#because it makes since because this is the FUCKING PLOT!!!!

[hatethysinner]

if you take little prompts, could i propose a jealous remmick drabble with a breeding kink? 👀

"I’m gonna fill you up, make sure you carry somethin of me forever"

ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

ᴡᴄ: 6.9k (i giggled too)

ᴀ/ɴ: the title choice... if you know you know. anyways, i needed to get my freak on and god damn did i do just that. i adore fluff but sometimes i just can't say no to my pussy. please don't talk to me about the mental state i was in while writing this. i simply have no excuses, take me to horny jail. though i will say i feel WAY more confident about writing smut now. i think i should do these more often because it's kind of an outstanding way for me to stretch my legs if you will. THAT SOUNDS SO CRAZY LAMFJDJHVHBJDV but i even got over my fear of em dashes just a tiny bit. also, this was a combination of like 3 asks in 1 and you'll definitely SEE which ones i'm talking about when you check the warnings. anons, you know who you are!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!), filthy disgusting shameless smut, minimal plot all porn, exes, stalking, very rough sex, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, spit kink, degradation kink, breeding kink, dumbification, sadism, masochism, choking, spanking, biting, dacryphilia, overstimulation, eye contact, drooling, cuckolding, infidelity, bloodplay, threats of violence, fantasizing about violence, graphic violence, murder, dark!dom!remmick, sub!fem!reader, reader is just as freaky, vague setting, excessive use of pet names, excessive use of italicization, read at your own discretion

The night was quiet. Too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with peace. Not the softness of contentment or rest. This was the kind of silence that felt like it was waiting. Like something pressed against the windows, unseen, watching the curve of your back as you moved through the hallway in your robe, your bare feet barely whispering against the floor.

You should’ve been asleep. But the bed felt too big tonight.

Your husband was out, running one of his rare late-night errands. Something about a friend’s stalled car, a favor owed. He’d apologized for leaving, pressed a kiss to your forehead, a hand brushing the side of your face like he always did. “Won’t be long,” he promised. “I hate sleeping without you.”

And he meant it. He always did. He was that kind of man.

You loved him. You did. He was good. Honest. Steady. The kind of man who brought home your favorite pastries without being asked, who offered to do the dishes before you even touched your plate. You didn’t marry him expecting fireworks. You married him because you were tired of chasing smoke.

But some nights, like tonight, you still missed the fire.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping lukewarm tea you’d already forgotten to drink, robe slipping off one shoulder. The tile was cool beneath your feet. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space like static, soft and constant.

And then, like it always did when you let your mind wander too far, the memory of him crept in.

Remmick.

A name you hadn’t spoken in years. A man you hadn’t touched in longer.

You cut him off like you were supposed to. You did it for your own good. Your sanity. Your future. But Lord, if there wasn’t something in the way he ruined you that no one else had been able to match since.

He didn’t beg. He didn’t need to. Just looked at you in that way that made your stomach knot and your thighs press together. He touched you like he was claiming something. Deep, slow, maddeningly precise. He didn’t fuck fast. He fucked full. He filled you, stretched you, split you open in ways that made you forget your own name. And when he looked at you—

God, when he looked at you.

It was like you were his favorite meal. His last drink. His only prayer.

Your husband never looked at you like that. He looked at you with kindness, sure. But never hunger. Never need. Never like you were something to be devoured.

You closed your eyes, set your mug down. The ache between your legs pulsed, low and steady, like a bruise remembered. You shouldn’t miss him. You shouldn’t want him.

But you did.

You always had.

And it had been so long since someone made you come the way Remmick used to. Effortlessly, endlessly, like he knew every part of you before you even touched yourself for the first time.

You shivered.

Outside, thunder rumbled low in the distance.

Somewhere, not nearly far enough, Remmick was still out there.

Waiting.

And, of course, it had to be tonight when he came.

The knock was sharp. Not loud. But sure. Like whoever stood behind that door knew you were already halfway toward it, breath stuck somewhere between your ribs. You froze in the hallway, mug still warm in your palm, heart already catching on a beat you hadn’t felt in years.

Three more taps followed. Firm. Even. Familiar.

You didn’t need to check the window. Didn’t need to ask who it was.

Your feet moved on their own.

When you opened the door, there he stood.

Remmick.

Older, sharper, polished like glass but dangerous like a blade. He leaned against the frame like he owned it, like he’d been here before and would be again. That light blue shirt was pressed clean, top buttons undone just enough to show a sliver of white undershirt and the chain you remembered. Gold, delicate, glinting faint in the porch light. Black slacks. A belt with a gold buckle. Suspenders hanging easy off his shoulders.

His hair was slicked back, still dark, still wild in places where the waves refused to be tamed. But it was his eyes, those deep sea-blue eyes, the unmistakable red glow, that made you forget how to breathe. That looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel.

He didn’t just see you.

He devoured you.

“Well, hey there, darlin’,” he said, low and slow and unmistakably him. He didn’t bother hiding the curve of his grin. Fangs bared. Sharp. Bright. Gorgeous.

Your pulse tripped over itself.

“What…” You swallowed. “What are you doin’ here?”

That smile stretched wider, lazier. He stepped forward just enough for the porch light to catch the edges of his collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

“Y’know damn well why I’m here.”

There wasn’t an ounce of shame in his voice. Not one drop of hesitation. Just velvet certainty, dragging you backward into something you’d spent years clawing your way out of. Something you never stopped missing.

You blinked at him, trying to level your tone. “My husband—”

“Ain’t here,” Remmick said quick and flat, like it was obvious. He glanced down the street. “Car’s gone. Bedroom light’s off. Not a single trace of that man in this house ‘cept that little ring you’re tryin’ to hide behind your fingers.”

You dropped your hand before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head. “Still nervous, huh?”

“Remmick—”

“You alone?”

Your lips parted, but the truth had already settled between you like smoke. You knew the question was redundant. That he was simply trying to drive home the point.

“…Yeah.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not exactly. Something darker. Warmer. Hungrier.

“Knew it,” he murmured. “Knew he didn’t know what to do with ya.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned forward, just a few inches, but it knocked the air right out of your lungs. The air between you changed. Heavy. Hot. Close. The kind of air that pulled your thighs tight and made your stomach knot with something sharp and sweet and old.

“Ya look beautiful,” he said, his eyes raking over you. “But y’knew that already.”

You should’ve closed the door. Should’ve told him to leave.

But you didn’t.

Remmick’s voice lowered, slow and syrup-thick. “Let me in.”

It wasn’t a question.

The muscles in your arms tensed, fingers still on the knob like you weren’t sure who you were anymore. Every part of you said no. But your body, your breath, your blood? All of it whispered yes.

He waited.

And waited.

His eyes burned into you, red flickering hotter now. Not loud, not angry. Just patient. Starved.

“I ain’t gonna ask again,” he said, voice soft, almost sweet. “Don’t make me beg, baby.”

Your throat went dry.

You didn’t shut the door.

You didn’t step back.

You didn’t even breathe.

“…Come in,” you said. Quiet. But clear.

And he did.

The moment he stepped inside, the door shut with a thud behind him.

Remmick laughed.

Not a sound you’d heard from him before. It wasn’t warm or familiar. It wasn’t charming or even cruel. It was cold. Final. Like something had been waiting, watching, for the moment you said Come in, and now that you had, it didn’t have to pretend anymore.

“You’re just as desperate as I remember,” he said, still smiling as his boots landed slow and heavy on the floor. “Knew y’would be.”

Before you could even blink, he had you. A searing kiss, full and crushing and greedy. No warning. No space to breathe. His hands gripped your jaw, thumbs pressing your cheeks, mouth sealing over yours like he’d gone too long without it.

You should’ve pulled away.

You should’ve shoved him off, reminded yourself of the ring still sitting on your finger.

But your lips parted.

Your breath caught.

And when his body pressed against yours—hard chest, long arms, belt buckle cold against your stomach—you melted into it with a sound that betrayed every shred of shame you still had left.

You hated how much you missed this.

How much you’d been starving, too.

Remmick’s hand slid down the front of your robe. He didn’t waste time. Not even a little. Fingers traced the curve of your stomach, the ridge of your hip, and then dipped between your thighs like he already knew what he’d find there.

When he felt how wet you were, he growled.

Actually growled.

“Slut,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along your cheek, jaw, ear. “My married girl, touchin’ herself to the thought of me. Makin’ them soft sounds every time y’say my name.”

You trembled.

“I heard ya,” he whispered, voice all breath and bite. “Every damn night. Ya don’t know how many times I nearly came through that window just to shut ya up the way ya wanted.”

His fingers were still there, not moving much, just resting. A threat. A promise.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your fingertips, in your thighs. Your robe slipped further open, the air cool against your chest where the silk parted.

“I didn’t—” you tried, but the words caught somewhere deep. You couldn’t lie. Not to him. Not with your legs shaking and your lips kiss-bruised and your entire body leaning into him like it had never wanted anyone else.

He chuckled again, quieter this time. Darker.

“Ya did,” he said, kissing the side of your neck, lips soft now. Tender, even. “And I ain’t mad, darlin’. Y’think I don’t dream ‘bout this too?”

His other hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye like he hadn’t just dragged twenty years of buried longing to the surface in a single kiss.

“I just didn’t think,” he murmured, eyes glowing as they flicked to yours, “ya’d open the door so easy.”

And then his hand moved.

Two fingers, thick and slow, slipped inside you with a precision that made your knees lock and your breath shudder out in a gasp you didn’t mean to make. No warning. No teasing. Just in, to the knuckle, deep and deliberate, like he’d never forgotten the exact shape of you.

You jolted forward against his chest, hips stuttering, thighs pressing shut on instinct. But his arm wrapped firm around your waist, locking you there, helpless and pinned against him as he crooked his fingers just right and pulled another sound from your throat you didn’t recognize.

He groaned low. “Still so fuckin’ soft. Still open for me like I never left.”

Your hand slapped the doorframe for balance, fingers scrabbling, mouth half-open, trying to find air. But Remmick wasn’t giving you space. Not anymore.

His mouth brushed your ear. “He ever touch ya like this?”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers stopped.

Completely.

The stillness was brutal.

Your body rocked against him, desperate, aching, but he didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

“Answer me,” he said. Calm. Almost bored. “Your good man. Your sweet husband. He ever make ya feel like this?”

“…No,” you whispered, too soft.

Remmick clicked his tongue.

“I said speak up, baby. Y’know better.”

You swallowed hard, voice shaking. “No. He—he doesn’t.”

A satisfied hum rumbled from his chest. “Didn’t think so.”

He thrust his fingers deeper, slow and grinding, pressing against that spot that made your spine curve and your mouth fall open.

“Ever make you soak through your sheets just from thinkin’ ‘bout a look?” he asked. “Ever make your legs shake ‘cause you wanted it so bad you thought you’d die from it?”

You whined. Tried to shake your head. But again, he stopped.

Not a flex. Not a curl. Nothing.

“Remmick—please—”

“Answer me.”

Your voice broke. “No. Never. Not once.”

His mouth split into a grin so wicked it made your whole body clench around him. “Didn’t think so.”

He fucked you slow, fingers curling in a rhythm that felt like a secret being pulled from your bones. His hand on your waist held you still, anchored you to him as he worked you open with ease, with arrogance, with that goddamn patience that made him feel like punishment and prayer in equal measure.

“Y’ever beg for him?” Remmick murmured. “Cry for it? Lose your fuckin’ mind just ‘cause he looked at you the right way?”

You didn’t want to answer.

You didn’t want to admit any of this.

But the pause was longer this time. The stillness unbearable. Your body was screaming for it.

“No,” you gasped. “Only you.”

“That’s right.” His smile pressed into your neck. “My good little wife, moanin’ for the wrong man.”

His thumb found your clit and circled it once, just once, enough to make your legs buckle.

“Ya feel how wet you are?” he whispered, nose brushing your cheek. “This for him?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He paused.

You whimpered.

He pulled back just slightly. Not out. Just enough to make you feel the empty stretch behind it.

“For who?”

Your voice cracked. “You.”

“Say my name.”

“Remmick.”

He groaned against your throat, fingers thrusting again with filthy, exquisite control.

“Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He didn’t just touch you, he worked you. Drew out every forgotten ache, every unsaid word, every damn piece of yourself you’d buried under decency and dishes and folded laundry.

“Ya ever fake it?” he asked, lips at your jaw. “For him?”

You nodded.

He stilled again.

You whimpered, panicked. “Yes! Yes, I—God, I have, I did—”

Remmick chuckled darkly, fingers starting to move again, slick and obscene.

“Course ya did. Poor thing. Never stood a chance.”

You clenched around him, helpless against it. Your head dropped back, vision fogging.

“That’s it,” he cooed. “Y’remember how this ends, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

And so did your body—traitorous, needy, too honest for its own good.

You were close.

You were so fucking close.

And just for a moment, you let yourself believe he’d let you finish.

Just as your stomach curled, breath catching, thighs beginning to tighten—he pulled out. Abrupt. Cruel.

Your whole body jerked like he’d ripped something vital out of you. A desperate, broken whimper escaped your throat before you could bite it back.

And Remmick laughed.

“Oh, baby,” he said, voice thick with mock-sympathy, “that little sound right there?”

He licked the tips of his fingers slow, eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s the sound of a girl who forgot who she was dealin’ with.”

You hated the way your body trembled. Hated that your pulse was still stuttering out of control. Hated that he was right. That your cunt was still clenching around nothing, already grieving the loss of him like he’d been inside you for years instead of seconds.

Before you could think to curse him, slap him, beg him, he moved.

Remmick grabbed you by the hips and lifted.

Effortless. Like you weighed nothing. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d thrown you around.

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. Old muscle memory. Dangerous muscle memory.

Your arms clung to his shoulders as he walked, carrying you like a man on a mission.

And you knew.

You knew where you were headed.

The moment you saw the edge of the dining table come into view—solid oak, the one your husband insisted was “too nice to actually use”—your breath hitched, legs squeezing tighter around his hips.

“Still remember, huh?” Remmick muttered against your jaw, setting you down with zero gentleness. Your back hit the wood hard enough to knock a gasp out of you, the cool polish biting into your skin through the robe’s thin silk. “Told ya once I’d take you on every fuckin’ surface of that house. Never broke that promise.”

You barely had time to adjust before he gripped the hem of your robe—what little of it still covered you—and ripped.

The bottom half tore clean off, jagged and loud, silk whining in protest before it fluttered to the floor.

You were bare beneath it.

You always had been.

Remmick groaned like he was seeing it for the first time. “Goddamn, darlin’.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Didn’t say another word. Didn’t tease. Didn’t breathe.

His mouth found you like it belonged there.

Hot tongue, open mouth, greedy hunger.

No hesitation. No warm-up. He dove in like he was starved, like he’d been dreaming of this every goddamn night since the last time he tasted you. His hands gripped your thighs, spread them wide, fingers digging in like bruises he meant to leave.

And his mouth—

You screamed.

Low and sharp, head tossed back as he licked through your folds with the kind of practiced ruthlessness that made your vision blur.

He devoured you.

Sloppy. Loud. Wet.

His tongue flicked against your clit with obscene precision, slow and steady until your hips bucked. Then he sucked it between his lips and groaned like it was his favorite flavor.

You clutched the edge of the table with both hands, knuckles white, legs already shaking against his shoulders.

“Oh my God—Remmick—”

He didn’t slow.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t even look up.

You felt him groan into you, like your taste alone was something holy. One hand slipped down to grip your ass, yanking you closer to the edge, forcing you to take it, to feel every roll of his tongue like a punishment you’d begged for.

You wanted to run.

You wanted to cry.

You wanted to come.

You could feel it, spine curling, fingers digging into the table hard enough to leave crescents. Your breath came fast and ragged, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth as he sucked and licked and fucked you with his tongue like he meant to ruin you.

And he did.

Because he always did.

The orgasm hit you like nothing else ever had. No slow climb, no gentle crest. Just an eruption, pure and bright and violent, ripping through your entire body like lightning set to music. You screamed. You sobbed. You shook, thighs squeezing around his head as your back arched clean off the table.

You came so hard you forgot your name.

And still, Remmick didn’t stop.

His hands held you open, mouth insatiable, tongue dragging through the aftermath like he was trying to clean you out, like he couldn’t stand to waste a drop. You cried out again, voice cracking, body too raw and too sensitive, but he kept going, sucking and lapping and groaning like he’d never get enough.

