#hypersexuality when i catch you...

[irl-zai]

i should probably sleep but i'm more interested in ignoring my urges by playing random roblox games until i'm on the verge of collapsing idc

[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 4

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samojede (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts and personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Whenever Simon spares you a glance to remind himself that this new and strange arrangement is real, he finds you staring right back at him somehow.

Always making eye contact; holding his unwavering gaze with a silent expectation that makes his chest feel tight and his brain go numb, grappling for answers. Multiple times he's caught himself biting the tip of his tongue harshly to refrain himself from barking “What?” at you, demanding an answer in exchange for his cluelessness: What do you want from me?

He's building a mountain of expectations in his mind involuntarily while lacking the gear and a strategy in how to climb it properly. It's too high, and he knows he can never reach the top unscathed.

How can he possibly take care of you if he can barely take care of himself outside of what is required of him? He keeps himself fit, alive, able to function, always ready to follow an order and go in for the kill. That’s what he knows, what he’s comfortable with, but this?

Simon doesn't play house, doesn't know how to handle something so... domestic and delicate. He never experienced it growing up, never witnessed normalcy. If he would care about such things now, he’d have a wife or something akin to one, but he doesn’t–never even had a partner before, never bothered to believe himself fit for dating, for letting someone in like this.

Even the soft clothes you're wearing make him recoil; pastel colours having the opposite effect of red to a bull–so odd and out of place to him, and he knows the callouses on his fingers would simply catch on the fabric if he were ever to reach out to you for whatever reason, like a sheep’s fine wool catching on a thorn brush, scratching and tearing.

“What would you like for dinner?”

Simon blinks twice, thrice, before the question comes through his thick skull, vision slowly clearing despite him having stared at you for the past minutes while you were sitting on his couch patiently the whole time, eager as ever now that he willingly took you back to his flat again.

Why did you even sign the handlership without knowing him at all beforehand? Are you really that oblivious? That naïve? Or did the brass coax you into signing it?

“Simon?”

The way you keep saying his name so casually, makes his chest ache, makes him inhale sharply each time. What would he like for dinner? It should be such a simple question, but it seems like a puzzle to him–a thousand pieces, all in the same bloody colour.

“Why? Ya offering to cook for me, lass?” He snorts humourlessly. It's ridiculous. No one cooks for him unless he goes to the mess hall to get some grub.

“Of course, I'd love to!” You answer immediately, flashing a genuine smile. His eyes flicker to your tail when it starts to wag again and he curls his lips under his mask. Isn't he supposed to take care of you? What even is this bloody handlership? His brows draw together quizzically, making that deep crease reappear between them. Perhaps he should’ve read it before putting his signature on the damn paper.

Then he sighs in resignation. “Do whatever you want, just stay out of my room,” he replies and makes a half-hearted gesture towards the kitchen. “Not sure wha’s in the fridge. Been a few days since I went to the store,” he admits begrudgingly, kissing his teeth in annoyance when his stomach grumbles.

“Well then,” you say tentatively, tail stilling on the couch, “–why don't we go shopping for groceries?”

It’s already late afternoon, when Simon pulls up to the parking lot in front of the local supermarket in town with a truck he borrowed, deciding it’s better for his own nerves to take you somewhere else but the stores they have on base.

He just can’t bring himself to keep you on a leash around his peers, to parade you around wearing a pink collar around your neck with his rank and military ID number stitched into its leather–a ‘gift’ from the bloody gift basket Price had delivered to his flat along with the initial shock of your presence.

And, by god, he wants to drop the leash and run in the other direction as soon as the automatic sliding doors swoosh open and his boots step foot into the store with you in tow–a red shopping basket clutched in his other hand.

What an absurd picture it must be to other shopgoers–a behemoth with a skull mask and cargo pants buying veggies and snacks with a gorgeous hybrid woman on a pink leash and matching collar. Kinky, he muses unintentionally and grits his teeth, cringing at his own stupid thought. It’s then and there Simon decides to murder Price next chance he gets.

“Mummy, look!” A toddler exclaims, pointing at you as he peeks his head into the produce aisle. Simon’s eyebrow raises beneath his mask as the little boy approaches shyly, his wide eyes fixated on you. Civilians, especially kids and women, usually avoid him like the plague whenever he’s out and about in public, looking like, well–himself.

“Hello there,” you coo at the toddler, crouching down to his level while Simon keeps as much distance as the leash allows him to, knowing better than to interfere. “Are you looking for your mama?” You ask attentively, ears twitching as you look past the boy, already searching for his parents.

The boy shakes his head with a big smile, rocking on his feet. “Nu-uh, she’s–”

“Noah!” The frantic voice of a woman calls out. “I told you to stay by–” Her eyes widen, steps faltering briefly as she catches sight of Simon, who has already anticipated the reaction, slumping his shoulders to try and make himself look smaller, less threatening.

“He’s okay,” you chime in swiftly, straightening up to be on eye-level with Noah’s mother. “We were about to help him look for you, madam,” you assure her, and the boy giggles when you ruffle his brown unruly curls briefly. “Isn’t that right, big man?”

The conversation fades into the background just like Simon’s whole presence seemingly does as you go on to hold a friendly and effortless conversation with the mother and her son. Meanwhile, Simon doesn’t quite remember the last time someone approached him so casually and jovially, and he gets lost in his own rotten mind with flashbacks of the past again–seeing the ghosts of Beth and Joseph in these strangers in front of him, and his heart is gripped by icy tendrils of grief and melancholy until your laugh breaks through the vision, pulling him back to reality at once.

“Oh, no worries! I’m sure it is strange to see someone like me in a quaint town like this,” you chuckle softly, giving a small wave with your hand while Simon’s pale lashes flutter as he tries to follow the conversation once more after what he’s missed. He notices how the toddler is giggling, petting and hugging your fluffy tail while you continue talking to his mum like it’s nothing unordinary. “But working for the military has brought me to the strangest places where hybrids are either a common occurrence or completely rare and more like a myth,” you explain patiently.

And the woman smiles coyly, already smitten with your charms. “Well, you certainly are a looker if I dare say so, miss.”

Once Alice, as she'd introduced herself, and Noah go about their own shopping, Simon catches the odd look on your face, something akin to sadness or longing hidden behind your smile, before you rapidly blink it away as a grumpy-looking elderly man approaches you, asking for help as if you'd know your way around while Simon groans internally, already despising all the attention.

You really do turn heads in a rather positive way if you manage to make the most grumpy old geezer smile in a heartbeat.

“You always this chipper?” He gruffs as he watches you add a pound of butter and coffee creamer to the overflowing basket, not that he'd care about that. You've been nothing but mindful of prices and proper nourishment while strolling through the aisles.

“Hm?” Simon snorts, in amusement this time. There's no way you didn't hear him; he saw your plush left ear swivel in his direction. “Ya heard me jus’ fine, lass.” He mutters, grabbing a box of his favourite biscuits as he walks past them and shoving them in between the other goodies, feeling like a child sneaking candy into their parent's shopping cart.

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckle, keeping your eyes trained on the shelves with different brands of toast before grabbing a packaged loaf. “I guess I am.” Then you stop, glancing up at him over your shoulder, and Simon nearly bumps into you. “You don't like people coming up to us to chat?”

Simon's brows furrow. Us? “They wanna talk you, not me. 'm basically–” He shrugs, making a vague gesture at himself as the leash clinks in his hand.

“A Ghost?” You quip, beaming at your little joke while your tail swishes proudly.

“Right,” Simon huffs quietly. “Smooth.”

He's rather thankful for his balaclava as he continues trotting after you through the store, hiding the tiniest crack of a smile underneath the black cloth.

There’s a match on the telly, an ice cold bottle of his favourite ale on the coffee table on a coaster he didn’t even know he owned, though all Simon can really focus on is this bizarre situation he finds himself watching as you go about doing your own thing in his kitchen.

It’s almost mesmerizing, the way you rummage through the cupboards and drawers, taking out pots and bowls to your liking as if you own the place already, preparing a side salad while the steaks sizzle in the pan–all while you’re wearing that frilly, pale pink apron that you’d fetched from your suitcase earlier, the one that makes Simon wonder if one of your previous handlers is responsible for your peculiar wardrobe, or if pink simply happens to be your favourite colour.

He takes an absentminded sip of his drink when another thought pops into his head: What if you wear all of this hyper-feminine bollocks because people forced you to like it? What if they manipulated you into enjoying stuff to state their own perverted fantasies? Would you rather wear something else?

And Simon imagines it briefly–you wearing something cosy, perhaps one of his hoodies that would most likely swallow you whole. He takes another swing of ale and his nose wrinkles, though it’s not the bitterness making him squinch.

“Dinner is ready in five,” you croon suddenly, popping your head into the living room from the kitchen as the savoury aroma of steak and chips wafts through the flat, engulfing the usually sparse space like a warm, comforting blanket.

With a soft groan and a cracking knee, Simon gets up from his seat on the couch. The least he can do is set the table.

@lucienofthelakes @kakashiislut @jggykhug09090 @edgarapoecolouredglasses @kerst666 @whos-fran @d1zzy-r1v3rs @userinaliel666 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @vmaxis @tessakate @dneicjefx @sushiumex @yourfavreggie @cmbghost @brokexintroverted @mysterygrl555 @bunnybeaches @fmlmf @teapartydreams @nachofriess @slut-lmao @sweetnanah @kodzukenwhore @thefutureastronaut @arael-asuka @oliver-1270

[mariasont]

DEAD FROM THE WAIST DOWN

you learned to seduce your way into being loved. hotch wants to teach you that you don't have to earn love at all.

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader warnings: oh hey where does one start! mentions of past emotional abuse, conditioned sexual behavior, sex as a coping mechanism (discussed), hypersexuality, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft!hotch, happy-ish ending wc: 2.8k

How many times can a man be caught off guard by the same kiss before it stops qualifying as a surprise and becomes a cherished inevitability? You would think Aaron would know by now. 

But no, every time your mouth finds his, it feels like the first time all over again.

He isn’t a romantic, he refuses to classify it in such cheesy terms. (You would passionately disagree).

Instead, he experiences it as pure revelation — how did I forget it could feel like this? Always velveteen and warm with whatever chapstick you’ve been nursing that day. Coconut. Mint. Honeyed vanilla.

Honeyed vanilla is your favorite. His too. It stains his mouth and hours later, he can still taste it. 

He knows where you keep it now. Back left pocket. You’re predictable that way. Only that way. Discovered by accident, though nothing with you ever feels accidental, the first time he came home after a week-long case and you collided into him at the door as though you had been counting seconds rather than days. 

His hand, settling on your ass like the gentlemen he is, had landed on it, the cylindrical outline concealed beneath skin-tight denim. Denim that, even in memory alone, manages to be both curse and benediction, fabric and flesh conspiring to remind him that distance was your shared adversary. One that was conquered with every bruising reunion of lips.

These particular kisses always arrive roughly as if anything less fervent wouldn’t be proof enough of his return. Always full-bodied. Always looking for more.

For a while, he reasoned it away. Novelty, perhaps. The combustible early-stage infatuation, still volatile, still prone to overcorrection. He assumed it would fade, mellow out with familiarity. Rossi called it the honeymoon phase. Said it every time Aaron showed up to work looking distinctly worse for wear in a manner wholly unrelated to the strain of work. Grinning like a bastard. And Aaron thought he wasn’t wrong.

But time failed to temper your hunger. If anything, it grew teeth. 

You meet him at the end of each day with hands that demand, with a body that knows exactly how to ask and what to take. And he lets you. Of course he lets you. He would be out of his mind not to. 

You are generous with your affection, in and out of the bedroom. You love him without filter, without edits. Love him even in the versions he hides. There are days he doesn’t know how to hold it. Doesn’t know where to put the parts of himself that still flinch under kindness.

He is a grateful man. He is a lucky man. But he is not yet certain he is a worthy one.

Your thumbs trace his jaw, and he knows, without needing to ask, that you can feel the strain habitually tucked beneath skin and bone.

Your mouth deepens the kiss before he’s ready to accommodate it, breath merging with breath in a single, faithful puff.

Mint today, he decides. The one with the cheap twist-top and that little green label peeling at the corner.

When oxygen reasserts itself as a necessity, he pulls back, lips ghosting yours, “Missed me, did you?”

“Don’t mock me,” you scold, taking advantage of the fractional distance to catch his lower lip between your teeth. “I really did. I think I started missing you before the door even closed.”

Your hands are moving to his belt, fingers tugging, pulling —

Christ.

His hands snap down to catch your wrists.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs,  "not tonight. I just — I can barely keep my eyes open."

You recoil so fast it disorients him, and before he can think, his hands are reaching out, fingers flexing toward the empty space.

“Oh, of course,” you say, eyes flitting away. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You must be exhausted.”

Your apology tastes bitter in his mouth. He’s never wanted you to equate exhaustion with rejection, least of all his. He opens his mouth to reassure you, to banish the needless guilt clouding your eyes, but you hurry forward, words tumbling as nervously as your fluttering hands toward the kitchen.

“I made dinner. It’s in the fridge. I mean, I wasn’t sure when you would be home, but it’s ready. I can heat it up right now. Unless you want to just go to bed — I could bring it to you —”

“Hey.” It’s more a plea than command. You freeze, a microsecond of stillness before your hand begins its descent toward the scrunched cotton of your long sleeve tee. He intercepts it, thumb charting the map of your skin from the blue-lit vein to bone to the center point where your hand opens. “That’s really sweet, honey. Thank you.”

"You're welcome." 

