit and come, warm breath misting over the paper. his lips are glossy with arousal and resin when he pulls away.

the lighter clicks. orange glow catching on his trembling hands.

he brings the blunt to his lips. inhales. deep. like he’s starving.

the first hit makes his chest jolt. he coughs once, eyes squeezing shut—but when he exhales, the smoke rolls out slow and thick, spiraling upward in a fog of earthy haze tinged with something more intimate. the air smells like resin and sweat. like sex and something holy. he’s breathing you in, you’re in his lungs.

he climbs back onto the bed like a man crawling toward god.

you’re spread open still, thighs parted. his eyes go glassy again when he sees you. the glowing end of the blunt smears ash across your stomach as he lowers himself, one hand gripping your thigh like he needs grounding.

“just gonna slip inside,” he murmurs, voice cracked and boyish. “i’ll be good. gentle. i promise.”

you nod. his whole body shudders—no, convulses—like something bigger than lust is tearing through him. his hips twitch forward involuntarily, like muscle memory dragging him to where he already imagines himself buried. his cock nudges between your folds, and the sound he makes isn’t a moan so much as a whimper. half-formed. desperate.

then he blinks, eyes glassy, realigning his body like it’s hard to remember what’s real. his cock, flushed deep red and sticky with precome, slides against you, dragging through the mess you’ve made together. your slick coats him in thick strings, clinging from his shaft to your cunt like a second skin. he gasps. the sound is hoarse—cracked from smoke and begging. it’s the same kind of noise he used to make coming down from a binge, the same full-body tremble, the same too-much-too-soon terror. only now, it’s you. your heat. your wetness.

and then he presses in.

it’s not graceful. it’s raw. sloppy. his tip catches, then pushes past with a sticky squelch that’s downright filthy, like your body’s too wet to offer any resistance. his breath catches, lips parting in a silent cry as your walls clamp down. he twitches already, cock jumping in your grip like it’s surprised you took him in. every vein, every pulse, every thick inch pushes through you with painstaking slowness, like he’s trying not to overdose on the sensation.

you see it in the way his face contorts—forehead drawn tight, mouth slack, golden eyes flickering. awe, horror, worship. all tangled together. like he thinks he’s desecrating something sacred just by being allowed inside.

“fuck!—oh god, you—” his voice breaks into a sob. “you feel better than anything i’ve ever—fuck—better than light, better than flying, better than—than meth—”

he chokes the last word like it burns his tongue, but he means it. you can feel the sincerity in his shudder, the way he buries himself deeper, inch by inch, until your hips meet. his balls press flush to you, soaked now in your slick, and the wet heat of his release chamber rests low and full against your cunt. his whole body curls around you like you’re shelter, like he needs to get closer than skin.

he’s still holding the blunt between trembling fingers, the cherry burning low. ash trails across your thigh from the way his hand keeps jerking with every little pulse of your cunt around him. he tries to raise it to his mouth, but his arm won’t stop shaking—his thrusts have short-circuited his motor control, his need so overwhelming it’s shorted him out completely.

so you guide him—gently, wordlessly—taking the blunt from his fingers and pressing it to his lips like a mother nursing a fevered child. his mouth opens instantly, compliant, hollowing his cheeks around the inhale. he whimpers as he takes it in. then he grabs your face, pulling you close with trembling urgency.

“let me… give you something too.”

he kisses you with smoke still in his lungs, and the moment his lips touch yours he exhales. the heat rushes into you, tasting like weed and sex and something rawer—saliva and your own arousal still smeared across his tongue. the kiss is soaked, wet and messy, full of smoke and spit and want. he moans into your mouth as he exhales, and the sound vibrates down your throat like a tremor. you can taste the thc on him, sharp and bitter, but what coats it is unmistakably you. you’ve become part of him, even in the air he breathes.

he doesn’t let you go.

“wanna stay inside you forever,” he mumbles, delirious now, starting to thrust. the rhythm is nothing—just a series of shallow, broken movements, like his hips can’t remember how to fuck properly because all his focus is on not exploding. “don’t wanna leave. don’t make me leave—please, don’t—”

“i’m not,” you whisper, holding his jaw. his pupils are blown wide, but the rims glow gold. he looks unhinged. beautiful. gone.

somewhere in that molten light, the void watches from behind his eyes. lurking. curious.

“he likes when you’re like this,” bob murmurs, voice strained and breathless against your throat. “when i’m begging. ruined. he thinks it’s fucking hilarious.”

you grip his jaw tighter, eyes blazing. “then let him watch.”

bob’s whole body jolts. the sound he makes is obscene—nearly a sob, loud and broken. his hips stutter as he fucks you harder now, with more desperation than finesse. the blunt is still clutched between your two fingers, smoke leaving a sooty trail along your belly, on your sheets. ash clings to sweat. your skin is sticky with it—damp with his heat, your slick, his come beginning to leak out with every snap of his hips.

his forehead presses to yours. sweat drips from him in hot rivulets, staining the sheets beneath you both. “i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” he’s sobbing now. “you’re gonna make me come. you’re gonna ruin me. don’t stop—don’t stop squeezing—feels so good, so tight, so fucking wet, i can’t—”

you squeeze down on him. deliberately. relentlessly.

and bob lets out a sound which seems like a choked scream.

his orgasm hits him like a convulsion—hips jerking, cock throbbing violently inside you as his come spills out in thick, gushing pulses. it’s messy. it’s gross. you feel it flooding you, leaking down your thighs almost instantly. hot, viscous, obscene. like his body couldn’t hold it in a second longer. like every drop is penance.

he clings to you with the rawness of a man who’s lost everything before and is terrified to lose it again. his arms wrap around you, crushing you to him. he doesn’t pull out. his cock stays buried inside, twitching with aftershocks, like it doesn’t know what to do without you wrapped around it.

he slumps against you, full weight bearing down. you let him. you adjust him to your side when he finally softens, and you raise the blunt to his mouth every few moments as his body tries to come back down. he doesn’t even notice when more come leaks out of you, pooling under your thighs. doesn’t flinch at the way the sheets are soaked. he wants it. he needs the mess.

and from somewhere deep—lower than sound—the void stirs once more.

bob doesn’t flinch. not anymore. he just breathes against your neck, still panting like a newborn, lips parted, skin flushed with something that doesn’t fade.

“i love you,” he mumbles, over and over like a chant. “i love you. don’t make me go back to being alone. please—please.”

“you’re not,” you say, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “you’re not alone. i’ve got you.”

the room is thick with smoke, pungent and heady. the air is dense with sex and sweat, the cloying scent of arousal still sticky on your skin. ash streaks your thighs, smeared in lazy handprints. but none of it matters. what matters is bob. in you. on you. of you.

and he holds onto that like a man who has finally found a drug that doesn’t rot him. something pure. something feral.

something that wants to be inside him just as much as he wants to stay inside you.

[motomamita]

Hey love, my request is Konig coming home after months of smelling male peers and sweat and he comes home and reader is in the bath smelling good covered in bubbles and he can’t help but want to join

bf!könig × female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, smell kink!

könig entered the house with a tired step, carrying his heavy luggage as if it weighed nothing. He looked around for your small figure waiting for him with open arms, excited to tell him everything that had happened during his time away, but nothing.

"where are you, little angel?"

he growled, moving carefully through the hallways of the house, searching for you like a lost dog looking for its owner. he went to the kitchen, hoping to see you cooking something delicious to welcome him, then he made his way to your bedroom. hopefully, you'd fallen asleep staring at your phone. just as he was about to call your name, the sweet sound of your voice guided him to the bathroom.

könig peeked his head through the half-open door and saw you there, submerged in the bubbling bathtub. you were humming a song while playing with the foam, completely unaware of his gaze on your bare shoulders.

"taking a bath without me?"

you jumped at the sight of his large figure, standing and looking at you, still in his work clothes. you didn't get to say anything when he was already undressing in front of you, ready to join you in the bubble bath.

his body was as strong and imposing as ever, only now a series of new wounds decorated his skin, giving you an idea of ​​how difficult he'd been during this time. and his own body showed how much he missed you with a growing erection that sprouted from his boxers.

you made room for him behind you. könig entered the tub and sat behind you, allowing some of the water to spill out due to his size. he immediately hugged your shoulders, pulling you towards him and letting you feel his erection on your lower back. the smell of his sweat and dirt washed over you, but instead of disgusting you, it excited you with the warmth of his body.

könig's breath hitched against your neck, and his calloused hands caressed the delicate skin of your shoulders and neck. you involuntarily brought your hand to his cock, but he stopped you when he noticed your intentions.

"later you can have what yours, angel. now let me give your pussy some attention."

he murmured into your ear as one of his hands traveled to your crotch, where he found your clitoris. he gently stroked it with his fingers, feeling your body relax against him instantly. you closed your eyes, feeling his movements along with the combination of his sweat and the vanilla foam.

"poor little pussy, i neglected it for so long."

he delicately inserted one of his fingers inside you and found your spot. a moan escaped your mouth at the intrusion. you had gone all that time without touching you at könig's request, because according to him, he was the only one who should touch your pussy.

his finger caressed your insides with a slowness that was killing you. nothing but moans of his name came from your mouth, and your hands gripped his arms.

"that's it, feel it, feel my finger inside your tight pussy."

it only took a few more movements for you to finish on his finger, moaning his name. you might have felt embarrassed by how short you lasted, but you'd been away from him for so long that just a bite could make you finish again.

when you tried to lift yourself up to grab a towel, könig stopped you again.