You tasted yourself on the air. Felt the heat dripping down your thighs. Felt your soul start to float.

Until finally—

“Please,” you gasped, sobbing now, voice broken. “Please, Remmick—s-stop—‘s too much—please—”

You were crying.

Tears streaked your cheeks, your chest heaving as your hands tried and failed to push his head away.

And that’s when he looked up.

Face soaked.

Neck wet.

Shirt clinging to his chest, sheer with your slick.

But it wasn’t just you.

There was drool.

An obscene amount.

Slipping from the corners of his mouth, glistening down his chin in thick, silvery ropes. So much spit you couldn’t even understand how it kept coming, gluing him to you, shining like filth made holy.

He stared at you.

Eyes glowing—red, hungry, starved.

And then he smiled. Real slow. Real soft.

“Ya always look the prettiest when ya cry.”

That broke you.

Something in you cracked wide open. You whimpered, too weak to fight, too full of him to think.

And then he moved.

He stood in one smooth motion, grabbing you by the waist, and lifted you off the table like you weighed nothing. Again. And you went, limp and ruined, legs instinctively wrapping around him, arms slung over his shoulders.

This time, his tongue shoved its way into your mouth the second he caught your lips.

And you drowned.

In yourself. In him.

The taste was unbearable. Your come and his spit, mingled and messy, wet and wild. It filled your mouth, coated your tongue, slid down your throat as he kissed you with open-mouthed desperation, feeding it to you like it was a gift.

You choked on it.

You loved it.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, still damp with what you’d given him, and he kissed you harder, tongue claiming you like he needed it to live.

Then, he turned.

He walked.

Straight down the hall, not even breaking the kiss.

And you knew where he was taking you.

The bedroom.

Your bedroom.

Where you and your husband lay in false comfort night after night.

Where your hand slipped between your thighs in silence after the lights went out, tracing your own skin as you bit your tongue to keep from whispering the name of the man you really wanted.

Remmick didn’t speak as he pushed the door open with his shoulder.

Didn’t look around.

Didn’t hesitate.

He set you down hard on the edge of the bed, the marital bed, the sacred shrine of everything you pretended was enough, and looked down at you like he was ready to burn it to the ground.

You were on him the second your back hit the bed.

Fingers trembling but fast, grabbing for his belt buckle like it was the only thing tethering you to sanity. You needed him out of it. Needed him inside you, now, needed to feel every inch of him stretch you open until you forgot the name of the man who actually slept in this room.

The metal clinked once before you got it undone, hands sliding down to shove the leather free.

Remmick chuckled.

Not the amused kind.

The mean kind.

“Christ, slow the fuck down,” he snapped, voice a blade slicing through the haze. “Ya always were a needy little thing. Sloppy hands, pantin’ like a bitch in heat.”

The words should’ve shamed you.

They didn’t.

They burned.

Hot. Dirty. True.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But you heard the rustle of his slacks hitting the floor, his boxers following quick after. He didn’t bother with his shirt. Didn’t even unroll his sleeves. He climbed on top of you half-dressed, his chain swinging low and his breath heavy as his body pressed yours into the mattress like he was settling back into something he’d missed.

He didn’t have to try. Didn’t need force.

His weight alone pinned you down.

One arm slid beneath your back, the other caught your wrists, locking them overhead with no more effort than it took to breathe. You couldn’t move. Could barely think.

And God, it was familiar.

The ache of it.

The sheer rightness.

The feeling of his body covering yours, his mouth close enough to taste your thoughts, his cock heavy against your thigh as he lined himself up with no warning, no softness, no pause.

This was love, wasn’t it?

Not the gentle, tepid kind your husband gave you—bedtime kisses and surprise bouquets.

This was Remmick love.

Cruel. Honest. Brutal.

“I shouldn’t let you fuckin’ have it,” he muttered, eyes burning into yours, “after the way ya ran. The way ya begged me to stay, then slammed the door like ya meant it.”

You squirmed beneath him, already gasping at the feel of his tip pressing just there, your cunt still soaked, still trembling, still too raw from what he did to you on the dining table.

“But y’want it so fuckin’ bad, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for your answer.

He slammed into you.

One sharp, vicious thrust.

You cried out, body arching up as your walls struggled to take him, stretch for him, remember him. You weren’t ready. You couldn’t be. Not after what he’d already done to you. But that didn’t stop him. Didn’t even slow him.

“Fuck,” Remmick growled, hips pulling back only to rut forward again, deeper this time, harder. “Still tight. Still fuckin’ perfect. Like this pussy never forgot me.”

Your eyes rolled back.

Your hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, wrists still pinned tight in his grip. His other hand caught your jaw, forcing your face toward his, making sure you didn’t dare look away.

“Ya let him fuck you in here?” he hissed, voice venom. “In this bed? These sheets?”

You whimpered.

Remmick’s thrusts got rougher. Barbarous. He was fucking you like he owned you. Like he was carving himself back into the spaces time tried to seal shut.

“Answer me.”

Your voice came out a rasp. “Y-yes.”

He spat, not even trying to hide his disgust. “Bet he couldn’t even make ya come.”

You shook your head, biting back a sob.

“And now look at ya,” he snarled, dragging his hips slow this time, a deliberate grind that made your body sing. “Lettin’ me fuck the truth outta ya like always. Like nothin’s changed.”

Tears welled again.

Because nothing had.

Because it had always been like this with Remmick. Not gentle. Not sweet.

But real.

He fucked you like he was never going to stop.

Eyes locked on yours.

Not blinking. Not flinching.

Just watching as your mouth parted, as your body opened for him, as the ruin of you spilled across the sheets that had never seen this kind of worship.

And still, Remmick didn't slow.

Not even close.

Not when your eyes rolled back. Not when your body clenched tight around him like you’d never learned how to let go. Not when the air left your lungs in staggered, helpless sobs.

Remmick fucked you like he hated you.

Like he’d missed hating you.

And then—

His hand let go of your wrists.

Only to move to your throat.

Fingers curling slow around your neck, the pads of them warm, calloused, unforgiving.

Your body froze beneath him.

Not in fear. Not exactly.

Something darker. Deeper.

You looked up into his eyes.

And he looked back like he wasn’t really there anymore.

“Y’know,” he said, voice calm, like he was talking about the weather, “there were so many nights I thought about killin’ ya.”

Your breath caught.

His grip tightened.

“After ya left,” he murmured, hips still driving into you like punctuation, “after y’said all that pretty shit and slammed the door—when you thought ya’d won—I used to lay awake, hand on my dick, thinkin’ about wringin’ your pretty little neck.”

You whimpered, legs trembling around his hips.

He leaned closer, chest flush to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“Not just ya,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “That man of yours, too.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I thought about what his blood would look like on your white fuckin’ comforter. What your scream would sound like. If ya’d still cry my name with his body lyin’ cold at the end of the bed.”

His fingers pressed harder. Just enough to make your vision shimmer.

“Y’don’t believe me,” he whispered. “But I still think about it.”

Your heart stuttered.

“And right now?” he said, grinning. “Right now, I could do it. So easy. You’re lettin’ me fuck you raw in your husband’s bed, cryin’ beneath me, beggin’ for it. What’s one more sin, huh?”

His grip cinched tight.

Your breath stopped.

The room swam.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just held you there, trembling beneath him, his cock still buried deep inside you as the world slipped sideways.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Your fingers spasmed.

And just before the edges went black—

Smack.

A vicious slap to your thigh, loud and hot, snapped the air back into your lungs. Then another, this time across your ass, hard enough to sting. Your throat opened on a strangled gasp, your back arching as your body reeled from the sudden shock.

“There she is,” Remmick said, laughing low. “Didn’t want ya driftin’ off just yet, darlin’. We’re just gettin’ to the good part.”

You choked on your own breath, eyes wet, chest heaving.

He let go of your throat, dragging both hands down your ribs like he hadn’t just threatened to kill you. Like the idea still wasn’t sitting there behind his eyes, twitching like a secret.

You were dizzy. Raw. Split open and trembling and soaked.

And Remmick looked like he'd never been more in love.

Which is exactly when the front door opened.

Just a quiet creak. A shift of hinges.

But it shattered the world.

You went still.

So did Remmick.

The sound of keys hitting the bowl by the entryway echoed like a gunshot through the hallway. A low thud as shoes hit the mat. A familiar voice, soft and unsuspecting, humming the tail end of some commercial jingle. Your husband.

Your husband was home.

And your heart plummeted.

The blood in your veins iced over. Your breath caught. Every nerve ending snapped taut, your body trembling beneath Remmick in frozen disbelief. You were still spread beneath him, raw and soaked and filthy, your thighs trembling and your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

Remmick blinked.

Once.

Then again.

Then he looked at the door.

Then at you.

Back to the door.

Then you again.

And then that grin split his face.

Wide. Sharp. Wrong.

It wasn’t the cocky, teasing smile he wore when he knew you’d already given in.

This was different.

This was a grin that made something ancient and terrified curl up inside you and scream.

“Y’ain’t tell me he was gonna be early,” he whispered, voice light, sing-song. “How rude.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

But Remmick moved with purpose now—sat up, still inside you, dragging your body with him. He flipped you like he owned you, like you were just a doll to be repositioned. Hands grabbed your hips, yanked them up beneath him, forced your knees into the sheets until your back arched and your cheek was pressed flat against the mattress.

Doggy style.

Exposed. Helpless.

His cock dragged out slow before slamming back in with a wet, brutal sound.

You gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

“No no no,” Remmick said, voice a low hum as he gripped your face, twisting it until your eyes were pointed toward the bedroom door. “Keep ‘em open. He deserves to see it.”

Your name echoed from down the hall.

“Honey?” your husband called, so painfully unaware. “You home?”

Another thrust.

Louder this time.

Obscene.

The slap of his hips hitting your ass echoed off the walls like thunder.

You whimpered. You couldn’t help it.

“Sweetheart?” the voice came again, closer now. Footsteps.

Remmick picked up his pace.

Flesh on flesh. Sharp. Wet. Merciless.

You heard a pause outside the door.

Then the knob turned.

Then the door opened.

Your husband stepped into the room.

And froze.

His eyes landed on yours first—your face, contorted in shock, shame, raw pleasure.

Then his gaze moved.

To where Remmick’s hands were fisted in your hips.

To the way your body shook with every loud, violent thrust.

To the way your mouth hung open in a sob you hadn’t let fall yet.

The look on his face could’ve killed you.

Confusion.

Betrayal.

Then—horror.

Like something inside him snapped.

And still, Remmick didn’t stop.

He slammed into you again, harder than before, dragging your face further toward the edge of the bed, forcing you to watch.

“Smile for him,” he said, voice thick with a darkness that made your stomach turn. “Show him how happy ya look when you’re finally bein’ fucked right.”

You looked into your husband’s eyes.

Wrecked.

That was the only word for it. Wrecked in a way you’d never seen before—like someone had cracked open his ribcage and yanked his heart out with their bare hands. He looked lost. Pale. Mouth parted. Staring at you like he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.

And for a second—for one brief, trembling second—you wanted to believe in him.

Wanted to believe he’d fight.

That he’d do something.

That he’d cross the room, fists swinging, screaming, snarling, crying, clawing Remmick off of you like the man he was supposed to be. Like the husband he was supposed to be. That he’d fight for his wife, no matter how futile, no matter how ugly, no matter how late.

You wanted to believe he’d choose you.

But instead—

He covered his face with both hands.

And sat.

In the chair at the corner of the room, opposite the bed.

Chest heaving.

Shoulders shaking.

Not saying a word.

Not making a move.

And just like that—

Every drop of love you had left for him died.

Turned to ash in your mouth.

It wasn’t just disappointment. It wasn’t just betrayal.

It was hatred.

Hot. Immediate. Unforgiving.

And Remmick saw it happen.

Felt it bloom in your body beneath him.

He laughed.

Not playfully.

Not even cruelly.

It was disgusted.

A laugh like spitting. Like rot.

“That’s the man ya chose over me?” he said, thrusts still pounding into your cunt, hands bruising your hips as he snapped his hips against you with brutal rhythm. “That little fuckin’ coward?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence screamed.

“Jesus Christ,” Remmick muttered, breathless and gleeful, “he can’t even pretend to care. Ya ruined him, darlin’. Just like I knew y’would.”

He pulled out of you without warning, grabbing you by the waist and flipping you again, dragging you half off the bed until your head dangled over the edge, hair brushing the floor, throat exposed, everything upside-down.

And there he was.

Remmick, towering above you, cock flushed and leaking, sliding back into your wrecked cunt with a force that rattled your teeth. The angle sent lightning up your spine, your toes curling, vision swimming. He gripped your thighs and pushed them wide apart, spreading you open, fucking you down against the edge of the bed like you were just a hole to conquer.

But your eyes?

They were locked on him.

Your husband.

Still sitting there.

Hands still over his face.

Until they weren’t.

You saw the moment shame turned to something else.

Curiosity.

Then heat.

One hand dropped to his lap.

You didn’t want to believe it.

Didn’t want to see it.

But you couldn’t look away.

The outline of his cock, straining against his jeans. The way his chest rose and fell faster. The way his fingers hesitated—then unzipped.

Remmick saw it, too.

“Oh fuck me,” he laughed, cruel and delighted. “You’re hard, aren’t ya?”

Your husband flinched.

Remmick leaned over you, one hand grabbing your jaw, tilting your face so you couldn’t look away, even though he knew you weren’t.

“He’s hard, baby,” he sneered. “Your good little husband, sittin’ there watchin’ another man ruin his wife and he’s got his fuckin’ cock out.”

You whimpered.

Remmick thrust harder.

“Go on,” he said over your shoulder, loud enough to sting. “You’re already sittin’ there. Might as well enjoy the show, huh?”

And then, your stomach dropped.

Because your husband did it.

He pulled his cock free.

Hard. Strained. Already wet at the tip.

And he started stroking himself.

Right there.

Right fucking there, watching you be destroyed.

Something inside you shattered.

But Remmick’s grip only tightened.

“See?” he breathed, voice low in your ear, hips pistoning into you like he wanted to leave dents. “Told ya no one would ever love ya the way I do.”

And as your tears slipped backward into your hair, as your cunt pulsed around Remmick’s cock and your husband’s soft, broken moans filled the room—

You realized something sickening:

You believed him.

And the second you did, everything shifted.

Remmick’s voice fell away.

Replaced by sound.

Raw, filthy, feral sound.

The slap of skin against skin. The wet pulse of your cunt around him. His groans—deep, guttural, half-choked—as he rutted into you with a new kind of desperation. Like something had cracked inside him too. Like he was breaking right alongside you.

His hips lost rhythm.

Gained need.

The drag of his cock turned erratic, heavy, slick. His breath stuttered against your neck, hot and shallow, teeth grazing skin in the warning way. And you felt it—his weight pressing down, arms sliding beneath your back, legs shifting to cage you in, his entire body wrapping around you until there was no air between you, no space left untouched.

He was everywhere.

Crushing.

Consuming.

Yours.

“Gonna fill ya up,” he slurred, voice strained, drunk on you, on this, on everything he hadn’t let himself say until now. “Gonna—fuck—gonna put a baby in ya, darlin’.”

You gasped, eyes wide, your arms sliding up around his back without thinking.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t care.

“Make ya a momma,” he panted, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat dripping from his brow to yours. “My fuckin’ housewife. Keep ya barefoot and full for the rest of your goddamn life.”

Your thighs clenched around him.

Your fingers dug into his back.

“Just how y’should be,” he growled, pace stuttering. “No more runnin’. No more pretendin’. Just me with ya and a whole house full’a kids with my fuckin’ eyes.”

You cried out, your body already tightening again, trembling.

And then, one last thrust.

Devastating. Bone-deep. Final.

He came with a groan that barely sounded human, hips locked in place, cock pulsing inside you, spilling heat deep into your cunt like it was a claim. Endless. Relentless. It spilled out around him, a mess between your thighs, and still he didn’t stop.

And with it—

His fangs sank deep into your neck.

No warning.

No care.

Just sharp, precise, possessive puncture.

You screamed—and came. Hard. Wrung-out, shattered, blinding.

The orgasm ripped through you like it had teeth. Your walls fluttered around him, milking every last drop. Your back arched, pinned and blood-warm, as his mouth sealed over your skin and drank. Long, greedy pulls. Like he needed it more than breath.

Your heart stuttered. Your eyes rolled back.