“But all I want right now,” Aaron continues, pulling your hand into the center of his chest, a chaste kiss sticking itself to your knuckles, “is for you to come to bed with me.” Then, because he knows you, he adds, “I’ll take what you made for lunch tomorrow. I don’t want it to waste.”

You nod and offer a smile. 

Usually, he loves that seeing that smile of yours, might even call it his favorite pastime, if he were prone to sentimentality.

It’s something he never tires of watching. The way it starts slow, then takes your whole face with it. It shows up in your crow’s feet first — creases he adores, even if you claim to hate them — and then folds into your cheeks until your skin swells too full to contain.

He especially loves your smile that appears when you’re trying not to show how good it feels when he calls you pretty girl. You always hide it behind his shirt, like fabric’s going to keep him from noticing how you preen under the praise. 

This one isn’t that.

It flickers at the corners of your mouth but never quite lands in your eyes. It’s a smile made for strangers. He knows better than to pretend it’s the same.

You’re already walking toward the bathroom before he can say anything, before he can figure out whether he even should. He watches as you go through the motions with the same grace you always have, but he notices the absence more than anything else. 

The things you don’t do.

Normally, you hover. You lean into him as you tug your shirt over your head, brush a kiss against the slope of his shoulder with that casual intimacy you wield like second nature. Sometimes you complain — half a yawn, half a grumble — about the late hour. And pout. And push for a kiss only to pretend you’re not pleased when he gives in.

Normally, you make noise through the quiet. You ask if he locked the front door, remind him the laundry’s still in the dryer. You hum while brushing your teeth. Curse when toothpaste hits your shirt. 

Normally, you’re all subtle magnetism, clinging in that sweetly unrepentant way of yours. When he sits to unbutton his shirt, you’re usually behind him, knees pressing into the mattress, chin of his shoulder, arms looping lazily around his waist. There’s always touch. A palm to the center of his back as you pass, a hand on his arm as you squeeze by.

Normally, you're unapologetic about needing him. Tonight, you move like a guest in your own home.

It’s intolerable. And when you’re both settled into bed for the night, Aaron reaches for you before he thinks better of it, palm flattening against your waist. He feels the shape of you through pajamas and pulls. He doesn’t stop until your chest curves into his chest, until the edge of your calves nudges his. 

"Come here." Aaron threads careful fingers through your hair, pausing at the tender juncture where your neck meets the base of your skull. "Baby,” he whispers, “tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes don’t leave yours, watching the brief flickers of vulnerability, the sparks of emotion you try to extinguish before they catch fire.

He notices the hesitant parting of your lips, opening as if to spin a half-hearted lie, only to close again once the truth gets too close to your teeth.

"I just... I wanted to be close to you."

Aaron’s brow knits, confusion and concern braided together in the crease above his eyes, arms tightening despite the fact that you’re already pressed against him like a second skin.

"You are close to me, sweetheart."

But even as he says it, he feels the flaw in his words. The way they miss the mark. He senses it in the way you chew at the inside of your cheek, how your shoulders stiffen beneath his fingertips.

Then softer, "Not like that."

"What —,"

But you're already shaking your head. "No, I — , it's not a big deal."

“Anything that involves you is a big deal to me.”

Your thumb moves, tracing circles into the fabric, slow rotations that quickly speed into tighter spirals, as if spinning faster might somehow organize your thoughts. You’ve always done this, reaching for some small, manageable action when the larger ones feel impossible to name. 

“It’s just… easier that way sometimes. To be close like that. Then I don’t have to wonder if we’re okay.”

The realization trickles into his consciousness slowly at first, then rushes in like water breaking through a dam.

He should’ve noticed sooner, how could he not have? 

Because this isn’t new. It’s not just a one-off need or tonight’s tension talking. You’ve always needed him like this. Skin on skin. Mouth on mouth. Your body pressed against his like you’re starving for confirmation. The way you undress him in the doorway. The way you straddle his lap and roll your hips like closeness could fix everything that feels unsteady. You depend on that closeness.

You come to him with your whole body. After long days. After fights. After even the smallest moments of silence that stretches too long. You find him like a blam, like if you don’t touch him, don’t take him, you’ll come apart at the seams. Kisses are never where you stop. You want all of him. Pinned beneath you. Deep inside you. As if that's the only way to believe he loves you.

He thought, for a long time, that it was just your appetite. A high sex drive. A natural tendency. He chalked it up to love language, to hormones, to heat. And he liked it, loved it, more than he was willing to admit at first. 

But this wasn’t just want. 

This was fear, bleeding out beneath your need, disguised as pleasure.

He’s supposed to be good at this, at reading people, parsing motive from movement. But somehow, he missed this.

Because somewhere along the line, someone taught you that love was transactional. That affection had to be purchased in pieces of yourself, repaid in skin and surrender. That if you didn’t offer yourself fully, you weren’t worth holding onto. And now here you are, still paying for what someone else stole from you.

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he feels sick.

His fists curl before he knows it, nails digging into his palms. His jaw locks tight. Because if the person who planted such a belief were here — if he could see the face of whoever made you believe you had to fuck your way into being loved — he wouldn’t blink. It wouldn’t matter what badge he wore. What oaths he swore. He would make sure they never touched anyone again.

“Is that what it feels like when I say no?” He doesn’t ask it accusingly. “Like we’re not okay?”

“I know it sounds dumb. I just —”

“Hey. It’s not dumb.” He pauses, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It makes more sense.”

“It does?”

“Of course it does. You want something that confirms what words sometimes don’t. I get that. I do.” He swallows hard. “But I don’t want you to feel like we’re only okay when we’re in bed.”

“I know. I just… I don’t know how to stop.” 

There’s something else sitting in your mouth, he can see it. A confession, maybe. Or just a few loose scraps of thought you haven’t stitched together yet.

“It’s okay.” He offers up an open door.

Your eyes flick down, then up again, and finally you nod in concession. He can’t tell if you believe him. That it’s okay to be honest with him.

“I spent a long time thinking touch was the only thing I had to offer. That if I wasn’t beautiful or willing or available I didn’t have value.” You say it slowly, like you’re afraid of saying it aloud. “It’s not something I think about. Not consciously. I just… feel the silence, or the tiredness, or I can’t read you… and suddenly I’m scrambling. Trying to stop it. Trying to keep from being… dismissed, I guess. And I know you’re not… him. I know that. But sometimes my body forgets.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“So I kiss you. I touch you. I try to make myself irresistible so I don’t have to ask if I’m still wanted. Because I don’t know how to ask without feeling pathetic.”

He watches as you hold back the tears fighting to stake claim on your lower lash line.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you love me,” you add. “It’s that I don’t know how to feel safe unless I can see it. And I hate that. I hate that I’m still wired for panic every time you flinch or look away or —”

Your voice catches. Whatever you were about to say fractures somewhere in your throat and never quite makes it to sound.

He doesn’t reach for you despite every neuron firing in his brain that begs for the opposite. It feels wrong, somehow, to respond with touch when you just confessed how often it’s been your only way of being heard.

So he stays still, watches the curve of your shoulder rise and fall under the slow drag of breath. Watches your gaze veer just left of his face, like you’re already bracing for disbelief, or worse, kindness that feels like pity.

You exhale instead then close your eyes.  “I don’t want you to feel obligated to fix this. I’m not trying to unload it on you. I just… I want you to know why I act like I do sometimes. It’s not mistrust. It’s old wiring. And I’m trying.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Not because he doesn’t have something to say. He does. A thousand things, actually. Some sharp, some soft.

But you’ve just peeled your chest open with surgical precision, laid the whole bloody, tender mess of it in his lap, and the last thing he’s going to do is rush to stitch it shut with half-baked reassurance.

You shift, maybe reflexively, but you still don’t meet his eyes. So he softens. Adjusts. Meets you halfway.

“I don’t think it’s pathetic. I don’t think you’re broken. I think your nervous system is doing exactly what it was trained to do, sound the alarm at the first sign of disconnection. Fight to restore the bond before it can disappear.” His breath hitches, just enough to break through the formality of it. “But you don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to fill the silence. You don’t have to seduce me into staying. If I pull away, I need you to know I’m not punishing you. I’m not… evaluating you. Sometimes I’m tired. Or quiet. Or somewhere else in my own head. But I’m not leaving. I’m not rescinding anything.”

Finally, his hand brushes gently — gently — over your arm.

“You don’t have to perform love here. Not with me. You get to just… have it. As it is. As you are.” He studies you. “I know you can’t unlearn it overnight. I don’t expect you to. But I’d rather you come to me scared and uncertain than go silent and spiral. Let me be the one who doesn’t make you pay for needing reassurance.”

And then, only then, his voice drops, hoarser. 

“I don’t want to be another place you have to earn safety. I want to be the proof you don’t.”

He doesn’t know if the words land. Not fully. He thinks you heard him. Thinks you wanted to believe them. But that’s different from knowing. So he doesn’t say anything else, just lets you throw his arms around neck and press your cheek into his shirt.

He feels the heat of tears soaking into his shirt. He kisses your forehead first, then your hair, whispers something that neither of you really needs to understand.

And even though he’s running on fumes, he stays awake until your breathing slows. Until he’s sure you’re asleep.

Because if you’re going to believe him, really believe him, it won’t be because of what of what he says, but what he does.

It hits him between your third or fourth breath against his chest that this was the first time you didn’t try to apologize with your body after a difficult conversation. Just warmth. Trust. Skin on skin because you want to be held, not because you’re trying to keep him from vanishing. It’s small. But to him, it’s the most profound shift in the world. 

And in the weeks that follow, he sees it again. The way you kiss him and then stop as if you trust he’ll kiss you back. 

It doesn’t happen all at once. You still hesitate when he says no. Still freeze up on the bad nights. 

But you don’t crumble anymore. You pause.

You pause and sometimes your hands shake, but you reach for him anyway.

And every time, he meets you halfway.

a/n: this sat half-finished in my drafts for soooo long because i wasn't sure i could land it, emotionally or otherwise. and i felt like it's one of those things that feels like it says more about me than i probably mean it to. if u see urself in this as well, hi. i hope it makes u feel a little less weird for the things u need, or the ways you've learned to ask for love that doesn't always make sense out loud

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[urauntiefaye]

Yuuhh, I’m back with some more thoughts !!

But first of all, hope ur doing great boo 🤍🤍. And now onto my thoughts, what do u think about &team and their partner who’s ovulating? Like it’s soo extreme that their dicks is just constantly inside of them, AKA ✨multiple rounds✨

-🍧

&Team When Their Partner is Ovulating 🔞

WC: 792 

TW: Smut, Ovulating, AFAB reader, Bullying in Makis, oral in Taki and Jos. not proof read, let me know if I forgot anything!

A/N: Welcome back~ and I'm doing great! How are you?! But yes I love this request so much! Also some are a little bit longer than others even though this isn’t the longest work I’ve done. 

Kei- 

When Kei finds out your ovulating…good.fucking.luck bro-, Kei is allllll over you when he finds out you’re ovulating. Pinning you up against the wall, the kitchen counters, the dining room chairs, on the table, on the coach ANYWHERE he will be fucking you no matter what. Just pinning you down and degrading you for being so needy, asking you what you would do without him UGH.  

Fuma- 

Sooo loving and lowkey already knew it was coming, he secretly has a period tracker on his app to keep up with you. He also just knows what the signs are and when he picks up that you’re going through your ovulating period he will take advantage of it girly pop. He’s cumming into you so much that you won’t be able to help but to get pregnant. If you end up getting your period afterwards? That’s okay, he still has next time. During the entire time his dick is in you 24/7 though, if he’s at work and you need him, he’s either coming up with an excuse to leave early, or he’s calling you while running to the bathroom. 

Nicholas- 

Good luck babes. Nicholas LOVES when you’re ovulating because of how needy you are. Just always clinging to him, now he will tease to no END. You ovulating is easy teasing material. He loves when you ride him during these moments, because you just show how much you love and need him. Plus it gives you the opportunity to go as long as you want and as fast and hard as you want. 

Euijoo- 

Is concerned at first, because how the fuck are you STILL horny after going at it for an hour. He wants to help you but please, baby needs a moment of rest to catch his breath. You’ll probably end up riding him, but unlike Nico it’s because Euijoo gets tired but still wants to please you. He’s probably passing out in a deep slumber afterwards, so you either have to wait till the next morning for aftercare or you’re going to have to perform aftercare yourself.

Yuma- 

It’s his favorite time of the month. I’m not even joking guys, Yuma is another motherfucker that has a period tracker on his phone. So when he gets notification that your ovulating period is about to start he’s ON IT. Hands on you at all hours of the day. Won’t let you rest, because he thinks you need just one more orgasm(he’s said this for the past three times btws). 

Jo- 

Another one who is concerned but not for you but for him. He doesn’t think he can keep up with you and your horny levels. He tries though, but sometimes his dick gets sore and sensitive so he opts to eating you out or fingering you. He’ll fuck you again don’t worry, you just have to give his poor cock a break babes. 

Harua- 

Didn’t know that girls pretty much go through heat each month, he knew about periods but the concept of you also having a moment where you’re just horny all the time just didn’t cross his mind. So when you’re on your knees clinging to him practically drooling over him he is CONFUSED, but he doesn’t mind. He won’t ever tell you but he wants you to be like this all the time. He is so down to fucking you for how many times and for how long you need. 

