@stvrw1tch - Tumblr Blog

you belong with me

pairings aged-up neteyam x omatikaya!fem reader

notes hate to love (but i won’t call it enemies to lovers), fierce and feral reader, mentions of violence and bullying, ultra possessive and dominant neteyam 🤭, reader has a bad male friend, rough smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), secret relationship, , someone sees them going at it 🙂‍↔️

synopsis for years, you and your friend have made it your lives’ work to rile neteyam up and make him unworthy of his birthright. but somehow, neteyam only ever gets riled up by you and completely ignores your friend’s existence.

word count 20.5k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“What is it, Sinto?” you asked, not looking up from the obsidian arrowhead you were scraping against a stone.

The lanky boy stepped into your space, blocking the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Sinto was your only friend in this village, your bond forged in shared grief more than genuine friendship. Both of your parents had died on a raid gone wrong under Jake Sully’s command. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t strictly the Olo’eyktan’s fault, because war was war, and the sky people spared no one, but logic did nothing to soothe an orphaned child left with a hollow heart. Both you and Sinto decided that both of your parents were dead because of Toruk Makto’s bad decisions.

It gave both of you a quiet reason to hate the legendary family who walked around like royalty.

stvrw1tch

This is so good!!!

Holy crap this sum beautiful writing

#neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam smut #neteyam x reader #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam x reader fluff #neteyam x y/n #yummmm

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glorestarz

Can you write about Naoya and a top male reader who’s a lot bigger than him? Who’s also obsessed with with forced feminizing Naoya as he worships him. Think a breeding think.

enter— naoya zenin !!

status: edited + not proofread (ts too long)

synopsis: the domestication of naoya zenin.

word count: 7k

cw: porn WITH plot, naoya lives AU, AMAB reader, top!reader, brat tamer!reader, muscular reader, implied widow reader, sub!naoya, brat!naoya, face-slapping, dubious consent, forced feminization, anal fingering, loss of anal virginity, belly bulge, breeding kink, mating press, creampie, lowk fluffy at the end

note: anon, i might owe you an apology because i wrote this in a sweaty stupor and might not have achieved what you are looking for. 🙂‍↕️ i put pen to paper and shit just flew out. either way, i hope you enjoy my word vomit. ♥︎

you wake before dawn, as always, expecting a quiet morning and the familiar routine of tending your fields. but as you cross the furrows, boots squelching in the dew-soaked earth, you spot something unnatural among the neat rows of young rice. something that shouldn’t be there.

it’s a man, sprawled face-down in the mud, his once-white shirt ruined, fabric torn and soaked through with dark streaks of blood. his fingers dig into the earth, nails cracked and black with dirt, one arm trembling as he tries to pull himself forward. up close, the details are almost too much to take in: blood streaks his scalp, matting down hair that might once have been glossy and proud; dirt cakes his skin in thick layers, hiding bruises that blossom purple and yellow beneath. the left half of his face is a ruined landscape, swollen and filthy, the flesh puckered around a ragged, blood-crusted scar where his eye should be. even in collapse, there’s a harshness in his posture, a stubborn refusal to be helpless, his shoulders squared, jaw set, as if he could hold himself together through sheer will, even as his body betrays him and sinks deeper into the mud.

he blinks up at you with his right eye, the blue cutting through the grime, sharp even now—a glower composed of pain, pride, and something on the verge of breaking. his jaw works as if he wants to speak, but only a guttural sound comes out, a wordless growl, more animal than human. he tries to push himself upright, muscles trembling violently, but his body is a mutinous, aching cage; his arms buckle, and he sags back, breath rattling. the stubbornness flickers in the hollow of his cheeks, in the way his good eye refuses to look away from yours, even as defeat and humiliation threaten to swallow him whole. everything about this encounter is wrong, as if fate itself is pressing him into the mud to see how much he can withstand before he cracks, testing the limits of his pride and endurance, and finding them wanting.

you don’t know who he is, not yet. all you see is a man on death’s doorstep, and that is enough to set your course. you kneel beside him, the mud soaking through your trousers, and try to lift him. he’s heavier than you expect—solid muscle gone slack with exhaustion, but every inch of him tense with resistance. as you haul him over your shoulder, mud and blood smear across your chest, the iron tang sharp in your nose. he stiffens at the contact, a shudder running through his battered frame, but the fight is out of him; he’s too weak to protest, his dignity stripped away with every step you take toward the farmhouse. each footfall is awkward, your arms straining to keep him balanced, but you grit your teeth, determined not to let him fall again.

inside, you lay him out on the old wooden table, its surface a graveyard of knife scars and water rings, stained darker in places by years of spilled broth and medicine. the smell of camphor and old rice straw lingers in the air, mixed with the sharper tang of sweat and blood. the light is dim, a single bulb humming overhead, flickering every so often as moths batter themselves against the glass. you work quickly, setting out your supplies: boiled water in a chipped metal basin, bandages torn from old petticoats, the blunt needles of your grandmother’s sewing kit, and a battered tin of ointment that smells of herbs and whiskey. each tool is familiar, but tonight their weight feels different, heavier somehow, when pressed into service for a stranger who looks more corpse than man. you hope it doesn’t bite you in the ass later.

naoya’s breaths are shallow and furious as you clean the mud from his face, each exhale hot and sharp with indignation and pain. the mud is caked into every crease of his skin, clinging stubbornly even as you work at it with careful, practiced motions. you wince at the carnage where his left eye should be—a gaping, angry wound rimmed with infection, the flesh puckered and raw. your hands are steady, practiced from years of mending broken things—fences, animals, yourself—but there is a tremor in your chest as you peel away the filthy bandage, the stench of rot and blood filling the cramped kitchen. he flinches, jaw clenched so tight the muscles jump beneath your fingers, as you douse the wound in water, scrubbing gently to clear away the worst of the grime, then stitch it closed with thread that smells faintly of mothballs and old perfume. the needle bites deep, drawing fresh blood, and you murmur apologies which he doesn’t bat his one eye at, your voice low and soothing even as he trembles with humiliation and agony. he doesn’t bother to tell you how he got like this, and you didn’t bother to ask.

he is silent, but every muscle in his body is coiled, vibrating with humiliation and resentment from just hours before, reduced to this. the heir of the zenin clan, reduced to a broken animal on your kitchen table, enduring the indignity of your care. even your touch—a farmer’s touch, practical and impersonal—is a reminder of how much he’s lost. when you finish, he’s slick with sweat, his jaw locked tight, but the bleeding has stopped. resentment lingers on his face, mingling with exhaustion and the dull, animal pain of survival.

you patch up the rest of his wounds—bruised ribs, a split lip, cuts up and down his arms. he smells of smoke and death, blood and something unfamiliar, like foreign incense. you dab ointment onto his cuts with a rag that still holds the faint scent of lavender from its past life as a woman’s handkerchief. each touch makes him tense, a silent fury in his jaw. naoya zenin, heir to a clan that worshipped power and perfection, is reduced to this: stitched up in a peasant’s kitchen, the legacy of his name meaningless among the mismatched, hand-me-down supplies. he’s used to crisp uniforms, servants who bowed their heads and never made him wait, the quiet terror his name commanded in every room. here, nothing is as it was—no sliding doors or lacquered floors, no disciplined silence, just the chirr of cicadas and the soft thud of your boots on the packed earth. the indignity festers in him with every ointment dab, every reminder that he is no longer feared. you realize with a chill that whatever happened to him was no accident, and that the prideful, bitter man before you is clinging to shards of a shattered legacy.

he sleeps for hours, barely stirring even as you check on him. only when the sun is high and the air thick with the scent of turned earth does he finally open his eye and fix you with a look that’s both wary and arrogant.

"name’s naoya. naoya zenin," he says, as if that name alone could part the clouds and command obedience. there’s a glitter of self-satisfaction in his eye—he’s certain you’ll recognize the name, that you’ll be grateful just to be in his presence. the bratty lilt in his voice is unmistakable, expecting you to flinch or bow for some reason. unfortunately for him, you don’t.

he waits for recognition, some flicker of awe, or fear, or the deference he’s been fed since childhood, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. you only nod and offer him a chipped bowl of rice and a cup of lukewarm water. his frown deepens, a shadow crossing his face as the realization settles in: here, his name means nothing, and his old tricks fall flat. the silence is thick and suffocating, filled with things neither of you will say. he expects reverence, or at least curiosity, but receives only the blank patience of someone who has long ago learned how to outlast storms. he blinks at you.