"not so fast, you're going to cum on my cock now, angel."

[deunmiu-dessie]

a paralysis demon plays with you at night, this time you're finally awake to see it.

you're not sure how it started. just that one day it did.

you'd wake up with sticky inner thighs and ruined sheets; the familiar pulsing of your clit, begging for attention almost overwhelming, and your muscles ached as if you had run a marathon the day before. tentatively you'd dip your hand into your panties, nimble fingers finding the hood of your engorged clit, eyebrows pulling together at the almost painful feeling it brought; then they'd drift lower, immediately sinking into creamy, wetness that pooled from your entrance and smeared your labia.

this perverse ritual had become your waking nightmare, weeks upon weeks of waking up to ruined panties and an insatiable hunger that couldn't be sated alone. frustration and tears intertwine, as your lithe fingers desperately caress and coax your clit but to no avail. it'd leave you cranky most days and unapproachable the rest.

what the hell was happening? at first, you believed it to be mere wet dreams, lost in the recesses of your mind. but the inability to find release, even with your touch or the mechanical hum of a vibrator, defied all reason. your sanity teetered on the edge, the constant ache and unrelenting wetness between your thighs, the demands of university, and the grueling hours at the fast-paced coffee shop on campus only exacerbate your torment.

breathe; you had told yourself. you just needed a day to sleep, in order to get back into the groove of your usual hectic life. and so, you make the decision to abandon your responsibilities, forsaking work and classes, seeking solace within the confines of your bed.

but that day you saw it.

as the night grew later, you found yourself slipping in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep your eyes open, you clung to the last shreds of wakefulness, determined to finish the movie that had lured you in with its promises of thrills and chills. the laptop, perched on your chest, emitted a faint glow, casting eerie shadows across the room. but despite your best efforts, the battle was futile. with a heavy sigh, you surrendered, closing the laptop and setting it aside.

that should've been it, you should have gone to sleep and woken up the next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, no longer raging and horny, stressed and tired— just your normal self. yet, as if possessed by an unseen force, your eyes snap open, jolting your mind from the peaceful slumber you had so eagerly embraced, but not your body.

the room was cloaked in darkness, save for the feeble glow of a night light by the door. the time couldn't have been later than two in the morning, leaving you with ample hours until you needed to start getting ready for the day…so why were you up?

grunting you attempt to reach across to your desk and grab your water bottle, your throat suddenly dry and scratchy. but you couldn't move. in fact, your whole body felt numb, as if you'd been submerged in an ice-cold lake. you could feel the hair on your arms standing on end, your heart thumping painfully in your ribcage, desperate to escape from your chest and out the window just above your bed. frantic, your eyes darted around your room, flitting over the darkened corners and further on before subconsciously gazing upwards. it gazed back at you.

it was inky black, as if a void had materialized on your ceiling. barren of any discernible features, a foreboding presence emanated from it, sending chills down your spine. its limbs, neck, and torso twisted unnaturally, giving it a grotesque and elongated appearance. tears welled up in your eyes upon witnessing it, and you attempted to scream, only to find your mouth was sealed as if stitched with needle and thread.

the creature descended from above with erratic movements, settling above your figure and menacingly bringing its face closer to yours. this couldn't be happening, it must be a dream and in a desperate attempt to escape, you tightly shut your eyes and began counting backward from ten, gasping for air with each haggard breath.

however, a phantom graze on your thigh startles your eyes open. the creature was still there, its taloned, inky black hand slowly trailing along your clammy skin. even without a face, you could feel its gaze upon you, sinister and scheming. swallowing thickly, goosebumps follow in the wake of its touch, like tiny flames igniting your skin.

and almost as if accustomed to its advances, your body ignites with a dizzying heat, pussy weeping and your clit throbbing eagerly, readily despite your heart skipping and restarting all in one second with fear. its touch is tantalizing and deliberate, momentarily vanishing underneath your oversized night-shirt before returning to the heat of your thighs, talons pricking your flesh.

the creature's game finally comes to an end as it finds your fattened clit, which eagerly presses against the fabric of your panties, craving any form of touch. its assault is steady but firm and the touch immediately sets you off. your body, needy from weeks of being unable to orgasm, finally reaches its limit. you can feel the knot tightening in your tummy, a sharp, zinging pain in your lower abdomen, and the tensing of your thighs.

however, just as you approach your climax, the creature abruptly stops, shifting its touch to your slick inner thighs, face pressing closer to yours, leering and mocking. without the constant stimulation, your orgasm subsides, leaving you with a throbbing ache in your hips, cunt drooling with your arousal profusely.

your eyebrows cinch together, tears staining your cheeks before you're hit with a realization. the constant feeling of never being satisfied and not being able to cum, was because of this…creature.

its pitch-black visage suddenly splits into a sinister grin, revealing rows of serrated teeth gleaming with viscid, thick saliva. its voice is otherwordly deep, it's guttural, and raspy; fingers returning deftly to your clit to rub circles. "do you remember now?"

[rubys-domain]

when 4.1 drops i'm gonna finish ground exploration first and save underwater exploration for last. i want to stretch the underwater experience out as long as i possibly can

[niccolites]

a gouge in the wood - unfinished 1.7K words came back wrong au, simon 'ghost' riley x reader cw. violence

The thing wearing your ex-husband’s face stands in your living room and watches you.

You map out where he’s standing, the muck on his boots, flaking off and sticking to your wooden floors. There’s a mad moment where you think it may not be him - might not be Simon. Some other threat, that is raising the hair on the back of your neck. Some faceless military grunt, here to string you up, just like Simon had always feared they would.

You know him though, even when you cannot see his face. Something beyond knowing just the curve of his shoulders, like how he holds his right just an inch further back than his left. Where your amygdala takes over at the sight of him, like you know what he is before you think of his name.

You also know that it cannot be him, when you identified him on that cold autopsy table just a few hours ago.

You hover in the open doorway, eyes on him as if that will stop him from moving, and consider your options. You could run out the door, screaming, but you know his bulk belies his speed. You may make it back onto the step behind you before he caught you, but you wouldn’t get further than that.

You flex your keys in your hand before you step inside and let the door swing shut behind you. His eyes track your movement, dead on, centre. You wonder if you should stop thinking about it as a ‘he’ but rather something else. Something unknown, something that’s alive and grown and decided to invade your home.

“If you’re trying to intimidate me, can you knock it off,” you say, voice slightly tilted as if you want to make it a question. It doesn’t move. “What do you want?”

Now, that generates a response. Tiny, but a slight shift of his head. You’re too far away, but you like to imagine you can see his pupils flex. So, it does want.

Something about that, desire in something that you do not understand, has your body choosing flight. You flinch back, hare brain kicking you towards the door, and it’s on you.

You’re knocked back, skull rattling back against the door, its forearm braced against your chest and the other around your jaw. Thumb pressed into bone, catching sound there and stealing it.

You blink up at him, restrained. It’s Simon, you know it now that he’s closer. His dark eyes, you’d thought he still had his paint on his skin but you can see that it’s a bruise now. It’s also not. Maybe Simon was a little heavy handed in a way that you knew your friends wouldn’t like if they found out, but this was a new level. Simon always knew that the best way to corral you was to create the perimeter around you and let you tire yourself out. Patient, in the way that predators are when they crouch in high grass.

“Simon?” you wheeze, dots around your vision. A question.

The thing wearing your ex-husbands skin says your name. An answer.

You swing your hand up and only feel a brief satisfaction as it cuts the side of his shoulder. The feeling disappears when he doesn’t even flinch as he yanks your keys out and lets them drop to the floor with a terrible clink.

You shriek, muffled under the paw of his hand and he rattles your skull against the wall.

Your vision goes blurry, as if you have been submerged underwater. Pain blossoming out with each thump of your pulse, weighted and red.

You crumple but you’re caught and dragged upwards. You feel like you’re made up of static, as if someone has yanked the station and you’re hovering in some no man's land, an irritating buzzing noise that needles until it's fixed.

Given the way that you’re being carried, tossed over a shoulder and limp, you are placed on your couch with a lot more care than you expect.

You slump to the side, and the black lump that must be Simon - or whatever it is - shifts up and slants a cushion under your head.

He’s saying something, but you feel groggy, sickly. Unable to do anything other than stare at your coffee table as the sounds filter through to you. Water through paper, soggy and ruined.

Simon reaches up and takes off the balaclava, and he looks like he did on that cold table. Stubble grown out, you know he must be complaining about not being able to access a razor. Bruises cutting across his temple to his eyes. They said a bullet to his head. The way that you put down a dog.

“Fuck off,” you slur. He doesn’t crack a smile. He crouches down further in front of you so that your faces are level and you feel peculiar about being so close to his bare face. There had been a layer of deniability that you hadn’t truly believed when he’d been wearing the mask. At least you could maybe start to kid yourself that it isn’t him. The wrinkle of his brow, unbearingly intimate, this close to your eyes.

He reaches his hand out and into your hair. Pain whites out your vision - station found and blaring - and you whimper. “What -”

“Do you feel nauseous?” he asks, pulling his hand back, a jerk in his at your pained noise. He squints at his fingertips, the back of his hand against your cheek. His skin is so cold against your own, a block of ice against your fever.

The pain beats like your heart, and you can barely formulate a thought to force it out as a sentence. You blink at him, dumb and mute.