Taki- 

It’s also his favorite time of the month. Taki in my opinion is hypersexual, so the fact that you have moments where your sex drive fucking spikes UGh he loves it a little too much if you ask me. If he’s not fucking you he’s inbetween your legs lapping at your needy cunt because he can honestly eat you out and fuck you for hours on end. Don’t test him. And if you’re shy about it? Pfft don’t be he needs this, he wants this, don’t be shy just lay down and let him take care of you. 

Maki- 

Bullies you…okay hear me out, he doesn’t mind it and he will help you out. In fact he loves when you’re ovulating because that means more sex. But he does call you a “needy little slut” “whore for his attention” and when you come up to him being all needy he acts dramatic like “your horny AGAIN? How many times has it been today? You’re like a little hormone monster”. Which makes you pout and be like “never mind, I’ll just go get myself off”, to which he will stop you and pull you onto his lap telling you he was just kidding and that he doesn’t mind helping out his little needy slut.

[syntheticsymp]

Ok, hear me out,

Nikto with erectile dysfunction

Living with Acute Disassociative Disorder and severe PTSD makes him feel completely disconnected from his body, making it hard for him to control. And the amount of medication he has to take just to stay somewhat sane has to have some negative side effects.

It doesn’t matter what porn Krueger sneaks in or the pretty girl Nikto imagines while palming his cock because it always ends the same. With no relief. Softening before he can finish.

It’s a huge blow to his pride. Nikto’s violent, practically a killing machine, yet can’t get his own cock to work properly.

But it was fine. At least he wasn’t hypersexual like Krueger or desperate like Konig.Besides, he couldn’t care less about sex. Relationships like that were hard when he felt like a ghost haunting his own body.

However, he could only tell himself it was fine until you started dating you. Well, less ‘dating’ and more ‘deciding you were his,’ but it was the same in his cold, dead eyes.

Looking at you like this, after teasing you for the better part of the hour, he could be more ready to take what was his. You were laid out infront of him, hands bound and whimpering. His cock was painfully hard as he fished it out of his loose boxers.

With a cruel precision, he lined himself up. One thrust was all he needed, and god, he couldn’t wait. He pressed a harsh kiss to your stomach, his scarred lips bruising your stomach.

You cried out as he pressed in, then pulled out almost immediately.

“дерьмо, дерьмо, дерьмо!” He muttered, stuffing himself back in his pants.

Your teary eyes opened. He had stopped. That… that wasn’t like him. He never cared about your feelings, he just did what he wanted. You managed to prop yourself up by your elbows, wrists still tied.

“Nikto?” You called to him, fearing that he was having another episode. You squeezed your thighs shut to stop the dull buzzing, and this time, he didn’t stop you.

He hissed, pulling back, anger plastered across his face. You couldn’t yet see what was wrong.

He ignored you, opting to sit on the edge of the bed facing away from you. You didn’t speak after that. It would make him upset if you did. His temper was as delicate as the mine fields he has run across.

Instead, you sat up. You pressed your chest against his back. The cloth of his shirt was rough, a dark blue, standard KorTac shirt. Even if he stripped you bare, he refused to allow himself the same vulnerability. You leaned forward, letting your cheek rest against the back of his neck and hugging your arms around his torso as best you could with the handcuffs intact. Your fingertips couldn’t touch with how wide he was.

The two of you stayed like that for a long moment. He didn’t say anything, so you assumed you were doing something right. It takes him a long time to snap back to reality, and your arms were growing tired.

“…We wanted to fuck you tonight.” The vulgar words sounded so strange coming from a rough, sad voice. He was genuinely upset.

That’s when it clicked. If he wanted to fuck you, he would have. There must have physically been something stopping him.

“I know,” you replied simply. It was such a dumb thing to comfort your kidnapper turned Stockholm Syndrome partner over. Perhaps being with him for so long truly did drive you mad. “We can try again, some other time, if you’d like.”

The offer sounded so innocent for what it truly was.

It wasn’t enough to completely melt away his insecurities, but he took one of your hands in his. He played with your fingers, until he squeezed too hard and you attempted to pull back, only for him to catch the chains around your wrists he had tied on.

“Yes. We will,” he said firmly, his eyes finally flitting to yours. “You are ours. It is only a matter of time until we will be official.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, voice soft. “Official.” The word stung the back of your throat. To him, dumping his seed inside you was practically a marriage proposal. You were hardly his girlfriend, just a toy, you weren’t prepared for whatever being his wife entailed.

“Then, we will fuck you until you cannot move. That way, you cannot leave.” He spoke like a serial killer planning their next kill. “We can do it, we are very young.”

Pure fear compelled you to speak. “But, I need to be able to walk.” Maybe he’s think it was a joke. You hoped he did.

“We are strong. We can carry you.”

You grimaced. He must have picked up on your expression. Just like when he first brought you here, he wasn’t convinced of your words. He had tortured enough people at work to know when someone was upset, though quite frankly, he couldn’t care less about someone’s feelings.

With a sharp tug to the handcuffs leaving bruises on your skin, he pulled you closer.

“Are you thinking bad thoughts again, Роза?” He flicked your forehead. “We’d be happy to remove them for you.”

A threat. He was far more direct with his feelings than you were.

You shook your head, not interested in whatever make-shift lobotomy he had in store. “No, no bad thoughts.” You steeled your nerves as you continued, “I’m just thinking about you.”

That seemed to please him, at least. He twisted his fingers around your binds, leaving little space between the two of you.

“Я не уйду,” he said the phrase he told you over and over, eyes narrowed. “Say it.”

The very words that slowly melted you from the inside out. That he made you repeat so many times that you didn’t know anything other than the Russian he was teaching you. The final straw that sealed your fate long ago.

He told you the words meant ‘I love you.’ You weren’t so sure he was telling you the truth.

“Я не уйду.”

He laughed, the noise devoid of joy, gave you a rough pat on the head as a show of appreciation, then laid down in bed, bringing you down with him, not caring enough to undo your binds. The feeling of his flaccid cock pressed against your ass was a sharp reminder of what was yet to come. You doubted you could hold him off forever.

[tac-the-unseen]

Hey can you write some actually traumatized Simon Riley x reader Headcannons?

It kind of annoys me that so many people just sexualize him without addressing the actual trauma he went through for two years and beyond.

So I guess I'm really just asking for a non- hypersexual Simon x reader XD

Non-hypersexual Simon Riley x Reader 

CW: Trauma

•It would take years for Simon to let you get close to him

•And it would have to be you to ask him out because he sure as shit won't ask first 

•When you guys do start dating he wants to go over boundaries immediately 

•He doesn't want to set you up for failure so he wouldn't even consider a relationship until you've had this talk

•It’s a really hard talk for him to start and go through but he does it because he has to. He doesn't want you to accidentally trigger him or for you to get your feelings hurt

•He really does like you, and that's why he pushes through 

•The first thing he tells you is that he is in no way, shape, or form ready for a sexual relationship 

•He explains that he doesn't know how long it will take for him to be ready, but it will be at least a few months 

•Simon understands if that's a deal breaker for you, in this world he knows that sex is more Important in relationships then most people would like to admit 

•When you assure him that it's more then fine and you're willing to wait he lets out a very shaky breath neither of you know he owes holding in

•He goes through more boundaries with you with much cooler nerves 

-PDA to a minimum (an old therapist was killed because Simon was her patient. He's not letting someone who actually cares about be murder because you wanted to hold hands) 

-Make your presence known before you touch him, especially from behind (this is man who has seen war, if you run up and hug him without warning you will be thrown to the ground)

-Don’t pressure him to tell you ‘stories’ (with two years of torture, years in the military, and an abusive childhood there is so much he isn't willing to tell you or anyone)

-Don't talk about intimate details with others (If he wanted to tell them, he would do it himself.)

-He will leave if anybody starts talking politics (even if it's stuff he agrees with, he’s not going to waste his time like that. He has to talk about that at work all the time and he will not do it at home.)

•It takes a while for him to feel comfortable sleeping in the same bed with someone else

•He's paranoid. He stays awake thinking that someone might try and attack you two in your sleep

•Simon has to sleep with at LEAST a knife in his pocket to be able to soothe himself long enough to catch a few zzz

•Night terrors are a common occurrence

•There are several nights where you wake up to find yourself alone in bed

•Simon will pace around the house, making sure blinds are closed, doors are locked, and no one is in the house. Even then he will sit on a chair, armed, and simply wait for something that's not so unlikely to come.

•Asks you to limit and delete some of your social media posts. No one should know where you live other than close family and friends. He will scroll through all of your accounts and tell you why they may or may not be security risks.

•Simon does have social media accounts. they are just burner accounts he uses to keep up to date with the news and big events. 

•Simon knows that what he's doing can be seen as controlling and he understands if your family and friends don’t like him, but he’s terrified someone will gather all this information and kill you because you couldn't be safe online. 

•Asks if you’re willing to sign up for self defence classes and if you’d be willing to let him teach you basic and more advanced skills.

•Will show you where exactly to stab someone so that they can’t scream

•Pressure points and how to use them to your advantage

•He will show you how to use a gun,knife, Brass knuckles, and (if he can find somewhere that will let him) bombs

•Will tell 141 about you and they also look out for

Thanks for reading

[lullabyalikpoptarot]

Jeon Jungkook Perspective Reading

Disclaimer: No facts here, just a messenger of the cards and my interpretation of what I get.

Now, on to the next member of BTS for this reading. His energy can be a bit messy for me, so let's see if we go deeper into who he is. So, the song he gave me was Goriila by Bruno Mars, that is a pretty sexual song, so I was like, nah, give me something deeper and got Sexy Back by Justin Timberlake and Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye and gave up. Dude likes sex, just saying it and the sexual appeal, but he may also enjoy the intimacy of it with a romantic partner. He may not just be into sex with anyone, maybe with his particular person, anyway, let's see if we get something more in the cards.

Ugh, I am not liking what I am getting here, crap. So, we start with Temple of My body, this is giving me sexualized energy. Now, we know how sexualized he is, but do we know how sexualized, if you catch my drift. I can't move past the first card, because I am creeped out by this energy. I hate that I am getting this energy. Ya'll I want to cry, anyway, I really don't want to beat around the bush with this one. I am so scared to say this, but I just keep hearing Justin Bieber in my head if you know his story, then you know. Now, he is a fan of him, but I don't think that is why his name keeps popping up. The Temple of my Body card has the number 2, which reminds me of the 2 of Wands and I am getting sexual favors from that. Now, with the next card triumph of lies, lies wins over, everything around him is a lie, or they sell a story about him, or they sell him lies. Now, with the Sacrifice card, I mean, hello, sacrifice, being a sacrifice. Or having to sacrifice himself. With Black Flower Fragrance, he is hardened, this may have led him to dark places or opened up a void and darkness in him. I am sorry, but this is pissing me off. I really hate what I am getting, and I hope to god, I am wrong here. This could explain his messy ass energy. His story reminds me of Justin Bieber legit, it is his story all over again. I hate that these readings goes how I expect it to go. I knew I was in trouble when that first card came out. Anyway, this could also be a reason for his sexual nature, victims tend to be hypersexual. Allegedly, no facts here. But I call it how I see; I am not sugarcoating anything. Okay, I need to pull out the Conscious healing deck, because he needs healing energy.

Okay, what I am getting is there is patterns, cycles, maybe coping strategies that he may need to release. I see the circle on this one card, and I see things spiraling or a continuous loop for him, a lack of conclusion for him. I mean, I totally get it, very hard to heal from things like that, and face it. If that is what he went through. But this is telling him he needs to move forward. There is a lack of confidence he does have, a sense he isn't good enough or worthy. He may just see himself as a pretty face, or sexy body, that is all people may want for him, so he may see himself as that. He may feel people may not care about what he thinks, and by people, I mean the higher powers. People in control. This makes me sad. It seems there is a bubble, a protective shield he has built, which makes sense, so he makes it hard for people to come close to him, which once again, makes sense. It is like he built a safety net for himself. He should work on clearing away anything in his life he doesn't need, be it people, things, habits or situations. I am looking at this card and what I feel he should do is go on some retreat, in nature, away from all the bullshit and business of his life, that is what he needs, now would he get that, probably not, he makes too much money for these clowns for them to let him do that, but I feel that can help him heal.

So, what I find interesting is that he got similar cards to Wonyoung with this deck, who may have experienced things similar to him, so that intrigues me. These cards are saying that he can rise above whatever has happened if he allows kindness in. If he can allow himself to connect with his spirituality and tap into his feminine energy. To allow his creativity and passion to drive him in a positive direction. There is an opportunity for him to find love and a happy ending if he allows someone in. There is growth and abundance for him. He should work on communicating from the heart and show love towards himself and others. There is abundance for him. It could be an abundance of love, happiness, or success, whatever that could mean for him.

I feel these cards here are telling him to connect with his spirituality. I feel connecting with a higher power would be significant/beneficial for him. He would need to do some introspection and reflection and also learn to allow his intuition to guide him more and learn to listen to it, but there is this guard he has, this hostile energy, vengeful, aggressive energy he holds on to. He feels he needs to be on defense. To protect himself. All understandable, but it does halt him from healing. There is still anger and frustration within him. He should work on healing his heart, being more emotionally open and to not be too in his head and too analytical. I feel this is regards to his relationships. There could be opportunities for love with him, but he tends to overanalyze things and things don't move forward.

There is this need for him to find himself, to love and accept himself. But there is a need for closure for him to be able to find that peace within him. When he is able to find that closure and to close that chapter. He will be able to find strength. To gain his power back. This is a time for him to transform himself. To become a better version of himself. To break out of the cocoon they created for him. There is a lot of stress and tension built within him. He may need to practice breath work to help him through this process. There is this need for him to control others, the narrative, this may be in relationships. As he may not have much control in other matters of his life, or even body. He may need the control in his relationships to balance that. But that creates problems in his relationships. I can see him being clingy as well, and that can be a problem as well.