And in the haze of it, another sound.

A choked gasp. The sharp, wet rhythm of a fist meeting skin. Then a broken, pathetic groan as your husband came too. Facing you both, cock in his hand, shame on his face, guilt dripping down his knuckles.

Remmick pulled back from your neck, blood staining his lips, breath heaving.

Then he angled to look.

Smirked.

Spat.

“This the first time y’ever came with her, huh?”

He thrust once more into your ruined cunt, slow and deep, just to emphasize it.

“Had to watch me do it for ya. Pathetic.”

And you?

You didn’t even blink.

Didn’t even look at the man you once thought would love you right.

Because Remmick was right about that too.

This was where you belonged.

He stayed inside you for a moment longer, just long enough for you to pretend it would never end. Your walls still fluttered around him in soft aftershocks, your body unwilling to believe it was over even as your mind tried to catch up.

Then—

He pulled out.

Slow. Measured. Intentional.

A sound escaped your throat—broken, needy, trembling. Not quite a sob, not quite a plea.

Your hands caught his hips weakly, as if you could keep him, tether him, keep that full warmth inside for just a moment longer. "Please…"

“Shhh,” Remmick cooed, brushing a thumb beneath your eye where your tears had dried and cracked. “It’s alright, baby. You’ll get it again.”

The emptiness hit harder than anything else had.

A cavernous ache. Raw. Desperate. A void nothing else could fill.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until your vision blurred.

You watched as he stood.

Watched as he moved across the room toward the man still sitting dumb and wide-eyed in the chair.

Your husband.

Your witness.

There was a single second.

A flash of recognition.

His eyes met Remmick’s.

And that was all.

The claws flashed.

Once.

Ripped.

There was no scream. No fight. No time for last words.

Just a sound, wet and ugly, as his throat was torn open. Gutted clean from beneath the jawline, near-severed, a geyser of arterial red splattering across the walls, the chair, the floor.

And still, for one sickening second, his body twitched.

You screamed.

You screamed with everything you had left, dragged yourself backward across the soaked sheets until your spine hit the bedframe, until your limbs locked up with exhaustion and fear and your own slick still coating your thighs.

Remmick turned to face you.

Blood painted his chest, his jaw, his hands, dripping from his fingers like it had always belonged there. His eyes were gleaming, that familiar, terrifying red turned brighter now, like it fed off what he’d just done.

And then he crawled.

Across the bed.

Staining the sheets with long streaks of crimson, smearing every part of the room you once thought of as yours. As his.

Now defiled.

Claimed.

Ruined.

His hands—slick, sticky—cupped your face with impossible tenderness.

And then he kissed you.

Slow.

Deep.

Unforgiving.

Spit. Blood. The coppery tang of death. And beneath it all, still the faint, almost-sweet taste of you on his tongue.

It coated your teeth. Filled your lungs.

You let him.

You kissed him back.

When he pulled away, his voice dropped low, affectionate, almost reverent.

“Guess it’s just us now, darlin’,” he whispered. “Us. And our little thing growin’ inside ya.”

Your mouth parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in again, brushing his blood-wet cheek against yours, dragging his tongue slow along the edge of your jaw.

“Gonna make sure y’never forget who you belong to.”

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

There were no words left.

Just slick cooling on your thighs.

Just sheets ruined for good.

Just the memory of your husband's eyes, wide and broken, moments before he died doing nothing.

And a part of you—that sick, lost, unredeemable part—knew:

That was exactly how you wanted it to be.

Forever.

[astirysk2electricboogaloo]

the godfather?! close, (ish) but ACTUALLY it's the looney tunes parody of goncharov from the early 2000's that got mostly scrapped because warner brothers didn't feel a childsafe version of goncharov was really possible or good to be associated with the looney tunes name, and the mess that was it's production.

and quite frankly, they were right. this thing has pretty much been buried and scrubbed out of existence. everyone that worked on it didn't want to be associated with it because the finished product was such a mess nowhere near the original after being handed off to three different teams that couldn't agree on anything killed it That Bad™. it has almost as many production hell issues as el terror, (the terror. b roll jack nicholson movie that is a HOT MESS) but somehow ended up way worse. by the time they got a finished product out, (at least as finished as warner bros was willing to keep spending time and money on) nobody wanted their name on this thing.

what did make it out in leaks cuts and adds so much from the plot of goncharov it may as well be an entire other movie. they also tried to add a few modern jokes but it really didn't match the tone this "parody" was supposed to have.

for starters, they cut out andre entirely and replaced him with some american woman named clara. clara's also a secret agent for the mi6, (and she's very southern. like southern as sweet tea.) who wants intel on the italian mob in naples to give to the us government, for some reason. this is supposed to be extremely significant and they never explain it.

also they put naples in australia. there's a globe zoom out where clara steps out of new york across the ocean into the middle of australia nowhere near italy. the next scene is her dramatically walking through a market where the background characters are speaking italian. one of them is a kangaroo.

goncharov and clara have an affair and it's very obvious. nothing explicit since this was supposed to be family friendly, but really obvious.

the clock scene takes place in front of a barbie pink version of big ben, in space, on the fucking moon. it's actually made of cheese and has a bite taken out of it.

apparently goncharov is actually an alien and there's an entire sub plot where he's sabotaging his superior's invasion of earth.

he's also in his original planet's military but got bored and hid on earth until "goncharen" found him. goncharen looks similar to him according to the script, but images leaked of her character are porky the pig in very oversized drag with double d's. kind of like bugs bunny but i guess since he's playing katya and clara, AND sofia they didn't want to seem too redundant. also she's his sister. this is mentioned briefly in a fourth wall break introduction of her by goncharov, (played by daffy.) and then her character literally vanishes and is never mentioned again. she fades out of reality with a wobbly ghost voice like she's giving him information from the great beyond.

there's a scene where katya and clara are arguing above an escalator. bugs accomplishes this by switching sides of the screen and outfits, even sofia who is watching this shit go down in the background from 15 feet away. he manages this for 11 minutes until he drops katya's shoe and watches as the stairs of the escalator lift up, form a mouth, and eat the shoe. it then catches on fire.

the scene then jumps to all of the characters screaming in some kind of argument with exaggerated hand gestures. it's a mess of yelling in italian, southern accent english, and italian again but in a british accent. one of the voice actors slipped "i am being paid peanuts for this bullshit. i am allergic." in italian into this scene.

the entire scene is also inexplicably on the ground floor. there was no explanation for how bugs got to the ground floor from the 9th.

daffy walks in struggling to eat a comically long piece of cheese off of a slice of pizza. he gets distracted by his three girlfriends argument with each other and everyone else, chokes on the cheese and fucking dies. (they also straightwashed katya and sofia.)

bugs is too busy arguing with himself and everyone else to notice until the room goes quiet with everyone having a somber expression including daffy who's fake dead on the floor. the only noise in the scene is coming from the burning escalator in the background. bugs starts screaming in a pitch only dogs can hear. the sound didn't change but it cuts to a group of dogs eating trash in an alley who perk their ears and all look to the left. this scene also looks like the simpsons and may be a reference to it.

it then ends with all of the characters singing some cheesy song about friendship (?????) and doing the can can behind daffy who's still pretending to be dead but now he has giant bug antennas on his head that has pink feathers taped to them. some of them fall off.

the credit music is a mashup of katya's song and everytime we touch by cascada.

they also cut out ice pick joe and did not give him a replacement. apparently yosemite sam was considered but they made him a sensei character that trains goncharov to fight. i still don't understand the point of this.

[stillalivebydemand893]

Ex's & Oh's...?

18+

One plan to ruin an ex spirals and turns into a wildfire of lust and late-night moaning.

“PLEASE, I’M GETTING ON MY FUCKING KNEES, OKAY? JUST THIS ONCE!” Erik shouted across the living room like it was a telenovela.

“FUCK OFF! I’M NOT DOING IT!” you yelled back, already halfway to chain-smoking a full pack and faking your own death. Not even Marlboros could fix the migraine you got just from existing today.

Erik looked five seconds away from spontaneous combustion. “Why not?! Jesus fucking Christ-one thing, Peach. Just one. Don’t make me bring up the Denver trip.”

You shot up off Julia’s couch like your soul had been yanked out of your spine. “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE, CAMPBELL.”

You stormed toward him, eyes blazing, trying to intimidate him. He didn’t budge. Didn’t blink. Arms crossed, mouth cocked into a smirk like he was ready to end this fight with fists, fire, or a fake engagement ring.

Julia strolled down the stairs, coffee in hand, face bored. “What’s happening? It smells like unresolved sexual tension and broken dreams in here.”

“It’s just rage and bullshit,” you snapped. “Tell your brother he’s a dumbass.”

“Oh, he knows,” she chirped. “Doctors said it’s irreversible. We even tried holy water. He just got wet.”

“Why are you fighting, anyway?” she added, sipping.

“Because she can’t do one damn thing for this friendship,” Erik growled, stepping closer. “At this point, I don’t even know why we’re still friends. She’s fucking useless.”

You were toe to toe now. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or shove your tongue down his throat. Probably both.

“Fuck you, okay?” you hissed. “Just because we’ve known each other since the fucking Black Plague doesn’t mean I’m going to help you win your ex back. Go on Tinder. Bumble. Fucking Grindr. I don’t care. Pick someone else.”

“Oooh,” Julia purred, eyes wide. “So that’s what this is. Sophia’s coming back to town and Erik’s playing ‘Get My Ex Back: The Remix.’”

You groaned. “I hate her. Last time we were in the same room, she almost bit my head off.”

“That’s because you nearly set her hair on fire,” Erik reminded.

“She wore half a can of hairspray to a Christmas party! I was lighting a candle, not plotting murder!”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, eyes wild. “She hates you. Which means she’ll do anything to get me back, just to piss you off.”

He threw his arms up like a dramatic Real Housewife.

“Oh babe…” Julia grinned like the devil. “Guess who Sophia’s dating now?”

“I don’t give a single fu-”

“Alex.”

You froze.

“My Alex?”

“Your ex Alex,” she said sweetly.

The Alex. High school heartbreak. Gaslighting king. Prince of “You’re just not popular enough,” which actually meant not hot enough. It took four months, three therapy sessions, and one egging of his house to get over him.

(Erik bought the eggs.)

“Oh. We’re doing this,” you said coldly.

“See?” Erik grabbed your shoulders, eyes blazing. “Come on, Peach. We have to do this. For honor. For vengeance. For-”

“For making Sophia combust and watching Alex implode?” you asked, all sugar and venom.

“Exactly.”

He looked too smug. And maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just about Sophia. Maybe he liked the idea of calling you his. Maybe he wanted the fantasy to bleed into reality.

But he’d never say that out loud.

Julia clapped her hands like a game show host. “So, babes. What’s it gonna be?”

You grabbed Erik by the collar, yanking him so close your breath tangled. “We’re getting married,” you growled. “Mark my fucking words. Those two don’t know who they’re messing with.”

“HELL YES, baby!” Erik shouted, spinning you around like a coked-up Patrick Swayze.

Julia cackled. “I cannot wait for tonight.”

He set you down gently, hands still resting on your waist. Too warm. Too steady. Too dangerous.

You winked. “Game time, baby.”

Then stomped upstairs.

“Julia, we’ve got a makeover to do!”

“YES MA’AM!” she yelled, nearly tripping over herself to follow.

Downstairs, Erik stood alone, grinning like a man on the edge.

“God help me,” he whispered. “I’m so fucked.”

“Ready, Peach?” Erik waited downstairs.

You strutted in, wrapped in war paint and vengeance,short skirt, red-hot top, hair cascading like you just stepped out of a shampoo commercial and a bar fight.

He whistled, low and dangerous.

“Hot,” he whispered, taking your hand. Just that one word sent shivers down your spine.

“You sure? I feel kinda slutty,” you teased, fully aware it would only fuel him.

His eyes darkened. “Flaunt those lashes at me again and we’re not making it to the damn party, sweetheart.”

There was always something between you. Heat. Hunger. History. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe you were ovulating. Maybe you just wanted to climb him like a jungle gym and let him ruin your entire existence.

“Game time,” you said as you walked into the house.

It was packed. You and Erik stuck close, fingers laced, the picture of toxic bliss. And then you saw her. Blonde bitch, perfect blowout, standing next to your ex.

You stiffened. Erik’s grip tightened.

“Come on, Peach,” he murmured, dragging you toward the couch in the center of the room.

“What’s the plan, Campbell? Make out in front of everyone?” you snorted.

He pulled you onto his lap in one swift motion.

“Not my style,” he smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You were blushing like hell, unsure whether to bury yourself in his chest or crawl under the coffee table.

“Let’s make some motherfuckers jealous, baby.”

You leaned in, hand on the back of his neck. Skin on skin. Fire in your blood.

He slid his hand up your thigh. “Easy, tiger.” Then kissed your neck like he was starving. You gasped as he squeezed your thigh and bit your collarbone.

“You’re killing me,” you whispered, dizzy with lust.

“That was the plan from the start,” he growled, lips brushing your ear.

You couldn’t take it. You grabbed his lower lip between your teeth and tugged.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Well, well,” Sophia appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Bitches.

“Hey, Sophia,” you said brightly, hand resting on Erik’s chest. He didn’t even look at her. Eyes locked on yours.

“So... you two finally dating? I knew you were always after him-”

Before she could finish, Erik pulled you off his lap and dragged you outside.

“Sorry, we’re leaving,” he called, not even glancing back.

“Erik, what the hell-” you started as you reached the parking lot.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

No warning. Just mouth on mouth, heat exploding, tongues colliding in chaos.

“Peach, let’s go home,” he whispered against your lips.

“Best idea you’ve ever had,” you breathed, climbing into the passenger seat of his Dodge Charger.

The whole drive was silent-except for your gasps every time his hand inched higher on your thigh.

Julia called. You answered with your voice ragged.

“Yeah, we’re good. Just... caught a cold. See you tomorrow.” You moaned as he pressed against you.

“We’re so fucked,” Erik muttered, turning into your apartment lot.

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow.” You were already halfway out of your clothes.

The door barely shut before he slammed you against the wall, lips on your neck like you were dessert.

“Don’t tease, oh god-” you whined, fingers tangled in his hair.

“I’ve waited too long for this, Peach.” He yanked off your top, kissed you like salvation, stripped you down to bra and skirt.

You moaned, helpless under his touch.

“Me too.”

He hoisted you up, legs wrapped around his waist, carried you to the kitchen counter, the cold marble sending a shock through your burning core.

“There’s no turning back now,” you whispered.

“No turning back,” he rasped, taking off your bra as you tore off his shirt.

Mouth on mouth, chest to chest, heartbeats in sync like war drums.

His hands cupped your breasts, mouth devouring each one like they held secrets, like they were his to worship.

“Fuck, Erik-”

Your moan echoed through the kitchen like sin wrapped in velvet.

Erik's hands gripped your thighs, strong and possessive, as he lifted you just a little higher onto the edge of the counter. His mouth was back on your neck, nipping and sucking like he was trying to brand you.

"You taste better than I ever fucking imagined," he growled into your skin.

Your breath hitched, fingers dragging through his hair as he pushed between your legs, grinding into your soaked core through your underwear like it was killing him to go slow.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You could only feel.

“Erik-"

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips parted, pupils blown, hair messy in that way that screamed you did this. His hands slipped down your back, teasing along the hem of your skirt.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low, dark, and cracked with restraint.

You obeyed, almost mindless, hands bracing against the counter as he spun you with one swift movement. His chest pressed flush to your back, and you gasped as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"I've dreamed of fucking you just like this," he whispered, every word dripping into your bloodstream like liquid fire. “Bent over, shaking, begging-”

You let out a breathless whimper, thighs clenching.

And then,you felt it. Hard. Hot. Pressed against you. But something else too.

A jolt lit your nerves on fire.

“Is that...?”

He smirked against your shoulder. “Pierced.”

You nearly lost your balance.

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly,” he rasped, sliding his hand between your thighs. “And it’s all for you, baby.”

Your knees buckled as he ground into you, slow and devastating, like he was showing you just a taste of what that piercing could do.

“I want to ruin you,” he growled, voice strained, hips moving in slow, torturous rolls. “Wreck you so good you forget every asshole that ever looked at you.”

You pushed back into him, desperate, feral.

"Then do it," you gasped. "Make me forget everything."

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently so his lips could ghost along your neck again.

