wooobuddyletsgetnasty

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

you’re married— but is it really a marriage if it’s sexless and loveless? stuck with a man that’ll touch the town easies but not you and in house backing the woods is not the way you thought your life would turn out. maybe you’re losing your mind— all alone and vulnerable at night, but sometimes, sometimes you swear there’s something whispering in the trees.

it’s only a matter of time before he comes.

remmick x reader

the first night something doesn’t feel quite right comes with your husband leaving with a quick kiss to your head— hushing the question of where he’s going quickly and firmly. he’ll be back before the morning.

he’s lying— he’ll come home before the sun gets it’s hottest, reeking of booze and cheap perfume.

it never changes.

you’ve perched in your beautiful bay window, large and wide and decorated the exact way you’d imagined it when you were young. it faces the woods off your back porch and provides you with the exact amount of happiness you need to be quiet about why you spend your nights alone.

your own little piece of heaven.

you’ve cracked the middle one, the weather finally changing from that wet heat to something less sweltering, less of a heat that leaves your nape wet when you sit too long. this heat is comforting, wrapping you up like a cozy blanket. you recline, bringing your knees up close. you take a deep breath of fresh air and try to tempt your mind to anything besides where your husband is.

that’s when it starts— so quiet you can’t even make out the words. you must be imagining it.

you’re used to whispers. quiet jabs about how you’re still childless because your womb must be filled with rot. whispers about how you must have never learned how to keep a man happy— that’s why your husband never stays home.

but these whispers feel different, comforting. it’s like a song that flutters in with the breeze. your eyes close, you could fall asleep— it’s the first real time you’ve felt anything but true lonely melancholy since your papa pawned you off like a cheap sow to the first man willing.

something in the woods breaks, likely a stick and your comfort leaves you instantly.

there’s something out there.

you hurry to your feet, pretty nightgown swaying in the breeze, and maybe you’re still just imagining things, but you swear just for a moment— there’s pinpricks, eyes.

and they’re too far from the ground to be an animal.

maybe your husband is right— you shouldn’t sit this close to the woods at night. you never know what beasts are outside.

and in the late morning, when your husband comes home, he asks you how your night was.

you smile as prettily as you can manage, despite feeling an awful pit in your stomach, and answer him with a lie, “ ‘s alright— the woods make me happy.”

————

it takes another three times of you being spooked away from your little piece of heaven before you’ve had enough.

you’re tougher than this. you take all the stares and whispers in town straight to your face— you can handle this woods nonsense all the same.

maybe you shouldn’t have gotten into your husband’s whiskey stash— but hell, he wasn’t here to stop you or the thing watching you from the trees.

your rye soaked brain thinks it’s brilliant— the smartest thing you’d ever thought of. you settle in to your perch right after the sun lowers all the way down, this time with all three windows wide open, and you fucking wait.

the almost there whispering starts first, like it always does. you still find that comforting, even through the haze of liquor in your brain. at the first creak, the first shift of the branches— you become more alert, heart thundering under the low cut of your nightgown.

but you won’t run. you refuse to.

it takes a second, but you see it. the eyes.

“it’s rude to stare y’know.”

you don’t expect a response, in fact, you’re sure whatever it is will scamper away from you, but instead you’re met with a tone matching yours, “not starin’ darlin’ — just passing through.”

you feel braver than you thought you would in the face of probably the most danger you’ve ever been in, “come closer into the light then, jus’ so I can watch you pass through.”

it, he, does.

he’s the epitome of a tall handsome stranger. he breeches the tree line and flanks your back porch, eyes never leaving yours. you should be scared, terrified— but by god— it has to be the whiskey.

he’s fucking gorgeous. short hair, neatly trimmed face, sleeves rolled up high enough you can see nothing but pale skin and delicious forearms. christ— you’re desperate for any interaction.

the light catches his eyes again and pulls you out of whatever trance he’s put you in, “your eyes always shine like that when you’re just passin’ by, mister?”

the sentence rolls off your tongue in the same way his does across his teeth, mouth pulling into a smug little grin, “can’t get nothin’ past you can I, sugar?” the name calling makes you a little fuzzy inside but you persist anyways, despite the voice whispering in your head it’s a terrible idea.

you press your knees to the cushion you usually sit on and lean partly out the window. maybe you’re stupid or maybe you’re fucking lonely, “you must be one of them beasts they say is in these woods then.”

“must be darlin’ — must be.”

“you not gonna come in here in the night and kill me are you?”

“nah— sweetie, can’t get in unless you invite me.”

————

you shouldn’t make friends with the monster in the woods. the smart part of you is aware of that.

but remmick is your only friend. he keeps you better company than your husband. better company that all those heifers in town that look down their nose at you for having a husband that doesn’t want you.

it takes a few nights and before you know it— you’re inside the window and he’s seated on your porch right outside. parallel, so you can see each other’s faces. it would almost be romantic if he wasn’t what he was.

“you the one rippin’ out all those peoples’ throats?”

you try not to seem scared, terrified as you look down at him from your roost.