He shifts his hand and cups your cheek to hold your head steady. A balm, drawing sickness out of you and into him. You shut your eyes, inhaling deeply. A smell of dirt and moss lingers on him, the outside, dragged into your living. “Do you feel nauseous?” he repeats. The LT voice, commanding.  You grit your teeth against it, petulant.

“Yes, you fuck,” you groan, refusing to open your eyes again before you sick up all of the food that you ate that day.

He’s satisfied with your response, hand still as steady but melds into the curve of your face. Thumb on your temple, smooths your baby hairs out of your face. Like an apology, like you're a stunned bird in his hands and he didn't mean to break your wing.

“You’re dead,” you say, when he doesn’t move. You can feel the weight of his gaze on your face, but refuse to open your eyes to the rollercoaster that your body is on.

He grunts in response, knees clicking as he shifts on the floor.

No comforting response is forthcoming. You think of the bullet rattling around in his skull. No death will take, not even the real, permanent kind. It’s so ridiculous that you feel a manic laugh start to bubble up in your chest but you stifle it before it can escape.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he barks, shaking your head to jostle it until you cry out.

“Fuck you, asshole, I hope I fall asleep and die, you fuck,” you whimper.

He doesn’t have a further response to that, but stares you down until you stare back. Awake, against your will.

You drop your gaze to his shoulder, can see the cut in his jacket, where you managed to dig your keys in. You reach a hand up and press your thumb into the fabric, trying to part it to reach his flesh.

He lets you, his gaze still heavy on your face as if waiting for you to suddenly fall asleep. The look in his eye is different, but the weight of his attention is the same as it was before. Encumbering, to be loved by Simon. He had clutched on with both hands, but always had the stiff back as if waiting for the command to curl up and die.

You realise that you’re seeking something here that you cannot find in his hands. Some type of truth that touch will provide when your eyes won’t confirm it. His hands could be that cold for any reason. But here, in the meat of his shoulder, this is where you used to tuck your head under when it was cold at night.

There’s no comfort here. Simon is a stiff wall of flesh under your palm. Goose-flesh rise up all over your skin, your body finding a truth that you don’t want to acknowledge. Unsettling, like seeing something out of the corner of your eye and actually catching it in the full of your vision. 

You drop your hand, unsettled, and stare at a point over his shoulder.

Once he’s satisfied that you’re not going to drift off and get yourself killed, he gets up slowly. It’s unnerving, watching him move out of your vision and he completely disappears. He’s soundless, the faint shuffle of clothes as he moves before that disappears as well. If it wasn’t for the wet smell of mud that he’s left, you wouldn’t have known that he was in your home at all.

You stare out at your wall, unseeing. Fear of the thing in your home stops you from closing your eyes like you desperately want to. Sleep like molasses that drag your limbs down and leave you heavy. Drift downward like a weighed anchor, drowning.

Time slips away, meaningless. Memories feel like silk, forming in your mind before fluttering away, entire minutes forgotten. One moment Simon isn’t there, and then he’s back. The time between smacks together until it is thin enough to wear through in your mind. “It’s you,” you slur, although you don’t think he is.

He grunts, and reaches beneath you and hoists you up into his arms. The world takes a sharp turn and takes your vision along with it. You groan unhappily, but he ignores you and slings you around until you’re across his shoulders.

A mountain of a man, you had thought once. The view from the top is horrifying now that you’ve reached the peak, you tuck your head into his shoulder to hide from it. You wish he would hit your head again, you don’t remember your last journey up here just a few minutes ago.

“Where we goin’?” you ask, mouth choked in the cotton of his jacket.

“Out,” he says, helpfully. You throw your leg out in a pathetic attempt to kick him, which is so sad that he doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He opens the door of your car and places you in the passenger seat. His hand on your throat as he steadies your head.

It’s starting to rain, fat droplets that smack against the roof of your car.

“I’m going to pass out,” you let him know, polite, at least. The shift of his brow as he goes to snap at you again, but you’re yanked down into a pillowy darkness and you much prefer that company to this one.

[spiritualitygeek]

PAC: Their Sexual Fantasies About You (Fs channeled reading)

Disclaimer: This content is intended for adults aged 18 and over. Minors are strictly advised not to engage. This reading is for entertainment purposes only and should not be used as the basis for any major life decisions, particularly regarding health, finances, or legal matters. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.

1->2

3->4

5->6

Pile 1

Your future spouse is deeply sensual, the kind of lover who worships through touch. Their love language is physical, and they crave intimacy in the slowest, most tantalizing ways—drawing out every sensation, every breath, until you’re trembling under them.

They have a vivid imagination, and one of their favorite fantasies involves you, them, and a hot, steamy shower. They picture dim lighting, scented candles flickering, the air thick with heat as water cascades down your bodies. They imagine pressing you against the cold tile, the contrast against your warm, flushed skin sending a shiver through you. Their hands would be everywhere, lathering soap over your curves, massaging, exploring—taking their time to savor the feeling of your body beneath their touch.

They want to watch the way the water clings to your skin, how droplets race down your neck, your shoulders, your back. They fantasize about kneeling before you, kissing and biting their way up your thighs, their tongue tracing the path of the water. Or maybe they imagine pulling you into the bathtub instead, submerging you both in warmth, your bodies tangled together, slick with heat and desire.

But it doesn’t end there. No, in their mind, it always leads to something deeper, something raw. They picture you bent over beneath the rushing water, your back arched as they grip your hips, taking you in slow, deep thrusts that drive you insane. The sound of water splashing, heavy breaths mingling with the steam, the way your fingers claw at the fogged-up glass—every detail is burned into their thoughts.

For them, it’s not just about sex. It’s about immersion, about touch, about feeling every inch of you and making sure you feel every inch of them. They want to consume you, to make you melt under their hands, to hear your breath hitch as they claim you again and again—until the water runs cold and you’re both too exhausted to move.

Pile 2

Your future spouse sees sex as something deeply spiritual—an act of pure, soul-deep connection. They don’t just crave physical intimacy; they long to merge with you in a way that transcends the body, where every touch, every breath, every movement pulls you both into something sacred, something beyond the limits of flesh. They’ve already had you in every way imaginable—in their mind, in their fantasies, in the realm where energy speaks louder than words. If you've ever woken up from a heated dream, your body aching for someone whose face you can't quite remember, that was them, reaching for you across the unseen.

They're shy, reserved in the real world, not the type to sleep around or waste themselves on meaningless encounters. Sex, to them, isn't just pleasure—it's devotion, it's surrender, it's a universe unfolding between two souls meant for each other. Maybe they’ve been with others before, maybe they tried, but it never touched them the way it was supposed to. It was empty, disappointing, just flesh meeting flesh with nothing deeper beneath it. That’s why they stopped, why they decided to wait, to keep themselves for something real. For you.

But don’t mistake their restraint for innocence. They’re intensely sexual, their desire coiled tight, waiting to be unraveled by you. They might not have let themselves fully indulge before, but when they do—when it’s with you—they won’t hold back. They'll give you everything, let you break them apart and put them back together, let you push them to limits they didn’t know existed. There will be no shame, no hesitation—just raw, soul-consuming passion.

Maybe this is a twin flame connection, something written in the stars long before you even met in this life. They already feel you in their energy, in their dreams, in the silent moments where desire turns into longing. And when you finally come together in the flesh, it won’t just be sex—it’ll be a fucking revelation.

Pile 3

Your future spouse has a filthy mind—there’s no other way to put it. They’re into role-play, but not the tame kind. No, they love pushing boundaries, testing limits, watching the way your face shifts between shock and curiosity when they whisper their dirtiest thoughts in your ear. They’re the type to drop a fantasy so unfiltered, so downright filthy, that you'd pause mid-movement just to process if you heard them right. And they’ll revel in that moment, in the way your breath hitches, in the way your body betrays your innocence, betrays how much you want to hear more.

They've been a player for most of their life—cocky, experienced, and damn good at what they do. Not just because they’ve had practice, but because they know how to read a woman’s body like a language only they can translate. And with you? You’re their masterpiece. They love that you’re soft, untouched in ways that matter. It makes it all the more thrilling to corrupt you, to drag you into the depths of their desire and show you just how much you can take. Maybe they never thought of themselves as having a corruption kink before, but with you? With the way you shiver under their touch, the way you hesitate yet secretly crave everything they offer—they can’t get enough.

And they have one particular fantasy that won’t leave their mind: recording you. Not just for the act itself, but for the aftermath. For the teasing. For the way you’d turn red when they play it back, when they make you watch yourself unravel, your voice desperate, your body wrecked from the way they take you—hard, fast, relentless. You, who looks so innocent, so untouched, but when they have you? When they ruin you? You beg for more, again and again. And nothing turns them on more than knowing they’re the only one who gets to see you like that.

Pile 4

Your future spouse has a deep-seated desire for validation, stemming from unresolved Mommy/Daddy issues that they want to explore in the most intimate ways. They are drawn to the idea of submission, of kneeling at your feet—not out of weakness, but out of a need to worship and adore you. In their fantasies, they’re not just a lover—they’re completely surrendered to you, craving every bit of your power and control.

They get off on being claimed, on feeling as though you own them, body and soul. This goes beyond mere submission—it’s about giving you total dominion over them. They want you to take charge, to dominate them in ways that leave them breathless and wanting more. The thought of you being possessive, even a little toxic, thrills them—it stirs something deep inside them, something raw and primal. They want to feel like they are your property, your plaything, and they’ll do anything to make you feel in control.

