#~Grey sirs : Anon~

[une-sanz-pluis]

I have seen someone compare Richard III and Henry IV, believing that Richard III was just unlucky enough to die in battle because he had much less opposition during his reign than Henry IV

oooookay, I think whoever said that has less understanding of Henry IV's reign that I have of Richard III's reign.

Richard III reigned for two years. During that time, he faced two separate but connected rebellions. The so-called Buckingham's rebellion that aimed to restore Edward V to the throne (and in the event of Edward V's death, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond), and the rebellion that resulted in the Battle of Bosworth, where Richard III was killed.

Henry IV reigned for thirteen years and yes, he faced "more opposition" than Richard. Naturally, he had over six times the reign to face it in. To make it a fair comparison, we'll focus on Henry's first two years of rule. He faced the Epiphany Rising, in which Richard's favourites in the nobility aimed to restore Richard to the throne and kill Henry, and the beginning of the Glyndwr rebellion, which was focused on gaining Welsh independence, not deposing Henry. It was only in 1403 - nearly four years after Henry claimed the throne - that opposition to Henry grew to such effectiveness that it resulted in a battle where Henry could have been unlucky enough to fall in battle, like Richard III.

The assertion that Richard III faced "less opposition" than Henry IV also relies on the unspoken implication that if Richard had just been lucky enough not to die, all opposition to his rule would have completely vanished. To which I say: tell 'em they're dreaming. It is incredibly likely that, like Henry VII, Richard would faced rebellions in the name of the vanished Princes in the Tower or Edward, Earl of Warwick.

[bedforddanes75]

Who’s the number one rapper who you can listen to nowadays?

lil b

sorry anyway im gonna be real w u and say i listen 2 like 3 people atm and theyre all george daniel. hmmmmmm. just go with kendrick lamar hes not a paedophile And he makes good music u Absolutely cannot go wrong

[gloomwitchwrites]

There was this tiktok trend where kids and their mums would pull a prank on their dads by telling their mums to shut up...141 with a teenage son who tries it?

Anon, I am very aware of this prank. If mom is in on it, I consider it all in good fun, but omg, these guys would be absolutely stressed if they heard their teenage son tell mom to "shut up." Heads would absolutely roll over that!

Price is certainly old enough to have a teenage son on the older side. I would even say the same for Ghost. Gaz is old enough for a younger teenage son. With Soap's age...that's stretching it. BUT SUSPEND DISBELIEF Y'ALL. I'm aging Gaz and Soap up a bit for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader (w/ children)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, pranks, domestic, dad!141, brief suggestive themes, marriage

Word Count: 1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Ugh. Shut up, Mum.”

There is a brief pause between mum and when the television remote hurtles across the room. Your son doesn’t duck in time, the hard plastic hitting his shoulder before bouncing onto the kitchen island with a loud clack.

Before your son turns, Kyle’s baseball cap with the Union Jack, soars through the air like a frisbee. This one your son manages to avoid, but it’s quickly followed by a slipper. It flies past his head, and you catch it out of the air before it makes contact with the front of the microwave.

You and your eldest son turn in Kyle’s direction as he manifests in the kitchen entryway, the other slipper in hand, poised to launch it at the first sign of any movement.

“Wanna repeat yourself, mate?” Kyle appears calm and poised, but you notice the subtle tension in his jaw.

“It was a joke, Dad! Promise!”

Kyle’s arm holding the slipper starts to rise.

“Kyle,” you say. His gaze flicks to you. “Just a joke. No harm. I was in on it.”

His shoulders immediately sag. Kyle shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. Heading for the fridge, he opens it up, grabbing a can of his favorite beer.

Kyle sets the beer down on the island, pointing the slipper at you and then his son. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just an exasperated huff.

Kyle snatches up the television remote and sticks it into the pocket of his grey sweatpants. Keeping hold of the shoe in one hand, and his beer in the other, he gives the two of you his back, heading into the living room.

“No one bother me until the game is over,” he says over his shoulder. “And someone bring me my bloody slipper!”

John Price

"Fucking hell, Mum. Shut it."

John is up and out of his seat so fast you hardly see him move. He strides over to his son, yanking him off the stool by the scruff of his shirt.

"John! It's a prank!" you say quickly, reaching for his arm.

The boy is dangling in the air, toes just shy of touching the ground. "A prank?" asks John skeptically.

"Mum is in on it. Promise."

John sighs heavily and slowly lowers his son to the ground. The moment his feet touch ground, he tries to step away, but John holds firm, keeping his eldest child immobile. He leans forward a bit. Lowers his voice.

"Prank or no, you never talk to your mother, your sisters, or any woman in that manner again. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." John releases his son. "The lawn needs trimmed."

"Yes, sir."

Your son scurries away. It isn't until the door to the garage opens and shuts that John moves toward you. His arm drapes over your waist, hand landing firmly on your ass, squeezing hard.

"You're coming with me."

"To do what?"

He presses his lips to your ear. "For a different sort of punishment."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"You’re off your head, lad.”

With Johnny’s cold tone comes a tension to your son’s shoulders. He becomes rigid, sliding down into his chair like he can escape from his father by cowering underneath the table. Johnny comes around the corner, a bit of sweat on his brow. He's been building furniture all day for the nursery.

"Want to repeat that for me?" asks Johnny.

Your son’s voice cracks. "It was just a prank, Dad."

"It was what?" Johnny strides forward.

"It's a prank. I'm in on it. Promise," you say, attempting to soothe Johnny’s anger.

Johnny crosses his arms over your chest. "Is it?" He glances between the two of you and sighs, muttering, “Am pure done in.”

He disappears down the hall, returning with a stack of instructional manuals, dropping them into his son’s lap. "You're building furniture."

"But I—"

“You right scunner. C’mon.” Johnny yanks his son out of the chair, the stack of instructional manuals goes flying. Your son reaches for them all, desperately clasping them against his chest.

“Johnny," you call out, walking around the counter to intervene.

He glances over his shoulder, frown gown, sly smirk on his face. “Deal with you later."

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Oi, Mum. Shut it.”

Your son is a wonderful actor. You’ll give him that. Even you almost believe him. Not that he would—he’d never—but his delivery reminds you of a completely pissed football fan ready to throw a punch at a member of the rival team.

He should consider theater.

Simon, your husband, is watching a rugby match in the living room. The television is on but at a low volume.

Within seconds of the words leaving your son’s mouth, Simon appears like a phantom guardian in the entryway. In one he holds the remote like a weapon. The other arm cradles his infant daughter. She looks like a small bean. Slightly curved as she snuggles closer against Simon’s chest as she sleeps.

He's not looking at you. He's staring at his son, gaze intense and full of fire.

You’ve seen that look before.

Mission abort.

"He's joking, Simon. It's just a prank,” you soothe, knowing you need to get ahead of this.

Not that Simon would hurt you or his son, but he rarely takes any shit. This prank was a gamble, and you’re completely regretting it.

"Don't mean it, Dad."

Simon just stares for a long minute. His daughter squirms and that is when he glances down, severing the connection. Observing her must change something in him, because his gaze returns to the two of you, and there is a calmness now.

Sighing heavily, Simon shakes his head, completely exasperated. The eye roll is so apparent it’s like a shout.

In the moment he was pissed—livid. But now he’s over it, more annoyed and unamused than actually mad.

Turning on his heel, daughter still cradled in one arm, Simon returns to his recliner, settling back into the soft cushions to finish watching his rugby match.

[sweetfictionalworld]

Good Girl

Pairing: Hwang In-ho / Front Man x Female Reader

Warnings: Nsfw, Smut, Daddy Kink, Age-gap.

Requested by anon: Request for just some old fashion smut?? In-ho x fem!Reader. Maybe some age gap, praise,...daddy kink...just an idea.

Summary: You're a servant for the VIPs. One of them is getting a little too close, and The Front Man steps in and handles the situation. Little do you know, The Front Man wants you for himself...

Author's notes: I'm always a sucker for some good, old fashion daddy kink 😉 Thank you so much for your request! I hope you like it ♡

It wasn't easy serving the VIPs, but it was a chance for you to make some more money. It was your third time at the games working as one of the circle guards and your second time as a waiter. The higher ranks made more money than you, but you didn't have the stomach for killing. It was bad enough to clean up the scene after a game.

You examined yourself in the mirror before putting on the black mask. You didn't really feel comfortable in the black, lace bodysuit and high heels you were forced to wear. The VIPs were always a little too touchy for your comfort, but it was something you had to endure.

You took a deep breath before you entered the VIP room with a tray of drinks in your hand.

"Well, look who it is! Our hot, little bunny!" the older man in the tiger mask cheered as you walked into the room. The other VIPs joined in and you could feel their gazes glued to your body as you walked past them.

"The game will start momentarily."

The Front Man's voice made you turn, your stomach flipping at the sight of him in his dark-grey outfit and black mask. There was something about him you found utterly attractive. Perhaps, it was the mystery of what he looked underneath that mask? Or maybe, it was that dark, sexy voice of his?

"Come here, bunny! I want a drink!" yelled the man in the tiger mask. Pulled out of your thoughts, you went over to the VIP. He smiled up at you from beneath his mask.

"Damn, I've missed this fine ass!" he bellowed and slapped your ass, boomed with laughter when you gasped and nearly dropped your tray.

"Why don't you serve the others and then you come back to sit next to me, huh? I want my little bunny close to me," he grinned.

You were glad he couldn't see the repulsive expression on your face. After doing what he said, you returned to the VIP, who pulled you down next to him.

"How old are you, bunny?" he asked, licking his lips as his eyes traveled down to your breasts.

"25, Sir."

"Oh, nice...I like my meat young and firm. How about you serve me personally now, huh?" The VIP chuckled and roughly cupped your tit. You let out a shocked gasp and grabbed his wrist to try and pull him away. You struggled against him, but it only seemed to spur him on.

The VIP chuckled loudly. "I like girls who are a little fiesty."

Suddenly, his hand was pulled away and you stared up at the Front Man standing there with the VIPs arm in his hand.

"No sexual activities unless the servants agrees. The Host's rules. Do you agree, number 5?" he asked, turning his attention towards you.

You stared at him in surprise. He knew your guard number?

You shook your head. "No, Sir."

The Front Man let go of the VIPs arm. "You heard her. She doesn't want you. So, how about we return to what you're really here for. The Game."

The VIP glared at him but knew there was nothing he could do to but obey the Host's rules, so he just nodded.

"Good." The Front Man returned his attention to you.

"Stand up, number 5."

You did as he ordered, holding your gaze to the floor. His intimidating presence and the closeness of his body made you feel so very small and subservient. He lifted your chin, holding it with his forefinger and you stared up at his blank, black mask while holding your breath.

"Continue serving them food and drinks. He won't bother you anymore."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," you whispered and bowed.

In-ho watched as you walked away to get more food and drinks, his gaze panning down to the roundness of your ass. There was another reason he had stopped the VIP. He didn't want your pussy ruined by that old man's cock before he fucked you himself.

The game was over for this time and the VIPs had left. You remained in the room, tidying the last things up before it was time to leave and return home. The money you'd made after your third time was enough to pay off your debts. You didn't have to return for another game.

"You're still here."

Startled by the voice, you looked up and stared at the Front Man, your eyes widening when you realized you'd taken your mask off.

"Don't worry. The game is over for this time. No need to cover our faces. Besides, there's only you and I here," he said and took off his mask.

You stared at him as he approached you with a small smirk playing on his lips. He was a handsome man, no doubt about it, maybe in his fifties. His dark-brown eyes had a twinkle of cruelness and playfulness in them that made your belly flutter as his gaze traveled down your body.

"Do you agree?"

At first you frowned, didn't know what he meant. Then, it dawn on you and your eyes widened as you stared at him breathlessly and nodded.

"I need you to say it."

"Y-Yes, Sir. I agree."

"Good girl." The Front Man smirked and leaned down to your ear, inhaling your scent. A growl of appreciation rumbled in his chest, and the sound along with his hot breath on your skin caused a trail of goosebumps down your body. You couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe how quickly your body was responding to his touch. The Front Man's finger slid down the nape of your neck, sending another wave of goosebumps down your skin. A keen whimper slipped from your lips and you became shamefully aware of the arousal pooling between your thighs. The Front Man growled at the sound coming from your lips, his hand landing on your waist.

"I can see your arousal in your eyes, little one," he growled, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, coaxing an embarrassed moan from your lips.

His hand found its way underneath your lace bodysuit, two of his long fingers slipping between your soft folds and into your wet, spongy core. You gasped and grabbed his arms as his fingers stretched you out.

"So wet and tight," Front Man mumbled and started moving his fingers inside you, grunting at the squishing sounds your pussy was making. His cock jerked at the feeling of your wetness, twitching, and hardening to life, eager to fill your tight, little cunt to the brim.

"Oh fuck," you gasped at the feeling of his fingers thrusting into you.

"Such foul words coming from such a sweet, little thing," Front Man chuckled, the sound vibrating through your core. "Tell me, little one...Do you crave my cock inside you?" At the last word, he pushed his fingers deeper inside you, pushing against your g-spot and you screamed out in pleasure.

"Y-Yes Daddy! Please, yes!" you whimpered, tears welling up in your eyes as he repeatedly thrust his fingers into you at a rapid pace.

"Daddy, huh? I like that," Front Man smirked and took out his fingers from your pussy. "Undress for me."

Cheeks flushed with heat, you obeyed him and pulled down the straps of your bodysuit, slowly wriggling out of the tiny piece of clothing, leaving you naked in only your high heels.

"Gorgeous," was all he said and kneaded the soft flesh of your tits, felt the weight of them in his hands, and rubbed his thumbs across your nipples that hardened at his touch.

"P-Please, Daddy...," you begged, bit your lip at the feeling of your pussy aching and clenching desperately to be filled.

Front Man snickered. "So desperate for Daddy's cock, aren't you?"

"Y-Yes...please Daddy..."

He chuckled at your desperation. "Get down on your hands and knees."

You obeyed on trembling legs, gasped when he grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling your ass up in the air. Then, you heard the unzipping of his slacks and felt him at your entrance, slowly pushing the bulbous head between your fold and into the tight hole of your pussy. Your eyes widened, breath coming out in short gasps through your parted lips.

In-ho groaned in pleasure when the head of his cock suddenly popped inside your warm, wet entrance. At that point, he couldn't control himself anymore. Grabbing your hips harder, he bucked his hips against your ass, pushing his cock into you halfway before pulling back.

You cried out, back arching and head thrown back as his cock stretched you out more than you thought was possible. Then, he thrust forward again and you screamed a silent moan, realizing he had only been halfway inside you and he was now fully seated in your womb.

"Feels so good...you're doing so well, little one, taking Daddy's cock," he crooned, almost lovingly, as he started a slow and gentle pace of fucking you. Your vision got blurrier with each of his thrusts, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body. Soon, your mind became dazed and numbed, and a smile spread across your lips when all you cared about was how absolutely divine his cock felt inside you. You could feel the pressure building in your core with each thrust, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Then, Front Man suddenly pulled out and you whined at the loss of contact, of feeling so empty inside.

Front Man positioned himself above you, on his hands and feet as he pushed inside you again, his frame hovering above yours as he thrust into you. You moaned when he pushed back into you again, smiled as you looked up at him over your shoulder. You looked into his eyes and held his gaze as he quickened the pace once more, rapidly shoving his dick inside you over and over until your senses were overflowing.

Front Man looked back into your eyes as he slammed into you hard and fast, rougher with each thrust. The slapping sounds filled the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and the Front Man's grunts above you. The pressure in your belly intensified and finally erupted just as you felt the Front Man pump into you a final time, burying himself deep inside you as he came. His cock twitched inside you and the feeling of his seed pulsing into you brought you swiftly over the edge.

"Daddy, I'm coming!" you cried out, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop out of him as your orgasm rippled through your body.

"Fuck!" Front Man groaned and threw his head back, his loud, guttural growl echoing between the walls as he emptied the last of his seed inside your belly. You collapsed onto the floor, panting for air and your body becoming limp as you felt his cum flow out of you.

In-ho stood above you with a smirk on his lips, watching as his cum created a white river on the floor between your thighs.

"You're mine now," he muttered quietly and out of breath as he picked up your exhausted body and laid you down on one of the VIP couches. You smiled tiredly and looked up at him through heavy eyelids.

"Yours, Daddy. Forever."

[strawberryforks]

Can you please write something for Tim Bradford where the reader is his rookie? Kind of like a grumpy /sunshine fic?? I just started watching the rookie and I'm literally in love with him😩

reckless smiles

warnings: probably swearing, mentions of DV & guns, other police stuff, nepotism (oops)

a/n: got you anon! hope this works! 🙈🙈 as always, asks are SO open! i’m working on a part two to the other TR fic i posted (per request) and if anyone likes this one there’s another small fic in this little mini series already written that i could post! it’s the call with barnaby <3 anyways, ENJOY!!

Sergeant Grey stands at the front of the briefing room. You’re sitting in the front row (like all rookies do), just happy to be here, beside fellow trainees Nolan, West, and Chen. “Rookies!” booms the sergeant, “today, we’re going to switch things up. Nolan you’re with Lopez, Chen with Bishop, West with me,” your face falls, smile collapsing completely, morphing into something else as you realize who's left to pair up with. Who you’ll be riding with today.

Tim Bradford.

Nolan leans over from his chair. He rests his hand on your shoulder while standing up and moving past you. But first, “You’ll be okay,” he assures—Chen, Bradford’s usual victim, doesn’t say a thing. Instead she shoots you a squashed smile and mouths “good luck,” you know you’ll need it but… but you’ll make the best out of it. Like always.

