#he’ll know every time you think of leaving

[cloudedangels]

Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the couch. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

🐇my bunnies: ((comment or reblog with a 🐇 emoji to get added to the taglist for everything I write)): @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

☃️snowflakes: ((just comment or reblog with a ☃️ emoji of you only want the Zayne fics only taglist)):

[kuidore]

Zoeystery headcanons ✧ KPOP Demon Hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ ultimate yapper girl x listener boy

✧ He thought she was cute the moment he saw her bouncing her shoulders to soda pop while Rumi and Mira glared at her

✧ he’s not shy, just quiet. he just isn’t used to being human, and it tires him out a lot more than the others.

✧ He slowly feels like he’s actually relearning his humanity with Zoey, not just going through the motions of a human life like he had felt doing the idol thing

✧ Zoey gets anxious that people aren’t listening to her if they get too quiet. She’s used to being mid-ramble, asking a question, and not getting a response because the person tuned out and she didn’t realize

✧ after the first time she asks Mystery if he’s listening, he starts letting out noises of acknowledgement to reassure her while she’s talking so she doesn’t have to lose her train of thought

✧ he wants her to know that he’s listening very intently, and will sometimes even just say it out loud when he doesn’t have a better comment to make

✧ Zoey thinks it’s adorable, and she slowly feels less and less uncomfortable rambling for hours about television or animals or the songs she wanted to write

✧ She eventually just naturally stops apologizing for rambling or being too over the top, to him and to other people

✧ He starts getting better at conversations, but only with her. He asks social questions he used to think were stupid or boring or useless, because she’s the only one whose answers he actually wants to hear

✧ Mystery remembers nothing from his actual life on earth before the demon realm, and that doesn’t change even as he gets more comfortable as a ‘human’

✧ He couldn’t care less. He outright tells Zoey that it “leaves more room in my brain for the memories we make”

✧ she has to excuse herself from the room for a moment and yell into a pillow about how cute he is

✧ He can hear her doing it. when she comes back with a notebook he’s smiling wider than she thought he was even capable of

✧ she sits him down and they make a bucket list of everything she can think of that she considers “necessary to the human experience”, no matter how small

✧ she feels bad about being *excited* over his amnesia, but she can’t help but chatter about how she was going to be ‘introducing him to all this new stuff!’

✧ items on this list include but are not limited to; seeing the ocean in person, finding a really cool rock that you wanna keep forever, going to the bathhouse, and spending an entire day on the couch

✧ Mystery doesn’t really see what’s interesting about any of it, but he agrees because he wants Zoey to go with him

✧ He likes it, mostly because *she* likes it. He could be literally stranded in the arctic, if Zoey was finding a way to have fun he would be able to do it too. His number one idea of ‘fun’ is just… being around her.

✧ Mystery constantly wants to have Zoey on his lap/between his legs/sitting in literally any position where he can wrap his entire body around her from behind and rest his chin on her shoulder.

✧ he falls asleep like this fairly often. Zoey calls him her weighted blanket

✧ in general they both sleep a lot, they take afternoon naps together almost every day

✧ After enough time he’s got basically everything human down besides the ‘not barking at people who get too close to Zoey for his comfort’

✧ that one is an active choice. He has absolutely no intention of stopping that one

✧ bad saja boy became bad Mystery fairly quickly

✧ He pouts every time she says it. At first she felt bad about it, but eventually she started to find it cute

✧ he’ll sit with his head in her lap while she writes lyrics. She’s always patting his head and playing with his hair while mumbling about how soft it is.

✧ one day he realizes the whole time she’s been avoiding his bangs, and he grabs her hand and moves them away himself so she can see his face when she isn’t actively trying to kill him

✧ “You already know what I look like. I don’t care. If it’s just you.”

✧ She’s so giddy she grabs him and kisses him for the first time, and they’re both a little shocked by it

✧ it was the first time she saw him blush and she immediately became determined to make him do it as much as possible.

✧ She already has a notebook of things he likes and dislikes so she can remember (she has ones for Rumi and Mira too obvi)

✧ she adds a section to Mystery’s for things that make him blush

✧ she’s studying this guy like a bug and he secretly likes it

✧ He keeps the bangs cause most of the time he’s just so unable to control his own facial expressions that he would probably get into a fight in public

✧ but he starts pinning them back when he’s with Zoey

[rainrot4me]

Creepypasta Men Twitter Links - Part 2

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๑ jeff the killer

Jeff knew he was right to kidnap you, you were just too pretty to not take home. It’s been a week now, do you think anyone’s still looking for you? Do you even care?

Jeff loves when you try and run. When you think you even have a chance of getting away from him. He might let you get a few feet away, but he’ll he dragging you back onto his cock with a laugh before you can get your hopes too high.

Jeff isn’t a graceful man. The most gentle he can get is when he’s fingering you open for his cock, holding you down and prepping you just how you like it.

Jeff loves when you get all nasty and depraved. You’re so desperate to cum you’ll do whatever he says whenever he wants it. He always makes sure to reward you for being so filthy.

Jeff gets so hard when you let him go as fast as he wants. You don’t try and stop him, just lay there and take it like he knows you can. You’re nothing but a fleshlight to him anyway.

The people in the room next to you could probably hear every knock of this headboard against the wall. But Jeff didn’t care. If he was going to have to spend his night in a filthy, two-star motel, then he was going to find something to make it enjoyable.

๑ ticci toby

What was Toby supposed to when you kept grinding back on him in your sleep? He couldn’t just ignore it, not when your panties are already soaked and leaving wet-spots on his boxers. Was it cause you were dreaming about him?

Toby only wore a condom because you were nervous about getting pregnant. But proxies can’t reproduce, no matter how many times they cum deep in your cunt. Looks like you finally figured that out…

Toby can’t believe he’s never done this before. How has he never fucked you when it feels this good? When you grip him so tight. He doesn’t think you’ll be able to stay just friends after this, not now that he knows how wet you get when he touches you.

Toby knew you climbed onto his lap because you wanted his cock, but he was going to make you work for it first. If you could come on his fingers, then he might just give you what you want. If he’s still up for it.

Toby who doesn’t know how to touch you yet. Doesn’t know where’s he’s supposed to put his hands or how he’s supposed to hold you. But what he does know, is that moving his hips like this makes you get really tight on his cock.

Toby knew this was bad. But when the proxies accidentally gave you too many sleeping pills, he was put in charge while the others went to find something to reverse the effects. He’d be quick, he promises. You’ll never even know he used you like this.

๑ eyeless jack

Jack always enjoys making you watch yourself cum in the mirror. Forcing you to look at every expression, every noise, every lewd thought that comes out of you. Be careful not to look away, he likes to stop and make you beg him to start going again.

Jack knows exactly how to angle his hips so he hits every sensitive spot inside you. You’re falling apart on his cock, barely making a sound from how choked out you are, body completely at his mercy.

Jack knows his way around your body. Every inch, every curve, every spot that makes you cum so hard you’re drooling. He always loves what pressing right there does to you.

Jack knows you can’t fit him inside yet. That’s alright, he’ll make sure you both still feel good.

Jack won’t always admit to his oral fixation, but when you’re dropping to your knees and begging to suck his cock, he can’t help the growl that tears from his throat. Just how much spit can you get all over yourself, huh?

Well good morning to you, too. Jack can barely get his hollow eyes open before he’s looking down and seeing your panties hooked around your ankles. At least let him wake up first so he can really show you how good he can make you feel…

๑ masky (tim wright)

It took forever for you to stop crying every time Masky broke into your home and dragged you out of bed. But when you finally stop begging him to stop and start begging him to go faster, he can’t help but reward you for being so good.

Masky hates when your stupid panties get in the way. But he doesn’t have the patience to take them off, so it’s not his fault if he ruins them.

Masky and you were supposed to take a quiet little getaway trip to his cabin near the lake. So when you stroll out from the bathroom in a tiny little lingerie set, he can’t be held responsible for just how loud he makes you. There’s no one around to hear you cry anyway.

Masky said he was sorry. He didn’t mean to make you upset. There had to be a way to make it up to you, he’d do anything. Anything.