Their kink for degradation comes alive when you punish them for their disobedience. They’ll test your limits, push your buttons, and look for ways to provoke you—just to see how far you’ll go. They want to see you angry, demanding, asserting your authority over them. And when you punish them, when you make them kneel and beg for your forgiveness, that’s when they truly feel seen, truly feel alive. It’s a heady mix of pain and pleasure, where each punishment brings them closer to the ecstasy of submission.

And then there’s the element of possession. They love the feeling of being owned, of having you claim them in ways that leave no doubt about who’s in charge. They don’t just want to be your lover—they want to belong to you completely, to feel your mark on them, to know that no one else will ever have them the way you do. The idea of you stepping on them, of taking them to their limits and beyond, excites them in ways they can’t even fully explain. They want to be taken, molded, shaped by you into whatever you desire, and they’ll gladly fall to their knees—physically, emotionally, spiritually—to prove their devotion.

Pile 5

Your future spouse has a taste for the unconventional, likely stemming from their exposure to erotic content that has shaped their sexual fantasies and desires. They don't just want to experience sex—they want to explore it in all its forms, including the thrill of multiple partners. This might involve both men and women, a dynamic where you’re not just with them, but also with others. It excites them to think about having you with someone else, to share you, to see you pleasure and be pleasured by someone else, while they do the same with another partner.

They fantasize about a foursome, an experience where the two of you are deeply immersed in a shared sexual encounter with others—whether it's watching you with someone else while they're engaged with someone else, or the two of you getting intertwined with others in a mix of bodies, moans, and pleasure. For them, it’s about pushing boundaries, about the heat of watching and being watched. They want to see you with others, to witness the way you move, the way you moan and respond to someone else’s touch, all while they’re lost in someone else’s body. It's a heady, erotic experience—orgasms building in waves as you all share the same space, bodies colliding in sync.

But here's the key—they are not about pushing you into anything you’re uncomfortable with. They’re fully aware of boundaries and are respectful of your desires. If you're into it, they'll embrace that side of themselves and be ecstatic to share that kind of sexual experience with you. If you're not into it, they won’t pressure you—they understand that everyone has different needs and desires, and they won't cross a line you’re not willing to go past. Ultimately, their fantasy revolves around the idea of sexual freedom and exploration, but always with mutual consent and respect.

Pile 6

Your future spouse is the ultimate exhibitionist, someone who thrives on the thrill of being watched, especially when it involves showing you off. They love the idea of making you theirs in the most public, daring, and provocative ways. It's not just about getting off—they want to see how you respond when the stakes are high, when there’s a risk of being caught, of others seeing your intimate connection. They’re addicted to the power dynamic that comes with being bold and brazen in public spaces, and they can’t wait to put that into practice with you.

One of their wildest fantasies is fucking you naked against the glass windows of your master bedroom, letting the world outside see how much they desire you, how passionately they can claim you. They fantasize about bending you over the balcony, the cool night air brushing against your heated skin, while they pound into you from behind. It’s not just sex—it’s a display, a way to show off just how sexy and dominant your connection is, how they can make you come undone in ways no one else could ever imagine.

They aren’t just limited to the privacy of your home. This extends to public places, like a secluded spot at the beach, where they can take you from behind, the waves crashing against the shore, your bodies moving together under the cover of the rocks, but still within reach of anyone who might happen to pass by. They love the danger, the excitement of possibly being caught, of teasing the world with the idea of what’s happening just out of sight.

They're the type to sneak off to the restroom during a packed party or club, pulling you into a stall for a quickie, not caring in the slightest that someone could walk in on you. The thought of being interrupted, of someone hearing the sounds of your bodies together, makes them harder, faster, hungrier. They crave the audacity of it all, of fucking you in a dark movie theater, with people sitting just a few feet away, completely unaware of the wild, dirty act unfolding between the two of you.

It was my first time channeling sexual messages. I hope I did it justice and it resonated.

For more pac content or free personal readings, follow me and stay updated.

- Love, Snow <3

[jaythes1mp]

Shallow

Yandere Batfam x Merfolk Reader ♧romantic♣︎

Aquaman, Aqualad, Mera, and any other underwater hero’s and creatures don’t exist in this.

||-→ I tried to make each pov a different style of writing ||

There was something so captivatingly beautiful about observing the humans from below the surface, as they went about their daily lives, traversing the Metro-Narrows Bridge. The elders had always warned you to keep your distance from the world above, but you couldn't resist sneaking glances at the peculiar, moving metal boxes zooming across the streets, or the striking figures donning vibrant spandex who soared through the skies at night.

The bridge, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, cast an ethereal light across the water of the river. This sight, enhanced by the night, would always catch your attention, especially when they appeared. Moving in and out of the shadows, darting around or simply standing on the railing, lost in their own worlds.

You had grown fond of observing them as they soared through the night sky, reminiscent of the graceful movements of swans. Their elegance was effortless, seemingly defying gravity as they traversed the air. It was in those moments, watching the sky people glide past, that you were struck by the rawness of their beauty.

You never dared to come too close to the surface during the day, the haunting tales from your pod serving as a constant reminder of the horrors that existed above the water. But the night was a different story; it’s when you were more willing to take risks. The darkness provided the perfect cover, shrouding you in obscurity as the humans slept.

Though you supposed that the real reason you continued to venture up to the surface was because it was the time that they emerged, gliding through the air and gracefully traversing the buildings. Their shadows, illuminated by the silvery light of the moon, seemed to dance in perfect harmony with the night. Always seeming to captivate your attention in a way that no underwater creatures could.

However, on this particular night, you noticed something out of the ordinary. One of the usually lively land creatures was sluggish and listless, moving with none of the fluid grace that you had come to admire. A deep crimson liquid seeped through the fabric of his suit, spattering across the spandex and staining it a dark, ominous hue.

You cautiously approached the surface, swimming closer than you had ever dared to before. Slowly, you emerged, peering just above the water's edge.

You couldn’t see the human clearly, obscured as he was by the sizable drop between the bridge and the water below, but the scent he carried was undeniable. There was something utterly alluring about his aroma. It was a stark contrast to the familiar scents of salt and oil you were used to underwater. You haven't come across anything even remotely similar to it before.

The land dweller was undeniably beautiful.

A loud crash shattered the silence, jolting your attention back to reality. Your gills flared out in alarm, and in your surprise, the soft bioluminescent glow of your tail dimmed down, a natural response to the potential threat.

You backed away, submerging yourself down into the safety that the depths of the water provided. Your gaze fixating on the figure in the distance, decorated in his familiarly vibrant red and yellow attire. This one hastily making his way to the blue-clad human's side, concern decorated across his face, his actions imbued with urgency. Mask torn from his face.

With a heavy sigh, you turned your back from the scene unfolding above, releasing a flurry of bubbles that rose to the surface. Your pods stern warnings echoing in your mind, a constant reminder of the dangers that lay in the world above.

You make it no more than fifteen feet before a thunderous splash shatters the silence, the seawaters ripples rolling across your skin and triggering an involuntary shiver, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your tail instinctively sprung into action, propelling you back with a rapid, powerful flick.

With a sudden movement, your arms encircled the man's sinking frame, securing a firm grip on his sides. Your eyes widening in shock at the contact, your webbed fingers digging into his flesh, anchoring him in place.

For a moment, you paused, studying him. Your eyes absorbing every little detail. From the man's soft, almost spongy flesh under your touch, how soft and almost squishy his land dwelling arms were, how they seemed to just give way to the touch of your webbed fingers. Then to the way the baby blue suit of his that clung to him, was torn and tattered, ripping away underwater. Your gaze lingering on the deep red liquid seeping out of his torso, staining his skin and leaving a trail of ominous scarlet. And then, your gaze travelled to the two bizarre, elongated limbs extending from his waist. A stark contrast to the streamlined grace of your own tail.

His lips parted, releasing a stream of bubbles, each one ascending to the surface before vanishing from sight. You watched as his body suddenly went limp in your arms, reminding you of the dire situation you had inadvertently involved yourself in. With a powerful flick of your tail, you swiftly propelled yourself to the surface, bringing him up so that he could breathe. Your gills flared out, working overtime to filter oxygen from the water while you waited, your hearts hammering in your chest.

When the human made no attempt to improve, limp and unresponsive, you couldn't suppress the deep hiss that escaped from the back of your throat. Your grip tightening around his frame, your tail coiled tighter around his legs, an attempt to stabilise and bring some form of response from him. Your eyes grew large in desperation as you shook him back and forth, each movement growing more frantic with the passing seconds.

You directed your attention to the deep red liquid that was oozing out of his abdomen, its thick, almost oily consistency spreading out in little waves around you in the water. Coming out in shallow pulses. You tilted your head slightly, noting that the fluid's flow didn't seem natural. It felt wrong, a gut feeling of sorts. You hastily reached for the pouch tethered to your hip, pulling out a woven bundle of seaweed and a salve prepared by the elders of your pod.

You delicately began to layer the salve over the gaping wound, taking care to press the woven seaweed into the lesion. The salve, a rich green and purple, had a cooling effect as it made contact with the human's skin. A crucial aspect due to its high iodine content, which helps to close the large gash. As the ointment came into contact with the blood, it began to congeal and bind the tissue together, halting the bleeding.