“beasts get hungry, sugar.” that’s enough of an answer for you but still.. curiosity killed the cat, you in this situation, “just for blood? or for other stuff too?”

“there’s other things that interest me.” you try to pretend you don’t pick up on the pretense, the tone he’s using as he stares at your breasts through your nightgown.

“you’re droolin’ remmick.”

your voice is meek and the sudden urge to run takes over you— he’s a fucking predator and you goddamn know it.

but still, you remain, peering at him from the safety of your house, “do beasts get hungry for flesh, remmick?” this time, you hardly recognize yourself. it’s a tone you’d use in an attempt to get your husband to touch you, feather light and brimming with desire.

“yes.”

you stand, shaky on your own feet, like a baby fawn. if those women in town thought you were heinous now, you could only imagine what they’d think of what you were about to do.

slowly, from the other side of the window, remmick stands too. he’s imposing and you’re positive he can hear how quickly your pulse is thrumming in your throat, based solely off the red glint in his eyes, “show me darlin’ — show it to me.”

you close your eyes, hands inching to the hem of your nighty and with more sureness than you’ve ever had, you pull it over your head in one swift movement.

you keep your eyes tightly shut, fearing the creature outside would find you undesirable in the same way your husband would.

“open your eyes.”

you do, god you do— and you’re petrified. he’s all claws and teeth, all hunger and desire.

“you’re about the prettiest thing I’ve seen in this lifetime, honey.” he’s heaving, almost snarling into the nighttime.

“you won’t hurt me?” your hands relax from fists, standing back to your true height, leveling with him from the inside.

“even if I wanted to— can’t get in, you kno’ that.”

the next words shock even you, “what if I let you come in?”

the growl that comes after your words should send you fleeing, running away from your window but it doesn’t, “nah— still wouldn’t hurt you.”

“remmick— please come inside.”

he does, christ— he does.

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

I miss your writing so fucking much. I genuinely hope you are happy in your life now but my life is total ass and I need you to come back. I know you won't and probably won't even read this but I needed to write it.

stop this broke my heart.

You sent this to me in February but I hope you’re still here and you see this somehow.

I’m never far from you, in fact I’m in your heart and probably also your bushes. Look outside 👹bwhahahaaaa

I can’t promise I’ll be here long term— life is pretty busy for me now (I got fckin married!!! Somebody married me!!! I’m also making homemade lasagna tonight so come over if you want) but I redownloaded the app and am creeping around slowly but surely.

I 🫶🏻 you and I missed my internet besties so much.

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

i have to get this out of my head oops

dick grayson x reader

⚠️: micro-cheating, dick grayson is obsessed, you respect yourself and LEAVE his ass, sexual content (M masturbation), dick looks at pics/vids of you without your consent like a little heart broken loser— blah blah blah

(you can imagine any version of dick you want)

maybe you should have put your foot down sooner, in fact, you absolutely should have.

you feel pathetic— like you wasted time on him. you shouldn’t worry when he’s out late vigilanteing— but you do. what if she’s there? what if she’s the one he thinks about when it’s late and he’s tired and alone?

you’ve seen slivers of conversation. nights where he can’t be bothered even to speak to you, all followed by you discreetly peeking over his shoulder, just to see her name. you always plan on confronting him, telling him you’re not stupid and you know what he’s doing but then— then you go to bed, and he wraps you up tight in his arms, kisses your shoulders, and you forget.

you should have known better— you should have learned from past mistakes but you chose to believe it isn’t what it is, what you know is true.

you love him, but he doesn’t love you back.

in theory, he does love you— but not the way you love him. not the way your love makes you drop everything, scurrying to place yourself accessible for every single fucking thing he needs, not in the way you turn off your phone— itching to hear him talk, not in the way you cut off anyone that could be a threat to your blooming relationship.

he doesn’t love you the way you love him and you’re okay with that— at least for a little bit. you can take the pain to the face. you allow yourself to feel what you feel— and then you swallow it.

you’ve wished for him for years, loved him for years. and you convince yourself you can live like this.

——

you can recall the exact day, the exact moment that makes you question everything about your relationship.

dick is standing in the kitchen of his apartment, dressed well and smelling like every dream you’ve ever had of him. he’d invited you over after work, saying sweet lines about missing you and wishing to see you.

you peer at him with curious eyes, asking instantly, “i thought you were off today— where have you been?” the breath is sucked from your lungs instantly, “well— kori needed my help with something today so i drove over.”

you pause in the doorway, heart beating loud enough you can’t hear anything but it. you’re hesitant in your next words, “oh— uhm.. you didn’t tell me that you were going to kori’s today..” your voice trails, you’re unsure what to say next— unsure if you should bring up any worries, unsure if you should voice how absolutely uncomfortable the idea of them being alone makes you.

he’s seeing her in the daytime now. using his precious days off to assist her with things she needs. it’s more than just texting— more than just work.

you don’t have the chance to speak your concerns, dick’s million-watt smile pulling you out of any worries you had. he takes your coat and he asks you how your day was— and you forget.