Masky can’t help himself. Not when you’re laying on the motel bed across from him and arching so sinfully in your sleep. You keep shifting your hips, spreading your legs like you know what you’re doing to him. He’ll be gentle, but he just can’t resist it anymore.

Masky is starting to second guess taking that viagra. He didn’t know it would affect you so bad, he can hardly keep up when you’re riding his cock so fast it’s practically going numb. At this rate, he’ll cum before you do.

๑ hoodie (brian thomas)

Hoodie loves it when you can’t stop. As soon as he quits thrusting, your hips are moving to make up for the lack of stimulation. He could almost laugh, he’s got you so cock-whipped you don’t even realize it, or maybe you just don’t care anymore.

Hoodie always wonders when the two of you leave his bedroom why you get so many stares. You’re not being that loud, right? It doesn’t matter to him when you feel this good anyway. You can be as loud as you want when you cum on his cock.

Maybe this will teach you to talk back to him. Hoodie only wants what’s best for you, but if that means being bent over his lap and getting spanked so hard you’re crying, then that’s just what he’ll have to do.

Hoodie never would have thought being gone for so long would’ve made you so eager. It was only a couple of days, but apparently that was enough for you to push him into the coach and have your way with him. Maybe he should go on missions more often…

Hoodie can’t hide the boner in his jeans any longer. If you’re going to walk around town in those nasty little shorts, then he can’t be held responsible for what he does when he drags you back to the truck.

Hoodie knows he can have you any time he wants. He’s earned that right. It doesn’t matter how busy you are, if he decides he wants your cunt, then that’s what he’ll get.

๑ ben drowned

Ben can’t get enough of your new shorts. What is he supposed to do when you parade around in them, leaving absolutely nothing to his imagination. It was only a matter of time before he ripped them off of you anyway.

Ben has worked so hard lately. You think he deserves a little reward for being so good.

You bought this new vibrator for you and Ben to try. But when he takes a hold of the toy, and it starts vibrating at a pace faster than any of its normal settings, you just know he has something to do with it.

Ben always promises he’ll watch a movie together without having sex. But it’s always your hands that start to rub his leg first. The two of you never make it halfway in before you’re completely lost in each other.

Ben can’t believe you’re still cumming. What is this? Round 4? 5? It’s all good with him, he won’t stop until you’re sobbing and he’s shooting blanks. But until then…

Ben is too lazy to put it all the way in. You’ll be fine if he just fucks your thighs, right?

๑ back to my masterlists

๑ to part one

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[undyingdecay]

could I get yandere perv Bob?

(ive gotten a req for this before, i dont see bob as a yandere so instead hes a stalker, also could be read as pre-thunderbolts)

things going missing. your under wear never quite where you left it, one sock out of a pair you swore was there when you went to bed. your toothbrush sometims a little damp when you know you haven’t used it yet. your bedroom window unlocked when you always check it before you leave.

but you chalk it up to your own exhaustion. distractions. you work too much. forget things. you’re probably losing it

except then there’s bob.

that weird, skittish loser you see around town. works the night shift at the gas station on 12th. always looks like he hasn’t slept in days. shifty eyes, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like he’s constantly on the edge of either crying or throwing a punch.

he always stares.

at first, you think it’s harmless. just some socially awkward burnout who doesn’t know how to mind his own business. it’s a small town — there’s always one.but then you start seeing him everywhere.

you grab coffee? he’s at the end of the block. you run to the store? there’s a beat-up car idling across the lot with a figure you don’t need to squint at to recognize.

and it gets worse.

notes under your windshield wiper with shaky handwriting that reads “you’re so pretty it hurts.”

a voicemail you don’t remember getting — heavy breathing, the faint sound of your own name muttered like a prayer.

and then the dreams start.

or — what you thought were dreams.

the sensation of hands on your thighs while you’re half-asleep. the feeling of something hot and wet against your neck. waking up sticky between your legs with no explanation except the sinking, sickening realization that your window’s unlocked again.

because bob can’t help himself.

he swears he’ll stop every time. every single time he gets his filthy hands on a pair of your panties, sniffs them like a fucking animal, or jerks off into the ones you left in the hamper — he promises himself it’ll be the last time.

but it never is. because he needs you.

needs the scent of you to sleep. needs to know what you look like when you cry. needs to imagine what you taste like when you’re sobbing under him, begging him to stop while he’s too far gone to listen.

and the worst part is you feel it.

that gnawing, clinging presence that hangs around your apartment even when you’re alone. the way your skin prickles when you pass by the closet, convinced someone’s hiding inside.

you tell yourself you’re being paranoid. but you know bobs there.

probably palming himself through his jeans, biting down on his fist to keep quiet as he watches you undress. his gaze fixed on the spot between your thighs. thinking about how easy it’d be to just crawl out and pin you down.

and he will. it’s only a matter of time.

because bob’s not the type to stay patient forever. and once he finally snaps, it’ll be a mess. incoherent apologies. desperate, slurred confessions about how he’s always loved you. the sticky sound of his hand working himself while he makes you listen.

[hearts4hughes]

With the leaked pics of Wheezie’s actress being on set that came out I request ex!Rafe and reader who’s close to Wheezie.

Maybe one day when she’s hanging out with him outside and they see reader. And Wheezie admits she misses reader but doesn’t think reader will hang out with the little sister of reader’s ex boyfriend.

wheezie’s sitting on the porch swing, knees pulled up to her chest, twisting the drawstrings of her hoodie between her fingers. the breeze is sticky with june humidity. she’s mid-rant about her calc tutor when rafe finally looks from his phone.

“you’re not even listening,” she mutters, catching it with a scowl.

“because it’s boring,” he says, not looking up from his phone.

“you’re boring.”

“you’re a child.”

“and you’re so annoying.”

he smirks, stretches, doesn’t respond. the porch creaks as he leans against the railing, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. that’s when wheezie sees you.

you’re across the street, head tilted, hand gesturing mid-conversation with someone she doesn’t recognize. there’s a tote bag over your shoulder, a pair of headphones around your neck. you look soft and so familiar it hurts.

wheezie goes quiet. rafe follows her gaze lazily. then the earth stops. his whole body stills, like a dog catching a scent.

“she’s with someone,” wheezie says after a second, voice low. “not with with. just…walking.”

rafe doesn’t say anything, but his jaw clicks. you haven’t seen them yet. or maybe you have and you’re just pretending you haven’t. you’re good at that—avoiding things, especially him. rafe watches your mouth move, eyes skimming the curve of your jaw, the way your fingers curl around the strap of your bag. there’s a flash of silver on your wrist—his. well, it used to be.

“you know,” wheezie says suddenly, sharp with the kind of honesty only little sisters get to use, “she didn’t just leave you. she left me.” rafe’s gaze flicks to her, unreadable. “she was like. she was there…all the time. she knew my coffee order. she let me borrow her nail polish even though i always messed it up. and now she’s never around.”

he blinks and scoffs, biting his fingernail. “what, you want me to fix it?”

“no,” she snaps. “i want you to not be the reason it’s broken.” that lands harder than it should. he straightens a little. wheezie sighs and picks at the label on the waterbottle near her. “she probably thinks i’d choose you.”

rafe’s quiet for a long time. “you wouldn’t?” he asks like it’s a shock.

“not if you’re the reason she cries every night.” she shrugs and scrunches her nose. he doesn’t reply. doesn’t move. just sits there and watches you laugh at something the guy says, head thrown back like rafe never existed.

when you finally glance across the street—eyes catching on the two of them, just for a second—wheezie lifts a hand in a soft wave. you smile and wave. a small, gentle thing. hand raised and real. it’s not meant for rafe, but he knows that.

wheezie perks up beside him, waving back with both hands like she’s twelve again. “see?” he says quietly. “she doesn’t hate you. i’m the one she hates.”

still, he’s frozen in place. your smile—it’s not nothing. it’s not for wheezie only. not the way your eyes linger on him, not the way your mouth tilts like you know he hasn’t stopped watching you. but, he doesn’t smile or doesn’t wave back. he doesn’t give you anything at all.

because if he does, he’s afraid he’ll walk right across the street and kiss you in front of everyone just to prove you’re still his. so he just sits there, mouth hanging open, ruined in silence, and watches you walk away.