Alright, let's finalize this with Tarot. Interest combo of cards, so these cards give me an indication of someone speaking out and wanting to make changes, so he may do that. He may speak out about the struggles of the industry. With the Queen of Swords, he tends to be good at detaching from his emotions, people can do that once traumatized, but some people are just this way. I am just getting from this card and the King of Wands, is sharing information, speaking up, not sure where this is coming from, or if he will, but his energy wants to share, to speak to the masses and share his story. Not sure, he would tell the full story though. I am just getting there could be something he says that may change things. He is the type that wants to confront things and create some sort of movement. But he is also bold and willing to face any challenges that come his way. Loving this ending energy. Now, he does have this energy, but these cards could indicate it is something he should do, but may not do, because there are insecurities that may hold him back.

Okay, why I love these reading is because it helps me understand the idol so much more, but the first part was difficult as it always tends to be. But he comes off as a bad ass in the end. It just gives me more of an understanding to why they behave the way they do in my shorter readings.

[nmakii]

TILL I RUN DRY!

— alastor x hypersexual ace!reader

— warning: gn!reader (i wrote with fem in mind) sex, hyper-sexuality, intrusive thoughts, abuse, sexualization, body dysmorphia, implied ed (anorexia), self-harm

unapologetically me x alastor bc were married! and um we like to hold hands sooo like deal w it 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️ kinda messy hc list too. sfter writing the tw list im worried for myself sheeshhh

he honestly at first did not quite like you. his only experience with hypersexuality has been with angel dust. and, that has been uncomfortable to say the least.

though he starts seeing that behind that mask, you’re hiding something. as a man who hides his intentions most of the time, he can tell you’re covering some part of yourself up. and when you finally let down that mask of yours, whether by accident or on purpose, alastor finds it confusing.

alastor’s original understanding of hypersexuality had been that they were nymphomaniacs who always desired sex. he was confused with your identity, “hypersexual asexual”. it was an oxymoron!

but, now that he’s developed a bond with you, he’s starting understand that there was… some difference between drive and attraction. the line is still a bit faint to him.

now that alastor has gotten to know you better, he starts to see that both of you are fairly similar, at least when it comes to the lack of sexual attraction. and now that he knows you act this way for a reason, he doesn’t shame you like he does with angel dust. (not that angel isn’t valid, alastor just doesn’t wish to talk to him) and after learning that these sexual remarks of your’s are compulsive, he tries to tolerate them to the best of his abilities.

whenever you have these hypersexual episodes and start to cope, alastor doesn’t prefer to ‘help’ you. he’ll leave you to your own devices until it’s over. but, he’s perfectly fine cleaning you up. whether it be setting up a bath, or bandaging a scar. he doesn’t intend on stopping you since… he doesn’t exactly know how to. all that he does know is how to comfort you after they happen.

he’d feel sympathetic if you started feeling disgusted with yourself after an episode. he generally also feels sympathetic for you if the trauma that had wired your mind like this had been inflicted by older men, or someone you thought was your friend.

sometimes, when it’s late into the day, alastor’ll catch you bedrotting because you feel disgusted with yourself. he doesn’t say anything though, because if he did, it’d be a lie. if you noticed it and got upset, alastor would probably say something along the lines of “yes, i won’t deny that you’re a bit… twisted in the head, dear. but, i’ll still be here for you. you’re quite dear to me, i wouldn’t just leave you!”

he’s often confused when you wear revealing clothing and try to sexualize yourself whilst not even wanting to have sex. and, when you say that you’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re pretty enough to sexualize, he’s speechless to say the least. he’s never met someone like you before, nor does he tend to even try to help.

there are times alastor finds you staring in the mirror and observing your body. he can tell in your eyes that you’re judging your figure on how appealing it is, and that you’re thinking of how to make yourself look ‘better’. and to distract your thoughts, he hugs you from behind, and puts all the attention on him. he’d say something like “what ever are you doing, sweetheart? i can’t deny how gorgeous you are, but you’ll go crosseyed if you keep staring like that!”

and knowing you, judging your figure would probably lead to something like starving yourself. so, he observes how much you eat, and tries to encourage you to eat more.

alastor would still get incredibly uncomfortable if you started forcing yourself onto him and trying to seduce him. he doesn’t want to do that, but he wouldn’t want to hurt your fragile state either. when he denies you, he can see that you get upset. so, he explains that he wouldn’t want to take advantage of you like other unruly men have before, and that it doesn’t have anything to do with how attractive you are.

he’d also get a bit irritated during these dramatic moments of yours where you push everyone away. you start to get much more depressed during these moments, and he can’t help wondering about your well-being. it doesn’t matter if you’re pushing him away, he’s still lurking somewhere in the shadows to make sure you’re safe.

if you ever got close enough to alastor to confess the darker parts of your hypersexuality, like a need to be abused to feel loved, he’d feel sick to his stomach. why on earth would you want such a thing? to feel as if you’re attractive? he’d let you confess these thoughts to him, you’re trusting him with a dark part of yourself after all. but, if you were to seek it out in real life, he’d absolutely stop you. he’d never realistically allow you to get hurt while he’s still with you.

he finds it you to be a very unfortunate individual. he still tries to be there for you when he can, even if it made him mildly uncomfortable.

[licncourt]

What made you decide to include a more incestuous vibe between Louis and Paul?

It was so well done and chilling, I would love to hear your reasoning!

Thank you, I’m glad you think so! I know it’s a very sensitive topic so I really did my best with it!

I don’t think there’s necessarily anything completely explicit in the book about this dynamic, BUT there are a couple things that always catch my attention. The first one is how much Louis seems to idealize Paul, like he’s talking about an angel in a dream more than his little brother. It seems like he’s almost detached from reality in how much of a pedestal he puts this boy on, waxing poetic and showering him with extravagant gifts.

Then we see how dependent he is on Paul, a mentally ill 15 year old, for his emotional regulation, moral guidance, comfort and support, approval, and everything basically. At the very least, their dynamic is becoming toxic and emotionally incestuous as Paul gets older. It seems like he’s using Paul to fill all the voids in his life which is not healthy for anyone, but especially considering their age gap and mental states. Not to mention how unglued he comes after Paul’s death, because it’s not just normal grieving or even plain guilty grieving.

He also describes Paul very strangely for a brother, emphasizing his physical beauty and radiance repeatedly, especially traits that we know he’s attracted to (blonde hair, blue eyes, boyish looks) because he brings them up again in regards to his relationship with Lestat. I can’t remember if this is from later canon or the Tulane exhibit drafts, but Louis even states explicitly that Lestat immediately reminded him of Paul. Kind of a strange person to compare the man you desire carnally more than anyone in the world to.

I should say that I don’t see it as “organic” attraction in the sense that he’s just full on attracted to his teenage brother, but more a culmination of a lot of different issues in his life. He’s mentally ill, incredibly lonely with no end in sight, gay and struggling with the knowledge that he’ll never have a romantic or sexual partner that he’s attracted to, physically and mentally isolated, probably already abusing alcohol based on his comments in the book, consumed by religion/religious guilt and repression, deeply horny with no outlet that doesn’t make him suicidal, and the obvious black sheep among his siblings, especially compared to Paul who is impossible to live up to.

When I imagine the situation, I see Louis as someone who is simply cracking under his circumstances. He’s already prone to toxic thought patterns, is pretty hypersexual but can’t even masturbate without hating himself, he’s probably an addict already or getting there, and he has this “perfect” brother who he could only dream of being like who is so beautiful and so loved and so Good that his idolization takes a dark turn. The only person who seems to really love Louis innocently and with no understanding of his darkness is Paul, so he’s clinging to that relationship and idealizing it in his mind, making Paul the target of all this reliance and intense emotion from resentment to excruciating loneliness to romanticized obsession to desperation to BE him until it gets all wrapped up in lust and jealousy and love and violence.

I also think it provides an interesting narrative link to Claudia’s later sexual fixation on Louis, this time with Louis being the unwilling recipient of the attention but from someone who also shares Paul’s physical traits along with his youth. It’s like the universe is taunting him with the concept itself. It’s all very classic Gothic horror and I find it incredibly interesting.

[damnfandomproblems]

I would like to point out for problem 8774….

Honestly, I feel like the same could be said about *hypersexuality* in an SA victim character.

Like, I worry that if the character acts sexual at all, some people will consider it a trauma response of hypersexuality instead of… you know…. An SA victim who is in a comfortable enough stage of their recovery to do sexual acts again. People DO recover from SA, and the trauma that comes with it.

(And don’t come at me saying ‘no they don’t it stays with you forever’ because I am also an SA victim. It gets better. Your body will feel like yours again, and sex will no longer be solely a reminder of what you went through.)

It’s a double-edged sword, sometimes. When people become more educated about trauma, they learn the terms. Sometimes they apply the terms correctly, sometimes they don’t. (‘Gaslighting’, anybody?) I feel like ‘hypersexuality’ will become one of those terms that catches on, and gets *over*used. And it’s going to be applied to fictional characters that can’t speak for themselves most of all. How can a SA victim correct somebody on how their - *the victim,* that is - views on sex, if said person doesn’t exist?

Posting as a response to a previous problem.

[michanvalentine]

Today I’m comparing two characters from completely different works: Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3 and Angel Dust from Hazbin Hotel. But let’s start from the beginning—otherwise, it wouldn’t be me; I need to be long-winded!

The images are not mine but belong to their respective authors.

If there's one thing I've realized, it's that I need to change friends—because my best friends clearly don't love me and keep recommending things to watch or play that inevitably end up consuming me. Anyway. Lately I watched the Hazbin Hotel series—of course, late as usual, because I must be living up the ass of a constipated ostrich, never coming out, totally unaware of what's going on in the world… or maybe I wish that were the case. The truth is, real life eats up all my time and my responsibilities are always looming over me. I just want to spend more time on my PC, my PlayStation, and on Netflix! Bwaaaaaaaahhh!!!

Okay, I could throw a tantrum and whine forever, but I'm getting off track. I discovered this series and now I’m listening to its songs on loop.

When I started watching it, I knew nothing. I wasn’t expecting the musical numbers, or the jokes to be that crude, or that I’d end up laughing like an idiot—or loving almost every character that much. Of course, I didn’t expect some of the characters—though not all—to be anthropomorphic animals with such an appealing art style, nor did I expect a series that looks comedic on the surface to tackle heavy themes like rape and abuse. So, after several episodes of just smirking, I’d end up crying… and wanting to kill Valentino’s character. Angel Dust is both a self-imposed and inevitable tragedy, to such a degree it breaks my heart. I love him for exactly who he is.

As Husk would say, he’s a hopeless loser—but honestly, that’s perfectly fine by me.

The thing is, while I was watching Angel’s suffering (and I had no prior information about him beyond the Prime series and the two videos I only found afterward on YouTube—namely, the self-produced pilot by the creator and the Addicted video), I couldn’t help but notice all the elements that make this character so similar to Astarion from Baldur’s Gate.

They’re both queer men. They are both proud of their appearance. They both have a wicked master who literally owns them. They’re both treated like objects and sexually exploited. They both wear a mask of seduction and constantly flirt, flaunting their hypersexuality. They’re both physically and psychologically abused by their tormentors.

In Astarion’s case, it’s the magical compulsion of his vampire lord that breaks his will; for Angel, it’s drugs and the intoxicating fumes of his producer and infernal Overlord.

Both characters are looked down upon and stripped of their credibility as victims. One is a vampire spawn, a monster who deserves nothing but a stake through the heart. The other is a whore and a junkie—he must like it, or he was asking for it.

Both are disillusioned—with the world, with themselves—and hide their vulnerability behind smiles and jokes, concealing how deeply broken they truly are. Both are desperately searching for freedom, for identity… at least until they meet the right people and catch a glimpse of hope.

And funnily enough, they also share the way their relationship with the main character begins: for both of them, it starts as a matter of convenience—and only later does it grow into something real.

What probably sets them apart the most is their level of resignation. Astarion is decidedly more defiant and determined in pursuing his freedom, even at the cost of becoming the tyrant himself—the one who holds the power to bend others to his will. Angel, on the other hand, is more overwhelmed—by himself, by the drugs, by Valentino. But that’s precisely what makes it beautiful: because even though both believe redemption is impossible (“I can’t be what you see in me,” says Astarion; “You’re never gonna redeem a demon like me,” says Angel), deep inside them, hope still burns. And there’s so much more strength and virtue than anyone would ever imagine. Certainly more than those who look down on them or those who abuse them without mercy.

Honestly, I really wasn’t expecting such a hard-hitting and raw blow like the fourth episode of Hazbin Hotel. The scene where Valentino beats Angel and threatens him is truly intense. And the video with the song Poison… a masterpiece. The song and the music guide you, scene after scene, sliding down just like poison, while the images of fiction—the film reel—blend and blur with the more painful ones of real violence: raw, terrible, and all too real.

It shows how Angel has become trapped in it, almost addicted. How he’s become the actor of his own tragedy.

At this point, I encourage anyone who hasn’t played Baldur’s Gate 3 to give it a try—and those who haven’t seen Hazbin Hotel to go check out the series. Lol. I’m doing exactly what I blame my friends for: recommending new obsessions! Go forth and dive into media!

Below I’m leaving the video for Poison, because I really like the song.

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: There are depictions of sexual assault and violence. Please be advised and prepare yourself before watching.