——

the next time— the final time comes on a day that you feel worse for wear.

you feel like you got hit by a fucking trash truck— every bone in your body somehow hurts and you’re tired beyond reason.

you feel bad, like you’re ruining the plans you and dick had made for the day, despite him hushing you softly, promising that he doesn’t mind— promising that he’ll take care of you.

you give in— and you rest on the couch for just a second. a second, that’s all you need, you swear to yourself.

you don’t wake up for hours.

when the first stream of dull light hits your eyes, you’re dazed— confused. the apartment is silent. there’s no tinkering, no TV show playing obnoxiously in the background— there’s no sign of dick anywhere.

your stomach seems to drop impossibly lower— you feel ill, iller than before, and there’s something gnawing— chewing at the back of your brain until you’re sure your right— dick isn’t here because he went to kori’s.

you feel delusional for a second— it can’t be true. he wouldn’t do that to you, would he?— but with each breath, each thought running through your groggy mind, you convince yourself you’re fucking right.

you check your phone with a hesitance you haven’t felt ever in your life.

it seems like your suspicions were correct. a text message from dick is all you see, a text message from over an hour ago— “be back soon— running some errands.”

errands your fucking ass.

——

despite how worn down you feel, utterly heartbroken and impossibly sicker than you felt before your nap— you spend the time packing up things you’ve left in dick’s apartment. clothes, your toothbrush, shampoo and conditioner— miscellaneous nicknacks that you’d brought over with your time spent here, with him.

you’d feel impossibly stupid if he comes home and it was nothing— but you know it isn’t. call it intuition or maybe just fucking crazy but you know it.

it takes just about another hour for him to show face, in fact, you hear him before you see him— soft footsteps on the well of the stairs, the jingle of his keys. you have them memorized and for a moment, just a moment before you tear the future down in front of you, you allow yourself to be excited.

——

he looks happy when he sees you, wide awake and sitting on the couch. he speaks your name in the tone that makes your heart flutter, but he’s stopped short at the site of the bags by your feet.

when you ask this time, there’s no room for argument, “where were you?” there’s something in your tone that makes him avoid eye contact— he’s guilty, and he fucking knows it.

“kori called while you were sleeping— she needed help moving a couch into her new apartment.”

again— the breath gets stolen from your lungs, “and that was your errand?” you don’t even think of mentioning she’s freakishly fucking strong and could put the goddamn couch on her back if she really needed to— it’s irrelevant.

he puts his keys down on the table he keeps next to the door, the noise sending a sharp twinge of irritation up your spine. he nods, mouth instantly opening for whatever bullshit apology you know he will spew.

you cut him off sharply, “i won’t do this.” you take in a deep breath, standing to your full height, “you don’t get to treat me like this.”

your tone is calm, sure— but dick can see it in your eyes, you’re rightfully fucking furious.

“you’re leaving me?” there’s something quiet, something pathetic in his tone when he asks. it throws a wrench in your plan— goddamn him, goddamn dick fucking grayson and his perfect fucking eyes.

you’d spent the hour waiting for him imagining that you’d be tough as nails— sure of yourself. you’d tell him straight that you were leaving and leave it at that.

you don’t feel like that anymore.

“i don’t know.” it’s honest. you mean it when you say it and you can see the sag of relief in his shoulders when you speak it to him.

he shifts, like he wants to touch you, but he seems to restrain himself, “i have to go, bruce called. he needs help in Gotham. please,” he does it again, speaks your name in the tone that makes you melt, makes you think that you could put up with him entertaining kori for the rest of your lives, “please don’t leave— we can talk about this more when i get back.”

you agree to his request.

but— in the end, you lie.

you lug every fucking memory of yourself down the stairs of his apartment— and then, when you make it safely to your home— you block his fucking phone number too.

——

it takes until the morning for dick to realize you’re gone. really gone.

maybe it’s because he’s been out all night— helping bruce, Batman, restrain every criminal that had escaped from Arkham— or maybe it’s because he lingered in Gotham too long, worried about what he’d find when he returned home.

something about you— the look in your eye when you’d confronted him.

you weren’t staying and he fucking knew it— but he left anyways, too scared to watch you walk away, to watch you abandon him.

when he comes home, he hopes to see you cuddled up in his bed, sleeping soundly the way you normally would be on your days off and he’s gone for the night— but instead he finds nothing.

not even an echo of you.

everything you’d ever graced his apartment with is gone.

the air feels heavy with regret, his regret.

dick decides he need to go to bed— he needs sleep.

he will worry about winning you back when he’s back to his normal wits.

