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urdreamydoodles · 2 months ago

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MARK VARIANTS X FEM!READER

You are his lover in all universes, and in these you have joined him—what is it like to be his queen?

Characters: Sinister Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Prisoner Mark, Sheisty Mark, Bald Mark, Goggles Mark, Viltrum Mark & Omni-Mark

Sinister Mark / Capevincible

- You are his moon in a sky perpetually painted in blood. The only thing he does not destroy. He moves through the world like a blade cutting through flesh, carving out civilizations with the efficiency of a butcher, and yet, when he looks at you, there is something like reverence in his eyes. His love is not gentle; it is a possession, a claiming, a cruel kind of worship. He touches you with the same hands that have torn bodies apart, and the contrast is almost poetic—his violence does not reach you, but it is there, always simmering beneath his skin.

- When he kisses you, it is not an act of love but of conquest. His lips press against yours with the force of a war drum, his teeth scrape, his tongue invades. He wants you breathless, drowning in him, a willing offering on the altar of his dominion. There is no hesitation in his touch, no uncertainty. He owns you, and you do not resist, because resistance is meaningless. He is Capevincible. He could rip apart the cosmos itself if it dared to keep you from him.

- The nights are a battlefield. Sheets twisted like bodies in the aftermath of war, your throat hoarse from gasping his name, from the unbearable weight of his body pressing into yours, pinning you down as if he fears you might vanish into the ether. He does not love with tenderness—he loves with hunger, with ruin. There is no act between you that does not leave its mark, no moment of intimacy that does not feel like surviving something primal. And yet, you cannot imagine belonging to anyone else.

- He whispers terrible things against your skin in the dark, the same way he speaks before executing his enemies. His breath is hot, his voice like the edge of a blade, telling you how beautiful you look when you break, how you are the only thing he will never destroy. And you believe him, because even monsters can have their treasures, their obsessions. You are the one thing he will not lose, and that means he will kill for you, destroy for you, burn entire worlds if you so much as shiver.

- There is a moment, sometimes, when you wonder what you have become. You were once human, once fragile, once bound by mortal morality. But now you sit beside a god of carnage, watching the universe bend to his will. You no longer flinch at the screams, no longer care for the lives snuffed out like candles in a storm. He has made you his Queen, and a Queen does not weep for the conquered. You were beautiful before, but now? Now, you are terrifying.

- And perhaps, that is why he loves you. Because in the end, you are not just his lover—you are his legacy. When the stars finally collapse under the weight of his brutality, when there is nothing left but blood and ruin, he knows you will still be there, standing beside him, unshaken. Because you are his, and there is no fate more absolute than that.

Mohawk Mark / Movincihawk

- He is laughter in the midst of carnage, grinning wide as his fists tear through bodies like they are made of paper. He does not kill with duty, nor with hatred. He kills because it is fun. And you? You are the only thing he keeps intact. His beautiful little trophy, the only thing he does not mock, the only thing he does not break. He calls you gorgeous like it’s an insult, mine like it’s a death sentence. And it is. No one touches what belongs to him and lives.

- He does not worship you—no, that is not his way. But he adores you in his own twisted fashion, in the way he pulls you into his lap as blood pools around his feet, in the way he tilts your chin up to kiss you even as his hands are still warm from crushing a skull. He loves you the way a wildfire loves a forest—devouring, consuming, leaving nothing untouched. You burn under his attention, and you love every second of it.

- The bed is not a sanctuary; it is just another battlefield. He is relentless, insatiable, merciless in his desire for you. His strength is overwhelming, his need all-consuming. He does not ask permission—he takes, he claims, he leaves bruises like war paint on your skin. And you let him, because there is no greater thrill than surrendering to a force that could end you, yet chooses to keep you instead.

- He talks while he fucks you, taunting, teasing, mocking. What, can’t take it? And here I thought you were my little Queen. Pathetic. But his grip tightens when you moan, his breath stutters when you rake your nails down his back. He wants you, needs you, in a way he will never admit. So instead, he laughs, bites at your throat, leaves marks that scream to the world that you belong to him.

- There is no peace with him, no soft moments of love and tenderness. There is only the thrill, the rush, the violence of passion that never fades. He does not say I love you. He says you’re mine. And it means the same thing.

- One day, when the universe is nothing but dust beneath your feet, he will still be laughing, still be reveling in destruction. And you will be beside him, his Queen, his equal in this glorious, endless reign of chaos. Because love, for Movincihawk, is not a chain—it is a fire. And he will burn for you forever.

No Goggles Mark / Nogogglesible

- He is arrogance incarnate, a god among insects, untouchable, invincible. And yet, you have touched him. You have brought him to his knees, not with force, but with something far more dangerous—desire. He is cruel to everyone, but with you, it is different. He does not kill you. He does not mock you like the others. Instead, he craves you, like a dragon hoarding treasure, like a king unwilling to share his throne.

- He is insufferable, cocky, and childish in his amusement, always grinning, always talking, always taunting. But when he touches you, all that arrogance melts into something sharper, hungrier. He does not like to be denied, does not like to be challenged. And you? You challenge him. You push back. You make him work for your affection, and it drives him insane.

- The way he takes you is almost playful—almost. He grins as he pins you down, as he makes you beg, as he ruins you. Is that all you’ve got? he teases, even as he’s shaking, even as his hands tremble against your skin. He is obsessed with making you fall apart beneath him, with proving that even the Queen of Invincible is his to break.

- But the moment someone else so much as looks at you? That arrogance vanishes, replaced by something much darker. He is a nightmare when jealous, a force of pure annihilation. He will kill without hesitation, will make sure the universe knows that you are his and his alone.

- He likes to watch you after, basking in his victory, stroking your skin like a dragon hoarding gold. He tells you you’re beautiful in the same breath that he tells you how easily he could break you. And yet, he never does. Because he is already broken for you.

- In the end, the universe will crumble, the stars will die, and he will still be here, grinning, mocking, loving you in his own twisted way. Because he is Nogogglesible. And you? You are the only thing he has ever truly wanted.

Prisoner Mark / Prisonincible

- He is not the Mark you once knew. That Mark—the hesitant boy with wide eyes and too much hope—died long ago. What stands before you now is a man sharpened into a blade, honed by violence, stripped of mercy. He is not kind. He does not pretend to be. The world tried to break him, so he broke it first. And yet, despite all his cruelty, all his rage, you are the one thing he cannot hurt. He holds you with hands that have wrung the life from countless enemies, hands that have tortured, ripped, shattered. But when they touch you, they are careful. Reverent. As if you are the last beautiful thing in a world of ruin.

- He doesn’t ask for your love. He takes it. The way he takes everything else. His kisses are bruising, possessive, his grip unrelenting. You feel his strength in every touch, in every whispered threat against your throat—Mine. Mine. Mine. He is not gentle. He is not soft. He does not worship you; he claims you. And you let him, because what else is there? He has remade the world in his image, and you are the only thing that remains untouched. Untouched, but not unmarked. He ensures that.

- The bed is a battlefield, a place where he does not have to hold back, where the rage that simmers beneath his skin finds its release in you. He grips your wrists too tight, drags his teeth along your skin, leaves bruises that bloom like violets against your flesh. He loves the sight of them. Proof of his claim. Proof that even the Queen of Invincible belongs to him.

- He whispers terrible things when he is inside you—promises, threats, dark admissions. If anyone ever touched you, I’d rip their spine out through their mouth. His lips are at your ear, his breath hot, his voice raw. He does not speak of love. He speaks of possession. And you don’t need to hear the words to know what he feels. His love is in the way he would burn the world for you. In the way he already has.

- And when it is over, when the sweat cools on your skin, when the bruises begin to fade, he holds you. Tightly. Desperately. As if letting go would shatter him completely. His lips press against your temple, his breath ragged. There are no apologies. No guilt. There is only the silence, the aftermath, the unspoken truth that neither of you will ever leave. You are bound to him, by blood, by war, by something darker than love.

- And in the end, you do not want to leave. Because if he is a monster, then you are his Queen. And monsters do not weep for the fallen. They stand among the ruins and rule.

Sheisty Mark / Hoodvincible

- He is chaos given form. A force of destruction wrapped in arrogance, in crude words and bloody knuckles. He does not fight for duty, does not conquer for power. He does it because he can. Because he enjoys it. Because he looks at the world and sees something to break. And yet, when he looks at you, it is different. He does not see something to destroy. He sees something to keep.

- His love is reckless, feral, unyielding. He grabs your chin when he kisses you, bites at your lower lip, pulls at your hair like he is daring you to fight back. He wants you to. He wants the challenge, the game. But you never win. You can’t. He is stronger, faster, crueler. He does not let you have the upper hand. Not in the fight. Not in bed. Not ever.

- He fucks like he fights—wild, unpredictable, merciless. He throws you down and drags you back up, leaves scratches down your thighs, bruises on your hips. His voice is raw with laughter, with dark amusement. You’re still breathing? Damn. I must be getting soft. But his hands tell a different story. They shake when they touch you, as if the thought of losing you makes something inside him unravel.

- He hates how much he needs you. Hates the way his body betrays him when you sigh his name, the way his chest tightens when you smile. He is cruel to everyone else, but with you, there is something else beneath the mockery, beneath the swearing and the sneers. Something fragile. And that terrifies him. So he covers it with arrogance, with insults, with violence. But you see through it.

- When the world is quiet, when the battles are over, when his body is slick with sweat and exhaustion, he does not let you leave his arms. He holds you with a grip that is too tight, too desperate. Don’t fucking go anywhere, he mumbles into your skin, voice slurred with sleep. And he will never say it, never admit it, but you know what it means. Stay. Stay. Stay.

- And so you do. Because you are his, and he is yours, and there is no world where you would ever choose anything else.

Bald Mark / Capvincible

- He is a nightmare wearing a smirk. He does not kill out of duty, or necessity. He kills because he enjoys it. Because he loves the way people scream, the way their bones crack beneath his fists. He is the worst kind of monster—the kind that does not believe he is one. And you? You are his one exception. His one indulgence. His one weakness.

- He touches you with the same hands that have torn men apart, but with care. Not because he is gentle, but because he wants to savor it. To take his time. To draw out every moment, every sound, every shudder of your breath. He likes when you squirm beneath him. When you beg, when you break. Not out of cruelty—no, this is love. Love, for him, is the act of unmaking you piece by piece, then putting you back together just to do it all over again.

- He makes you beg. Not because he needs to hear it, but because he wants you to admit the truth. That you need him. That you want him. That you are his. He drags it out, teasing, taunting, watching your resolve crack like fragile glass. Say it, he purrs against your throat, breath hot, hands relentless. Say you belong to me. And you do. Of course, you do.

- He whispers against your skin as he takes you apart—dark promises, wicked threats. You’d look so pretty covered in blood, sweetheart. Maybe next time, I’ll let you have a little fun with me. He means it. You know he does. He would kill for you. He already has.

- When it is over, he watches you. Eyes dark, unreadable. There is something terrifying about the way he looks at you—like a lion watching its mate, possessive, protective, utterly devoted. You own him as much as he owns you, and he knows it.

- And so, when he kisses you again, slow and deep, it is not a claim. It is a vow. No matter what happens, no matter who dares to stand in his way, he will never lose you. And if the universe tries to take you from him, well—he will simply have to burn it all down.

Goggles Mark / Gogglesvincible

- He is stillness—a predator that does not need to snarl, a killer that does not need to raise his voice. Where others rage, he is quiet. Where others lose themselves in the thrill of bloodshed, he remains composed. There is no excess in him, no wasted movement, no unnecessary cruelty. When he kills, it is efficient. When he destroys, it is deliberate. And when he looks at you, it is with that same terrible focus.

- His love is calculated, methodical. He does not indulge in theatrics. He does not waste words on affection. Instead, he watches you, memorizes you, understands every detail—what makes you shiver, what makes you whimper, what makes you beg. When he touches you, it is with the same precision with which he tears the world apart. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows exactly how to unravel you, and he does. Slowly. Mercilessly.

- He does not speak of love, but he shows it in the way he possesses you. His fingers trace the marks he leaves behind, his lips linger over the bruises, his grip tightens when another dares to look at you too long. They are insignificant, he murmurs, voice calm, deadly. They don’t matter. But I will kill them anyway. And he does.

- In bed, he is merciless. He does not give without taking. He does not allow you to simply exist beneath him—you must surrender, you must earn every touch, every moment, every gasp of air. He denies you what you crave until you are shaking, pleading. Until you forget your own name and can only sob his. He listens to your every breath, your every sound, adjusting, fine-tuning, perfecting the torment he inflicts. And when he finally gives you what you need, it is overwhelming.

- He does not rest after. He remains awake, watching, waiting. He traces patterns over your skin, his expression unreadable. You ask him what he’s thinking, and he only tilts his head, gaze unwavering. Nothing. A lie. Everything.

- And when you sleep, he remains at your side, a silent sentinel, guarding the only thing in the universe he has ever allowed himself to keep.

Viltrum Mark / Viltrumincible

- He was raised with purpose. Raised to be strong, to be ruthless. To conquer, to rule, to win. There is no hesitation in him, no doubt. He knows what must be done, and he does it. Earth belongs to the Viltrum Empire. You belong to him. There is no question, no argument, no alternative. You are his Queen, his consort, his everything.

- And yet… there are moments. Small, quiet moments. A flicker of something behind his eyes when you say his name softly. A hesitation in his grip when his hands are rough against your skin. A sigh, barely audible, when he allows himself to rest against you. A part of him still remembers the boy he was before he chose power over love. Before he became this. He does not speak of it. He will not speak of it. But you see it all the same.

- When he takes you, it is with the force of a conqueror. His hands do not ask—they demand. His kisses are not gentle—they are devouring. He does not let you hide from him, does not let you breathe without his permission. You are mine, he growls against your throat, his body pressed against yours, unyielding, overwhelming. He does not need to hear you say it. He already knows.

- He does not tolerate weakness. Not in himself, not in you. If you dare to challenge him, if you dare to push, he meets you with force—pinning you down, forcing obedience from your lips, making you submit with teeth and tongue and hands that refuse to let go. And yet, there is a thrill in it. In the way he wants you to fight, to resist, just so he can remind you who you belong to.

- When it is over, he does not move. His arms remain around you, his breath warm against your shoulder. He does not speak, does not soften. But his grip tightens, just for a moment. As if he is afraid. As if he knows that, despite everything, you are still the only thing he cannot afford to lose.

- And so, he does not lose you. He will not. If the Viltrum Empire demanded it, if his father ordered it, if the entire universe conspired against him—he would burn it all before he let you go.