You steel your expression, trying to wipe away the upset that slipped onto your face momentarily. Despite Tim Bradford being the biggest asshole in the LAPD he’s your superior and you were raised to respect rank… even if you don’t respect the person.

“L/n, you’re with Bradford. Try not to kill each other. You’re good cops, we need you both.”

“She’s a boot. Hardly a cop,” Tim Bradford, asshole extraordinaire, chimes in.

“This batch of rookies is a good one and you know that. L/n is a legacy, top scores in the academy and a record number of arrests for her first year on the force. That’s not easily dismissable.”

Officers began to trickle out of the room, Lopez and Bishop were the first to leave, and then your friends—their rookies, Nolan and Chen, with.

“Feeding me to the wolves, West?” Jackson grins back at you, shrugs, and the door shuts behind him. Even Grey leaves, not wanting to be a part of this. The entire briefing room is empty save from you, Tim Bradford, and Smitty. Smitty, who has his hand inside a miniature bag of popcorn and his feet crossed at the ankles and stacked on top of the desk in front of him. He smacks loudly and Tim shoots him a withering glare. “Fine, fine,” he says, palms raised, “I’ll go. Just uh… tell me how it–”

“Smitty!”

He leaves the briefing room and then you’re left alone.

“Boot,”

“Sir,” you echo.

“I know you’re used to special treatment but that’s not how I work. I’ll be driving,” sure you (with your history) love to be behind the wheel but that’s not a problem, Tim doesn’t let Lucy drive either, it isn’t bias, just how he does things. “You do what I say when I say–none of that reckless idiotic behaviour I hear about from Harper. Just because she has unorthodox methods does not mean you should be copying them. You’re a rookie. Today, my rookie.”

“I don’t expect special treatment. And yes sir.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and tilts his head ever so slightly. He can’t figure you out–it frustrates him that he wants to. You’re always smiling and even now, looking at him with as close to a frown as he’s ever seen on your face, there’s something in your eyes. Not happiness but challenge, maybe? Determination. A sparkle that can’t be dimmed. Not with his shouting, not with his Tim-Tests. He almost takes it as a challenge. He almost tries to break you, to interrupt that inability to back down–the one he knows will get you killed.

The next week is awful but every day you show up to work with a smile (sometimes faux–but fake it until you make it and all that) and the drive to do better, to impress him.

You can’t.

At a DV call, the assaulted woman is terrified. Tim, he would leave that detail out, instead focusing on your shortcomings (how he had threatened to give you a blue page, how you sat there and took it: “I’d understand, is all I’m saying. If you need to put that blue page in my file, go ahead. And I know my lack of regret is not making this better for myself but… I’d do it again,”) that when the victim pulled a gun and pointed it at your head, after you arrested her husband, you decided to take away Tim’s shot. She was frantic and angry, losing her absolute mind, but moreover she was scared and when she pointed the gun at you–safety off, finger pulsing over the trigger because all of her was shaking. Tim had her in his crosshairs. You saw this and moved. You moved, knowing she would follow, and putting yourself at risk while making sure she couldn’t be killed. In your eyes, she was still the victim. She did fire her weapon. Into the ceiling, after you knocked the gun away.

Two similar incidents follow. Ones where you put yourself in needless danger.

You’re reckless. Impulsive. He’s seen you speed off duty, seen you sweet-talk the would-be arresting officer, give him your number and drive away scott free. All because of your smile, because of the twinkle in your eyes. The brightness, the innocent glow. Tim has seen you out at the club, drinking your bodyweight in booze, dancing and singing karaoke, and even a Clip Tok video of you soaking wet after diving into a partially frozen lake to rescue a dog. The public went wild over that one–Aaron Thorsen was in frame too, boosting the videos popularity. Tim could recognize the sentiment. It was great how determined you were, how kind you were, and the soft spot you had for animals and people alike but he was there and had hated every second of that terrifying call.

Tim corrects you, you smile and take it, switching your coffee into your other hand, handing the one you bought him over.

Tim shouts at you, that’s fine, you smile and take it.

That’s what you do, what you’ve always done: smile and endure.

“It’s downpouring, good thing our shift is almost over.”

“I’ve always liked the rain. It’s nice,”

“What part of getting rained on is nice, Boot? It’s basically the sky crying.”

“We need rain. If it’s good for plants it can’t be bad for us.”

“I find that logic flawed.”

“You find a lot of logic flawed, sir.”

“What was that?”

You tell him nothing, that you didn’t mean it, and your shift is over. Heading back to the station to grab your things you make your way into the locker room. Lucy’s there, pulling on her jacket and taking out her umbrella. “How do you do it, Luce?” you ask.

“Do what?”

“Deal with Tim. He hates me. I try so hard and he just hates me,”

“I don’t think…”

“He does. You know he does. He hates me because of my last name, because he doesn’t think I’m a good cop. Because I smile. I don’t know what to do. No one’s ever hated me for smiling before…”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Just hang in there. We’ve only got a few months left before we’re P2s then Grey’ll let you ride with someone else, I’m sure. Maybe with me–how about it?”

You nod, and give Lucy a small smile. She sees through it, how tired you look, how defeated. She rests her hand on your shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. Jackson’s waiting for me–I said I’d cook tonight.”

“See ya, Luce. Have a goodnight and say ‘hi’ to West for me.”

“Of course.”

Lucy slings her bag over her shoulder and leaves the locker room. The door swings open a second time and in walks Tim. He’s silent as he walks over to you. As he mirrors your movements across the small room, grabbing his own things from the cubby space.

Hehearditallhehearditallhehearditall.

You paste a smile on, almost wincing as you slip past him and– “Boo–Y/n.”

Your back faces him and all of you wants to keep it that way. My shift is over–I don’t have to endure, you think, but then you hear your father’s voice. Hear his lessons on respect, on how things should work in the department, how to interact with coworkers, superiors–even the awful ones. You turn to him, you look up, meet his icy blue eyes and repress a shiver. You forget to smile. Your slips stay pressed into a small line as you look at him, realizing that you are too close. You’re too close and you should back up but you can’t. Your breathing heavily, you realize Tim is too. He’s looking down at you with melting eyes. The frost, the coldness, seem to fade away as his hand flys to the back of your neck.

Your tongue darts out, wets your lips, and then his press to yours. Your eyes flutter shut, your body reacting to his touch while your mind hasn’t caught up. TimBradfordiskissingme. MyTOiskissingme. Those thoughts are the only ones that make it through the fog. The questions are satiated by how he’s making you feel. His lips are warm and soft, like his breath, when he pulls away for a moment, eyes boring into your own. “Is this–”

“Yes,” you say. It’s okay. It’ssookay. Betterthanokay.You nod a few times for clarification and one of his large hands lands on the small of your back, pressing you to him, the other moves beside your head as he pushes you against the wall, caging you in.

You’ve never been more okay with being trapped. By him, by his mouth.

His kisses were talking and when they stopped, he was ready to.

Staring down at you with a fast beating heart (no match for the rate your own was thumping in your chest at) he smiled back, for once. It was infectious. A grin split your face and you felt blissful, for a moment. Like you and Tim were the only two in the world, like nothing else mattered, like you were floating in a bubble, transcending your problems and surroundings.

It was a nice bubble, “I don’t hate you.”

Until he popped it. Until he reminded you of what had just happened, of what led to this and the conversation you had with Lucy–the one he overheard.

“I don’t hate you,” he said.

“I don’t believe you,” you blurt.

He raises a brow. His expression says ‘you don’t believe me? After that?’ and fair enough, because all you believe now is that you’re incredibly confused. Incredibly, very confused.

“You yell at me, you constantly talk about how I’m not ready to be a cop, you regularly threaten to give me blue pages and criticize what I do in my freetime–”

“None of that means I hate you.”

“It doesn’t make it seem like you like me! You get mad at me for smiling!”

“I don’t… okay, I get annoyed sometimes but it’s situational. When I’m reaming you out, you shouldn’t be smiling.”

“It’s that or cry! I don’t like being yelled at.”

“I don’t like when you put yourself at risk constantly. That’s why I yell, that’ why I reprimand you. You’ll make a damn good cop but no one wants you to make yourself a fucking martyr. No one wants you to put everything else–the job, a dog–above your own life! I get mad because I care,” he argues. Then lowly, “too damn much.”

“Bradford…”

“It’s Tim, to you.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to worry anyone. I just…” you trail off, Tim still watching you closely. “I can’t not try to save someone. I became a cop to do good, to help people, not to hurt them, to shoot them, to arrest innocents and victims of circumstance. There’s enough awfulness in the world that I don't want to contribute. I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“I didn’t want to be a cop but it’s what my family does–I like the job now, but the way I work it, you know?”

“I get it. I do. You just need to be more careful. You weren’t even on the clock on that call,”

You’re not exactly sure which call he’s referencing. You’ve intervened a few too many times when you shouldn’t have been on duty. It’s how you have (as said by Grey) ‘a record number of arrests for your first year on the force’ because you don’t let injustice slide just because you’re not getting paid. That, and because you’re ridiculously nosey.

“What call?”

“With the drug dealer and that stupid dog.”

“Hey,” you scold. “Barnaby is far from stupid.”

“Barnaby?”

“Yeah. He was a stray so I kept and named him. We trauma bonded–no way I was letting him go to a shelter after that.”

“No, no, that makes sense. I’m just wondering how the hell you came up with Barnaby.

You shrug; it’s a good name.

“Bradford!” shouts Grey, “you in there?”

Tim walks towards the door, shouting back and confirming his presence.

“My office! There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Alright!” Tim turns to you, he mouths his goodbyes and slips from the room leaving you incredibly confused.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Batboys and reader doing the hear me out cake trend and reader pulls out a picture of Bruce when he was in his prime.

Apologies anon but this trend…Do not get me started on how misconstrued the phrase ‘hear me out’ is. I’ll rant about how a lot of ppl should look up the definition first. I’m very passionate about how butchered the trend is that every time I see one I can’t help but think ‘not a hear me out, try again or don’t to save my small remnants of sanity.’ I hate it so much.

Dick

Pouts.

‘My dad? Really?’ He’d ask you.

‘Yeah, what can I say he was a total hunk.’ You shrugged.

‘Was?!’ Dick replied, looking at you as though you had grown a second head. ‘What is he now then chopped liver? Do you not like older men?! Do they loose their charm the moment they have a few grey hairs and lines on their face?!’ He exclaims.

This wasn’t what you were expecting when doing this challenge because now you were being grilled by dick on whether you’ll still feel attractive to him when he himself gets old and grey.

‘I don’t have anything against older men dick, I just find your dad hot in this specific picture.’ You defended yourself and dick only puts his hands on your shoulders and gives them a firm squeeze as he presses his forehead against yours.

‘Sweetheart I don’t think you understand because what do you mean you find him hotter in the picture?! It’s Bruce the man is just naturally photogenic!’ Dick tells you. ‘You could’ve chosen a recent picture of Bruce and say the exact same thing.’

‘Eh, it’s not the same thing.’ You say and dick felt as though he might as well rip his hair from his head because what do you mean it’s not the same thing?! He was now more certain that you didn’t like older men if Bruce was only appealing to you in his youth, his supposed prime.

Needless to say the conversation diverted from the fact that you found his dad hot, to one where dick was trying to prove to himself that you just didn’t like older men/ silver foxes for whatever absurd reason.

Jason

He’s oddly silent.

You feared you did something the moment you pulled the picture of young Bruce Wayne out to put on the cake.

The wait was over the moment he did decide to say something but it was nothing like you’d expect to come out of his mouth;

‘Out of all the pictures there are of Bruce, that’s the one you picked? Nothing about that picture is flattering to him in any way whatsoever.’

‘Oh you’re just jealous.’ You’d tell him and Jason only raises his brow at you.

‘Jealous, babe have you seen me? What’s there to be jealous of that old bat.’ Jason replies as he gestures towards himself before pinching your cheeks. ‘I just think it’s adorable how you consider Bruce in his prime as a hear me out, it’s laughable really but you do you chipmunk.’ He adds.

However when you weren’t looking, he’d take the picture of Bruce from the cake and throw it over his shoulder, for there was no way in hell he was going to have a picture of Bruce on a cake. No sir, Jason would much rather die again than allow his own father to overstay his welcome on the damn cake.

He’d even act innocent when you would ask where the picture went as though he didn’t set it on fire with a lighter after plucking it off the cake. ‘It must’ve grew legs and walked off.’ He’d shrug but it wasn’t hard to know the truth.

His dad can fuck off away from the cake and you.

Damian

Another one who’s not so amused by the fact that you added his father on a ‘hear me out’ cake.

He doesn’t partake in such stupid trends that’ll sooner or later long forgotten by the public consciousness in favour of a new trend that’ll run itself to the ground just as quickly as the last. He questions the publics attention span if it was this short and unreliable, he really does and fears that the age of stupidity has begun with people who think a conventional attractive man with a Roman nose or any other unique feature is a ‘hear me out.’

As if they were any less attractive than a man with a plain featured, and rather unappealing and basic appearance. They’re weren’t, if anything people with romantic noses or any other unique features were just as attractive as the plained featured ones, and Damian found it rather ridiculous that is what is being considered a secrete that many think they’ll be judged for finding appealing.

‘My father? Really?’ He’d say as he looked between you and the picture of his father.

‘Yeah.’ You shrugged.

Damian only sighed as he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘A conventionally attractive man is you hear me out?’

‘Not just any conventionally attractive man-‘ you tried to explain but Damian didn’t allow you the space to do so.

‘My father in his prime doesn’t count, you should really do better research before putting random people on a cake, or better yet don’t partake in a challenge you don’t understand.’ Was all Damian said before he leaves the room, he’s not impressed and feared that there was too many people who for some stupid reason also though his father in his prime is a ‘hear me out.’

It freaks him out and disappoints him greatly of what the future of Gotham and humanity as a whole would look like if these people were to be at the helm.

Tim

Not amused.

He’s sick and tired of people putting conventional attractive people and anthropomorphic animals who are drawn in a specific way to elicit such emotions out of people.

So to see that you had put his father, more specifically Bruce in his first steps as the dark knight, he couldn’t help but look at you disappointedly.

One, you obviously didn’t understand the concept of a hear me out and Tim is more then ready to educate you on what one is with his long ass PowerPoint presentation. And two, really? His dad? What was wrong with his dad in his current old age? Did you have something against older men?

Wait- why was he so suddenly concerned whether or not you find his father less appealing now than how he looked in his prime? He should be more focused on the fact that you found such pristine picture of Bruce during that time, he’s tried multiple times but the resolution was god awful and didn’t do anything to flatter Bruce.

You’re still getting lectured on what a proper hear me out is though. Tim’s got fucking tons.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 — 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐝

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To the anon who infected me with this brainrot — thank you. You gave me the excuse I didn’t know I needed to spiral into unhinged Sylus/Zayne territory and honestly? I regret nothing.

I know this won’t be everyone’s cup of venom, and guess what? I don’t care. I had the most fucking fun writing this. The tension? The filth? The power-play in a hospital of all places? I blacked out and woke up with a smirk and open wounds.

This is indulgent, messy, and exactly how I wanted it to be.

To the rest of you who get it — welcome to the descent. 🖤

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : When Sylus stumbles into the hospital, bloodied and half-feral, the last person he expects to find waiting is Zayne—calm, cold, and far too composed. But beneath the antiseptic lights and tension-laced stitching, something unspoken begins to crack. A rivalry forged in fire gives way to something darker, deeper… needier. And when the night finally stills, their restraint does not.

Enemies don’t always stay enemies—especially when desire tastes like blood and victory comes in moans.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰 : blood and injury, a brief hospital setting, explicit sexual content between two male characters (Sylus x Zayne, SnowCrow), rough sex, biting, mild dominance dynamics, and themes of emotional repression. NSFW

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 : angel - slowed // velours

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒.

It breathes in pain, exhales panic. The walls tremble with the weight of suffering—hallways pulsate with noise, machines bleating like dying animals, voices clashing like metal on metal. Somewhere, someone is sobbing. The sound slices through sterile air with the precision of shattered glass.

Sylus moves through it untouched.

Blood paints him—slick, warm, insistent. It clings to his leather like it belongs there, seeping through to the muscle beneath, fusing with him. His boots strike the polished floor in steady, wet percussion, leaving behind a trail he doesn’t bother concealing.

He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

A nurse sees him first—her eyes widen, mouth parting around a gasp or a warning or a question, none of which matter. She steps into his path, clipboard clutched like a shield against the storm she senses too late.

He crashes through her like wind through brittle glass.

Another makes the mistake of reaching for him near the triage desk. He shoulders her aside without pause, a statue in motion, merciless and monolithic.

Their voices follow, desperate and distant.

“Sir, wait—”

“You’re bleeding—!”

“Security—!”

He keeps going.

Pain gnaws at his ribs—sharp, insistent—but it’s a whisper compared to the mission that devours him from the inside out.

Ahead, the elevator blinks. Its numbers crawl down at a glacial pace.

Too slow.

Too fucking slow.

He doesn’t think—he veers, pivoting toward the stairwell like a creature redirected by instinct alone. His blood-slick hand slams against the door’s push bar, and it groans open under his weight.

Then he runs.

Boots drum down the concrete steps like war, each impact sending fire lancing through his side. He doesn’t falter. He can’t. Not now.

Adrenaline screams beneath his skin. Rage—hotter, purer—follows in its wake.

The landings blur. Floors melt into one another—white lights, grey walls, the stench of disinfectant and dread. None of it registers. None of it matters.