"eat or starve. it makes no difference to me." you turn away, your back a silent rebuke. he glares, but when he finally picks up the food, his hands shake. the sound of his eating is small, almost animal—half-starved, half-defiant. you tend to your chores.

it’s only later, when you catch the whispers in town and see the headlines at the corner store—zenin clan massacred, no survivors found—that you realize who’s sleeping under your roof. the last scion of an esteemed clan, broken and half-blind, clinging to life in your room. that night, you keep an eye on his as he sleeps, curled on his side with a thin blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, shivering even in the stuffy dark.

days blend into weeks as you settle into an uneasy routine, each day blurring into the next with the monotony of your work. you wake before dawn, slipping from the house to tend the fields—your hands raw, your back aching from the labor. naoya sleeps late at first, his body demanding rest to heal, the bed that was once yours now given over to him. even then, he complains about how rock solid it is. for now, you sleep on a folded blanket by the stove, the night air biting at your back. he never thanks you, but sometimes you catch him glancing at the empty space beside him when he thinks you aren’t looking. the hours crawl by in a pattern of work, silence, and strained proximity.

it’s impossible not to notice how out of place naoya seems in every aspect of country life. he holds his chopsticks too delicately, as if expecting someone to serve him, and when he eats, he sometimes turns his head just so, as if hoping to catch his own reflection and reassure himself he still looks good doing it. his hands, though roughened now by weeks of toil, retain a certain fineness—long fingers that once knew only calligraphy brushes and lacquered fans, not hoes and heavy buckets. the first time you handed him a shovel to finally pull his weight after all of this time, he gripped it all wrong, recoiling at the blisters it raised, then spent an hour examining his palms for damage, muttering about how he was never meant for such menial labor. he winces at chipped bowls, sneers at rough linens, and whenever he thinks you’re not watching, you catch him examining his reflection in the cloudy window, fussing with his hair, as if searching for the handsome face he once wore and mourning every small imperfection. even the way he walks, back straight, head held high—marks him as someone raised in a world you had no access to. he knows this and seemingly can’t help but make it your problem one way or another.

his complaints about the food are endless, he struggles with the knots on his borrowed apron, the way he scowls at the uneven floorboards, the way he fumbles with the pump handle at the well, muttering curses under his breath. he doesn’t even know how to mend a tear or light a fire, and on the rare occasions he tries, he does so with a sullen, frustrated grace that only makes the gaps in his upbringing more obvious. the farm’s routines are foreign to him, and for all his bravado, it’s clear he’s never lifted a finger for himself—not until now.

sometimes, as you pass in the cramped kitchen or out in the yard, he offers a barbed comment about your clothes, your hands, your meager meals. but more and more, naoya is forced to notice the details: the faded blouses he wears, the shirts cinched in at the waist, the hems just a little too short or the sleeves a little too narrow. some are patterned with delicate flowers, some button from the wrong side, all of them unmistakably feminine in cut and feel. all of it smells faintly of soap and lavender.

at first, he refuses to acknowledge it, wearing the clothes defiantly and making crude jokes about peasant thrift. each day, he delays dressing, sometimes outright refusing,, until you have to tussle with him, having to physically force his arms through the sleeves, your grip leaving red marks on his skin. the resistance is stubborn, bitter, and loud—shouted protests, empty threats he has no way of acting on. over the weeks, the resistance doesn’t so much disappear as it is worn thin by futility. there are no other options, no new shirts arriving from kyoto, no tailor to take his measurements anew. this is all you have to offer him. his choices shrink until there are no choices at all; he gets used to the way the fabric clings to his body, the way the neighbors look at him, the way you quietly hand him a freshly laundered blouse and expect him to roll up the sleeves and get to work. his body, his posture, even his movements start to shift to accommodate his new wardrobe. hips sway a little more as he hauls water, hands folded the way he’s seen the market women do as they wait in line for rice. the transformation is subtle at first, forced by necessity and the awareness that resistance achieves nothing, but soon he finds himself falling into these roles simply because there is nothing else left for him.

the prideful zenin heir is gone, replaced by a figure draped in someone else’s softness—a woman’s ghost, clinging to his skin. when he tries to protest now, the words come out weak, uncertain; it’s easier to keep his head down and let the routine swallow him. even the neighbors’ whispers fade, replaced by nods and small smiles, as if he’s become just another woman toiling in the fields. the humiliation stings, but it’s dulled by the comfort of belonging, however artificial. it amuses you.

your days fall into a rhythm: you work the land, naoya sulks and snaps, sometimes helping, sometimes refusing. you tolerate plenty from him, from his snide remarks about your food to his sneers at your calloused hands, even the bratty little games he plays to get a rise out of you. half the time he’s daring you to lose your patience, pushing at your boundaries just to see what you’ll do. you let him have his tantrums, let him throw his sharp words and roll his eyes, but you always make it clear you’re the one in charge, never rising to his bait, always answering his petulance with icy calm or a quiet, knowing smirk that only frustrates him more.

but you have no patience for his contempt toward the people who make this place home. his barbs come often in the beginning, each insult a desperate act of defiance—mocking the neighbors, spitting venom at the muddy boots and sunburned faces that pass by your porch. he tries to regain some of his old authority, barking orders at you and the neighbors, expecting the deference owed to a man of his name.

he snaps at the old women in the market, expecting them to cower. they only glance at him and return to their gossip, unimpressed. the men you’ve grown up with laugh when he sneers at their rustic ways. “these people are pathetic," he hisses once, loud enough for everyone to hear. that’s where you draw the line. without hesitation, you seize his jaw, make him look at you, and slap him. the sting of your hand silences him far more effectively than any words. "if you can’t keep your mouth shut, i’ll find a way to keep you quiet," you growl, your grip firm and fingers digging in just enough to remind him who’s in control. he sees, in that moment, the difference between the bratty games you’ll allow and the hard limits you enforce—he can test you, tease you, even mouth off about your cooking or your temper, but the instant he crosses that line, you shut him down. the message is unmistakable: you’ll tolerate a brat, but not a bully. after that, every time he tries to test your resolve, you shut him down with the same cold certainty, and he learns, slowly, that your discipline is something he craves as much as he resents.

over time, something in naoya starts to shift. the slaps sting everytime he says something out of place, but what wounds him deeper is the utter lack of fear or awe in your gaze. your discipline is never cruel, always matter-of-fact, as inevitable as rain, doled out with the same steady certainty as you might weed a field or shoo a stray dog from the porch. each time you silence his venom, a little of his bravado chips away, until his barbs sound more like questions than threats. he tries to rally, tries to goad you into outrage, sometimes throwing little fits, slamming doors, stomping his feet, cursing you under his breath—just to see if you’ll finally break. but you only arch a brow, sometimes giving him a warning look or word, other times simply ignoring his antics until he’s forced to come to you for direction. the more he tests, the more he learns.

after, meals are quiet affairs. rice and pickles, miso soup and bitter greens, eaten in silence or broken by his restless complaints. at night, you tend his bandages in the lamplight, your hands steady, his words sharp, but now with a wariness in his gaze, something raw and uncertain flickering behind his pride. a kind of fragile truce grows between you, built out of necessity and the slow passing of time. he is quieter, more watchful, and when he speaks, his words have lost their bite. that being said, when he thinks you are asleep, you sometimes hear him cursing to himself, or more accurately, at you, as if rehearsing old insults he might have thrown at you only mere weeks before.

eventually, when his wounds have knitted closed, and the pain is only a dull echo, you fold up your blanket for good. there’s only one bed and no more reason to keep to the floor. once upon a time, he would have never let that come to pass, but he doesn’t fuss. not much at least.

that first night, you lie beside him, the space between you thick with old resentments and new, unspoken things. he turns his back to you, shoulders tense, but doesn’t tell you to leave. the routine holds, but something subtle has shifted—the quiet at night is heavier, and sometimes, you wake to the sound of his breathing just inches away, steady and uncertain in the dark.

he’s forced to swallow his pride—and his pain—as the weeks slip by and naoya’s resistance is gradually worn down by necessity and routine, the nature of your expectations begins to shift. at first, it is enough for him to don the faded blouses and mend the household linens, his hands learning the gentle, repetitive work he once would have scorned. he fetches water, tends the stove, and folds your clothes with a carefulness that surprises you both.

but as the rhythm of your lives entwines, the boundaries of his role blur further. he looked down on women, yes—raised in a clan that taught him to sneer at softness, to treat domestic labor as something beneath him, to see femininity as weakness. he had been drilled to believe that a woman's worth was measured in obedience and silence, that the gentle work of tending, cleaning, and nurturing was something shameful, something lesser. even as a child, he'd mimicked the men in his family: laughing at the village wives, rolling his eyes at the girls who learned to sew, dismissing the quiet strength required to keep a household running.

most of all, he'd scoffed at maki and her sister, calling them useless, treating their struggles and ambitions as a joke—he'd mocked the way maki fought for scraps of respect, belittled her stubbornness, and told anyone who would listen that a woman like her would never amount to anything. in his arrogance, he'd failed to recognize the power and resilience that lived in her defiance, never imagining that she would be the one to finally break the zenin legacy apart and leave him here, stripped of everything, forced to live out the lessons he'd scorned. the irony is bitter: it was maki's rebellion, her refusal to accept her place, that brought down everything he thought untouchable. now, each time he finds himself on his knees scrubbing the floor, folding your shirts, finding himself in dainty clothes tailored for a woman, it's impossible not to remember the names he called her, the laughter he aimed towards her for being useless. the idea of being seen as anything but powerful, commanding, and masculine had always filled him with a bitter, defensive scorn—a scorn that now, day by day, you made him confront and swallow. although, it’s not as bad as he makes it. he’s forced to admit, in quiet moments, that the peace of your home is a strange comfort. it’s quieter here—no judgmental onlookers, no cruel laughter behind sliding doors, no cursed tools to train with until his hands bled, no spirits to hunt or fear. for all his scorn of domesticity, he finds himself relieved by the absence of clan politics and the constant pressure to prove himself. he doesn’t have to fight for the right to exist in your home; he doesn’t have to measure up to impossible standards to be the next clan head. there is simplicity and safety in this new life.