——

you’ve changed your phone number.

dick can’t reach out to you even if he’d tried.

it’s been a week— almost two and dick feels like he might crumble. he needs to see you. he needs to speak to you.

he’s so used to you, you and your bright smile— you and the way you show up and liven up any situation. he craves you, the way you rub his shoulders— the way you ease him into relaxing.

but you’re gone and he knows he shouldn’t do it. he knows you’d hate him for even thinking about it— but he can’t fucking help it.

he opens the hidden folder on his phone— the folder full of pictures and videos of you.

full of picture and videos your bare pussy— your whole bare body. videos of you keening for him to touch you, pictures you’ve sent from the safety of your apartment, just for him.

he could just look at the non-lewd pictures of you, of the two of you, but he’s sure he has them memorized by now. he needs something else, something new.

and as he’s looking at them— he can’t help himself. he misses you so much. the way your hair smells, how your body feels against his— the way you taste.

his hands pull at his boxers— just one time, he thinks— and then he touches himself for the first time since you’ve been gone, since you left him.

he touches himself to the sight of you, spitting on his cock when he needs to— to slick himself up, to imagine it’s you, your soft insides he’s sinking into with each desperate thrust of his hips.

he cums with a noise he’s never heard himself make before— calling your name with a sound so pathetic it makes his ribcage hurt.

he deletes the pictures and videos of you, the whole album, the moment he realizes what he’s done.

and then, once he’s settled back into his bed, clean and alone— he cries.

he fucking cries— he misses you so much.

what will he do without the memory of you? he just deleted the last little grip of his sanity.

——

despite his sureness that deleting your photos was the right choice, he feels more empty without them.

the very next night he spends hours— hours, surfing porn sites. he needs someone that resembles you— the way your body looks, the color of your hair, the way you sound.

it takes longer than he anticipated, the sun rising quicker than he thought it would but he finally finds one satisfying enough that he gets the urge to touch himself.

dick grayson thought he was above videos of internet girls. he thought he’d never need to resort back to porn like a teenager but that’s obviously changed now— none of the women willing to fuck him in real life are you.

after an empty orgasm, he pays to save the video.

he doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll watch that video until he’s fucking memorized it.

maybe he’s a pathetic mess but hopefully, wherever you are, you’re happy.

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

maybe I have some Benedict Bridgerton girlies on here maybe not but I have to get this off my chest with the new season because the man looks good. And don’t think for ONE second that this is anything but self-indulgent.

there is ofc slight porn in here bc WHO DO YOU THINK I AM???

you’ve received your warning, come closer if you dare.

maybe something along the lines of Benedict being a best friend of your older brother, something along the lines of a staple in your household, someone you have grown far too used to seeing.

he is nigh a few summers your senior but still further progressed enough that they hardly allow you to play.

tragedy strikes on your year of three and ten, taking your mother and father, which leads you and your older brother, who is six and 10, to being sent to the countryside to stay until of age, until you are able to care for yourself.

—

it takes seven full summers for the two of you to make way back to the ton— on the eighth year, in the spring, you return— you make your debut with your brother heading the attempt to find a lawful man for you to wed.

that very same spring, you see Mr. Bridgerton again.. but he is different, as are you.

gone is the girl and in her place is a woman.

you are still bright-eyed, despite the tragedy— still quick witted and kind. but you are also different, ethereal— Benedict never realized how your smile lifts your cheeks, never realized how your brow furrows when you speak— Benedict sees you for the first time in years and it feels like he has really, finally seen you.

and he— he is a man now. taller than you remember, more filled out— stout. with strong hands and forearms you linger on longer than you should— something that proves the artist he is. but he is unchanged in mischief, in the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, in the way he tries to include you in conversation.

it is in the spring, the spring you return, when you realize— you love Benedict Bridgerton.

—

despite your realization, you note that Mr. Bridgerton will never see you as anything but his best friend’s younger sister. you are put out, saddened by it. but it does not stop you. you cannot, will not be your brother’s burden any longer.

it is then your discrete conversation, your inside jokes, and your admiration of Benedict’s art stops. you cannot be so close to a man if you expect to find a good husband, one that will care for you and make sure you are happy.

Benedict, Ben, will never love you and you are fine with that or at least you can pretend.

—

it does not take long for you to find a prospect, Lord Rothschild. he is kind to you— he listens when you speak, he does not treat you like you are lesser. you are content to marry him, happy even.

but it still feels like it is not enough.

his gaze does not burn through you— does not make you alive— it does not make you feel.

but you are fine— you convince yourself. you could be happy. you could learn to love him.

your engagement seems set in stone.

Lord Rothschild has asked your brother for your hand and you agree. your smile does not pull your cheeks in the way Benedict can make it— but the way your lips turn up when he tells you, it is enough for your brother to be content.

—

Benedict, Ben, he calls on you that very night— the very day your brother speaks with Lord Rothschild and there is something about him that seems urgent, terrified.

you speak to him quietly, your maid a shadow behind you, your gown sways in the light spring breeze, “what are you doing here?”

he pauses, hesitating in his answer, “I-I do not know, I do not know.”

you step closer, peering like someone might see you, “we cannot be seen— I am to be married— you cannot be here, Ben.”

he seems awed, struck in the same way he normally is by you, “i cannot tell you.. but i can show you.” you are rightfully confused but nod hesitantly, “alright, Ben. alright.”