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

[lysarion]

━━━━━━ nine out of ten ⟢

♱    |    after your thirteenth successful mission with phainon, he tries to give back the handkerchief you lent him during your first mission, only to catch another stray and become a flustered mess.

𖤝 including  ⠀! ⠀phainon          ◟          𖤝 warnings ⠀! ⠀slight-ooc, no beta we die like cipher, phainon is a loser here /aff, kinda a part 2 of guns and handkerchiefs so yay

❝      tags     ⚜     .  if you'd like to be tagged please send me an ask off-anon!!!

phainon does not drink. nine out of ten times during celebrations such as tonight, he’ll simply hold his glass at his side, swirling it here and there but never really drinking it. not that he can’t handle his alcohol, but more so he doesn’t like the bitter taste it leaves on his tongue and how it scalds his throat like he’s just swallowed lava. and yet, tonight he indulges in it, the drunk atmosphere of the lobby.

tonight marks your 13th successful mission as partners. it all started as a gag really. it was to no one’s surprise that phainon often finds himself fumbling whenever you’re in the vicinity. in the small clumsy ways of his grip slipping during training, or when he spaces out whenever he watches you spar with cipher or mydei —unabashedly entranced with the way you moved—and only snapping out of it when aglaea snaps a finger in front of his eyes. it was cute, you once said, endearingly so. best believe phainon flushed from the tip of his ears to the base of his neck at your comment. 

you were just so casual, in a sense that you treat everyone in measured familiarity that feels like a long lost companion. obviously, you have your own walls, so high no one dares to climb them — you hide your thoughts behind smiles of silk that will inevitably strangle those who try to get too close. phainon even now finds it hard to picture that you were an assassin the world wanted dead. the way you drink every alcoholic glass cipher passes in quiet passing, not showing the slightest sign of being at least a little tipsy, much to the girl’s chagrin. or the way you speak with aglaea in a code that he can’t really decode, a language you and her created for the sole purpose of only being understood by one person. 

phainon wanted to climb those walls out of sheer stubbornness.

“what’s bothering you on such a lovely night?”

your voice pierces through him like a lone bullet shot from miles away. phainon nearly trips over nothing despite being seated as you took the seat in front of him. with practiced ease, your lips curve to a relaxed smile. he notes how they look slightly tinted in a shade of pink with the fruity liquid that swirled in your grasp. 

phainon wanted to climb those walls you’ve spent years building because he thinks — in his little mind where images of your quiet care outweighs your brutality — that you’ll only ever allow him to do so.

“nothing much, really,” his reply comes out smooth, or at least he hopes it does. “i’m not much of a party person.”

you tilt your head in question, and then you smile like everything has suddenly clicked in your mind. “is that so?” 

phainon swallows as you settle comfortably in your seat. his mind swimming with conjectures on what discovery about him have you uncovered over one reply. he chuckles it off, but the sound feels forced and strained, unnatural and uncharacteristic from his usual boyish charisma he carried.

he leans his arms forward, leaving his drink to the side to collect each word that falls from your lips with each bubble that fizzled up. phainon takes a deep breath, his eyes strained solely on you as you bring your cup to your lips and down the drink in one go. even the way you exhale, the way you prop your arms on the table like him, push away your now empty cup and meet his gaze, it all felt like a test. 

in your own quiet little way, you’ve asked him, ‘do you really want to know?’

and in a fashion only phainon would reply, he calls over cipher to refill your cup. 

“the night is still long,” he says. phainon watches, letting his eyes shamelessly wander to the small scars that littered your hands, your painted nails to match aglaea, the charming little bracelet that faintly jingled with your every move because the triplets were reminded of you — phainon absorbs every little action as if they were a necessary piece to make up the full image of you. 

you smile, just a tad bit smaller than your usual one, but it does the job of conveying your message of entertaining phainon’s insatiable stubbornness.

in that moment, phainon remembers something in his pocket. “oh, that’s right!”

now it was your turn to watch him. how he fumbles with something in his pocket, halts in his movement as if debating in his mind to push through with his initial plans. when your eyes meet, phainon is the first to look away, the tips of his ears just a slight shade of red that could match the blinking lights of the lobby. 

“here, i almost forgot to give it back. you know, with how busy we are.” phainon hands over a handkerchief — your handkerchief from your very first mission together. 

when the piece of fabric is in between your fingers, you chuckle. of course phainon kept it — in pristine condition too. it smelled faintly of his favorite detergent mixed with the cologne he always wore. sweet with a musky afterthought. 

“you’ve taken good care of it,” you say, setting down your cup to capture his wrist in your hand. you don’t mention the slight jump of retaliation, nor do you meet his eyes. you’ve learned the hard way that phainon reads people like an open book. slowly, you uncurl each finger from his closed fist and hand back the handkerchief, “keep it. it’ll serve you more than me.”

“are you sure?” phainon questions. he can’t help it.

“i’m sure,” you readily replied. when you settle back in your seat, drink in hand, you let a bit of mischief twinkle in your eyes when your gaze finally finds him again. “it’ll save you the trouble of blindly walking around when you have blood splattered on your face in missions.”

“you still remember that?!” 

you chuckle at his mortified expression, “quite the memory that mission was. you were so confident that you’ll finish off everyone on your own, too. because of that, you failed to notice that they’ve called for backup. and just when you were about to be ambushed,” you hold up two fingers, a mock gun to point at phainon who now buried his face in his hands. “bang. i knock a bullet to the guy’s head. you complained about how blood got in your eyes and kept roughly wiping at them. but, you quickly gave up and just started walking around like a blind duck with your arms stretched forward. oh and you kept tripping over everything and—”

“okay, okay, i get it! no need to recount the entire mission. god that was embarrassing…”

phainon is a good agent. nine times out of ten, he’ll come back with only a slight wrinkle on his shirt. but on the rare occasions he tries to impress you, he’ll come back with flushed cheeks and the inability to look you in the eye. not that he can’t handle himself during a fight, but more so he can prove to you that he’s worth opening up to — that he’s worth your trust.

and right now, as your snickering behind your hand, phainon thinks embarrassing himself over, and over again is worth it.

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[breezyblossoms]

Authors Note: trying something new! Let me know what y’all think! 🫶🏼

Pre-Relationship Headcanons

• Xaden barely looks at you during your first few months at Basgiath, convinced you’re just another naïve rider with no idea what it means to carry the weight of war.

• You challenge him during sparring one day; not out of arrogance, but out of necessity. That’s the moment he starts to see you.

• After that, he watches you more closely than he means to, though his expression never softens.

• Xaden pretends not to care, but he always ends up positioned between you and danger on missions. You don’t know it’s intentional; he always makes it look like coincidence.

• He trains with you longer than the others, pushing you harder than most, because he’s seen how good you are, and he needs you to survive.

• The first time Ridoc flirts with you, Xaden glares so sharply that Ridoc mutters something about “dragon-sized possessiveness” under his breath and backs off.

• But Xaden never voices his jealousy. Instead, he tightens his grip on his blade during sparring and takes it out on dummies later.

• You leave a glove behind after training. Xaden picks it up, stares at it for a moment, and instead of tossing it aside… he keeps it.

• He tells himself he’s holding it until he sees you again. That turns into days.

• One night, you’re both on late patrol. When your hands brush accidentally, you both freeze. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

• His voice, normally cold and clipped, sounds softer when he murmurs, “Don’t get yourself killed, Y/N.”

⸻

During Relationship Headcanons

• Xaden is fiercely private about your relationship; he doesn’t parade it, doesn’t need anyone to know. But the way he looks at you could start a war.

• You know the difference between Wingleader Xaden and your Xaden; the one who unbuckles your armor with reverence, not rush.

• Sgaeyl senses his feelings for you before he does. She watches him watch you, unimpressed. Eventually, she relays a blunt, “You’re pathetic” kind of message.

• He growls at her. You catch the tail end of the conversation and just know she’s taunting him about you.

• He never sleeps deeply. But when you’re next to him, his guard lowers just enough. His arm stays wrapped around you even in sleep, grounding him.

• You once woke up to him brushing a strand of hair from your face with a look of heartbreak and awe like he’s convinced he’ll lose you one day.