at some point, the relationship between you two blurred into something else—an unspoken exchange of power and need that ran beneath the surface of every shared glance and each wordless touch. the shift was gradual, but unmistakable. it began with small things: the way his posture softened when you entered the room, the subtle ease with which he accepted your direction, the way he lingered each evening as if waiting for you, when you came back late before retiring to bed. with so little time in the day, he started to anticipate your needs before you voiced them, bringing a cup of tea without being asked, smoothing the wrinkles in your shared bed before you lay down, making himself like nice in the best way he can.

as you began to delegate more and more of the evening rituals to him, you noticed the pride he took in doing things exactly as you liked—lighting the lamps in the right order, arranging your shoes by the door, messily patching up the clothes you’d ripped open just the day before. you watched with a quiet satisfaction as he moved about the house in his borrowed skirts, the hem brushing his ankles, bare feet padding softly over the old wood. it became impossible not to notice how his body had changed. a softness had worked its way into his frame where once there had been sharpness: his muscles, once tense and defined, had rounded and eased beneath his skin, his waist and hips softening under the steady diet of home-cooked meals and the absence of constant training; there wasn’t any reason to anymore. his hands, though still deft and precise, now bore the faintest traces of permanent pink from dishwater and the scent of lavender soap.

his hair, too, had started to grow out, the roots showing their true color where once there had been meticulous dye and careful grooming. he spends long minutes in the mornings fussing with it, sighing at how unruly it’s become, sometimes lamenting—loudly—about how he used to have servants to style it just right. the strands hang long and loose around his face, the ends curling a bit in the humidity, the roots a darker brown than the sun-lightened tips. as you watch him in the lamplight, you catch the glimmer of uneven growth or the way he fusses with a stubborn cowlick at his crown, muttering that he used to pay for haircuts that cost more than your week’s groceries. he tries to smooth it down with damp fingers, a small, frustrated frown pulling at his lips, and you find yourself oddly fond of the way he looks. he’s oddly pretty.

the neighbors, ever watchful, begin to treat him as just another woman in your household, too, and you, almost without thinking, begin to expect the same. you instruct him to kneel at your side and brush out your hair at night, each stroke slow and careful, his fingers trembling the first few times but growing steadier as he learns the rhythm you like. he sits behind you on the tatami, careful not to pull too hard, the scent of your hair oil lingering between you. the first time, he scowls and you gently correct him, guiding his hand until it moves just the way you want, patient and precise, lips pressed tight in concentration. after a few nights, he does it without thinking, the old sharpness in his eyes replaced by a quiet focus, his hands finding a gentle, almost worshipful rhythm.

at bath time, you have him draw your bath, and he joins you. he kneels to scrub your back with a rough cloth, pouring warm water over your shoulders, careful not to splash. and you do the same for him as the steam fogs the small room, mingling with the scent of soap and the faint blossom of camellia oil. you watch him, the way his lashes lower as he works virously to get the dirt from under your nails, the pink at the tips of his ears when you praise his effort. when you help him step out, you wrap him in a towel, more often then not, your hands lingering a moment too long at his waist. that becomes the new shape of your evenings.

neither of you spoke of it, neither of you made any declarations or confessions. the closeness built itself from necessity and boredom—shared baths on cold nights to save firewood, the need for warmth in a house that felt too big and empty with only the two of you inside. a brush of hands while passing in the kitchen, the casual intimacy of exchanged glances while working side by side. it was never a single moment, but a series of small surrenders: the first time he let you lean against him as you both soaked in the steaming water, the first time you let your hand linger at his waist a heartbeat longer than needed as you helped him dry off. each shared ritual, each night of tired silence, wore away at the boundaries between you, until one evening his blush lingered and he didn't pull away, and your touch was bolder, and neither of you looked for an excuse to end it. from then on, everything changed.

night after night, you work him open with slow, deliberate care—thumb circling over sensitive skin, fingers slipping inside until you feel him yield beneath you, his breath coming in shaky, ragged gasps. the ritual is one of patience: at first, you find yourself holding back, worried about hurting him, moving slow and gentle even as he wriggles restlessly beneath your touch. naoya is a brat from the start—impatient, demanding, rolling his hips and huffing out curses, urging you to hurry up and do it already. he wants more, wants you to push him, but you refuse to rush, ignoring his sulky complaints. when he reaches for your hand, tries to guide you faster, you simply swat it away, as he squirms or mutters a bitter word under his breath, but you hush him with a word or a touch—occasionally, you press rougher, spreading him wider before he’s ready, letting him feel the bite of your fingers until he softens and submits, the stubborn tension in his thighs and jaw yielding with a hiss or a bitten-off curse.

with each passing night, you add more. you grip his hips, steady and firm, your forearm pressing against his thigh as you stretch him wider—first a second finger, then a third, your knuckles grazing his skin, feeling the heat and tension in his body as he shudders and squirms. he gasps, arching into your hold, his back bowing as you push deeper, drawing out new, startled sounds. your movements alternate between gentle caresses and unyielding, purposeful thrusts, attentive to every shift in his breathing and the tremble in his hips. your palm slides over his belly, pinning him down, thumb tracing slow circles as his body softens under your touch. each time he yields a little faster, the defiance melts from his eyes as he finds himself arching into your touch, the instinct to rebel fading beneath the heat of your patience and the burn deep in his core.

you praise him for every inch he gives, your voice low and steady in the hush of the room, and watch as resistance melts into need, as he grows accustomed to the fullness, to the way your palm presses against him. the air smells faintly of lavender and sweat, the quiet punctuated by the soft, wet sounds of your hands moving over him and the ragged, unguarded whimpers that escape his lips.

eventually, you begin to focus on his most sensitive spot—your callous fingertips massaging his prostate in slow, deliberate circles, learning exactly how to make his body seize and arch with pleasure. it takes time, but your patience is rewarded: night after night, you coax him closer, and soon he can find release from this alone, shuddering with shock and disbelief as the pleasure crests and spills over with nothing but the pressure of your hand inside him.

naoya’s bravado dissolves with each stroke, his hips lifting in helpless search for more, his cheeks flushed deep crimson as he tries—and fails—to bite back the broken sounds that spill from his lips. you had never thought you would hear something so sweet come from that foul mouth of his. he clings to the sheets, fingers twisting in white-knuckled desperation, every muscle vibrating with the effort not to give in. but he always does, in the end. he learns to anticipate your touch, to arch into your hand and beg for more, voice catching and eyes glistening as you push him to the brink with nothing but your fingers and the practiced patience you’ve honed. by the time you finally let him fall apart, his body is soft and pliant, trembling as you coax him to shuddering completion, his pride undone—each release wrung from him as much by surrender as by pleasure.

one night, as the rain lashes the windows and the stove casts a gentle glow across the narrow room, you lie side by side on the futon. the air is thick with unsaid things, tension humming in the space between your bodies. you reach for him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the muscles in his throat jump beneath your touch. his breath hitches, lashes fluttering, as you tilt his face up to see the flush blooming beneath the powder you dusted there earlier. your hand drifts down, smoothing the fabric of his borrowed slip, feeling the way his body shudders and arches, nipples peaking visibly beneath the thin fabric. he trembles when you guide him onto his back, legs falling open, breath coming in ragged, eager little gasps. he doesn't resist when you part his thighs, only stares up at you—eyes wide, pupils blown—while you press slow, wet kisses to his throat, his collarbone, the thudding hollow where his pulse beats wild and frantic. his skin is fever-warm, a line of goosebumps rising in your wake, his hips twitching each time your lips graze lower.

you yank his slip up to his waist, exposing the vulnerable, trembling softness you've claimed as yours. your hands are rough as you grip his thighs, pushing them up and apart, the muscles straining beneath your fingers. you press him down, shifting his legs up and folding them tightly against his chest, pinning him in the perfect mating press. the position leaves him utterly exposed, his knees nearly touching his shoulders, thighs spread wide and quivering, your palms splayed over the warm flesh to hold him still, the mess between his legs glistening in the low light. his hips jerk at the touch, and you feel the tremor travel up through your arms. his eyes go wide, lashes trembling, his lips parting on a gasp as you spread him open—completely at your mercy, unable to hide or escape. you drink in the sight of him, flushed and helpless, hole twitching in anticipation as you stroke over the sensitive skin, your thumb circling slickly around his rim while your other hand presses down on his belly, feeling the tense flutter of his stomach as he squirms beneath you.