However, you were acutely aware of the human, who remained unresponsive. His chest, which should've been rising and falling with each inhale, lay still. A sudden panic clutched at your hearts, threatening to overwhelm you. You weren't sure what the proper human anatomy was, but it was abundantly clear that he needed to breathe.

You placed a webbed hand on his chest, the flesh there surprisingly firm. You pushed down, then up again, attempting to mimic the breathing motions you had seen him and others do. Your heart pounded in your chest as you pleaded for him to respond, a silent mantra running through your head. With urgency, you placed a firm grip on the back of his neck, tilting his head back, the gills on your neck flaring out to pull in as much oxygen as they could. Your tail coiling tightly around his waist to keep him afloat.

Despite the pressure you exerted, there was no response from him. His chest remained still, no signs of life. Your breath hitched at the sight, a sense of desperate desperation washing over you. You were frantically trying to keep his head tilted back while the water was washing over his face, the cool liquid creating small ripples that mirrored the urgency of the moment. His body remained motionless, unresponsive to your frantic attempts. You could feel the pressure building in your own chest, your gills working overtime to extract oxygen.

In a final, desperate attempt, you lean in closer, positioning yourself to allow your webbed fingers to forcibly pry open his parted lips. You took in a deep breath and expelled it through the opening, pushing every ounce of air you could manage into his unresponsive lungs.

You repeated the action multiple times, exerting every ounce of effort to force air into his trachea. Each breath, heavy and laboured. You finally pulled back, allowing yourself a moment of respite. Your breaths came out ragged and sharp, a stark contrast to the steady, undisturbed water around you.

As he remains unresponsive, his body frighteningly limp, your body goes slack, a wave of disappointment washing over you. Reluctantly, you release your grip on him and let him go, his body now floating eerily close to yours. You close your eyes tight, trying to swallow the lump in your throat that was rapidly forming.

You flinch at the sudden and unexpected contact, your eyes fluttering open. An alarmed hiss escaped once again through your lips, more out of surprise than anything else. Just as you were about to submerge yourself underwater, a firm hand grasped your shoulder, its grip strong and unwavering.

"Y-you're...alive.", you stuttered out, a mixture of disbelief and awe laced in your raspy voice. The hand on your shoulder felt firm and real, a stark contrast to the nightmarish scenario you had just been a part of.

“Nightwing?” Red Robin's voice cuts through the quiet night, bouncing off the empty alleyways. Frustrated, he takes off his comms, readjusting them to try again for the sixth time in the last ten minutes.

"Dick, come in," he practically growls out, tapping on his device with a little more force than necessary.

“Where the hell are you?” he mutters, staring up at the tall buildings. Dick’s always late, but this was getting ridiculous. With a sigh, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms as he waits.

A low, familiar voice crackles on the other end of the comms. “Stalker.”

Tim rolls his eyes, recognising the voice immediately. It was too late in the night to put up with him. “Jason.” he sighs, “What do you want. Have you heard from Dick?”

“Not a word.” The response is curt, and the annoyance in Jason’s voice is obvious. He rarely joined in their patrols, preferring to stick to his own methods of dealing with things.

Tim lets out a frustrated huff, tapping his fingers impatiently against his arm. Of course Dick would pick now to go radio silent.

He ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment to let out a frustrated groan. He was stressed enough as it is, none of this was helping.

“You’re patrolling the Narrows?” Jason’s voice breaks through Tim’s thoughts, pulling him back to reality. He looks around, taking in the surroundings with a frown. The Narrows was never a good place to be alone.

“Yeah.” he responds, not taking his eyes off of the shadows. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know, Dick’s nowhere to be seen. In or out of uniform.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Tim can practically hear the smirk in Jason’s voice.

“Need backup?” he offers, amusement clear in his tone. The elder boy mocking him.

Tim scowls, shaking his head even if he knew Jason couldn’t see him. “No.” he replies curtly. “I’m not a child, I can handle this myself.”

“Sure, kid.” Jason’s response is just as dismissive. “I’ll come check on you in a bit anyway. Make sure you haven’t gotten your ass kicked.”

Tim’s scowl deepens at Jason’s reply, not appreciating the offer of help — or the nickname. “I don’t need a babysitter.” he grumbles. “I’m going to find Dick, and I don’t need your help.”

There’s a pause, and Tim can practically hear the eye roll from Jason. “Whatever you say, Replacement. I’ll be there soon.”

“No—” Before Tim can protest, the comms go silent. Damn it, Jason.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, biting at the inside of his cheek. The last person he needed to see right now was Jason. The last time he’d come face to face with the man, things didn’t go so well.

Tim grits his teeth and pushes himself off of the wall. He had better things to do than get into a fight with his older brother. Like finding his other older brother.

With a huff, Tim starts walking, making his way through the narrow alleys of the Narrows. It’s quiet, eerily so, and his instincts are on high alert.

Everything feels off. The air is still, and he can’t shake the feeling of being watched. His breath stutters in his chest, but he pushes the feeling down. He had work to do.

“Dick?” he calls out, his headset’s blinking green light signalling the message going through. He glances around cautiously as he moves. “Nightwing, come in. Can you hear me?”

There’s no response, and Tim tries again. Nothing but static. His shoulders tense, the unease growing in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t like Dick. The man was always on top of communication.

Tim continues forward, his footsteps quick and light. He keeps his eyes scanning the shadows around him, but the silence is deafening. Where the hell is he?

A muffled crunch breaks the silence, and the boy freezes, his breath hitching. It was faint, coming from somewhere off the alley in front of him. His heart rate quickens, and he carefully shifts on his feet, trying to pinpoint the source.

There was something across the street. Someone.

Tim squints, his eyes trying to make out what it was. It was too dark to tell. Damn it, why can’t Dick be here to deal with this..

He’s too used to working in a team, having the security of someone else there to watch his back. The someone’s in question usually being Batman or Nightwing.

He steels himself, slipping into a fighting stance and taking slow steps forward. He can’t let his guard down, not now.

As he moves, the shape across the street shifts. It’s still far away, but from the size and height, he could tell it was definitely a figure.

His comms device beeps, startling the boy and nearly causing him to stumble. He quickly scrabbles to check it, hoping for some sort of answer or communication.

“Red.” Jason’s voice comes through, static breaking up some of the message. The device was clearly reaching a limit. “Can you hear me? Dick’s in trouble.” The voice, as crackling as it was over the broken comms, sounded dishevelled and panted. Jason rarely called for help.

With a final glance at the figure across the street, Tim’s eyes flicker back down to the comms in his hand. Jason found him.

“Where are you?” he asks, not wasting a second as he sets off at a sprint. He didn’t care what kind of trouble Nightwing had gotten into, he just needed to get there.

“Don’t worry about me. Get to Metro-Narrows Bridge.”

The urgency in Jason’s voice has Tim’s heartbeat racing. He doesn��t question it, just continues sprinting. He knew the bridge, and knew it was far.

“...” he grits his teeth. “I’m on my way.”

Tim hits the wall with a pained gasp, eyes squeezed shut as he doubles over coughing at the impact. His vision swims. Shit.

He lets out a sharp gasp, the breath knocked out of him as he’s smashed against the hard bricks. The pain doesn’t have time to register, as his mind is sent into a panicked frenzy.

He sucks in a low breath, trying to clear his head and figure out what the hell just happened. There’s a shuffle of feet, and the distinct sound of metal being unsheathed.

The attack was too precise, too sudden. He grunts, trying to push himself back away from the wall, but a large hand keeps him pinned.

His head finally stops swirling, and he can focus on the large figure in front of him. Not good.

He’s a towering wall of a man, arms bigger than Tim’s head. He’s muscular, clearly built like a brawler. The metal that had unsheathed was a knife, the sharp, gleaming blade being held firmly in the man’s large hand.

“No more running.” the man growls, his other hand still keeping Tim pinned against the wall.

Tim glared up at him.

He’s been in situations similar to this before. He’s fought and won against opponents bigger than him, more experienced than him. He needed to stay calm, and assess the situation.

With a pained grunt, he pushes against the man’s arm, struggling to break free. The man just leans closer, his breath hot in Tim’s face.

The smell of smoke and old alcohol fills Tim’s nose, making him want to retch as the man sneers at him. “Struggle all you want, kid.” he drawls. “You’re coming with me one way or another..” Tim clenches his jaw.

He analyses the situation quickly. His equipment was in his belt, but pinned tight against the wall left him with very little mobility. He had to find a way to get away swiftly, before the man could do him any serious harm.

Tim’s mind races, trying to work out a way to get himself out of this. He’s too close quarters to the man, and any attempt to get away would lead to him getting a knife in his gut.

The man’s grip tightens, making him gasp as the knife is held closer to his skin. His eyes darted around, searching for anything useful. He would have to time this right. “Stop squirmin.’” The man’s gruff voice rang out.

Tim ignores him, grunting as he struggles against the hand pinning him. There had to be something he could use to—

A gleam of something metal catches his eye, and he glances down, spotting a metal pipe sticking out of an open garbage bin. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.

Tim takes in a shallow breath, his mind racing for a second. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, trying to keep the man talking and distracted.

“Don’t try any shit, sidekick.” He tightened his hold on the boy, using his other hand to get out a walkie-talkie from the pouch on his chest.

Sidekick? Tim’s teeth gritted, a spark of anger flaring up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t just a sidekick.