• Fights with Xaden are rare, but volcanic. He shuts down emotionally when scared; usually when you put yourself in danger.

• “Don’t you dare make me watch you die,” he snarls after one mission, voice cracking. You realize it’s not anger. It’s fear.

• He kisses your lips with hunger. But your forehead? That’s reserved for when he’s overwhelmed with emotion.

• After a close call, after a shared secret, after a silent moment beneath the stars; that’s when his lips press to your forehead like a vow.

• He never tells you not to fight. Never demands you sit missions out. But you know by the way he lingers before every flight that if something happened to you, it would unmake him.

• “Come back to me,” he says lowly every time. And you always do.

• Before he even admits he’s in love, his shadows behave differently around you; curling protectively near your feet, brushing your fingertips like they know.

• When you’re alone, they often curl around the both of you, cocooning you in a space only you and Xaden belong in.

[ishestillapunk]

Everybody Wants A Piece Of Pedro Pascal

tags: grief, death.

a/n: it was so hard to write all this and not kick my sheets because of the whole photoshoot. he's beautiful.

I don't usually do this, well, I never done this, but today and after waking up to such a brilliant, raw and profound interview I see myself in the need of disecting piece by piece of this interview and the parts that touched a deep fiber in me.

You, of course, don't have to read this. I mean, not if you don't want to. I would say this is more mine than other thing, like, a precious stone I want to keep memory of how I felt when this article came out.

Don't you ever get that feeling that something is yours? like, not in a delulu and possesive way, but in a sort of thank you-way.

This interview—article, post. Damn, I don't know how to call it, forgive my scarce vocabulary in English—appeared like water in the desert for me. I had a long night of insomnia, very long, used to deal with it, and also with it came the lovely question that every 20 yo makes themselves at one point.

What the fuck am I doing with my damn life.

My phone buzzes when I finally decide to let go of it so I grab it again, and there it is. Our beloved pascalispunk. Oh, he looks hella good. I say looking at the pictures. Oh, it's Vanity Fair. I say and then, I think: Of course there is an interview. So I look up for it.

I read and then the first thing that moves my chest is:

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Maybe it's the writing, maybe it's me that lately I've been overly sensitive. It must've been the wind. I joke in my head when I feel like I want to cry. Something I love deeply about this man that is Pedro, is that he never stops being human. You get me, right? Like, with some celebrities I get the kinda... fake feeling. Don't wanna sound rude towards others at all, but, he just gives me that genuine and true feeling. That's what I mean by human.

Personally, I never been a fan of an actor before. A celebrity, in general. It just used to ick me, like, why would I do that? I had nothing against it, it just wasn't part of my persona. But then, I remember the first time coming across a video of him. I guess, yeah. Maybe we all want a piece of Pedro.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica.

I felt connected truly with Pedro when I learnt about his life. The struggle and loss. That feeling that nothing is going anywhere, you know? Like. Damn, what is it all this for? I kinda feel like humans (or some of us, dk, mind you) have to search comparisions to other people to feel okay on where they are at the moment and its something that lately has been happening to me. My search is literally:

'Directors that got succesful at an old age'

'How to publish my first book while being fucking poor'

'How do I live'

Is this non-stopping loop where everything mixes with everything and I feel too exhausted to leave my bed. Ends won't meet. Food lacks in the fridge. Mama is sad. But he has been in the same spot, and he's here to tell it.

Life hurts a bit less.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

And here it is. The first tears I shed.

I dropped out of college after a month in a course of studies that I thought it was perfect for me. Turns out, I felt like I was dying because there was no art in it and I was fucking dying. It was driving me apart of my soul, I would cry on my way to class, I would have no very very happy thoughts about life. Then, a crisis. Me hugging my mom's knees and telling her "Mama, I need art" and she sees me, the girl who only went to arts school for her whole teen years and grew up attached to her desk computer, pirated movies in the night and writing down stories that keep her awake.

And she told me. "It's okay. We'll figure it out"

I was embarrased to tell my friends what I did after that crisis. God, you went through a freaking exam, burnt your lashes studying, passed it and now you're saying you want to do cinema?

Well. Nobody said that.

What I mostly received was.

"That's awesome. You were about to waste your potential"

And something that sticks with me that a friend said.

"The world deserves to see something created by you".

If you're reading this, I want you and oblige you to take it as a signal.

 A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.” “Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

Bella. I love you, Bella.

On days when she (Veronica) didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’” [...]He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside. 

When he talks about his childhood memories, I become honey. It gives me the assertive feeling that he is the kind of person that talks and talks and talks, and tells and tells stories and never run off them, and never gets boring, and they are always sweet (or bittersweet but sweet in the end)

He makes me think about my childhood with another lens to look through. Less remorse. More a kind of let-go-of-it.

Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s��City of Hope.

yes, more tears over here.

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

This is the moment where I had to stop reading. I was literally a cascade at this point. I felt like that song Killing me softly with his song by The Fugees and the part that goes:

I felt he found my letters

Then read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish

But he just kept right on

I felt like he just grabbed all my diaries, my letters, my notes on my laptop. Everything. And just read them out loud.

And I felt less lonely for a moment, less detached from reality. More grounded to this moment that is, maybe, a wake up call.

That there is still time.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers.

Suicide grief is something I've never had the opportunity—well, more like favour of spilling my guts out for once—to talk with anyone. I went through it alone, mostly. I always think that there is no place as lonely as oneselves head (is oneselve's a word? am I dealing already with the precious side effects of twenty years of insomnia?). Reading Pedro talking about grief is ligthening.

I use to make myself a question, every now and then:

'When does it stop?'

Maybe never. And it's okay.

"Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

Just wanted to highlight this. Everyone should have this kind of values.

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.” So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.” There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

I tell you that I did nothing more than laugh and cry with all this part. Is that kind of make peace with death vibe that he sometimes gives me and I just take as a life advice.

I can't get mad at something that is long gone.

That I don't know the answers to.

That is as invisible as the air, and painful as a healed fracture.

And that I have to live, for those who aren't here anymore.

So... I will finish with this:

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

I can't wait to escape this place. A home that keeps me warm but silences me. Hugs that don't feel comfortable or familiar anymore. A room that is too little for the dreams that move this soul. A roof that isn't strong enough to hold me from touching what it's-maybe-waiting for me.

Somewhere.

Kudos to Karen Valby for such a great article.

if someone read this whole thing, uhm, thank you!

keep loving Peps. 💜

[mqsoreshi]

Sleepy Bat part 2

Jason ran to his table and shoved everything aside. He grabbed a piece of paper, some crayons, and wrote in big red letters:

“Jason Todd’s Master Plan”

He paused for a few seconds, thinking about what a real master plan needed. Then, his eyes widened with ideas.

Step 1: Get armed.

Step 2: Report mission

Step 3: Protect from cold

Step 4: Medicine

Step 5: Defend Bat-cave and manor

He was ready to start the first phase: getting armed.

Jason rushed to his toy box, which was surprisingly half-organized. Not for long. He spread all the toys across the floor, digging through them for his tactical gear. He gathered a flashlight, a broken radio, two water pistols, a pair of glass bottle ‘binoculars’, and his favorite blanket.

“Alright!” he said to himself. “No one is taking advantage of Batman’s sickness on MY watch! Robin, the Boy Wonder, is in the house!!”

He quickly made a paper mask, and attached all his ‘gear’ to a regular belt using transparent tape. Jason looked at himself in his room’s mirror and grinned.

“Damn, I look good!” he said, wrapping his red blanket around his neck like a cape. “Let’s see if any villain wants to come here with ME around!”

Step 2: Report Mission

With all his gear ready, Jason figured he should tell Bruce what he was planning. After all, Bruce was Batman—he needed to know what was going on, especially in case Jason needed backup.

“Alright, Jaybird.” Jason said to himself. “Time to move headquarters. But first… let’s see if the coast is clear.”

He packed all his ‘utilities’ into his school backpack—anything a kid might find useful— and peeked through the door to check if Alfred was still in Bruce’s room.

He waited long seconds—too long for a kid—and as soon as he saw Alfred leave, he dashed as quietly and quickly as a six-year-old carrying a pile of things could manage. Alfred heard him but couldn’t see him. He just assumed the boy had started one of his vigilante games again.