you tease him mercilessly, fingertips circling his entrance, letting your nails graze just enough to make him shiver. your other hand squeezes the inside of his thigh, spreading him wider, fingertips digging into the flesh until you leave faint marks. every time you dip in, barely breaching him, his body jolts—hips jerking, thighs tensing, as if he can’t decide whether to arch closer or squirm away. you grip his hip to keep him from squirming too far, thumb pressing into the soft dip just above his bone. he’s so sensitive, so desperate, that even your breath against his rim makes him gasp. the angle lets you see everything: his chest heaving, nipples red and hard, beads of sweat rolling down his sides; his cock twitching and leaking helplessly, the head flushed dark and sticky with precum; the way his muscles clench and flutter around nothing, hole twitching and sucking at your finger, begging to be filled. when you finally push two fingers deep inside, you curl them, feeling him clamp down with a broken whimper, slick heat swallowing you greedily. you work him open with slow, filthy circles, scissoring him wide, pressing hard against his sweet spot until his back arches and his voice cracks, every inch of him melting and trembling beneath your hands.

naoya's bravado shatters completely, hips grinding up in frantic, needy circles, his ass clenching greedily around your fingers as you work him open, two, then three plunging deep, scissoring him so wide his thighs tremble and twitch. his legs quiver and clamp tight around your arm, heels digging into your back or shoulders as you press into him. his face is flushed, mouth slack and wet as he moans, spit slicking his chin, eyes squeezed shut in helpless need. his cock leaks in thick, glistening ropes across his stomach, each gasp and sob sending new spurts spilling over his skin. "please, please, just fuck me, don't make me wait—" he begs, voice breaking as you rub your thumb over his stretched rim, feeling him flutter and pulse under your touch. please is a word he’s only just learned, but it seems he is utilizing it well. you take your time, savoring the way he writhes, the broken whines and desperate curses, until his body is quivering and open, hole red and glistening, twitching for you. when you finally line yourself up and push inside, it's rough, deep, and possessive—your hands gripping his hips so hard you leave bruises, his body yielding instantly, his hole swallowing you to the hilt. he screams for you, back arched so high his heels leave the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets as you grind your hips in slow, punishing circles before slamming in again, harder, the wet slap echoing between his desperate, filthy cries.

each thrust has his body jolting, the muscles in his belly rippling, thighs spread wide and trembling, heels digging into your back, desperate to keep you buried inside him. his cock bounces uselessly, drooling precum with every slap of your hips, the tip swollen and flushed, smearing slick up his torso. the slap of skin is loud and lewd, wet and hungry, echoed by the filthy, high-pitched sounds spilling from his lips—gasps, sobs, guttural moans that grow wetter and more frantic with every thrust.

you tell him you want to put a baby in him, to see him swollen and plump carrying your babies, to make sure everyone in the village knows he’s yours. your words make him groan and whimper at the thought, half-wishing he did have a womb so he could satisfy that fantasy for you, as humiliating as it was. repopulate the clan that maki zenin nearly wiped out.

his body convulses around you, his hole clenching so hard you can feel his inner walls pulse, milking you for every drop. he’s still folded in the mating press, knees pinned back nearly to his shoulders, thighs trembling and spread wide, your hands gripping the backs of his knees and forcing him open. every thrust drives him deeper into the bed, his body rocked forward with each snap of your hips, his belly taut and glistening with sweat and his own precum, smearing thick, sticky streaks across his belly, as his cock twitchs and bouncing with every possessive thrust you drive into him, untouched and aching for release.

sweat pours down his chest, collecting in the hollow of his throat, nipples so hard they ache as you fuck him through it. his whole body shakes, pinned beneath you, helpless to do anything but take and take. each time your hips slam home, a new, broken moan escapes his lips, his fingers digging into your back, desperate to anchor himself as you ruin him. he clings to you as if the promise could make him whole, babbling desperate cries—"please, more, don’t stop, want it, want all of you," voice raw and trembling, ruined by need.

you fuck him with that intent, each thrust deep and punishing, grinding your hips so he feels every inch, filling him again and again until his whole body trembles, thighs shaking, his tight hole spasming around you to try and accommodate. his moans fracture into sobs of raw pleasure, fat tears streaking his cheeks, drool glistening at the corner of his mouth as you drive him to the edge without mercy. his cock spurts helplessly to your rhythm, untouched, making a mess across his belly and chest, every climax wrung out of him by nothing but the relentless pounding of your hips. when you finally spill inside, you stay buried, cock pulsing as you flood him, your hands gripping his hips so not a drop can escape, watching as your seed leaks out around your length, staining his thighs.

it’s obscene, honestly, the way you leave him. naoya’s just sprawled out under you— ass held in the air, whole body shaking and sticky and so fucking open you’d think he was made for this. he’s a mess, ruined in a way that feels almost tragic if it weren’t for the blissed-out, dumb grin on his face, drool slicking his cheek as he tries to catch his breath. you can feel the way his hole flutters around you, still clinging tight, greedy for every drop you pumped into him. your cum’s everywhere—oozing out of him in slow, heavy drips, slicking down his thighs, making a mess on the sheets.

he’s moaning, low and broken, like he’s half gone, hips still rolling in these lazy, desperate little circles just to feel you grind deeper. it’s not enough for him to be filled—he wants to be stuffed, plugged so full he can barely keep it in, the slick squelch of your spend inside him making him shiver every time you move. his fingers are buried in the sheets, knuckles white, but he’s not trying to get away—he’s anchoring himself, pulling you closer, like he thinks you’ll disappear if you let up for even a second.

you watch your cum leak out of him, thick and slow, pooling beneath his ass, and he whines—actually whines—when some of it escapes, like he’s losing something precious. you slide your hand down his spine, nails dragging lightly over his skin, and cup the curve of his ass, squeezing, thumbing your spend back inside as he shudders. he begs you, voice all raw and hoarse, not to pull out, not yet, just one more minute, just want to feel you inside, want to be stretched and leaking and filthy, want to know he’s yours. he’s babbling, half sense and half filth, but you get the message. you settle in, keep him full, palm pressed flat against bulge of his belly as he melts into the mattress, so fucking content with the mess you’ve made of him he could cry.

he is utterly ruined, and you make sure he feels it in every moment—but it is not only pain that lingers in his body, but the memory of your touch, the gentle, relentless worship that has replaced his pride. there is nothing left of the zenin heir—no pride, no resistance, not even a spark of his old arrogance. each time you hold him, each time you fill him until he sobs and begs, it is as much devotion as domination; you coax pleasure from him until tears blur his vision, your touch tender and unyielding, your mouth leaving gentle marks where your hands have claimed. he clings to you with shameless, broken hunger, eyes glazed and pleading, desperate for both your approval and your affection. his body is marked not only by your discipline, but by the warmth of your hands and the softness of your voice in the dark. the routines you forced on him are all he has left—he moves through them docile and obedient, seeking the meaning he now finds only in your praise, your caress, the certainty that he belongs to you—every piece of his old self stripped away until only your possession remains. he’d be more than glad to play the role of your wife.

stvrw1tch

This left me speechless

#sub character #sub male character #top!reader #bottom character #bottom male character #dom reader smut #dom!reader #x male character #dom male reader #naoya zenin #jjk naoya #jjk x male reader #jjk smut #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen naoya #naoya x reader #naoya smut

nyniiiii

Crowns and Cracks

Roy Harper x Reader + Lian & mom!Reader

Part 1 (here) Part 2 Part 3

All you want is to give Lian the birthday she deserves: full of laughter, Brave-themed castles, and family. But with Jade’s shadow lingering and Roy’s promises fraying at the edges, the day you worked so hard to perfect threatens to unravel in ways you can’t quite hold together.

A/N: I am not good at transitions (Also I’m trying out headers, plz tell me if it looks lame </3)

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You were honestly two seconds away from whacking Roy with the piñata stick. It had been a little over a year since he and Lian moved into your home, and life had been one long adjustment ever since.

Going from living alone in the quiet house you inherited to sharing it with… a man and his precious daughter wasn’t exactly how you imagined your mid-twenties.

Yet here you were, caught between laughing or yelling as you watched Roy absolutely butcher the piñata setup on the cherry tree in your backyard. You’d think a superhero would know how to tie a proper knot.

Instead, the rope sagged pathetically as he fumbled, and you couldn’t shake the suspicion he was doing it badly on purpose, as payback for you dragging him out of bed at six in the morning to help.

stvrw1tch

This is now my all time favorite series!!

The writing, storyline, everything about this is spectacular, amazing, wonderful, so fuckin depressing and realistic that it got me sobbing 5 different times at 1am

20/10 give this a read ppl!!!

#roy harper x reader #lian harper #mom!reader #roy harper #roy and lian harper #lian harper x mom!reader #angst #dc fanfic #dc angst #Roy Harper angst #roy harper x you #roy harper x y/n #dc roy harper #im sobbing #this is so sad

spideyyeet

➷ BLUE RASPBERRY SLUSHY

[ SUM ] — choso works at the dying seaside movie theater, permanently high and painfully untouched. you’re the new regular that gives him mean glares, then cute smiles? he tries to blame the summer heat… but really? he’s just one shift away from snapping—and you’re the only one he’s got his eye on.