[mmmichyyy]

🌸 gallavich fic rec list 🌸

welcome to my 2023 fic rec list! i went through my ao3 bookmarks and my tumblr tags from this year so here's some (not all, or else this post would go on forever) of my fave (new & older) one-shots, completed multi-chaps, wips & ficlets <3

make sure to check out my 2021 list & my 2022 list ! since i'm not going to include fics i've mentioned before in this year's list :)

& don't forget to check out @gallavichfanficlibrary @gallavich-fic-club @gallavichthings @thegallavault for more recs plus @galladrabbles & @gallavichmeta too ✨ let's go!

one-shots:

doesn't matter where we go by @heymacy (The boys take a road trip.)

to think that we could stay the same by teatrolley (post-breakup au, but Mickey gets out of prison, Caleb doesn't exist, and we get really into their past and Ian’s (struggling) head)

of going home by @lalazeewrites (Valiant has taken the greatest fall from grace the superhero world has witnessed in years. The Shrike is an unregistered vigilante who doesn't even ping the radar of Chicago's crime fighting scene. Ian is forcibly put on leave from his job and returns to the Gallagher house, a failure all over again. Not only does he not know what Mickey does when the world goes dark, he doesn't know that Mickey is still living southside at all. Not since the events of eight years ago.)

quiet by @babygirlmickey (In the quiet of a perceived absence of scrutiny, Mickey can be incontrovertibly tender. Or: 5 times Mickey lets his guard down, as observed by various third parties.)

all i need in this life of sin (is me and my husband) by literatii (As embarrassing as it might be, Ian is not only his husband but also his best friend, and Mickey is pretty damn okay with that. Why the fuck would he find other people to do the exact same shit with that he already does with Ian, minus the fucking, when he can just do that shit with Ian plus the fucking? It makes no sense. Or: Ian wants the two of them to have more friends. Mickey doesn’t.)

thirteen hours by @crossmydna (Ian has known for thirteen hours that he’s not crossing the border with Mickey, so he makes the most of the time he has left with him.)

queen of decatur by jaxington (“How’d you know that?” Ian asks, smelling chum in the water, the observant little fuck. “Not like your brothers are getting sent to lady prison all that often.” Mickey thumbs at his lip, trying to find a way out of this conversation. It probably wouldn’t be too hard to distract Ian just by taking of his pants, but he is trying this new thing where he actually tells Ian what’s going on in his head. “No.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “It’s my mom.”)

like strings of fire by @gardenerian (mickey finds a safe and colorful way for ian to indulge himself when hypersexuality rears its ugly head.)

the needle and the burning body by squash (jesuisgourde) (Mickey had two burning torches for hands but he knew what to do with them. Ian's head was on fire and all he knew was how to run and keep running. How to find a cliff and jump off. How to make Mickey chase after him, again and again. And in a cold cell in prison, Mickey catches him.)

some fucked up romcom by godisthedice (Two years after they locked him up, Mickey told himself that he was done with Ian fucking Gallagher for good. Two years as a free man and he's marrying him for all the wrong reasons.)

when the sun goes down by @sam-loves-seb (super cute and fluffy lifeguard au!)

lava java by @stocious (He's being really unprofessional. Mickey might not even be gay. He might be hitting on a straight man through takeout cups.)

here's to hoping i'm not what kills you by @crestfallercanyon (After a confrontation gone bad, Mickey and the Gallaghers get Ian to the hospital. And look, Mickey always knew that if the Gallaghers had a will they'd find a way, but being roped into their schemes himself wasn't something he'd planned on signing on for. All the Gallaghers need to know is Mickey's helping out because he's not pure fucking evil. They don't need to know Mickey was scared shitless when Ian got knocked unconscious, Jesus, he can barely admit that to himself. Once Mickey knows Ian's not dead and not dying, he's out of there. Except he can't bring himself to leave.)

to the thawing wind by @gardenerian (Living and working in the icy chill of an endless winter, Ian and his family are assigned to work the farms to bolster food supply. They live quietly enough, following the rules, until Mickey and Mandy Milkovich (with all their secrets) are moved in across the road.)

i'll come meet you where you are by @crestfallercanyon (Mickey comes back from prison with a ring of vicious bruises around his neck and an edge to him Ian doesn't recognize. But he came back. He came back, and now it's time for Ian to meet him halfway.

closing in walls and ticking clocks by c_cups_bitch_u_wish (So, this is happening. Mickey is sitting in the corner of the bedroom on the comfiest fucking chair he’s ever sat in, and his adult self and adult Ian are about to fuck. And he’s going to watch. What's most odd is that this doesn't even feel like the weirdest thing to happen to him today.)

a spark of fire by @lingy910y (“You wanted us to finally have some time alone. You wanted to keep me safe, but you didn’t really care as long as we were together. You didn’t want it to end.” Mickey swallows a lump in his throat. “I…I don’t fuckin’ know.” “But can I, uh, ask you something else?” Ian rubs his thumbs together. “You like me, Mick. You fucking like me.”)

flip fuck? by @gallawitchxx (Mickey’s always thought that Valentine’s Day was fucking gay. But then some dramatic, ginger fuckhead had to move into the room next to his, and steal his hole, his heart, and the attention of his tumblr mutuals. Mickey decides to keep it lowkey when he asks Ian to spend the evening together: You wanna hang out on Tuesday? Ian’s response is quick and gives absolutely nothing away: Sure thing! That big-dicked idiot better remember it’s fucking Valentine’s Day.)

completed:

prelude motel by @whatthebodygraspsnot (When Mickey’s secret spot is infiltrated by an intriguing stranger, all the warning signs are there. Despite the voice in the back of his head telling him to disengage, he can’t help but bite off more than he can chew, running straight back to the spot and the stranger when a job leaves him injured. Enter: the Prelude Motel - where, for the next three days, Mickey finds himself hiding from more than just his pursuers.)

garden song (series) by @gardenerian (two gorgeous fics about ian's bipolar, about hope, healing, and tomatoes)

better by anomalously (It's been ten years since Ian's seen Mickey.)

in your love by @sgtmickeyslaughter (Mickey had been out of prison for 2 years and Ian never would have known until they ran into one another on a random night in May. Ian fights for the love they shared while Mickey fights for the life he built, as they both struggle with shame and guilt from their shared past it becomes clear that they cannot help but be drawn to what is bright and beautiful between them.)

whumptober 2023 (series) by @sam-loves-seb (21 beautiful fics of angst & hurt/comfort)

out of nowhere by @suzy-queued (Ian should have never offered to hide his father's stash of gold. Now he's stuck living on a deserted piece of land in the woods, alone, losing his sanity. Mickey wants nothing more than to disappear — from prison, from his family, from the entire world. If only he knew where to get his hands on a cool million. The Gallagher gold. Mickey wants it. Ian will do anything to protect it. Who will cave first?)

all these things i have left to say to you by @crestfallercanyon (After all this time that Ian's been missing, he leaves a tape recorder on Mickey's pillow. And on it? An hour of pure, unfiltered, Ian audio that is all, apparently, dedicated to him.)

wips:

keys to my heart by @milkovichrules (Ian finds his stable college life getting difficult when a new neighbour moves into the dorms.)

intro to quantum dating by @spoonfulstar (another college au) (one of my fave fics of all time!!)

the ink is a witness to this by @palepinkgoat (six chapters about the stories tattoos can hold and hide.)

order up by @heymacy (Ian and Mickey work together at a Chicago diner. They like to push each other's buttons - all their buttons. How long until the dam finally breaks?)

second chapters by @squidyyy23 (When Mickey’s PO assigns him a job at the local library, he’s pleasantly surprised—not that he’d ever admit it. Practically lived in the prison library, and what better way to start his new life than with a career he might actually enjoy. And when he meets the charming, clever, utterly fuckable, redheaded children’s librarian, well, shit just keeps getting better and better. Mickey’s definitely not interested in anything serious right now, but what’s the harm in a little fun?)

electric blue by @goodkwuestion (Paramedic Ian Gallagher knows true love exists. He's not going to settle until he finds it either, no matter how much his friends and family roll their eyes at him. Mickey Milkovich, on the other hand, isn't sure about all that stuff. He's an engineer with a long to-do list, and chasing rainbows isn't on it. He'll never say no to a good time and a pretty face though. When they meet, it will feel like kismet, something inevitable that neither of them can shake. Honestly though, who would want to? Falling in love can be the easiest thing in the world, especially when the whole universe is rooting for you... That's if the whole universe is rooting for you.)

ficlets:

all of @heymrspatel's drabbles, especially this one of ian being self-conscious about his body

docks scene & birthday suit gardening ficlets by @metalheadmickey

all of @lupeloto's sweet & domestic ficlets

@sam-loves-seb's meta about ian being the moon and mickey being the sun

ian's birthday ficlet & 31 ways we never meet (a.u.gust 2023 ficlets) by @callivich

airport confessions by @dynamic-power

gallavich drabbles by @whatthebodygraspsnot

all of @howlinchickhowl's a.u.gust 2023 ficlets!

(if you made it this far, i also write fics occasionally too so here's a self-promo lol)

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. PTSD, mentions of assault, flashbacks of assault, anxiety, anger, trauma, hypersexuality as a trauma response, possessive behaviour.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my pretty petals, here is the next chapter as promised, we are full speed ahead from here, and I may post the next Aemond POV installment either today or tomorrow, currently undecided. Please remember to read the trigger warnings before reading the chapters.

Thank you all for the love and support as always, you guys are so sweet! Makes my heart very happy.

Enjoy <3

Chapter 77: Confessions 

Aemond sat in the arm chair in front of the fire in your shared chambers in silence, staring into the flames. You had both been in a daze as you were sent back to your chambers, escorted by three King’s guards. 

Helaena and Lucerys had been waiting for you inside when you arrived.

Always there.

Aemond did not speak as he walked, nor did he reach out to touch you as you were walked speedily through the corridors, his hands still curled in fists, and lone eye ablaze. His anger set you on edge, and the fear you had forcefully pushed down and away, slowly rose to the surface again in the prospects of not just one of your uncles wrath, but two.

The young Prince's violet eye never left the flames of the fireplace, even as you stood in front of it meekly. 

“Aemond.” 

He did not reply.

“Aemond.” You said again, his gaze still not lifting from the fire, lips pulled down into a hard sneer.

Your eyes flicked down to his hands, which were fisted atop the arms of the chair, blood beginning to dry on his tightly clenched knuckles. 

He needed a Maester.

Stepping away from the fireplace, you moved towards him, Helaena and Lucerys’ bodies becoming shadows behind you. Your shaky hand reached out as you whispered again, and touched his shoulder cautiously, “Kepus.” 

Slowly, Aemond’s head turned to look at your hand upon his body, not reacting to your voice or touch, simply looking at it. It sparked a moment of apprehension through you, and so just as slowly as you had placed your palm there, you took it off. 

Aemond’s gaze finally moved up your wrist, following the path of your arm, your neck, and then finally to your face, jaw still tightly clenched.

“Aem…”

“You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.”

You reared back as though you had been slapped.

Broken.

Broken.

He watched as your face crumpled, lip shaking as tears welled in your eyes again.

Aemond was hurt. 

And so he was lashing out to hurt you.

He had not changed.

He was the same as he always had been.

He was just the same. 

They were all the same.

A lone tear slid down your cheek as your breath stuttered in your chest, hands curling into fists beside you.

Aemond, realising what he had said, had a moment of clarity and reached a hand outwards towards you in regret, trying to grasp the hand that was closest between you.

“I’m s-“

Dracarys.

You shook your head roughly, “Don’t.”

“Y/n, I-“

The thread of resolve that had been frayed inside of you, snapped.

“I am surrounded by vipers! I am alone in this Keep.” You hissed, the heat of anger rising with no sign of stopping. You stepped away from your uncle angrily, catching the enraged face of Lucerys as you moved, who continued to utter beneath his breath.

“Your brother raped me, and where was my husband? Off fucking his whore in Harrenhal like the dutiful Prince he so claims to be. Your mother knew and did nothing.” 

Aemond looked away at the words, which lit the sparks ablaze, more anger flowing through you that you did not know you possessed, resolve feeling more frayed and distraught than ever, your body bursting with wrath.

“Aegon was inside of me, whilst you left me here. He fucked his seed into me with he hopes of a bastard.” 

Aemond breathed an angry breath through his nose, face snapping to yours.

“You call me broken?" You sneered, "You took Lucerys. At night I dream of him, of his small face.” A tear slid down your cheek, “I cannot escape the visions in which you took him from me, of where I watched in horror as Vhagar tore him from the sky. I see him everywhere.” You took a step towards him, hand moving to violently jab a pointed finger at your own chest, nail pressing into the skin.

Dracarys.

Pretty petals.

“You call me broken? My mother had her throne taken from her, and my sister born still. I am trapped in a Keep surrounded by enemies. My only solace is a man who has raped me just as his brother did.”

The more you spoke, the more you could not stop the words that flew from your lips, watching as Aemond’s chest rose and fell angrily. 

“I was forced to marry a man who has sought nothing but pleasure in my anguish!” You screamed at the Prince, coming closer until you stood in front of him, his face still as he watched you.

“Helaena threw herself from Maegor’s Holdfast to be impaled on spikes below, because she couldn’t bear another day. My own husband leaves me to fuck his bastard whore before the whole court, knowing that his brother would defile me! And you think me broken?”

Aemond did not answer.

“Say it again. Call me broken.” You sneered down at him.

Silence.

The only sound the crackling fire, and whispers of Helaena and Lucerys behind you.