“You’re mine tonight, Peach. And tomorrow... we’ll see if I give you back.”

One hand fisted in your hair, yanking it into a rough ponytail. The other slid under your skirt, slow and deliberate, fingers slipping between your thighs,right where you needed him most.

“All this wet for me, Peach?” he growled against your shoulder, his voice pure gravel and sin. “You knew I’d wreck you tonight, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched. The smirk you gave him was pure defiance. “Took you long enough to notice me, jerk.”

You knew exactly what you were doing. The brat in you wanted to push. You wanted the consequences.

He didn’t take the bait lightly.

“No, Peach. I’ve been noticing you forever,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You put me through hell with that ass of yours. And now?” His breath burned against your neck. “Now I’ve reached my limit.”

Then: “Get on your knees.”

Your heart thrashed in your chest. Blood raced. Adrenaline licked every nerve ending like fire.

You dropped, no hesitation, the air thick between you.

His belt hit the floor like thunder.

You looked up,and damn. He was beautiful, hard, thick, pierced, and proud. Your lips parted before you even realized.

“Open that pretty mouth, sweets,” he said, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Maybe this’ll finally shut you up.”

Your breath came shaky as you obeyed, your eyes still locked on his. You wanted to ruin him. And he knew it.

He hissed as your lips wrapped around him. His hand stayed knotted in your hair, the other braced on the counter behind him, head tilted back in restraint.

“Fuck, Peach…” he moaned, and it shot straight through your core. His voice, thick and trembling, was sweeter than any praise.

Your tongue worked him slowly, expertly,dragging over the piercing just enough to make him twitch.

He looked down at you, eyes dark, jaw locked. “If you keep looking at me like that, I swear to God you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

He dragged you back up by your hair gently, but possessively,your chest pressed to his, breath mingling.

He grabbed your chin, thumb sliding along your bottom lip.

“Open up, Peach.”

You did.

He slid his thumb inside your mouth, and you sucked on it obediently, tongue swirling like you were starving for him. His pupils blew wide, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

“Who knew you were such a slut for me,” he said with a wicked grin.

You bit down gently on his thumb.

His smirk turned dangerous. “Brat,” he hissed.

And then he crushed his mouth to yours.

It was chaos.

Teeth. Tongues. Desperation. His hands everywhere, yours tangled in his shirt like you needed him to hold you up,or you’d drop to the floor, ruined.

You didn’t know what was happening next.

Only that you wanted all of it.

You were dizzy. Drunk on him.

And when he pulled back, just barely, voice low and trembling?

“If we don’t move to the bedroom now, I’m fucking you right here against the counter.”

Your smile was dangerous.

That was all it took.

He gripped your waist like he’d been waiting his whole life to, lifting you up and carrying you with that effortless strength like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress, soft but charged—your chest rising fast, your pulse louder than the room itself.

He stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were something sacred and savage all at once. Completely bare, except for that skirt still hanging low around your hips, clinging on like it didn’t want to miss the show.

Erik groaned, deep and rough. “Now that’s a fucking sight.”

Then he was over you,arms caging you in, body heavy with need, muscles taut, eyes locked on yours. You could feel the burn of his stare tracing every inch of skin he hadn’t touched yet.

“Say the words, Peach,” he whispered against your neck, lips brushing your skin, sending a shiver straight through your spine. “And I’m yours. All of me.”

You looked up at him, eyes wild and soft all at once. He hovered there like he didn’t dare move until you called him home.

“You’ve always been mine, dumbass,” you breathed, voice thick with something between want and love.

Then you pulled him in,fingers tight on his shoulder, lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow, deep, and dangerous. One of those kisses that said don’t you dare stop touching me. One that made time stutter.

You pulled back just barely, eyes still locked on his, your arms looped around his neck like a vow.

“Fuck me, Erik.”

And that was it.

His restraint shattered.

He slammed into you with a growl that sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest. You gasped, the force of him knocking the air from your lungs,and your mind.

His piercing dragged over every sensitive inch of you, igniting sparks that made your vision blur.

“God, Peach,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping like you were drowning in each other. “You feel-fuck,you feel unreal.”

You clenched around him, nails digging into his back as he moved with pure purpose. It wasn’t just sex,it was claiming, consuming, years of tension finally set on fire.

The rhythm was relentless. His name spilled from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He was everywhere,his hands on your hips, his breath in your ear, his teeth scraping along your jaw like he wanted to devour every inch of you.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, voice wrecked. “Me losing my mind for you?”

You barely managed a nod before he shifted, thrust deeper, harder, making your body arch beneath him.

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Because the look in your eyes screamed it: I want you to ruin me. I want you to stay.

And he would.

Every second, every touch, every ragged moan said the same thing back.

He already was.

The sunlight hit your face like karma.

You groaned, shifting under the sheets,but you couldn’t move far. There was a whole wall of muscle and menace wrapped around you.

Erik.

His arm was thrown over your waist like a human seatbelt, chest pressed to your back, legs tangled. And dear god,he was still warm. Still solid. Still smug in his sleep.

And still very naked.

You blinked at the ceiling, brain slowly rebooting from what could only be described as the Mount Vesuvius of orgasms.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered to yourself. “I think he rearranged my spine.”

From behind you, Erik let out a sleepy groan, nuzzling into your shoulder. His morning voice was pure filth,low, gravelly, and half a threat.

“You talkin’ shit, Peach?”

“I’m talking facts,” you muttered. “I’m not sure I can walk. My knees still think I’m on the kitchen floor.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that vibrated against your back.

“You were asking for it.”

You rolled over to face him,and regretted it instantly because his smile was too smug, too hot, and he was definitely still packing a lethal weapon between his thighs. That damn piercing should come with a warning label.

“I wasn’t asking for you to put me in a chokehold with your thighs and rail me into another dimension.”

He smirked. “You say that, but you also said ‘harder’ like… ten times.”

“That’s not legally admissible in court.”

“Oh no?” He leaned in, lips brushing your neck, voice a seductive threat. “What about when you begged me to bite your-”

“ERIK.”

You both froze as Julia’s voice rang through the apartment.

“IF YOU BROKE THE BED, I SWEAR TO GOD-”

Your eyes went wide. Erik slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your giggle. His expression screamed do not move she’s like a damn T-Rex.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, PEACH.”

You whispered against his hand, muffled: “She’s gonna murder us.”

“She’s gonna throw holy water on me,” he whispered back. “Again.”

Julia’s footsteps got closer.

“I MADE COFFEE. AND PANCAKES. AND I NEED TO KNOW IF THIS IS A ONE-NIGHT STAND OR IF I SHOULD START PINNING WEDDING CENTERPIECES ON PINTEREST.”

Erik groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I hate her. I love her. But I hate her.”

You were dying. Physically dying from trying not to laugh.

Still, you grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around yourself like a toga, and tiptoed to the door.

Julia stood there. Holding a coffee. Looking entirely too smug.

“Well, well, well,” she said. *“If it isn’t ‘I hate his guts’ and ‘we’re just best friends.’”

You took the coffee. Sipped it. “It’s complicated.”

Behind you, Erik called out, “She begged.”

You turned and yelled, “I will end you, Campbell!”

Julia just raised her eyebrows. “So… you staying for breakfast or just coming for dessert?”

You turned beet red. Erik groaned from the bed. Julia cackled like a witch.

Welcome to hell. Population: You, your enemy-with-benefits, and your chaos-loving best friend.

And you wouldn't change a thing.

You went back to the Campbells house .Erik was in his sweatpants, no shirt, hair still a disaster from the night before. You were in his hoodie,that damn skirt of your and leftover sin.

You sat at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee like you hadn’t just gotten railed into next week.

Julia? Across from you. Staring. Judging. Plotting.

“So…” she said, too casually. “You two finally fucked. Loudly.”

You choked on your pancake.

“Julia.”

“Don’t ‘Julia’ me, Peach. You butt dialled me and I heard you yelling ‘wreck me, Erik.’ Like, honey, I left the apartment.”

Erik didn’t even flinch. “She said it. Multiple times. I have witnesses.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He grinned and bit into his pancake like he hadn’t just shattered your spine six hours ago.

Julia narrowed her eyes.

“So is this... a thing now? Or are we pretending you didn’t just dry hump each other into the afterlife in front of my Christmas candle?”

You and Erik exchanged a glance.

And then,because the devil owns your soul,he looked right at you, smirking, and said:

“She’s mine.”

Your heart didn’t just flutter. It sucker-punched you.

Julia blinked. “Oh, we’re doing the possessive era now. Good. I’ll get matching sweatshirts printed.”

You were about to throw a waffle at her when there was a knock on the door.

Julia frowned. “Who the hell...?”

She opened it.

And you saw her.

Sophia.

Looking airbrushed, iced-out, and suspiciously smug. Next to her?

Alex.

Oh hell no.

You straightened in your chair. Erik’s jaw tightened so fast you could hear it.

“Well, this is awkward,” Sophia said sweetly, glancing at you like she was checking for damage. “We were in the neighborhood. Thought we’d stop by.”

Julia stepped aside slowly, eyes wide. “This is about to be so good.”

You stood.

“Hi, Alex,” you said coolly, sipping your coffee like it was champagne. “Didn’t expect to see you. Or your… shadow.”

Sophia gave a fake laugh. “Oh Peach, still spicy. Cute.”

Erik stood behind you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, thumb brushing under the hem of his hoodie like it was instinct.

Alex’s eyes followed it. You saw it.

So did Sophia.

“So,” Erik said, casually dominant, voice low enough to sound like a warning. “You here to start drama, or are you just lost?”

“We just wanted to catch up,” Alex said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been a while. Thought you were still single.”

You didn’t miss that.

Neither did Erik.

He leaned down, kissed your cheek, then whispered near your ear,just loud enough.

“You wore me out last night, Peach. Still sore?”

You nearly dropped dead from the power.

Julia straight-up wheezed.

Sophia’s mouth tightened like Botox on a budget.

“Well,” she snapped, “this was fun.”

“Thrilling,” you said. “Next time, send a postcard.”

They left, tension trailing behind them like glitter and bad perfume.

As soon as the door shut, Julia collapsed on the floor.

“YOU GUYS. I AM LIVING FOR THIS. I NEED A REALITY SHOW. I NEED A CAMERA CREW. I NEED YOU TO FUCK ONCE PER EPISODE AND THEN DESTROY EVERY EX WHO CROSSES YOUR PATH.”

You dropped into Erik’s lap, chest heaving from all the drama. He wrapped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he said against your shoulder, “round three after brunch?”

You smiled, slow and wicked.

“Only if you say please.”

He smirked.

“Brat.”

[venusbyline]

Out of Love (1/4)

— summary: Everyone talks about how Aegon the Conqueror married one sister out of duty and the other one out of desire. Unlike his ancestor, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon wants to marry both his aunt and his cousin out of love.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!reader x Baela Targaryen

— type: smut

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, Targcest (nephew/aunt & cousin/cousin), threesome FFM (female/female/male), throuple, corruption kink, vaginal sex, doggy style position, oral sex (female receiving), cunnilingus, fingering, scissoring/tribadism, creampie, overstimulation, secret relationship, cuddling & snuggling, aftercare, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, dom!Baela, reader is Alicent's second daughter, mild hurt/comfort, kinda fluff too, canon divergence (No The Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: I'm not a Jacela shipper, but I had the idea for this shortfic yesterday. So... I'm writing for them hahaah btw, don't worry cuz this story wouldn't be a love triangle, the characters are a throuple, the three of them love each other equally, they just have different dynamics between them.

— author's notes²: Out of Love is a mini series involving Targcest, throuple and forbidden love.

— author's notes³: Each chapter will contain its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes⁴: If you want to be tagged for the next chapters, tell me!!! <3 <3

❥ Jacaerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

You were on Jacaerys' bed for the third time that week, enjoying the carnal pleasures that he and his betrothed were willing to teach you.

Ever since Rhaenyra succeeded to the Iron Throne and the entire family was forced to get closer, you had become almost inseparable from your nephews and cousins — which had deeply irritated your mother and your brother Aemond, although you did not mind so much, because at least you could have some true friends.

Surprisingly, both the crown prince and Baela showed an intense interest in you, something that was wrong — at least in the eyes of the Seven —. You tried to resist at first, denying their advances and saying that you were saving yourself for a future marriage.

All that resistance fell apart when you caught them having sex during a random afternoon. The sight of Baela riding on Jacaerys' cock, her breasts bouncing right in front of his face as he grabbed her hips to help her move even faster... It was too much for you, and you did not even try to hide your accidental presence there.

After that day, the couple dedicated themselves to showing you a lot of sexual things that could be pleasurable for you and would not take your maidenhead — since you were afraid that you would not get a propitious betrothal if you were not a virgin anymore.

On that night in question, Baela was eating you out and Jacaerys was fucking her from behind at the same time.

"Mmm, that feels so good..." Baela moaned when Jacaerys fucked hard inside her, hitting that most sensitive spot.

"So fucking good..." Jacaerys grabbed her hips for more intense thrusts, growling when she shook her ass to tease him. His attention turned to you as he saw you squeezing your own breasts and enjoying Baela's full lips sucking on your clit. "Is Baela making you feel good, sweetheart?"

You opened the eyes and stared at Jacaerys behind his betrothed, who was between your spread legs. "Yeah, baby... It feels so good." The sweet, trembling praise made Baela chuckle, sending a tingle through your bundle of nerves.

Speeding up his movements, Jacaerys slapped Baela's ass once, tilting his body down so he could grab her curly, white hair and push her a little further against your cunt.

Baela gasped in pleasure, because of the rough thrusts and the sweet taste of your juices soaking her face. Sensing that Jacaerys was close to the high, she wiggled her ass again against his groin and increased the stimulation on his cock.

"B-Baela... Shit, love, I am going to cum," Jacaerys' moan sounded like a whimper and he almost felt ashamed of himself. However, despite his desire to cum on your breasts or your face, he remembered about the same fetish shared by the three of you. Then he grabbed both of Baela's buttocks one last time before spilling his seed inside her tight cunt.

The princess hummed at the delightful feeling of Jacaerys' cock throbbing and filling her insides with dense, warm spurts.

The poor boy barely had time to recover, pulling himself out and lying on the other side of the bed, his head aching a little bit from the pleasure. He looked at his seed dripping from Baela's entrance, giving a weak smile and taking a deep breath at the sight of her purplish inner lips.

Lying there, Jacaerys rested while Baela sat up, only to fit her legs over yours right away. A whine escaped your lips at the sticky sensation of Baela's cunt on you, Jacaerys' cum making everything slippery.

She held one of your legs to keep them wide open, lips parted and brow furrowed, a clear demonstration of how aroused you were making her feel. One of your hands went up to her breast, the soft weight in your palm sending shivers down both of yours.

"Baela..."

"I am close too, darling..." She whispered, biting the lower lip as she heard your needy whimper. Rolling her hips back and forth, Baela arched her head back, moaning loudly when your two clits rubbed against each other.

The chambers filled with the wet sounds of your cunts and the ones of pleasure as you both reached the climax. The pace of Baela's hips stuttered, but she kept moving them so she could prolong her high, stopping only when she heard your whimper and realized that you were already too overstimulated.

"She will have to go back to her private chambers in a few hours..." Baela whispered, stroking your silver hair while you slept snuggled against Jacaerys' sweaty chest.

The crown prince clenched his jaw, looking at your sleepy form. You seemed so serene like that, together with them, resting after experiencing one more hint of the pleasure they were capable of giving you. It was not fair that you had to sneak out of there and leave them so soon.

It was not fair that you had to leave them.

Noticing the silence of her cousin, Baela gossiped with a tense tone: "Rumors are running through King's Landing. You know... They are about the fact Alicent is probably considering a betrothal between her and Daeron."

There was no surprise on Jacaerys's face, but rather anger. He knew about the rumors and he also knew that you had plenty of suitors from other Houses, all of them interested in a political alliance. You were beautiful, young, fertile and with your maidenhead intact, besides being a Targaryen princess. Any single lord in his right mind would try to have a chance.

That did not make the situation any easier to overcome. "I do not want this to happen. And I know very well that you do not want that either."

Baela remained quiet for a few moments, her heart warming seeing you and Jacaerys cuddling in his bed, the after-sex smell making her aroused for the second time in that night — though she was not going to say anything about it, considering everyone was exhausted and Jacaerys were quite tense, just like herself.