[ TAGS ] — MDNI 18+. nsfw. smut. piv. RISKY PUBLIC SEX. exhibitionism. raw. creampie. slight angst. dirty talk. weed. DRY HUMPING. choso whines/whimpers. tit worship. spitting. groping. unckuna. def some grammar errors. wc: 8.6k

[ A/N ] — i actually don’t read a lot of choso fics, but this idea was not leaving my head, so enjoy!!!

choso was many things. but caring about his job was not one of them.

and that’s how you find the movie theater worker. sitting behind the counter scrolling mindlessly on his phone, loose baggy jeans and an oversized band tee, hitting his vape. and with just as much boredom, if not more, you step up to the counter and with the least amount of enthusiasm in your voice, and ask.

“can I get one blue raspberry slushy.”

choso practically jumps ten feet in the air. dropping his vape and phone the second he sees you standing there. the theater was completely empty, considering it was a monday afternoon, but it looked like you appeared out of thin air—

stvrw1tch

Heheheh this shit is PEAK!!

#jjk x reader #jjk #jjk x reader fluff #fluff #choso x you #choso kamo #choso smut #jujutsu kaisen choso #jjk choso #choso x reader #jjk angst #hurt/comfort

indiewritesxoxo

THINKING OF YOU

⊹ part two to the one that got away

࣪₊˚☆ synopsis: you spent your life missing a man up in the stars. a shame he only came back down when you weren't there anymore. but as gojo picks up the pieces of you he left behind, he finds moving on is a lot harder when it appears you might not have either.

⊹ pairing: teacher!choso x f!reader x astronaut!gojo

࣪₊˚☆ wc: 19.0k

⊹ content: mdni, HEAVY ANGST + SMUT, make sure to read part one first! gojo is once again suffering with no relief, heavy tension, intense jealousy and insecurity all around, mentions of character death, mourning, anxious avoidant attachment, reader is an emotionally constipated mess beware, a lot of choso pov, conflicting feelings, kissing, piv sex, oral sex (f! receiving), aftercare, choso whimpering, choso LOVES his girl more than anything okay, parenting, proposals, breakups and makeups, some domestic fluff, uncomfortable conversations and confrontations, marriage, bittersweet endings, if you want comfort, not much to be found here once again i'm afraid

࣪₊˚☆ art cr: @yotume div cr: @/decomposedmaw

The ghost waiting at your grave wasn’t yours.

Not much older than he looked in that photo still tucked in the top drawer of your dresser, but rather than the brilliant smile plastered on his face back then, your former fiancé was grimacing. Leaning against the closest tree, head leaning back against the bark as he stared up at the sky accusingly.

As if he had anyone other than himself to blame for choosing anything over you.

Choso bit his tongue, reminding himself that in the end, he was the one who won, the one who got to spend his life with you – and if it hadn’t been for Gojo being an idiot who left you behind, he wouldn’t have gotten his wife. His kids – whether by blood or bonds. His grandchildren.

Gojo had given it all to him.

One foot dragged a little slower than the other, but he made his way to the grave, bending down on aching knees to place a bundle of lilac by your gravestone. Apollo came by once a week to clean it, the one next to it left dingy in comparison.

It had always been you who insisted on upkeeping it – but well, your son didn’t exactly share the same sentiment for his biological father.

Especially now that he was here.

“Lilacs?” Gojo grumbled behind him. The morning sun wasn’t very warm, the breeze in the air making him shiver as he reflexively fiddled with his wedding band.

“Her favorite,” Choso shrugged, glancing back at his…well, not competition anymore. It was irritating how attractive he was. Made it obvious why you’d fallen so hard – and never seemed to fully snap back out of his spell. That icy intelligent stare refocusing onto where he was still kneeling by your plot, making it clear he didn’t think he deserved that position.

Gojo was holding onto his own flowers, long fingers clasped tight around thin stems. Forget-me-nots. He felt a sick shift in his stomach, a familiar ache returning to the forefront of his mind at the reminder that the two of you still had something he’d never been able to touch. The peace he thought he’d finally managed rippled by his reappearance.

Choso didn’t want to let it get ruined though.

Clearing his throat as he gestured to the flowers, “She never forgot about you.”

Even though part of him had always hoped you would.

stvrw1tch

This has me crying :(

#angst #jjk x reader #jjk #choso x you #choso smut #choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk choso #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x y/n #hurt/comfort #jujustsu kaisen x reader

•18+ Adults Only

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pervertedaydreams

Let's Have A GAANG BAANG

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Pairing: Aang x Top/Seme Male Reader x Sokka x Zuko

Summary: It's been years since you've seen any of the gaang, and the three male members have just been dying to get their hands on you.

Featuring: Oral/anal sex, straddling, biting, blood, hand job, cowgirl, no-prep, exhibitionism, infidelity, jealousy/possessiveness, blow job, creampie, prostate massaging, making out, temperature play, glowing body parts, minimal Sokka x Zuko at the end, and cum play.

WC: 4.7k

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The flicker that came from the flames presented in front of you did nothing short of create a beautiful scene. Their romantic glow caused an inconsistent cascade of light and shadow to mix in the cave you and the rest of the crew were in.

Of course, the master behind those flames was even more impressive himself. It had been a while since you had seen Zuko in person—hell, since you had seen any of the members from your teenage group. After everyone had decided to go their own way, there was never much time for you all to have a mutual meetup, as everybody was busy pursuing their own life.

Maybe it was a calling from a spirit that Aang needed all your guys' help on this mission. You did miss the dynamic and energy that came from being surrounded by the people closest to you; heaven knows you craved to be going back and forth with the guys or teasing the girls about something random.

In the midst of your zoning out, you suddenly heard an abrupt yet clear cough that came from your right.

"Hey, Y/n, you okay?" probed the same voice that previously cleared its throat, seeming to add a slight playfulness to its tone as if to not discomfort you. "You've been burning holes into Zuko’s torso for a good minute now."

Blinking your eyes a few times, you zoned back in to realize that your pupils had been laser focused on the fire lord's chest. Immediately ripping your eyes away from his body, you looked at the floor instead, deciphering whether it would be better to explain yourself to who you now realized was Sokka on your right or apologize to Zuko for the unintentional staring contest with his pecs.

You ultimately decided to do both while keeping your gaze on the ground, assuming that would save you the most humiliation from the expressions plastered on your comrades’ faces.

"My bad, I guess I was too in my head and didn't realize where I was looking," you mumbled timidly, like a kid who was forced to say sorry by their guardian. On your right you heard Toph let out a cheeky snicker while Katara started to tease.

"What's so enthralling about Zuko’s chest that had you zoning out over it, huh?" the waterbender taunted, wrapping a lazy arm around Aang’s shoulders. She put a portion of her weight on him while eyeing you, her grin stretching across her face at the realization she struck gold in something to mess with you about when you covered your face with shame, groaning in response.

"It was nothing. I'm telling you, I got busy thinking and didn't pay attention to where my eyes were," you stated disgruntledly, trying to be as casual about the conversation topic as possible in hopes that it would make it die out faster.

"Yeah, right," Toph mocked, now starting to join in on the ridiculing that should've ended 30 seconds ago, "I bet you were doing it on purpose and are just making the zoning out thing up to not get caught."

The metalbender got more comfortable in her sideways position on the floor before looking in your direction. For a blind woman, she sure did have a talent for knowing where to look to make eye contact.

"You can admit Zuko is pretty handsome," she kept on going, manipulating a small rock to head in the firebender’s direction and circle his upper body. You dragged your eyes over to look at him, wondering if he was hating the situation as much as you, only to be met with a rather flustered expression.

Although he wasn't saying anything or interacting with the discourse, Zuko was visibly red in the face. His shoulders were nearly steaming from how hot he was.

'He's probably just surprised at the direction the conversation went in,' you reasoned, not questioning his reaction much. 'It's nothing.'

Thinking about reactions, it had just dawned on you that neither of the other males in the room had said a single word since you apologized. Looking over at Sokka and Aang, you noticed that they seemed rather...tame with the whole theatrical.

They didn't seem overjoyed at the opportunity to dogpile on you about something silly like they usually would. Instead, their faces reflected that of hidden discontent.

Sokka was wearing a smile like usual, but the ends of his mouth shifted from time to time as if he were forcing himself to do it for appearances. Aang was barely reciprocating Katara’s physical affection, spiritlessly wrapping his arm around her waist while mundanely looking around the room.

Their reactions were inherently odd compared to how you last remembered them acting. However, again, it has been several years since everyone's gotten together like this. Perhaps they've just grown up and changed.

──────────────────────────────────────────────

Nighttime had officially fallen, and everyone had mutually decided it was time to rest. After a bit of rearranging had been done to better set up for sleeping, the crew had started to pull out their own bed linens and do whatever else was needed before lying down.

You had found yourself taking the space between Zuko and Sokka, dropping your blanket and slowly following it onto the ground as well. Sluggishly mumbling a goodnight to the rest of the group, you closed your eyes and instantly began dwindling into a limbo between wakefulness and sleep, your exhaustion overtaking you.

──────────────────────────────────────────────

Gradually evening out your breathing, you tried focusing on the black behind your eyelids and disconnecting from the rest of your surroundings. In the process of doing so, though, you heard a shuffling coming from in front of you.

‘Someone's just probably changing positions,’ you thought to yourself. ‘It's not like sleeping on a cave floor is the most ideal resting location.’