“Am I only broken now that your brother has been inside of me? Am I no longer a toy you wish to play with? ” Tears slid from your eyes as you shook with anger.

You were furious.

You were horrified. 

You were grieving, and tired, and scared, and alone.

“Tell me.” You demanded.

Aemond blinked.

“Tell me!” You screamed at his silence.

Still, nothing.

Your hand flew through the air, slapping him roughly across the scarred side of his face, the sound of the hit breaking the rooms quiet.

“Tell me.” You seethed looking down at him, his head slowly turning to look at you, blood on his lip resurfacing as your slap reopened the cut from Aegon's fists.

And yet even after your outburst, even after your demands, your screams, your cries, and the hit upon his face in which you knew would hurt him deeply, Aemond sat still, looking at you heave angry breaths, tears filling your eyes, as the side of his face blushed red from your hand. 

The dam spilt over.

“Tell me.” You begged, a sob slipping from your lips.

Before you could blink, you were engulfed in Aemond’s arms, your head tucked beneath his chin as you stiffened. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you tighter, your arms stuck by your side. 

You inhaled deeply, trying to dispell the tide that rose inside of you, but it was no use. The wave crashed over you, and you sobbed loudly into his chest, arms coming to grip onto his shirt in front of you.

You stood as he held you, sobbing into his robes, his grip never faltering.

You cried until you felt you could not cry anymore. 

You felt so defeated.

So tired.

So angry.

Perhaps you truly were broken.

"You are stronger than you think.” Came the whisper of Aemond atop your skull, finally breaking the silence, “I think you are the blood of the mighty House Targaryen.” His chest vibrated against your face as you cried.

Stronger than you think.

Then why do I feel so weak?

“The blood of Old Valyria. Iksā se kostōba issaros nyke gīmigon.” You are the strongest person I know.

You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother. His own nephew.

With a surge of anger, you pushed away from him, separating yourself from the arms that had held you as you cried. 

“Then why do you tear me apart?” You sneered.

Why?

Why?

Aemond stood, hands limp by his side as he looked at you.

Silence again. 

You shook your head and fled, leaving the chambers and the man inside them behind you. Moving past the guards who looked at you peculiarly, tears still running down your cheeks. 

You needed comfort. 

You needed solace. 

You needed familiarity. 

And so your legs took you to a place where you could find all three, down to the Godswood.

As your feet moved across the soft grass, you tilted your head backwards to look up at its crimson leaves, dancing in a soft breeze that swept through the Keep. Your tears flowed as you moved towards the place you always sat beneath its trunk.

Why do you punish me, Gods?

What have I done that I need to repent for?

Is this because I am acursed as a Kinslayer?

Is this my atonement?

The Gods did not answer your questions as you laid you back against the trunk, exhaustion seeping out of you and into the earth below. You wished for the ground to open up, and for you to fall through the cracks and be swallowed whole. To be done with such a life. To be numb to the pain.

I know I came here to help, but I find the strength I had dwindling. Was this how it was always to be? To suffer the sins of man? To suffer the sins of my uncles? Please Gods, give me the strength to do what I must. I am losing hope. I am losing myself to madness.

To grief.

Please.

You shut your eyes as you prayed. 

Please, help me on the path I must take. Let Aegon die. Kill him for what he has done. By my hand or another. By his own hand. By wine or ales hand. By the slip of his foot, or the hoof of a horse, or the fault of his dragon.

Let the Stranger take him.

The prayers did not stop as you sat under the branches and leaves of the Godswood, praying for help, from anyone, promising that you would do anything.

To have them take Aegon.

For the war be over.

To help you.

Your eyes stayed shut, and the exhaustion that never left your bones swept you away to a light sleep, prayers following you to your dreams as you sat beneath the trees branches even there, its face blinking at you as you begged and pleaded for guidance.

But the dream was ripped away from you as the Godswood had opened its mouth to speak, and you woke to the gentle whisper of your name. 

Your eyes shot open to see Aemond standing above you, looking down at you with a soft face. His knuckles were washed of the blood that had dried upon them, and there now sat scabbed cuts and pinkish bruises upon his pale skin. 

His hand came out, as it had before, palm up in offering to help you stand. Yet as you looked at him, all you could think of was his last words to you.

You are so broken that you seek comfort from me, the man who killed your brother.

His own nephew.

Sniffing you ignored the hand, and pulled yourself stiffly to stand. Your uncle watched you, the sky around you darkened, and it was only then had you realised you had slept the entire day away. 

For the first time in days, you had slept a decent sleep.

Aemond continued to look at you as you dusted down your skirts, before his chin stretched upwards and he cast his eye to the leaves above you. The crimson in the evenings light looked almost black.

You realised his lips had moved before the words followed them. His voice was so quiet, so soft, gentle like the leaves that continued to rustle above you.

“I used to sit here, when we were young…” The air around you was tense as he whispered, eye still cast upwards to the leaves he watched as he reminisced, “I would listen to you read. It was not often that I could get away from him, or your brothers.”

You kept your gaze on his face.

“It was always you.”

Aemond's gaze moved and his eye settled back on you.

“It has always been you.”

It has always been you.

The worlds curled around you like the serpent in your dreams.

It has always-

“Please,” Aemond broke the spell, “Come dine with me.”

His voice was so low, that you almost had to strain to hear him. 

Your stomach clenched at the thought of food, the realisation that you had not eaten at all dawning on you. You searched his sharp features before giving him a shallow nod, and following him back through the Keep to your chambers, where the three guards still sat stationed outside. 

It has always been you.

You ate in mostly silence as tension filled the air of the chambers. The maids had come with your meal and had watched you closely, waiting for you to ask or command them for something should you need it.

But you didn't. 

And so to quell the pain, and anxiety, and anger that continued to turn about inside of you, you drank from your goblet of Dornish spiced wine, not honeyed Essos wine, and let the warm burning of the alcohol distract your thoughts and give you something to focus on.

It has always been you.

“Is the food to your liking?” Aemond asked, his hands lowering to the table as he waited for your response.

Your approval.

“It’s fine.” You replied, voice clipped.

Why was he asking you that?

“Is there anything that you need?” His tone held uncertainty in it, as though he was tiptoeing around you. Around your anger.

Broken.

The fire that had been tamed roared back to life, everything about him irritating you in that moment. The way he sat, the way he looked at you. The way his face bruised on one side of his cheek, the cut on his lips, the cuts on his hands.

“The mundanity of these questions aren’t going to change what happened. What you said.”

Aemond blinked once, placing the cutlery on his plate, “I don't know what you want from me.”

What you want from me.

What you want from me?

You scoffed, “Do you want me to pretend that Aegon hadn’t come into these chambers and rape me on our bed? Do you want me to pretend that I am okay with what you said to me?”

“You didn’t have an issue with pretending before.”

The sound of your hands slamming your own cutlery down cut through the room.

"If you think this marriage is anything but a political one,” You sneered, patience gone from your body, “A truce to end bloodshed between our families, you are sorely mistaken. You have been twisted into a man I do not recognise by the ambitions and obsessions of your mother.”

Aemond’s lips pursed, “Don’t speak about my mother.”

“Why? What has she done but start this war. What has she done but push, and push, and push others to do her bidding for her. What has she done but start the pieces that fell, the pieces that led to this war.” You leant forward into the table and hissed, “Her actions took your eye, not my brother.”

Aemond’s violet eye twitched, and you felt a sick sense of satisfaction at seeing his composure break.

Why were you the only one to suffer?

You opened your mouth, “You cont-“

“You betrayed me!” Aemond screamed, shooting up from his chair.

“What?” 

Betrayed?

“We were close once you and I, when we were young, and when your brother took my eye you sided with them. You sided with the one who blinded me!”

“We were all children!”

“I loved you!” 

The air left the chambers. 

The room fell still.

The both of your chests rising and falling.

A confession. 

“I loved you, and you betrayed me.” He growled, standing tall by the table.

Loved me? 

Betrayed him?

“Betrayed you?” You scoffed, “And what have you done to me, hm? You killed my brother. You killed my dragon. You have taken everything from me. You have raped me, and humiliated me, and hurt me beyond repair. I am covered in the evidence of your demented love. Any love that I held for you died when I was a child.” You spat, heart racing in your chest.

Aemond laughed mockingly, “We both know that is a lie.”

You turned away from him, huffing a laugh back at him, “You think I could love a man who has attacked me? Tormented me? Haunted my dreams for years? A man who has slain my brother? Raped me?”

Your hand flew to the table and ripped up the goblet of wine, drinking greedily from it as you slowly rose from your chair, looking your uncle up and down as he stood before you, eye crazed. 

“Once I had loved you,” You confessed, ���You were sweet, and kind.” Your heart clenched, it ached to know that those days were gone.

“A boy who’s devotion to his family was strong. A boy who I could turn to when I needed. A boy who I grew beside and dreamt of our future together. I would have gladly wed you. But you’re not him. You’ve taken too much from me.”

“I have.” 

You stalked towards him, snatching a small knife from the table beside your plate as you moved in front of him, his eye never leaving your face.

“And yet you expect me to love a monster? To forgive you of all of your sins?” You walked forward until you stood before him, your chest bumping his, neck craned upwards to look in his eye.

You rose the blade to his face, the feeling of deja-vu curling around you, holding its point to his seeing violet orb as he stood still, face unreadable, looking down at you.

You let the blade rest on his cheek sharply as he still did not react. 

It made you seethe. 

Swiftly you moved the blade onto his throat pushing against it, not breaking the skin.

You watched his face as you tested him.

“You think I could ever love you?” You sneered, rising on the tips on your toes to look at him, anger fuelled by the wine and all that had happened. 

The knowledge that more was to come. 

The knowledge that you were too trapped to do anything about it.

Aemond’s hand slowly came up to touch your elbow on the arm that was poised to hold the blade against him, and pushed it harder against his throat. Tempting you. 

Encouraging you.

He held your arm steady as it began to shake, his long fingers gentle against your skin. Warmth burnt through you at his touch and you shifted your gaze to his lips, watching as his pink tongue came out to wet his lips. 

You wished to tear his lips apart with your teeth.

“I know you do.” He told you, “Though you have two eyes, you still don’t see.”

The Prince watched you intently, breath caught in your throat as you felt a familiar warmth begin to pool into your stomach, desire moving its way around your body. Desire to hurt him. Desire to be held by him. Desire to feel a touch that wasn’t pain. Desire to feel hands that did not bring you terror. 

Desire to feel loved.

Cared for.

Protected.

The need to be in control again.

To have control of your body.

You swallowed thickly, still looking at him as you leant yourself closer, blade pressing harder against his neck as you crashed your lips against his roughly. A grunt slipped through his mouth into yours, surprise catching him off guard as your other hand gripped onto his arm for purchase. 

You kissed him intently, angrily, still pushing the blade against him as his lips sought yours.

Aemond pulled back with a hiss.

The blade on his neck had slipped, a bead of blood pooling to the surface before it began to trail warmly down his neck. You watched the blood travel down the pale expanse of his skin.

You had cut him.

You had made him bleed.

And it made you feel good.

Leaning forward, you let your tongue chase the crimson stream, letting the bitter iron liquid spread across your tongue, trailing up to the source and placing a rough kiss there. Teeth nipping the skin and relishing in Aemond’s low whine.

For the first time in days, you felt powerful.

Aemond groaned beneath you, and the blade clattered to the floor. 

His hands gripped your waist and pulled you tighter to him as you nipped along his neck, teeth biting into his cut meanly. You wanted it to hurt, and as you bit and nipped at his flesh, Aemond continued to groan and whine from above.

Yet despite it all, his hands did not move any further to touch you, instead simply holding you against him.

Growing tired of his inaction you uttered to him, 'Touch me', begging for his hands on you as you continued to lap the blood on his neck, working your way back to his lips.

Your uncles hands softly held the small of your back and behind your head as he let you guide the rough embrace, your teeth biting down roughly on his lips, nipping at the cut there as you pressed your body against him, the feeling of his hardened member throbbing against your stomach. 

The memories of Aegon sprung to your mind and you paused, gasping, pulling away sharply as disgust and terror wound its way around you.

It has always been you.

Aemond pulled back searching your face with a hooded eye, small patches of blood on his swollen lips and a smudged trail of the crimson on his neck.

“Zaldrītsos,” He began to utter, his hands moving away from you, to push you back.

To give you space. 

“Don’t.” You blurted, “It hasn’t stopped you before.”

And it hadn’t.

You crashed your lips back against him.

It was over.

It was not Aegon.

It was over.

It was Aemond.

It has always been you.

It has always been Aemond.

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[hungermakesmonsters]

Catch Me If You Can

Chapter Ten

Plot summary : When your friend interviews for a position at Anvil, you have a chance encounter with Billy Russo. He takes you for coffee and, by the time you’re done, Billy decides he’s anything but done with you.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R 

Chapter Rating : R for smut

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Just the usual smutty behaviour, some of it happening in a public place. There's also a very brief mention of a car crash but no details are given. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : ~4.7k

A/N : Billy is finally getting to take reader for dinner! So, yeah, that's kind of it. This is roughly the halfway point of the story, so thanks to everyone who's been reading and stuck with it this far, and thank you for all the lovely comments and feedback!! Also, OMG I hit 50 followers - I genuinely did not expect that to happen, thank you all so much!! 🥰

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE

Chapter Ten

You weren’t sure what to expect when Billy picked you up for dinner, but it certainly wasn’t a Rolls Royce (a Wraith to be more precise, as Billy enjoyed explaining to you when he caught you staring at the car). At least it wasn’t a bright red Ferrari, you supposed, but you couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable once you were sitting in the passenger seat. It was so expensive and perfectly cared for that you were scared you might do something to ruin it, like you weren’t even worthy of sitting in it.