Omni-Mark / Omnivincible

- He is cold. Detached. The world means nothing to him. His past means nothing to him. Even his own name is an afterthought. He does not care for nostalgia, does not waste time on regret. He has seen too much, lost too much. Love is a weakness, attachment a liability. And yet—you.

- You are the one thing he cannot ignore. The one thing he cannot abandon. He tells himself it is not love. He tells himself it is possession, a claim, a consequence of habit. But even he is not so deluded. He needs you. And that terrifies him.

- He does not speak of his feelings. He does not tell you he loves you. Instead, he shows it in the way he keeps you close. In the way he stands at your side, unwavering, even when it would be easier to let you fall. In the way he touches you—not with passion, not with desperation, but with certainty. As if you are the only thing in existence that he will allow himself to have.

- When he fucks you, it is methodical. Efficient. Every movement is controlled, every touch calculated. And yet, there are moments—brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible—where the control slips. A sharp breath, a tremor in his hands, a growl that is just a little too raw. He buries them quickly, forces them down, but you notice. And it is in those moments that you understand—he is afraid of how much he feels.

- After, he does not speak. He does not hold you. He does not linger. He watches. As if waiting for something. As if expecting you to vanish. And when you do not, when you remain at his side, when you reach for him with hands that are too warm, too soft, too human—he exhales. A slow, quiet thing. As if he has been holding his breath for years.

- He will never say it. He will never admit it. But you know. You are the only thing in the universe that he has not abandoned. The only thing he will never let go. And if the world burns because of that—so be it.

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kissitbttr · 2 years ago

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miguel can’t help it when you’re wearing his clothes

summary: miguel o’hara x f!reader

warning: 18+ stuff but not too overboard

miguel is trying really hard to concentrate. he really is.

being a superhero and the leader of spider society is not an easy task. sometimes he’d go days without sleeping. you can either find him at his office or the gym doing his daily workouts because that’s the only place he can take his stress out.

days of scanning over reports and the hours he put in to enhance the new spiderman suit should not go to waste. his eyes are tracking back and forth to the amount of papers scatter all over the table. not to mention a kid he has to take care of named ‘miles morales’ added to his list is almost enough to make his brain explode.

but how could he focus on his work when you’re standing five feet away from him? fixing yourself up a small snack in the kitchen with nothing but his t-shirt and his boxers.

his greedy eyes running through your body shamelessly, finding himself getting lost in his thoughts and he has to snap himself out of it a few times otherwise he won’t be able to finish off all the reports that must be done that night.

yet, he can’t help but admire the way your curves are accentuated by his shorts. how your thick thighs and plump ass filling them in instead of it being too big on you. the way your soft cheeks are slightly peeking underneath the grey cotton material,

he grunts a low ‘fuck me’ when he sees you bending over to put the cookies in the oven. are you doing this on purpose?

had enough of the distraction you’re giving, he slams a folder down and turns his attention on you. “mi vida, can you please don’t stand like that?”

“huh?” you cock an eyebrow, confused to what makes this grumpy man scolding you at this hour. “what’d i do?” you crane your neck to look over at him, with a frown look on his handsome features.

“you! ay dios mio you’re making me hard to focus here! i have so much work to do and you’re being a distraction.”

licking off a cookie dough off your finger, you put your hands on your hips. “how am i being distracting?! I’m literally just standing here making cookies!”

“you know what it does to me when you’re wearing my clothes, mami. I can’t control it. please please stand at least ten feet away.”

“oh?” your voice sounds playful. a small smirk graces upon your lips as you tip toe around the counter to get closer to him.

he knows what you’re up to.

shaking his head in disapproval, he put his large hand up and looking away. “para por favor, cariño. i know what you’re about to do and i cannot afford any distractions right now. stay right where you are.”

“hmm, no.” you giggle, walking towards where he is and you can hear him groan slightly. “whatchu doooing?”

he smiles a bit at that. no matter what you do, he can’t get mad at you. it feels like you put a spell on him or something, he can’t work it out. but he doesn’t complain at all.

he’d break jaws and tear down the fucking universe for you.

he admires the way your thighs rub against each other when you walk, jiggling slightly before you manage to sit yourself comfortably beside him. tucking your legs underneath your butt and make your legs look even thicker

miguel lean himself back a little while his fingers go up against your cheek, grazing it ever so softly. his smile grows when you peck him on the lips.

“how you doing, papi?” you ask, removing a strand of hair from his forehead. “are you feeling okay? you’ve been working far too hard lately, I’m worried.”

he sighs in pure bliss when you run your fingers softly underneath his scalp. feeling himself melt away against your touch.

“always better when you’re around me, mi amor. but you know you can’t be wearing that anymore when I’m working.”

he has to hold back the urge to pick you up and fuck you against the wall when you pout at him.

“you like seeing me in your clothes”

“que sí, baby. but your ass is distracting me far too much in that when I’m working, you know how i get when i see you wearing my boxers. I can’t contain it.” he responds, large hand coming up to rub your exposed thigh, finger toying with the loose hem of his shorts,

“theeen, maybe it’s a sign you should take a break” you suggest, tilting your head lightly. “come play with me, miggy,”

he swears he almost cum right there and then when you say it.

“i will, baby. i promise. but i gotta finish this first, yeah?” his eyes bore into yours as he promises. he wants so badly to leave his work but he knows he can’t. not right now.

with a small huff, you nod. “fine. I’ll wait.”

“good girl.” he leans forward to kiss you again on the lips. “just a few more minutes, yeah?”

“yeah yeah.” you say, “don’t forget to eat. please don’t skip it this time. dinner is on the table, I’ve prepared it for you. also there’s some leftover brownies for dessert if you want it, papi.”

“what do you mean? I’m looking at my full course meal right now, cariño.”

you roll your eyes playfully, blushing a bit as you smile at him. he’s giving you that infamous smirk of his with his eyebrow raising. showing you he’s not playing when he says that,

“aish. such a sweet talker you are. be quick baby” you shake your head, standing up from the couch before heading to the bedroom with your fingers fixing down his shorts to cover it more. your ass moves from side to side as he watches.

god, he fucking loves to see you walk away.

a/n: i will give him kids enough to create a football team

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara blurbs

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h0efor2ho · 2 months ago

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Professor! Mingyu X Reader

TW : Professor student relationship ( Gyu is 27, reader is 20 ) power dynamics, moral struggles, exhibitionism, fingering, oral (f) vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, slight degrading, use of names ( good girl, slut, whore ) slight spit play and slight choking

WC : 5.2k ( oops )

Honestly its trash I got the idea and I just ran with it

You sit in the first row, front and center, your eyes glued to your professor's lips as he lectures your class on Kant's Categorical Imperative. His words a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of your heart. It was no secret that Professor Kim Mingyu was the hottest thing on campus. At only 27 years old he had already earned a PhD in philosophy and ethics, and secured a tenure-track position. Everyone wondered if he was some sort of prodigy. His sharp intelligence was matched only by his effortless charm. He had that kind of allure that made students hang onto every word he said—half because his lectures were genuinely fascinating, and half because his voice was deep and smooth, like velvet.

Today, dressed in a fitted black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing toned forearms, hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it on his way to class. His intense eyes, dark behind the thick rimmed glasses perched on his nose, make it impossible to focus on anything but him. When he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle, giving him a warmth that balance's out the razor-sharp brilliance in his gaze.

You weren’t immune to his appeal. No one was, really, not even the men in your class. But you were also one of the top students in his class, which meant your interactions were always professional. Respectful. Controlled. Still, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle way his attention lingered whenever you spoke, how he seemed to genuinely listen. Something you weren’t sure he did with everyone else. Whenever he said your name, his voice seemed to always soften, like it was just for you.

Your dresses and skirts became shorter and shorter. It was shameless, maybe even reckless. But the way his gaze would flicker toward you, just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. It made it all feel worth it. You’d catch him looking sometimes, a subtle break in his composure before he redirected his focus elsewhere. Today, you’d chosen a black dress that hugged your curves just right, its hem brushing dangerously high against your thighs. You’d told yourself it was for confidence, dressing well always made you feel sharper, more in control. But deep down, you couldn’t deny the thrill of wanting his attention.

As he paces back and forth, delivering his lecture to the class. His long fingers absentmindedly twirling a pen, when he drops it. Bending down to retrieve it he looks up. Pausing mid sentence, the words stalling on his lips as he is eye level with your open legs. Your pretty blue panties on display from under your desk. You shift in your seat, rubbing your thighs together, feeling the dampness between them. He notices, his gaze lingering before he clears his throat and continues. You can't help but smile, knowing you've gotten to him. He takes a seat at his desk, his eyes dart around the room, attempting to refocus on the lesson at hand. However, his gaze keeps drifting back to you, his pupils slightly dilated. You pretend to focus, scribbling notes with the enthusiasm of a star pupil, but your mind is elsewhere. The subtle adjustments he makes to his position, trying to discreetly shift in his seat, betray his efforts to compose himself.

He looks anything but comfortable. His fingers tap restlessly against the tabletop, the pen now forgotten beside his laptop. The knowledge that you've caught his attention, and that he's struggling to maintain his professional demeanor, sends a thrill through you. The lecture ends, but you don’t rush to leave. Not today. Not when you know you’ve stirred something beneath his calm, composed exterior. "Y/N Could you stay behind a moment" you hear his smooth voice callout from behind you.

You feel a shiver run down your spine as you hear his voice. You slowly gather your things, taking your time to pack up your notes and books, all the while aware of his eyes on you. You turn facing him, watching as he holds the door open for the last remaining students to exit before closing it behind them. It shuts with a harsh click, the tumblers locking in place, before he goes back to his desk and his chair. You make your way to join him at his desk. You move with a deliberate slowness, your hips swaying slightly as you walk, and you can't help but notice the way his eyes follow you. You come to stand next to him, your hip resting against the hard wood of the desk. "What can I do for you, Professor?" you ask, your voice low and husky. The air is thick with tension, and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you, like a physical touch.

His eyes never leave yours, and you can see the intensity of his gaze, like a burning flame that threatens to consume you. He leans forward in his chair, his movements slow and deliberate, resting his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers together. "I think you know why your here," he says, his voice low. "You've been a very... distracting student, to say the least." He pauses, his eyes roaming over your body, like he's drinking in the sight of you, before being pulled back up to lock onto yours, like a magnet drawing you in. "Distracted professor? By what?" you fake innocence. “Your playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs “You think you can toy and, see how far I’ll bend before I break?”

You step closer, the distance between you now just a whisper. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t notice the way you look at me.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Your testing my patience.” he growls “And what happens if they run out?” you challenge. For a moment, your sure he’s going to pull away, regain that cool professionalism he hides behind so well. But instead, his voice drops to something rough and jagged. “Then I do something I’ll regret.” You smile at him, "Would you? Regret it that is" you ask in a sticky sweet voice. “Leave,” he says abruptly, his voice cracking like a whip. But his gaze doesn’t match the command. It lingers on you, conflicted and wanting. “Before I forget every reason I shouldn’t.” "By all means Professor" you whisper "Please forget"

For a moment, he just stares at you, caught between fury and desire. Then, before you can blink, he’s standing up and leaning in, his hands braced on the desk beside you, caging you in.“Careful,” he warns, his breath hot against your ear. “Because if I give you what your asking for, there’s no going back.” He whispers “Maybe I don’t want to go back,” you say back, your gaze meeting his, bold and unyielding. The air between you is electric, thick with tension and everything you’ve both left unsaid. “Prove it,” he murmurs, as his hand comes up to slide in between your thighs.

You feel a jolt of electricity run through your body. His touch is like a spark, igniting a flame that threatens to consume you. You try to maintain your facade of innocence, but it's clear that he's not buying it. His eyes seem to bore into yours, like he can see right through you. "Don't play coy with me now," Mingyu says. "I think we both know what's going on here." His hand moves higher, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You feel a shiver run down your spine as he touches you, his fingers sending waves of pleasure through your body. "Your a very attractive young woman," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm a man who appreciates beauty." His hand moves higher, his fingers grazing against the edge of your panties. You feel a rush of excitement. Your not sure where this is going, but your not sure you want it to stop. "And I think your attracted to me too," he says, his voice confident. "Am I right?" His eyes seem to dare you to deny it, to lie to him. But you can't. Your drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. And your not sure you want to escape. His fingers more higher to your cloth covered center. His tips grazing against the wet spot that has formed throughout class. "Yeah I knew I was right"

As his fingers press against the wet spot on your panties, you feel a surge of embarrassment mixed with arousal. Your face heating under his touch. His eyes seem to gleam with triumph, like he's proven a point. "Yeah, I knew I was right," he repeats, as he applies gentle pressure to the wet spot. You feel a shiver run down your spine as he touches you, his fingers sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your not sure what to do, or how to react, but your body seems to be responding on its own. You feel yourself leaning into his touch, your hips tilting forward, as if inviting him to explore further. His eyes never leave yours, and you can see the desire burning in them, like a flame that's growing stronger by the second. "Your so responsive," he says, his voice full of wonder, as he continues to touch you. His fingers move in a slow, circular motion, applying gentle pressure to the wet spot, and you feel yourself getting more and more turned on. "And I think it's time we discussed the... extracurricular activities that I have in mind for you." The air is thick with tension, and you can feel the weight of his words, like a promise of something to come. "Extracurricular activities?" you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mingyu's eyes seem to gleam with amusement, and he leans in closer. "Yes, my dear," he says, "I have certain... expectations of you, outside of the classroom. Expectations that I think you'll find... enlightening." His fingers continue to move in slow, circular motions, applying gentle pressure to the wet spot on your panties. Your not sure what he's proposing, but you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the prospect. "What kind of expectations?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as you try to sound calm despite the turmoil of emotions inside you. Mingyu's eyes never leave yours, and you can see the desire burning in them, like a flame that's growing stronger by the second. "Oh, I think you can guess," he says, "I want to explore this... attraction between us, further. And I think you want that too." His words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel yourself leaning into his touch, inviting him to explore further. His finger coming to where your panties and your body meet. Sliding under the fabric back to your slick folds. "Your so wet" he says.