Administrative wing. End of the hall. Last door on the right.

The thought pulls him forward like gravity—dark, absolute, inescapable. Something waits for him at the end of this path. Something inevitable.

He bursts through the stairwell door, shoulder first. The executive floor yawns open—pristine, glistening, wrong. Too quiet. Too clean. An illusion of order wrapped over rot.

His blood hits the tiles like scripture.

A secretary half-rises from her desk. Her face distorts—horror, confusion, fear. She opens her mouth.

Sylus looks at her.

She sits back down.

Good.

His wound screams now, louder with every breath, but he silences it. He has to.

He doesn’t stop until he’s at the end of the corridor, until the carved wood of the office door stands before him like a final trial.

Until he’s close enough to feel it—that heartbeat pulsing steady and slow on the other side, like a metronome, like a dare.

Zayne.

Sylus presses a blood-wet palm flat against the door.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does.

The door gives under his palm, swinging open with a low, reluctant groan.

The air inside is different. Cleaner. Colder.

Sylus crosses the threshold without hesitation, dragging streaks of crimson across the sterile floor. Behind him, the heavy door thuds shut, sealing the world out like the lid of a tomb.

Zayne is already standing. No coat. No gloves. Sleeves rolled back, throat bare, the razor line of his jaw catching the light like a blade.

For a stretched, brutal moment, neither man speaks.

Sylus feels it—the weight of that gaze, glacial and unblinking, raking over every torn, blood-slick edge of him. He meets it head-on, jaw locked, a silent refusal to flinch.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t waver. No frown. No widening of the eyes. Only calculation. Only that familiar, lethal patience that strips a man down to the bone.

The silence between them crackles, louder than the chaos Sylus left bleeding behind him.

He takes another step forward, deliberate, blood dripping from his fingertips to splatter on the immaculate tile. The room presses against him—too bright, too clean—as if the walls themselves are trying to scrub the violence from his skin.

He lets them try. He does not yield.

Zayne leans back against the edge of his desk, arms folding loosely across his chest, posture crafted with casual disinterest.

A lie.

Sylus sees it—the slight clench of his jaw, the betraying flicker of a pulse at his throat.

It would be easier if one of them spoke. If they named the thing that strangled the air between them, heavy and hungry and vicious.

Neither does.

Sylus tilts his head in a lazy, almost mocking angle. Blood slides down his wrist, tracing over his knuckles before kissing the floor.

Zayne’s eyes follow the movement, clinical, sharp.

Still, he says nothing.

Still, he doesn't move.

They stay there—locked in the kind of quiet only men like them can survive—made of defiance, of pride, of something darker and uglier festering beneath the surface. Both unwilling to yield. Both already bleeding from it.

The metallic tang of blood thickens at the back of Sylus’s throat. He smiles anyway—a slow, jagged thing, all teeth and no mercy.

Zayne’s lips part slightly, the ghost of a word forming, then dying.

Instead, he straightens to his full height, uncrossing his arms with a patience that could kill a man.

He turns to the tray of surgical tools laid out with clinical precision. His movements are steady, practiced, cold.

Another lie.

Sylus watches every motion—the way Zayne’s fingers curl, precise and impersonal—though Sylus knows there is nothing impersonal about this.

Not tonight.

Zayne lifts a pair of sterile scissors from the tray, the metal flashing wickedly under the overhead lights.

When his voice finally cuts through the thick silence, it slices clean to the bone.

“Take the jacket off.”

No question. No hesitation. No kindness.

Just command—sharp and undeniable.

Sylus’s grin widens, slow and feral, sharp enough to bleed.

This was going to be fun.

He shrugs the jacket off one shoulder.

Not quickly. Not efficiently.

Deliberately. With precision masquerading as compliance. Each motion a provocation sheathed in silk.

The leather clings for a moment—blood acting as glue—then peels away with a soft, viscous sound. The lining is stained deep red, like meat flayed from bone. Beneath, the muscle gleams where blood has smeared and dried, slick over the sharp terrain of his bicep, the curve of his ribs.

He keeps his eyes locked on Zayne.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t wince.

Lets the silence stretch between them like barbed wire, taut and trembling.

The other sleeve slips free with slow defiance, dragging across tense forearms until the ruined jacket hangs from his fingers—dripping, warm, still humming with violence.

He drops it.

It lands at his feet with a wet slap, blood blooming beneath it like something obscene and living.

Zayne doesn’t look down.

He’s too busy watching Sylus.

Not merely watching—studying, the way a marksman watches for the exact breath before a body breaks. His arms hang loose now, no longer folded. His fingers twitch once, subtly, betraying restraint. As though they ache to move. As though they’re waiting for permission neither of them will give.

Sylus draws in a slow breath through his nose.

Lets the moment breathe with him.

The silence of the hospital folds in—clinical, cold, pretending not to notice the electricity crawling up its walls.

Then Sylus reaches for the hem of his shirt. Torn. Soaked. Clinging like a lover that doesn’t know when to let go.

He grips the fabric with both hands and pulls. Inch by inch, it peels upward, exposing flesh mapped with bruises, scrapes, half-healed chaos. The cut along his side snags the cloth, forces a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Still, he keeps going. Still, he doesn’t look away.

The shirt comes off in one final rip—discarded without ceremony, a blood-soaked flag of war flung at Zayne’s feet.

Now bare to the waist, Sylus stands still.

Wounded. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

There’s blood dried in the hollow of his throat. Sweat slicks the small of his back. Scars catch the light like secrets.

He is beautiful in his ruin. Defiant in his vulnerability.

Zayne says nothing.

But the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

He steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Scissors in one gloved hand—controlled, precise, surgical. Not trembling. Not urgent. But not untouched, either.

Sylus sees it.

In the flicker of his gaze. In the mouth drawn too tight. In the way Zayne’s eyes pause just a second too long over the curve of a rib, the ghost of a scar.

Zayne lifts the blade.

Holds it near Sylus’s skin.

Doesn’t touch. Not yet.

When he speaks, the word lands low, rough-edged, soaked in command.

“Sit.”

Just one word. One drop of control dropped into a room full of gasoline.

Sylus doesn’t obey. Not immediately.

He smiles first—wider now. All teeth, all understanding. The kind of smile that threatens and invites in the same breath.

Then, slowly, like he's offering charity to a starving man, he lowers himself into the chair.

Not obedient. Not submissive. Just choosing, for now, to allow.

Zayne moves without speaking.

He sets the scissors aside with methodical care, the faint clink of metal barely audible over the hum of fluorescent lights, too bright, too sterile. The tray beside him is a battlefield of precision: gauze, antiseptic, needle, thread—all clean, all sharp, all lies.

Nothing about this feels clean.

He tears open a swab, soaks it in antiseptic. The smell strikes first—chemical, brutal, a memory of every failure written into the bloodstream.

Sylus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t brace. Just spreads his knees a fraction wider and leans back, silent, waiting.

Zayne steps between his legs.

No permission asked. None needed.

The first press of soaked cotton lands just beneath Sylus’s collarbone.

It burns.

Not from the wound.

From the hand that holds it—steady, clinical, too careful by half.

Zayne doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed, surgical. Or pretends to be. As if Sylus is nothing but meat and blood and damage to be stitched back together. As if this isn't a different kind of dissection.

The swab moves in slow, precise circles, tracing bruises like they mean something. Like he’s reading a map only he understands.

The room thickens with it.

Not pain. Not blood. Something worse.

The lack of it—no slips, no gasps, no mistakes.

Zayne is too careful. Zayne, who isn't supposed to care.

And yet— —the fingers in the gloves tremble, just once, just enough, the smallest rebellion against the mask he wears.

Sylus notices. Of course he notices.

Zayne switches to a fresh swab, the next drag of alcohol biting down Sylus’s ribs. The motion forces proximity—his face close enough that Sylus can feel the ghost of breath over his skin, accidental or not.

Sylus tilts his head, lazy, predatory. Watches from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Zayne doesn’t react.

Or tries not to.

Another swab. Another pass. Each one slower than the last.

There’s a gash along Sylus’s side—shallow, ugly, insistent. Zayne presses gauze to it, firm, unkind. His other hand braces Sylus’s hip, gloved fingers pressing down too tightly, gripping too long.

Sylus breathes through his nose. Endures it.

No wince. No break.

When Zayne pulls away, Sylus shifts.

Barely.

But it’s enough—enough that the inside of his thigh drags against Zayne’s leg.

Contact. Friction. Intention.

Zayne freezes.

Just for a breath.

Then he moves—careful, controlled—reaching for the needle already threaded, already waiting.

His voice, when it finally cracks the silence, is quieter now. Not softer.

“Hold still.”

No please. No kindness. Just another command, brittle at the edges.

Sylus’s lips part. His tongue flicks against the inside of his cheek— —not a smile. Not this time.

Only the ghost of something darker, meaner, hungrier.

He doesn't move.

But the stillness is a lie.

Because they both know—

—hands always start shaking eventually.

The needle bites into flesh.

Sharp. Clean. Unapologetic.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

No hiss, no grunt—only the steady, deliberate rise and fall of his chest, breath anchored low like a weight dropped into deep water.

Zayne’s hand moves with mechanical precision—push, pull, knot, cut—the rhythm of a man carving distance into something already too close.

Each stitch is perfect. Small. Precise. Surgically cruel.

But perfection never holds.

By the fourth puncture, the tremor starts.

Subtle at first—a tightening around Zayne’s fingers, a twitch at the wrist.

The needle hovers a fraction too long against torn skin, hesitation bleeding into the room.

Sylus feels it.

Feels everything.

His gaze drops—not to the wound, not to the blood—but to Zayne’s mouth. The clenched line of his jaw. The muscles in his throat working against the weight of restraint.

The next stitch sinks deeper than necessary.

Not an accident.

A message.

Sylus exhales, slow and deep, the breath ghosting against Zayne’s forearm where it cages him close. The contact is incidental. Harmless.

Weaponized.

Zayne’s fingers tighten on the needle, the thread drawn taut enough to hum with tension.

Sylus shifts, deliberate—muscle flexing beneath gloved hands, a sinuous reminder of everything Zayne is touching, everything he’s trying so hard to treat like just another body broken open by violence.

The next stitch drags.

Not smooth. Not clean.

Zayne makes a sound—small, unguarded, almost a breath—but Sylus catches it. Tastes it. Tucks it away like a trophy.

He tilts his head, lets his voice spill out low and poisoned, a blade wrapped in silk.

"You're losing your touch."

The words slip into the room like smoke through cracks, seeping into marrow.

Zayne doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

The thread pulls harder. The needle punctures deeper. His hand presses firmer against Sylus’s side, pinning him under the thin excuse of stability.

But they both know better.

It isn’t the wound Zayne’s trying to steady.

It’s himself.

Sylus’s mouth curves—not into a grin, not this time—but into something colder.

Hungrier.

Challenge, sharpened to a lethal edge.

When Zayne leans in to set the next stitch, Sylus moves—barely—a calculated tilt of the head that brushes their faces together.

Skin against skin. A whisper of violence. A prayer of desecration.

Zayne freezes.

The needle hangs suspended, half-threaded.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the room holds its breath with them.

Sylus inhales the sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic, but underneath it, something richer coils—salt, blood, heat, the feral stench of fury barely contained.

Zayne pulls back.

Sharp. Controlled.

Barely.

The suture snaps tight under a brutal final tug, knotting the last line of blood shut with a surgeon’s precision and a fighter’s violence.

Finished.

At least on the surface.

The needle drops into the tray with a clatter, metallic and final, too loud for the suffocating quiet.

Zayne peels one of off his gloves next, slow, methodical, his fingers flexing like a man reminding himself of every inch of skin he hasn't yet surrendered.

Yet.

Sylus leans back in the chair, shirtless, bloodied, smiling the way only men who have already won do.

And maybe he has.

Because Zayne’s hands are no longer steady.

And Sylus—

—Sylus isn’t done pushing.

Sylus watches everything.

The way Zayne breathes through his nose. The way his spine locks rigid. The way restraint leaks out of him molecule by molecule, a slow, irreversible hemorrhage no amount of professionalism can suture shut.

Good.

Sylus shifts—barely—but the sound of his boot scraping the floor splits the quiet like a crack in porcelain.

A warning. A dare.

Then, with blood-slicked fingers, he lifts a hand and wraps it around Zayne’s wrist.

Not tight. Not rough.

Just enough to feel the hammering pulse beneath fragile skin.

For one suspended second, Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even breathe.

Sylus tilts his head, the movement lazy, almost cruel, and lets his voice slip free in a low murmur.

“You’re shaking.”

Not a question. An accusation. An invitation.

Zayne’s jaw ticks hard enough to crack bone.

Still, he says nothing.

Coward.

Sylus tightens his grip, just slightly, thumb brushing the frantic beat fluttering against tendons and bone. The betrayal Zayne can’t hide. The confession he can’t choke down.

Sylus leans in—not touching, not bridging the chasm fully—but close enough that his words could bleed straight into Zayne’s bloodstream.

“It’s not the blood that’s getting to you, is it Doctor?”

He watches the swallow hitch Zayne’s throat. Watches the sharp flare of his nostrils. Watches him break, molecule by molecule.

Zayne’s free hand curls into a tighter fist, knuckles whitening under the strain.

Sylus smiles, slow and deliberate.

Predator wearing the skin of patience.

“You want to ruin something, don’t you?”

A whisper. A blade drawn slow across a throat. A mockery crafted over years of bruised silences and things left unsaid.

“Me.” “Yourself.”

Both truths rot between them, sweet and sickening.

Zayne wrenches his wrist free.

Not violently. Not with rage.

With the kind of restraint that bleeds—measured, agonizing, a choice that costs something vital and irreplaceable.

He takes a step back.

Breathing harder now, like the air itself is razors.

Sylus stays seated.

Legs spread, blood drying in ugly constellations across his ribs, wearing destruction like a throne.

Looking, in that moment, like the only goddamn thing in the whole clinical, fluorescent world worth burning for.

And Zayne— Zayne looks at him like he knows it.

They hang there, suspended on the wire of everything they cannot say. Everything that would kill them if spoken.

Sylus tilts his chin up, delivering the final blow in a voice carved from iron and temptation.

"Tell me no."

A beat.

A breath.

"Go on."

Daring him.

Daring him to pretend there’s still a world where either of them can walk away untouched.

Zayne doesn’t answer.

Because there’s no point lying anymore.

Zayne moves.

Fast. Final.

His hand clamps around Sylus’s throat, fingers biting into battered skin, palm pinning him to the chair like a verdict handed down without trial.

The force is controlled—barely. Enough to catch Sylus’s breath, not enough to leave bruises.

Not yet.

Sylus doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t lift a hand. Doesn’t so much as flinch.

He only looks up.

Eyes molten, merciless. Mouth curved in a ghost of a smirk—something too ancient, too ruthless, to be called human.

A dare. A promise. A loaded gun cocked and waiting.

Zayne’s grip tightens, knuckles flashing white under the strain.

His body crowds into Sylus’s space, pressing him back against the hard frame of the chair, pinning him there like a specimen under glass. Every muscle in him vibrates with the effort it takes not to crush, not to consume, not to end this the way every instinct is screaming for.

Sylus tilts his chin higher into the hold, offering up his throat like a king surrendering a crown he never intended to relinquish.

The world beyond the office dies. No footsteps. No voices. No alarms.

Only breathing—strained, brutal—and the cold, relentless tremor crawling up Zayne’s arms.

He leans closer.

Until their foreheads almost touch. Until he can taste defiance thick on Sylus’s skin, salt and heat and inevitability.

Still, Sylus does not blink. Does not speak. Does not yield.

His pulse thrums steady against Zayne’s palm—a taunt, a siren's call, a noose tightening in reverse.

The bastard is enjoying this.

And Zayne—

Zayne is coming undone one heartbeat at a time.

His other hand fists in the back of Sylus’s hair, yanking his head back farther, exposing the ruin of his throat to brutal scrutiny.

A sound rips out of Zayne—low, raw, almost a snarl—the ghost of something feral clawing its way up from the place where he keeps his control buried.

His chest drags rough and ragged against Sylus’s bare skin, a friction that feels more like a confession than any words could ever be.

Sylus lets him.

Lets him see it all—the open wounds, the bruises, the smudged fingerprints of other wars.

None of it mattered.

None of it touched him like this. Only Zayne. Only now.

The chair groans under the strain, Sylus’s shoulders digging into the plastic, his legs spread wide, shameless, relaxed in a way that weaponizes the posture into something obscene.

The look he gives Zayne—half-lidded, mocking, starving—says everything he refuses to utter aloud.

Is this it? Is this all you’ve got?

Zayne’s fingers tighten, riding the bleeding edge between domination and destruction.

And Sylus—

Sylus just smiles.

Wider. Crueler. Knowing.

Because he knows. He’s always known.

Zayne will fall first.

And Sylus will make sure it hurts when he does.

Zayne snaps.

Not with fists. Not with shattered glass.

Something colder. Sharper. Surgical.

His hand tightens once—bruising, warning—before he drives Sylus back against the chair with a jerk hard enough to rattle the frame.

The impact slams through Sylus’s spine—a brutal reminder of leverage, of how easily control could shift hands if he let it.

He doesn’t.

He only laughs.

Low. Dangerous. A sound scraped from the bottom of a broken chest.

Zayne’s palm stays locked at his throat, the other hand twisting tighter into his hair, dragging his head back, leaving his mouth half-parted, his body arched under the pressure.

"Say it," Zayne grits out, voice worn down to something ragged and feral.

His breath scorches across Sylus’s skin, hot and seething, pulled from a mouth stretched too tight to be anything but furious.