Jason had to make several trips. His little arms couldn’t carry everything at once. First came the crayons, markets, notebooks, and paper. Then his ‘weapons’, in case a change of strategy was needed. Finally, every blanket and pillow he could find to build his base of operations.

While Bruce slept, an adorable mess took over his room. Jason brought in his plushies and toys, delegating each of them a mission.

“You’ll watch over the Robin-puter,” Jason said, placing a stuff dinosaur in front of a book with a red screen painted. “You’ll write the field reports I bring back,” the little toy soldiers looked very compromised with their mission. “And you…” Jason paused, thinking. “I’ll figure out a mission for you.” Poor actions figures, they seemed very eager to work.

Jason paced around his newly fortified fortress, inspecting every detail.

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind,” Jason said solemnly, as if grating a promotion. “I’m assigning you to the main surveillance post.”

He moved the stuffed dinosaur from the Robin-puter to the top of Bruce’s bed.

“Bruce loves dinosaurs,” Jason said smiling. “He’ll feel safer with you around. Which means you guys—” Jason pointed at his action figures. “Are now in charge of the Robin-puter.”

Jason changed his voice slightly to simulate another person.

“And Robin! What about Batman’s previous orders?”

Jason cleared his throat and replied in a deeper voice:

“With Batman unable to fight, I’m the one in charge now. I’ll report to him personally, and all the major decisions fall to me. And it’s Mr. Boss Robin for you, Jim!”

“Sorry, Mr. Boss Robin.”

“I’ll go check the climate factor. No one does anything until I came back!”

Jason jumped out of Bruce’s room and ran to check his room’s window.

Step 3: Protect from the Cold

While looking the gray clouds through the window, Jason took a notebook from his utility belt and wrote in messy handwriting:

‘State of the weather: Cold.

Line of action: Find Mr. Freeze and take him down.’

Jason’s paper mask was starting to break due to his sweat, so, he solved it by painting a new one directly onto his skin.

He had already used most of the house blankets to build his base, but now he grabbed his personal ones—the one with kitties, the motorcycles one, the Harry Potter one, the one with books, even the yellow one hidden in his wardrobe. The one he used when he missed his mom.

He bundled them into a massive colorful ball and marched back toward Bruce’s room.

Alfred saw him pass like a walking rainbow; trailing socks behind. Jason didn’t realize one of those blankets held his freshly laundered clothes—clothes Alfred had just folded.

The butler just sighed, uncapable of getting mad. Picking up the stray socks, he followed Jason back to Bruce’s room, finding a mess worth of a reward.

Despite the chaotic pile of pillows, plushies, and blankets, what caught Alfred’s attention quicker was Jason—struggling to lift the stuffed ball of linens onto Bruce’s bed.

Because of his height, he had to climb up using part of the bed to push himself up. Well, he was trying to do that carrying God-knows-how-many blankets. Until that moment the bedspreads were halfway to Bruce’s feet.

“Master Jason…” Alfred didn’t know whether to say something or take a picture. “What exactly are you trying to do?”

“The weather’s cold,” Jason said it as if that was the answer to every human conflict. “If Bruce gets more cold, he’ll turn into an ice cube. Mr. Freeze must be up to something. I’m gonna find him. But first, I need to leave Bruce safe from cold.”

“Colder, my boy…” Alfred corrected gently, still unsure what to do. “Master Bruce may not need so many covers.”

Jason stubbornly tried to climb again but missed a step, falling onto the pile of blankets.

“Ouch…” He seemed to have hurt his toes. Alfred stepped closer, noticing how Jason was all covered with ink stains of colors.

“What do you have on your face, sir?” Alfred held his face gently. It seemed like he used coal.

“My Robin mask!” Jason answered. “But it broke up. So, I made this instead.”

Alfred lost himself on those bright green eyes, feeling his heart growing bigger.

“That was a very clever solution, Master Jason,” he said with a smile. “But perhaps you shouldn’t use ink on your skin. It could cause an allergy.”

“Well, it’s all I had. The villains can’t know who I am, right?”

Alfred chuckled softly, fixing Jason’s hair.

“Can you help me put the blankets on Bruce?” Jason asked.

“Dear boy, with so many blankets, Master Bruce could suffer from heat stroke,” Alfred explained patently. “You told me earlier he was very warm. The light cover he has now should be enough.”

“Oh…” Jason looked at the colorful amalgamation he had brought. “I guess so… But I’ll leave them nearby, just in case.”

“That seems like a wise decision, Master Jason.”

Last part - Next part

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi! I'm a huge fan of your writing(you're low-key why I downloaded Tumblr so I could read more)! If you were up for it I'd love to read more from your to be or knot to be universe, or literally any of your freak4freak stuff! Thank you so much for writing, and I hope you're having a good day<3

hi! that is very sweet and i hope you're enjoying it! and i'm still just very happy and a little surprised how much people enjoy my malec verses (it's not a self-confidence problem i promise! i'm just still surprised ppl like the same stuff as me)!

i also hope you are having a good day too!!

here is some more of to be or knot to be last part here'

i hope you enjoy it and i am having a delightful time because i have a puppy who keeps pretending to get scared by something out the window so he has a reason to come climb in my lap (he doesn't need a reason? but like he's very particular about how things are done and he especially likes it when i comfort him if i think he's been scared?) but it did take me about 6 different instances to realize he was laying down sleeping, would wake up and feel lonely, boof at nothing and then look to see if i was watching him and then run to me 'so terrified!'

now that he's laying next to me, i'll sometimes kind of watch him and he'll wake up, look to see if i'm paying attention and most of the time he can't tell i can see him? so then he'll boof first and then jump up like he had a nightmare.

it's really ridiculous. i love nightshade so much tho

<3 lumine

Magnus pulls Alexander to him, enjoying the hitched groan as metal tightens and Alexander’s forced to come closer. Nephilim blood is a potent ingredient and yet instead of collecting it for use, Magnus licks it away.

Alexander’s fingers are covered in blood and under that are small, tiny little cuts. Magnus sucks each digit into his mouth to carefully clean away the blood and viscera, letting magic heal the wounds.

“You took too long.”

Alexander’s laugh at his reprimand is breathless, the look in his eyes wild and his boy swallows heavily against the martingale chain. The hunger in Alexander’s eyes only grows as the metal around his neck bites further into his skin and Magnus is tempted, so very tempted.

Yet warlocks have certain traditions that Magnus wants to follow.  Not only to give Alexander every legitimacy and protection as his mate, but also to ensure the Clave has as little authority or ways to meddle as possible.

Magnus has no interest in shadowhunter politics, except in the ways it will help his own people.  The kind of influence and access to information he’ll have thanks to a shadowhunter mate isn’t something to be taken lightly.  Alexander is a threat for the Clave and they’ll know it immediately.  Even if Alexander never expressly commits treason, just going against them as publicly as he’s doing makes Alexander dangerous.

If his mate gets to keep the Institute, then Magnus will do everything in his power to support his boy. Including join Alexander not perhaps in an official position, but even just as his mate,  supporting him and being seen around the Institute.

Alexander has certain privileges as a shadowhunter Commander that won’t disappear simply because the Clave hates his mate. Magnus has seen some of the papers and strategies that Alexander has gone over and they’re good.

Good enough that Magnus can boldly state that it’s better not to have his mate for an enemy, simply by the measure of Alexander’s own merits. The Clave probably know that, which is yet another reason they’ll be both  furious on wary.

“How long is your leave?” Magnus asks and his voice is hoarse with want but he holds himself back, managing not to twist the loop of Alexander’s collar and instead just leaning forward.

Alexander meets him, their foreheads pressing together as they both sigh in the relief of being close enough to share breath again.

“A minimum of three weeks. I wasn’t sure how long warlock mating instincts require so I set the maximum at five.  If you need longer then I’ll take sick leave or resign if they refuse.”

The steadfast way Alexander makes it clear that Magnus is his priority has Magnus sighing with delight and nuzzling Alexander as he pulls him closer.  The blood grows tacky between them and the thrill of Alexander being covered in it turns into disgust that his boy is still covered in such unworthy filth.