You feel a jolt of pleasure run through your body. His touch is like electricity. "Your so so wet," he repeats, his voice full of wonder, as he explores your folds with his finger. You feel your body responding to his touch. His finger moves in slow, gentle motions, tracing the contours of your folds, and you feel yourself melting into his touch. Your not sure what's happening, or where this is going, but you can't help but feel drawn to him. "I know you want this," he says, his voice low as he continues to explore your body. "I know you want me." His words are like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, and you feel yourself rising to the occasion. You look into his eyes, and you see the desire burning there, You feel yourself getting lost in those eyes, drowning in the depths of his desire. "Yes," you whisper, your voice barely audible, "I want this. I want you please"

As you whisper the words his touch becomes more insistent. His finger delves deep into your aching hole. Stroking your sensitive walls, and you feel yourself arching into his touch. Your lost in the sensation of his fingers in your body, and the desire burning in his eyes. He leans in closer, his face inches from your mouth and you can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. "I want you too," he whispers, as he continues to move his finger in and out of you. "I want to feel you, to taste you, to be inside you." His words are like a promise, a vow of the pleasure to come. He leans in ghosting his lips over yours before pulling back suddenly, removing his wet fingers from your pussy. Gripping your hips and lifting, placing you on his desk, before sitting back down in his seat. Pushing your legs open he is now eye level with your sopping wet cunt. His hands gliding up the outside of your legs till hes pushing your dress up to your hips. Hooking his fingers into the waist of your panties and in one motion is pulling them down and off your legs, before throwing them in his desk drawer.

Your now completely exposed to him, your wet cunt on full display. He looks at you with a hungry gaze, drinking in the sight of your naked body. You can see the desire burning in his eyes, as he leans forward, his face inches from your pussy. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. His hands glide up the inside of your legs, pushing them wide, you feel yourself shivering with anticipation. He looks up at you, his eyes locking onto yours. "I want to taste you," he whispers, his voice husky, as he leans in closer to your pussy. His tongue extends, and he licks your wet folds, sending a jolt through your body, arching your back and tilting your hips forward, trying to get you closer to his mouth. He continues to lick and suck your pussy, his tongue moving in slow, gentle motions, and you feel yourself melting into his touch.

He buries his face in your cunt, his tongue licking and sucking your clit. You can't hold back your moans, your hips bucking against his mouth. You feel him slip two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out as he continues to lick your clit. "You taste so fucking good," he murmurs, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that sweet spot. You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. His fingers curl inside you, and you feel a wave of pleasure wash over you. Your on the verge of coming, and you can feel your body tensing up, preparing for the release, when suddenly, he stops. His mouth and fingers still, and he looks up at you with a hungry gaze. "I want to see you come," he says. "I want to see you lose control." You feel a surge of excitement at his words, and you know that your not going to be able to hold back for much longer, it's only a matter of time before you come.

He starts to move his fingers again, pumping them in and out of you, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge. You couldn't keep quiet if you wanted to, your hips bucking against his hand, meeting his fingerd as they push into you, trying to get closer to the sensation. You watch him lean forward as he spits on your clit before his other hand comes up to rub pressured circles into your nerve. That's all it takes, suddenly, your coming, your body exploding in a wave of pleasure as he continues to work his fingers in and out of your cunt. Your walls contract around his fingers, and you feel yourself squirting, your juices flowing out of you like a fountain, all over his hand. The sound of your loud moans bounces off the walls of the room, and you can feel the vibrations of your own voice as you cry out in pleasure. He's still rubbing pressured circles into your clit, and you can feel the sensation building up again, even as your still coming down from the peak of your orgasm. Your completely at his mercy, unable to do anything but ride out the wave of pleasure that's crashing over you.

"Good Girl" he says as he slows his fingers, letting you catch your breath and calm down. But you can tell that he's not done with you yet, he's still hungry for more. He looks up at you, He pulls his fingers out of you, and up to his mouth, licking his fingers, tasting your juices and savoring the flavor of your cum. You watch him, mesmerized, as he licks his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Leaning back down, without breaking eye contact with you he licks you from your entrance to your clit one last time. "God you taste so good I could eat you for hours" he says as he licks his lips. With out warning hes standing and looming over you. Your back pressed into the hard wood of his desk. Ever so slowly he leans down, his hands coming to your shoulders. Gently taking your dress straps in his fingers he tugs them down your arms just as his lips meet yours. The kiss is hot and demanding and makes your body heat.

Your legs wrap around his waist as you deepen the kiss. You feel yourself melting into the kiss, your body heating up as his tongue explores your mouth. Trapped between his body and the desk, with no escape from the sensation of his lips on yours, his hands sliding down your body, or the very evident bulge in his pants pressed against your core. Suddenly, he breaks away from the kiss. "I want you," he says, his voice low . "I want you now." And with that, he starts to pull your dress down, his hands moving slowly and deliberately as he exposes your skin. Your dress slides down with his pull, till its pooled around your waist. Your chest fully exposed to him. "Fuck, no bra to" he rasps out. "Such a naughty fucking girl. Your just begging to be fucked huh?"

As to answer him, you roll your hips against the hardening cock in his pants. "Yes professor, I am begging to be fucked" you say "Begging to be fucked by you. So please fuck me" He lets out a growl as one hand comes to your throat and grasps it. His large palm wraps around it easily, and you can feel the gentle pressure of his fingers on your skin. The other hand going to his belt. You watch as he furiously tugs at the fastenings, his movements swift and urgent. His slacks slide down his thighs, hitting the floor with a clank, and you can see the bulge of his cock straining against his boxer briefs. His eye rack down your body, taking all of your exposed flesh in. "You are so fucking beautiful. I'm going to enjoy every inch of this body. I'm going to lick and suck and fuck you until your exhausted and satisfied, and then I'm going to do it all again."

You respond by rolling your hips against him again, he releases a groan from deep in his chest at the feeling. His hand going to the band of his boxers and tugging them down. His cock springs out, hard and erect and the pretty red tip already glistening in the low light of the room. You gasp at the sight, and you can feel your body responding to the sight of him. He's huge and your not sure if you can take him, but at the same time, your desperate to feel him inside you. You roll your hips against him again, and he releases a groan from deep in his chest. His hand comes to your waist, and he pulls you closer to him, his cock sliding through your slick folds. "Your so wet and ready for me, aren't you?" he rasps out leaning down, his lips brushing against your ear, and you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "Your mine now, and I'm going to do whatever I want to you. Your going to be my little slut, and your going to love every minute of it."

Pulling back he pushes your legs up and open, the tip of his dick settled against your wet pussy entrance. Your trapped between his body and the desk, with no escape from the sensation of his cock pressing against your opening. "just remember you asked for this dressing like a little attention whore" Without warning hes slamming his hips forward, driving his hard cock deep into you. A scream rips from your throat, he's thick and long and you feel like your being stretched to your limit to accommodate his size. Your hands grip his arms, leaving little half moon's in his flesh from your nails. You cant help the sound you make as he bottoms out in you. He gives you a moment to adjust to him before he starts to move. His hips set a brutal pace, pounding into you. His cock is sliding in and out of you, and you can feel the friction and the heat building up inside you. Your getting closer and closer to the edge, and you know that it's only a matter of time before you come. His hand comes up to cup your face "Shhh good girl" he says as he watches his cock slide in and out of your cunt "Taking my cock so well, like this little pussy was made for me" You feel a sense of pride and pleasure at being able to please him.

Your not sure how much longer you can hold on when suddenly hes pulling out of you. You involuntary let out a whimper at the lose of his cock " Aww dont worry baby" he says. Before you can even process what's happening, he flips you over. Your bare chest pressed to the cold wood of the desk, your hips digging into the edge as he kicks your legs apart. He grasps both your ass cheeks in each hand and spreads you wide open for him. You feel the tip of his cock push into you slowly this time from behind. Stretching you open, pushing in deep, hitting places he couldnt before. His hands are holding your ass cheeks apart, and his fingers digging into your skin as he starts to move. His hips picking up speed with each thrust till he is pounding against you.

Your moaning and screaming, and you can feel your orgasm building up inside you. Your not sure how much longer you can hold on as he continues to fuck you from behind. "Fuck look at you" he seethes "Wrapped so tight around my cock" The sensation of his cock sliding in and out of you, combined with the sound of his voice is too much to handle. You feel like your being pushed over the edge, your body tensing up, your muscles are contracting, and you can feel the heat pooling in your stomach. "You gonna cum again for me baby?" He asks through gritted teeth "You gonna squirt all over my cock for me" Suddenly, he reaches around and starts to rub your clit, and after a few swipes its game over. Screaming as the orgasm rips through your body, you feel the gush of warm liquid leave you.

"Fuck yes" he grunts out, still fucking into your wet cunt "Just like that baby, cover my cock in your juice" You feel like your losing control, like your body is taking over and your just along for the ride. Your walls are contracting, squeezing around his cock, legs now shaking as you sob, your face pressed into the cool surface of the desk. As he continues to fuck you, his thrusts become more erratic. You know that he's getting close. He's grunting and groaning, and you can feel the tension building up inside him, his grip on your hip tightening to a bruising hold. Suddenly, he lets out a loud groan, and you feel his cock twitching inside you, filling you up with ropes of his cum. He ruts into you, fucking his cum deep in you before he collapses ontop of you.

His cock is still twitching inside you, and you can feel his cum dripping out of you, sliding down your thighs. Your still sobbing, your face pressed into the surface of the desk, your legs twitching. You feel his chest heaving, his heart pounding, his breath hot against your skin. Slowly, he starts to stir, lifting his head, placing gentle kisses to your shoulder and back "Are you okay" he asks solftly. "mhm" is all you can muster with a small nod of your head. He pulls away and slowly pulls out of you. You let out a hiss at the pain of emptiness. His hand rubbing small cirlces on your hip. Your body is exhausted, your still shaking and trembling as he helps you up, turning you around to face him. He cups your face with both of his large hands, eyes searching yours before leaning in to kiss you.

As he kisses you, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. His lips are soft and gentle. Your still shaking and trembling, but his kiss seems to be soothing you, calming you down. You feel his hands on your face, his fingers wrapped around your jaw, holding you in place. Pulling back, his eyes are searching yours, looking for something, but your not sure what. You try to focus on him, to look back at him, but your eyes are still blurry from the tears. As he pulls back from the kiss, you see a look of concern on his face. "Are you okay?" he asks again, his voice soft and gentle. You nod, trying to reassure him. He looks at you for a long moment, before he nods and pulls you into a hug. As you stand there, wrapped in his arms, you feel a sense of connection to him. You know you wont be able to go back to how things were before.

Slowly, he starts to pull back, looking at you with a smile on his face. "Your beautiful," he says, his voice low. "Your so beautiful." You feel a blush rise to your cheeks, and you look down, feeling a sense of shyness.He just laughs and fingers on your chin to make you look at him. "Don't get all shy now," he says. "Not after i just had my cock buried in your pussy" You feel a surge of embarrassment at his words, and you try to look away again. But he's still holding your chin, forcing you to look at him. You see a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Don't be shy," he says again, "Your mine now, and I've seen every inch of you. I've been inside you, and I've felt you come apart around me. You don't have to be shy with me." He leans in closer, his face inches from yours. "I think your beautiful," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think your stunning, and I want to see more of you. I want to explore every inch of your body, and I want to make you feel things you've never felt before."

You feel a shiver run down your spine at his words, and you know that your in trouble. "Now I think you should pull this dress back on and hurry on home to your dorm before you have to explain why your here so late" he says in a teasing tone. You feel a mix of emotions as you process his words. On one hand, you know he's right, you can't stay here forever, and you definitely don't want to get caught by his colleagues. But on the other hand, you can't help but feel a little rejected, like your being dismissed after being used for his pleasure. You take a deep breath and try to composed yourself, pulling your dress back on and smoothing out any wrinkles. You look around on the floor for a very important piece of clothing.

"Uhm where did my underwear go?" you ask in a small voice. "Oh these" he says, reaching into a drawer to pull out your blue lace panties. You take a few steps to grab them, but at the last second he lifts them up above his head way out of your reach. You feel a surge of frustration as he holds your underwear out of your reach. You try to grab them, but he's too tall and too quick. Your forced to stand there, feeling helpless, as he teases you with your own panties. "Hey" you say "Give them back" Your already feeling a little rejected and used, and now he's taking your underwear as some kind of trophy. He just smiles at you. "Oh no your not getting these back" he smiles "See these are coming home with me. I need something to wrap around my cock as i jerk off to thoughts of you tonight. You can get them back when you come over after your class tomorrow night, After you take the test your going to go home and study for tonight"

"Give them back," you say, trying to sound firm. He just smiles at you, his eyes glinting with amusement. "No way," he says, his voice teasing. "These are mine now. And like I said, you can get them back tomorrow night. But for now, I'm going to take them home and think about you." You groan "And what am I supposed to wear home tonight?" you ask "Nothing" he says "I want you to feel my cum running down your thighs, remind you who you belong to. Besides I'm driving you home, maybe I want easy access to that sweet pussy" "That's not funny," you say, trying to sound stern, "I need my underwear back." He just chuckles, taking slow steps till hes toe to toe with you "No, you don't. Your going to go home, feeling my cum inside you, and thinking about me. That's what your going to do. I'm taking these home and using them to cum over and over thinking about what Im gonna do to you tomorrow"

He reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch sends shivers down your spine. "We crossed a line and now your mine," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "And tomorrow night, I'm going to prove it to you." As he steps back and gestures for you to follow him, "Now lets go you have a exam to study for" You glare at him before letting out a huff "Fine, lets go" you say as you walk past him toward the door. He lets out a small laugh behind you "Good girl" You try and act mad, but truth is your thrilled. As you glance over at him, you can't help but feel a sense of anticipation and excitement for what's to come.

#mingyu x reader #seventeen mingyu #mingyu seventeen #kim mingyu #mingyu #svt mingyu #mingyu smut #mingyu x y/n #mingyu hard hour #mingyu hard hours #svt smut #seventeen smut #kpop smut #professor mingyu #professor smut #mingyu seventeen smut

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dephoraowo · 7 months ago

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You should read these metas if you want to understand why Jiang Cheng is in the wrong.

This is by @jiangwanyinscatmom, and it talks about how Wei Wuxian deals with the debt he has for the Jiangs.

This is by @kshithi-and-stories. This meta explains the importance of debts and morals. It is a beautifully written meta and I'd suggest everyone take a look at it!

I've got another one here. It's by @admirableadmiranda and it's a meta explaining about Jiang Cheng and his debts.

Here is another good meta on debts by @esoteric-oracle. It talks about how important life debts are in mdzs and how repaying it reflects your own character.

Jiang Cheng is obligated to repay his debts. We don't expect Jiang Cheng to sacrifice everything for the Wen siblings. We, as the readers, know that all Jiang Cheng has to do to repay his debts is by repeating what the Wen siblings did for him. Like you know, sheltering him from danger? He just needs to shelter them. That's literally the bare minimum that he has to do.