Sylus’s lips part— Not in surrender.

In provocation.

"Say what, doc?"

Mockery, pure and venomous, poured straight into the wound.

Zayne’s fingers twitch, his control fraying at the seams.

Sylus feels it—the tremor of rage trembling through every corded muscle straining not to break him apart.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t yield.

He leans into it—spine grinding harder against the chair, the violence fed into his bones like communion.

Zayne yanks his head back another inch, brutal, stretching the cords of his neck taut, making breath itself a conscious, costly thing.

"Say what you came here for," Zayne snarls. "Say why you dragged your half-dead ass through my hospital."

Sylus’s heart beats slow and steady against the hand trying—and failing—to master it.

He could lie. Could pretend it was proximity, necessity, survival.

But they are too deep now. Too ruined for anything less than the truth.

Sylus drags his tongue across the inside of his cheek, tasting the iron of blood and something meaner lodged between his teeth.

His gaze never leaves Zayne’s.

Not once.

"Came to see if you'd finally break."

A heartbeat. A breath.

Then a whisper, soft and devastating—

"Guess I didn’t have to try that hard."

The words crack the air between them.

Zayne’s snarl is silent, carved into the brutal line of his jaw, the burning fury in his eyes, the death grip bruising Sylus’s throat.

The chair groans under the strain, the screws biting into the frame like they, too, are barely holding together.

Sylus lets it happen.

Lets the pressure bleed through him.

Lets the bruises form.

Lets the moment devour the last scraps of reason between them.

Zayne’s face is so close Sylus can see the fine tremors tracing his mouth.

Can feel every brutal inhale clawing past the wreckage of self-control.

One push from ruin. One word from collapse.

Zayne leans in, mouth brushing dangerously close to Sylus’s ear.

The breath that strikes Sylus’s skin is a furnace blast—hot, wrecked, soaked in promises that should never leave the mind, let alone the mouth.

“One more word,” Zayne rasps, voice broken beyond repair, “and I’ll make you beg.”

Not a threat. A vow.

Sylus’s pulse kicks hard, hammering against the fingers bruising his collarbone.

He could break it here. Now.

One word, one push, and Zayne would shatter.

Instead, he chooses cruelty dressed in silk.

Sylus tilts his head—just enough—until his lips ghost the shell of Zayne’s ear, the barest scrape of contact, the kind that makes breathing a forgotten concept.

His whisper threads velvet and venom into a single, devastating breath.

"Good boy."

Two words.

Soft enough to wound. Sharp enough to destroy.

The reaction is instant.

Zayne jerks back, fury slashing across his features, hands locking down like vices—

—and Sylus moves faster.

His own hand lashes up, seizing the back of Zayne’s neck, fingers threading into the sweat-damp short hair, yanking him down with brutal, merciless force.

No warning. No hesitation. No mercy.

Their mouths crash together in a collision of teeth and violence.

The impact shudders through both of them— violent, graceless, inevitable.

Not a kiss. Not anything so civilized.

An assault. A confession. A dragging out of need from the wreckage they’ve both been pretending didn’t exist.

Zayne fists the meat of Sylus’s side, dragging him higher into the brutal contact, answering violence with violence, hunger with hunger, breathing into the hollow of Sylus’s mouth like he could drown them both before he’d ever let go.

Neither gives ground. Neither yields.

This isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And they’ve both already lost.

Zayne deepens the kiss with a brutal drag of teeth, biting Sylus’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Sylus answers with a vicious sound ripped from the depths of his chest—half-laughter, half-snarl, pure violence dressed in heat.

Their hands grapple for dominance—Zayne shoving, Sylus pulling—until there’s no clear boundary left between them. Only heat, only violence, only the shared ruin of blood and sweat slicking every frantic clash of mouths.

Sylus arches under the onslaught, body snapping taut against Zayne’s weight, every nerve lit up like a battlefield.

This isn’t gentle.

It isn’t careful.

It never could be.

Zayne seizes a fistful of Sylus’s hair, wrenching his head to the side, dragging his mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, teeth scraping a brutal path toward the vulnerable skin just beneath his ear.

He bites there— savage. Claiming. Final.

Sylus gasps against him—a broken, guttural sound—hips canting up in a sharp, desperate grind that leaves no room for pretense.

Zayne answers by slamming him harder against the chair, one hand locking around Sylus’s hip, fingers digging into bruised flesh like he means to leave fingerprints stitched into bone.

The chair groans under their fury, its frame shrieking with every shove, every desperate collision of bodies driven by something far older and darker than want.

Sylus retaliates—nails raking down Zayne’s back through the thin barrier of his shirt—not enough to tear, but enough to mark. Enough to brand.

Zayne's mouth crushes back to Sylus’s—devouring, punishing— a raw collision of teeth and tongue that tastes of blood, rage, and something black and bottomless neither of them dare name.

Their breathing shatters, breaking apart in harsh, ragged gasps, filling the room with the sound of collapse.

Zayne braces one knee between Sylus’s legs, forcing him open wider, grounding him in place, crushing any last delusion of escape between bruised thighs and battered pride.

Sylus takes it.

Takes all of it.

And smiles against Zayne’s mouth like he planned this ruin from the very start.

The kiss twists crueler, angrier—every drag of Zayne’s mouth a curse, every clash of teeth a confession they cannot bury deep enough to silence.

When Zayne finally tears away, ripping the kiss apart with a savage snap of teeth, a thin string of blood smears between them—Sylus’s lip torn open, the red glistening like a war-banner across his mouth.

They freeze there.

Locked. Breathing hard. Hands still fisted in ruined clothes and broken skin.

There’s nothing left to pretend.

Not anymore.

Zayne’s hand remains clamped around Sylus’s throat, thumb dragging a slow, possessive stroke across the bruised column of his neck—half reverence, half claim.

Sylus swallows against the pressure—slow, deliberate—his gaze gleaming with something filthy and victorious.

Sylus lifts a hand.

Slow enough to taunt.

Not to shove Zayne away. Not to fight.

To command.

His fingers brush along the sharp edge of Zayne’s jaw—featherlight, a mockery of tenderness.

He feels it—the tension thrumming beneath skin, the tremor buried deep in muscle and bone.

Good.

Without a word, Sylus presses down.

Down. Guiding. Demanding.

Zayne resists—for half a breath. One strained heartbeat of pride.

Then he sinks to his knees like gravity itself answers to Sylus alone.

The sight is obscene.

Zayne kneeling there— shoulders rigid, fists curled against the cold floor like he could anchor himself against inevitability.

Sylus tilts his head, studying him like something expensive he’s deciding whether to ruin.

Then he spreads his legs wider.

The chair creaks under the slow, deliberate shift of weight, leather whining against blood-slicked skin.

Sylus’s fingers tangle in Zayne’s hair, dragging short strands through his grip with deliberate cruelty.

"Open me up," Sylus says, voice low, wrecked, soaked in sin.

Not a plea.

A command. A sentence.

Zayne looks up through his lashes—eyes blackened with rage, wreckage, worship—and Sylus watches the war rage behind them.

Pride. Fury. Reverence.

All bleeding into something far too raw to name.

Slowly, Zayne’s hands rise.

Unsteady.

Unbuttoning. Unzipping. Dragging down the ruined waistband just enough to bare sharp hipbones and the thick, hard line of Sylus straining against bruised, bloodied skin.

Sylus hums low in his throat—a dark vibration rippling across the fresh bruises blooming along his neck.

His thumb brushes Zayne’s cheekbone—almost tender, almost cruel.

"That's it," he murmurs, a threadbare mercy stitched into the violence.

"Be a good boy for me."

Zayne’s breath stutters against his thigh—hot, broken, wrecked.

Sylus tightens his grip in his hair, tilting his face up, forcing him to hold his gaze.

"You're going to open that pretty mouth," Sylus breathes, thumb stroking the corner of Zayne’s lips, "and take everything I give you."

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just breathes—shallow, frantic—caught between defiance and the desperate inevitability of submission.

Sylus smiles then.

Slow. Poisonous.

The kind of smile that promises two things: Ruin. And mercy.

Both.

"You want it," he whispers, voice scraping the last vestiges of restraint from the air, "same way you wanted to break me."

He spreads his legs wider—an invitation, a command, a final noose.

Another silent dare.

Another sentence written into skin.

Zayne’s hands clench against Sylus’s thighs—white-knuckled, trembling—but he doesn’t pull away.

Not anymore.

He’s already kneeling. Already gone.

Already home.

And Sylus—

Sylus plans to make sure he never forgets it.

Sylus shifts in the chair, spreading wider, dragging Zayne closer with nothing but the lazy pull of fingers curled deeper into his hair.

Zayne’s breath stutters against Sylus’s exposed skin—hot, uneven, wrecked.

Sylus watches.

Watches the way pride collapses under the gravity of need. Watches the flicker in Zayne’s lashes, the tremble in his fists clenched against Sylus’s thighs like lifelines.

"Go on," Sylus murmurs— a velvet-draped blade. "Be good for me."

The command slices the thick silence clean open.

Zayne obeys.

He leans in.

His mouth brushes the sensitive crease of Sylus’s hip with a reverence that borders on the sacrilegious. His tongue follows—tracing bruised flesh, tasting blood, sweat, salt.

Ruin.

Sylus’s head falls back, a low, broken exhale ripped straight from his chest. His grip tightens in Zayne’s hair—enough to remind him of the leash wound invisible around his throat.

"Fuck—look at you," Sylus hisses, glancing down, gaze locking on Zayne’s wrecked, dark eyes. "On your knees for me."

Zayne answers with nothing but a needy, fractured sound vibrating into Sylus’s skin, his mouth trailing lower, lips drawing a path with aching deliberation.

When his lips close around the head of Sylus’s cock, Sylus’s whole body shudders—not from pain. From the effort it takes not to come apart.

Heat envelopes him—wet, tight, devastating.

His knuckles whiten in Zayne’s hair, anchoring him to the moment, the sensation, the worship.

Zayne moves slow at first—languid, deliberate—mouth dragging inch by inch, pupils blown wide with something filthy and fragile.

Sylus can’t look away.

The sight of him—beautiful, broken, hungry—chokes the air from the room.

He rolls his hips forward, shallow but commanding, deeper into the slick heat of Zayne’s mouth.

Zayne takes it.

Stretches. Chokes. Endures.

His hands bruise into Sylus’s thighs, clutching tight enough to leave marks, enough to say I won’t let go until you make me.

Every gag, every wet, obscene sound fans the fire into something relentless.

Sylus brushes a thumb over the hollow of Zayne’s cheek— feeling the stretch. The effort. The surrender.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice dragging like velvet through gravel, hips rolling harder. "Good fucking boy."

Zayne moans around him, the sound reverberating up Sylus’s spine like a prayer that ends in collapse.

Sylus thrusts deeper—punishing, reverent—his other hand cupping Zayne’s jaw, forcing it wider, forcing him to take it all.

Zayne’s eyes glass over, tears beading in the corners as his throat struggles around each brutal thrust.

Sylus knows he’s cruel.

Knows he should stop.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

Not when Zayne kneels like this.

Not when he offers himself up like something sacred. Something holy and ruined and his.

Sylus fucks harder, the chair rattling beneath them, the frame groaning like it, too, is near collapse.

His climax hits like a blade.

Sudden. Inevitable. Merciless.

He grips Zayne’s jaw, forces his gaze upward.

Look. Look at who’s breaking you.

Their eyes lock.

And Sylus snaps.

He comes down Zayne’s throat with a hoarse, wrecked sound, hips stuttering, fingers gripping so tight Zayne’s scalp screams in protest.

Zayne takes all of it.

Swallows it—messy, greedy, grateful.

Only when Sylus pulls back, breath ragged, does he release the hold on Zayne’s hair.

Zayne stays there. Kneeling. Mouth wrecked. Throat working around the aftertaste of surrender.

Sylus watches him—still sprawled in the chair, still bleeding, still owning every inch of the man knelt before him.

"Good fucking boy," he mutters again, thumb dragging across Zayne’s ruined mouth.

Zayne leans into the touch like he was made for it.

And maybe—

Maybe he was.

Zayne lifts his hand, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist.

The smear of red left behind looks deliberate. Almost elegant. Like art rendered in aftermath.

He doesn’t look at Sylus when he speaks, voice husky but controlled.

“You’ve made your point.”

Then he rises.

Pushes off the floor with a composure too careful to be real.

His knees crack as he straightens—the sound loud in the thick, ruined silence.

He smooths the wrinkles from his slacks like a man trying to stitch himself back into dignity.

Sylus says nothing.

Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Zayne’s hands brush dust—blood, sweat, the last fragments of pride—from his thighs with surgical precision. Like he can erase what just happened if he’s careful enough. Like it didn’t touch something vital.

He turns without waiting for a response. Walks to his desk.

Measured. Unhurried.

His spine is too straight. Every step bleeding tension he pretends isn’t there.

He reaches for something—paperwork, a folder, maybe just the illusion of barrier.

But behind him—

The chair creaks.

Soft. Subtle. Predatory.

Sylus rises.

Fluid as breath. Quiet as regret.

Zayne doesn’t notice.

Not until Sylus is there. Close. Too close.

Heat bleeds between them as Sylus presses in—chest to back, hips aligned, breath ghosting over the curve of Zayne’s neck.

Not touching with force. Touching with intention.

Zayne goes rigid. Hands hovering above the desk. Spine pulled taut like a bowstring ready to break.

Sylus leans in.

His mouth brushes the shell of Zayne’s ear, his voice a whisper made of ash and ruin.

“We’re not done.”

The words burn into skin like a brand.

A pause. A beat.

Then Sylus’s hand slides forward.

Slow. Precise.

Fingers settling at Zayne’s hip. Thumb stroking the waistband of his slacks. Grip flexing just enough to promise—

Not mercy. Not escape. More.

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

But his breathing stutters—the only betrayal in a silence stitched from control.

Sylus smiles against his neck.

“Not even close.”

Sylus lets the silence stretch. Tight. Taut. Intentional.

Then he dips lower.

His lips graze the shell of Zayne’s ear, tongue flicking out once—just enough to taste the salt pooled there.

“You want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice spun from silk and shadow. “Say the word.”

He already knows Zayne won’t.

His hand moves with that same cruel patience he’s always carried—sliding down the flat plane of Zayne’s abdomen, past the crisp edge of his shirt, to the belt that holds everything together.

One tug.

The buckle gives with a sharp, metallic click—a sound that slices through the sterile hush of the office like a verdict.

Zayne’s head tips back. Slow. Deliberate.

It lands heavy against Sylus’s shoulder.

His eyes close. His breath stutters—too shallow, too fast for a man who prides himself on composure.

Sylus presses a single kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Just once. Like punctuation. Like a signature.

Then his hands are moving again— palming the heat beneath Zayne’s slacks. Hard. Hot. Barely restrained.

“Fuck,” Sylus breathes, voice rough with approval. “You're already aching for it, aren’t you?”

His thumb drags along the shape of Zayne’s cock through the fabric—slow strokes, precise pressure. Just enough. Never more.

Zayne grips the edge of the desk in both hands—knuckles bone-white, head still tipped back, mouth open like he’s halfway between a moan and a prayer.

Sylus unzips him—knuckles grazing skin, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him.

Zayne’s cock springs free—flushed, straining, glistening under the fluorescent lights like something profane made sacred.

Sylus wraps a hand around the base—tight, possessive—and begins to stroke.

Slow. Intentional. Designed to ruin.

Zayne makes a sound—guttural, wordless—hips twitching helplessly against the rhythm.

Sylus chuckles. Low. Wicked. Quiet as a curse.

The sound vibrates into Zayne’s spine.

“That’s it,” he murmurs at his ear. “Let me feel how close you are.”

Zayne gasps when Sylus’s thumb rolls over the head—slick and merciless. His fingers dig into the desk now, carving truth into woodgrain.

Sylus works him—long, firm pulls from base to tip, each stroke calibrated just shy of too much.

His other arm winds around Zayne’s waist, anchoring them together—no space, no escape.

Every twitch. Every curse. Every stuttering breath—

Sylus feels it all.

Zayne’s body jolts with each pass of his hand, the sound of slick skin obscene in the quiet, building toward something furious and unstoppable.

“Say it,” Sylus breathes, lips dragging down the curve of Zayne’s throat. “Say whose hands make you fall apart like this.”

Zayne tries— tries to swallow it, to grit his teeth against the truth clawing up his throat.

Fails.

His voice breaks open.

“Sylus—”

One word. Not a plea. Not a command.

A confession.

Sylus strokes faster now—unforgiving, punishing. His grip slick, tight, brutal in its focus. Zayne’s thighs tremble, hips chasing every drag of that hand, breath disintegrating into short, frantic gasps.

But just when the edge rises— just when the heat crests and tips toward the fall—

Sylus stops.

Freezes.

Fingers locked around the base, tight, merciless.

Zayne chokes on a groan, his forehead crashing to the desk, breath ragged, arms trembling under the weight of restraint and denial.

Sylus kisses his ear. Soft. Final. A sentence more than a touch.

“Not yet.”

Sylus steps back—just enough.

Just enough to make Zayne groan—low, wrecked, frustration breaking through his composure like wildfire through brittle bones.

Zayne’s hips twitch where he’s bent over the desk, cock flushed and dripping, thighs trembling from the brutal ache of denial.

Sylus palms the curve of his ass—both hands now—

squeezing hard enough to bruise before dragging him back, tilting his hips, arranging him not for convenience—

but for claim.

How he wants. How he’s earned.

Zayne doesn’t resist.