A snap of his fingers and Magnus cleans and strips them both, it probably isn’t needed and he could have simply cleaned their clothing — as evidenced by the fact that Alexander’s collar remains and is now pristine — however he wants to.

Alexander grins, something delighted and awed in his expression as he brings one of Magnus’ hand up to nuzzle and then kiss his palm.

“There are a few rituals we need to do, before we share a rut.” Magnus rubs his other hand down the curve of Alexander’s arm and then tangles their fingers together. “So while I will share a bath with you, I’m afraid as tempting as you are, I cannot fuck you just yet.”  Magnus can’t help the chuckle he lets out at Alexander’s bewildered and crestfallen expression.

“Don’t worry kitten, we can start the rituals tomorrow. It won’t be long Alexander, I promise.”

AN:

alec: ... i should have left the institute even quicker. this is terrible. my self-control is going to be both better and worse being around magnus

magnus: oh he's so cute when he's flustered. this is going to be delightful.

magnus is 100% treating this like foreplay and alec is too caught up in the shock/whiplash to realize he's getting played (in a good way and magnus isn't lying about the rituals he's just also enjoying himself) and alec's still getting used to Magnus and Magnus' scent and him and his magic and he's catching up but it'll take him a little bit. like he'll definitely figure out how to tease magnus but he's still learning how to breathe around magnus atm so... he needs a bit.

alec is going to be suffering... but like, not in a bad way

alec wants magnus there, as his mate, as his alpha, respected and capable of ordering (and being obeyed) by alec's institute because it's another way for alec to show that he belongs to magnus. so completely that what is his to rule also belongs to magnus to a certain degree. like obviously magnus can't tell them orders contradictory to the claves or alec's, but yeah. alec basically has a set of standards and if clave cant meet them, he wont stay. magnus is more important to him than that. and so are his own persona priorities and instincts

[draculasintern]

Claggor (S2 Au vers.) Headcanons

Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal file #V016-XIII

Gods Look at him.. Im so hungry I could eat a season 2 episode 7 of arcane buff inventor named Claggor.. WHO SAID THAT Sfw and NSFW

He’s got soot on his cheek, goggles pushed up on his head, and his hand outstretched toward you before you can even say hello. He missed you. He always misses you.

Keeps parts of his workshop “off-limits,” but it’s not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s because he’s building something for you, and he doesn’t want you peeking yet.

You don’t realize it at first, but nearly every tool he uses has some kind of engraving. Notations. Measurements. Then one day you spot it: your name etched into the handle of his favorite spanner. He doesn’t say anything when you notice. He just smiles.

Brings you home weird scrap finds like they’re flowers. A shard of stained Zaun glass. A rusted gear in the shape of a heart. One time, a wind-up music box that played half a lullaby. He called it “useless.” You called it perfect.

His hands are always warm. You don’t know how. The workshop is freezing. But somehow—when he touches you—it’s like coming home.

Has a deep, protective streak he doesn’t advertise. You’ll only notice when someone talks down to you and Claggor, normally so patient, steps forward with a calm voice and scary stillness. “Say that again. Slower.”

Never talks about Vander unless you ask. But when you do—his whole face softens. “He wasn’t just a fighter. He made sure the little ones ate first. Taught me how to listen with my hands.” (Then you realize—that’s how Claggor holds you. Like he’s listening.)

You fall asleep in the workshop once and wake up under his coat, tucked into the corner, with a soft cloth pillow made out of his shirt. He never says a word. But he kisses your forehead when he thinks you’re still dreaming.

He makes your favorite tea in bulk. Like… giant firelight-safe thermoses labeled with your name. “For the week,” he says. It lasts two days.

Sometimes he hums without realizing it—Zaun folk songs mostly. Ones Vander used to sing. You ask him where he learned them. “…They just come to me, sometimes.”

When he hugs you? He lifts you. Just a little. Just enough that your feet leave the ground and your stomach flips. You could stay in those arms forever.

You get a new scarf. He pretends not to notice. Then you find one of his old shirts dyed the exact same shade. He definitely noticed.

Claggor doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. When he says, “That’s enough,”—people listen. But when he says your name? It’s soft. Always soft.

If you’re stressed? He’ll bring you to the rooftop. A hidden one, where the stars aren’t blocked by smoke. He lights a little lantern. You sit together in silence, knees touching, fingers laced. “There’s always something worth saving,” he says. “You. For example.”

He has grease on his jaw, burn marks on his sleeves, bruises on his ribs—and still? He cradles your face like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. Not because you’re fragile. But because you matter.

He’s the kind of lover who holds your hips like he’s built for it—like they’re his to hold, his to guide. Slow at first, grinding in deep, one hand steady on your lower back while the other strokes your thigh, coaxing you open with a quiet, “That’s it, love. Just like that.”

Claggor doesn’t command—he leads. Every word is warm, breathy, low in your ear. “Doing so well for me,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along your temple. “So good like this… Let me keep goin’, yeah?”

He loves overstimulation, but only if you're tucked against him—whining, twitching, trying to pull away while he holds you gently and shushes you through it. “I know, I know. You’re shaking. It’s alright, I got you. That’s it… give me another.”

Praise kink king. But never over-the-top. It’s always genuine. Quiet. Close. “Look at you. Taking me so well.” “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” And gods, when he groans against your skin after you clench around him? “Fuck, I feel that. You’re perfect.”

Big, warm hands that roam—not rough, but hungry. Palms over your waist, fingers up your spine, thumb dragging lazy circles into your hips while he rolls into you deep, again and again, saying your name like a vow.

Loves pulling soft little noises out of you. Loves it even more when you try to hide them. If you bite your lip or turn your head away, he’ll just press a kiss to your jaw and say, “Don’t hide from me. I wanna hear it.”

If you ever cover your face in embarrassment, he gently moves your hands. Not teasing—just murmurs, “Don’t go shy on me now.” And when you look up? He’s flushed, sweat at his temple, pupils blown wide with how much he wants you.

He’s a giver first. And a slow one. He likes to see your reactions. Likes to map every inch of your skin with his mouth, his calloused hands, the tip of his nose. “Tell me where you want me, darlin’.”

Loves giving oral. Like—loves it. He could spend hours between your legs, “Just let me taste you, c’mon sweetheart, lemme do right by you…”

Gets vocal when he’s close. Deep groans, soft cursing, the occasional breathless “fuck—feels too good—” when you tighten around him. He buries his face against your shoulder when he finishes, arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Aftercare is quiet and devoted. Claggor’s the type to stay buried inside you for a while, forehead resting against your chest or shoulder, catching his breath. Then he gets you water, wipes you down with trembling hands, and asks “Too much? Did I hurt you?” If you shake your head and kiss him? He smiles—eyes soft, voice hoarse. “Good. You were incredible.”

Typed this entire thing with my left hand. Need him so bad its throbbing his name in morse code WHO IS SAYING THIS I SWEAR THE WIND IS GETTING WORSE

-The Intern

[rainrot4me]

The hc on Clockwork drawing Toby makes me wonder. What IS your opinion on Toby x Clockwork/Ticciwork?

Oh, where do I begin. To me, Ticciwork is like a gunpowder x lighter situation. They’re definitely exes who keep getting back together and splitting up again, but I feel a deep love for one-another that nobody else really gets.

Nat’s calculated, hardened, with a tight grip on her emotions—but she feels deeply. She’s the kind of person who would scoff at feelings while secretly craving stability, protection, someone who sees her scars and doesn’t flinch. She works with control—mechanical precision, trauma that forced her into maturity far too fast.

On the other hand, Toby’s chaotic, impulsive, and often out of touch with his own emotional landscape. He’s rough around the edges, but there’s this raw honesty in him that Nat would notice—and might even crave. His tics, his temper, his noise—those could unsettle her at first. But over time, I think she’d see the vulnerability beneath all of it.

Howeverrrrrrr, they’re manic. Put two crazy, traumatized people together and you’ll get an explosion before you get anything kind.

They break up at least three times a year. And every time, it ends the same way: with bruised lips, sharp words, and one of them slamming the door. But they never stay away. Toby throws things. Not at her—never at her—but around her. He can’t handle the silence. Can’t handle the thought of losing her. Natalie stands like stone, arms crossed, eyes burning. “You always ruin this. Why can’t you ever just be satisfied?” But two nights later, he’s outside her window, soaked in blood and rain, shivering like a kid. And she lets him in. Always.