Tim’s eyes glance down again at the pipe, trying to calculate his next move. He watched as the man brought the walkie-talkie up to his mouth, his heart rate increasing as he prepared to act.

“I got a bird out here,” the man grunted into the device, keeping his eyes fixed on Tim. “Found him in the-“

He barely had time to react before Tim acted. With a sudden burst of strength, he jerks forward, wrenching himself free from the man’s grip. He immediately drops down, grabbing the metal pipe and brandishing it like a weapon. Flinging it into the man’s hand that held the radio. The impact caused him to drop it, as he let out a cry of pain, stumbling back.

Tim didn’t hesitate. He quickly used the momentary opening of shock and pain to his advantage, striking the man hard in the stomach with the pipe. The man grunted, his hand instinctively going to where he’d been hit.

He wasn’t about to give the thug any time to recover. He brought up a leg and kicked out fast, nailing him hard in the knee. The man yelled out again, staggering back.

He raged, stumbling forward and landing one hard punch against Tim’s face.

The younger boy’s head snapped to the side from the hit, the force of it knocking his mask askew, cracking and splitting as he reeled back. His vision swims from the impact, but he can taste the distinct taste of blood in his mouth.

He stumbled back, bringing a hand up to his face and cursing, blood seeping down his face.

His head hurt. A lot. That one hit had left him dizzy, and his cheek stung like hell.

The pain is enough to clear his mind though, and he refocuses on the man in front of him. His lip is split, and his cheek feels like it’s on fire. His mask hangs half off of his face.

Tim grits his teeth, glaring at the man with a new found fire in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let some random thug take him out.

The perpetrator lets out a huff, spitting out a glob of blood onto the floor next to him. An ugly sneer plastered his face, and he stepped forward, reaching down for the knife that had been discarded on the ground. “You little shit.” he spat. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

His eyes flickered down to the knife held flimsily in his hand. He needed to get out of this. The man was bigger and definitely stronger, but obviously nowhere near as experienced as Tim was. He’s surprised that the thug had even managed to get in a decent hit to his face.

His mind is too preoccupied, caught up in the whirlwind of thoughts, and he fails to notice the man’s approach until the moment he's already upon him. The thug's fury makes him careless and ill-prepared, the sound of his stumbling footsteps betraying his presence due to the injury on his knee.

Tim quickly raises his arm instinctively, attempting to shield himself as the man’s towering frame comes charging at him. He’s tackled to the ground in a single swift move, the impact crushing his ribs against the concrete floor.

His back hits the ground, the air getting knocked out of him for the second time that night. The man’s weight pinned him to the ground, the air leaving his lungs in a loud gasp as he struggled.

The man had the knife clutched in his hand, the gleam of the blade reflecting the lights of the city as it was raised up, aimed to strike.

Drake nearly sneered at the sight. He’s an amateur. Over confident in himself and relying solely on force.

Tim’s eyes darkened, his glare locked on the man above him. He was not going to be defeated by some two-bit mugger.

He kicked out at the man, aiming for his still injured knee. The man grunted as he took the kick, shifting off balance for just a second.

It was enough of an opening for Tim to react. He pushed up on the man, using the momentum to roll them both over, switching their positions and taking the top. He wasted no time in smashing the man’s head against the ground, knocking him out stone cold. Blood pooling down against the pavement.

He paused, breathing heavily as he stared down at the man. His lip stung as blood still trickled down his face, the adrenaline in his system beginning to wear off.

Tim sat there for a moment, letting out a hiss of pain as he lifted a hand and gently touched his split lip. He gingerly moved his fingers through his hair, grimacing as he felt the beginnings of a bruise on the side of his face.

Dick was still in trouble. That was the thought at the front of his mind, the reason he was out here and why he had to get to that bridge.

With a wince, Tim pushed himself up, staggering for a moment as a wave of nausea passed over him. He was pretty sure he’d developed a minor concussion from being thrown into the wall.

Everything ached, and his body was screaming at him to just stay down. He ignored it. Nightwing was his priority.

He swayed for a moment, his vision going white around the edges as his head spun, before he managed to stay standing and start moving again.

He didn’t think, he just ran.

He’s still panting as his feet hit the concrete, his body protesting the movement. The nausea from his concussion was becoming very real, and he had to stop to take a deep breath to steady himself.

Fuck, he was going to throw up, wasn’t he?

Tim bit his tongue and started running again, forcing himself to push on and ignore the pain. He had to keep moving.

The cold, night air hurt his lungs, but he didn’t stop. Not even as the pain from the beating began to make itself known with each hard footstep against the concrete. He had to get to the bridge.

He kept going at a brutal pace, ignoring how his vision swam and how every breath he took just made him feel like he needed to puke.

He’s not sure how long he had ran, his mind focused entirely on just moving. One foot in front of the other, he just kept going.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed the bridge in the distance. His eyes widening, watching Dick stagger back against the railings edge.

Tim stumbled for a moment, but pushed himself back up, keeping himself moving forward. He could barely see straight, but nothing else mattered. Nightwing’s tall and dark silhouette was leant against the night light of the bridge. Even from a distance, he could see the blood on Dicks skin, staining the side of his face, his suit’s front ripped open, a large gash in his abdomen pooling out onto the ground.

Tim’s speed quickens, every muscle in his body crying in protest but he continues on. All he could focus on was the sight of Nightwing. In the low light, he could see Dick’s shoulders moving with each heavy breath, looking seconds away from collapsing.

In a desperate attempt to save his mentor, Tim lunges forward and grabs onto Dick's arm. However, the fabric of the torn and damaged suit simply tears further under the force, causing Dick to slip free from Tim's grasp and fall into the dark, ominous water below.

"NO—!" The cry escapes Tim's mouth in a choked rush, the sound filled with anguish and fear. With a desperate burst of energy, he lunges forward, his hand reaching out in a desperate attempt to cling to Dick's suit, to anything that would keep him from falling.

But it was too late. He was too late.

His heart hammers frantically against his chest as he gazes down into the dark depths below, his eyes wide and searching desperately for even a glimpse of Dick in the river's deep murky water.

His breath hitches, a silent sob wracking his frame as he slumps over the edge of the bridge, his hands shaking as he brings them up to his face. His blood-slick fingers thread through his hair, his eyes wide as they stay fixed on the dark water where Dick had fallen.

The sound of a vehicle approaching in the distance catches his ears, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't turn to see who it is or check to see if it's a threat. He just keeps staring down into the water, the sound of the river below the only thing he can hear over his panicked breathing.

Jason came to a crashing halt at the side of the bridge, the panicked urgency in his voice clear. He stumbled off his bike, nearly falling as he yelled out.

"Where is he--” His hollow eyes darted around at their surroundings. "WHERE IS HE?!"

Dick.

Tim's eyes widened as Nightwing's head broke the surface of the water, his body floating limp against the current. He's alive.

His shoulders tense as he quickly scrambles to his feet, his body protesting in pain with each movement.

The relief he feels is quickly drowned out, however, as he notices the large bioluminescent tail wrapped around his older brother's lower half, keeping him from crashing with the harsh currents. 

Jason quickly approached the bridges railing, his heavy boots thudding loudly against the concrete, his heart racing thunderously against his chest, deep sapphire eyes following Tim's wide gaze down into the water. As he saw the sight in front of him, his eyes widened in disbelief.

He gripped the rough stone ledge, leaning over to get a better look at his brother. "What the fuck is that?" The older boys voice cuts through the ringing in Drake's ears.

Tim couldn't respond, his eyes glued on the large tail, his jaw slack. He took in the sight of the long powerful appendage wrapped around his brother's waist. It was beautiful. The long black scales seemed to glow a soft purple even in the dim moon’s light, as if the creature attached was glowing itself. The bioluminescence was something that one could only describe as ethereal.

Tim's heart raced as he took a step closer to the edge of the bridge, his eyes darting around, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. He couldn't believe his eyes. Neither of them could.

Tim's mind reeled, trying to comprehend what they were seeing. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to process the situation. He knew that he should be scared. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt heavy and thick as he finally managed to speak, his voice low and shaky. "I..I don't know." He croaked. 

A ragged breath escaped his lips as the sea creature met his gaze.

He was frozen as he locked eyes with the creature. His mouth went dry, everything around him seemed to disappear into the background. The only thing he could focus on was the deep piercing eyes peering up from the darkness of the river.

Everything about the creature was attractive – its long shimmering scales, bioluminescent glow, and even the large dorsal fin along its spine.

The flutter of the creature's gills when its eyes met theirs didn’t go unnoticed by the brothers. Jason's lips parted into as much of a smirk as it could given the situation.

The Mer's features slowly disappeared under the surface, as it made a sudden exit. Both of the boys' eyes flicked towards the water, but the sudden gasping from their elder brother drew their attention away once more. 

Dick was struggling, coughing up water as he attempted to pull himself up and out of the water. His large hand was grasping desperately to the creature's shoulder, as he pulled himself up.

Tim's heart leapt into his throat as he watched Dick gasping for air, his body shivering as he struggled to grapple himself out of the water. He was so focused on his older brother's struggles that he almost missed the flicker of glowing purple as the creature’s tail disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Tim moved forward to help Dick, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Jason with a grimace on his face.

"What are we going to do?" Tim asked, his voice filled with worry.

Their conversation was cut short, however, as Dick's coughing subsided, replaced by a strangled gasp for air, his eyes wide and frantic. 