And the reason Jiang Cheng doesn't want to is because he hates all Wens. It's as simple as that. Jiang Cheng hates them, even though they risked their lives to save Jiang Cheng that night. And this hate is unjustified. Why hate those that saved you? They didn't hurt anyone in the war.

Also, I have seen many discourse on this before, such as "the Jiang Clan was recovering" or "Jiang Cheng just wanted to prioritise his own clan." The Jiang Clan was flourishing because of Wei Wuxian's accomplishments during the war. Disciples were flocking into the clan, and they had the most spoils of war. The Clan was most certainly not weak. Another evidence for this is the Jin Clan. Do you know why the Jins wanted to separate Wei Wuxian from the clan? Because the Jins know that Wei Wuxian is the reason the clan is so powerful. The Jins felt threatened by the Jiang Clan. So they purposely drove Jiang Cheng into kicking Wei Wuxian out.

Jiang Cheng doesn't really care about his clan, not in the way that you think. He only cares about the clan's reputation, its looks. We can see that throughout the entire book. He, unfortunately, does not care about the safety of his people. We can see this in Yunping City. The people in Yunping are so scared of asking him for help. They'd rather pray to a statue than ask Yunmeng Jiang. Jiang Cheng himself doesn't like taking cases in Yunmeng unless someone has already died. Not only that, but the Jiang Clan under Jiang Cheng's leadership became a former husk compared to what it once was, as shown in the novel when they returned to Lotus Pier after the second siege.

Also, I know for certain that there are gonna be people saying that Jiang Cheng also risked his life to give up his core for Wei Wuxian. And that's not true. Jiang Cheng distracted the Wens yes. But do you remembered his reaction after that? Jiang Cheng regretted it. Because he didn't expect that he would lose his golden core. That's why he was so hellbent on dying. He would never distract the Wens again if he knew he was going to lose his core.

Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, does repay his debts. He repayed his his debts to the Jiangs by:

1. Serving the Jiang Clan (Serving as Head Disciple and by serving as Jiang Cheng's subordinate)

2.. Protecting Jiang Cheng. (Ordered by JFM and YZY)

3. Giving up his golden core. (In Jiang Cheng’s point of view, a boon from Baoshan Sanren)

4. Serving the Jiangs during the war. (Because of this, the Jiang Clan could claim the most spoils of war and there were so many disciples flocking to the clan)

5. Serving the Jiangs after the war. (Jiang Cheng asked Wei Wuxian to go to the Phoenix Mountain Hunt to show off and gain more disciples. And Wei Wuxian did do so.)

6. When he sheltered the Wens, he was also helping Jiang Cheng with Jiang Cheng's own debt to the Wen siblings.

The thing about Jiang Cheng is that not only did he not do anything to help the ones that helped him, but he also went as far as to harm them! He declared Wei Wuxian an enemy to the cultivation world, thus painting a target onto his back officially. He stabbed Wei Wuxian in the gut. A stab in the gut could have killed anyone, core or no core. Then he pledged to kill the Wen remnants and Wei Wuxian. And he led a siege against them. Which ultimately led to their deaths. He also conveniently led a 2nd siege, too.

Wei Wuxian DID sacrifice everything for the Jiangs. He was willing to:

1. Endure all of Jiang Cheng's insults and disrespect and his mistreatment in the Jiang household to become Jiang Cheng's subordinate

2. Take the blame whenever he, Jiang Cheng, and the rest of the disciples were misbehaving

3. Lose an arm for the clan

4. Be whipped to prevent the clan from being harmed by Wang Lingjiao

5. Be unjustly blamed by Yu Ziyuan and Jiang Cheng for what happened at Lotus Pier.

6. Be choked so that Jiang Cheng could let off some steam.

7. Give away his own golden core/immortal's boon for Jiang Cheng.

8. Die for a way to give Jiang Cheng a chance to live with a core

9. Be used as the Jiang Clan's weapon during the war

10. Be used to promote the Jiang Clan after the war.

11. Be exiled so that the Clan wouldn't be affected by whatever he did

12. Sacrifice his own status and reputation (which was sort of horrible to begin with).

Wei Wuxian sacrificed EVERYTHING that he had (which isn't a lot to begin with) for the Jiangs, and it ultimately led to his downfall.

Jiang Cheng DID NOT sacrifice everything. The only time he did (which is so less compared to Wei Wuxian) is when he distracted the Wens. But the moment he lost his core, he was ready to die and started choking Wei Wuxian a second time for it. He regretted doing it. After this incident, he never helped Wei Wuxian again because he didn't want any sort of inconvenience. He is clan heir, he has money and power, he has status, he has a strong clan to rely on. Even if he doesn't have a core, he still has all of this. Wei Wuxian has none! The only thing that Wei Wuxian has that is all HIS is the "boon" from Baoshan sanren, and he gave it away to Jiang Cheng! (And no, Wei Wuxian's reputation and status is not his, it's something that he has only when he does the Jiangs bidding. You will notice that once he is kicked out he doesn't have anything anymore, no money, no status, nothing.)

Wei Wuxian did so much for the clan, for Jiang Cheng, and yet he has never asked for anything in return. Wei Wuxian never went up to Jiang Cheng and said how much does your father owe my mother? How much have I done for the Jiang Clan and how are you going to repay that? You remembered that core inside of you? How are you going to repay that? Wei Wuxian never did any of this. Unlike Jiang Cheng, he was never going on and on about what kind of debt anyone owes him.

The hypocritical thing about Jiang Cheng is this. He did so little in comparison to Wei Wuxian, and yet he still wants more. Wei Wuxian contributed so much for the Jiangs, and yet he asked for so little. The hypocritical thing about Jiang Cheng is that while he cares so much about the debt that Wei Wuxian has for the Jiangs, (which btw, he doesn't really owe the Jiangs anything, JFM owed CSSR a debt, and he repaid it by taking WWX in), he never once thought about repaying his own debts. It's always about him him him and never about anyone else. He's always going on and on about his family, his clan, his reputation, and his everything, to be honest with you. That kind of thinking is so self-centered. He has never once stopped to think about repaying his own debts. He's always thinking about how OTHER PEOPLE should repay HIM. That is what makes Jiang Cheng such a hypocritical, ungrateful person.

So let me get this straight, JC antis fully expect him to risk and sacrifice everything—from his personal moral duty, to the entire Jiang Clan’s survival—to repay his debt to the Wen siblings. But when JC expects the same from Wwx, suddenly it's “wrong,” “selfish,” and “entitled” for JC to do so? Y'all antis love to ignore the fact that Wwx owes a huge debt to the Jiang Clan, who save him, take him in, and raise him to be a cultivator.

If JC is expected to sacrifice everything bc of a debt, then the same should be applied to Wwx, he should also be expected to give up everything, including his own high and mighty morals to repay the Jiang Clan for everything they did for him. But no, apparently when it’s Wwx, it’s okay for him to follow his personal principles and abandon his obligations.

And before y'all start whining about the golden core transfer, let’s take a moment to remember why Jiang Cheng lost his core in the first place. Oh, right—it's bc of Wwx. JC sacrificed himself when he didn’t owe Wwx a damn thing, he did it out of pure love and loyalty. So if you’re going to cry abt JC being ungrateful for not bending over backward to repay his debts, then guess what? Wei Wuxian is just as every bit as ungrateful, if not worse than JC for spitting on the debt he owed to the Jiangs.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #fandom hypocrisy indeed #perhaps the one who is illiterate and doesnt have reading comprehension is you?#like im not hating but the way you justify jc not helping other people is kind of scary #if jc were a person in real life no one would want to get close to him #he is a bad person and mxtx deliberately wrote him like that for a reason you know #if you really wanted wwx to serve jc forever then he would have to do jc every bidding #so if jc wanted wwx to give up the wen remnants to the camps for mistreatment again he has no choice but to do it??#can you see how warped your way of thinking is?#which is morally good #wwx saving innocents by breaking his promise to jc #or wwx putting the wens back so that he wouldnt break his promise to jc #you honestly tell me which one is better #wwx did the right thing rather than bending over some promise/debt that forced him to do something morally bad

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sheepispink · 3 months ago

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by popular demand.... another angst no comfort fic. enjoy <3

SUPER SOLDIER!reader x lt ghost

you're just a freak of nature, an inhumane person with no morals and the higherups love to sing praises of your work. he hates it, and so he breaks you, albeit not quite in the way he thought it would happen

PART TWO Series Masterlist

AO3 VER

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A born and bred weapon, that’s how they described you, the perfect asset crafted only for war. It was all you knew, your entire purpose and your only being. Not many know how you came to be, nor do they care much, just aware that no matter how hard they try, you will always be better than them. Your sight is honed to catch the twitch of a lip, ears listening for the wind passing the wrong way and your hands? They’re primed for the perfect kill, fast reflexes that could catch the smallest fly between your fingertips– a tested and proven fact. You were everything the military dreamed of, the perfect person, tested to beat every flaw on the battlefield. Paraded around to the superiors, praised for your skills by every colonel as they scrutinised you down to the way you fix your helmet.

And what better of a person to test you with than Ghost, the ever elusive and stoic wall, known to be feared on the battlefield just for his mask?

When you were assigned to him three months ago, he had a vague idea of what to expect, assuming you to be like any other rookie he’s dealt with during his time as a lieutenant. Only likely stronger and probably cockier. So he stepped towards the car, eyes narrowing as he saw you being escorted in.. handcuffs. “What’s all of that for?” He raises a brow, and you only look between him and the man escorting you, oddly expressive with your wide eyes and bright face. Nothing like what the super soldier program described. “Just precautions, sir.” The soldier replies, passing Ghost the keys before climbing back into the truck once more.

“You’re Lieutenant Ghost? You sure do fit the description..”

He certainly did not expect your lips to quirk upwards like that, something akin to amusement on your face as you run your eyes up and down his form. For someone trained for war, you sure aren’t trained in respect. He tugs on your handcuffs, forcing you to stumble into a walk beside him as he turns toward base, not bothering to entertain your clear attitude any longer. “That’s Lieutenant to you, and it’d do you good to think before you speak.” Surprisingly, you only laugh that off, and he hates it, used to rookies bending under his whim, especially stuck-up ones like you.

Mornings start early, the second he wakes, so do you, although you head to the gym first whilst he goes to breakfast— you’re too proud to show your face, he thinks, and they probably have you on some special diet. When he finally joins you in the gym, it’s an hour later, and you still haven’t broken your morning run, keeping a steady pace. He doesn't bother speaking, and you don't wait for him to ask, walking over for your usual spar. It’s the usual every day, the way he doesn't let you get a single move in, constantly blocking off any move from you. He says it’s just for training, scoffs when you can’t push yourself back up even if you've told him that you’ve been designed for speed more than strength. You don’t complain; in some weird robotic way, you always pick yourself back up and carry on going.

This continues for the next few months; every mission he only feels his gut twist and turn as you kill without a second thought, his training only making you a better soldier and not a struggling mess like anyone else would be. It’s worse when you walk up to him, head tilted in expectancy. Your face is young, unlike your eyes, but you have a body too young to contain a killer. Every time he looks at you, he sees a rookie soldier, because that’s what your age usually is–it’s what you should’ve been. All he can really feel is disgust though, especially the inhumane way you smile after a job well done. How can you find joy in the copper smell that remains after you exit a room? How can you stand there and take any order dealt? It’s unnatural, and it makes him sick to think about.

“That’s enough.” He says firmly, heavy boots entering the room you had just cleared by yourself. He initially wasn’t sure on letting you do it on your own, but the scene of the bodies piled by your feet is proof enough of your capability. “So? Did I do well?” It sickens him how your lips begin to curve upwards, waiting for some sort of praise, some affirmation that he promised himself he’d never give, especially to you. “This was unnecessary.” He scoffs, pulling a knife out of a dead man’s throat and tossing it back to you, eyes raking over your bloodied form— never your own crimson. “You’re a mess.” He takes his radio, clicking the button as he gives the all clear and the rescued hostages start filing through, escorted by British soldiers. They all stare, right at you, their eyes piercing into your skin.

“It’s cold..” You murmur as you’re pushed outside, the cold air tingling your skin as he scoffs, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. He doesn't look too entertained, at least he looks grumpier than usual but at least he’s quieter than the usual times he’s angry with you. “Well, maybe if you could control yourself the hostages wouldn't crap themselves when they saw you.” He can't believe how you can just give him that oblivious look— he knows you’re not stupid, so why do you even try to act that way?

“Ghost?” He forces down the urge to roll his eyes up at you, half expecting you to ask for a damn heater at this point because of the torturous weather. He bets the higher ups would get mad at him if he ever tried duct taping your mouth, but the thought is tempting nonetheless. “What?”

“It’s my birthday this Saturday.” You begin, still staring at him from your position against the opposite wall. A helicopter whirrs nearby, slowly approaching for exfil. “Captain said I could have some time to celebrate.”

“So?” He nearly scoffs right then and there, looking at you with a raised brow. What? Are you trying to show off all your perks of being the best there is? He wouldn't be surprised if you had a mountain of gifts, or even given a medal for something. He doesn't know why you bother hiding it, he sees your shiny uniform every mission; he doesn't need a reminder of the favour you hold. Knowing you, they’d give you the whole weekend off while he still had paperwork to fill in.

“I was wondering if you’d come. The Captain said you’d be free.” He rolls his eyes, and lets out a long sigh, of course Price left him to babysit this devil on his off hours. He wouldn't be half surprised if he walked into your ‘party’ to see you receive some freakish torture device— it seemed like a gift you’d want. Likewise, he doubts it’s his scene anyway, with a bunch of soldiers likely hanging around wherever you plan to hold it.

“Sure, whatever kid, I’ll come.”

He reaches for a radio as the announcement of exfil echoes through, and you follow behind him as he leads you out of the building, only stopping when you step towards the helicopter. “You don't come in the helicopter, kid. Got a whole truck there for you.” Another soldier comes, leaving Ghost to walk away from you whilst you’re roughly pulled back, pushed into the back of a truck where you’re handcuffed in, left to the darkness to ride the journey alone.

He lets out a long sigh as he sits down finally, tired out of his mind, and now he has to deal with you even longer than he should.

————-

Saturday. You wake up early, five am. The gym is the first stop; you’re not allowed to eat until you earn the right. There’s no sparring on weekends, so you do a couple of exercises to make up for it, even if you’re not feeling as good as usual. It never matters.