He just presses his cheek to the wood, breath fogging the surface, hands splayed wide—surrender made flesh.

Sylus drags his cock along the cleft of Zayne’s ass— slow, heavy— smearing the mess of earlier teasing along sweat-slicked skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with smoke and steel. “Ready to be fucked open and begging for it.”

Zayne huffs a broken breath, a whimper curling into something that might be a laugh.

“So fucking full of yourself.”

Sylus grins—sharp, unrepentant—coating himself in the slick still leaking from Zayne’s last unfinished fall.

“And you're still bent over this desk with your cock dripping,” he growls, lining up behind him. “So who’s winning, doc?”

Zayne opens his mouth— but whatever he meant to say dies the second Sylus pushes in.

Not a thrust. A claim.

Slow. Relentless.

Zayne’s mouth parts in a silent gasp, one hand clawing the desk, the other bracing his weight as Sylus sinks in deeper—

inch by inch, control by control, breath by breath.

“Shit—fuck,” Zayne groans, hips jerking back, a collision of plea and instinct. “God—just move.”

Sylus does.

Not fast. Not hard.

Just deep.

A single, devastating pull out—then back in.

A rhythm of purpose. Of punishment. Of possession.

Zayne shudders with it, spine arching, every stroke dragging over the spot that makes him see stars behind his clenched eyes.

Sylus leans in, chest to back, mouth right at his ear.

“You feel that?” “That stretch? That ache?”

His teeth scrape along the edge of Zayne’s jaw.

“That’s mine.”

Zayne’s fingers claw at the desk, knuckles pale, the sound of skin on skin rising around them—wet, sharp, relentless.

“Say it,” Sylus growls, hips snapping forward. “Say who ruins you like this.”

Zayne shudders.

His voice breaks.

“You—fuck, Sylus—you do.”

Sylus licks a slow line up the back of his throat, then bites—not to draw blood.

To mark.

“Good boy.”

And the praise—

hits harder than any thrust.

Zayne moans, louder now, legs trembling beneath him, his whole body stretched thin by the weight of every second he’s not allowed to fall apart.

Sylus keeps him there— on the edge, at the altar, in the fire.

Drawing it out.

Making him feel every inch he’s not yet allowed to have.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Sylus whispers into sweat-drenched skin, “And you’ll thank me for every second I keep you wanting.”

Zayne’s head drops.

Another choked noise tears free—raw, pleading—as Sylus grinds deep again, every movement slow, devastating, possessive.

Zayne’s voice is gone.

Wrecked.

“Please—fuck, Sylus—let me—let me come—”

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t yield.

Not yet.

He buries himself to the hilt, heat flooding between them, breath spilling against Zayne’s neck.

And then—

“Not until I say.”

Zayne groans—low, wrecked— as Sylus grinds in deep and holds there, the stillness sharp, brutal, a pressure that makes sweat bead at the back of his neck.

He shifts—hips twitching, seeking friction, any rhythm at all— desperate.

Sylus gives him nothing.

Just leans in. Breath curling over the back of Zayne’s neck like smoke.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, voice slow, sharp. “Where’d that control of yours go?”

Zayne hisses, knuckles white where they clutch the edge of the desk. His cock—flushed, leaking, untouched—throbs helplessly.

Sylus watches it.

Watches the way hunger pulses through him—blinding, base, intoxicating.

Still buried to the hilt, he pulls back just enough to make Zayne whine—then slams back in. One brutal thrust. One full-body shiver.

“Say you want it.”

Zayne gasps, the words tumbling from his mouth in pieces.

“I want it—fuck, Sylus, please—”

Sylus grins.

Feral. Cruel. Victorious.

And then—finally—he gives in.

His hand wraps around Zayne’s cock—hot, slick, punishing—stroking him in perfect, merciless rhythm to the roll of his hips.

Zayne arches off the desk with a strangled moan, caught in the no man’s land between retreat and collapse.

Sylus fucks into him deeper, harder—every thrust timed with the savage drag of his fist, wringing Zayne toward the edge in tidal waves.

“You feel that?” Sylus growls against his neck. “That’s me. No one else. Only me.”

Zayne nods blindly—eyes shut, lips parted, the truth already wrung from his bones.

“God—Sylus—I’m close—I can’t—”

Sylus curls around him—one arm banding across his chest, the other still stroking— and pulls him upright in a single, brutal motion.

Off the desk. Into his arms. Never breaking pace. Never letting go.

Zayne’s head falls back against Sylus’s shoulder, mouth open, gasping like he can’t draw breath without him.

Sylus bites down at his throat—hard—then kisses the mark like an apology.

His hand works faster now. Slick. Brutal. Beautiful. Every pass a promise, every thrust a possession.

Zayne jerks in his arms—hips chasing the rhythm, legs barely holding—ruined.

"Let go," Sylus breathes, voice raw. "Come for me."

Zayne’s body goes taut—bowstring tight—and then he breaks.

“Sylus—fuck—!”

He comes hard, spilling across Sylus’s hand, trembling, breath caught in a chest that no longer knows how to steady itself.

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Keeps driving into him, faster now, chasing his own end with violent, desperate thrusts.

The room fills with the sound of slick skin, shattered breath, and the heat of something far too big to name.

Zayne slumps in his arms—boneless, trembling, wrecked. Head buried in the curve of Sylus’s neck. Lips brushing skin with every gasping inhale.

And that— that— is what undoes him.

Sylus drives in one final time, groaning into Zayne’s hair as he comes, hips stuttering, hands clenching Zayne’s waist like he could carve permanence into bone.

It tears through him—raw, blinding.

And all he can feel is this:

Zayne. Broken. Breathing. His.

They stay like that. Locked. Burning. Every nerve thrumming with what they didn’t say.

Sweat. Come. Silence.

Zayne’s lips part—just enough to let one word fall out.

“Fuck.”

Sylus kisses the side of his throat.

Low. Final. Irrevocable.

“You’re mine.”

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[cookiekissers]

Ok hear me out hear me out, cutie patootie male reader x Longan dragon but like it’s in the part when Longan is making everyone rocks and reader is the exception pls pls pls

ohohoh being the exception, you have excellent taste anon. right away sir o7

Inevitability

[Longan Dragon x Male Reader]

With bright flashes of light, your friends, and your family cried out as their dough was transformed into cold grey stone. Floating orbs that looked like eyes flew about throughout the village, chasing down Cookies, and wherever they gazed all that was left behind was a new statue. You scrambled behind an overturned cart, still trying to process the whirlwind of horror and panic around you. Peeking above the wagon you see another Cookie, a mother and her baby, fleeing from one of the floating orbs, only to be swiftly cornered against a wall of a building.

Without thinking, you grab the first thing closest to you and vault over the wooden wagon, your legs sprinting toward the ivory eye. It was distracted by its current prey, giving you just enough time to surprise it. The orb turned its gaze to you, and you swung your hefty makeshift club as hard as you could, striking it like a baseball. The eye-like orb was launched a few feet, but not far enough. It quickly recovered and shook itself slightly after the impact, fixing its unfeeling glare on you next. You backed away nervously tightly gripping your pitiful weapon as it slowly pursued you. The eye followed as if it wasn't in any rush like your fate was inevitable.

You saved the mother and her child, if only for a moment. The orbs threatened to petrify everyone in the village without mercy. Were you just delaying the inevitable end?

The eye had you cornered now. But for some reason, it hadn't struck yet. It had frozen your fellow Cookies without hesitation, but with you, it seemed to be examining you for far longer.

A loud shout split the tense air, and a spiky yam mace collided violently with the side of the orb, sending it flying into the distance like it was nothing. Two Cookie warriors appeared as if from nowhere, fighting off the floating eyes with ease. One of the knights ran up to you, lifting you from the ground to set you on your feet again. He dusted you off while you stared in amazement at his, and his friend's, heroics. His dough was pale and he wielded a light blue and white milk mace and a white milk shield.

"Are you alright?" The knight asked in concern.

"Y-Yeah… But who are you? What's going on!?" You exclaim. The knight patted your shoulder to calm you, his smile was gentle and held no worry.

"I'm Milk Cookie, and that's my friend Purple Yam Cookie." Milk Cookie introduced. You glance past Milk Cookie to see Purple Yam Cookie swinging his spiked mace around wildly, chasing off the eyes with glee. Like Milk Cookie, he seemed unfazed by the situation and even appeared to be enjoying himself, if his hearty laughter was any indication.

"Don't worry, everything will be ok. I'll protect you!" Milk Cookie said cheerfully.

As quickly as they came, the eyes retreated to where ever they had come from. You emerged from your shelter with a few other Cookies and looked around at the carnage that had been left behind. In the streets dozens of Cookies stood frozen in stone. Your eyes became misty at the sight of your friends, and Cookies who had once been your neighbors, turned into statues. Stuck with expressions of fear and agony etched into their faces from their final moments.

You saw Milk Cookie and Purple Yam Cookie standing by, examining a stone statue and discussing something.

"UGH! The dragon eye orbs are getting away! Milk Cookie, let's get out of here and FOLLOW them!" Purple Yam Cookie grumbled.

"We can't leave just yet! We must stay to make sure everyone is alright." Milk Cookie replied calmly. Once you heard the knights who saved you were about to leave, you ran up to Milk Cookie and tugged his muscular arm.

"Wait, are you leaving?" You said. Purple Yam Cookie looked you over for a moment before huffing in annoyance.

"What do you want!?" He demanded.

"Please, if you're leaving, you have to take me with you!" you begged. The two cookies looked at you in surprise. Purple Yam Cookie then smirked a bit, apparently pleased with your boldness.

Milk and Purple Yam Cookie clearly knew who had done this to your village, and they would lead you right to them. You were going to find them and avenge your friends.

Though Milk Cookie tried to object to you tagging along because he was worried for your safety, Purple Yam Cookie encouraged it. Though you weren't as strong as him, you were feisty. He had seen you fight against the dragon eyes despite still being so weak, so he elected to let you come. Maybe you could learn a few things from him, and of course, he wanted to fight you once you got stronger. You pouted slightly. Sure, you were just a regular Cookie and weren't very strong, but you were determined to find a way to save your village and reverse the curse.

As you were on your way, you met some of Milk Cookie and Purple Yam Cookie's friends. They all wore armour made up of blue dragon scales and caught you up on what had been happening. That is when you found out the culprit that had attacked your village was an ancient dragon. Longan Dragon Cookie.

You've always assumed dragon stories were nothing but legends until the Ivory Dragon threatened your peaceful village. And now you were thrust into the middle of a brutal conflict and the world was on the brink of destruction. This was serious. Your stomach tied itself in knots at finding yourself in what was essentially a war. Milk Cookie had seen your anxious expression and comforted you, even offering to take you back home. But now that you knew what was going on, how could you just turn your back on the Cookies everywhere who had suffered like your village had and run back home?

You had no fighting experience and weren't a warrior like Purple Yam Cookie or Milk Cookie. Your life has been very ordinary until now. However, you were determined to do everything in your power to help defeat Longan Dragon Cookie.

Like a whirlwind carrying you away, you suddenly found yourself on the Tropical Soda Islands alongside Milk Cookie, Purple Yam Cookie, Gingerbrave, and their friends. You have never ventured this far from your village, but you were mesmerized by the beauty of Pineapple Isle. The land had transformed, merging with the surrounding islands and was thrust into the past, reviving long-extinct creatures.

The massive island that had merged was teeming with dragon eye orbs. The blue dragon scale armour you received helped conceal you from the Ivory Dragon's sight, but you still had to remain in hiding while the other dragons that had joined your side recovered from their encounter with Longan Dragon Cookie. You sat outside your hideout deep in the jungle and sighed to yourself. You were advised not to wander off alone, but you needed some time by yourself to process everything that had happened. Taking a little walk through the forest ended up being a mistake.

As you were walking, lost in deep thought, you were suddenly snapped to reality by the sound of the underbrush shaking. You froze, until a Cookie you didn't recognize emerged from under the big fan-like leaves. They were dressed in elegant white robes, their long white hair tied back into a ponytail. The Cookie carried a staff, and a large hat obscured their face. You blinked, somewhat hesitant. Was this Cookie a friend of Gingerbrave's, or maybe they were from the Stock Tribe?

"Um… who are you?" You ask. The mysterious Cookie didn't reply, but they seemed to be inspecting you closely.

Before you could question them further, with a wave of their staff, the Cookie began to glow with an eerie purple light, and from a swirling vortex of magic, a fierce choco cream wyvern burst forth from the Cookie's form. You shouted in alarm as the wyvern pounced on you, pining you to the ground and trapping you under its sharp talons. You were lifted off the ground and into the air, being carried off to who knows where. From the last glimpses of the ground you caught, you saw Milk Cookie staring up at you in panic.

"Y/N Cookie!!"

You thought your life was over, that you would for sure be eaten by the wyvern that had caught you. Instead, it took you across the archipelago to a white opulent palace floating above the waves. It made its way into the palace, into a refined throne room. Strangely, the choco cream wyvern was careful not to damage you. But it still tossed you to the ground at the foot of the throne. You quickly picked yourself up and saw a majestic Cookie sitting on the throne, dressed in white robes and adorned with golden armour. You stared in disbelief as you came face to face with the Ivory Dragon themself, Longan Dragon Cookie.

"So, you've finally come." Longan Dragon said. "You are an intriguing one." They commented dryly. Four dragon eye orbs floating by their side zipped up to you, gazing at you from all angles. You scrambled to your feet, but the choco cream wyvern prevented you from backing away further, cutting off the only escape route.

"What do you want with me?" You said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. There was a tiniest hint of a smile on Longan Dragon's face.

"I have been watching you. And I have decided to show you mercy and bring you to my palace so that your weak, pitiful life may be spared." They explained.

You were stunned into silence. What about your friends, your village, and all the other Cookies?

"You should be grateful I didn't turn you into stone along with your village. Come here, now." Longan Dragon Cookie rumbled. It wasn't a request. It was an order. Not knowing what to do, the only thing you could do was comply. You prayed that your friends would be able to rescue you.

You approached the throne nervously, awaiting the Ivory Dragon's next command. You gasped suddenly as Longan Dragon Cookie grabbed you by the wrist and effortlessly picked you up and placed you on their lap.

You fidgeted as Longan Dragon Cookie's arm snaked around your waist and pulled you closer, your face suddenly grew hot.

"You will be staying by my side until I inevitably reduce all the weak, crunchy beings into crumbs, weak one. I will be needing a mate in the future." They growled softly in your ear as they stroked your hair. Longan Dragon Cookie's clawed fingers lingered on your neck and then trailed downward to your chest. You shivered and swallowed nervously.

You really hoped your friends got here soon.

[hotchnerwrites]

Heyy! Love your stories! Can you make one with Hotch inspired feom Usher's "Hey Daddy"? Preferably smut included, im leaving you the storyline, trusting your writing 💋

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x f!reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: NSFW (18+), pwp, spanking, d0ggy style, afab reader

A/N: Hi anon! I know it's been long. I was gonna say it's loosely inspired by the song but tbh I got lost in the sauce and it's just a pwp. I understand that may not be what you asked for, so I apologise in advance. If you'd still like it purely inspired by the song, send me anothe request! happy to do that. Anyways, here you go, and i hope you enjoy :)

My requests are open. Send me stuff! Please read the rules before asking, and be advised there is a slight wait time right now. But I will post for sure. :)

PS: this is not proofread pl ignore grammar errors ugh </3

You knew what you were doing when you picked that skirt this morning—just the right length to be office-appropriate, but the way Aaron’s eyes had trailed over you during the morning briefing? 

Oh, he noticed. 

The subtle clench of his jaw. The way he didn’t trust himself to speak when you leaned across the table.

So when your phone buzzed with a single message—“Be home by 7. Don’t make me ask twice. — A.H.”—your stomach fluttered, anticipation thrumming under your skin all day.

So there you were, perched on the edge of the couch, legs curled under you, heart racing every time you thought you heard footsteps. Your gaze flitted between the clock— 6:59 pm— and the door. Hair down just the way he liked, lip gloss fresh, and that skirt? Still on… for now.

The front door clicked open at 7:01 pm. You pretended not to rush to your feet, but you were already standing by the time he stepped in, briefcase in one hand, jacket slung over his shoulder, and shirt sleeves rolled up in ways that should be criminalised.

Aaron paused in the doorway, gaze sweeping over you—lingering for a moment too long on that damn skirt— and you swear you heard the faintest groan under his breath.

“One minute late. I was concerned,” you teased, stepping closer, heart hammering.

He dropped the briefcase by the entryway, his response low and deliberate. “You’re lucky I didn’t pull you into an empty conference room the second you crossed your legs in that thing.”

“I had no idea I had such an effect on you,” you said coyly, not meeting his eyes.

Hotch closed the space between you with deliberate confidence. “You knew exactly what you were doing, honey,” he murmured, voice rich with heat. “You knew since the second you chose to wear the skirt this morning.”

You grazed your fingers against the inside of his wrist, feather-light. “It’s just a skirt, Aaron.”

“Oh no, honey. Don’t play dumb. That wasn’t just a skirt,” he whispered in your ear, “That was a direct challenge. I know it’s been a while, but did you really think you’d get away with that?”

Your breath hitched.

“Not really,” you grinned.

“For that,” Aaron continued, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “you’re going to sit on the couch, hands in your lap, and wait for me to change. When I’m back..” His gaze dropped, slow and loaded. “We’re going to have a long conversation about office conduct and dress codes.”

You swallowed, cheeks flushing. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir— Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple, making your knees weak. Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving you breathless and buzzing.

You smoothed your skirt down with sweaty palms, sinking onto the couch, exactly as instructed.