Just when you were about to return to your previous activity of zoning into nothingness, you heard something again, but this time it was coming near you. Someone was up, but that shouldn't bother you. There isn't any danger from anyone in the team. You're safe, and as far as you know nobody from the outside is coming in.

Still, you opened your eyes just to peek at who exactly it was and what they were doing at this hour of the night. You did not expect, however, to be met with Zuko hovering over you, his stature unwavering even as he came to realize you were, in fact, awake.

"Uhm, hey there, Zuko," you started, a slight concern present in your voice by the odd interaction. "Everything alright?" The buffer man did nothing but gaze down at you for a few more seconds.

It was when you were about to go in again with another question that he finally acted, kneeling down to meet you at face level and inching towards yours. Somewhat appalled by the action, you attempted to lean back and put some space between the two of you, but just as you were starting to, another hand made contact with your neck, halting your movement.

Slightly jumping at the unexpected intervention, you turned around to be met with Sokka already looking back at you, his loosened hair cascading over the front of his face, giving him a rather alluring appearance.

"Why are you up?" Zuko grilled in a low voice, though it came out more like a statement with how harsh his voice sounded. While asking, he leaned forward again, but this time his body language came off more territorial than usual. Your knees bumped together as he took a hold of your forearm, seeming as if ready to drag you away from the other man.

"The same reason you are," Sokka bit back, pulling out a smile as he gave Zuko an all-knowing look. You now wore a perplexed expression, completely unaware of whatever hidden message was being spelled out behind the pair’s short sentences to one another. What exactly was Zuko here to do?

You didn't have to wait much longer for that question to be answered, though, as Sokka pulled his arm back—your hair that was held by that same hand went with it. He forced the back of your head onto his collarbone, instantly diving into an open-mouth kiss. The tactician’s tongue played inside your mouth, making room for itself without prior notice.

Your eyes widened at the intrusion, too surprised to take any immediate action. Too caught up in the obscurity of the moment to fight back or do anything but make an alarmed noise.

"You—" Zuko spat out, catching himself before going off the handle over what he was seeing in front of him. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Everyone should've been asleep, and the two of you should be kissing. Yet, now that the situation has been changed, there's nothing he can do except modify his plan.

The flame king clenched his teeth, taking a breath before crawling towards you. Just because Sokka landed the first move didn't mean it was over for him. He slowly brought his hands to rest on your thighs, using them as leverage to put his weight as he neared your necks. The firebender began to leave soft kisses from your collarbone to your neck, finding home on one of your scent glands and beginning to suck. If Sokka got the first kiss, he was going to be the first to leave a mark on you.

You groaned into Sokka’s mouth at the sensation on your neck, subconsciously wrapping a hand around Zuko’s waist to keep him there. The man who was responsible for tonguing you seemed to take notice of this, a new rage filling him at the reciprocation in touch. How come Zuko got it and not him? Why were you even looking at his chest earlier? Did everything have to always be about him?

Deep in his thoughts, Sokka ripped his lips away from yours and dug into your neck instead. However, he wasn't as sweet with his markings as the fire lord. The inventor locked his canines into the skin in between your shoulder and neck, biting down without a second thought. An uncomfortable grunt came from your throat. Moving your irises down to look at the skin after feeling a trickling wet sensation on it, only to be met with your own blood flowing down and seeping into your clothes.

"W-what did you do?" you asked, a visible quiver in your voice at the fact that you already knew the answer. Sokka dragged his eyes back to your own, a small grin of satisfaction on his face. Lowering his head, he licked the open wound, not breaking eye contact with you as he lapped up the spilling red liquid. That seemed to have gotten your attention away from the other male.

While in a dazed state and still looking at the clear bite mark on your trapezius, you heard another shuffle come from across the cave. That's when reality hit you again: there were several other people in the lair that could wake up at any given moment and see the scenario unfolding.

Although you told yourself that scared you, and your stomach filled with anxiety at the thought, you somehow felt an additional mix of arousal at the idea too. That small drop of it must've been enough to cause your body to react, as you felt yourself growing.

Zuko seemed to notice it too, looking down to be met with a clear bulge sticking forward in your pants. Continuing to gaze at it, he moved one hand away from your thigh and cupped your clothed penis. A ragged breath tore through your lips at the feeling. This caused the fire lord to snap his head back up, looking at your pleased expression and uneven breathing that was mildly hitting his face.

A blush crept up his cheeks as he swallowed down the saliva that had unknowingly been building up in his mouth.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," he whispered, letting himself catch a small peck from your unguarded lips before lowering his head to be between your legs. Though the contact of lips merely lasted for a second, you could feel just how high his body temperature was. Had he not been the leader of the Fire Nation, you would have become concerned at just how hot he was.

You got distracted from his steamy kiss, however, when you heard the shuffling from before again, but this time it seemed more consistent. Hearing a groan, you turned your head to be met with Aang slowly waking up. Your heart started beating even harder, a mix of feelings seeping into your skin.

The moment you were experiencing had happened so fast that you hadn't even thought to yourself what you would do if another member woke up. You hadn't exactly wanted this, so should you ask for help? Yet again, you weren't exactly fully opposed either.

Not much time to think was given, though, before the airbender rubbed any sleepiness he had left over from his eyes and scanned the view in front of him. After shifting his now wide eyes back and forth and analyzing what was going on, his pupils ultimately landed on you. Staring back at him, you said nothing, but your expression was an amalgamation of panic, anxiety, and arousal.

A beat passed without anyone saying anything, but eventually the avatar slowly rose from his bed, walking more casually than you would've expected towards the scene. Squatting down in front of you, he cupped your face and leaned into a kiss. His kiss was less intense and aggressive than Sokka’s, but just as hungry. He let himself moan into the kiss, seemingly enjoying the small yet heated act of intimacy.

"Not gonna say hello or anything before crashing the party?" probed Sokka through heavy breaths. One of his hands was down his pants and the other up his shirt, twitching his right nipple. He had become so spellbound by the bite mark he left on you that he'd been lapping and sucking on it for minutes, getting off at just how dark and noticeable he could make that singular mark of his on your skin.

Aang spared him a glance before returning his attention back to you, not completely in the mood for talking.

"It's not like there's much to say. And anyways, I obviously showed up late, so I have some catching up to do." He simply stated, closing his eyes to continue the kiss while slowly reaching to hold one of your hands.

By this point you had stopped including rationality or morals into the mix. You were so drawn in by the kiss that it hadn't even hit you that out of all three men, Aang was very much taken. The man who was necking you like he needed you in order to breathe was in a relationship with a woman who was less than 20 feet away from you.

The thought itself punched your gut with guilt, but with the way he was kissing you the negative feeling slowly transitioned into one of excitement. You eagerly kissed back, letting the airbender intertwine your guys' hands together as you made out. It wasn't your responsibility anyway to deal with the way people went about their relationships.

A sharp inhale was forced into your lungs as you felt a warm sensation overtake your cock. Slightly opening your eyes, you lowered your vision to be met with Zuko and his mouth wrapped around your shaft. You could see the tip of it poke out through his cheek as he made his best attempt at taking you all in.

Utilizing your free hand, you moved it over to be on top of his head, caressing and petting his hair in a way of showing praise for his actions. The lord peered back up at you, his half-lidded eyes making their best attempt to stay on you as he swallowed, making more space in his throat for your dick to pierce through.

"Lean back for me, baby," heaved out the strategist behind you, freeing the hand latched to his nipple and making a feeble attempt at pushing your shoulder down to put you on your back. You obliged, momentarily removing your hand from Zuko’s head—who seemed rather saddened by the missing physical contact—to balance yourself as you lay on your back, stretching your legs out to give the one between them better access.

Aang followed you down the whole way, continuing to smooch you like a lovesick puppy. It really started to make you wonder just how devoted he was to Katara with how feverishly he was about a simple kiss.

When he leaned back to catch his breath, Sokka took that as an opportunity to use your mouth for himself. Putting a hand on your chest, he used his other to peel off any clothing item that was on his lower body. Once they were discarded, he crawled closer to you, putting a leg on either side of your neck and straddling your face.

Without even needing to speak, you knew what he wanted to do and instantly cooperated, moving one hand to get a firm hold on his thighs as you helped lower him onto your face. Now that your mouth was taken, the avatar resorted to kissing your free hand instead, slowly moving it over to his lips. The wet sensation of his tongue rolling around your middle and index fingers was felt directly as he sucked on them while palming himself through his pants.

You laid your tongue flat under Sokka’s ass, licking a long line from his balls to his brown hole. This seemed to appease him, evident by the strained exhale that left his lips. Deciding to stop teasing, you went for the real motive. Pointing your tongue, you wiggled it into his anus, letting a finger you had previously wet tease around the edges before ultimately sinking in too. The inventor arched his back at the intrusion, slapping a hand over his mouth to keep his voice down while you worked your way into his hole.

The change in pace seemed to have struck a nerve for the element bender more down south. Zuko retracted his lips away from your cock and impatiently started to part ways with his lower-body garments as well. Throwing them off to the side, he inched closer to your midbody, deciding to straddle your hips before he made a reach for your cock again.

By this point Aang had soaked your fingers in enough of his saliva that it dripped down the back of your hand and onto your wrist. He pulled back from it, a string still connecting to your middle finger before fully detaching.