The last thing Baela and Jacaerys wanted was to have to end whatever was going on between the three of you someday. The idea of you marrying someone, really falling in love with your future husband, or at least being forced to be faithful to him panicked them...

They wanted you. They needed you. They loved you too much to let you move on any time soon.

“I could try to convince my mother and then marry both of you,” Baela raised an eyebrow at Jacaerys’ words, clearly not shocked by the prince’s impulsive decision. He seemed to realize that too, because he immediately frowned, all frustrated. "Do not give me that look, love. I would not be the first Targaryen man to do something like that. Aegon the Conqueror married both of his sisters. Maegor the Cruel had six wives."

"Well, that is the problem. One of them was a conqueror and the other one was a tyrant. It's not like the people of Westeros would accept something like that these days," She did not add the fact that he being considered a bastard by the Realm was already enough of an obstacle that his legitimacy as heir might be challenged at some point. He understood what she thought without her even having to say it, though he did not want to admit that she was right. "Being the next king and queen does not give us the freedom to have our every wish granted, Jace."

Jacaerys sighed, too tense for his own good, closing his eyes and trying hard to keep the mind free of melancholy or angry thoughts. Just as he was about to fall asleep, Baela drew his attention back. "However, we can at least try."

[tinysunshine]

✧˖° 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 (𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒) °˖✧

‎ [ 𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: age difference, ddlg elements (no daddy kink), dumbification, reader is very ditzy, negan is protective, dom/sub dynamic, fingering, creampie, slightly rough sex, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation

warnings and triggers: dumb! reader, name-calling, mentions of violence and death, negan is extremely manipulative, bullying, reader is a little insecure, dubcon

word count: 7k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe. slightly dead dove.

It’s beautiful, and Negan’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received. He’d do anything to keep you this docile. This trusting.  This dumb, about who he is and what he does. You think he’s the nicest guy in the world, and you’re a sweet little thing. Why would he ever want to change that perception?

It’s funny, because when he was growing up, Negan never wanted to play with dolls. 

He was a regular kid. A regular boy, who liked toy cars and dinosaurs, dug in the dirt and killed spiders and dared his friends to eat ants. Threw rocks at squirrels and played pirates and cowboys, stayed outside until the streetlights turned off. Average. Grew up to be above average, sure, but the fundamental parts of what make him a man have been inside of him since day one. 

He’s mean. He’s pretty damn selfish, and he’d be the first to admit that. He’s rough, he’s aggressive, and sometimes he gets so mad he swears he can feel his dick chub up in his pants - especially when he hears the sound of another grown man begging, crying, or pleading. It’s not a gay thing, of course - more like a fucked up thing, but he knows he’s not alone in it. 

He’s around men all day. Sees them hurt each other, mostly at his orders - but it’s all in good fun. At least for him. Men like that shit. They love to hurt, even if they say they don’t, and the little secret that most women don’t understand is that they like to be the one who’s hurt sometimes. Most of them won’t admit it, but Negan will. 

It feels good, to get smacked in the face or to spit a tooth out after a gnarly punch to the cheek (but Negan’s got a dentist under this thumb, so he can enjoy that feeling, he’s lucky, he knows). When his vision gets blurry and his nose bleeds, ribs aching after a good fight - phew. Negan loves that shit. Knows every other man does too. 

That excitement, the frustration, all of it spreading through his body like a wildfire until he feels his hand curl into a fist to get his retribution. It’s almost as good as an orgasm, because it makes him feel alive. What’s more human than pain?

Negan Smith is a man, through and through. Always has been, always will be. 

Which makes it so funny, such a crazy twist of fate, that his favorite toy is now you. 

His perfect, little doll.

Crazy how life works out, huh?

────

When Negan found you, you were all alone. 

Well, you thought you were alone. 

You were staying at a run-down farm house that Negan’s men found because they were looking for a group of people that tried to fuck him over. A group of scared fucking pathetic excuses for men, which disgusted Negan to no end. He wants to terrify people, sure - gets a thrill, and an erection out of it. But seeing people sweat before he’s even opened his mouth is just infuriating. 

What if he was a nice guy? They’d never know. Pretty fucked up, Negan thinks, judging someone based on their appearance. 

The group started firing at his men before they even got out of their truck, and then they had to be chased, and when Negan’s men lost them he had to get involved. A few days came and went before they were finally found, and just in perfect time too - because those men must’ve seen that you were staying alone at the house and were planning to fuck you over. 

Fuck you too. Negan heard them planning it by some trees about a half a mile away from the house, before he beat in their brains with his bat. 

Now, Negan knows he’s a monster. But he’d never gang up on a woman with his men. It’s tasteless. Disgusting. Tacky, deplorable. Weak. 

Because him? Well, Negan came on to you all on his own.

His first thought when he found you, completely clueless about the fate that awaited you, on the front porch of a farm house that had surely seen better days, was that you were cute.   

Too cute to be alive in this world, living on your own. Negan has a lot of wives, yeah, but they all looked like shit when he found them. He just has an eye for that sort of thing - finding beauty in the things nobody else can see. 

He saw it in all those women he forced to be his bride - beauty in their features all dirtied up from time on the road that he knew would be pretty again after a shower and some lip gloss. Beauty, in the blood under the nails of his men, the fragility of human life and the almost unbreakable spirit. Beauty, in all the luxuries he used to take for granted before walkers became a thing and changed everything. 

Negan knows beauty when he sees it, and when he saw you, he realized he'd laid his eyes on the most beautiful thing still left in this world. 

When you saw him, you didn’t panic. When you saw his men, you didn’t even frown. Instead, on that little porch, you arched an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. You were sitting down on the ground, a pair of tiny, denim shorts on and scuffed up boots. Negan noticed that you had a little flower tucked behind your ear, and he wondered if you were insanely brave or just stupid. 

Either way, he was intrigued. 

“You alone?” He asked a question that would have alarm bells going on in just about anyone else’s head. But not yours. No, you took it a step further than Negan could’ve anticipated. You stood up, walked to him, and gave him a hug.

Negan thought it was a trap. He really did. Was sure that this was going to be the way he finally died, and goddamnit - maybe he deserved it. Clever fucking asshole, whoever designed this honeypot of a beautiful girl all alone, looking like she was waiting to be rescued. 

But it wasn’t a trap. 

You were actually happy to see him and his men. You pulled away from the hug and let out a sigh of relief, blowing a piece of hair out of your face with a cute expression. You smiled, and Negan realized how much he missed the look of innocence. He didn't realize how long it'd been since he'd last seen it. “I’m so happy you’re here,” you said, taking the flower out from behind your ear. You handed it to him. “It was so scary being all alone.”

────

You’re beautiful, but that’s the least interesting thing about you. Don’t get Negan wrong though - you are beautiful. Fucking perfect, like a little doll, with soft skin and perky tits and a sweet smile whenever you get your way. 

Which makes you perfect for Negan, because you’re also about as brainless as a doll, pretty head all empty, and whatever he tells you to do, whatever he thinks, whatever he wants - you agree. That simple, that smooth. Even Negan was impressed when he realized just how ditzy you were. 

He’s not trying to be insulting either. People have different strengths, and using your brain is not one of yours. You’re so fucking hot though, that it doesn’t really matter what you say or do. Your passivity, your cuteness, the big eyed look you give him whenever you’re confused about something he says (which is frequently) - Negan could cum in his pants just thinking about it. 

You’re special to him. 

The minute he brought you home, he hated the guts of every single one of his wives. Although, maybe hate is too strong of a word. Because Negan doesn't even hate them, truthfully, because he doesn't even think of them. Once he had you in his presence, you took up so much of his time that he was shocked (and pleased) that someone didn’t try to overthrow his position as leader in his absence. 

He knew from the minute he had you in his truck, leaving that farm house, that you’d end up meaning a lot to him. The day he found you, he had his men walk around the little house you were staying in, looking for any valuables. There were some, and even though Negan found you charming, he still didn’t know you. Didn’t know if that happy to not be alone thing was an act or not. 

He drilled you, asked you questions and tried to scare you a little bit, but it was impossible to frighten you - which frightened him. He’ll admit, you spooked him with your naivety back then. It was creepy as shit.

You just kept giggling, kept standing too close to him, and when Negan finally made his men look through the house, you took a seat on the old couch in the living room. “So nice of them to help me with my stuff. I’ve been alone here since my brother never came back after he went looking for something for us to eat. I’m really lonely. Really hungry too.” It was obvious to Negan at that moment, just how clueless you really were - but it was also really fucking cute. 

He’d spent so much time fighting, arguing, forcing - and finally having someone give in without resistance was nice. That day, he found himself sitting back on the couch in front of you, and then you made the move to get up and sit next to him. Clueless. Dangerous, your innocence.

But deep down, in a thought Negan didn’t even want to admit to himself - 

It was nice to be around someone who wasn’t scared of him. Someone he didn’t have to force.

“We only just met, kid. Personal space,” he remembers saying, but you just laughed. Sweet and hungry, you said. Negan couldn’t wait to bring you home and feed you. He was already wondering where you would fit in, hating himself for being worried about how the other women would treat you if he threw you in with his wives. Maybe you could teach them a thing or two, about being nice. But then again. 

His wives are bitches. Although Negan can’t say he doesn’t understand why. 

“You play baseball?” You asked, looking towards his bat that was resting beside his foot while he held onto it. He was in a state of disbelief. He couldn’t understand how someone could be so, so - 

“No, honey, I don’t. You pullin’ my leg or something? Or are you really just that,” stupid, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. Because your bottom lip jutted out like you were about to cry, then your eyes filled with tears, and Negan loves to hurt people to see how far he can take it until they try to hurt him back - but with you, he knew you wouldn’t fight back. 

Took a lot of the fun out of it, so he quickly changed the subject. It’s only fun to make a beautiful woman cry when it serves a purpose, and Negan didn’t see any purpose in hurting someone as…you know what? He’s got nothing nice to say, he won’t say anything at all.

“How’s this,” he said instead, placing a hand on your knee. Your skin was warm under his palm, soft where his rough fingers touched you. “You come back with us, and you can eat whatever you want. As much as you want. You in?” 

Truth be told, Negan planned on bringing you back with him, regardless of if you wanted to come, at this point. Because when he touched your knee, you put your hand on top of his, and that was all it fucking took to disarm him. 

Little bunny, not scared of the big bad wolf. Now that’s a fairy tale Negan’s never heard of -

He’s always liked to write his own rules, anyway. 

────

Negan calls you his bunny, and you like it, but you think you like being called doll better. 

He tells you all the time that you look like a doll. No matter what time of day, no matter what you look like, he’ll never stop giving you that compliment. It always makes your face heat up, and sometimes it even turns you on. 

What can you say? You’re a woman, and being by Negan’s side makes you feel more feminine than you’ve ever felt in your entire life. 

He treats you like you’re breakable. Gives your forehead kisses, brings you food, takes care of all your needs. The truth is, you’ve always been treated like you’re breakable, but nobody ever acted like they enjoyed having to take care of you. Negan says he’s happy that you need him so much, and you like that. 

You like being the kind of woman who gets protected. The kind of woman who gets doted on and adored. Ever since you met Negan, your nails have been clean and your knees have been without a bandage, your tummy has been full - you didn’t think you’d ever feel clean and pretty again, until he swept you off your feet like you always dreamed would happen to you.

Negan has a lot of pet names for you. Bunny, doll - those are just a few. Sometimes you wonder if he even knows your real name, because he never says it. Baby, sweetheart, cutie. Darling. Everytime he opens his mouth to say something in regards to you, something sweet is coming out of it. 

You’ve only been with him a few months, but you love him so much you can’t stand it. You want to be around him all the time, but it’s just not possible, he says.

You don’t know what Negan does when he leaves his, yours, the room you both share, because you spend most of your time in there. Sometimes you go out, with him, or with one of his men that you met that day at the farmhouse, but if Negan’s not taking you out, you don’t really want to go anywhere. 

You’re happy to stay in the room. There’s books, although you don’t really read…but there’s plenty of things to do to keep yourself busy. Most of the time, you just sleep. Sometimes it’s a little boring, waiting for Negan, but you’re eternally grateful for being able to nap again. Life on the road was scary, stressful. 

“You’re not built for life out there, baby,” Negan told you once, which translated to life without me, but it’s not like you disagreed. You were sitting on his lap, your head resting on his shoulder, asking him to tell you about his day. You love the stories he tells you, because they make you feel even more grateful to be somewhere safe. 

Negan is so good to you.

You know that Negan is in charge of the place you’re at, and that makes you feel funny, and lucky, to be the woman he chose. You know it’s practically the apocalypse and all, but you’re sure he had a lot of women he could’ve chosen to date. He’s handsome, so handsome, and he’s the nicest, most generous man you’ve ever met. 

He gives people jobs, and medical care. He has a system to kill off all the walkers that come too close to the building, and it’s so smart that you know he must’ve come up with it himself. He has so many supporters and people that respect him - which tells you all you need to know, about him being an amazing leader. When he walks in a room, everyone gets quiet, and that makes you feel giddy, knowing the amount of power he holds. 

Although, it shouldn’t exactly surprise you. Negan was able to get power over you pretty quickly, but that’s only because you let him. It’s just - 

You don’t know how else to be. You’ve always been this way - ditzy, head full of air, dumb. You’ve heard it your entire life, which is maybe why it feels so good to hear Negan call you nice things. To love that you might not be the, what was it your father always said to you? Not the brightest candle on the birthday cake? Not the sharpest tool in the shed? 

You know you sound dumb - but you like sounding dumb. You like that Negan is around to think for you, to tell you what to do and when to do it. He tells you what you should be thinking, and you listen. 

Negan knows best. You could hardly survive on your own for a week, and look at what he built. 

Sometimes though, no matter how strong a leader Negan is, things get hard.

Bad things happen, little bunny, he tells you, patting his lap for you to take a seat. You do, and you look up at him with wide eyes, ready for whatever he plans on telling you. You know it has to be serious, because he didn’t ask you to take your clothes off yet. That’s usually the first thing out of his mouth, whenever he’s back in the room for the night.

Negan tells you that sometimes, people break his rules, and when that happens, they have to be punished. He asks if you heard anything while he was out, any screams or any loud voices - but you shake your head. You arch a brow, curious. “Why?” You ask, and he stares at you for a moment, tongue licking over his bottom lip. Then he grins, and you smile back cluelessly.

“That’s it, huh?” He says, but you know not to reply. You don’t need to. Talking out loud, Negan explained to you. 

Sometimes he’s just in shock, is all, about how clueless you really are. 

He maneuvers you easily, his little doll, into straddling his lap. Bucks his hips up, so you can feel what you’re doing to him just by existing. He killed three men today, burned the face off of another, and you’re looking at him like he hung all the stars in the sky. 

It’s beautiful, and Negan’s pretty sure this blind obedience and worship you have for him is the best kind of love he’s ever received. He’d do anything to keep you this docile. This trusting. 

This dumb, about who he is and what he does. You think he’s the nicest guy in the world, and you’re a sweet little thing. Why would he ever want to change that perception?

He reaches his hand between your bodies, to lift up the bottom of the big shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, to feel how wet you are. No panties, because he told you that they don’t exist anymore. Just - they were all taken. He didn’t know if you’d seriously believe that, but you do, and it’s just too good to be true. 

“Don’t mean to worry you about all that grown up, scary stuff, honey,” he fakes an apology, loves that your little cunt is ready for him, wet, shaved all proper, sucking his finger in when he starts prodding at your opening. You whine, biting on the inside of your cheek because his fingers are so long and you love the attention after you’ve spent all day alone.

You're not even offended at his little insult. Grown up stuff, as if you're not a full adult yourself. You're too busy focusing on the feeling of his ownership, the fact that you quite literally exist for him, like any good toy does.

Although, be real. Being finger fucked or not, it's unlikely you would've understood that comment was an insult anyway.

It’s your special time together, moments like these, and if it’s even possible - you become more brainless. Let him play with your pussy, let him push you down on the couch, slip his dick inside of you, make you so full that sometimes the feeling scares you a little, but you like it nonetheless. 

Your favorite part about the sex is how it feels to be in Negan’s arms after. Warm, body loose, his cum dripping out of you as he tucks you into bed. Back at that farmhouse, all alone, you cried yourself to sleep every night. There were so many scary noises, so much land that you could only imagine the horror that was lurking outside. When your family was alive, you were still scared -

They’d just tell you to shut up. But not Negan. 