The seconds dragged out like honey. You heard drawers opening and the soft shuffle of footsteps in the distance. You shifted nervously, thighs brushing together, all too aware of how empty the room felt without Aaron— and how charged the air felt because of him.

You glanced at the hallway, straining for a glimpse, but… nothing. Just silence. 

Until— finally— he returned.

He’d changed. No suit. No tie. Just a fitted black T-shirt and grey sweats that hug his frame like they were tailored to him. That somehow made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure. The only thing you knew was that your pulse was somewhere in your throat.

Aaron stood a few feet away, arms crossed. His eyes roamed over you slowly, like he was savouring the sight of you sitting right where he left you— obedient, flushed, hands resting together like a schoolgirl waiting for her reprimand.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t move an inch.”

“Didn’t dare,” you murmured, voice shaky.

His lips twitched. You might’ve mistaken it for a smile, but you knew better. It didn’t even reach his eyes. “Smart girl.”

He moved, then, stalking over to your direction— there was no better word for it, the way he moved was downright predatory. He sat beside you, close but still not touching. That restraint—that discipline— was more unbearable than anything else. His arm snaked behind your shoulders on the back of the couch, like he was in no rush, like he had all the time in the world.

“Sometimes I wonder why you pull these stunts, sweet girl,” he started, voice like velvet and smoke.

“What do you mean?” You managed. Nervousness pooled in your belly.

“If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

At that, Aaron leaned in, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. “You should know better. You distracted me all day today. That’s not done for a Unit Chief, is it?”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. He was moving down the column of your neck, and he was dangerously close to that spot behind your ear. The one that had you lolling your head back in bliss every time he nipped it with his teeth.

“I know how you cross your legs when you’re pretending not to be flustered. I know the way you bite your lip when you want me to look. You played with fire today, sweetheart.”

Your lips parted, a faint breath escaping. “Are you mad?”

He pulled away to look at you. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m impressed.”

Aaron moved his hand then, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing the edge of your skirt just above the knee. Not inappropriate. Just enough to remind you who’s in control.

“You have my attention now,” he murmured. “The question is— what are you going to do with it?”

You smiled, shy and bold all at once. “Whatever you tell me to.”

“Good answer.”

His hand moved upwards, past the hem of your skirt. “You always follow orders so well in the field,” he whispered, thumb skimming the inside of your thigh, “But here? In private?” His voice dipped lower, darker. “You like testing me.”

You couldn’t disagree with that. You enjoyed seeing how much you could get away with before he snapped. Before that thin veil of professionalism cracked and gave way to something rougher. Something earned.

“It’s time I teach you a lesson,” he continued. “One you’ll remember next time you decide to tease me at work.”

Your stomach flipped. 

“Turn around and get on the couch,” he commanded, and you obeyed, heat flooding your cheeks as your palms met the backrest. You could feel the weight of his gaze behind you—Aaron didn’t move for a moment. He just stood there, watching.

Almost a minute ticked by before he moved again. He lifted your skirt slowly, baring the soft curve of your ass. His touch lingered, and you almost whimpered, before he leaned over you to whisper, “Count for me.”

The first spank was firm, more sting than pain, and it stole the breath from your lungs.

“One,” you gasped, gripping the back of the couch.

“You know what you did, don’t you?” Another crack against your skin, sharper this time. “Wearing that little skirt. Laughing at Morgan’s jokes. Not looking at me.”

“Two,” you whispered, thighs pressing together instinctively. Your body was already betraying you, damp heat pooling between your legs.

“You’re mine,” he growled, delivering the third spank, this one lower, right across the softest part of you.

“Three.”

His hand soothed the sting, gentle now, fingertips trailing over the burn. “You’re wet,” he said, voice low and pleased. “You like being punished.”

You nodded, pressing back against his hand shamelessly. “Yes, sir.”

The title made Aaron groan, fingers tightening on your hip. “That’s right. You’re going to behave now, aren’t you?”

You moaned as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your spine. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

He slid his hand between your legs then, and the teasing stopped. The leather of the couch was cool beneath your skin, a sharp contrast to the molten heat spreading low in your belly. Your knees dug into the cushions, skirt hiked up to your waist, panties still clinging damp between your thighs.

“I suggest you lean forward, sweet girl,” he said quietly. “Now.”

You obeyed instantly, arms stretching forward, back arching as you settled into place. Exposed. Ready.

You heard the soft rustle of Aaron tugging his drawstrings loose. Your breathing sped up.

“You wanted to be a brat today, so here’s what you’ve earned.” His hand came down again, bare this time. The sound echoed in the room—sharp, humiliating, delicious.

You jolted forward with a strangled gasp. “Four.”

Another. The burn blossomed bright, pulsing through your body like lightning.

“Five.”

He leaned in close, his rough calluses on his fingers dragging against your inner thigh like a warning. “Do you even know how badly I wanted to bend you over my desk today? In front of everyone?” he whispered, his voice low and cutting. “To show them all who you really belong to?”

You whimpered, hips rocking back against him, craving contact, craving him. “Aaron, please.”

“You tease me in public, but you act so obedient at home,” he continued. His other hand came up to wrap loosely around your throat, not tight, just there. A reminder. A leash.

The moan tumbles out of your mouth before you can even think to stop it, heart racing. Arousal was taking over every sense, and the need was blinding you. You needed more, and you needed it now.

He squeezed his fingers gently around your neck, enough to make you tilt your head. “Say it.”

“I belong to you,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I belong to you.”

“That’s better.”

The next slap snapped across your ass with brutal, perfect precision that had your knees wobbling. The cry that escaped you was guttural, raw.

“Six.”

Aaron growled low behind you. “Look at you— trembling and soaked. You’re so good when you’re being ruined.”

He hooked his index finger in your panties and pulled them to the side, fingers slipping through your slick folds without hesitation. You gasped, thighs quivering as teased your clit, hips rocking involuntarily into his palm. You hadn’t known how bad you’d needed this.

“Beg for it.”

You swallowed your pride, shivering, desperate. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me, Aaron.”

You barely had time to register the swish of fabric before your world shattered.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t ease in. He gripped your hips and filled you in one deep, punishing thrust that had you crying out so loud it barely sounded human. You clawed at the couch, barely holding on as he fucked you—hard, relentless, every thrust a reminder of who you belonged to.

“Count.”

You could barely think. “S-seven…”

Another thrust. Deeper. Rougher.

“Eight.”

He reached around and circled your clit, rubbing tight, cruel little circles that made your eyes roll back.

“Nine—oh fuck,” you scream, pleasure arcing through every fibre your being. All you could do was hold on to the couch and take it.

“You gonna come on my cock like a good girl?”

“Yes—yes, please, I’m—”

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, body clenching, thighs shaking as you cried out, legs giving way beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Just fucked you through it, hips slamming into yours until he groaned deeply, and spilled inside you.

Silence followed. Just your ragged breathing mingling with his, and the soft creak of leather beneath you both.

Aaron stayed buried inside you for a moment, large hands stroking soothingly over your back. Then his voice—softer, still rough.

“Next time, maybe you’ll think twice before wearing that little skirt in front of the team.”

You smiled into the couch cushion, boneless and sated.

“No,” you whispered. “I hope I forget.”

Thanks for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[whitefeathers]

Anon because I’m shy as hell lol but big fan of how you write daddy!butcher because YOU KNOW he gets off on the idea of being like a protector/knight in shining armor. Like he’s gonna be damn sure that you’re safe, even if he gets a wee bit banged up.

dont be shy sweetheart i will NEVER judge u !

also THANK YOU you get it … daddy!butcher is a very very specific guy and honestly? I think he’s pretty much canon, we know he’s got major daddy issues and we know he’s a protector (in his own fucked up way)… it just makes SENSE for him to be a daddy dom !!

more thoughts below the cut - tw for pseudocest/ddlg , daddy!butcher, and daddy issues

he wants so desperately to protect. that’s all he’s ever wanted deep down, even if he thinks he wants revenge or violence or whatever. He’s a rough bastard so all that soppy shite comes out as aggression, but deep deep down he is a protector at his core, and needs to be someone’s knight in shining armor.

When you walk into his life you’re so pure, untainted by the violence and aggression he’s so used to. There’s no greater agenda, no malice to you - you’re just a normal girl, a good girl. That’s not to say you have no personality to you - Billy loves how cheeky you can get, and how sassy you are - but you’re just a good little sweetheart at your core, wanting to be happy and make others happy. That’s part of why Billy’s obsessed with you. You’re just so sweet.

He naturally takes on a parental role in your life, being many years your senior and the leader of his group. Don’t stare at ya phone so much, gonna give yaself a headache. Don’t stay up too late, need a good night’s kip or you’ll be a grumpy cunt tomorrow.

Little things, inconsequential things, that show he cares enough about you to order you around.

He’s sweeter on you than anyone else in his life, letting you hog the hot water in the shower every morning and pretending to be full so you can finish his dessert. He always covers up his kindness with some sort of quip - “ya need the hot water, you smell diabolical,” - but you know it’s because he likes you. The thought alone makes you blush.

He finds out about all the terrible shit your father put you through one night when you’re sharing a bottle of cheap vodka together, just the two of you.

He tells you about his own sperm donor, and laments about how he’s always wanted to be someone’s father figure, their knight in shining armor. He doesn’t mention how it gets him off to have that much control, but not in a clinical way like being a master or a sir. Being a daddy is different. It’s warm, caring, corrupted. It’s a complete control and a complete care that would prove Butcher as the capable, fucked up hero he’s always been.

“That generational trauma bollocks, innit? Want to right the wrongs of me old man. Somethin’ so nice about bein’ a daddy. I’d be fucked though,” he takes a swig from the bottle straight, only wincing slightly before putting it back down on the table and letting his eyes flicker to you. He speaks with drunken candour.

“Always wanted a little girl to take care of, little girlfriend to be mine. Same soft tone of voice when she begs for more cock as when she begs for more sappy fuckin’ cuddles.”

Your heart thuds in your chest. This is all you have ever wanted, all you have ever needed. And Butcher, the hottest older man you’ve ever met, his beard greying and his eyes stern, is basically offering it to you if you’re brave enough to read into the subtext of his words.

“I’ve always wanted to be that,” you whisper. There’s words unspoken in your sentence - always wanted to be that, for you, with you - but the subconscious way you lean closer to Butcher tells him the words you aren’t brave enough to speak.

“That so?” He hums, opening his thick arms for you. An opening, an opportunity for you to take, to cuddle into his chest and let him take control. You look up at him, scared as a deer in headlights but as excited as a puppy in heat, needing the extra guidance, the approval.

“Don’t be shy. Come to daddy.”

When your head meets his chest and your ass meets his lap, all the constant noise in your head dulls into a peaceful silence. His arms wrap around you and he pets your hair, shushing you gently, promising he’s going to keep you out of danger no matter how bloody his knuckles have to get in the process.

This is how it’s always meant to be between the pair of you.

[1hot-mess-express1]

I just read your Toge not saying I love you out of fear of making reader a curse should they die and I wanna 1 up you, what if he said it while they were dying? Or like on their death bed when they're like old and grey because the guilt of not actually saying momentarily like, eats him up and he says it without thinking? Or he goes to and reader stops him and just has that look that says they know and instead reader says this sappy stuff about how they've always felt loved by him and that they always noticed His efforts to show how much he loved them.

Feel free to ignore this btw, it was just something thats been jumping around my head as of late. I hope you have a lovely week!!

-🎃💫

Any Last Words?

Toge X reader

Angst w/comfort

W.C: 1567

Synopsis: Toge is left gravely injured after the Shibuya incident and he finds himself reflecting

A/N: So sorry lovely Anon I have no idea how long this has just been chilling in my inbox but I saw this and fell in love w/ the concept immediately, this is a little rushed but I really wanted to get this done before life got too busy again

As a sorcerer, death is a constant companion—always lurking, always watching, waiting patiently to swoop in and remind you that no matter how powerful you are, she’s the one holding all the cards. Toge was no exception. He could vividly recall clinging to his father's pant leg, peeking around at the men in suits whose large frames cast menacing shadows over them. They were hunting down the alleged cursed speech user, warning his father that this child was dangerous, a threat to society—this child needed to be eliminated. If his father were a good man, they said, he would cooperate.

“A child who has inherited cursed speech can manipulate the world around them. If a child with this technique were to yell ‘no’ at you, you would have no choice but to comply; your body would freeze up, and you wouldn’t be able to move. They likely aren’t strong enough yet to cause real harm, but you see why we need to eliminate this threat early.” The man in front of them adjusts his glasses, peering straight through a trembling Toge.

“Of course, sir, I’d love to help you with this, but as you may have guessed, I don’t see many children other than my own, and unfortunately, this little guy is mute. He hasn’t spoken a word since the day he was born.” Toge’s father ruffles his hair lightly as Toge buries his face deeper into his sweater.

The man stares through Toge one last time before his gaze flickers up, and he breaks into a tight, uncomfortable smile. “Right then, we’ll be on our way. If you hear anything, don’t hesitate to give us a call. We wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen.” He hands over his business card and walks away.

That night, Toge meets Gojo sensei for the first time. His father told him this man would take him somewhere safe, that he wouldn’t have to be afraid, and that he could help others with his gift. That reassurance did little to quell the tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to stay, to keep pretending just a little longer, but it was time to grow up. The world lost some of its wonder that night as he clutched the hand of a stranger, fighting back tears as his father waved him off with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

From that day on, his life became a constant reminder of the cruelty of his new world. Corpses littered the scenes of curse sightings, and teachers, supervisors, and even students sometimes wouldn’t make it home from missions. He watched from the sidelines as their loved ones mourned and then returned to school as if nothing had happened. It was hard not to become detached from your own life when it could be lost in an instant.

Then there was you. A second-grade at best, from a line of non-sorcerers. The horrors of this world never seemed to touch you. You always smiled and laughed, enjoying the life you were given. For a moment, Toge thought you were naive. He was sure you didn’t realize the horrors lurking around every corner, ready to pounce and tear everything from you.

When you received word that Yuji had died, you wept, embarrassingly so, for someone you had never met. You cried openly, tears streaming, snot running down your nose as you wailed like a child. He stood there, stunned by the raw display of grief, and you left him little time to process it before you wrapped your arms around his neck, crying into his shoulder. You spoke of how young Yuji was, how much he had ahead of him; you wept for his friends, his family, all the lives he was meant to touch. Toge doesn’t remember when he started crying, but his face burns as tears roll down onto the top of your head. He doesn’t know why, but he clutches you tightly and cries freely for possibly the first time in his life.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he recalls the memory of you sniffling into his shoulder, much like you are now. He winces in pain as the gentle laugh wreaks havoc on his injured body. He tries to wrap an arm around your head, to run his fingers through your hair, to comfort you and reassure you he’s okay, but nothing happens. Right, he lost that arm just hours ago. At this realization, another laugh roils through his stomach, and he can’t hold it back this time, choking on the pain as his body shakes in your arms.

It was never supposed to be like this. He was supposed to come home in one piece, ready to cook dinner with you and the others in the dorm. You would scold him for being reckless and dote on him as you haphazardly administered medicine. He was supposed to lie with you on the couch, eyes heavy, his hand tracing through your hair while a movie flickered around them, lighting the otherwise empty room.

This time, he allows himself to cry freely, clutching you impossibly closer as he wails like a child, mourning everything that should have been, all the things that could have been. You lean back slightly at his sudden outburst, cradling his face in your hands, brushing his bloodied hair out of his eyes. He doesn’t expect the soft smile gracing your features as you stare back into his eyes. How could you smile at a time like this? He had let you down, he could have died, and he was moments from abandoning you here, whether he wanted to or not.

You place a chaste kiss on his forehead, the warmth of your lips lingering against his cold, clammy skin. The gesture is so gentle, so filled with affection, that it catches him off guard. For a moment, the world around him fades—no pain, no fear, just the softness of your touch grounding him in the present. You pull his head into yours, your foreheads pressed together, and he can feel your breath mixing with his, shallow and uneven. It’s too much. He can’t breathe, his chest tightening as the weight of his emotions threatens to suffocate him.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as if that could block out the reality of the situation, as if it could shield him from the intensity of your gaze. He knows if he looks at you, really looks at you, he’ll see the depth of your love and concern etched into your features, and he doesn’t know if he can bear it. How can you look at him like that, with such unwavering trust and devotion, after everything that’s happened? After all he’s lost, after all he’s failed to protect? The guilt gnaws at him, sharp and unrelenting.

“I-I…,” he starts, but the words catch in his throat, choked by the guilt knotting there, making it harder to breathe with each passing moment. He closes his mouth, trying to steady his nerves, but instead, he feels your lips on his, warm and gentle.

You kiss him with no urgency, as if your life is guaranteed, as if you aren’t in a hospital room. No, you kiss him, and he’s transported back to his dorm, the breeze carrying the gentle glow of the afternoon sun through the room, and he can smell the remnants of your shampoo as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. He’s home, he’s safe, and he’s loved unconditionally.

When you break away, you reach up to hold his face in your hands, running your thumb over his curse marks. Those marks, once symbols of his power and burden, now seem almost fragile under your tender caress.

You lean in, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying a weight that transcends the simplicity of their meaning: “I love you too.” The sincerity in your voice cuts through the layers of doubt and fear that have wrapped themselves around his heart. He feels a surge of emotions—relief, gratitude, love—all mingling together, overwhelming in their intensity.

He can’t help it—the boyish smile that breaks across his face is instinctive, almost involuntary. It’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, lighting them up with a glimmer of hope buried under the weight of his doubt. In that moment, everything else falls away. The wounds, the battles, the relentless weight of his responsibilities—they all seem distant, insignificant compared to the simple truth of your words.