Mess hall. The same table, the same breakfast— like clockwork you sit down at exactly seven am, the tray scraping against something. It’s a piece of paper, as always. You’ve stopped paying mind to it anymore, deciding it’s not best to waste any moment of your short-lived time on the insults scribbled across it. The porridge is cold, the chef behind the counter had swatted your scratched hands away before serving it for you, leaving a large gap at the top of the bowl. Fruit; it doesn't taste as good when you get the last apple, but it provides good nutrients for you and some sugars. Water; you’re not allowed coffee often because too much could damage you. That's what the scientists always instructed you anyway.

Whispers echo around the hall as you sit on your own, menial conversations occurring on the table behind you, others laughing near the door. There’s never another chair on this table, especially when you’re sitting here already. A few lower rank soldiers ogle you from a nearby table, probably the same age as you if not older. Their eyes consume with jealousy and, as you step up to place the tray away, you don't miss the hard bread thrown at your back. The paper falls into the bin too, along with the apple seeds.

It’s still not time yet, only fifteen minutes past nine, so you head down to the track to work on improving your time, just like you do every day. Two hours are spent before it’s almost lunchtime and only now do you decide to shower, slipping into the communal area. You place your things into the locker, a few soldiers giving you sharp stares because of the marks across your back, the pin pricks and slices through the flesh. When you return from your shower, you find your clothes have been tossed across the floor, your shoes shoved into one of the toilets. Never a trace of the culprit though, and never caught in your sight.

Before you go to lunch, you sit outside and scrub your shoes down, using an old rag to clean off the muck that was purposefully placed on it, not that it’s particularly much cleaner afterwards. You arrive to lunch late, or well later than the expected time, but it’s always the usual for you. There aren't many options left, and the chef glares at you saying the soldiers over there already grabbed your share for you—why are you being greedy? Don't you get enough? The first time you walked over to the soldiers and asked for your share, but this time you decided not to, wanting to keep your clothes clean today. So you take a bottle of water and some fruit, walking back outside again.

It’s quiet out here, a nice respite from the many soldiers that bustle around the corridors, and you bite into your fruit quietly. It’s still cold, albeit a lot warmer than the other day— British weather had a tendency to never be quite predictable. A fox creeps out the bushes, one eye shut, and it’s limp evident as it sniffs around for anything of use. You had heard it's cries in the early hours of the morning, though you have no idea what may have attacked it. You lay your palm out, the banana peeled, and it steps forward, hesitant before taking half with a snap of its jaw. Laying down the rest, it starts to eat more, and you smile at the sight.

Unfortunately it’s immediately startled by a booming voice, one that you recognise as part of the taskforce— Sergeant Soap Mactavish You’ve never met him before, but you know who he is, just like the rest of the taskforce. They always pass by the corner of your eye, never meeting you head on. It’s almost like some sort of curse is placed upon you. You watch from your spot behind the tree, eyes peeking past as the four of them walk out of base and towards a car, your lieutenant, and the captain included. Maybe they were going out to lunch or something. Glancing down at your watch, the time is twelve fifty, and you silently come to the conclusion that they’ll only be out for a bit, hopefully coming back soon.

It’s two o clock, and you’re sitting in your room. The captain told you on Tuesday that you could have only two hours off for your birthday plans, which roughly gave you enough time to probably watch a movie with Ghost. He did say he’d try to make it as well, but he was a busy man so you had reassured him that it was quite alright since you’d have the lieutenant anyway. Since yesterday, you hadn’t thought much about what you could watch with the Lieutenant, but you’d eventually decided to watch whatever he liked, seeing as you could count on one hand all the movies you’ve seen. Thankfully, the captain told you last Sunday he'd organise some snacks for you, and maybe even a cake if you were good for the rest of the week, so right now was a waiting game.

A long one.

You reassured yourself at two thirty that they were likely just running late, even peeking out into the hallway a few times in case they couldn't find your room for whatever reason. By two fifty you were confused, and it was safe to say by three twenty you were feeling hopeless. But still, you knew they likely had a reason, they must. So you walk down the corridor, your feet unsteady for once, and head back into the main building, looking around rather frantically compared to your usual stature.

What you didn't expect was to hear laughter dance down the corridor, instantly making you peek around the wall. It’s Soap and Gaz, holding a bunch of drinks in their hands, and they walk, chuckling to themselves. You could ask them, but something stops you, a weird feeling that stabs at your gut, and instead you hide behind the pillar, listening.

“Today’s gonna be good– I mean drinks, nachos, and pizza? I’m gonna be stuffed.” Gaz laughs, the bottles in his hands clinking against each other as he adjusts them.

“Get ye own nachos, they’re mine.” Soap returns, elbowing the other lightly, and they both snicker, knowing Soap’s appetite. “Hey, didn’t Price say he had to organise something for that kid? Y'know, the super soldier Ghost works with.”

“He probably handled it already, otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed to grab the food with Ghost. But shouldn’t Ghost be going?”

Before he can respond, Ghost’s gruff voice rips out into the corridor, pizza boxes stacked high in his hands. “Hurry up, the games are gonna bloody start. They’ll survive with someone else.”

Who? There’s no ‘someone else’, there never has been, he knows that— you think he knows that. You thought he knew you; you thought you were doing good. Your feet stumble as you turn around and head down the opposing corridor, not sure when you placed your hands over your ears to protect them from anything more. It’s the first time in years you’ve felt your eyes water, something inside you snapping in a way that shouldn't, that can't, and you’re terrified by this revelation. You’re no longer a super soldier, no longer the best around, no longer the one they parade around— you’re another failed experiment.

—————

PART TWO Series Masterlist

buy me a kofi :)

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost fanfiction #ghost x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #call of duty ghost #ghost call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x female reader #cod angst #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #ghost angst

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jungkoode · 5 months ago

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I tag my related asks/posts for visibility and won’t be changing this. If this bothers you, I encourage you to block or filter my content. I promise you I don’t care. Messages about tagging will be ignored.

Don’t want to see my posts? Here’s my tags.

Still looking for an explanation? It’s right here.

I avoid Y/N mentions in my works. Nicknames are the norm.

Read author intros/tw before engaging with any of my stories.

My stories are very slow burn. Know what you’re getting into.

Updates explained on faq.

UNLESS MENTIONED, ALL OF MY WORKS ARE EXPLICIT, 18+.

✧ ( fuck me up ) - ongoing

✧ aka FMU ✧ jungkook x female reader ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [tumblr]

Author intros/tw.

this one's not for the faint of heart. it's messy, it's raw, and it's complicated. you'll meet jungkook at his most difficult—emotionally distant, a little bit broken, and hiding behind the physical connection he has with y/n. a one-night stand turns into something neither of them can define, and their journey is as emotionally charged as it is physically intense as they navigate their roommate situation.

✿ heavy on the angst ✿ lots of psychological depth ✿ fuck-buddies-to-something-more ✿ trauma, healing, and everything in between

if you're into stories where the characters push and pull until they collapse into each other—this one's for you.

₊˚✧ ( kkangpae ) ₊˚✧ - ongoing

₊˚✧ aka KGP, KK ₊˚✧ jeon x female reader ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [tumblr]

Author intros/tw.

welcome to the dark side of seoul, where attachment means death and rules are written in blood. you'll meet jeon at his most lethal—cold, precise, and carrying the weight of a past painted in red. when you join kkangpae's seduction division, you know the rules. no relationships. no exceptions. but there's something about the way the chief assassin looks at you that makes you wonder if some rules are worth dying for.

✿ heavy on violence and gore ✿ complex power dynamics ✿ enemies-to-lovers-fuck-buddies with dire stakes ✿ psychological trauma and moral ambiguity ✿ 500k EMOTIONAL slow burn gang au

if you're into stories where love and death dance too close for comfort—where every kiss could be a bullet and trust is a luxury no one can afford—this one's going to break you in all the right ways.

₊˚✧ ( the 25th hour ) ₊˚✧ - ongoing

✧ aka 25H ✧ yoongi x f!reader ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [tumblr]

Author intros/tw.

in a world where time is strictly regulated, some people called Outliers still experience the forbidden 25th hour. when they do, they're erased—rewritten into obedient citizens with no memory of who they were.

you've always been normal, until the night you wake at 1:59 AM and meet min yoongi, a mysterious agent who seems to already know you. now, hunted by the authorities, you must uncover the truth: about the 25th hour, about yoongi, and about the versions of yourself you don't remember.

✦ dystopian psychological thriller ✦ time-bending romance ✦ mystery, conspiracy, forbidden love ✦ angst with a side of existential dread

if you like plot twists, reality-questioning narratives, and achingly star-crossed romance, this story is your next obsession.

₊˚✧ ( unmanageable ) ₊˚✧ - TBD

✧ aka UM ✧ jungkook x female reader ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [tumblr]

Author intros/tw.

welcome to the gladiator pit of seoul's entertainment industry, where you'll meet jungkook at his most lethal—korea's ice prince with dead eyes and a talent for verbal execution. aloof, sarcastic, trust issues deeper than his bank account, and a coldness that makes winter feel like a beach vacation. when HALYX dumps his impossible ass on your desk, it's clear why every handler before you quit: the man's never heard the word "no" until you showed up with your clipboard and zero tolerance for celebrity bullshit. he thinks your efficiency is a personal attack; you think his designer tantrums are beneath someone with his talent. what neither of you expected? the sick satisfaction of finding the one person who won't back down; of having someone see your worst and stay anyway, even if it's just to prove they can break you first.

✧ 2 professionals 1 wrong word from career homicide ✧ spite/hatred so electric it could power seoul ✧ emotional warfare disguised as management ✧ enemies to lovers but the enemies part is probably 300k words long bc i’m tired of enemies not enemying

if you need stories where contempt feels like foreplay and professional distance becomes the biggest lie two people ever told themselves—this one's going to live in your head rent-free long after you finish

₊˚✧ ( code : epitaph ) ₊˚✧ - TBD

✧ aka C:E ✧ namjoon x female reader

ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [[tumblr]]

Author intros/tw.

veyrah is a dying planet where survival means sacrifice and hatred runs deeper than blood. namjoon—the cold engineer of a system designed to decide who lives and who dies—gets paired to you as a 100% genetic match, and thus you're both sentenced to 60 days of forced proximity before the final transference. one of you will survive the blood ritual. one of you will die. no one knows which until the moment arrives.

as the daughter of executed traitors and a rebel hacker with too much blood on your hands, you hate everything he stands for. as the warden who built the system that keeps the last fragments of humanity alive, he despises your chaos. but as you're forced to navigate the broken sectors together—completing missions, dodging assassins, and fighting the clock—your mutual loathing becomes the only constant in a world determined to break you both.

✧ open-world dystopian AU ✧ raw hatred ✧ death sentence ticking in the background ✧ blood bonds and brutal choices ✧ 60 days until one must die

if you're drawn to stories where hatred and understanding are two sides of the same knife—where every shared breath is a countdown and trust is the most dangerous weapon—this one's going to leave scars in all the places you can't heal.

✧ ( 5 seconds to freedom ) - TBD

✧ aka 5STF ✧ latino!jimin x female reader | street racing Tokyo au ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [[tumblr]]

Author intros/tw.

in tokyo's underground racing scene, respect isn't given—it's earned at 200km/h with your life on the line. for years, you've been untouchable as "hachiroku," the drift queen whose AE86 has humiliated men with cars worth ten times yours. then he arrives. jimin—"jaque"—with his midnight purple skyline and spanish curses when he's pissed. cocky. reckless. the bastard who handed you your first and only defeat. now he's everywhere—leaning against your car, watching you with those eyes that see too much, calling you "princesa" just to watch you scowl. by day, you're trapped in a life of obligation—the perfect heiress engaged to the perfect son of the perfect family. by night, you're free. but freedom has a new price when jimin starts blurring lines you've carefully drawn, making you question which version of yourself is real.

✧ high-octane street racing culture ✧ heiress with a dangerous secret identity ✧ rivals-to-lovers with explosive chemistry ✧ forbidden attraction across social divides ✧ complex family legacies and responsibilities

if you crave stories where every rev of an engine feels like a heartbeat and every race is a confession—where two people from opposite worlds find freedom in the five seconds after the light turns green—this one will leave you breathless.

✧ ( in the presence of you ) - TBD

✧ aka IPY ✧ prince!seokjin x princess!reader | royalty, 1700/1800s

ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [tumblr]

Author intros/tw.

when two kingdoms collide, the casualties are counted in pride. yours being the most devastating. aurenne's spoiled crown princess shipped off to daeryndor like a pretty peace offering—married to a man who treats you like an inconvenient ghost in his own palace. seokjin may have the demeanor of carved marble, but you've never met a statue you couldn't crack. too bad he seems immune to your charms, because he doesn't look at you during dinner. doesn't acknowledge your existence beyond what duty requires. and somehow that hurts worse than if he'd shown outright disdain. it wasn't supposed to be like this—you, the girl who's been adored your entire life, now sleeping ten feet from a husband who'd rather read diplomatic scrolls than touch you.

two kingdoms, two heirs, one marriage bed you're both too proud to share—until you're not.

✧ pride and prejudice but make it royal ✧ slow burn to rival an ice age ✧ bratty heiress meets stoic prince ✧ the most lavish emotional edging you'll ever read ✧ arranged marriage with actual character development

if you're drawn to stories where dignity crumbles one forbidden touch at a time... this tale will consume you completely.

✧ ( we grew up somewhere along the way ) - TBD

✧ aka WGU ✧ hoseok x female reader

ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: [tumblr]

Author intros/tw.

five years in osaka turned hoseok into someone you barely recognize—a hentai manga artist with stained fingers and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. you were supposed to get a coffee, catch up, and move on with your lives. instead, you keep finding excuses to show up at his tiny apartment, pretending it's not the only place in this foreign city that feels like it could be home. he still calls you "capy" like you're twelve, still sprawls across every inch of space like it belongs to him. you still call him "ott" with that eye roll that says you're above this, above him. but neither of you can explain why the air feels different when your knees touch under his drawing table, or why you keep volunteering to model for his stupid cat-girl character even though you'd rather die than admit it feels good when he tells you you're doing it right.

❀ childhood friends to strangers to something terrifying ❀ osaka, 2003—vending machines and konbini dinners ❀ GRUMPY (yn) x SUNSHINEEEE (hobi) ❀ two people avoiding adulthood at all costs ❀ "it's just for the manga" (it's not)

if you're into messy reconnections where the stupid nickname he gave you at nine still makes your stomach flip at twenty-five—where being known is both the most comforting and most terrifying feeling in the world—then you'll find yourself in every silence between their words.

✧ ( strings attached (to my heart) )

updates: when goal in part 2 is reached.