There’s no fear with Negan, you think, closing your eyes as his arms wrap around you. 

You’re the safest you could possibly be. You think about this while your drift off to sleep, but Negan thinks the opposite -

He’s the face of nightmares to more people than he can name, but you cling to him like he’s your savior.

────

“You got any brains in that head? Or is it just filled with ribbons and whatever that frilly shit you’ve got on is called?” Dave, one of the men you hate most in this world, snaps the strap of your tank top against your shoulder so hard that it makes you want to cry. Your eyes fill up with tears, and in typical you fashion, you stomp your foot and use what little strength you have to push him away from you. Your bottom lip trembles. 

“Leave me alone,” you whine (beg), arms crossed over yourself protectively when Dave finally steps back. 

He’s not alone - a few moments ago, you screamed and the men patrolling the compound heard and came running. But they did nothing to help, and instead, have made you feel bad about screaming at all. As if you could control your reaction to a fucking spider crawling across the toe of your shoe. Brand new shoes, you must add, because don’t these men understand how hard it is to get new shit nowadays? 

Don’t they understand how scary and dangerous spiders are? 

The honest truth is that it doesn’t cross your mind that these are the same men that risked their life to get you the shoes you’re wearing, but. They don’t have to be so mean. 

“No. You’re such a dumbass. Screaming like that’s fuckin’ dangerous,” another man says, and you don’t even know his name but being reprimanded like this makes you cry. Being called a dumbass makes you want to sob. You admit that, yeah, maybe you’re a little airheaded sometimes. Maybe you’re a little clueless, when adjusting to life in this new, yucky world, but fuck - would it kill people to be nice? 

Name calling is never the answer. 

“I’m not dumb,” you say softly, with no confidence in your voice. You should have known better than to leave the room without asking anyone to escort you. 

There’s no rule that says you can’t leave the room, but you’ve been at the sanctuary for months now, and you rarely leave the room you share with Negan unless he’s with you. Out of all the men that work for him - the only ones that treat you decently are the ones that were with him that day they found you at the farmhouse. 

The times you do leave the room, everyone treats you so weird. They’re all cruel, whispering about how stupid you are when you walk past, holding Negan’s hand. Or they just stare at you, which makes you feel insecure. It’s even worse when they ask you questions, because no matter how hard you think about the answer, they’re unhappy with it. 

You think to a few weeks ago, when you walked past a room with a bunch of women just sitting around. Negan said you weren’t allowed to go in there, but when his back was turned later that day, you walked over there to talk to some of them. 

“Negan know you’re here?” One of them asked, looking nervously behind your shoulder. Your brows furrowed, confused. 

“Huh? Uh, no, but it’s okay. I just never see any other women here, I,” but she cut you off, and you heard hushed whispers in the corner of the room where a small group of women sat together.

“You should go,” she said, dismissing you, and that was the last time you left the room. In the room, you’re safe. 

You’ve got things to do, and a big collection of stuff that makes you happy that Negan got for you. Clothes, magazines, even if they are old. Purses and things to color with, to paint with. You keep pretty busy most days. Plus, his side of the bed smells like him, and you love to nap next to it when he’s not around. 

You only left the room today because Negan didn’t come back last night, and you’re worried about him and very upset and lonely. 

You walked around the sanctuary, wondering where he could possibly be, when a spider crawled across your shoe and, well. Here you are. 

“A spider isn’t a fuckin’ emergency. Jesus fuck, I swear, Negan’s a sick son of a bitch for even fucking you. ‘S like you got a problem or something,” Dave says, and you wish you could just walk away and run back to the room, where you’d be safe, surrounded by all the things that make you happy - but they’re all blocking your path. 

“Yeah, man,” the other one says. You wish you weren’t so bad with names. “Scared of a spider but not scared of the fuckin’ walkers outside,” he scoffs, and somehow you find it in you to defend yourself. You wish you could say more, but you just can’t. It’s so frustrating, not being able to come up with anything to say on the spot. 

“Walkers used to be human. Spiders are icky bugs. I’m scared of bugs, not humans. I didn’t mean to scream,” but nobody is listening to you. 

“It’s not right, Negan fuckin’ you. Weird as shit. You got something wrong with you? Dropped on your head as a baby? Can’t feel right fuckin’ a dumbass doll, you’re real cute though,” and he just goes on and on while the other men laugh, and you can’t help it, tears are pouring. 

“I just want to find Negan. Where is he?” You try to wipe your eyes, hating yourself for being such a big baby. Hating yourself, for not paying better attention to the layout of your new home when Negan gave you a tour, because you were so focused on the feeling of holding his hand, that you paid no attention to almost everything else. You hate how dependent on him you are, and you wonder if he hates it too. 

Maybe he’s been gone because he’s sick of you. Maybe he’s going to bring you back to the farmhouse, because he doesn’t like you anymore. Maybe everyone else told him why they don’t like you, and now he believes them, and he’s such a good leader that - 

Footsteps, and then you hear the slow, deliberate chuckle you’ve come to know so well. You’d recognize Negan anywhere, even with your eyes closed. He rounds the corner, behind Dave and the other men, and they scramble like they’re stepping on hot coals with bare feet, making room for him. 

“Ohhh, no no no,” he says, voice like honey, and you wonder why. You wonder why he’s happy, until it clicks in your brain that this might be the sarcasm your brother used to always talk about. “See, I might let a lotta things go. But talking to her like that? That’s just beggin’ for a lesson in respect.” 

Negan doesn’t yell. Just tilts his head, eyes narrowing in on the men who were just being big old meanies to you. Your crying stops, but you’re so upset that you don’t even run to Negan like you normally would. You look down, towards your shoe, where Negan uses the tip of his bat to kill the spider that wandered off. 

“Go to our room, bunny. You know how to get back there, don’t you, sweet girl?” 

You don’t, not really, and you must freeze for long enough that Negan takes his eyes off the men and shakes his head. Then his eyes focus on you, and he nods in the direction to go.

“That way, baby,” he says with a sigh, and then you scamper off. 

────

Negan’s pissed - 

It’s been a long time since he’s felt this emotion, but the truth is that he’s pissed at himself. 

He should have known better than to leave you alone overnight. He didn’t intend to be gone so long, but shit happened that he had to handle, and you’d been so easy to manage since you arrived. So good. So happy and at peace with what he gives you, eager for isolation in a way that even surprised him. 

He didn’t think you’d even notice if he was gone, but that was his mistake - because the minute he found you back in the room, crying your eyes out again, he set his bat by the door and hoped to god that you were dumb enough to not notice the literal pieces of brain stuck to it. Dave, and the others who were dumb enough to fuck with you? 

They were handled, and Negan finds it kind of funny that they had the nerve to insult your intelligence. As if speaking to you like that wasn’t about the stupidest, most suicidal thing a man at the sanctuary could do. 

“I’m so sorry, Negan. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” you sob, even as he sits down beside you and pulls your tiny frame into his lap. You latch onto him, sniffling and shaking your head, obviously disappointed at the way you acted. 

You’re such a good girl, that even when you don’t break the rules, you’re still worried about getting into trouble. Desperate for his approval, eager to please, eyes that look like that when they’re filled with tears. 

Jesus fucking -

Negan’s painfully hard, and he’s ready to take his cock out and tell you to lick it, bunny, yeah, like a lollipop, but he’s got to make you feel better first. His sweet girl, his best girl, worried that he might be mad at her.

“You’re not in trouble, baby, you know that? Did nothing wrong. Dave and the others will be taken care of, don’t you worry,” he rubs your back with one big hand, doesn’t even try to mask the fake concern and damn near baby talk just to make you feel better. Anyone else would be able to see right through it, but not you. 

Fuck, even that thought makes him harder. 

“I don’t know why they don’t like me, but,” you stutter out. “It’s not a big deal. Guess I’m just being a baby, I just missed you, and I got lost, and then there was the spider and,” Negan has to stop you there. 

“Not a big deal?” he echoes you, voice low and no longer sugar sweet. “Baby, someone made you cry. That is a big deal. That’s a fucking world-ending deal.”

Negan’s never felt this way about a woman. Protective. Sure, he’s felt possessive about his wives, will burn the face off of any fucking bastard who tries to touch them even if he’s ignoring them, but he could care less what actually happens to them. 

But you? Knowing that you were lonely. Lost, all dumb and cute wandering around the sanctuary. It was risky, he’ll admit, to have you think it’s alright for you to just walk around freely. What if you saw something that changed the way you thought about him? What if you hurt yourself, what is someone tried to touch you? He makes a mental note to think of some excuse to have you stay in the room from now on, unless he’s with you. Something to scare you. 

Just thinking about those fucking pieces of shit upsetting you - he might have to dig their decaying corpses out of the guts of the walkers he fed them to, just to kill them again. 

You’re nervous. He can tell, by how tense you are on his lap. Wordlessly, he grabs your hips and forces you to sit, enjoys the feeling of his bulge bumping up against the thin fabric that hides your cunt. No more underwear - fucking genius of him.

“Look, honey,” he starts, sighing again as if it’s hard for him to say this. “I wouldn’t hurt a fly. You know that -”

“You killed a spider, though. That’s kind of like a fly.”

Are you fucking serious? Negan ignores that. At least you’re not crying anymore. 

“Baby, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but anyone messing with you needs to have some consequences,” you’re pouting, and you look like you’re about to cry again, so he changes the subject. That’s always easy to do with you, and he feels a rush of affection for his sweet, dumb girl.

Gently, he pushes you off his lap so he can stand, then he grabs your hand to lead you to the bed. He takes your clothes off first, sitting on the edge of the bed while you’re standing between his legs, and he rubs his hands up and down your sides. 

So soft. So perfect, your cute little skirt falling to the floor. He helps you step out of it because he knows how clumsy you are, and when your breasts are bare he grabs both of them in his hands, rubs his thumbs over your nipples, lets the sexy sounds you make go straight to his dick.

“Where were you, Negan?” You ask, and that surprises him. Takes him aback, because you never ask him questions like that. If you were any other woman, he might think that you were trying to catch him in a lie or something - but because you’re you, he just leans in and kisses you, fists a hand in the back of your hair while he does it, a little roughly. 

You told him once, that he was too rough, and he told you that all men are like that if they really like a woman. That’s all he had to say. You believed him. Even asked him after that, on a night he was all gentle, if he still liked you. 

His dick gets harder, if possible, thinking about it. 

“You don’t need to worry your little head about that, alright? I’ll be honest with you, baby - I’ll probably need to go out again tonight,” he ignores your frown by standing, pushing you down on the bed. You’re on your stomach, and then he pats you on the ass, and you’re so good that you remember what that means. What you’re supposed to do. You get on all fours, and you don’t even whine like usual when he pushes down on your back to get you to arch. 

You don’t question him further, but maybe that’s because he takes his belt off, unzips his pants, takes his dick out and gets behind you on the bed. He runs the head of his cock, leaking, between your folds, grins at the way you’re trying to suck him in. Greedy little thing, how badly you want his cock.

He presses in a little, just to tease you, and you make small noises and move your hips a little. “What a good girl,” he talks out loud, but he knows that his girl likes a lot of praise. “Doesn’t matter how long I keep you on a shelf, dolly, does it? You’d be here, waiting for me. Ready for me, however I want you. Fuck,” he groans, when he bottoms out inside of you. 

Your pussy is better than all of his wives combined, but maybe that’s just because you’re his. His to break in, his to mold to his own liking. His to fuck, his to keep, his girl, his toy, his doll. Those other women - they weren’t even his to start with, which was a little fun, part of the appeal - but it’s nothing like this. Nothing is as good as this. 

Negan fucks you, and you take it. Honestly, it used to freak him out a little, how submissive you are. Just laying there, however he asks you to, keeping quiet if not for the little noises you make. You cum fast, whenever he touches your clit or finds that spot inside of you, and he knows it’s because you never touch yourself. 

He asked you once, if you play with yourself when he’s gone, but you looked at him like he was crazy. “Don’t know how to,” you said, all embarrassed, but Negan wants to keep you that way. Like a pot that boils only for him, his little magic lamp. A few thrusts here, his fingers or a lick there and - boom. Squeezing his cock so tight it feels like it’s about to break off. Perfect.

He cums deep inside of you, hopes that one day he’ll be able to knock you up, but he’s still a little nervous about how you’d be as a mother. Maybe he could get one of his wives to help out if that happened, or maybe - 

He pulls his dick out of you, sweaty and spent, trying to screw his head back on straight. Maybe he should not even be thinking about starting a family right now. He’s got enough on his plate as is, especially when you turn around and look at him with hearts in your eyes, making grabby hands at him that just look too innocent when you’ve got his spunk leaking out of your pussy.

Negan lays down with you, and you lay your head on his chest, drawing hearts and little shapes with your finger on his skin while he catches his breath. 

“Bunny,” he warns after a few minutes, and you look towards him, position yourself on your stomach with your hands flat on his chest, your head balanced on top of them. You’re looking at him like he’s the sun, and shit if it's not waning on his evil streak just a little bit. You’re fucking precious.

“I don’t want to leave you, but I have some business to take care of,” and then your happy look fades. 

Even so, you try to snuggle closer, until he literally just pulls you closer. 

“I don’t want you to get hurt. What if someone hurts you, and you never come back?” Your voice is quiet, sad, and Negan almost blows his entire cover right there, almost wants to tell you that there’s no bigger monster than him just to tame your anxiety.

Instead, he changes the story. Tells you that there’s some insane guy out there, with a group of people who are taking supplies away from the sanctuary. They want to hurt people, they want to hurt him, but he’s arranging a peaceful talk and hopefully, they’ll agree. He’ll have plenty of backup, of course, and you know how good I am at staying calm, honey, and then you’re at ease, kissing him all sloppy because you miss him already, and really, it’s a perfect send off. 

“Good girl,” he tells you later, when you make it easy for him to leave. You don’t give him any shit. After fucking you, he spent a few hours just playing with you. Making you try on some of the new clothes he found you, he did a new puzzle with you (you’re surprisingly good at puzzles, and he’s impressed), and then he counted how many fingers you could take in your sweet little cunt before cumming (four). 

You had good quality time together, which is why his praise means so much. But who are you kidding: Negan’s praise is the most important thing in the world to you.

When he says goodbye, he makes you promise (pinky promise) to stay in the room. That someone will bring you food, but he’ll be back in the morning. You promise, stand up on your tip toes when he teases you by holding his hand higher than you can reach, but you end up grabbing his closed fist and you press a kiss to his outstretched pinky. Then you kiss him, and he asks you to keep his bed warm. Stay pretty for him, he says, shutting the door. Keep bein’ sweet.

When the door locks behind him, Negan thinks about you the entire way to the car, even with his men following him. He should feel bad about the way he treats you, but he doesn’t.

He tells you stories, half-truths painted in bright colors. You think he keeps people safe, that he’s a good person who does things for the greater good, and you’re always amazed that he’s willing to protect people like you, who can’t do anything without someone else calling the shots. 

It’s not so wrong though, he thinks, wanting to keep you in the dark. Someone like you deserves an opportunity to stay soft. If anything, he’s doing you a favor, keeping you sheltered like this. 

You stay soft, you stay blind to the cold, hard truth about the fucked up world around you. About the man you share your bed with.

He’ll kill and hurt and do whatever he has to do to survive, and because he finds a thrill in it - and you'll stay locked up like a pretty doll on a shelf, spending your days applying lotion and trying on pretty dresses, doing your puzzles and looking through your magazines. Dumb and oblivious and waiting on him to give you a purpose. Perfect.

Negan’s not a romantic, but he thinks that there’s something safe about not knowing the truth. Something kind of beautiful about believing in the myth of a good man.

That night, before Negan steps out of his trailer, before he lines up every member of the fucking group he’s been itching to put in their place for much too long now, he looks in his pocket for the picture of you that he snapped on a polaroid camera. Pretty, sweet, sitting on his couch in a pink tank top and a little white skirt. 

You’re beautiful, and you think he’s good. 

If he looks hard enough at you, he wonders if he’ll start to convince himself of it too. 

Negan Smith is a bad man, he knows - but he thinks you might be sweet enough for the both of you.

[bread-for-all-and-roses-too]

Bringing this back because you idiot freaks seem to have lost the plot already.

This time I'm not talking about the Eastern European side of this fucking mess (fuck Russia, Slava Ukraini), but I'm reminding you all not to fucking joke or post about "world war 3" "fits I'm wearing to ww3" etc.