His resolve solidifies, a quiet determination burning within him. He might not be able to express his feelings in words, but he vowed to spend the rest of his life showing you, in every way possible, just how deeply he loved you. He would make it his mission to always come home to you—to listen to you animatedly recount your day, your eyes sparkling with excitement over the smallest details. He would continue to bring your favorite snacks, the ones that always made you smile, and remember the little things, like moving the sheets into the dryer on Saturdays.

As long as he lived, he would fight to return to you, day after day, because each time he walked through that door and saw you waiting for him, it was a victory—a promise kept. And maybe, just maybe, one day, when the time was right, he would…

[zhaosbin]

mr shen will see you now - s. ricky

summary: literally just the beginning of 50 shades of grey...

reader: ricky x afab reader

warnings: dom ricky x sub reader, oral (m receiving), cold!ricky, they have sex on his desk... MINORS DNI

a/n: i will proofread this in the morning also TYSM to the anon that sent this in ur sooo real

-

it was the first day of your new internship and somehow you got stuck interviewing the most affluent man in shanghai. you didn't really know much about shen ricky, other than the fact that he owns half of china and was ridiculously gorgeous. from the outside, he seems like a very stern and cold man so you were anxious the entire day leading up to the interview.

entering shen enterprises, you approach the desk lady who was dressed head to toe in YSL. you thank god you had worn a nice dress today although it was rather short, it seemed to fit the vibe of this place.

"excuse me, my name is y/n i'm here for the interview with mr shen" you say impressively composed.

to your surprise, the rather intimidating looking desk lady was actually very sweet.

"oh hello dear! please take a seat and i'll go check if he's ready" she says cheerily.

you thank her with a nod of your head and a smile while you try to keep your anxiety under control.

breathe y/n. it's just an interview like the hundreds of ones you've done before. it's just an interview...with an insanely attractive man... you cut your thoughts off when the desk lady reappears.

"mr shen will see you now" she says professionally while smiling at you.

you quickly get up to follow her into the elevators and try your hardest to push your thoughts from before away.

when the doors open you step out, half expecting the desk lady to walk in with you. you giggle out of nervousness and wave to her as the doors of the elevator shut, leaving you alone in front of his door.

gathering up any bit of courage you had left in this moment, you gently knock on the door to his office.

"come in" a deep voice says and you take one last deep breath before you open the door.

you don't think anything could have fully prepared you for this situation. not your four years of college or the three internships you had prior to this one. no. nothing could have prepared you to meet shen ricky.

you didn't think it was possible, but somehow he was even more gorgeous than he appeared in the magazines and newspapers.

hoping he didn't catch onto you openly eyeing him down, you take a seat with your pen and paper in front of his desk.

mr shen looks down at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

"h-hi my name is y/n and i'm here to interv-" he cuts you off.

"i know why you're here. i have a lot to do today so if we could get on with the questioning please" he says very straightforward.

you nervously smile and open ur notes to find the questions your company had prepared.

while flipping through all of the pages, you didn't notice the beautiful man in front of you staring at your legs, or rather, the parts that weren't covered from your short dress.

after finally finding the page with the questions, you look up at him to find him making direct eye contact with you.

"so the first question i have for you is to what do you owe your success" you say while reading the page carefully.

mr shen sighs.

"are these really the questions you want to ask me? you can look at any interview i've done before and find the answers to all of these" he says while sounding annoyed.

all of your anxiety comes back and your palms start to sweat. you haven't even been here for 5 minutes and you already pissed him off.

before you could even come up with an answer, he beats you to it.

"i want to know about you" he says sharply.

"about me? but sir i-i'm here to interview you" you mutter out confusedly.

having someone as cute and fragile as you calling him sir ignited something in ricky.

"i want to know why you chose to wear such a tiny little dress to come interview me. was it on purpose?" mr shen says almost seductively.

you had to have heard him wrong. there was no way this gorgeous man even took notice of your clothes let alone the length of them.

"i-i don't know what your talking about sir" you say gulping and biting down on your lip just a bit.

it was only a bit, but once he saw that there was no stopping him.

he motioned for you to come over to his side of the desk. you knew the interview was over at this point and you didn't really care if you got fired. maybe you did care a little, but the wetness beginning to form in your panties was all you could focus on.

you quickly get up, not wanting to piss him off even more. once you were standing in front of him, he patted his lap.

your eyes widened. he had to be joking. there was no way. there was just no way.

poking his tongue into the side of his cheek, you could tell mr shen was starting to get fed up with the slowness of your actions.

after seeing that, you immediately plop down on his lap, the skirt to your very short dress riding up your thighs a little more.

mr shen started gently rubbing your legs and you were trying to keep your breathing under control.

"are you okay with this?" mr shen asks you, for once sounding sincere with his words.

"yes mr shen. please" you all but whimper out.

"call me ricky or sir. do you understand?" he says going back to being his stern self.

"please sir. i need you so bad". you could feel the dampness from your panties transferring onto his expensive suit but neither of you cared.

after hearing this, ricky immediately pulls you in for a kiss.

the kiss didn't last very long and it was rather innocent, well, that was until he started grabbing your hair and kissing you harder.

you moan into the kiss while sliding your hips up and down his thigh desperate for any sort of stimulation.

ricky smacks your ass and you yelp.

"be a good girl darling" he says almost threateningly.

you halt your movements on his thigh and try to distract yourself by focusing on his lips against yours.

ricky pulls away from the kiss and pushes you down onto your knees.

immediately understanding what he wanted, you quickly undo the buttons to his expensive slacks.

you pull down his boxers immediately to see his cock already dripping with precum.

you waste no time attaching your mouth to his cock, taking as much of him into your mouth as you could fit.

ricky groans and shuts his eyes, grabbing the back of your ponytail to guide your movements.

"i knew you could be a good girl" he says smugly.

the only reply you could give him was a muffled hum around his base that had him jerking his hips.

after a few more bobs of your head, ricky was getting close. too close.

he gently pushed your perfect mouth off of him and made work of stripping your clothes off of you.

he lifted you up with ease and placed you on top of his desk.

having had enough of all the foreplay, ricky lines up his tip with your achingly wet core and slowly pushes in.

you both moan at the feeling and he leans in to kiss you again.

his slow speed didn't last very long and he easily switches into a much faster pace.

"fuck you're so tight" ricky groans out.

"please sir, make me cum" you try not to shout as his cock is ramming into you.

and your wish is his command.

after a few more harsh thrusts, you feel relief wash over your body. fucking you through your orgasm, ricky cums right after and let's out the sexiest moan you'd ever heard. you swore you could die.

before the two of you could even take a breath, there is a knock at his door. he places his large hand over your mouth.

"mr shen your 5 o'clock appointment is here" the same desk lady from earlier chimes behind the (thankfully) locked door.

"cancel it" ricky says sternly staring into your eyes.

you had a feeling this interview would last more than your reserved 30 minute time slot.

[cuppajj]

Discussion about term "furry" and what it indicates was not something I expected to happen on this blog, but damn it's funny to see it here Also I kinda think it also depends within the community itself, what is classified as "furry"? Because yes, "anthropomorphic" is a very broad term, but so is also "furry". For example insects don't fit the usual criteria for furry (which usually are just mammals or reptilian), but their anthropomorphic version are still called furries. Also, sponges are in fact classified as animals too

So in general, I think it depends who you're asking. Both terms are umbrella terms

I myself believe that anything in animalia kingdom can be a furry

Yeah furry is a broad term in itself that can mean every animal (sea sponges included, but anon’s example of Spongebob leans more towards a kitchen sponge than the actual animal… at the very least he’s in a weird grey area)

This is humorously logic you’d get on a math exam 😂 If furry, then anthro. However, if anthro, then not always furry. If scaly, then furry (umbrella term definition referring to all animals). Just as confusing but still makes sense ish. Anthro and furry often appear side by side because the most popular thing to anthropomorphize are animals

But yeah im surprised the furry debate is here when im not versed in furry stuff, i can only say so much with my baseline knowledge skfdjjd . We sell cookies and robots not furries here sir /ref

[lambilegs]

Sucking Lee’s dick under the table while she is talking to her mom (porn plot but still hot)

sucking lee off when she's on the phone 🤭

♥︎ note to anon: this request is SO hot thank you so much!! also I just changed the character lee is talking to from ruth to carter just bc that felt more realistic to what lee would be okay with, as well as just more personally comfy for me!! but yes obsessed w the whole phone-call-under-the-desk thing, so so good <33 ♥︎ contains: g!p lee, blowjobs, reader's body parts aren't mentioned, semi-exhibitionism

"yes, I, uh -- I got the file, carter."

you nearly giggle on her small stumble, pausing to let her gather thoughts before continuing to nuzzle the heavy length of her, peppering small kisses along the smooth length of her.

your poor girlfriend had been severely overworked this past week, coming home late into the evening, her eyes weary and the skin under them dusky and dark. you know she loves her work, and wouldn't trade it for anything, but you can't help but ache at the sight of her so worn out and stressed.

things have finally started easing up by friday, lee arriving home at a semi-decent time and actually being able to share dinner with you. but, right after, carter had her called up and at her desk again, looking over details of different files. after watching her from afar with a slight frown, you had slithered up to her from behind, pressing your hands into her strong shoulders and beginning to use the pressure of your fingers to rub small circles.

sensitive thing she is, she immediately loosened and relaxed under your touch, eyes fluttering shut from your ministrations. her head lolled back, small hums leaving her lips as she answered carter's questions. at the sight of her neck being exposed, you combed it back, leaning down to kiss at her neck, igniting a small gasp from her. you knew it was risky, but you couldn't resist. and lee must've been pent up too, considering her weak protests diminished in a matter of seconds. and just minutes later, you were giggling at the tent under her grey sweats.

which led you to where you were now. under her desk, mouthing sloppily at her dick. fuck, you had missed this so much. tasting the creamy tanginess of her precum, feeling the swelling of her head as she gets all deliciously pink and stiff. you pressed your lips around her from the side, sliding them up and down her entire length, a motion that has her gripping tightly on your head, her hips bucking up.

"what... what did you say, carter?" she weakly asks from above you, her words ending with a sharp intake of breath when you stat fondling her balls, pressing your fingers into the soft weight of them, nearly moaning yourself at thinking of how come-filled they are.

"yeah, I uh -- ah, yeah, I got it."

you start swirling your tongue around the tip, lips snug around her, your hand wrapped around the base of her cock, stroking languidly. her mouth falls open, head tipping back as she squeezes her eyes shut. you need to brace an arm against her stomach, pushing her hips down so she's not thrusting too deep against your throat.

her teeth grit in clear irritation as carter's voice continues rattling on the other end. "yes, sir. yes, I, ah, I got it. yes, I'm okay." her voice is flat as usual, but all the micro-twitches of her face show the mix of arousal and annoyance she's feeling.

she nods once more, firm and lips clamped. "mm, okay. goodnight."

when she hangs up, a low moan immediately flies from her mouth, fingers tightly pulling you on your hair. her hips start pounding into your mouth, slick and coated in juices and saliva as it drags against your lips. her tongue rolls against the insides of her mouth, a little drop of drool dripping from the corner of her mouth. her eyes crinkle from how tightly they're latched closed, and small, little whines and cries spill from her pretty, pink lips.

"it's good, like that," she quietly gasps.

you hum around her with a self-satisfied smile, bobbing your head and sucking her harder and faster, relentlessly toying with her heavy, swollen balls. and the vibrations of it seem to do that for her, her nails digging into your head as she cries out, her warm come shooting into the pit of your mouth, painting your tongue sticky and wet. a long groan rumbles in your throat from the feeling of it, eyes shutting as you swallow down every drop, relishing in all the little twitches of her in your mouth.

when you pop her out of your mouth, your lips creamy with her seed, her chest heaves as she breathes deeply. her hand brushes against your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth. "you're, uh, you're insatiable." the words tremble as she says them, her eyes wide and burning.

you plant one last delicate kiss to the tip, delighting in the way she hisses. "you love it."

"I do," she immediately responds, her entire body (and mind, it seems) pliant and utterly relaxed. "can we, um... can we do more now?"

you laugh, crawling out of the desk, lee cupping your head to avoid any blows to it as it grazes past the edge. when you land on her lap, you whisper, "mhm, of course."

"but, maybe not during phone calls," she dryly says, tilting her head closer. "I don't think I can take the embarrassment."

"fine, fine," you whisper, pressing kisses to her nose. "only during conversations where someone is in the room, then."

she snickers, laugh lines sweetly deepening. "yeah, that's wishful thinking."

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

idk if you take anon requests but I am in love with Yandere ruthless and bloodthirsty Pirate captain who's obsessed with a princess from a small kingdom and takes her as wife in exchange for not plundering the kingdom and bleeding out their resources. He had planned for their first evening together to be romantic but she looks too tempting when she's frightened

🌹

CW: Extremely rough smut, sadistic behavior, bodily harm, knife play, blood, minor character death, dead dove

Edward listened to two of his crew members gossiping like handmaidens, feeling only mildly annoyed at their squawking. Usually by now he would have threatened to pull out their teeth to keep them quiet, but he secretly could understand their excitement. While pirates were blamed for anything that could go wrong on the open seas, they were actually often employed by nobility to do what their navies could not do legally. Still, it was a surprise to be extended a job offer from a large kingdom, considering Edward's notoriety.

Edward "The Living Death".

There wasn't a crew as fearsome as his. He had never worked for any of the self righteous kings or queens in the past who conscripted pirates for their aid, not because he thought too highly of himself, but because the stories of his wrath scared all the rich bastards away. And the stories were not exaggerations. Edward aimed to make himself the most terrible in the world, because while it was too late to ever be let into heaven, it wasn't too late to become powerful enough to kill Satan himself.

For an entire week the crew would be guests in the sea side kingdom, while The Living Death and two of his men would be welcomed into the castle for negotiations.

It was entertaining, being welcomed onto a king's land, and Edward was curious as to what King was so insane as to ask for his assistance, knowing that Edward was the type of man to torture sailors for sport.

The ship with black sails tied off on the dock of the grey and dull harbor. Although the carriage that awaited Edward was gaudy with its elaborate engravings, the buildings were drab and pitiful. Truly, a thriving kingdom. And the large castle that towered above the impoverished residents was just the icing on the cake. To enter the grounds a large gate had to be slowly opened, physically alienating the royals from their subjects.

The attendant waiting to take Edward and his mates to the study felt his jaw fall agape at the sight of the men. What parts of their bodies were visible were covered in deep scars, the men were large and intimidating, but the leader was almost inhumanly frightening, unnaturally blue eyes that almost looked blind pierced his soul through a mop of shaggy black hair.

Edward met with the king for introductions, however was politely dismissed to the rooms they would be staying in for a bath and meal, promising to begin negotiations the next day.

However, he couldn't expect pirates to do as he asked so blindly, so after his shower and a free change of clothes, Edward decided to wander the gardens, internally arguing with himself over what he is doing in a king's estate. Then he saw her.

A woman in a beautiful, yet simple, dress was being followed by a maid, chatting kindly with one another despite the class difference. From afar her voice touched something in Edward's spirit; a longing he hadn't been able to quench on the ocean.

Marilyn tensed up and fell back behind (Reader) where she was supposed to be, generally. (Reader) looked ahead to see what had frightened her handmaid, and witnessed a man she did not know approaching the both of them.

"Greetings, ladies." His voice was gravelled and exhausted, tugging on (Reader's) heartstrings. From under the stranger's freshly washed hair (Reader) could see a long scar between his eyes, matching the scars that littered the hand he offered to (Reader).

"Good sir." (Reader), without hesitation, responded with an extended hand. Marilyn audibly choked behind her, having to physically bite her tongue to prevent herself from shouting at the man to 'step off!'

Wind burnt lips kissed the back of (Reader's) hand, holding it for an inappropriate amount of time, yet (Reader's) expression of genuine kindness never changed. "You clearly do not know who I am." Although it was said with a smirk his tone was dangerous.

"Just as you clearly do not know of me." (Reader) held herself tall, praying that the man before her was not important enough to feel offended by her ignorance.

Edward's eyes sparkled beautifully as he straightened his back, as to tower over the lovely lady he had just met. The movement shifted his hair, better showcasing not only his eyes but the giant scar stretching from his hairline to the bridge of his nose. "I am here on business."

"What a coincidence." (Reader) smiled coyly. "As am I."

What is this feeling? Edward had many effects on women, fear, disgust, loathing, lust. But the smile on (Reader's) face was honest. Like a child who hasn't yet learned to fear the evils of men, her eyes were clear and unclouded, looking not at his scars, but his eyes; numb to the stench of blood he could never scrub himself clean of, the lamb had no clue she was speaking to a wolf, and he wasn't even in disguise.

"What kind of business does a lady have with a disgusting fool like this king?"

(Reader) gasped, taken back by his words, smiling nervously behind her fan. "Good sir, you just be careful with the way you speak about a king! I will not report you, but others shall not be so kind.." Concern laced her words as she searched the surroundings for eavesdroppers.

"The King knew who I was when he hired me, so he shouldn't be offended by my language."

"Still..." (Reader) sighed. "Well, if you are so curious, I'm here because of a marriage proposition."

"Marriage?" The idea irked Edward, and he had to hold back his hand from almost instinctively lashing out. What a strange reaction, feeling peeved over the possible engagement of a woman he's just met.

"Indeed, strange isn't it? I always knew marriage would one day come, but.. it is still quite the adventure." Her grin tightened, but it wasn't a happy smile, the expression felt more like a mother's attempt to console her frightened child.