Billy explained that it had been another impulse purchase, another big ticket item just because he could, because as a boy he’d always wanted a fancy car. Another expensive thing just to try and fill a void. You wondered how empty he must feel to need so many expensive and shiny things, but you didn’t dare ask.

In fact, you remained mostly quiet on the way to the restaurant, not wanting to distract Billy while he was driving. 

It wasn’t far, less than twenty minutes. He hadn’t told you where you were going, but once you saw the restaurant, you found yourself nervously playing with your sleeves. You’d never eaten there before, but you knew it by reputation; one of the best Italian restaurants in the state, and you had a good idea just how much it cost to eat there. Suddenly you felt underdressed in your black dress, suddenly you found yourself wishing he had taken you to Pizza Hut. 

Parking at the back of the parking lot, Billy killed the engine and, for a few seconds, you were too caught up in your own thoughts to realise that he wasn’t moving. 

His hands were still on the steering wheel, gripping it tight. It was something you were getting used to seeing; moments like this where Billy seemed to be fighting against himself, trying to hold himself back. You wondered if he was always like that, or if it was something he did because of you, because he was trying not to scare you. In the time you’d known him, you’d come to realise that Billy was a man of action, that he liked to do things without thinking and he didn't like to hold back when it came to certain urges - he’d called it poor impulse control, Krista had called it hypersexuality. You didn’t know what it was, but you liked to think he felt the same desperate neediness you felt whenever you were together.

“Billy,” you muttered softly, drawing his attention to you.

Your breath caught as he looked at you, his dark eyes flickering with a barely contained desire that had you wanting to crawl onto his lap. Clenching your thighs together, you tried not to think about all the things he could do to you, all the things you wanted him to do.

“We should go eat,” he finally managed, forcing an uneasy smile to his lips before getting out of the car. Before you could fully climb out of the Wraith, Billy was at your side, his hand extended to you. Of course, you took it and let him lead you into the restaurant, all the while smoothing down your dress, wanting to make sure you looked presentable enough to be seen with him. If Billy noticed, he managed to keep it to himself, he just gave your hand a reassuring squeeze as he opened the door for you.

You stayed quiet as you were led to a table - that Billy had somehow managed to reserve yesterday, despite how exclusive the restaurant was. His hand left yours so he could pull out your chair for you and, still, you didn’t speak. You didn’t know what to say about any of it.

When the menu was placed in front of you, you really started to feel uncomfortable; there were no prices listed but, judging from the sort of things on offer, none of it was within your price range.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, though it was clear from the look on his face that he had some idea what was going through your mind.

“Nothing, it’s just -” you gave an awkward sigh, “- this place is really fancy...”

“Order whatever you want, I’m paying.”

“Billy -”

“I know, I know, you don’t want my money, and I promise I’m not trying to buy you. I just really like eating here and I think, if you give it a chance, you’ll like it too.” His shoulder ticked. “Besides I can either spend my money having a good time with you, or I can waste it on something dumb.”

You managed a laugh at that and, despite how awkward it made you feel, Billy probably had a point; he had enough money that he probably wouldn’t ever miss what he spent tonight, and you could at least try to make sure that he wouldn’t be left feeling empty at the end of it. You relented with a sigh and a nod, dropping your eyes back to the menu, though you still tried to think about what would be cheapest.

In the end you settled on pasta, while Billy ordered steak. Without much in the way of conversation, he also took it upon himself to order a antipasto platter for the two of you to share - which, you might have briefly felt uncomfortable about, but seeing the way he lit up when the food started arrive seemed to reinforce his point that he liked eating there, and you didn’t want to do anything that might ruin that for him.

And, you had to admit, the food was very nice. So much so that you were content to eat in relative silence for a little while. From time to time, Billy would ask you what you thought of the food and if you the wine that he’d ordered was alright - and it was, you could already understand why the restaurant was so raved about - but there was something almost shy about the way he was being. And shy wasn’t a word you thought you’d ever use to describe Billy.

It wasn’t until your main course arrived that you really started to notice, wondering if Billy just preferred quiet when he was eating, or if it was you.  But, regardless of his silence, every time you happened to look up from your food, you’d find Billy staring at you. The first couple of times, he’d smile before returning his attention to his steak

But, finally, you had to ask; “what?”

“What?” He responded, looking up from his plate.

“You keep looking at me like - like that.” 

“Like what?” Still confused, though he managed to give a little huff of laughter.

“Like you’re barely holding yourself back.”

“From what?” He asked, shifting in his seat, sitting a little straighter and leaning back in his chair, like he thought the extra inch of space it created between you could save him. You could tell just by looking at him that there was something he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. Was what he was thinking really that bad or did he just think you didn’t want to hear it? (Did he think you couldn’t handle it?)

You decided to lean forward, destroying the distance he’d tried to create. If you were going to do this, you needed Billy to understand that he needed to talk, otherwise you’d overthink every little thing until you tore it all apart.

“Like there’s something you want but you’re fighting against it?” You tried to explain. “I saw it in the car earlier, and the night of the gala; you get this look like you need to do something but you’re scared to do it.” You watched his face, taking in every little flicker of discomfort as his eyes searched your face, trying to figure out just how much you could handle.

“I told you, I have poor impulse control,” his shoulder ticked upwards, “I’m trying to work on it, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Who told you that - that you have poor impulse control?” You asked, but Billy didn’t need to answer, you already had a pretty good idea. The flash of unease on his face said it all; Krista. Your expression instantly softened, and your heart ached for him. “Billy, I’m not worried and I don’t need you to protect me from you. You don’t need to hold back when you’re with me. If you’re scared something might be too much you can just ask.”

“Sweetheart,” he started softly, a warm smile on his lips, “if I didn’t hold back, we’d never leave my bed.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” you joked and Billy’s gaze seemed to darken with want again. 

As much as you wanted to get to the bottom of it, you knew that it wasn’t something you could figure out in one night. Clearly there were bigger issues at play and, in a restaurant, on your first date probably wasn’t the best place to have this sort of conversation.

Your attention returned to your food for a minute or so before you looked up again, catching him staring again.

“Did you sort the thing at Anvil yesterday?” You decided to ask. “The security problem?”

“Not yet,” he answered and fell silent again, attention returning to his dinner. But, after a few seconds, he seemed to realise that you genuinely wanted to talk to him and that his being silent wasn’t conducive to a good dinner date. “I think Frank’s just blowing things out of proportion, it’s probably nothing to worry about,” he shrugged, “we get people poking around a lot, it’s just the nature of the business.”

“Oh, well that’s good, I guess?” You smiled, wanting to show that you appreciated the effort he was making.

“How was your day?”

“It was okay. Work was kinda crazy, but things always start to get insane this time of year,” you shrugged, chewing your lip and thinking for a moment before adding; “but I, uh, got some good news?”

“What kind of good news?” He set his cutlery down and reached for his wine glass, attention completely on you.

“Well, I know this guy who runs a little gallery in Queens, he told me he’s got an opening in the new year and asked if I wanted to put on a show.” It made you nervous seeing the way that Billy practically lit up at the news. “I mean, I don’t know if I’ve got anything worth showing at the moment, but it was nice he asked...”

“You should do it, I’d love to come see some of your work.”

“I’ll be sure to put you on the guestlist,” you laughed despite the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach; the new year was months away and you weren't sure Billy would even still be in your life then. (But seeing him smile at you made you want to hope that he would be.)

“Do you make any money from your shows?”

“Some, but not a lot; mostly just from the door but sometimes people buy things.”

“How much is some? Ballpark figure?”

“Ballpark figure?” You laughed. “You’re such a businessman.”

Bill let out a laugh of his own, shaking his head.

“Sorry, force of habit. It’s hard to switch it off sometimes.”

“Well, I guess some people probably find it incredibly sexy.” You smiled, watching the smirk grow on his lips.

“Oh, some people, eh?”

“Yeah, y’know, the kind of people who get all hot and bothered over men in expensive suits who drive fancy cars and know how to get what they want?” You leaned forward a little more, trying you best to sound seductive, despite the ridiculous grin on your lips.

“Yeah? What about you? Does it get you all hot and bothered?” He smirked, falling right into your trap.

“Nah, I like men who wear jeans and drive Toyotas,” you started laughing, and the look on his face was priceless. As much as he might have wanted to feign upset at the comment, Billy couldn’t stop himself from letting out a ridiculous laugh, and it was the most joyful sound you’d managed to pull from him.

“You’re such a tease,” he took a drink, though his eyes stayed fixed on you.

“Don’t worry, Billy,” you reached for your own glass and took a long, slow drink, “I’m prepared to make an exception for you. What you lack in fashion sense, you make up for in other areas.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he prompted, a hint of impatience in his tone, like he needed to hear you say it.

“Well, you have a very talented tongue,” your cheeks started to warm but the ridiculous smile stayed plastered to your lips, “and you have quite a way with words. And you’re very hands on...”

“And you like that, do you?”

You decided not to answer him, instead you made a point of returning your attention to your food before it got cold. Billy’s eyes lingered on you for a few moments more before he did the same. The game wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot, but you needed some time to consider your next move.

After finishing your main course, you excused yourself, heading for the bathroom, as a terrible idea formed in your mind. You could practically feel Billy’s eyes on you as you walked away, and you could almost picture the look on his face as he did, that hungry glint in his eyes, the way his lips curled upwards ever so slightly whenever he stared at you. Especially tonight. Your silly games had gotten to him, but they’d gotten to you too, and it left you craving what would come next.

Standing in the bathroom stall, you took a few deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart but there was nothing for it. Now that you were doing this with Billy, now that you were finally willing to let him in, you were terrified in the most inexplicable way - it was scary how much you wanted him after so little time. But you did want him, and you wanted him to want you just as much.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you slipped out of your panties, trying not to think about the telling wet spot before balling them up in your hand. 

When you left the bathroom, your cheeks were burning; your free hand nervously smoothing down your dress, terrified that everyone would suddenly be able to tell that you weren’t wearing panties. Billy gave you a confused look as you approached the table, and it was almost enough to make you completely lose your nerve. You awkwardly offered your hand to him and quickly handed him the balled up red lace before retreating to your seat.

“What’s this for?” He asked, fighting back a grin, momentarily looking at the panties before shoving them into his pocket.

“They were getting wet,” you managed to answer, nervously biting your lips before adding; “they’re my favourite pair, I don’t want them to get ruined.”

“They’re my favourite pair now, sweetheart.” He smirked at you, a devious glint in his eyes. “If I’d known this was what you were doing, I would have followed you to the bathroom. I hate to think of your needy little pussy all wet and unfulfilled.”

“Billy -” cheeks burning, glancing around, hoping that no one could hear him.

He leaned closer, smiling softly as if the pair of you were exchanging romantic sweet nothings. You felt his ankle nudge yours beneath the table and your breath caught.

“What’s wrong? Am I making your tight little hole drip? Are you making a mess thinking about how my cock would feel inside you if I bent you over this table in front of all these people?” And, just like that, he’d turned the tables on you. You’d wanted to drive him crazy, but you’d underestimated him. He reached for you, his hand covering yours. 

“Is that what you’re thinking about?” You dared to ask in little more than a whisper, leaning closer.

“I’m thinking about crawling beneath the table and eating your sweet little pussy as my next course.”

You bit your lip again, thighs rubbing together beneath the table.

“I can’t wait to get you home.” He smirked, obviously noticing your discomfort and revelling in it.

“Does that mean we’re skipping dessert?” you asked, suddenly feeling breathless.

“No, I promised you dinner; it wouldn’t count if we skipped a course.” He kept smiling, his thumb caressing the back of your hand. “Your needy little pussy will just have to wait.” His smile got wider as you almost pouted. “Though, it's driving me crazy knowing how wet you’re gonna be when I get you out of here.

“Now who’s being a tease?” You squeezed his hand, giving away just how much he was getting to you.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, did I ruin your plans?” He asked with an unapologetic smirk. “Was I supposed to get flustered or did you want me to drag you out of here and fuck you in the car?”

You dropped your gaze, cheeks burning, not really having an answer for him; you’d just wanted to make him feel as out of control as you did.

“I appreciate the effort though,” Billy continued, “I like knowing the effect that I have on you.”

Your lips parted, about to say - you weren’t even sure what, when you were interrupted by the waiter bringing your dessert.

You ate dessert slowly, your eyes fixed on Billy, knowing that once you were done eating the rest of the night would begin. You both remained calm and composed, as you finished your meals, and as Billy paid the check. You pulled on your coat and slowly let him lead you from the restaurant, but things quickly changed the moment you reached the parking lot. 

It was dark save for the flickering of a single street light, only two other cars remained but Billy had parked at the back of the lot, out of the way.

By the time you reached the Wraith, his hands were on your hips, turning you to face him as he pressed you back against his car. He kissed you, nipping at your lip before slipping his tongue into your mouth. Your fingers gripped his tie, holding him close, surrendering yourself to him.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered against your lips, “you got me so fucking hard with that little stunt with your panties.”

“Good,” you answered, your hand slipping down his body to palm his erection through his pants.

“You keep that hand there and I’m not gonna be responsible for my actions, sweetheart.” Billy groaned.