The Israeli and US governments, which are actively participating in a genocide, want you to think this is the start of a war/something to make fun of.

This is not a war.

This is a genocide.

You (american, derogatory) are not under threat from the "evil Iran" or "evil Hamas".

You are being manipulated by your government in order for you to view the genocide that is happening, and has been happening since 1948, as a "war", as a "conflict" where both sides have power.

This is not what is happening.

Israel and by extension the US are starving, torturing, bombing, and murdering innocent civilians in Gaza.

They are committing war crimes.

They are blocking aid and humanitarian organisations.

They are violating human rights.

They are killing Palestinian children.

Get your head out of your ass or I will come over to your grey suburban house and throw you into your in-ground pool.

If youre not Polish or dont live in central/eastern europe shut the fuck up. Literally shut your mouth. Stop talking about world war 3 or article 5. Stop spreading fear and misinformation. Check your fucking sources. On behalf of my people, shut the fuck up.

[pamelaiscrying]

KENAN YILDIZ FANFIC

Summary: kenan had agreed to score a goal but you would have to give him one night to spend alone.

Warning: phone sex, cursing, actual sex scenes, plot with porn.

——

With kenan nothing was ever certain.

Not what you were. Not what you were becoming.

The whole thing felt like a twisted little game—equal parts desire and defiance—and both of you were absolutely complicit.

“So…” his voice dropped, lazy and laced with heat. “If I score… you’ll let me fuck you, right?”

Your eyes rolled, but a smirk tugged at your lips. Thank god the camera was off—he didn’t need to see how much you were enjoying this.

It had been a while since you two last sexted, and this teasing rhythm, this obscene distance flirting, was your shared addiction.

You’d only met once, barely brushed lips against lips, it was a type of kiss that 10 year olds give to each other, yet somehow spent countless nights detailing everything you’d do to each other.

“Yes, baby…”

The word made you cringe as it slid off your tongue—not because you weren’t capable of being soft, but because with Kenan?

Romance didn’t belong here. You weren’t sweet. You were sharp.

With him, it was raw, charged, territorial. Every exchange a power play.

Your cousin’s voice echoed in your head: “Men, no matter how cold or cocky, love being coddled. Call them baby or love, and watch them melt—watch them beg.”

She wasn’t wrong. You’d seen Kenan crack under less.

“But only if you score,” you purred, then twisted the knife. “Because lately… you’ve been disappointing me. Slacking. And I hope it’s not because you’re busy fucking some random bitch in Milan.”

That shift in tone—saccharine to venomous—hit him right in the groin.

He could feel his cock stiffen under the sheets. God, you knew exactly how to work him.

It was that unpredictability, the thrill of not knowing whether you’d call him your prince or curse him out like he was nothing.

His breath hitched on the line.

“You jealous?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, tone ice and honey. “But I like my toys loyal.”

There was a beat of silence, then the sound of his sheets rustling. You could picture it: Kenan lying in bed, one hand already wrapped around his cock, the other clutching the phone like it might shatter from the tension.

“You wanna hear what you do to me?” he asked, breath warm with a threat.

“I’m listening.”

“Right now?” he growled. “I’m so fucking hard. I’ve had this tension since the last time we called… thinking about how you’d sound when I fuck your throat. I’ve been replaying it in my head. Over and over. You gagging around my cock like a good girl, tears on your cheeks, nails on my thighs.”

Your breath caught. Your hand slipped down, lazy at first.

“You miss my voice that bad?” you asked, voice thicker now, throat dry.

“You’ve got no fucking idea. I can’t even jerk off properly anymore. I tried the other night, I swear—palm tight, eyes closed—and it didn’t work. I needed you to say it. Tell me how you’d take me.”

Your fingers slid under your waistband, heat blooming as you teased your own skin. “What do you want me to say, Kenan?”

“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

You smirked, breath catching.

“Nothing.”

A low, guttural sound escaped him. “Fuck.”

“Go on then,” you said, sweet and smug. “Stroke it. I wanna hear how wet I make you.”

You heard it clearly: the slick movement of his fist working his cock. Slow. Steady. Then faster.

“You’d be on your knees if you were here. Mouth open, tongue out. You’d let me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t let you come,” you teased, fingers now moving in tight circles. “Maybe I’d edge you until you cried for it. Like a good little boy.”

He moaned. Raw. Helpless.

“I’d grab your hair,” he groaned. “Force my cock so deep in your mouth you’d feel it in your stomach. You’d drool all over me, choking on it, and I wouldn’t stop. Not until you came. Not until I see that look in your eyes—fucked-out and ruined.”

You let out a broken sigh, back arching. Your fingers slick now, hips moving without thought.

“Fuck, Kenan—talk dirtier.”

“I wanna bend you over a hotel sink. Rip your panties. No teasing. Just slide my cock into you and pound you hard enough that you can’t walk straight the next day.”

“You’d break me.”

“Good.”

There was panting now. The line blurred between his ragged breathing and yours. Two animals. Obsessed. Distant. Desperate.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered.

“Do it,” he growled. “Come for me. Fucking moan for me. Let me hear how ruined you are.”

Your body snapped. Heat flooded you. Your hand froze and pressed hard against the wave crashing through your stomach.

“Kenan—fuck—”

He moaned at the sound of your orgasm, the broken whimpers, the way you gasped his name like it was a prayer and a curse. And then you heard it—his own sharp groan, followed by the messy silence of satisfaction.

For a moment, nothing but breath and static.

Then his voice again. Soft. Dangerous.

“You're coming to the game.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve already booked it,” he said. “Ticket. Hotel. You’ll be front row. After I score, I’ll fuck you just like I promised. No more games.”

Your heart thudded.

He chuckled, dark and victorious.

“I’m done imagining. I want you under me for real this time. Milan’s waiting, baby.”

//

“I am never promising anything again.” you murmured as low as you could to your best friend Leah who barely could make any of what you were saying.

“I jokingly said it once- just messing with him-teasing while he was outside- that i would fuck him if he scored as Juventus has been shit lately and he actually made it true, not only that but my fucking dad has to attend the fucking game because Tudor fucking invites him too”

“Awww that’s so sweet father-daughter duo attending the game of the guy she talks often to get her horny off”

You gritt your teeth together with your friend who was joking with your pain, humor was her way of coping with anything.

“Fuck you.” you sighed running your hand through your hair “What am i gonna do?”

“Well, if he wins—you fuck him at night. You’ve got that separate room booked, and your dad won’t be anywhere near. If he doesn’t… don’t fucking him—wait, no, actually do it again. He’ll be heartbroken, and men fuck like animals when they’re pissed. Plus, he’s hot as hell.”

Before you could even answer, your dad knocked on the door, asking if you were ready to leave for the front-row VIP seats that they couldn’t wait. You felt your heart beat and sighed/

“Fuck me i have to leave- gonna keep u updated.”

“hope you get laid!”.

“Shut up- YES DAD IM COMING!”.

//

The match had barely started when Kenan broke through the defense like a predator, driving the ball hard and fast into the net. Goal.

As the stadium exploded in cheers, the camera caught him—eyes locking onto you in the VIP section, unwavering, intense. His hand rose slowly, fingers curling into that unmistakable flick of the wrist—his private signal meant only for you.

His gaze didn’t waver; he was staring straight at you, daring you to meet it.

Your breath hitched, heat flooding your cheeks, your heart pounding like a drum.

Behind you, your dad’s brow furrowed. He followed Kenan’s eyes on the screen, then glanced sharply at you.

“Why’s he looking at you like that?” His voice was low but sharp, suspicion creeping in.

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze, words stuck in your throat. You couldn’t lie, and you couldn’t explain. The room tightened with tension, the roar of the stadium a distant echo to the fire between you and Kenan.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, trying to keep your voice steady as you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your fingers fidget nervously with the edge of your sleeve, but you don’t dare look away from the screen. “Guess all men like a pretty girl, don’t they?”

Your dad lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving the pitch. “Not my baby, though,” he says with a knowing tone. “You know my rules about footballers—I was one. I’ve seen the way they think, how they move. You don’t just let any of them get close.”

You nod, but inside, the knot in your stomach tightens. He’s right—you shouldn’t be tangled up in this game with Kenan. You shouldn’t be caught between the thrill and the risk. But the way Kenan looked at you—the intensity burning in his eyes, the secret message in his gesture—had already pulled you deeper.

Your dad claps his hands once, ready to focus back on the game. “Now let’s see if this one can keep his head.”

The stadium explodes again with cheers and whistles. The game surges forward with raw energy—fast passes, slick footwork, the tension of every play like a live wire under your skin. You glance back to Kenan on the screen, his expression still sharp, still fierce. Your heartbeat picks up.

You sink deeper into your seat, trying to steady your breathing, but your chest feels tight—like it’s too small for all the nerves swirling inside. The roar of the crowd barely reaches you anymore; all you can hear is the relentless pounding of your own heart.

This can’t be real. I’m actually going to do this.

The thought loops in your mind, disbelief washing over you like a cold wave. You’ve talked about it for months—half-joking, half-daring—but now, with every second ticking by, it’s becoming realer, heavier, impossible to ignore.

Your fingers twitch against your jeans, restless. You glance at your phone, tempted to text Leah, needing to hear a voice or get a lifeline to sanity—but you swallow the urge. This was your mess to own, your choice, no matter how much your mind screamed otherwise.

Every time the camera cuts back to Kenan, locking eyes with you, that silent challenge—the promise—makes your stomach flip in a way that’s part fear, part something far darker.

What am I really getting myself into?

The VIP section feels suddenly too small, too exposed. Not that you didn’t like Kenan, you weren’t a virgin either but you had only said so much over phone, texts and late night facetime calls never something face to face.

//

You slipped into your hotel room, the buzz from the game still thrumming in your veins. Closing the door behind you, you leaned back against it for a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind of thoughts in your head. You’d promised yourself one thing tonight: if you were going to do this, you were going to own it. No hesitation.

With deliberate slow movements, you started freshening up—running cool water over your wrists, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat from the excitement and nerves. Then you opened your suitcase and pulled out the outfit you’d been saving for a moment like this.

Something tight, something that indicated you weren’t a naive little girl- that you would do everything you exact said. A black slip dress, soft silk hugging every curve, cut high to tease just enough of your legs. You slid into it, feeling the fabric cling and caress your skin like a promise.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, biting your lip. If you were going to do this, you’d do it right—bold, unapologetic, and dripping with confidence.

Your phone buzzed.

Kenan.

Room 712. Waiting.

Your breath caught. The deal was on, and there was no turning back.

You stepped into your heels, grabbed your clutch, and headed out, the sound of your heels clicking on the marble floor echoing in the quiet hallway.

When you reached the door and pushed it open, Kenan was already there, waiting. The pool lights framed him, tall and solid, every inch the predator. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and for the first time you really noticed how much taller he was—how easily he could take you in one step.

He smirked, voice low and rough. “Been waiting for this for a while.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, heat flaring in your belly.

He stepped closer, his eyes dark and daring. “Are you scared?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

Without a word, you closed the distance, your lips crashing against his in a hungry kiss. The heat between you exploded as your hands slid to the waistband of his pants, fingers working swiftly to undo the button and zipper.

His shirt was already off, muscles flexing under the soft hotel light, skin warm beneath your touch. You pressed your body against his, feeling the hard line of his hips as you pushed his pants down just enough to free him.

He groaned against your mouth, hands tangling in your hair as the tension finally snapped.

He pulled you even closer, the heat from his bare chest against your skin sending shivers down your spine. His hands roamed possessively over your curves as your lips moved together, desperate and demanding. You tugged at the hem of his pants, pushing them down just enough to free the hardness straining beneath.

Without breaking the kiss, you slid to your knees, your fingers tracing the length of him, feeling the smooth, slick heat as you wrapped your hand around him. He hissed softly, his breath catching in his throat, eyes darkening with hunger and need.

You took him into your mouth, slow and deliberate at first, savoring the taste of him, the slick warmth filling you. His hands gripped your hair gently but firmly, guiding your movements as you deepened the rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head.

He groaned low and rough, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “Fuck, you’re going to drive me insane,” he murmured, voice thick with desire.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes locking, flames of want burning between you. “I’ve been waiting for this too,” you whispered, crawling back up to press your body against his, your hands exploring his taut muscles.

He lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the bed. Your dress slipped up your thighs as he pressed against you, his length teasing your entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed inside, the warmth and fullness overwhelming in the best way.

You gasped, arching into him as he began a steady, powerful rhythm. The room filled with the sounds of your breathing, soft moans, and the slick, wet intimacy of skin against skin.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer with each thrust, his voice a low growl. “You’re mine tonight.”

You wrapped your legs around him, matching his pace, the tension building until your bodies moved as one, the pleasure cresting in a shared, shuddering release.

His movements slowed, but the hunger in his eyes only deepened. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips — not soft, not sweet, but claiming, filled with the weight of something promised long ago.

“You remember what we said,” he murmured, his breath hot against your mouth. “That when the time came… I’d have you like this. Completely. No holding back.”

You nodded, dazed with pleasure, your heart thudding against his chest. He kissed you again, then shifted — hands beneath your knees as he pushed them up, folding you beneath him, opening you wide. His body pressed down, chest brushing yours, his hips angled to drive even deeper. The change in position made your breath catch — there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You were his, just as you’d promised.

His thrusts began again, deeper now, more deliberate — every stroke drawing gasps from your lips as he filled you to the hilt, grinding his hips against yours with primal intent. His hands held your thighs tightly, spreading you open so he could watch everything — your expression, the way your body clung to him, the slick heat between you.

“Look at me,” he growled, voice rough with need. “You said I could have all of you. So I’m taking it.”

Your hands gripped his arms, nails digging into skin, the pressure and pleasure coiling tight in your belly. His pace never faltered, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge, each one a silent vow, a reminder of the bond between you — physical, emotional, unbreakable.

And when you shattered again beneath him, his name on your lips like a prayer, he followed with a deep groan, burying himself to the base as he spilled inside you.

You sighed, a soft, breathless sound of gratitude escaping your lips as the aftershocks rippled through you. Your body felt boneless, limp beneath him, a sheen of sweat cooling on your skin. Thank god you were on the pill — you weren’t sure you’d have had the strength to stop him, not when he moved like that, not when he looked at you like you were everything.

Your eyes fluttered closed, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. Every breath felt thick, weighted with the intensity of what you’d just shared. It was overwhelming — in the best, most devastating way. For a moment, you thought you might pass out from the sheer force of it.

Then, gently, his weight shifted just enough to keep from crushing you, and you felt his lips press softly to your damp forehead. The contrast between how hard he’d taken you and how tender he was now made your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse, filled with concern.

You opened your eyes, meeting his. They weren’t lust-filled now — not entirely. There was something else there too: softness, guilt, maybe even love.

You gave a tired smile, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, then he leaned down to kiss you again — slower this time, more gentle.

“I am waiting for round two later..” he whispers to your ear and your eyes widened.

Boy was he about to drain the promise out of you.