✧ aka SA(TMH), strings attached ✧ jungkook x female reader ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: part 1 | part 2

Author intros/tw.

when your local friendly neighborhood spider-man can't stop bringing you snacks at your favorite cafe, and a certain clumsy freshman keeps showing up at the most suspicious times, something's gotta give. featuring: a supply closet, some very interesting revelations, and jungkook absolutely losing it when you touch him.

✿ spiderman au ✿ college setting ✿ sexual tension ✿ virgin!jungkook ✿ 25k words of pure self-indulgence

if you're into flustered jungkook, secret identities, and things getting spicy in inappropriate places—this one might be your new favorite.

✧ ( off-labels ) — mini series | completed

✧ aka OL ✧ hoseok x female reader tumblr link 𝟘𝟙 | 𝟘𝟚 | 𝟘𝟛 | 𝟘𝟜 | 𝟘𝟝 | 𝟘𝟞 | 𝟘𝟟 | 𝟘𝟠 | 𝟘𝟡 | 𝟙𝟘 | 𝟙𝟙 AO3 link: [archive of our own] | wattpad: [wattpad]

Author intros/tw.

when your brother’s best friend is the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program, and you’re just trying to survive your first year of med school without combusting every time he offers to “help you study.” between his perfectly pressed white coat, those steady hands that have probably held hearts, and the way he keeps finding excuses to explain anatomy in that low voice—you’re starting to think your chronic overthinking might be the least of your problems.

✿ medical school au ✿ brother’s best friend trope ✿ gentle!dom hoseok acting innocent ✿ plausible deniability king hoseok ✿ competency kink ✿ mini series

if you’re into smart men who pretend not to know what they’re doing, forbidden attraction, and things getting inappropriately educational in study rooms—this one’s for you.

✧ ( altars in shallow waters ) - ongoing

✧ aka ASW ✧ stalker!taehyung x ballerina!reader

ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Author intros/tw.

MOODBOARD.

in the forgotten corners of paris, where mold creeps up studio walls and mirrors collect the ghosts of movement, there's a ritual forming. he watches from the shadows as you dance—counting your breaths, cataloging your mistakes, collecting the ribbons you discard. his devotion isn't love. it's something older. something that reeks of salt water and rust. when your eyes finally meet his through smudged glass, something inside you recognizes the worship in his stare. you shouldn't want it. you shouldn't test how far his fixation goes. but there's something about being the center of someone's universe that makes even the most controlled people come undone.

✧ psychological fixation that blurs into reverence ✧ mirror-worship and the horror of being truly seen ✧ obsessive rituals disguised as coincidence ✧ rotting beauty in decaying urban spaces ✧ sea-salt imagery and drowning metaphors

if you crave stories where devotion becomes disease—where every accidental touch feels like baptism and every shared glance is confession—this will pull you under until you forget how to breathe. this isn't romance. it's what happens when two broken people turn each other into gods.

✧ ( margins ) - TBD

✧ aka MG ✧ jungkook x female reader

ao3 link: [archive of our own] wattpad link: [wattpad] tumblr link: 01

ko-fi

early access: 01

snippets

Author intros/tw.

london's literary golden boy meets his professional nightmare. he thinks bestseller status means rules don't apply. you think his ego deserves a restraining order. he submits manuscripts titled fuckyoufuckYOUFINAL.pdf at 3AM. you reply with perfectly formatted emails titled "Are You Serious Right Now." he leaves coffee rings on your desk. you've considered murder via papercut. the entire publishing house has evacuation protocols for when you're both in the same room. your coworkers have started a support group.

when his contract lands on the chopping block, you're both chained to an impossible deadline: 180 days, one book, one publicity tour, minimal bloodshed. then you find it—not his manuscript, but transcripts of every fight you've ever had. he's been studying you. using you. turning you into words on a page.

"she alphabetizes her bookshelf. i leave my manuscripts in the bathtub. we were never going to work."

✧ chaos gremlin vs. order overlord ✧ professional oil and water ✧ cat and dog vibes ✧ "did you seriously wear PJs to a BOARD MEETING" ✧ mutual screaming that produces bestsellers ✧ that exasperating workplace romcom energy where HR needs therapy

if you're trash for those dynamics where she's all structure and he's all impulse—where they fight like cats and dogs but somehow make the perfect disaster together—this one will have you bookmarking every delicious page.

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ianmalcolmreynolds · 2 months ago

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Okay, I’m writing this here instead of on Twitter because I don’t want to get Discoursed: I feel like the way some Severance fans talk about Mark’s relationships with Helly and Gemma is a great lightning rod for our weird (and kinda dismaying?) cultural shift about sex, romance, and relationships in fiction.

To be entirely clear off the top, while I’m more invested in Mark and Helly’s relationship, I think the show wants you to feel genuinely conflicted. This is not a ‘Why aren’t you guys on my team’ post or me indicating that every Mark and Gemma fan feels this way. They’re genuinely tragic, I’ve seen many great reads and insights on them, they’re a key part of the show.

But even tracking back to season one, it feels like people were looking for a reason to invalidate or dismiss Mark and Helly’s connection simply because ‘Prestige TV shouldn’t revolve around romance’ or the idea that they were too good for a show about a couple getting together. Mark and Helly and Burt and Irving’s relationship both say something essential about the show and the innies, the idea that people cannot help but fall in love with each other even when every force around them attempts to prevent and stifle that feeling. And I thought the show put some groundwork in on them! Even from the start (“I think we should kill Mark” etc), Helly’s clearly fixated on him and more interested in antagonizing him specifically, and Mark’s willingness to bend rules he used to believe in for her comfort is a pretty key aspect of his path. It’s shown in a veiled way, but I think the show made it earned and a lot of people just basically went ‘Ugh now there’s KISSING?’ And it’s not like there weren’t essential displays of platonic love between the innies either, the show makes time for those as well.

And then this season, I see SO many takes about how Mark and Helly represent lust compared to Mark and Gemma’s genuine love, and it’s hard to feel like that’s not just because we’ve seen one couple have sex and the other hasn’t? There have been so many displays of genuine understanding between Mark and Helly, from him trying to break rules to make her more comfortable in season one to her realizing he was just lashing out after the ORTBO. I mean, even earlier in the episode, she basically said he should leave her behind to have a chance to live! Sure, there’s no wedding band, but how is that not an ultimate display of devotion!

Even if you want to bring up that Mark couldn’t tell Helena and Helly apart, it feels hypocritical to then turn around and say innie Mark should have chosen Gemma because it’s *his* wife. Innies and outties are either one being or two, we can’t just flip-flop for morality and shipping.

I don’t know, maybe I’m reaching for something that isn’t there, but I feel like they’ve set up a genuinely complex story about the humanity of innies and outies that asks great philosophical questions and some fans are resorting to a weirdly puritanical way of talking about it.

#helly r #mark s #helena eagan #mark scout #severance #severance spoilers #markhelly

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muletia · 2 months ago

Text

𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 ✧˖°

[tfp] synth-en!obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader 18+ content/valveplug

cw: possessiveness, jealousy, top!optimus (he can top you once. as a treat <3), subish!optimus (kinda...), reader matches his freak, explicit valveplug, rough sex, overstimulation, breast play, no aftercare?, mention of ratchet's human partner (which is actually different reader lmao)

word count: 5100

sorry it took me so long to write this bitch; i had to rewrite everything three times before I was satisfied. also, don't expect an overly toxic optimus. i decided to stick as close to canon as possible while giving him just a pinch of freakiness, horniness and aggression

Optimus's servo smeared with energon shoots forward, locking around the helm of the nearest Vehicon. Behind him, Bumblebee and Bulkhead fire at the enemies guarding the energon cubes deeper within the cave, forcing the Decepticon soldiers to focus on them rather than on the exposed Optimus, whose servo grips the helm in a death embrace. Prime presses the enemy further against the cold, unyielding wall, just as unrelenting, securing against any escape before tightening his digits. They tremble for a moment, battling against metal, but it does not remain defiant for long. It yields to his strength, bends, gives way, until at last, completely crumples beneath his bare servo, spraying energon straight onto Optimus’s masked faceplate.

Violence is an inescapable shackle of war. Unyielding and inevitable. Optimus loathed violence, despised it, resisted using it, forcing himself only in the rarest of circumstances.

But there was not a trace of reluctance in the way he killed the Vehicon. This was not a wartime obligation or a fight for survival — it was murder. A deliberate act, cold and devoid of sympathy for mere cannon fodder, judging by how nonchalantly Optimus shakes the still-warm energon off his servo, all the while scanning for his next target.

“Bossbot?” Bulkhead asks, but the concern in his voice does not reach Optimus’s audials.

The Autobot leader’s entire focus is on the three remaining Vehicons, bravely defending two carts loaded with energon. On future victims, sacks to unload his uncharacteristic aggression upon. He wants to feel metal yielding beneath his servo again. To plunge his arm into a chassis and tear out a still-beating spark; to experience warm energon coating his entire frame. To break his own moral backbone, free himself, to finally taste victory in an era of failures.

He wants to live, to be free, rid himself of the restrictions he imposed upon himself eons ago. Optimus wants to kill Megatron and bring you his helm impaled upon his blade, for he is finally ready for absolute victory. But he also wants you. To devour, drown in, possess. Now, while the energon on his frame is still warm, while he can allow himself to indulge, while he feels like a god.

The fact that he cannot have you only stokes the unrestrained aggression further.

A storm of emotions swirls within him, spinning through his processor, through spark, and behind the interface panel, tormenting the spike swollen with thoughts of you, until Optimus finally lets rage and hatred win. Allows them to consume him completely and take control over every fiber of his being, including the most hidden, most private parts.

“Cover me!” he throws out a scrap of rationality before charging forward with a speed unsettlingly unnatural for a being of such immense power and height.

With only a few strides, he closes the distance between himself and the promise of liberation, dodging blaster shots raining down from ahead and behind, until he reaches the soldiers still fighting valiantly. He grabs the nearest one in his servo while seamlessly switching the other one to the blade, effortlessly slicing through the helm of a second Vehicon. Digits clench, repeating the sensation of his strength from before, still relishing in the pleasure of breaking free from the chains of nobility. More hot energon splatters onto his tainted frame.

The last surviving Vehicon fights bravely to the bitter end, trying to aim his blaster straight at Optimus’s exposed helm, but he is not granted the chance to strike. Prime releases the headless body of the other soldier and immediately turns his attention to him, predator locking onto his next prey. Before the shot can fire, his blade plunges directly into the Vehicon’s spark, snuffing out his meager, meaningless existence.

Optimus watches the body slide off his energon-coated blade and crumple onto the ground. Only then does it cease to interest him, to hold any value.

Yet, he does not feel satisfied. He still has the strength to fight, craves more enemies to extinguish. He is ready to face Unicron himself, the synthetic energon coursing through his lines whispering that he would win such a battle. He would triumph over anyone. Unstoppable. A god.

“Is that all of them?” he asks, a flicker of hope for more lingering in his voice. He needs to release this energy, to focus his pulsing, muddled processor on something simple. Something that will grant him relief from his hunger, no matter its origin.

“Yes,” Bumblebee replies. Despite his unease over their leader’s state, he adds, “All the energon is ours.”

“Bossbot,” Bulkhead tries again, “are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Exquisite, Bulkhead,” Prime responds, his tone bored, completely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

His thoughts have already shifted to someone else. Someone softer, sweeter.

His spike throbs irritatingly, demanding attention it will have to wait a little longer for.

Optimus presses his digits to his audials, unbothered by the energon staining them, and adds, “I am sending coordinates for the ground bridge. Be quick.”

He retracts his battle mask and turns toward his teammates.

“Gather as much energon as you can carry,” he instructs them, but the words are not truly for them. He is absent, lost in unreachable contemplation.

His optics, now a furious green, stare ahead, fixed on the point where the ground bridge will appear, each nanoklik of delay eroding his fragile patience. He clenches his servos into fists, trying to focus on that sensation, to concentrate on anything that will quell the irritation of waiting. Waiting until he can return to you and see you again.

Yet, he would not refuse one more Decepticon. The energon on his frame is beginning to cool, becoming nothing more than an echo of the euphoria of unchained rage. He had felt its effects for too short a time. Was not granted the full release of all the filth accumulated over eons of functioning on traditional, insufficient energon — and he wants more. Needs more. Wants to hear the clang of metal against metal again, to see the sparks and feel them ignite another fight; to witness how easily his enemies break beneath his might.

He tilts his helm slightly toward Bulkhead. A strong soldier — he would surely pose a challenge. Perhaps he could toy with him for a moment before hurling him across the cave with a single strike, indulging in his restless need to move, to act.

Their gazes meet for a brief moment, and Optimus sees hesitation in Bulkhead’s step. Uncertainty. A shadow of fear that reassures him of his own invincibility. He smirks triumphantly, even though their battle was only a fantasy.

But it could be real. Would you be proud of him if he took Bulkhead down with one hand? Finally proved his strength, impressed you with his power? He imagines you praising him. A simple “my good mech” rings loud in his processor, but its electrifying effect quickly travels downward, teasing his spike, reminding him just how much he needs you. How desperately he wants to be with you.

His pedes shift impatiently.

He prays to Primus that you are in the base right now. He does not trust himself at this moment to believe he could endure even a few more kliks apart without killing someone with his bare servos.

At last, the darkness of the cave is swept away by the flash of the Ground Bridge. Without waiting for the others, Optimus strides through first, each impatient step bringing him closer to you — until he is met with the familiar sight of the silo. And in the middle of it, standing on a lower platform, is you, seemingly engaged in a pleasant conversation with Arcee, judging by your warm smile.

You say something to the femme, a few words before your attention shifts to him, and you freeze upon seeing the energon staining his frame. As if you were afraid of him, though it is not your shock that truly irks him.

No, it is the fact that you were talking to Arcee, smiling at her, giving her attention that she does not deserve. Because it is he who is your partner, your lover, your soulmate, your future conjunx, and it is he who deserves your affection. He should be the only bot in your life, and this determination, this jealousy pricking at his spark, leads him straight to you, ignoring Arcee’s greeting and attempt to ask a question.

With measured gentleness, a fleeting echo of his former self, he scoops you into his servo and lifts you to his faceplate.

“Optimus, wait!” you plead, but your words do not reach him.

He presses you against the warm, energon-free metal along his intake, securing your back with two digits to prevent any attempts at escape. Like a cat seeking affection, he nuzzles against you a few times, rubbing your entire body and ruining your clothes and hair in the process.

The softness that envelops him soothes his jealousy. Not completely, for he would prefer a far less innocent form of touch, eagerly anticipating that moment, but it is enough to satiate, if only slightly, his hunger for you.