Lowering his pants just enough to unsheathe his cock, he moved your hand over to position it in a way that your palm would immediately make contact with his base. As you felt around it, you wrapped your hand around his dick with a firm hold, going to toy with the tip and realizing it was already leaking pre-cum.

A groan left your mouth and reverberated into Sokka’s tight walls as you felt Zuko’s warm ones take in your cock. The sensation mildly came off as painful first due to the lack of prep he had done for himself, too eager to have you inside him to consider the faults of his rushed plan.

However, his walls were soooo warm. He absolutely lived up to the fire lord name with how heated and comfortable the muscles taking your penis in were. A small groan of discomfort left his mouth at the initial penetrating sensation, but eventually he started to move, not seeming to let the tenuous pain get in his way.

“Do you feel it, Y/n?” he called out, looking down at the visible bump in his stomach from your cock. He felt himself twitch just from the sight below him. Moving a hand over to lay it over the protruding skin, he instinctively tightened around you even more. “We’re one now, too.”

He placed his hands on your torso while swaying his hips, moving them in a circular motion as he made his best attempt to properly ride you. Although the lack of preparation made for an uncomfortable start, the more he grinded down on your dick, the more tolerable it became.

Just when he was about to start speeding up, the side of your cock hit a bundle of nerves that made him gasp, suddenly freezing at the spike of pleasure he felt. When he tried moving again, he realized it was a lot harder to hit that same spot with the way he was positioned.

He grounded his feet on the floor, taking a squatting position before beginning to bounce up and down on your dick. The change had absolutely helped, as he was more frequently able to make contact with the spot.

"U-ughhh, Y/n, Y/n, Y-Y/n, this feels really good," whined the man, getting cock-drunk the more stretched out his walls became from your erect piece of flesh. His eyes started to unfocus as he didn't know where to look while feeling this almost unbearable amount of pleasure.

With Zuko now having a repeated pace he was fucking himself on your cock with, it caused you to also start reacting to the building feeling in your abdomen. Pulling your finger out of Sokka’s anus, you wrapped your hand around his thigh, squeezing it as a method to mildly ground yourself.

Focusing instead on protruding your tongue as deep as you could inside him, you used that hand to push him even closer to your face.

While moving your tongue near the middle of his walls, he suddenly clenched around your tongue, letting out a small mewl and clawing at your thorax. Seeing this as a good sign, you repeated your assault on that specific angle, locking your arm around his thigh when he tried rising from your tongue or squirming away.

With your opposite hand, you had started to fully jerk Aang off, utilizing the pre he had been leaking as a form to more smoothly glide your hand on his cock. He had been able to better handle the sensation of pleasure than the other two men, focusing on keeping his breathing evened and as quiet as possible.

Yet, even with not being as loud as them, his pleasure could be visibly seen by his arrows actively glowing. He had also put a portion of his weight on one arm, slowly starting to feel himself collapse the closer he got to reaching his high. Even with his energies being down, though, he made an attempt at reciprocating your actions by repeatedly pushing his hips forward, humping your hand in return for the service.

"T-thank you f-for this, Y/n," he huffed out, trying to put together words without letting out an audible moan. With the hand not supporting his weight, he laid it on your forearm, wanting to have more physical contact with you even aside from the one already taking place.

"I-I," Zuko whimpered, taking in a few breaths before trying his sentence again, "I'm going to cum soon." Had you not been tongue-deep in Sokka’s ass, you would’ve realized that the firebender was heating up like crazy.

Aside from his walls sucking you in so warmly, his back—leading up to his shoulders—and thighs were releasing steam at a rapid pace. It’s surprising he hasn’t caught on fire by this point.

Sokka agreed with his message by nodding his head, opening his mouth to speak, but only an airy moan came out.

"Me too," he added, biting his lip the closer he got to his climax. He’d started grinding his hips back into your face, alternating from shifting away at your abuse towards his prostate. “I-I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Out of the three men fondling you, the air nomad was the only one that stayed more so quiet, seeming too caught up on your hand pumping him to care about the other two’s words. Yet, he too felt himself building up and getting ready to explode. Anyone could tell, really, if they simply looked at him. He was lighting up like a glow stick the closer he got to reaching his peak.

Five more bounces later and Zuko had started shaking, his orgasm overtaking him as he clenched and unclenched around your cock. He wasn’t able to actually say anything, but small strained noises left his lips while he aimlessly looked up at the ceiling of the cave.

His seed spilled all over your stomach, dripping down to nearly reach your belly button. The flame king’s breathing continued to waver as he felt his limbs collapsing, the overexertion from riding you taking a toll now that the high was coming to an end.

But it didn't come without the seeping of your own semen starting to fill him too. He softly gasped as he let himself hunch over, using your cum-splattered stomach for leverage while you let your load out inside him.

Sokka came next, the moans from you reaching your own peak being the last thing he needed to be thrown over the edge and climax as well. His thighs tightened around your head as he bit his hand to cheaply cover his moans. He tipped his cum on your pecs, some of it still dripping from his tip, painting little dots in the middle of your collarbone.

As Sokka and Zuko both were catching their breaths, stooped over and holding onto a part of your core for leverage, they timidly made eye contact. They were practically breathing on each other from how close in proximity they were.

The non-bender decided to make the move first, and he weakly reached out for the flamebender’s face, pulling him into a tired and messy kiss. Although mildly surprised, the other didn't pull back and soon started to kiss back. The two silently rejoiced in the kiss, seemingly content with what they got out of tonight.

Aang finished last, an extra few pumps from you being enough to finally join the rest of you in the euphoria that came with experiencing sexual relief.

With his mouth agape but no sound coming out of it, his arrows maintained an unwavering glow throughout his whole orgasm, and his eyes fully went bright for a few seconds before calming down. His cum dribbled onto your closed hand, gradually slipping downwards and seeping into the web space between your thumb and index finger.

When the avatar finally came to—with wobbly breaths and tears poking at the corners of his eyes—and saw the mess of himself in your now-relaxed fist, he used that as a weak opportunity for the two of you to "unite" as well.

Shakily moving the hand previously grabbing yours, he slid it over to your knuckles, extending his fingers to intertwine his hand with yours once again, letting his still-warm semen mix into both of your palms. That was his personal compromise for not getting to have a part of you inside him.

Everyone seemed to have been satisfied for tonight.

──────────────────────────────────────────────

The next day you had mysteriously risen with a fever. Nothing deadly, but definitely not well enough for you to move much for the day.

"You were just fine yesterday," stated Katara, organizing her bag before getting started on whatever needed to be done that day. "I just don't understand where this could have come from in such little time."

"Maybe those guys chasing us had something to do with it," guessed Toph, shrugging her shoulders while putting her hair up. It's true, there hadn't been that big of a time window in between yesterday, when you were doing just fine, and today, when you're practically bedridden.

But there definitely had been a lot of action, and none of the men in the room seemed to want to offer any explanation for your sudden decrease in health.

"I'm not too sure what happened, but someone should stay near Y/n while the rest of us go out," the waterbender sighed, seeming both concerned and irritated at your condition.

"The three of us can stay behind, and you two look for resources today," chimed Sokka, getting closer to you and putting a hand to your forehead, checking your body temperature. "There's a decent chance someone might locate us here, and if that happens we won't be able to move as efficiently with one of us being weaker."

Katara wanted to interject, but Zuko and Aang cut her short by immediately expressing their agreement with Sokka’s idea. She eventually gave up on proposing any other agenda and went on her way with Toph, leaving you alone with the three other men.

Nothing to worry about anyways; they were obviously going to take good care of you.

──────────────────────────────────────────────

stvrw1tch

You know what hell yea

#aang x reader #zuko x reader #sokka x reader #avatar the last airbender #gaang x reader #avatar aang #atla sokka #atla zuko #bottom character #seme male reader #x top male reader #x male smut #smut #Atla smut #atla #sub character #top male reader #top reader

llovelygood

All those memories kept in a shoe box

ex!Dick Grayson x reader

— Dick can't get over you. The memory of you haunts him every day. And one day, he just can bear it anymore, and decides to open the damn shoe box that keeps every memory of your past relationship. To get drunk with the memory.

!!: ANGST. A little fluff in the flashbacks. fem!reader. no use of y/n. +3.3k words. Reader can be either Superman's daughter or Superman's protege, (it isn't that relevant tho). English is not my first language. Dick can't get over his ex, he's a yearner.

[dc masterlist] dividers by @enchanthings

There was one exact corner in Dick’s room that was sacred for everyone who visited his apartment at Blüdhaven. It was the very left corner of his closet, where he kept a shoe box.

A blue box, with the characteristic three stripes from Adidas, plus the logo. It kept every single little thing of everything you had done together. Its content could wander from the wrapper of a candy, to a broken phone. He kept it just because it was yours, you had been the one who had collected everything and kept it with such care in that box.

He still remembered when you picked a paper napkin from a diner you both went one night, just because you were craving a burger and a milkshake. He remembered asking you why you had picked the napkin that had the ketchup stain instead of a new and clean one. Your answer was simple: “We have used this one, it has an extra value”. He didn’t understand it at first.