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 2x09, "deception"

it makes sense that house would be so averse to a munchausen's diagnosis.

the (first) foreman era has made landfall, and it's already spelling out chaos. it's been AGES since we've had a foreman-forward episode, too, and i think this one slots nicely in with 2x01. back when foreman was so troubled by the patient on death row, we learned about his crucial trait that sets him apart from house: his ability and willingness to reflect. 2x09 features that trait of his pushed to its limit (among what we've seen thus far).

my experience with foreman has been that, so far, he respects what house does but does not like him, but even this respect is floundering a bit in light of recent events, like the chase and house debacle of 2x08. foreman enters the Boss Man Role with a naive idea of cooperation - if he can find a way to control house (his words) without being so blatant, he can introduce proper hospital ethics and morals and guidelines while also keeping house at ease. it's a silly endeavor from the outset and predicated on foreman's refusal/inability to see any part of house in himself.

it's not just audiences who pinpoint this as a doomed endeavor - wilson calls bullshit immediately. :"can i talk to you about something in confidence?" "of course." "it's about house." "oh, then. no."

i mention this mostly because the conversation reads not like words of wisdom or chastisement from wilson to foreman, but more so wilson saing "only i can fuck with house like that." little protective moment that doesn't do too much to advance the plot, but it does confirm that foreman does not have an ally in wilson. and ofc wilson has to be all theater kid/greek tragedy about it, comparing the idea of "controlling" house to "usurping" caesar.

what 2x09 also highlights are the leadership qualities, or lack thereof, between the fellows. foreman tries his hand at diplomacy here, but at the cost of his usual brilliance. house (rightly) accuses him of taking the safe route when he folds to a combination of both his and cameron's diagnoses; the resulting ridicule, while most inspired by how angry house is that he's not in charge atm, also comes from disappointment. he knows foreman is more than this, and he, at some level, wants foreman to see what he's sacrificing by playing cuddy's game.

chase, meanwhile, isn't granted any opportunity to showcase his leadership skills - instead, he gets back to scheming. this is so fucking funny given that in 2x08 both house and chase's entire careers were threatened because of their combined devilry. but what i also like about this little alliance between them is so prophetic it is - chase, despite claiming otherwise, still thinks that house considered loyalty to be transactional. he still thinks that, by sticking at his side, he'll be rewarded in the end. and while this is technically true come season 8, house firing chase in season 3 is one of the most insane moments of the show for me.

chase does make the important realization that, "no matter what i do, you're still going to treat me like crap," to which house makes a threat: "crap is a relative term." so chase's decision to conspire house against foreman here is equal parts an internal and externally motivated choice. but it's not like we haven't seen chase relish in this sort of thing before.

cameron, meanwhile, looks for ways to improve her leadership skills by appealing to leadership. i love and relate to her lol. i think house being needlessly harsh to her is a symptom of his unwillingness to acknowledge the moral effect she has on him and the team at large; that's leadership, but at a deeply subconscious level. yet his invitation for her to take a ride on his motorcycle with him is a powerful statement of equality - house shares the embodiment of his freedom with someone who's nearly survived the gauntlet of Having A Thing For House lmfao.

she deserves this moment of favoritism lol. also it's crazy that we've had no mention of cameron and HIV yet.

amidst all of that, however, i think the root of this episode's tensions comes from a rock (foreman) and a hard place (house) trying to communicate. foreman, saddled with new authority that he instantly takes very seriously, makes futile attempts at getting house to budge without understanding why house is being particularly petulant about this case. the patient, anica, has munchausen's disease, but beneath that, she harbors a real and dangerous condition.

house, just like in 2x07, can relate to her, and this idea of nonexistent pain haunts house and the viewer from 1x21. house refuses to write off anica because a real problem may be lingering beneath her mental illness, and that mental illness doesn't negate the resulting pain. house's vicodin addiction does not negate his leg pain and disability.

i think this shot/scene is very effective in drawing this parallel. it definitely looks like he's helping someone shoot up. but he's right, to a point, and to the chagrin of the team. he doesn't undo their diagnosis of munchausen's (he can't deny his addiction), but he can see to the heart of the issue (they can't deny his leg pain).

that's why i found cameron and house's exchange at anica's house so captivating. she says, about munchausen's patients, that "attention is attention," and house gets immediately defensive. he understands that need for attention and the chaotic ways he's tempted to get it, without exposing himself as lonely. and admitting to cameron, of all people, that he's lonely would be worse than death for him lol.

later, foreman reiterates this house/patient parallel to anika after they confirm the aplastic anemia: "you jumped through a lot of hoops to be here." anika returns with: "i just want to be healthy." in house's shoes, people are loath to believe that house wants any help because he refuses to ask; he complicates his life and his health with his vicodin addiction, but he just wants that pain to go away. i'm pretty confident in this comparison since we have 2x13 waiting for us in the wings.

moving forward, i'm interested in keeping tabs on all the moments where house is especially sensitive to medical negligence...despute having nearly been charged with it in 2x08. i also consider this to me ground zero for the never-ending tension between foreman and house that carries us alllll the way to about 8x02.

[heyhoneyfox]

Writing advice from a 17 year old caffeine-dependent ADHDer who has been writing ever since he could hold a pencil:

First and foremost, write that outline. Figure out exactly what you're going to do with your story before you do anything else. Write down all the important plot points first, then expand on them as needed. Write your main characters (at least their basic traits), do some worldbuilding, and once you have that foundation, THEN start writing the actual scenes.

Talk to people about your stories, especially if you're in a group with other storytellers. This gives you the opportunity to hear how others process and view your work, which can help a lot with your confidence in your writing, your motivation to write, and your own understanding of your writing. You can also request a specific type of feedback (questions, constructive criticism, compliments, blunt criticism, etc.) so you get responses that will actually help you.

DO NOT USE AI FOR WRITING NO MATTER WHAT. "But I just use it for-" I DO NOT CARE, YOU ARE STILL USING A BRAIN-EATING, CREATIVITY-KILLING MACHINE THAT WILL ONLY HARM YOUR WRITING. I used to use AI and it stunted my growth as a writer so greatly that I had to commit myself to never using it again, and I know that sounds scary for those of you still using it, but it will have to happen eventually if you want to grow as a writer. It will not do you any good, no matter what you use it for. "But it makes it easy for me to make stories!" Write more oneshots. Write outlines. Write short stories. Fucking daydream at least. "But I use it to proofread!" Proofread your own damn work. It's not hard, and it's way better for your mind and the story itself. "But—" DO IT YOURSELF OR ASK A FRIEND, A HUMAN BEING, TO HELP YOU. IT NEEDS TO BE DONE BY A HUMAN OR IT WILL BE STRAIGHT ASS. THAT IS NOT UP FOR DEBATE. I hope I drilled that in well enough.

I get it, sometimes you're low on energy, so you need easy ways to develop your story. If you don't know how to do that without AI, because you CANNOT keep sucking robot dick for the sake of instant gratification, here are some easy ones (depending on your skillset): draw your characters and settings, write fake text conversations between characters, use picrew to make your characters, make Pinterest mood boards, or just turn off your phone and daydream about your story! There are a million ways to work on a story without actually writing it, so don't feel too bad if you only have the energy to plan out that one scene in your head instead of writing it. And who knows, maybe doing these little things will actually give you the motivation you needed to write.

Write when you feel big emotions, if you can. You'll pour your heart and soul into your work, and not only will that benefit your writing, but it will also benefit you by helping you process your emotions in a healthy manner.

Finally, give your brain lots of good associations with writing! Have your favourite tea with you and your favourite blanket around your shoulders while you write, or have your favourite instrumentals in the background while sitting in your favourite lighting, or pretend to be a renaissance scholar with a candle and a nice outfit while you write if that's what you need. Make it fun for yourself so your brain will get excited about writing, even if you only do this sometimes!

The most important advice I can give is just. keep on writing. Your stories are a blessing. Even if people criticise your work, even if you feel completely unmotivated, even if you feel like you're not good at it, keep writing for as long as it brings you joy, and share it when you can, because it will bring so many other people joy too, more than you can ever know.

[poolofunidentifiedfluid]

itty bitty chunk of a fic i might write

the plot is basically marriage of convenience because Eddie‘s parents are trying to take full custody of Chris. i have not written fanfiction before but i have brain worms and they must escape somehow. anyway, anyways, let me know if you think I should write the whole thing

 its a normal Tuesday afternoon when it happens.

“Try not to burn our dinner.” Eddie says with a smirk as his eyes catch Bucks for a second before he looks back down at the pan that has just started smoking. With a blush crawling up his neck, Buck hurriedly stirs the food around the pan unsticking it from the bottom, only slightly crispier than he usually likes.

“Don’t tell Bobby” Buck says smiling bashfully. he risks a glance back at eddie who went back to chopping, but with a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “He’ll never let me live it down if i burn his famous stir fry”. Eddie laughs, shaking his head

“Don’t worry your secrets safe with me” Eddie says. Hes been quiet ever since the meeting with his lawyer earlier today and its making Buck a little nervous. Hes lost in thought when he realizes Eddie, done with chopping, has come up behind him and puts his chin on bucks shoulder.

“Hey.” Buck turns his face towards Eddie in a way where he can feel the small sigh he lets out against his mouth and has to turn back towards the food before he does something stupid. “Are you okay?”

Eddie makes a noncommittal noise that Buck can feel vibrate through his shoulder and he feels crazy. Eddie winding an arm under Bucks to try to steal a vegetable from the pan is not helping him feel less crazy. He slaps at his hand lightly and decides fuck it, if he already fees crazy might as well lean into it and he plucks the piece Eddie was going for, blows on it and offers it to eddie. he catches moment of hesitation out if the corner of his eye but eddie opens his mouth for buck to feed him the vegetable. eddie chews in silence for a second and turns his head slightly to look at buck.

“Do you want to get married?”

Bucks elbow hits the handle of the pan and sends the stirfry flinging across the kitchen

[murderbot-moodboard]

Episode 7 of Murderbot, plus recently discovering some new songs to love, has inspired me to assemble the two Murderbot TV playlists I'd started—one for Murderbot, and one for Gurathin—so they're now ready for listening.

First, four notes:

1) These playlists are "living documents" and subject to further tweaks. Season 1 obviously isn't finished yet, and regardless, I still edit my "finished" playlists as I discover new songs, find ones that fit better, decide one doesn't actually work well, etc. I also do my best to make them generally enjoyable for most people, but I am but one person with one person's music taste, so take that as you will.

2) Since the plot for 'Murderbot' Season 1 overlaps with the plot for 'All Systems Red,' my TV playlist for Murderbot has most of the same songs as the beginning of my Murderbot Diaries playlist, "Murderbot Mood." (That one is linked in my pinned post if you want to check it out.) However, I've also added and changed a couple songs in both playlists, so there's something new even if you've listened before. Some of the songs are based on things that will probably happen by the end of Season 1 based on All Systems Red, so spoilerish alert?

3) Much of the Gurathin playlist is Twenty One Pilots songs. This is on purpose, and partly because "Jumpsuit" was the song that inspired the playlist. (It has a line in the middle that— well, I'll let you listen and find out *grins evilly*.) It's also partly because when I was getting my latest autoimmune flare under control, there were a few days when I was in too much pain to do anything besides lie in bed and listen to comfortable music, and I ended up listening to Twenty One Pilots' "Blurryface" album on repeat. During that time, I realized their music is punk as hell, I relate to it on a deep level, and a lot of it also sounded like Gurathin and/or Murderbot.

(We could also discuss the fact that I "discovered" most of their music fairly recently, because "Blurryface" came out while I was attending a hyperconservative religious college that severely restricted the music we could listen to (and restricted when women students and teachers were allowed to wear pants). But that's a whole other post about "things I laugh about now because looking back they were kinda fucked up.")

4) I've seen a few fun-looking Murderbot song recs and playlists come across my dashboard which I didn't have the energy to check out at the time (see above autoimmune flare and moving). I'm absolutely open to suggestions and recommendations for my playlists, as long as your feelings won't be hurt if I decide not to include them. I was given really good suggestions which I added to my Murderbot Mood playlist last time, and at least one song on there I discovered through another fan playlist. So feel free to comment on this post if you have any songs you'd like to suggest. You're also more than welcome to add any songs from my playlists to your playlists (this might be a given but I'll say it just to be sure).

Okay, I think that's it! Now for the playlists!

Murderbot Season 1 Mood:

Gurathin Mood:

[yeah-sure-amanda]

I have nothing of importance to add. This early release episode thing makes it harder to comment since everyone leaves a comment while I’m at work! 🤣

So all I have to say is:

Aaron’s words, while they hurt, weren’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I read it as, “I’m not your home. You need to go.” Also, Aaron is just parroting John and well…poor Aaron seems to be missing a backbone right now.

Also, Aaron threw a god damn wrench at Robert once. These words don’t and won’t matter down the line. Something to add to the angst because Aaron was soft with him at first. He can’t help it. His real husband is home and he had to fight it.

I’m now calling Aaron, Bigfoot, because he was staring at Robert as he stomped across that yard and everyone was oblivious. Bigfoot. Also, I agree. It was tragic, Aaron. It was tragic because he wasn’t kissing you. I get it sweetie. Your hands are tied (and not in a fun way) by the plot.

Ryan came back extra cute, no? Like adorable. Robert is at his lowest right now and fully open about it. I’m in the camp of “Robert is getting a special episode where he goes to therapy.” So he can start to settle his mind and get it back into shape or a better place. Btw, I have never seen the GA so pro-Robert. It’s a weird sight. I’m enjoying it. My heart hurt though that he got drugged and then stolen by crazy ass. The shot of his butt in the murder van of doom though was extra and I want to thank the director for that shot.

John is an asshole. I can’t stand him. This plot has a long way to go so got to get used to him on screen. As long as Aaron stops saying he loves him over and over and over and over. It’s annoying. He and his murder van of doom now with action syringes is making me angry.

So, California Dreaming will be a trigger for Robert, I assume. The song is about thinking of better places as you are stuck in the dark and cold. Could stand for a positive thought for Robert and a negative one for John. Robert just wants to get better and build a new life. John wants to keep his life by getting rid of the people who threaten it.

Victoria is doing well! Standing up for older bro! I’m glad she remembered that Robert was there with her since birth. John is a…Johnny come lately. Will it last? More tuna likely not. No one is safe from the plot so, I’m going to enjoy it. I love how she called John out. He is insecure. If the marriage started out healthy and strong, Robert showing up shouldn’t cause all this bother! Just saying…

I think I’ve been obsessively trying to figure out the plot because I’m rusty at it now and I just want to move it along. Get Robron back together. But it’s important to remember the journey is the point. Got to enjoy it. Aaron won’t be sour for long. Robert won’t always be down and out. It’s not a matter of if they get back together, it’s a matter of when.

I feel that we are getting a slight reverse on the Gordon era. Robron learning to be friends again but the feelings are way deeper because so much as happened since then. Also, a slight reverse of reunion 2.0? Aaron now feels like Robert. “You left me. I mean, I get it, you had to but you left me.”

I need Robert to get friends outside of Aaron. Caleb was fun with him. *sigh* I need Aaron to find his voice for himself. Remind John that it’s not just about him. Marriage is a partnership. Not the hero worship show. Robert gets it. So does Aaron. We will get back there. We just need to enjoy the ride back.

So, yeah. So far so soapy! Tomorrow should be interesting. Now that we have no spoilers to follow.

On a totally random note, I’m so excited to see everyone talking, joking, writing great fanfiction again. It’s keeping me sane in the middle of truly shitty times.I truly appreciate the Robron fandom (tumblr edition).

Oh and…fuck Bob. 🤣🤣🤣 (I’m still angry about his comment 🤣)

[dorkhellbside]

I have been thinking about this. Hal for various reasons would feel a need to keep an eye on Seb, namely for making sure he doesn’t do something he regrets (projection), but also as a sort of penance for not being able to do anything to keep Seb within the Dirk Strider narrative current (Dirk and Hal’s obsession with “existing”).

Both Dirk and Hal allow him to have an absurdly high level of independence because of his intelligence, but due to their own unpacked trauma end up not fully understanding how to care for him emotionally. I have this scene in my back pocket about Dirk inappropriately musing to Seb as if he’s an adult and likens him to a parasitic Cuckoo bird living in the Crockerbert home directly to his face which naturally, fucks him up bad. He doesn’t express his horror since he’s a “grown up”, but he’s still a kid.

I imagine Seb to be an extremely private kid, only ever shedding tears in front of others out of a moment of frustration or as a performance for a plot. He seldom comes to Hal for advice to try to appear mature, and really wants Dirk to be proud of his competence. Complicated little guy.

[crownspeaksblog]

People are so used to the idea that queer romantic relationships matter so little to the story til the point they will call romantic displays of affection and domesticity fan service in a character driven show, a show where the main queer relationship is THE plot.

Ed and stede having moments of affection and love is not fan service. You're making it sound like the show is pandering to the fans when this is literally just a continuation of the story, this is just the next level of their relationship, the next phase of the story.

To me calling it fan service is just diminishing the show and when you call it that, it just validates what people who completely missed the point of the show are saying.

[hollownest-whore]

Run in with the nightmare king

[neobastard]

🚨BREAKING NEWS🚨

tnt has officially put the void within on pause between chapters 7 and 8. according to their statement on the official twitter account, it's to "make exciting improvements based on your feedback".

all plot activities (void essence collection, battledome fights, volunteer shifts, and story updates) will be on hold, and voidworks specifically will be getting an update.

the void within is slated to return in early 2025, but the team's assured us that there will be plenty of holiday activities in the meantime.

i have absolutely no clue what this means for the future of the plot.

but i'm going to trust that tnt made this decision because they felt that the feedback they received required such a long hiatus to make changes around.