But only for a moment, because he quickly grows bored of simple cuddling. With his thumb, he tugs your shirt upward, revealing a stretch of beautiful, velvet skin, immediately pressesing his intake against it, leaving small but eager kisses.

“Optimus! Optimus, wait!” Your sweet voice quells the hatred and fury within him, but it awakens a different craving, one that has nothing to do with ripping Decepticons apart with his bare servos.

The way you call his name is beautiful. Desperate. But in the mania of his desire, he cannot tell whether it is pleasure or fear that laces your voice. What he does know, is that he needs to hear it again, but in a more private setting. In the seclusion of your quarters within the base, where the only interactions you would be allowed to have would be with him. Where only he would be granted the privilege of experiencing your melodious voice, your laughter, and your pleasure.

With his goal clearly defined, his pedes carry him towards your quarters of their own accord. He forgets about the energon still splattered across his frame — the deadly harvest of synthetic energon — and about his teammates, who continue to watch him in silent horror. His world narrows to you, to the sound of your voice still calling his name, to your occasional laughter whenever his intake tickles a particularly sensitive spot on your stomach. That is all that matters to him in this moment. That is the only thing of importance.

The only problem he is willing to concern himself with right now is the spike pressing painfully against the walls of its cage.

"Optimus!" You try once more. More forcefully, with enough anger and accusation to tear him from his trance of desire. His optics break away from your stomach, and he looks at you with a distant gaze. Yet he has no intention of stopping the way he’s caressing your body. Primus, he wants to devour you so badly. "Can you finally stop?!"

He obeys your demand, watching with invisible amusement as you sigh in relief. His intake remains on you, lips brushing against skin with feathery delicacy, dangerously close to your crotch. He knows he's overstepping, going too far, but he can't pull himself away from you, lost in visions of the future, in mass displacement, in the full-fledged idea of drowning in you.

His glossa, as if it had a mind of its own, slips out from his intake. The tip of his Cybertronian tongue grazes your navel, timidly trailing downward—but before Optimus makes a mistake he will regret for the rest of his life, he feels a kick against his cheek.

Your kick.

Weak, faint, one easily mistaken for an angry kiss, but firm enough to make him retract his glossa. And most importantly, it finally gives you a chance to say something longer than just sweetly crying out his name.

"Christ, why are you so pent-up today?"

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle. I withered with longing, waiting until I could finally hold you in my servo." He opens up to you, finally gathering the strength and courage to do so. Even if his boldness is artificial.

"I'm glad to hear that, but you've gotten a bit ahead of yourself, my love."

Love. His optics widen slightly, as if that pet name were entirely new to him. And in a way, it was. Because its use reignites the urge to rush to your cozy four walls and beg you to feed him "dearest," "beloved," and "sweetspark" until he goes mad.

"Optimus." A foreign voice pierces through the veil of sweetness, pulling him away from you. Something he cannot accept. His faceplate, unusually expressive today, freezes with irritation because he does not want to be Optimus for anyone but you right now.

Debates ignoring the bitter call, returning his thoughts and attention to you, but a quick assessment of your irritated and rather dissatisfied expression convinces him that, this time, he should at least pretend to care about his teammates. He sincerely hopes you will reward him later for the magnanimity he is about to show them.

Still holding you close to his faceplate but covering more of you with digits to shield his treasure from prying optics, Optimus turns to Arcee, the one who had called him earlier.

"What matter requires my immediate attention, Arcee?" he asks in a sharp tone, so unlike the familiar and beloved gentle giant that it chills your blood.

Arcee must have felt something similar, as she narrows her eyes warily but does not yield under the pressure of her leader's anger.

"Ratchet left the hangar a few Earth hours ago. I can’t locate him, he’s not appearing on the radar or responding to comms."

"So he's with his partner," Optimus replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, clearly bored with the conversation.

"What makes you so sure? He mentioned going after Megatron himself. He could just as easily be dead or held prisoner on Megatron’s ship!"

"Arcee is right," you interject. "This isn't something to dismiss so easily."

Optimus sighs, exasperated. This is not how he envisioned spending his time with you. Did not expect to find so many obstacles standing between him and the sweet reward for reclaiming the mine.

"Check his human’s home first," Prime insists. "If he isn’t there, which is as close to impossible as can be, only then do you contact me. Is that clear?"

Arcee studies Optimus with a watchful gaze for a moment but, finding only cold, impenetrable stone, gives up on further argument. For a brief second, her optics shift to you in gratitude for speaking up for her, something that Optimus does not entirely approve of. He shields you further with his servo, a possessive movement, blocking you from any foreign gazes or interaction. At the same time, he straightens his back to appear even larger than he already is.

Today, you belong only to him.

"Fine," Arcee hisses. "Who should I take on recon?"

"Anyone," Optimus says. He ends the conversation by turning on his heel and continuing down the corridor.

His intake returns to nipping at your stomach, but this time, he does so more aggressively. Faster, as if trying to rid himself of the frustration gnawing at him while ensuring that all of your attention remains solely on him. The tip of his thumb starts to toy with the waistband of your pants, attempting to make up for the seconds lost discussing his best friend. In response, you deliver another kick to him.

This time, he finds it utterly adorable.

"Do you really not care what’s happening with Ratchet? You know, your best friend?"

"I feel no need to concern myself with Ratchet’s condition when he himself informed me of his whereabouts."

"What makes you so sure he got held up there?"

"Because I now understand how he felt, rushing home to his beloved when they accidentally called him. Because I feel exactly the same way at this very moment."

His keen optics do not miss the faint blush that blooms across your cheeks.

Primus. Grant him the strength not to devour you right here and now.

"Wait." You speak. You breathe a sigh of relief when he obeys your command, stopping right in front of the newly installed Cybertronian showers. He lifts an optical ridge, prompting you to continue.

"Could you at least wash the energon off yourself?"

"I am heading to the washracks," he states calmly. "I assume you wish to join me."

You nearly choke on your own saliva.

"Later. I have a feeling I’ll need them more later," you reply, and Optimus has to resist the sudden urge to abandon the washracks entirely and rip your clothes to shreds right here and now.

Divine intervention (your words) is the only thing preventing him from completely destroying both his and your reputation.

One last time before your brief separation, he presses a kiss to your stomach.

"I assure you, I will not take long. Wait for me in your quarters."

"As you wish, Opti."

Primus once again tested his self-control.

You shut the door and immediately press your back against it, needing even a second of respite from everything that just happened.

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle…"

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

Overwhelmed by his unusual assertiveness, you cover your burning cheeks with your hands. But you don’t stay in that position for long, realizing that your blush is nearly as hot as his intake, his glossa. You can still feel the remnants of his kisses on your stomach and the desperation he poured into them. The hot breath that, over and over again, enveloped your bare skin.

You can’t escape from those thoughts, drifting on the edge of madness, wondering what happened to your dignity that his hunger made you feel like a lovestruck teenager.

Who swapped your Optimus for this pent-up, horny beast?

And most importantly, why didn't you mind at all?

In an attempt to regain control over your body and thoughts that were drifting into the near future, you decide to occupy yourself with something. Anything, as long as it is quick and allows you to gather yourself while you wait for his return.

Once again, your mind returns to the searing heat of the glossa working on your stomach. Taking a deep, reassuring breath, you head towards the cabinet and pull out a glass.

Yes, water will do you good, cooling the fire and restoring clarity to your thoughts. Especially since it is only now that you realize the dryness in your throat. Then, you will unpack your clothes from the suitcase. Mhm, that’s a good plan, you think, taking a sip of water. You will certainly have enough time to change out of your old hoodie and sweatpants into something more befitting of Optimus Prime — even if the concept of fashion was still an enigma to him, not entirely comprehensible.

Reaching for the bottle again, planning to pour yourself another drink, you freeze with the glass at your lips as the door suddenly swings open. And through it steps none other than a mass-displaced Optimus Prime, leaving you dumbfounded.

"It hasn't even been five minutes!"

Now free of energon but still dripping water in a few places, he closes the door behind him. "Forgive me, my dearest, but I was compelled to hasten my return," he says.

You finish your water and place the glass at the far end of the counter, cursing internally that your plan has just crumbled due to his untamed excitement. "It’s fine. But seriously, you could’ve at least given me two more minu…tes."

The words die in your throat as you feel hundreds of kilograms of living metal pressing against your rear, pinning you to the kitchen counter. Apparently uncertain of the effectiveness of his trap, Optimus places a servo on the cold marble as well, blocking your escape from the side.

Not that you were planning to escape, really.

"I could not wait any longer for us to be alone," he whispers directly into your ear, warm breath subtly stirring your hair. "I need you, sweetspark."

The unfamiliar passion in his deep, thick voice plays with your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You should feel alarmed — you know this well. Instinct urges you to try and flee, to break free from the predator, but you cannot. Because the truth is, you do not want to move. You want to take advantage of this small shift in your dynamic. To channel his fervor toward your own needs, burning, pulsing, demanding his spike.

"I need you too," you say, adopting a low, raspy tone that does not contrast with your quickened breath. You turn to face him, only to be immediately consumed by the green glow of his optics, which seem to burn even brighter than usual. Optimus presses his hips against you more firmly, and even through the layer of sweatpants, you can feel that he is on fire.

He leans over you, a servo curling around the back of your head, and finally, he devours you, his heated intake sealing over your lips. He kisses you ravenously, greedily, as if he had been starving for centuries, setting a pace you struggle to keep up with. You try, chasing after his intake as it leaves kisses on your lips over and over again, but it proves futile when Optimus decides to trace a path downward. He attacks the corner of your mouth, your chin, and the edge of your jaw before moving to your neck, leaving several quick kisses before pausing for a moment.

"I can endure no longer," he whispers, and to confirm his words, he gently bites the skin on the side of your neck, only to immediately soothe the mark with the tip of his glossa. "[Name], I beg you, if I do not ram my spike into you this instant, I am convinced I will explode," he confesses.

With processor turned to mush and need surging through his circuits, Optimus opens his interface panel. His engorged spike, already dripping pink transfluid from its tip, presses against your stomach, rubbing against the fabric and leaving, thankfully washable, rosy streaks. You cannot tear your gaze away from this pathetically shameless display, basking in the heat of his desire.

"Are you particularly attached to your current coverings?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance.

"No, um, not really. Why?"

"I am pleased to hear that," he replies.

He grips the loose fabric of your sweatpants and, with a single motion, tears them in half, leaving you clad only in your ruined, slick underwear. But not for long. Your panties meet the same fate as your sweatpants, joining the shredded fabric on the floor beneath your feet.

The sight of your heat shatters the deadly seriousness of his faceplate as Optimus smiles, satisfied. At last, he has reached the climax of his journey, having pushed through the jungle of team complications and the forced visit to the washracks. But for a sight as breathtaking as this, for the intoxicating scent of your desire seeping into his intake and clouding his processor, and, above all, for you, it had all been worth it.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, unable to tear his optics away from your valve, even as you struggle to remove your hoodie and bra. "I am the most fortunate mech in the history of Cybertron."

Without warning, he grips your thighs and lifts you into the air, ignoring your startled yelp, which quickly transforms into a delighted giggle. And Primus, if that was not the most beautiful sound in the universe… Optimus would have crushed every Decepticon into dust if it meant you enjoyed this mere glimpse of his strength.

He aligns the tip of his spike with your burning entrance, teasing your wet lips with a single subtle touch that nearly drives him to overload. But he wants to last. He must, though he knows his stamina will not grant him mercy tonight.

"Optimus," you try, "maybe we could move to the bed, huh?"

"Forgive my impatience, my dearest," he responds, "but I fear I can endure no longer."

"Mhm, alrighhh… ah!"

With a fluid motion, he slides his thick spike into you, fitting two puzzle pieces into perfect unity.

"Primus, [Name]!" he gasps.

His sharpened senses push him down the path of madness.

Your walls tighten around his spike, welcoming your lover with affectionate reverence, and Optimus is overtaken by a profound sense of belonging and rightness, as if, after a long day’s work, he has finally come home. Buried deep within you, lost in the nearly claustrophobic sensation of your tight heat enveloping his spike, he dares to believe that this place is more comforting than Cybertron itself. And if this were to be your daily reality, he would have no objections to remaining on Earth for eternity.

"Opti, ah, fuck…" you try, slightly dazed by the sheer enormity of him stretching you out. Secured by the servos gripping your thighs, you allow yourself to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself closer to the ocean of green. Being this near, you have the impression that the alien color of his optics is about to swallow you whole. Which is not far from the truth when Optimus begins kissing your collarbones, lightly nipping at your skin, trying not to lose his mind while waiting for your magic words.

"You can move, sweetheart."

The roar of his engine makes it clear — he is beyond delighted to hear that.

"As you wish," he growls against your skin.

The liberation he feels at finally being able to pump his spike into your heat is exquisite, yet treacherous, for Optimus cannot restrain himself from setting a fast pace. His hips ram into yours over and over, savoring the sight of the slight bulge moving across your stomach and the wet sounds of transfluid mixing with your juices — the most intimate union of two species. He is burning up, overheating, but even that pales in comparison to the molten lava that sears him inside your valve. If he cared enough, he might worry that you would melt him, truly fusing you both into one.

"Holy Primus," he pants, digging his digits deeper into the flesh of your rear. In response to the slight sting, you tighten your arms around his neck. "I am not pulling out of you tonight. Not even for a single nanoklik."

"Hah, w-what the hell did that synthetic energon…" you start, but a single powerful thrust momentarily robs you of speech. Seeking balance and clarity, you press your forehead against the cool glass of his chassis, but the tremors Optimus sends through your entire body do not allow you to stay there for long. "…do to you? Where did my mech, the one who begged for the strap, disappear to?"

"He is… s-still here," he assures you, purring with delight as he feels your slick, gummy walls clench around his spike, practically milking him with every drag. With such encouragement from your body, he cannot afford to slow down, determined to grant you a climax that will make you see stars. Or rather, one of your first orgasms. "If you so desire, hrrn, you may see him later."

"I don't think I'll, fuck, have the strength for anything later," you reply, words constantly broken by moans or gasps for breath.

"A-a pity, hah! I had hoped that you, too, might manage to wear me out."

You feel the shape of a smirk against the skin of your neck, where his faceplate is currently nestled. Bastard — you think, but cannot stay angry at him for long when every thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. From the crown of your head to your curled-up toes. Optimus is lucky that his spike is so impossibly large. Otherwise, he would be treading on very thin ice tonight — something he proves moments later that he is more than willing to risk.