"I'm fine," he rasped, his hands trembling as he tried to pull himself up onto the bridge, his body shaking violently. His sharp ocean eyes focused on the crushed seaweed-looking salve used to treat his wounds.

Tim was about to respond when they heard a shuffling from the water, the faint sound of something scratching against the concrete. Tim's gaze snapped down to the water, his heart starting to pound against his chest.

Jason had already stepped back and drawn his weapon, his eyes fixed on a spot in the water a few feet below them. The sound of sloshing water echoed around them again, the dim light from the moon making it difficult to see anything except the faint bioluminescence.

And then, you were gone.

This is the result of the poll -> link.

Don’t judge my random fighting scene with Tim I was trying something out🦖🦖

All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated and encouraged!

I rewrote everything, so I apologise that this took so long to come out💚

[sebmindbreak]

GASHARPOON! john doe x siren! you

HEADCANONS TIME!

i worked on those early and now i can publish them >:D

(i had to reread myself alot i did alot of errors , especialy spelling gasharpoon with only one o...)

IM TRYING MY BEST >:/

ANYWAYS

i got john doe coming trust me.

TITLE : stupid sea

HHEHE ALR!

Platonic Headcanons

He hates sirens. Or so he says. Especially the ones who sing sailors to their deaths. He sees them as manipulators. Liars. Monsters.

The only reason he didn’t slice you the moment he saw your fins was because you looked confused instead of smug.

You didn’t try to lure him with a song, just stared at him with tilted curiosity. That pissed him off more.

Despite his grumbling, he didn't leave. And you kept showing up. Humming softly. Splashing water at his boots.

“Stupid sea witch,” he’d mutter.

First Meeting Headcanons

He was on deck, cursing at the sea like always, when he caught a flicker of movement in the waves—you.

His instinct was to draw his harpoon. Sirens kill pirates. End of story.

You just blinked at him, half-submerged, eyes wide and strangely unthreatening. You didn’t sing. You just smiled.

“Tch. A mute one? Great.” He walked away, expecting you to disappear.

The next day you were there again. And the next. And the next. He started yelling at the ocean less.

Getting Along Headcanons

You brought him a shell once. A tiny thing, blue and spiraled. He threw it overboard. Ten minutes later, he dived in to get it.

You started mimicking his expressions. When he scowled, you scowled. When he smirked, you tried it too. That got him to laugh once. Just once.

He pretended to ignore you every time you trailed the ship, swimming alongside. But you noticed how his eyes flicked to you. Often.

He told the crew you were a “nuisance that refuses to drown.” But if any of them insulted you? He got violent.

You finally sang once. Soft, not for power, not to lure—just a lullaby. He didn’t sleep that night. He stared at the stars, wondering what the hell was happening to him.

Realizing He Has Feelings

The day you got injured by a net, he panicked. No one saw it. But he pulled you up, cursed, and tended your wounds with trembling hands.

You bit his hand once, playfully. He yelled at you. But then rubbed the bite mark like it meant something.

He started bringing you things. Not flowers he's not soft like that. But weapons, trinkets, buttons, coins. “Shut up and take it,” he'd bark.

One day he saw your reflection in the water, smiling up at him. His chest tightened. He almost slipped off the railing.

He began to hate every siren except you. And that scared him more than anything else.

How He Confesses

It wasn’t romantic. It was a growled, frustrated, “I should hate you.”

You tilted your head, like always. So he grabbed your chin and snapped, “But I don’t. And I hate that more.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes burning like fire against the cool ocean. Then he grunted.

“You’ve ruined me, fishy. I hope you're proud.”

He handed you his favorite blade. Rusted, old, but meaningful. “You ever leave me? I’ll dive down and find you.” It was a threat. It was a vow.

Romantic Headcanons

He lets you braid his hair now. Or decorate his hat with seashells. He growls, but never stops you.

You swim beside the ship constantly. He keeps pace with you from the deck, always watching. If you disappear under the waves for too long, he panics.

When you kiss him (on land or when you pull him underwater), he tastes salt and strangely fish-. He always ends up flustered, muttering curses under his breath.

He holds you tighter than necessary when he hugs you, arms banded around you like you might vanish into foam.

He calls you things like "my wave" , "my starfish" , or still "sea witch" but now it's more of a playful name than anything else.

CAN YOU TELL I LOVE JOHN DOE??

i love him bro he is my fav <33

[blood-smiles]

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍 ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my love..”

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

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

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

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

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

[getouyuri]

one mimir, two mimir

pairing: oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader (fem!reader)

author’s note: got a little carried away with this cos wdym I wrote a 2.2k (unedited) drabble about satoru acting like you killed his grandma because you started napping without him 😭 here’s a little background info on my yakuza jjk au but it’s not necessary to read. masterlist. happy reading mwaaah 🫶🏽🩵

writing © getouyuri. dividers © thecutestgrotto. fanart © satsu1640.

Satoru loves taking naps.

The yakuza boss always looks forward to curling up close to his wife for a quick nap in the middle of the day, stretched out like the most comfortable of cats until he’s forced to pop right back up later and go straight back to work. Bi-weekly snooze sessions are the only thing that keep him powering through each week without collapsing like a house made of popsicle sticks.

(Aside from your very creative ways of motivating him, of course. You, on top of him from dawn to dusk, no breaks, raw, disgustingly sweaty, toes curling, bones cracking, bodies contorting in the most impossible angles that challenge what you both know about physics.)

Especially when he’s as tired as he is right now— he nearly ran into a wall while stumbling his way through the Gojo estate, delirious in his excitement to climb into bed and snuggle you to death.

So when he walks into your shared room and finds you already conked out, curtains drawn and room submerged in shadow, exaggerated betrayal flickers across his face. His left eye twitches like a machine gun. You were napping. Without him.

The deep-set fatigue that dogs him is impossible to miss; it’s in the way his eyelids droop just a fraction too long between blinks, the faint shadows beneath his usually bright ocean-blue eyes, the slight sluggishness to his movements. His temples throb, like a not-so-subtle reminder that his energy is a ticking time bomb.

In truth, Satoru hasn’t slept properly in days, between dealing with the Tora-gumi’s constant petty attacks and the Gojo clan’s elders that have been particularly relentless recently, questioning his leadership decisions, nagging about eventual succession (as if Yuuta’s presence in his life and role as his designated successor didn’t already shut those concerns down), and generally being a pain in his ass.

Nothing he couldn’t handle, of course, but dealing with them always left him drained in a way that no amount of violence or business negotiations ever did. But he refuses to admit it outright— pride and stubbornness are two of his most defining traits, after all.

Satoru crosses his arms, still squinting and pouting at you. This was unacceptable. Inexcusable. Not telling him that you were retiring for a quick nap might as well be considered treason.

Where was his nap invitation? Where were his snuggle rights and little coupon card paired with it? Who gave you permission to get all cozy enough to doze off without him plastered right next to you, drooling all over your shoulder and hogging the blankets?

Satoru’s entire being vibrates with the need to rectify this egregious injustice immediately.

“Oh, you’re in so much trouble, baby,” he breathes, tutting. Instead of deigning him with a proper response— you should be falling to your knees and sobbing your apologies, begging for his forgiveness, even though you’d never in your life do that— you give a soft, muffled smack of your lips that escapes the mountain of blankets on the bed. Clearly, someone’s having a good ass nap.

Your hair pokes out from the top of the covers in an adorable tuft. He’d recognize that messy mop anywhere, even if the rest of his wife was currently snuggled deep beneath a fortress of blankets and pillows, entirely hidden from view.

Satoru’s adorable pout instantly morphs into a shit-eating grin. His heart squeezes in his chest, his earlier excitement bubbling over again as he pads closer, fingers itching to mess with you. Crouching down beside the bed, he rests his chin on the edge of the mattress, palms sinking into the plush duvet to keep himself steady. His blue eyes gleam with a sleepy mischief as he studies the rhythmic rise and fall of the blanket pile— proof that you were very much alive, very much cozy, and (more importantly) very much about to have your nap ruined by your clingy-ass husband.

His long, ring-clad fingers curl into the blanket’s edge and peel it back just enough to reveal your face. For a second, Satoru just stares, mesmerized. His wife is gorgeous. Like, criminally, absolute-obliteration-of-self-and-other type of beautiful. Your hair is a softly frizzy mess, lips puffy with sleep and slightly parted as you breath slow.

"My angel is so pretty," he murmurs, utterly besotted as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. You look so peaceful.

Normally, he’d feel a little bad waking you up— but no, not today. Today, he’s been deprived of you for three whole hours (the horror), he’s so tired that he’s seeing the hat man in the corners of his vision, and he’s not about to let you sleep without him.

Grinning, he bounces up from his spot crouched on the floor like a frog to instead lean over you, white hair flopping lazily over his forehead. Satoru guides that open jaw of yours shut with his fingertips, then squeezes your nostrils closed— just to be annoying.

"Pssst. Angel." He whispers, grinning when you snort in your sleep as your body starts to register that your airways are sealed off. "Baaaaabycakes. Wakey wakey, I missed you."

Only when you start to stir does he release your nose (he mimes pocketing it in his slacks). Then, for good measure, he blows a playful, obnoxiously loud raspberry right against your neck— because what better way to wake someone up than by being the absolute worst?

“Pooooo—“

“You will die in seven days.” You suddenly grumble in a sleepy rasp, not even opening your eyes. “In three, you’ll begin to cough. In five, you’ll begin to break out into hives.”