“meet me at Bridgerton house in the early morn.”

you agree without question, hastily turning, nightgown ruffling with the movement, motioning your maid towards the door, “Bridgerton house. i will be there.”

—

you hold true and you come to Bridgerton house in the morn— but you do not end up staying there.

in a carriage surrounded by nothing but a stifling silence, you allow Ben to take you into town. your nerves are pooling in your stomach, making you feel ill— but something in his gaze makes you hold out.

when the carriage comes to a stop, Benedict leads you in a direction you are familiar with, and suddenly, he seems nervous to be standing in front of this building— you have seen it before and it does not help with your confusion.

it is his studio— a place you have spent far too much of your time in, wasting moments, talking about your favorite art piece of his, something abstract, something you do not understand but are happy to look at because he touched it.

“Ben.. what are we doing here?”

he swallows thickly, a nervous habit you have picked up on, “you will see.”

it does not quell your nerves.

—

the inside is different than what you have seen before. gone are the abstract arts and in their place is portraits— so many portraits.

you take a turn around, admiring the ones that are full of color, life. you admire the ones drawn hastily with dark lines and desperation. they are all beautifully done. you are awed by his talent, awed by how well done and intricate they seem.

it strikes you suddenly, quickly as you stare into one— those are all your eyes, your nose, your cheeks.

“Ben,” you pause, attempting to find the words, “are— are these all of me?”

you turn, looking at him with a look he has never seen before. Benedict swallows heavily, voice hesitant when he speaks, “yes, they are all of you.”

you turn back, a new admiration in your gaze, “you have painted me?”

you do not turn back when he speaks, “you are so beautiful, it is hard not to.”

you pause again on the one that seems desperate, the line of your brow drawn crudely, like he feared forgetting, “why me?”

there is a quiver in his voice, “even when i am unable to draw— to paint— i can still imagine you. i imagine you in perfect detail, every time. sometimes it’s only you, only you, i don’t even realize i am doing it— not until you, you with that enchanting smile, are looking back at me.”

your chest tightens, “Ben— please— please, explain what this means.”

there is a waver in your voice this time— echoing the same as his.

he answers steadily, a newfound confidence in his tone. Benedict moves, admiring his own art, “i have seen you millions of ways— millions of emotions,” with his next phrasing, he motions to a different art, art made by his hands, “contempt, sadness, anger, happiness..” his voice trails, “i have seen a million emotions in your face,” his lip quivers when he finally turns to face you, deep eyes turning tender, “and i have loved each of them.”

you shudder, emotion overtaking you, but you do not respond to him, instead allowing him to continue to speak, “i have loved each of them and i will continue to love them— each emotion, every passion— i will never, never finish loving them, loving you.”

you can hear nothing but your heartbeat— nothing but the sound of your ribcage rattling, “you— Ben— i cannot… i cannot do this. Lord Rothschild has asked for my hand. i am meant to be wed.. he will propose soon.”

you are rambling, almost trying to deny him— deny what you feel.

Benedict hardens but does not attempt to move closer to you, “you say you are to wed him,” he pauses, turning desperate, “but do you look at him the way you are looking at me?”

you do not recognize that you are looking at him any other way than normal, not until he quivers under your gaze, “stop. do not continue to look at me that way,” his voice drips with hardly there restraint, “do not— or i will ruin you.”

you break under his equal watch, hands going up in desperation, before landing equally at your side, “you, Benedict Bridgerton, have already ruined me. i cannot marry that man,” you cannot stop the absolute noise of desperation that falls from your lips, “i cannot marry that man— and it is because of you!”

he seems aghast at your words, “me? me!” he swaggers closer to you, some part of him sure that this is what you want and you answer by stepping in to his frame, confirming it is, “yes! you! you and your artworks, you and the way you are leering at me— you and just you, Benedict— you have ruined me. i have nothing left for anyone else,” you quiver, but do not deny yourself the satisfaction of finally admitting it, “i love you— i love you.”

it feels like a prayer— like a secret, like something you should not have shared. it is too late to retract— Benedict closes in on you, lips pressing against yours with an anguish you can taste.

—

it takes a moment of his lips pressing against yours before Benedict is pulling away, hands raising above his head, dark hair shaking with the move of his head, “tell me to stop— tell me to back away, please, please.”

you cannot— you will not. you refuse to deny yourself any longer, “no— Ben, Benedict— no.” when he turns away, you follow, making sure he can see you, see the emotion in your face, “you cannot do this— you cannot show me this and expect us to go back to normal.”

he finds himself unable to turn away from you, instead, he cradles you, hands cupping at the sides of your face in a way you can only describe as tender, and he whispers— he whispers in something you can only describe as salvation, “i love you.”

you answer in a kiss, one that makes him back you into a table, one that makes him lift you high, seating you on a table in the very place he paints— he paints you. his hands grip desperately at your skirts— he is temping you, nothing but sin reeking from every pore, “i love you.”

you squeal a noise unknown to you when he disappears under the fabrics, mouthing at the most sensitive parts of you like they are his supper, “wait! wait! what are you—“ you are cut off by a noise so depraved you do not recognize yourself, “oh! oh!”

you gather your own skirts in your hands, trying to take away burden from him but also trying to find something to grab— something to hold. you need it— need to focus on something other than his quick tongue— you need something to ground yourself against the onslaught of his mouth against the place only husbands are supposed to touch.