They’ve seen each other at their worst. Not the messy proxy shit—the real stuff. The things no one else knows. She knows about the way he cries in his sleep but never lets the tears fall. He knows she doesn’t wind her clock when she’s overwhelmed—lets the ticking stop because she can’t bear to feel the time pass. They never talk about it. But they both remember.

Most nights, he finds her in the bathroom, floor tile cold against her legs, trembling hands trying to hold herself together. He sits beside her. Doesn’t say a word. Just slides a hoodie over her shoulders and rests his head on her knee.

Now for everyone’s favorite part, the sex.

It’s angry. Gripping. Desperate. Like they’re trying to punish each other for still loving this much. She claws at his back like she’s digging through all the silence between them. He leaves bruises on her hips like he’s trying to prove something—like maybe if he marks her up enough, she won’t leave again.

Afterwards, she curls into his chest, breath hitching.

“You’re the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, lips at her neck. “Then why do you still co-come back?”

“Because no one else sees me like you do.”

He goes quiet. Pulls her closer. “Shut up.”

They date other people. Clockwork flirts to make Toby jealous. Toby fucks someone else to prove he’s “over it.” But it always feels wrong. Off. Like they’re wearing someone else’s skin.

They can be halfway across the country from each other and know when something’s wrong. She’ll wake up with a tight feeling in her chest. He’ll get that electric buzz in his bones. And eventually one of them shows up.

No matter how bad it gets, how many times they blow up, if someone else lays a hand on the other? They’re dead.

It’s toxic. But also? No one else has ever loved them like this. No one else ever will. They’re both so fucked in the head that nothing normal or soft would satisfy them. So, sure, they’re horrible and awful to be around, but no one else sees them the way the other does. That still doesn’t mean that Natalie won’t beat the absolute shit out of him. She has shot him before, she will do it again.

꩜ .ᐟ

[undyingdecay]

i heard we’re talking about mean!walker and i would like to put pussy slapping on the table

he wouldn’t even give you the satisfaction of a real touch at first. palm cupping you just barely, thumb pressing in light, lazy circles over your clit, watching your hips jerk, a pleased grin tugging at his mouth. “so fuckin’ needy, baby,” he’d murmur, voice thick and low, “weren’t you talkin’ all that shit earlier? what happened to that attitude, huh?”

and then when you start to beg — quiet, desperate, hips tipping into his hand because you can’t help it — that’s when he does it. the slap isn’t brutal, it’s not meant to hurt like a punishment, it’s just enough to make a wet, sharp sound, the sting sharp and addictive, leaving you gasping before it blooms into heat between your legs.

he’ll groan too, every time he does it, like it turns him on just as much as it does you. maybe even more. the sight of you trembling, hole clenching around nothing, eyes going glassy while you whimper for him. and he’s a smug asshole about it, because of course he is. “aw, look at that,” he’ll croon, dragging his fingers through the wet mess between your thighs, teasing your swollen clit with the tips of his fingers. “pussy so fuckin’ pretty when it’s pink like this. think you like it, huh? yeah, you fuckin’ love it.”

and if you deny it — if you so much as try — he’s giving you another one. maybe a little rougher this time, just to hear you cry out, to see you fall apart that much quicker. and he won’t stop, not until you’re begging properly, voice cracking, promising you’ll be good, that you’ll take whatever he gives you if he’ll just please, please touch you.

and when he finally does? it’s with that same mean, mocking little grin on his face, because he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you — desperate, messy, dripping down your thighs for him and only him.

god bless you anon. this is peak walker filth and we deserve it.

[byeashhh]

work has been insane this week + i had a dream about domestic copia last night and it got me thinking, , how sweet pregnant!reader x copia would be . . . so, no one asked for it but i'm writing it anyways ˵^ᴗ^˵` ➜ when you tell him, he absolutely freezes. you see about 20 emotions cross his face in five seconds — disbelief, joy, panic, love — until he just stumbles forward and buries his face in your stomach ➜ tears. definitely a few tears. xopia cries easily when it comes to you, and this? this destroys him in the most beautiful way ➜ he becomes obsessed with making sure you’re safe and comfortable. you can’t even bend down without him rushing to help ➜ always touching your bump—rubbing it, kissing it, whispering in italian when he thinks you’re asleep ➜ anyone who dares to make you upset during your pregnancy? excommunicated. ➜ copia will 100% go on 3 a.m. missions to find whatever food you’re craving, even if it’s obscure or international ➜ he’s hilariously bad at nesting. he tries to build a crib by himself and ends up swearing in italian for 40 minutes before finally calling someone for help ➜ he insists on painting the nursery himself. Ends up with more paint on his shirt and nose than on the wall, but he’s proud as hell ➜ the first time he feels the baby kick, he gasps like he’s seen a miracle ➜ “they’re saying hello,” you tease. he nods seriously, forehead pressed to your belly. “hello, little one… it’s your papa. i’m here. i’ll always be here.”

➜ he does not leave your side during labor. he’s not squeamish—he’s absolutely locked in, holding your hand, whispering support even when he’s panicking internally ➜ when the baby arrives, he sobs. he kisses you over and over, thanking you again and again for giving him a family ➜ and when he finally holds the baby for the first time? it’s the quietest copia has ever been. just tears in his lashes, lips parted, and a look on his face like he just met his unholy god ofc i had to add some NSFW , , , ⚠︎ NSFW BELOW. 18+. MDNI. ⚠︎

➜ he’s obsessed with how you look. he already worships your body, but seeing you growing round and soft with his baby? it’s a turn-on like nothing else ➜ your pregnant body completely ruins him. the extra softness, the fullness of your breasts, the weight of your belly — he cannot keep his hands to himself ➜ constant gentle touches. he’ll wrap his arms around you from behind, resting his hands on your stomach and slowly grinding against you, voice low in your ear: “do you know what it does to me… seeing you like this? knowing it was me who put this life inside you?” ➜ he gets visibly turned on when he catches you changing, or walking around in just a robe. he’ll stop mid-task, breath catching. “you’re so… dio mio… you’re perfect like this.” ➜ sex doesn’t stop — if anything, it becomes sweeter, slower, deeper. he’s even more gentle, more focused on your comfort, but still just as needy ➜ he’s gentle, but not shy. slow thrusts. deep eye contact. soft, filthy praise spilling from his mouth as he watches you fall apart under him ➜ copia’s the type to thank you during sex while you're pregnant — soft, breathy praises like: “grazie, amore… for this. for you. for everything.” ➜ the deeper into the pregnancy, the more possessive he gets — you’re swollen, glowing, dripping for him, and he can’t stop himself from fucking you full again and again, even if you’re already heavy with his child ➜ copia is obsessed with going down on you while you’re pregnant. he swears you taste sweeter, and he wants it constantly ➜ he’ll get on his knees, kiss your bump, and then bury his face between your thighs like a man starved. his moans are desperate — half-worship, half-lust. “let me have it… please, amore… let me make you feel good. you deserve everything.” ➜ after every session, he clings to you like he’s never going to get to touch you again ➜ he massages your thighs, kisses your belly over and over, talks to the baby like you didn’t just scream his name ten minutes ago

pls tell me y'all want more of these... im obsessed.. i will write 50+ short fics / blurbs on this alone

[pikasigh]

hiii this is like my first time requesting anything soo I'm a little nervousss😅 but could you do how the mha boys + maybe dabi and hawks (and shigaraki if thats not to much) would react to you making them a kiss hoodie like that trend on tiktok btw I love your work smmm you are sooo talenteddd

OOH OF COURSE!! I LOVE THIS IDEA

MHA BOYS and the kiss hoodies! (including dabi, shigaraki, and hawks) WITH PICTURES!

a/n : all pictures used are from Pinterest

❤︎ IZUKU MIDORIYA

- it was his birthday. you really had no idea what to get him. pampering him with storebought gifts just didnt feel right anymore. it didnt feel like it was enough to convey the love he put in your heart. he was always so effortlessly sweet with his gifts. what could you do to match that?