“—kie… oh, okay. That’s mean, princess," he huffs with faux hurt— but he’s still grinning like the lovestruck idiot he is. "But not as mean as you napping without me. I was hoping to get some shut-eye with my wife after a whole ass threeee hours of being away like the booked and busy man that I am, only to find that you had the audacity to go ahead and sleep without even considering me. Tch. Real cold, sweets.”

He’s being a petulant menace. Needy. Pathetic. He doesn’t care that he’s not at all the ruthless crime lord that he typically is right now. Satoru’s as heartbroken as the day he found out that that one place in Shinjuku stopped selling their chocolate and caramel stuffed mochi. It was his favorite. He weeped a little outside of the store as you gently tugged him away, fond exasperation glittering in your eyes.

How can he call himself the oyabun that has it all when he can’t even get his favorite fucking sweet treats? And now, apparently, can’t even get sleepy time with his wife?

You shuffle in place with a grumpy furrow between your brows, silently simmering at being shaken out of dreamland, and he snatches at the edge of the blanket again right as you try to tug it right back up over your head. “I didn’t realize I had to fill out a time card recording when I’ll nap or not.”

“Baby,” Satoru gasps. He leans in closer, forehead nearly bumping yours, blue eyes wide and watery with crocodile tears. You crack your own eyes open at that, blinking tiredly at him. Your lashes clump together, sticky with sleep. “Are you kidding me? You should’ve already been marking time cards. Naptime isn’t just sacred— it’s special. And I thought we had something special!”

A staged sob rattles his chest. He presses his free hand against it, clutching at the fabric of his dress shirt as if trying to keep his heart from leaping out and splatting at your feet. “This is why they say the prettiest ones can’t be trusted. I should file for divorce over this heinous act of betrayal, wifey. I don’t know if I can ever recover from this.” His tone drips with the emotional maturity of a golden retriever with separation anxiety.

You thump your head back against the pillow, praying that someone ends your suffering early. “You’re dramatic.”

“No, I’m not. I’m real. I’m authentic. I’m hurt. My feelings are sooo valid, baby, and you’re dismissing them like I’m one of your side hoes!” Satoru wails.

His face scrunches up in exaggerated offense, his pout making a grand reappearance even as he, devastating gentle, wipes a dried line of spit from beneath your lip with his thumb. Quietly, Satoru preens a little at being able to see you at your most unguarded, your most ungraceful.

“Toru?” You call out in a little croak instead of bothering to play into his bullshit.

Oh, he’s already dead. He’s cooked.

Satoru’s big blue eyes round out impossibly further as if he’s been struck by Cupid’s arrow— which, admittedly, he kinda has been every single day for the past few years since he started seeing you.

You sound so fucking adorable when you’re half-asleep. That groggy little mumble of his nickname that you only pull out when you need to tug at his strings, the way you lift a hand to cup his that lingers beneath your mouth and you nuzzle your cheek into his calloused palm... it makes his head spin with an overwhelming wave of affection. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if there were cartoonish birdies twirling around him. He could just eat you up.

You’re clearly utilizing his weakness for that nickname and your adorable sleepiness to your advantage to sway this in your favor (and he falls for it).

And people say that he’s the conniving menace…

You purse your lips in a little pout, a rare sight outside of your most private moments that you share with him (even though this pout’s awfully calculated), and Satoru’s heart damn near explodes. “Just come cuddle with me, baby. ‘M so tired… and so cold without you,” you complain.

His aloof, sarcastic, prideful wife? Whining for cuddles like a lovesick kitten? You’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. Of course you want him close; who wouldn’t want to bask in his heavenly presence? “Aw, look at you, all clingy and sweet!” Satoru coos, gently stroking your cheek and peering down at you with sparkling eyes. He just barely resists pinching your soft skin, knowing that you’d probably bite his finger off for that. “I could never say no to you, even if you’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”

You sleepily smile up at him, smug.

The oyabun of the Gojo-gumi wastes absolutely no time in shoving his pants down his long legs, toeing off his socks with zero grace, and kicking them aside on the floor (he’ll pick them up later… probably). He’s left in just his black button-up and boxers, but even the button-up is quickly unbuttoned and discarded too, because he’s been in business attire for too long today and he wants to be comfortable. It joins the pile on the floor.

Right now, the only thing that matters is snuggling. His. Wife.

With zero hesitation nor warning, Satoru takes a few steps back, rolling his neck and bouncing a little on his heels. “Satoru,” you immediately warn, more lucidity coloring your eyes as you start to tense in on yourself. You quickly grasp at the blankets, starting to bunch them up around you again and burying your head right back beneath them— as if they’ll even do anything to shield you. “Don’t. If you fucking land on me, I’ll—“

You cut yourself off with a disgruntled groan as Satoru takes a running jump and vaults over you to land on the free space next to you, making the mattress bounce and nearly launching you through the high roof. He doesn’t give you time to complain, practically diving into the lump of blankets that house his precious wife with the smoothness of a damn seal sliding into water.

He worms through the blankets until he finds your warm, soft body, his bright blue eyes squinting playfully in the dim warmth of your little hideaway. You meet his gaze with an unimpressed tilt to your lips, jutting your chin out, and immediately, he flips you around, pulling your back flush against his chest until you’re tucked together like two spoons in a drawer. Satoru’s long limbs drape over you in a possessively needy tangle.

“Mmm… this is what I’ve been missing,” Satoru sighs gratefully, finally content. His aching body sinks into the memory foam beneath him, the blankets cushioning you both in their cloud-like embrace and chasing out the air chugging through the Gojo estate’s vents. “It’s nice and cozy in here with my wifey.”

He buries his face into your nape, inhaling your scent deeply. There’s your natural scent paired with something warm and sweet, comfortingly so; cocoa butter and freshly baked shortcake. Satoru makes a mental note to ask if you actually made one or if you’re trying a new body wash after you two wake up in a few hours. He presses a slow, wet kiss right under your ear, smiling into your skin when you shiver a little.

“Are you happy now that you’ve ruined my peace?” You mumble dryly, yet you sink into him all the same. Your tone is sarcastic (as per usual) and tinted with a drowsy sort of warmth that makes him want to kick his feet like a schoolgirl. It’s his fuel. You wiggle back against him to slot yourself against him more comfortably, the backs of your knees pressed against the tops of his and your ass sitting in the cradle of his pelvis.

(Don’t get hard, don’t get hard, don’t get hard, he silently coaches himself. If Satoru kept you awake any longer by whining and begging you to deal with a throbbing boner, you’d mercilessly toss him in a dog cage. And he very much likes sleeping in this expensive ass bed with you, a splurge he justified as necessary, because god forbid his wife doesn’t get to rest in pure luxury.)

“Yup. But it’s okay, princess, I’ll send you right back off to dreamland. It’s my job as your devoted guard dog, your vice president, and your humble servant. And are you ashamed now that you see how much your hubby needed this?” Satoru murmurs, but there’s no real bite to it. If anything, he’s pitched softer now, the playful facade slipping out with the exhale he expels through his nose.

The tiredness in his voice makes you pause. With that, you start to shift in his arms, and thinking you’re trying to escape (when really, you’re just trying to properly assess him despite the fact that you’re already half-asleep again), he latches on tighter. “I thought you wanted me here? C’monnn, gimme all those cuddles you owe me,” he complains, trying to kiss your neck until you give up, which you laugh softly at.

“Satoru. Let go, I’m trying to turn around,” you yawn, and he complies even though he’s content in this position. The second you shift to face him on your side, he’s already adjusting, tucking an arm beneath your head as a makeshift pillow and draping the other over your body to pull you in close. Satoru takes a moment to admire your camisole and satin sleep shorts, but your eyes draw him right back in.

Your half-lidded eyes flit over him with a sharpness befitting of you. You’ve always been too perceptive, always seeing right through him. It’s one of the many things he adores about you, even when it’s inconvenient. Like now, when you take in the way his shoulders sag ever so slightly under the weight of exhaustion he’s been hiding, usual boundless energy dampened, and how the circles under his eyes (usually hidden behind his sunglasses) are strikingly visible this up close.

The Gojo-gumi doesn’t slow down just because Satoru’s tired. Ryomen doesn’t stop plotting against him just because he wants a damn nap. But for this moment, with his wife’s leg hiking up around his waist to keep him trapped (thank god) and your breaths fanning over his neck when you tuck your face there, both of you hidden away beneath the blankets like children at a sleepover, he can pretend the world stops for you both.

“Let’s go to sleep. I still have an alarm running that’ll wake us up,” you yawn again, long and near-silent; cat-like. Satoru hums, a soft rumble that radiates through your squished-together chests, already half-lost to drowsiness. He settles his chin on top of your hair, a few unruly strands of which tickle gently at his lips, and his breathing begins evening out.

“‘Kay… Mmm, you’re so warm. Comfy as hell, too. Love you," he mumbles. His words are slurred with exhaustion, but the devotion behind them is undeniable. He’s already melting into you, body lax against yours that’s already soft with sleep from your interrupted nap, eager to get some z’s.

When you don’t respond, he figures you’re gone with the wind already. Satoru works his jaw a little bit until something clicks and loosens, then closes his eyes. He could stay like this forever, honestly. He presses his fingers just a little heavier against the exposed skin of your lower back, just a subconscious need to touch, to remind himself you’re really here, and passes out just like that.

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