“Benedict,” you sound hazy, a feeling in your gut pooling in the way you have only felt your own touch make you, “something is happening!”

he hums against you, against your tender most spot, signaling he knows— he knows and it is supposed to feel like this, that it is supposed to happen this way.

you release your skirts, opting to instead grab at the dark hair on his head, pressing him against the part of you that feels the most— the part that tingles from the base of your spine to the tips of your toes, “oh! Ben! oh!”

you do not need to elaborate, he can tell— he knows, knows you are crumbling from his touch.

he pulls away from you, only when your noises turn in to almost discomfort.

he appears from under your skirts, grin happy and face wet. he watches you for only a moment.

Benedict watches the way your brow eases, worries quelled, watches the way your mouth opens in gasps— from him, because of him.

you heave for air, gasping and heaving and he pauses, taking in the way your face changes with each breath.

“i think i will paint you like this next,” you peer at him, him still lingering between your spread legs, his pretty face framed by the silky fabric of your dress, “but only if you will agree to be my wife.”

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

whew.

hello tumblr, this has been a fucking hell of a year.

so… broke up with my fiancé of 6 years in a messy nightmare situation that was literally like a fucking fever dream but also the most relieving thing I’ve ever done. I also have a new boyfriend now??? love that for me???

but anyways, the whole point of this post is me just telling you all that I love you and everything I’ve ever done on this hellsite very much but I have to close this chapter in my life for good (which has been a long time coming tbh I think we all saw the day on the horizon).

with that being said, I will not be coming back. that’s so fucking bittersweet to say and also HURTS.

however, I will be keeping everything I’ve ever posted up for your viewing pleasure so you little shits better keep my fucking memory alive or I’ll come kick every single one of you in the back of your knees fr.

signing off officially— never forget that I love you and also to stay nasty forever 💜

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

⚠️: size kink, Toji laughs @ you— I think that’s everything

Minors close ur eyes n if you know me no you don’t.

he’s big— big arms, big shoulders, big chest, big cock and somehow he’s managed to convince you to lay down n take it.

and he starts out real nice n sweet and is murmuring about how soft and pretty you are when he spreads you open on his fingers first but it isn’t enough to make you come— no, it’s just enough to settle your nerves, just enough to make you all slick n pliant, just enough for him to bully the fat head right in.

and it’s just him— big chest n big biceps being all you can see. just him with a smarmy grin as he coos in your face ab how it’s okay, you can take it. “look angel— it’s already halfway in, you’re being so brave.”

and maybe it’s how he looks, eyes flicking between your blown out pupils to how your cunt is choking him out— or maybe it’s how he’s still rubbin’ away at your puffy little clit trying to make it easier to spear you open wide for him.

somehow it isn’t enough— but it also is.

before you can warn him to slow down, you’re tunneling out, chest heaving, tears pricking the corners of your eyes— you’re fucking coming and he’s not even all the way in yet.

and you somehow hear him— you fucking hear him, even with your eyes rolling back into your skull, even with your toes curling— even with your pussy creamin’ around his half seated cock.

He’s fucking laughing at you.

“yeah? you comin’— ah, shit— ‘s that fuckin’ good, huh?”

his tone is nothing but mocking, like he knew he was about to ruin you, like he knew that after this, your pussy would fit him like a glove.

you wish you could say something back— but you can’t. it’s all garbled noises and pathetic whimpers because Toji is laughing at you and also because he’s right— it is that fucking good.

but before you can truly catch up, he’s using the slick, using how you’ve loosened up to shove the rest of his cock in to the fucking root — and even though you’re all gooey inside n opened wide, it still stings.

and Toji is so smug, that same mocking tone in his voice when he hushes you, when he wipes your tears, when he grabs you by the chin to make you look at him when he’s talking, “ ‘s all in now, okay?” there’s a pause, one he uses to tug your thighs over his, one he uses to fold you in fucking half— his big body weighing yours down in a way that burns, “promise I’ll make it good f’ you.”

you nod hazily in agreement— you’re sure he fucking will.

—

if you made it here don’t look at me. I am ashamed.

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

Hellur, do you know ghost from cod..?

oh baby do I ever 😮‍💨

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

Okay wait I am so excited to write this one.

should it be smut????

next fic poll!!

vote it upppppp yessssss

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

next fic poll!!

vote it upppppp yessssss

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

i wanna write a the last of us au w young (early 20s) Kakashi or Shikamaru.

it would be based off the whole “you’re cargo— a mission n I’ll be damned if I let you die before I get what they said they’d give me but we’ve been traveling together for months and now it hurts to think about not having you next to me.”