"My dearest," he murmurs into your neck. The involuntary clench of the softest valve he has ever known in his long life tells him that you enjoy his possessiveness. And what kind of servant would he be if he did not fulfill his master's every desire? "My most beloved. Mine to converse with, mine to kiss. Mine to interface with. Mine. Mine."

His greedy litany is abruptly cut short when your valve clamps down tightly around his spike.

"Ah, Opti!" you cry out. "I'm about to—"

"I as well, ah, I…"

He buries his spike deep inside you, pressing his hips against yours and pulling you even closer. Sticky transfluid spurts from his spike, and you reward him with your own release, now fully sealing your union. And though Optimus fills you perfectly, a few stray drops of your mingled love manage to escape your stretched cunt, soiling the insides of your thighs.

Chasing the divine bliss of overload, Optimus does not grant you much time to rest. He starts moving his hips once more, pushing his transfluid deeper into your body in preparation for a refill.

And at that exact moment, amidst the wet, filthy sounds of his spike plunging into your valve, a faint knocking echoes through the room. Barely audible to you over your own panting, moans, and his loudly revving engines, but Optimus has no trouble detecting the intruder. Their presence disrupts his complete surrender to pleasure, irritating him, bursting the fragile illusion that the world ends with you.

"Frag off," he growls loudly, never ceasing to frag your heat.

Your gazes meet for a brief moment, but Optimus does not hold eye contact for long, too agitated to acknowledge your questioning expression. Instead, he directs his intake toward your chest, stuffing your soft flesh into his mouth. His glossa immediately gets to work, gliding over your swollen nipple, licking and sucking to suppress the stream of curses and sins threatening to spill forth. To ensure you do not collapse backward, one arm wraps around your back, delighting in the discovery that he can afford to gather your other breast into his servo as well. Which he does, kneading the soft flesh like a stress ball.

"My dearest," he repeats his mantra between the worship of your nipple and breast. "My [Name]."

"My Opti," you return the sentiment, stroking the back of his helm. "My good mech."

An involuntary honk of his horn and an exceptionally deep thrust convince you that you have chosen your words well. Even at the cost of losing the ability to walk tomorrow.

#muletia writes #transformers x reader #transformers x human #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #obsessed!optimus #valveplug

401 notes · View notes

lazy-ahh · 15 days ago

Text

DEVOTION

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

a love that’s more teeth than tenderness—jason todd doesn’t know how to love you quietly. it’s in the traps he rigs around your apartment, the way his hands shake when he pulls you close, the growl in his voice when you’re five minutes late. he’d raze gotham to keep you safe, and the worst part? you’d let him. you’d help him burn it down.

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a little more force than necessary—because honestly, who has the energy to bend down after a long day?—when you hear it. a soft click under your foot. you freeze for half a second before rolling your eyes. another one of jason’s stupid security measures.

it’s just a pressure sensor, harmless unless you’re some unlucky bastard trying to break in while jason’s out doing whatever morally questionable shit he calls "work." and yeah, okay, maybe it’s overkill. maybe the six other traps he’s rigged around the place already cover every possible entry point. but that’s jason for you—paranoid, overprotective, and completely incapable of leaving well enough alone.

your phone buzzes in your pocket—third time this hour. you don’t even have to look to know it’s him. of course it’s him. because god forbid you go more than twenty minutes without him checking in like you’re some helpless civilian who doesn’t know how to handle themselves. (which, for the record, you definitely do. you’ve thrown hands with worse than some two-bit gotham thugs.)

you sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. just fondness. the kind that settles warm and stubborn in your chest, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.

"just checking in," the text reads.

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. dramatic bastard. but despite yourself, your chest does that stupid, traitorous little squeeze—the one that always happens when he does this overprotective shit. you thumb out a reply before you can overthink it. "i’m fine, jay. just got home."

his answer pings back before you can even lock your phone. "good. lock the door."

no "hey." no "miss you." just straight to the point. typical. you huff out a laugh, but your fingers still brush over the screen like it’s something fragile. god, you’re pathetic.

of course you locked the door. you always lock the damn door—not because you need to (you’ve taken down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat), but because you know what it does to him if you don’t. you’ve seen the way his jaw clenches when he thinks you’re not looking, the way his fingers twitch toward his guns like he’s seconds from bolting back home just to check.

it wasn’t always like this. well, okay—it was, but not this bad. back when he was just your ghost, your shadow, the nameless presence you knew was watching you but could never prove. back when he was still dead to the world, and you were just the idiot who kept visiting his grave every other day like clockwork, talking to a headstone like it could talk back.

(the two of you never talked about what you used to say to that empty plot of dirt. some things are too raw, even for you. but you have a feeling he knows. no, you know he knows.)

then came that night—the muggers, the alley, the way you’d barely rolled your shoulders before he dropped out of the fucking sky like some avenging angel in a leather jacket and a stupid helmet. he’d made quick work of them, all brutal efficiency and barely-contained rage, and you? you just stood there. staring. because you knew.

you’d lunged before he could disappear again—because of course he was trying to disappear, the self-sacrificing bastard—and wrapped your arms around him so tight the plates of his armor dug into your ribs. it hurt, but you didn’t care. you couldn’t care, not when his heartbeat was thundering under your palms, not when the smell of gunpowder and leather and him flooded your senses like a punch to the gut.

"it’s you," you’d choked out, voice cracking like you were some heartbroken kid instead of someone who’d spent years pretending they were fine. "you idiot. you absolute idiot, did you really think i wouldn’t know?" your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket, desperate, like if you let go he’d dissolve into smoke. "i’d know you anywhere. in any lifetime. any fucking universe."

he didn't move. didn't breathe. the kind of stillness that wasn't just shock—it was like you'd reached inside his ribs and yanked out whatever scraps of his heart he'd been stupid enough to keep for himself. (as if he hadn't already given you every broken piece years ago, back when you were both too young and too stupid to know how much it would hurt later.)

his breath came out in one jagged gasp, the kind that gets stuck in your throat when you're trying not to sob. for one horrible, endless moment, you could practically feel him shutting down—muscles tensing like he was about to bolt, hands twitching like he wanted to push you away before you realized what a mistake this was. before you realized he was the mistake.

(like hell you'd let him. you wouldn’t have let him. you’d have held on tighter. you’d have crawled after him if you had to. you'd chase him through fucking crime alley if you had to. you'd done it before.)

but then—slowly, so slowly it ached—his hands came up. trembling. hesitant. like he thought you’d vanish if he touched you too hard. when his arms finally locked around you, it wasn’t the desperate, bruising grip you expected. it was reverent. like you were something sacred. like he was afraid he’d wake up and find this was just another cruel dream.

(you didn’t let go. not then. not ever.)

now? now he’s worse. so much worse. like, next-level, should-probably-be-concerning-but-is-weirdly-endearing kind of worse. the apartment's practically booby-trapped enough to give batman pause, your phone blows up every twenty minutes like clockwork, and the way he looks at you? fuck. like you're some miracle he doesn't deserve. like if he looks away for one second, you'll turn to smoke between his fingers.

and yeah, okay, maybe you should be weirded out. maybe normal people would call this obsessive. but you're not normal, and neither is he, and that's the fucking point. you get it. you get it, down to your bones. because if you'd crawled your way out of your own grave only to find someone still waiting for you? still choosing you? you'd lose your goddamn mind too.

jason todd loves like a starving man at a banquet—all trembling hands and desperate bites, terrified the food will disappear if he blinks. it should feel like a cage. it would feel like a cage, with anyone else. but it's him. so when his arms wrap around you too tight, when his voice goes rough with "where were you?" after five fucking minutes, you just press closer. because you know the shape of this fear. you've tasted it yourself.

because here's the secret: you're just as bad. you love him with the same terrifying intensity, the same need that should probably scare you but doesn't. not really. not when it's him.

you love the way his hands shake when he pulls you close after a long night—not the dramatic, crime-fighting kind of shake, but the quiet tremble of a man who still can't believe he gets to touch you. like if he holds on tight enough, he'll wake up and this’ll all be some cruel dream. you love how he remembers your schedule, how he still hums your favorite songs under his breath when he thinks you're not listening, how he makes your eggs just slightly runny because he knows you like them that way even though he prefers his 'perfectly crisp'. stupid things. little things. the kind of things that would be meaningless if it wasn't him remembering them like they're scripture.

and fuck, the way he looks at you. like you hung the goddamn moon. like he'd carve out his own heart if you asked nicely. (you wouldn't. but the fact that he would if you were ever to ask? that gets you every time.)

what you don't say—what gets stuck in your throat like broken glass—is that you're just as fucking gone for him. you know the exact pressure needed to clean his favorite knife without fucking up the edge, which snacks he craves after patrol (those delicious spicy chili chips), how to make his hot chocolate just right—extra whipped cream, because "sweetheart, if i wanted vaguely chocolate water i'd drink batman's sad attempt at comfort food." you've memorized the way his breath stutters when you trace the scar along his ribs, how his eyes go that particular stormy green when he's blinking back tears, the exact weight of him when he collapses into your lap after a shitty night, all battered armor and quiet hurt.

and yeah, maybe you keep his favorite hoodie tucked under your pillow like some lovesick teenager. maybe you've memorized the pattern of his scars better than your own. maybe you wake up some nights choking on phantom dirt, your hands still remembering the feel of cold headstone beneath your palms, the way your voice cracked raw screaming his name into empty air.

but he's here. he came back. and some days, when the sunlight hits him just right and he smiles at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, you think you might actually owe the universe for this one. for him.

sometimes, when the moonlight spills through the curtains just right and your breathing's gone slow and even, he lets himself be vulnerable. his calloused fingers—usually so sure around a gun, so deadly in a fight—trace the curve of your cheekbone like he's mapping constellations. it's the lightest touch, barely there, like he's afraid you'll dissolve into smoke if he presses too hard. like you're some sacred relic instead of the same idiot who once ate an entire pizza in one sitting (despite him warning you) and then complained about stomach aches for hours.

you're not fragile. you've taken punches that would knock out people twice your size, have scars that tell stories he doesn't even know yet. but in these quiet moments, when his breath catches and his hands tremble just slightly, he treats you like something precious. like you're the only thing in this godforsaken city worth protecting. you're not. but to him, you are.

and maybe that's why you don't give him shit about the excessive security measures (seriously, who needs that many knives hidden in one apartment?), or the way your phone lights up with his texts every twenty minutes like clockwork, or how his voice goes all gravelly with barely-contained panic when you're late coming home from the fucking grocery store. because you know that fear. you've tasted it—bitter and metallic—in the back of your throat every time he walks out the door wearing that damn helmet.

you love him like it's the last rebellion against a world that keeps trying to take him from you—like every breath you take is just another way to say fuck you to the universe. and yeah, maybe loving someone this much should terrify you, should send you running for the hills. but the thing is? you've never been good at walking away from a fight. especially not when it's him.

so when he stumbles through the window at 3 AM, knuckles split and that familiar exhaustion dragging at his shoulders like a second skin, you don't even blink. the blood doesn't faze you (you've seen worse), the way his hands tremble when he reaches for you doesn't make you hesitate. if anything, you meet him halfway, your fingers curling into his jacket before he can even get his boots off.

you press closer, until there's no space left between you, until you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs—too fast, too wild, but there. your lips find the scar on his mouth (the one he got that time he wouldn't stop running his mouth at black mask), then the fresh bruise blooming along his jaw (you'll ask about that tomorrow, when he's not vibrating out of his skin). and when he buries his face against your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, you don't just let him. you drag him closer, your own fingers digging into his back like you're trying to fuse your skeletons together.

you breathe him in like he's your last hit of oxygen, your nose pressed against his hair, memorizing the scent of gunpowder and sweat and him. your hands don't shake when they slide under his shirt—they tremble, tracing every scar, every ridge of muscle, like you're trying to rewrite every hurt he's ever known with your fingertips.

and when he finally slumps against you, all that tension bleeding out of him in one long sigh, you hold him up. you always will.

then when he whispers it against your skin—lips brushing your collarbone like a prayer, voice rough with something too raw to name—"i'd let this goddamn city burn for you. hell, i'd torch the whole fucking world and smile while it burned," you don't doubt him for a second. how could you? you've seen the way his hands steady when they're wrapped around yours, how his eyes go dark and certain in a way that makes your ribs ache.

your smile comes slow, private—the kind you only ever let him see—as you card your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "i know, pretty boy." because you do. you've always known. it's in the way he memorizes the rhythm of your breathing when you sleep, how he still flinches when you touch his back (too many scars, too many ghosts) but still lean in for more, how every goddamn morning starts with his lips against your pulse point like he's checking you're still alive.

and christ, it terrifies you sometimes, how good it feels to be loved this way. not careful, not gentle, but consuming. like there's no version of this story where you don't end up tangled together, blood and bone and all the ugly, beautiful parts in between. it's the kind of love that should feel like too much, except it's him, so it's never enough.

(because here's the truth they don't tell you about love this fierce: it doesn't make you softer. it makes you reckless. it makes you dangerous. and when his mouth finds yours in the dark, all teeth and desperation, you think—with something like joy, like hunger—that you'd raze entire cities for this man. you probably would have if he hadn't saved you that night.)

"i know," you say again, quieter this time, and let him kiss the words from your lips.

because you would too. you’d carve your name into the bones of the earth if it meant he’d never have to hurt again. the real question isn’t if—it’s which one of you would burn brighter.

would it be him, with his hands stained and his heart too big for his chest, tearing through the dark just to keep you safe? or would it be you, reckless and grinning, already halfway through the matchstick before he even finishes shouting your name?

does it even matter?

when the smoke clears, you’ll always find each other in the ashes.

2.5k words of jason todd being devastatingly human—all rough hands and soft devotion, love that borders on obsession but feels like coming home. because god, i missed him. missed writing his particular brand of broken tenderness, the way he loves like it's the last thing holding him together. because it might just be. it's criminal how i don't get any requests for him compared to mark, but hey—at least this way i get to pour all my pent-up jason feelings into something raw and unfiltered. or maybe i just don't write him well enough... my pretty boy with too much heart and too many scars, who deserves the world and would burn it down for the right person. lowkey wish it's me— hope this makes someone out there fall in love with him all over again like i did. or at least makes you clutch your chest dramatically like i did writing it.

#GODDDDD I MISSED HIM #MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAAANNNN #i kind of lowkey wanna write something sweet or funny for him but all i keep thinking about is angst :'[#BROOOOO WHY ISN'T HE HERE IN MY ARMS RIGHT NOW #lazy-ahh #dc comics #red hood #jason todd #gender neutral reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x reader

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