There was an odd glow to (Reader's) eyes, and Edward was suddenly under the impression that the woman before him was secretly an angel, sent in disguise to test him, to see if Edward truly did long for the throne of hell. Again, his arm tried to move on it's own accord. What if, instead of allowing such an angel to return to heaven with her report on him, he caged her like a little song bird and ripped off her wings?

"I apologize, Miss, but I must cut our conversation short. Any longer and I might gouge out your eyes." Edward spoke with a smile, revealing his sharpened canines. But again, (Reader) surprised him, giggling back at him as though he had just made a light-hearted joke, while her maid behind her was grasping her breast like she was having a heart attack.

"Well, I shall keep a spoon in my pocket in case we need again!" (Reader's) laughter filled the garden.

She curtsied, back still straight and head dipped only as low to be polite. The maid, on the other hand, was practically folded in half and was bent down for so long she had to scurry after her lady.

As the mystery woman left, Edward had a lot of strange, foreign thoughts and feelings causing chaos in his mind and heart. He briefly fantasized about running after her, and taking her for himself behind a bush while her maid screamed for help. He had seen plenty of women's bodies before, but the fantasy of what could be hidden by his mystery lady's bodice was.. tantalizing.

Would she be impressed by his body? Or fearful? What kind of face would she make as he forced her to carry his children? Would she look at him with love and tenderness during the birth of their first born? Would she bite and scream and fight?

Edward discovered that he would have to return to his room prematurely, perplexed as to who that woman was, and why she had such an effect on him, causing an arousal despite not saying, or doing, anything sexually exciting.

Marilyn smacked her princess on the shoulder, red in the face and mouth frozen in horror. "My lady! I can't believe you!"

"What? Did my joke not make sense?" (Reader) asked in earnest. "I said I'd carry a spoon, so he had something to easily scoop my eyes out with."

"Not that, you-you- IMBECILE!" Marilyn cried out, grasping the lady she adored like a sister. "That man was The Living Death!"

"Oh. He didn't look dead to me." Another slap connected with the back of her neck.

"He was a pirate! A pirate!"

"A pirate? What was he doing here?" (Reader) nervously pondered, examining her maid's expression to see if she was pulling her leg.

"I don't know, but you should write a letter to your father immediately. No good man would want his daughter marrying into a family that deals with rotten apples."

After the sun rose into the dreary kingdom, Edward and his mates were finally invited into King Nikolai's study, meeting the rotund bastard who reeked of wine and pulled at his codpiece frequently.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today, gentlemen. You've saved me from an uncomfortable situation. That is, if you agree to my request."

"Well, let's not make this longer than necessary." Edward spat in disgust, feeling as though he would catch syphilis from just speaking with his potential employer.

"My son, my heir, has two marriage candidates. Two worthy marriage candidates. My friend, King Leopold has a, frankly stupid, daughter, Princess Cadence. Leopold and I decided long ago that his daughter should marry my son, and become queen when he surpasses me. Now the issue is King Dretious. His kingdom is.. small, but not unimpressive. It thrives wonderfully. He has only two daughters, pitiful him. The eldest is being trained to be his successor, which is wonderful for him since he was blessed with bright and charismatic daughters, but no man who marries her well become King, so there is no incentive there to send even my sons I dislike. The youngest, is a perfect marriage candidate. Princess (Reader). Intelligent, charming, attractive.." He took a ragged breath, his mind traveling to where it should not. "I desire her land. If she marry my son I'd have access as family to her resources, and in a generation or two my grandchildren could gain control of that little rock. But it isn't worth ruining my relationship with Leopold. That would be.. catastrophic."

Edward numbly wondered if the young woman he met was Princess Cadence, or Princess (Reader). In the short time he spent with her she certainly didn't seem stupid, so he was leaning towards the latter.

"But I want that land. Do you understand me?" King Nikolai's smile was sinister. "You can have whatever is in their castle, whatever can be looted, as long as I receive the deeds to their nation, signed and stamped, and King Dretious and his kin are exterminated."

"And what do we get? If I wanted to plunder a small country, I could do that without needing permission."

"Full, under the table, immunity, as well as enough money for you and your crew to retire in the Caribbean as lords." He was so smug as he pleaded his bargain that Edward considered killing him just to see him choke on his own blood.

Edward stood, walking around the king towards the window, debating whether or not it would be worth it to kill the fat asshole right then and there. But below the window, under a flowered tree, sat the woman he met the day before, watching birds as they flew overhead. "I met a young lady in the garden yesterday. She said she was here for a marriage proposition."

"Hmph, yes.. attractive, isn't she? That would have been Princess (Reader). She is unaware of her competition with Leopold's daughter, so it would have been unwise to have them both here at the same time."

(Reader) had her lips pursed, upset about something. 'How would those lips taste?' Edward thought excitedly.

"We'll do it." Edward spoke loudly, startling his men who were surprised by the boss's response.

His men questioned him on the way back to the ship. Surely he wasn't serious? Of course not... Captain Edward "The Living Death", the man who abandoned his family name, had a plan, one that he had come up with purely for selfish reasons, that did not include sucking up to a disease ridden rat. And he assured them, that after he got what he wanted, the crew would return, and burn King Nikolai's kingdom to the ground.

The wonderfully jolly, soft King Dretious, known for being unlike the cruel kings who ruled throughout the land, plump with age instead of greed, was petrified solid. The elderly father who was seen as a grandfather figure to his small island, blessed by the gods to always have the wisdom to do what was right, was stunned, incapable of coherent thought. Before him was a pirate captain who had demanded an audience, two months after his darling baby girl returned home from another country.

"What did you just say?" He stuttered out.

Edward stood beneath the kindly king sitting on his throne while wearing an ostentatiously decorated black frock coat, shining with it's abundance of gold decorations and precious jewels. His unnaturally bright eyes were fixated on the mortified princess standing behind her father.

"I have been hired to bring ruin to your kingdom. However, if you offer me a better prize than what I was promised by my employer, I'll reconsider my agreement with him." His gaze made (Reader's) skin crawl.

King Dretious swallowed the lump in his throat. "And what would that be? Whoever had the gall to request such a reason clearly had the resources to hire you, so I doubt anything of mine will compare."

"True. However, it isn't your money I'm after.." Edward stepped forward, still fixated on the younger princess will a hungry expression.

The eldest sister recognized the look of a predatory man before her father did, and stepped in front of (Reader) in a protective stance.

"I demand Princess (Reader's) hand in marriage."

"No!" The eldest princess spun around, grabbing onto (Reader) and hiding her within her embrace. "Father, you can't!"

"Please, Captain, isn't there anything else?" The King frantically begged, knowing that his army wasn't enough against The Living Death and his infamous crew of the damned.

Edward sighed, his patience wearing thin. With a snap of his fingers, his men brought forward four captives; the cook, two guards, and Marilyn. "Let's try that again." The demon spawn pulled out a gun and cocked it, aiming it at the older guard.

"Let's be civil-"

The King was cut off by a loud shot, killing the innocent man who had been a loyal employee of the castle for the past thirteen years. (Reader) hollered, frightened by the sudden bang.

Edward moved over to Marilyn, pulling down the hammer slowly. "No!" (Reader) burst free from her sister, running down the steps to fling herself onto her only friend's body, ready to be her shield.

"(Reader)!"

(Reader) cradled her maid, glaring through tears up at the man she foolishly thought was handsome only a couple of months ago. "I'LL DO IT! I'll do it! Just please.. no more."

Marilyn sobbed under (Reader's) weight. "Princess, no! Please - save yourself!"

"Sister, come back here now." The queen to be demanded, shaking and on the brink of tears herself.

Edward smiled wider than before, holstering his weapon. "Wise choice, angel." He turned his attention back to the King. "I hope you don't mind that there will be no wedding. For you see, God has no place in my life, even for happy occasions. I've already procured a marriage contract, so once it is signed that shall be that."

A calloused hand reached out to the princess.

"Shall we?"

The country was in mourning as the news of the princess's sacrifice spread faster than a plague, and nearly the entire country arrived to see her off as she boarded the pirate ship with black sails, stiffly shuffling next to her new husband, the certificate signed and verified only an hour prior. On what should be one's happiest day, the air was filled with sounds of heart breaking agony. (Reader) was numbly dragged onto the ship and into the captain's quarters, no longer a princess, but a wife to a monster.

Edward locked the door behind them, smiling wolfishly. "Welcome, to your new home, darling. Unfortunately, we will have to prolong our honeymoon, as I have a country to conquer."

"What?!" (Reader) collapsed before her new husband, clutching onto his shirt. "But you promised!"

"Ah, apologies, love, but I did not mean your old country." He pulled her onto her feet, kissing her knuckles. "I meant the country that asked me to kill you. Now that you are my wife, I can't stand for such insolence, now can I?"

(Reader) pulled away, eyes wide with disgust. "Was this your plan from the start? If you never truly cared, then why take me? Whatever loot you plunder from whoever it was that employed you will surely be worth more than my father's entire island, so if you had no qualms about taking on a presumably larger nation-state, then why?"

"You are a smart one." Edward chuckled, approaching (Reader) with a look she had never seen before, yet for some reason set her on edge. "I did it because I wanted you."

He lunged, tackling her onto a large bed covered in silk and furs. She struggled, fighting with all her might to push him off of her, but she just wasn't strong enough. (Reader) bit her lip in an effort to not cry again, a pitiful attempt to retain her pride.

"So strange.. I have had whores throw themselves at me many times in the past, but they were nothing but bodies. What is it about you that is so different?"

Nothing but bodies.. (Reader) had learned from Marilyn what happens on a woman's wedding night, but in the chaos of her marriage she had forgotten that that was what this was, her wedding night. Her face fell, tears whelmed up in her puffy red eyes, and her resolve to look brave cracked.

But this expression seemed to only excite the mad man further. His blue eyes grew hazy like he was drunk and his breathing became irregular. "So that's what you would look like.. I wondered."

A large knife was procured from behind his back, causing (Reader) to cry harder. With sadistically slow movements he cut through her dress. She made pathetic attempts to swipe at him, but Edward only responded by effortlessly flipping her onto her belly, slicing through the lace of her corset.

"So many layers to finally see the body I've been dreaming of. That will change, of course. If I want to see your beauty, I will. Even if you must live in the nude."

He ignored her screams as he tore off every article of clothing she wore, leaving (Reader) naked and shivering beneath him.

"Is it me that makes you shudder like this, or is it," he placed the blade against (Reader's) cheek, earning another gasp as her body practically convulsed, "either way, I'll pretend that your shaking is in excitement for me."

With (Reader) now on her back, Edward held the knife to her throat to prevent her from running while he removed his own clothing with one hand. Her sobs only grew louder as more of his scarred skin became visible.

"Please do-don't do this!"

"Don't what? Make love to my newlywed wife? Fine then. I'll fuck you instead."

His pants slipped down, revealing his fully erect manhood. (Reader) closed her eyes in shame, but Edward grabbed her face with enough force to bruise her chin, snapping them back open in shock of the pain.

"Look at what you've done to me. Without grabbing at my pants and begging me like a slut, you've already made my cock like this. Don't you feel special, knowing that you have that effect on your husband." Edward continued squeezing his bride's face painfully, forcing her to nod in agreement.

The tip of the knife drug down her skin without enough pressure to cut, but enough for (Reader) to feel the cold threat tingling and creating goosebumps, traveling teasingly from her breasts and over her quivering stomach, stopping at her exposed cunny. (Reader) felt the metal touch her where she was told never to touch herself, and was consumed by humiliation.

"Unfortunately for you, it seems that your modest body has not prepared itself for me. I would have taken the time to wetten your cunt, but as per your request, I am not to make love to you, but to fuck you."

"What does that-" a searing pain electrocuted her body as (Reader's) dry pussy was stretched over Edward's dick. Her throat was aching from all the screaming, but that didn't stop the sounds of agony from shrieking out.

He held himself inside of her, relishing in the feeling of her twitching hole tightening almost unbearably around him. For a brief moment, Edward's heart swelled with love, and he considered licking his fingers to provide his wife with lubrication, but the look on her face.. just from entering her (Reader) became so red she was almost purple, eyes flickering as though she were to pass out. It was too beautiful for words.

As he pulled out it caused an awful friction that (Reader) swore she could hear, an awful shuk shuk shuk as Edward removed himself, only to slam back in. It felt like she was being torn apart. He continued thrusting into her rapidly swelling sacred place. The tearing sensation morphed into a burning one, as her blood slickened her hole.

His movements only sped up, pounding into his bruised and bloody princess. (Reader) began to adjust to the pain, and started to push against Edward's chest, desperate enough to fight against him despite his knife still being held to her thigh.

Suddenly, (Reader's) legs were raised and folded back, pressing down into her arms to prevent her from moving. She pulled and struggled, disgusted by the wet noise as Edward's hips connected with hers, uncomfortably aware of his pelvis grinding against her sore clit. Edward grabbed her face again, popping her jaw open and sliding his knife into her mouth.

"Don't struggle, or you just might cut out your tongue." The man threatened, his malicious words clashing with the intense lust in his eyes.

(Reader's) nose scrunched up as she tried to glare at Edward, unable to spit out the knife because of his hold on her face.

"Ah, continue looking at me like that!" He sang with praise, his legs twitching with anticipation. "I'm about to cum!"

(Reader) didn't quite know what that meant, but she could feel him throbbing inside of her.

"I was going to wait until you've gotten used to being my wife, but I think I'm going to cum inside you! Fuck, I'm going to put my babies in you! I'm going to knock you up!"

Learning what was about to happen, (Reader) tried to scream without bumping the knife in her teeth.

Suddenly, the knife was thrown across the room, replaced by Edward's lips, shoving his tongue deep into her mouth as he climaxed deep in his wife's raw pussy. (Reader) didn't know if it was because she was aware that he was cumming inside of her, or if it was because of the paper thin cuts along her vaginal wall, but the fluid pumping into her was horrendously hot, burning her abused body.

He collapsed onto her, still kissing her passionately, tasting the lips he had craved since he first met her. When Edward pulled away, admiring the unbroken string of saliva connecting him to his lover, he knew why he had been so enamored with (Reader) since the beginning.

"I'm so excited to drag you down into hell with me, princess." 'There will be no escape from me. You are my gift from Satan, my little angel. You belong to me.'

[nunalastor]

Resident Evil 7 AU

In mini-fic response to anon's post about a certain someone arriving at the Hotel:

* Takes place after “Radio Killed The Video Star”*

*knock knock knock*

Charlie: *gasps, eyes sparkling* Oh, a new guest? And so soon after Sir Pentious!

Charlie: C o m i n g ~ *pulls the front door open* Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel… nobody?

Charlie: *looks left and right in confusion* Is this one of Angel’s pranks?

????: *small voice from below* Excuse me.

Charlie: *startles and looks down, eyes widening in shock* Oh!

Vaggie: *walking up behind her* Charlie, who’s at the door- *blinks in shock* Is- Is that a child?!

????: *a young girl stares up at them with large eyes (grey with black sclera) from behind a curtain of inky hair that hides half her face*

*Husk, Angel and Sir Pentious, gathered at the bar, all crane their necks to see past Vaggie at the source of the commotion*

Angel: Holy crap! That really is a kid!

Husk: *remembering his own family from back on earth* She can’t be any older than three… how on earth…?

Sir Pentious: *eyes welling up* I-Is she really a sinner? Poor thing…

Charlie: *recomposes herself, kneeling to look the young girl in the properly in the eyes* Sorry about that! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! How can we help you today? Are you looking for redemption?

????: I’m looking for my mommy.

Charlie: *heart overflowing in sympathy* Oh no…

Vaggie: You’ve gotten separated from your mother? How long have you been separated?

????: A very, very long time.

Vaggie: *to herself* She’s just a little kid… So that could mean anything from five minutes ago to five years ago… Oh God, what if her mother was lost during the last extermination?!

Charlie: *stands and offers a hand* Well, don’t you worry! We’ll help you find her!

????: *frowns at her hand, before taking it and following her inside*

Charlie: Do you like apple juice? Husk, do you have any juice behind the counter?

????: *shrugs indifferently, looking around the lobby, eyeing each person with a critical eye*

Charlie: *nods patiently, thanks Husk, and leads the girl to the lobby’s couch, pouring out glass*

Charlie: So, where did you did you last see your mommy?

????: I saw Mommy on the TV. The TV said he is here!

Charlie: The… TV said that… your mommy was here? Are you sure?

????: *nods firmly*

Charlie: *turns to her partner* Vaggie… do you…?

Vaggie: *rubs her forehead* Sorry, I don’t either. You don’t think Niffty-

Husk: *flatly* Absolutely not.

Charlie: *takes a deep breath* Okay, well, maybe Al will know-

Alastor: *calling from upstairs* What’s all this? Do we have a new guest?

????: *the moment that voice spoke, the ears that that had laid flat and unnoticed until now suddenly flick up, twitching restlessly*

Charlie: *flagging him down* Al, good timing, do you know- ah!

????: *jumps up from the couch, shaking and breathing heavily*

Charlie: *holding her hands up* Don’t be scared! Alastor works here! He won’t hurt you!

????: *doesn’t seem to hear her, stumbling slowly around the couch to where the Radio Demon is making his way down*

Alastor: *stops at the foot of the stairs, and tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes* You’re…

????: *stares at him for a long moment… before giggling*

Alastor: *his eyes widen in recognition, shoulders subtly tensing* Eveline.

Eveline: *gleefully* I finally found you, Mommy!

To be continued… maybe…

👀