But instead of a father daughter relationship, you’re falling in love.

the road to where you’re going is hard— rough. you aren’t meant for this— but him, he is. he’s used to the traveling, the danger.

he’s originally only interested in what they’re offering for your safe arrival to their facility, shut off and more than willing to hand you over, until he isn’t.

you’re worth more than any information they could ever offer. you, with your smile. you, with the way you steadily worked your way into his chest, digging your fingers into his rib cage. just you and the idea of a life without you making him fucking sick.

Just ahahahahahaaaa going from keeping your distance and making jabs at each other to, “once this is over, I’ll follow you wherever you want to go. I don’t care, not as long as you’re there.”

grumpy man n reader who is carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders slowly realizing they can’t imagine not having each other.

And, AND Kakashi or Shikamaru going fucking ballistic because these people are going to kill you— you, the only person they need to stay alive because their world will spin off it’s axis if they can’t see you smile again— if they can’t take you where ever you want to go.

they need you, just you. alive, breathing, safe— in their arms. where you belong.

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

lololololol

not me thinking about Madara fucking UCHIHA asking you how you want him after a bad day. somebody SEDATE ME AHHHH.

like come OOOOON.

“how you want it, baby? want me to be sweet? kiss you all nice ‘n make you feel good?”

this option would be accompanied with a sweet touch to the underside of your breast, long fingers plucking at a nipple so sweetly you can’t help but shudder— followed by a saccharine smile and a lingering kiss that makes you chase after him, hands pawing at his shoulders with a desperation only he can cause you.

but it would switch— grip turning heavy fingered, twisting at the delicate part of your chest with a sharp nip at your bottom lip, teeth pulling until you whine— big body muscling you back towards the wall with a heavy thump, “or you wan’ it rough, huh? want me to make you fuckin’ cry, sweetheart? give you hell?”

it’s a tough choice. you already know what you want though— all you have to do is say it.

just Madara Uchiha being more than happy to give you whatever you want— anything to see you smile, anything to make you feel good.

I’m gonna fuckin throw UPPPPP

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

i am going to affectionately threaten you for the dirtiest nastiest shikamaru headcanons you can muster. maybe something with a daddy or a sir kink? just,,,,i want him to use me as an ash tray 🥵🥵

i am affectionately threatening you back because at one point in time i was going to write a whole story ab shikamaru using you like an ashtray so nobody look at me

⚠️: mentions of cigarettes, slightly mean! shikamaru

- tbh i don’t think shikamaru would have a daddy kink but a sir kink? that’s right up his alley

- girl don’t play, now lay down like???

- not me thinking about staying out too late and coming home to shikamaru lounging in a chair in your shared living room, cigarette hanging between his lips and he doesn’t even have to say anything— you just know this about to be crazyyyy

- he raises one thin eyebrow and you’re about to confess all your sins

- tell me he wouldn’t make you apologize for worrying him

- actually don’t because you can’t convince me otherwise

- give him a little “ ‘m so sorry for not letting you know i was going to be late, sir.”

- and he’s gonna laugh at you because aren’t you just pitiful

- WHO IS YOU LAUGHING AT??? HELLO??

- when your apology doesn’t work you settle with your head on his thigh, hands working at the button on his pants

- and he just, “can you say please?”

- you’re just peering up at him all doe-eyed and pliant, “please, sir— just wanna apologize.”

- how could he ever say no to that??? now stop talking, there’s something better you could be using that mouth for

- you cannot tell me that he doesn’t look like a fucking dream like that— thighs spread wide, posture relaxed with one hand brushing the hair out of your eyes, and the other bringing the end of the cigarette to his lips and he’s just, “go on, sweetheart— do it how i like it.”

- just shikamaru slipping his fingers into your mouth beside his cock to open you wider because, “pretty sad apology sweetheart, now open up— i know you can take more than that.”

- and he’s just smug and mean and making sure you fucking choke

- gtg BYE

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

Kakashi: biting, hickes, claiming.

That man can leave bites and hickes on my body nearly wherever he wants to and I will be turned on when they remind me of our activities. The Hatake Clan have strong connections to wolf's and dogs and it shows during bedroom activities and even outside them.

wait pls no i just got back don’t do this omg

⚠️: biting, possible hints at scenting??? idk man overall just nsfw pls no one look at me wtf

- kakashi would 100% in the beginning of your relationship leave marks where others can see them like don’t play??? you’re his??? BYE

- as time progresses, he’ll find it easier to leave them in places that only the two of you know about but don’t mistake that, one wrong move in your skirt and every one in town will see where he’s sunk his teeth into the meat on your thighs like ??? why is that so sexy???