- you made it with the help of his mom. she thought it was so sweet, and she was unimaginably happy to have someone else love her son almost as much as she did. she loved you, and loved when you came to her for stuff like this.

- “i–is this for me?” he asks

- (OF COURSE ITS FOR YOU, HELLO??? BLESS HIS HEARTTT)

- “yeah, baby. look, I made it.” you point at the design on the front and back. he’s just in awe. now, any time he missed you, he could wear this and have your lips on him. even when he was away!

- “oh gosh, y/n..” he starts tearing up. “this is so cute! AH, I love you!”

- he hugs you reeeeal tight on the couch.

❤︎ KATSUKI BAKUGOU

- lowkey doesnt wear it

- okay, okay…he wears it when you aren’t over in his dorm. when his bed feels a little too cold and you aren’t there to give him real kisses. he’ll never tell you, or anyone else. 

- when you gave it to him, it took everything in him to act disinterested.

- “the hell is this?” he grumbled, frowning down at the fabric as he took it from you.

- “you don’t like it?” you asked, your pretty face falling. he hated that image.

- “what? ofcourse i like it. shut up. you’re weird..” he growls, but he likes seeing you smile.

❤︎ SHOTO TODOROKI

- he actually really likes it. he melts at the sight. the fact that you took the time to think about him and make this was enough for him to want to pull you into a kiss right there.

- he acts all nonchalant about it around anyone else. for example, if anybody asked he would simply say: “y/n made it.” fighting the urge to say: “my beautiful gorgeous radiant amazing y/n made this for me” or something.

- you handed it to him, and he was a bit confused.

- “did you put paint on your lips for this?” he asked with furrowed brows.

- “will it wash off?”

- bless his heart. you giggle and kiss him.

- he does wear it. often.

❤︎ EJIROU KIRISHIMA

- “HOLY CRAP!” he yells immediately when you hand it to him. he’s been all over his socials lately, seeing others do this for their boyfriends. he lowkey wanted to put his own twist on it and make one for you. but after some deep thought, he figured it wouldn’t make much sense, considering he didn’t wear lipstick ever…

- his thought process wasn’t really good on that one, i gotta say..

- “BABE…this is incredible!” he throws you up in his arms and kisses you nonstop. you’re amazing.

- you KNOW he wears it any chance he gets. he loves showing it off. he thinks its super manly.

❤︎ DENKI KAMINARI

- he literally jumps up and down. throws it on immediately and smiles. he takes like a million pictures of him in it, you with your hands on him in it, you and him kissing in it. he posts them all.

- his posts are filled with hate comments from the class. its so unserious, they just like making fun of him.

- “yes MAAM, i knew you’d make me one.” he winks. he lowkey was counting down the hours until you handed this to him.

- for weeks he sent you every video of people making them for their partners. leaving texts like: “could be us but you playing”

- he wears it so often that the kisses began to fade from how much he needed to wash it. (bro wears it everyday).

❤︎ TOUYA TODOROKI

- he doesnt really know why youd do that for him. he honestly doesnt really like all that crap. he loves you, you love him. there. you both knew it, so why should you have to flaunt it around for everyone to see?

- besides, he didnt really leave the base a whole lot. what was he going to do, wear it while striking down students at UA? yeah right.

- he puts it somewhere he can see it clearly. so that any time he misses you he can just look at it and smile to himself. he does like feeling your care. he does like knowing you love him. but he just thinks its a little silly.

- “you know im not going to wear this.” he tells you straight to your face, but kisses you as a silent thanks.

❤︎ KEIGO TAKAMI

- ooohhhh boy. he loves it so much. he really likes his ego being stroked (among other things) so when you hand him the hoodie, he bites his lip and chuckles at you.

- sassy man apocalypse 

- he throws it on quick and smiles. he likes that you even thought to cut little holes for his wings. he looks at himself a little too long in the mirror. lowkey sort of full of himself, but not to a narcissistic point. he just knows hes so sosososososoosossjfjdfooa hot.

- “wow, baby, this is real good..” he coos, looking over his shoulder at you. he loves it.

- “hehe…you like it?” you tease him, he jabs you in the arm gently for taunting him.

- “oh shaddup, im gonna wear it everyday.” he confirms, kissing you.

❤︎ TOMURA SHIGARAKI

- okay, seriously this man is just a lonely hopeless romantic at heart and i will DIE ON THAT HILL.

- he hates bringing you around the assholes at the leauge, but when you come up to him looking all pretty his heart melts. his face softens at you immediately.

- “hey..” he mumbles, walking away from everyone else and looking down at you. youve got a cheeky smile on your face before you hand him something that makes his heart flutter.

- he takes it from you with his eyes wide. he doesnt say anything. he just looks down at the hoodie and tries to figure out what this feeling is.

- “you like it right?” you murmur, looking it over.

- “like it? i love it. i just dont want to destroy it.” he whispers to you.

[insociometry]

i always felt like felix and hannie give of biggest pervert vibes. Like theyd get off on the thought of MC when its the most forbidden. if shes busy on a phone call or workirg or something and theucant physically bother her, so they're just .. all mopey and have to go jack off in their room but they secretly fantasize about interrupting whatever shes doing and fucking her anyways - theyd never do it (they respect her too much for that), its mostly just the thought of it that gets them off.

But then you mentioned who would get off on being ignored or not, and how lino and Innie would specifically try to get MC's attention and ... basically those two would make those fantasies come true (ironic really. Lino and I.N living Felix and Hannies dreams 😔)

(Referencing this!)

Stopppp this is so hot 🫠 I agree: they’re perverts!!! Especially because Han thinks of MC as this too-good-to-be-true literal angel of a girl, and Felix knows that MC thinks of him as her fairytale prince — how could they let her know what they think about??? Hannie fantasizing about dragging her down to earth and fucking her throat until she gags and ugly-cries, and Felix fantasizing about taking her and marking her and coming inside her over and over until she passes out — surely she would be horrified* (*she wouldn’t)!!!! No, they should keep this to themselves; it’s just them and their right hands for company…

Meanwhile Lino is torturing and teasing her until she begs for it and I.N just pulls out the baby-doll eyes — “Noona, you don’t want me? 🥺” while pushing his thumb into her mouth, his big hand on her waist, holding her down — strong and forceful as though in contrast to the pleading words. And it works! Unfair!!

(CNC and somnophilia ahead! Just assume it’s pre-negotiated! 🪦🕊️🛑)

Alsooooo, this fic DOES get into consensual non-consent elements, so — far into the future, when they know each other’s kinks and tells and limits, doesn’t Hannie just seem like a “just the tip” guy when MC is busy and he’s especially needy? “Baby I promise I’ll be quick; just a little, please, I need it; I need you; please, angel, please, please—”, clawing at her clothes, pushing her against the nearest surface with more force than usual, kissing her wet and messy — but it’s never just the tip, and her legs are shaking, and because he’s so so so needy they go a few rounds. But he’s her Sungie and he’s so good for her and he loves her so much, he’ll always get her off at least twice for every time he gets off 🥺 Isn’t that so good of him 🥺🥺 “No, no, baby, don’t pass out,” he’s whimpering, leaving finger-shaped bruises on your hips, kissing the tears from your eyes, come pooling on the floor, “Don’t pass out, don’t leave me— Just one more time; please angel, one more time, really, please—”

And Felix just looooves to hold you, and loves to be as close as possible — and isn’t cockwarming just a natural extension of that? It just makes sense; it’s just maximizing skin on skin! Of course he isn’t going to get in the way of your nap when you’re soooo sleepy, he knows you’ve been busy — he just wants to be included! It’s sweet, if you think about it 😊 But you’re so little; he needs to work you open on his fingers before he can fit — oh but don’t worry, he won’t make you come; that’s not what it’s about, right? Except being on edge extends into sleep, so even when you finally manage to drift off, you’re still aching for him: clenching, rocking back, mumbled moans falling from your lips. In that case, it’s only good of Felix to get you off, right? He’s just being an attentive boyfriend! It’s sweet, if you think about it 🤭 He’ll just rub your clit and grind into you until you come — or until you wake; whichever comes first. But Felix wouldn’t mind if you stayed sleeping; you do need the rest, after all! And he’s never going to complain about getting to come inside you until you’re full and sticky 🫶