“You should be more concerned with what I’m gonna do to you,” you smiled, your hand releasing his tie and gently pushing him backwards so you could drop to your knees in front of him. Your hands started to pull at the fastenings of his pants, pulling his hard cock through the zipper. Billy gave a groan as your fingers ran along his shaft, his own hand finding the roof of the Wraith for support.

He was barely breathing when you looked up at him. 

You took a deep breath before leaning forward, your hand still gripping his cock while your tongue slipped between your lips.

You felt him twitch as your tongue touched hot skin, heard him groan as you ran your tongue from root to tip, lapping the salty sweetness that had already leaked from him as your tongue swirled over his tip. Lips trailed hot kisses up and down his shaft, smiling as he swore under his breath, and loving the marks your lipstick left on his skin. 

You wet your lips with your tongue before finally taking him into your mouth, pulling an eager moan from him. He reached for you with his free hand, fingers fisted in your hair, gently guiding you up and down the length of him, while your fist pumped the base of him.

Billy was completely yours in that moment. With just your lips, you’d rendered him speechless, helpless, and hopeless. The feeling of power was intoxicating; the way he moaned and shuddered and swore made you want more. It made you want everything. Your cheeks hollowed against him, tongue working along every inch of him, your moans vibrating around him.

“That’s it. Look at me, sweetheart,” he grunted as your eyes found his, staring up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face had moaning even harder around him, “I wanna watch you suck my cock.”

His grip tightened, his chest heaving with every panted breath. He was getting closer and you didn’t want to stop. You took more of him, managing to sink lower and lower with the encouragement of his hand, earning more desperate moans from him. Eyes watered when he hit the back of your throat, but you didn’t stop, you barely even slowed. Tilting your head a little, he slipped into your throat and you felt his grip tighten, but just a fraction. Billy was barely managing to hold himself back, you could see it in his eyes, in the way he grit his teeth. You almost wanted to push him, make him lose control completely, but you didn’t want him to take over. You were in control of the moment and that was how you wanted it to stay.

You heard your name and the start of a gasped warning before his hips bucked and his cock started pulsing, filling your mouth. Despite trying to warn you, his grip on your hair didn’t loosen. You kept pumping his length with your fist, swallowing down everything he gave you, milking every last drop from him until it was too much for him to bear and he had to gently push you away. You dropped back against the Wraith, knees protesting and aching, licking his cum from your lips, feeling very proud of yourself.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breathless as he forced his cock back into his pants and offered you his hand. 

Your knees ached from the gravel as you stood back up, but once you were up, Billy’s arm was around you, supporting you, holding you against him.

“Did you enjoy that?” You asked quietly, almost shyly, as if there was any chance someone else might overhear. 

“Sweetheart, I think I just about lost my goddamn mind,” he smiled, lightly pressing his lips to yours before reaching around you to open the car door for you. “I’m gonna show you just how much when I get you home.”

Your shaky legs just about managed to get you into the car, and Billy shut the door behind you. While he made his way around to the driver's side, you checked yourself in the mirror, and found your lipstick smeared around your mouth. As Billy climbed into the Wraith he shot you a very smug look before handing you his handkerchief. He started the car while you did your best to fix your makeup.

There was a relative silence for a while, and you were content to just look out the window at the New York City lights. You didn’t talk, again, not wanting to distract Billy. But it felt like there was something in the air between you, a tension, a longing for things to come.

He glanced your way a couple of times before his hand found your thigh, causing you to tense suddenly. The hand was quickly pulled back and the car was very quickly filled with a different kind of tension.

“What’s wrong?” He dared to ask, his attention fixed on you more than the road, and that just made things worse.

“Watch the road, please...” you awkwardly pleaded and, to his credit, Billy did as you asked.

An awkward silence filled the air for the next few minutes; he didn’t dare look at you so he didn’t see the way you were awkwardly pulling at the sleeves of your jacket, your eyes fixed on the road just beyond the windscreen. He didn’t look again until he hit a red light and the car had come to a complete stop.

“What did I do?” He asked.

You didn’t want to tell him, you weren’t ready to share that part of your life with him, but you’d agreed, hadn’t you? You’d told him that you’d stop pushing, that you’d tell him if he fucked up. And he had fucked up, just not in a way he could have anticipated.

“Nothing,” you answered quietly, “It’s not you. I - I was in an accident and, now, being in cars makes me nervous sometimes.”

“Is that how -” he didn’t finish the question, he didn’t have to. He put it together, at least part of it. Your scars had come from a car crash. “Shit, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t know. I should’ve warned you.”

Whether out of respect to your anxiety at being in the car or just because he didn’t have anything else to say, Billy stayed mostly quiet the rest of the way back to his apartment, save for asking you if you were alright a couple of times and if you were warm enough. It was more than enough time to get over the awkwardness of Billy knowing a little bit more about you and, by the time the car was parked, you were ready to put it all behind you and continue the rest of the night with him.

He took your hand in his as he led you from the car to the elevator, your bag slung over his shoulder and holding you extra tight - you weren’t sure if it was meant as a reassurance or a sign that his patience was wearing thin. Either way, you squeezed his hand in return. His other hand, you soon noticed, was in his pocket along with your balled up panties. 

You found that familiar look on his face once you were in the elevator. He didn’t look at you, he didn’t dare, you just kept squeezing his hand, silently telling him that you were there, that everything was alright. The elevator dinged when it reached the penthouse and everything quickly became a blur.

By the time the elevator door had closed behind you, Billy had you against the wall, your legs around his hips and the bag with your things abandoned somewhere on the floor. His hands awkwardly tugged open his pants, dropping them to the floor before, thrusting his cock into your wetness. You cried out, straining around him, wet but not entirely ready, your fingers curling in his hair. He didn’t give you time to adjust or get used to him before he started to fuck you, roughly laying claim to you.

“This is what you get for trying to play games with me, sweetheart,” he all but growled against your lips. All you could think was that if this was the sort of punishment you’d get for playing games and trying to rile him up, then you’d have to do it more often.

Your head dropped back against the wall, moaning and completely at his mercy, losing yourself with every snap of his hips.

There was no holding back the inevitable and, soon enough, you were moaning his name as you came undone, and Billy soon followed suit. He kept you against the wall, his weight holding you in place as he came inside you, still moving until he’d completely emptied himself, leaving you feeling oddly triumphant. 

“See?” You panted, smiling widely. “I like your poor impulse control.”

His hand moved, gripping your jaw loosely with his fingers, looking at you like he was trying to make sense of something incomprehensible. You held his gaze, wanting him to see that you wouldn’t waiver, that you wouldn’t shy away from this side of him. Then he kissed you, softly, reassuringly, telling you a thousand things he didn’t have the words to say aloud to you.

He lingered against your lips as your arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him not because he was still inside you, but simply because you wanted to hold him. (How many people had just held him, you wondered.) Your fingers ran through his hair and you smiled against his lips. When he pulled back again, he still had that look, like he just didn’t understand. But you didn’t ask; it wasn’t your place to tell him how to feel, you just hoped he’d figure it out eventually.

Without a word, he lowered you and, once your feet were back on the floor, he was pulling you towards the bedroom so he could spend the rest of the night keeping you from sleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

END NOTES : So, yeah this is about the halfway point with what I have planned (I've got about 20 chapters planned, unless any get too long and need breaking up) but now that reader and Billy are in a nice place with their relationship, it's time to turn up the angst. There might be some more triggering stuff coming up in the next part, so please check the warnings! Next part should be up same time next week.

As ever, thanks so much for reading!! I know I say this every time but I'm honestly just overwhelmed with the likes/comments/reblogs/follows, it really does mean so much to me! (I have no idea how many of you are real and how many are bots, but you're all great - if you're not a bot drop an emoji in the comments idk)

If you want adding/removing from the tag list let me know (if it's not working for some reason... I honestly have no idea how to fix that but I hope it is working??)

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[discowingneckline]

snippet of another dick grayson trauma fic

working title: five-star hotel and i don't feel well

basic idea is dick grayson is dealing with his trauma (see my other works for what i focus on) and being hypersexual then sex repulsed (not shown in detail too much). he has a one night stand while out of bludhaven/gotham, wakes up not remembering the previous night, and calls a buddy to pick him up. the buddy is roy harper. there is an intervention had. this snippet is after roy picks him up and they are driving to roy's place.

As the car slowed to a stop at a light, Dick watched as Roy’s rhythmically fingers tapped against the wheel, glancing over at Dick. Roy didn’t look away when he noticed Dick caught him; instead, Roy opened his mouth like he was going to say something before promptly shutting it. Roy sighed, his tapping getting a bit quicker. 

“What’s goin’ on with you?” Roy finally settled on—short, to the point, and asked with a thick layer of concern wrapped around it. It made the heated air even more stifling, compensating heavily for both the cold weather and for Dick’s silence. He shifted in his seat, turning his gaze to watch the world outside. 

Without really thinking, Dick shrugged. Then, unsure that Roy was able to catch his movement, simply said, “I dunno.” It wasn’t like he was lying, because he’d barely even opened the Pandora’s box that was whatever the hell happened last night (sex, his mind unhelpfully supplied) along with what got him there. His answer didn’t satisfy Roy, however, as he heard the soft material on the steering wheel creak under pressure before relaxing.

“What are you doing all the way out here, man?” Roy asked after the small, tense pause.

Dick wished he could tell Roy, but he doesn’t remember well—and that was the most unnerving part. Not remembering anything.

[redditreceipts]

Hey, so i am a teenage radfem (dont wanna specify age but over 14) or not rlly radfem but heavily rad-aligned, i guess, i dont like labelling myself . Sorry if i bother you with this, i know this ask is probs going to be long but . How to deal with my female peers bullying me without being misogynyistic abt them when i tell my mum or writing it down in my diary ? Because they often ask me really inappropriate questions (stuff like "are you a virgin" "do you touch yourself" "are you a lesbian), talk behind my back or just laugh at me . They often target me for my autism too, and because i don't perform femininity like them (they wear really revealing clothes and fake lashes and fake nails) . At first i tried to be nice to them but bcuz then they started asking me these type of questions and bullying me for other stuff, i became uncomfortable and told them to stop that, i told the teacher and suddenly im the bad guy . It really bothers me, i even got so stressed out i cried . I often catch myself saying misogynyistic stuff abt them when telling my mum like "theyre wh0r3s" or calling them other degrading names based on the fact that they already are really sexually promiscous at THIS YOUNG, because that is one of the other things they bully me for, that theyve had boyfriends and did the thing and i didn't (its because i am a lesbian but its nun of their business) . And i know it's wrong to say such stuff about other girls/women, and i know their behavior is probably a result of grooming/hypersexualization and internalized misogyny, but their bullying is so bad i feel like there is no excuse for that . They even tried to spread the rumour that the reason i am so quiet and shy (which is not true i am not even shy) is because i got m0l3st3d by my father . Its just offends me because ive done nothing wrong for them to behave like this, and that i need to "put them in their places" for the bullying to stop . And i wish i could stop writing all kinds of sexist stuff and calling them names when venting abt it in my diary and try to deal with it without being so rude and degrading about them because i realize its unfeminist but sometimes their treatment of me i so rude and disgusting i cant critically write about it only after just writing angry and depressed rants .

Hey :) So first of all, I'm sorry to hear this. I personally think that there is nothing wrong with you writing whatever you want into your diary. You are not responsible for female oppression by calling them names in a diary that no one else reads. But I mean it's still important that you think about how this kind of thinking can impact yourself as well, in the long run. How you are going to condition yourself into thinking that a certain type of female presentation or sexuality is inferior and that can backfire on yourself as well.

In your bio, you say that you are Hungarian, and I assume that you write your diary in Hungarian, so I searched for creative insults in Hungarian and this is what I found:

Segítene, ha egy óvszergyártó cég plakátja lennél. (You could be a poster child for a condom company.)

Puncinak foglak hívni. De hiányzik belőled a melegség és a mélység. (I would call you a pussy. But you lack warmth and depth)

Vigyél magaddal egy növényt, hogy pótold az elpazarolt oxigént. (You should carry a plant with you, so it can replace the oxygen you just wasted)

Ha szemetet ennél, az kannibalizmus lenne. (If you ate garbage, it would be cannibalism)

Fogadok, hogy a szüleid témát váltanak, amikor a barátaik rólad kérdeznek. (I bet your parents change the subject when their friends ask about you)

Úgy nézel ki, mintha valaki épp most nyomta volna meg a “Random” gombot a testreszabási képernyőn. (You look like someone just hit the “Random” button on the customization screen.)

But I know what you are referring to, and I myself have been heavily ostracised for being autistic as a teen in school. And it's impossible to not notice that the biggest bullies sometimes have a specific presentation, like wearing expensive clothes, getting their nails done every week, wearing a lot of make-up etc. I got into some kind of "zoo visitor mode", in which I looked at the people in my class as if they were monkeys fighting on a hill and pushing each other down, trying to be the boss monkey of the horde. I felt like a visitor of a zoo who accidentally fell into the enclosure and now had to survive with 30 monkeys until the zookeeper let me out (graduation).

But, let's be honest: The main reason for misogyny is not an autistic teenage girl who is being bullied and uses misogynistic terms in response. The main reason for that is men and boys who uphold the patriarchy. You thinking so much about your own influence on patriarchal and misogynistic structures shows that you are quite mature and reflected, as well as very considerate, but as long as you write it into your diary and talk just with your mom about it, I don't think that you're a bad person. If you find better insults, you should obviously use them, but please please PLEASE don't feel worse about yourself than you already do.

Just keep in mind that most people who were bullied in high school turn out to be the coolest people afterwards. There are people who understand you out there, and you got this. I believe in you ❤️