- the whole close relationship with dogs makes me think of him being able to smell you

- maybe he’s too close and you get a good look at the veins in his forearms and now you’re 5 seconds away from showing your ass in the grocery store and he just knows

- girl don’t play with him, he’s gonna snatch your ass up (why get groceries when he could just eat you? *queue the sharp canines peeking behind his pretty lips*)

- and it’s not even just when he can smell the slick pooling in your underwear, it’s constantly

- he just follows you around and when the wind blows just right he can smell you through the mask, just you and now he’s crowding you against a tree with heavy hands, teeth latching on to the meat of your throat with a determination you can only describe as animalistic

- kakashi is not possessive, but you’re his and if you ever need a reminder all you have to do is pull down the collar of your shirt to peek at the teeth shaped marks all over the skin of chest

- and when he has to leave for a mission he’s nipping at the skin of your throat and hissing about how you better not let any of them fade before he gets back because if you do you’ll regret it (you’ll spend more time in the morning than you want to admit pressing against the marks on your chest and thighs)

- like c’moooon man, just kakashi leering down at you while your heart is working double time, pattering in your chest until you’re sure it’ll take flight because he looks like he might eat you alive if you make a wrong move— and come to think of it, you really might let him

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

i think I’m back in my Naruto phase

i cannot hide from it 🥲

send help & also requests for headcannons before i die

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

would anyone hate me if i posted a Rick Grimes smut here???? bro i can’t get him out of my head why is he so fine????

all who want it say yes and all who don’t want it also say yes

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

You have to write that harwin fic idea now 😭🥹I’m way too invested ♥️

hey siri play another love by Tom Odell.

im on the way 2 break my own heart 😢

[wooobuddyletsgetnasty]

somebody write me a story about Ser Harwin Strong falling in love with reader but feeling unable to do anything about it out of respect for Princess Rhaenyra and the children he secretly fathered with her. maybe also out of respect for you as well, because some part of him loves her and it just wouldn’t be fair to you.

so you dance around each other— wandering gazes, lingering touches, useless conversation just to hear each others voices, but it won’t ever be enough.

you need a husband to love. one that will stand by you and be loyal and true to you. Ser Strong could never give you that, you aren’t a fool.

Harwin is content most of the time with his bastard kids and secret nights with the Princess but sometimes; sometimes when he catches a glimpse of your hair in the sunlight, when he sees the way your mouth parts into a longing smile, he thinks he wants a wife— he wants children he can claim.

and you, you could give him that, but would he be able to love you the way you deserve? (read: would he be able to stay away from the princess and her (his) children?)

you find yourself fearing that if you wed Ser Strong he would make a mockery of you, of your marriage. you don’t wish to find out if he could remain true to you, so you decide to marry someone else, despite your love of Harwin. if only you’d met sooner, then maybe you could have given him what he wanted.

Ser Strong is respectful of your wishes, even when his chest burns as you speak about your tryst for a lawful man to marry.

it isn’t as easy to watch you go as Harwin thought it would be, and watching you speak vows to a man that isn’t him is the hardest thing he has ever done.

(EDIT: I’m coming back 2 this because I am still stuck on the idea.

leaving King’s Landing with your husband and when you come back it’s been years. you wish you would have been more insistent about staying home, but alas— you’re back and if the nerves fluttering in your chest tell you anything, it’s that you really shouldn’t have come.

it takes days for Harwin to get you alone— you managing to avoid him at every turn, but you can’t now, as he’s blocking the only exit and looking at you like you’re a goddess walking among men.

AND HE JUST, “I’ve dreamed of you, every night.” you’re trying not to crumble under his gaze, and all you can remember is the way he used to steal the breath from your lungs, but looking at him now, now he just makes them ache.

there are years of hidden feelings bubbling in your chest until you’re sure you’ll throw them up all over the pretty dress that shows the colors of your husband’s house.

he moves in closer and a part of you wishes to jump in his arms, wishes to tell him there’s been a mistake and you never should have wed anyone but him— but you don’t. that would be dishonorable to your husband who has been nothing but kind to you.

with a gentleness a man nicknamed ‘break bones’ should not have, he cradles you at the nape of your neck, gaze matching yours with an intensity you haven’t seen in years.

he cradles you, pressing his forehead to yours, all soft hands and shuddering breaths, until his mouth is parting in a soft sigh of your name, “you’re just as beautiful as you were on the day i lost you.” god graces you the strength to turn your head, “unhand me, Ser Strong.”

you’re a married woman. he has no right to you, no right to touch you this way, and he retracts instantly, an apology falling from his lips. when your eyes meet again, you can see the hurt— but this is his making.

he will never have you, and now, here— as he is looking at you, you’re different than you once were. you quiver, but you don’t bend to him, to the desire for him to tell you he loves you.

And later, when Harwin asks you if you love your husband— you smile, and then you lie through your teeth. of course you love him— he is your husband and he is good to you, but Harwin knows— he can see it in your eyes, in the way they’ve lost their light from the years away from each other— you’ll never love a man that isn’t him.)

I want to cry. I want to fall in love. I want to be sad for DAYSSSS.

someone pls write this for me before I do it myself smh. I hate it here.