But now he did understand, because every time he opened the box, even if most days he tried not to, he saw the damn napkin and remembered perfectly how that stain was created.

He remembered how you were going to add ketchup to your fries, but you hadn’t opened the package correctly and the sauce ended up outside of the plate, on the table, on the napkin and in your hair.

The memory was longer than that. It made Dick remember your laugh after a few seconds of shock. He remembered how you had stolen his napkin to clean the table and your hair, and his “Hey!” when you did so.

Most of the things he had questioned you for putting inside of a box now had a meaning, proving your point of the box acting like a time machine.

He didn't know why he still kept the damn box. No one knew, and they often asked him. Whenever he met someone he avoided telling them about your stuff. Obviously, no one would like to know that the boy they are talking to still keeps the memories of his ex like something holy.

You weren’t dead, if that was the case Dick keeping the box wouldn’t be that weird, because at least he would have the excuse of him mourning his late girlfriend. But the reality was that he had broken up with you in a moment of anger, of impotence.

He didn’t remember why he had been that angry that day, and he didn’t remember how it had gotten that bad for him to explode and say horrible things to you. But what he did remember was your broken expression, like he had just taken your heart out of your chest and tore it apart with his own hands in insignificant pieces.

Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you didn’t mean anything.

He remembered how your eyes filled with tears when he yelled at you for the first time. And you weren’t weak or submissive—you yelled back at him too, but you also held yourself back. You could easily have broken every single bone in his body, because you were angry enough to do it. But your heart ached, because you loved him, and that was what held you back. Because, even though he made you feel as if he hadn’t loved you even once in your six-year relationship, you did love him.

He was insulting you and spouting nonsense that the Dick Grayson of yesterday would never have said—or even thought. And you didn't push him, or slap him, or throw a chair at his head; because you still loved him and didn't want to hurt him.

You left the apartment and flew to your grandparent’s house that same day; because, imagine telling your father, who loved and trusted Dick deeply, that he had just broken your heart and that you didn’t want to see him again. He would have gone feral.

A week later you came back to his apartment. When he saw you he instantly tried to apologise, to tell you that whatever he had said that night he didn’t mean it. You didn’t listen. You didn't even make an effort to open your mouth and yell at him to shut up. Instead you threw the box that was in your hands into his chest. He didn't have time to react, so the box fell over, and everything inside spilled out onto the floor. When he looked back up you were already gone.

He took a look at everything that had come out of the box, and that helped him realize which box it was: your so-called time machine. The box where you kept all the memories of the two of you, which you often said you would show to your future children. Your box was now his, and your message was clear:

“I don’t want to remember you or this relationship anymore.”

He still kept the stupid box, he couldn't bring himself to throw it away, so he just left it in his closet and would shout to whoever dared to take it just to take a curious look inside.

One day, out of the blue, Damian appeared at Dick’s house. The reason? No one truly knows, but when he entered and saw his oldest brother with a different girl instead of you, he didn’t even care and said: “Who is that?”.

Dick didn't have time to answer because Damian immediately started asking about you—where you were and why that girl looked so much like you.

Instead of kicking the boy out, Dick asked the girl to leave and explained everything to his brother.

When he told him about the fight Damian said "You're stupid.”; and when Dick told him about the box, his brother just left the living room to find it. He came back with the Adidas box Dick had become very familiar with after six years of you using it and five months of him being the owner, and placed it in front of him.

“You need to throw this away.” Had said Damian.

Dick didn’t get rid of the box, it kept rotting in his closet every single day until today.

Dick had seen you on TV, alongside Superman. You had saved Metropolis once again from whatever disaster Lex Luthor had orchestrated, and you were radiant. You looked happy; you had an inner glow that no one else in the world possessed, as if you were the sun itself—perhaps because you were Dick’s sun—and you were beautiful, even more so than a year ago, if that were possible.

Once your interview had ended and Superman had asked the reporters to give you some space, Dick stood up from the couch and walked directly to his room, opened the door of his closet and, with determined hands, grabbed the box. Not to throw it away, to drown in the memory of you.

When he opened the box he found a collection of everything from your six years together. The tickets of every time you went to the cinema, the receipts of everything, bracelets, letters, dried flowers…

Every single thing was a memory, a moment in your lives that had been significant enough for you to be kept forever in a box that guarantees their eternity.

Dick, unable to resist the temptation, extended his hand and took a finished lipstick. You had worn that lipstick way too many times, Dick loved it. When you finished the first one you threw it in the box and bought a new one, the same exact shade.

Dick was peacefully laid down in his bed, the light from outside coming into his room through the windows and a small salt lamp was on in his girlfriend’s nightstand, giving a cozy atmosphere to the room.

He could hear the water from the sink running, you were brushing your teeth before going to bed and he was waiting to hear the water stop so he could have you in his arms as soon as possible.

Once you were done you came out of the bathroom. Dick’s shirt hung loosely on you, covering your body down to your thighs. Oh, what a delightful sight for Dick Grayson, and how damn lucky he was.

“I bought a new lipstick this morning,” You said, sitting down next to your boyfriend, your knee touching Dick’s ribs. His hand moved upwards automatically, landing in your leg. “Do you want to see it?”

He simply responded with a low growl from his throat, his lips curving into a smirk. His gaze never left your face, and his hand gently caressed your leg. Your smile widened, and so, you uncovered the lipstick and applied it in your lips perfectly.

“It’s from the new limited edition collection of lipsticks YSL Beauty has dropped.” You moved to lay down next to Dick and got closer to him. His hand, that was previously on your leg, shifted and ended in your waist, pulling you closer to him. “It’s more pinky than the ones I normally use,” you said, kissing his cheek. “but I saw it today, and thought that I could try something new.” Your next kiss was on his jaw. “Besides, I’ve got this dress that could go perfectly with this shade,”you then kissed his collar bone. “Remember the one I wore to the last gala we went to?” You kissed the bicep of his other arm, the one that wasn’t holding your waist. The stains of the lipstick stayed in every spot you had kissed, pink and glossy and perfect.

He made another sound of satisfaction, and you then moved upwards again, your faces less than an inch from each other, both of you with your eyes closed, savoring the closeness.

“It also tastes really sweet, wanna try it?” The kiss was lazy and slow, but it held some hunger from each other.

Dick loved these types of nights, the quiet ones; when it was only the two of you and your flirty and sexy voice trying to convince him that a $60 lipstick was worth the price.

And damn right it was.

Dick placed the lipstick back into the box. Then, he moved the hand deeper and found some polaroid pictures inside of an envelope.

He remembered when he gifted you the instant camera that printed out the photo right after taking it. How your eyes lightened up and you couldn't stop thanking him with quick pecks during the rest of the night, in your birthday party.

A professional and expensive camera that you had used at every important event, every single time you could. At parties, at home, in another country, at the beach…

You were attached to the object, and of course it wouldn’t be inside the box, but the pictures were, and they were beautiful.

He recognized every single one of them.

The one that had been taken by him in the mirror of your bathroom, with you hugging him and the camera covering you two’s faces.

The one you had taken of him in his Nightwing suit, eating the leftovers of the dinner of two days before in the kitchen, at 1am.

The selfie you took with Wally at one of Dick’s birthday parties, where he could be seen in the background with a lovesick expression.

The one Tim took of Dick and you, playing with Damian and Jon at the Kent’s farm.

The one Dick took of you one night after he had returned from patrol. Deeply asleep on the couch, with an open book covering half your face and Haley sleeping in the small space in between your ribs and the couch.

Sweet and short moments you had wanted to keep. forever captured in photos that were now Dick’s property. They had stopped being the proof of your love story to turn into the proof of a doomed ending. The ghost of your memory haunting his mind and his senses.

He hadn’t seen all the pictures, but for the shake of his sanity, he put them back into the envelope, and back into the box.

He should’ve stopped there. Close the box and throw it away; or put it again deep into his closet, in its now designed space.

But he didn't. He couldn’t.

He needed to get drunk with the memory of you.

He needed to physically feel the closest feeling he could get from the time you shared together.

So he kept searching.

A concert ticket. The first gift he gave you on your first anniversary. A sketch Damian had made of you and Dick, the one he had gatekept for three years until he gifted it to you on your birthday. A broken Nightwing keychain.

A broken Nightwing keychain.

“Look what I found in the store near the cafe we always go to.” You walked into the living room, still in your work clothes.

Dick was laying down in the sofa, with Haley next to him, doing nothing in particular.

You sat down next to him, next to Haley, and showed him the keychain. It was only

Nightwing’s logo, made with crochet. The owner of the shop you had got it from made those type of things with crochet and sold them. It could go from very detailed but cute mini figures to the small keychains, like the one you were now holding.

Dick smiled and took the keychain from your hands to take a look at it.

“It 's cute".

His hands touched the yarn, enjoying the texture of it, inspecting the blue color, the shape of his logo. You had bought a hand made keychain of him for yourself. Even if you were more powerful than him, even if you worked with Superman himself, it was adorable how you acted like Dick was your favourite superhero.

“I also got you one of my logo, and you have to use it.” You demanded, pulling out the second keychain from your pocket.

Of course you’d bought matching keychains for the two of you. And, of course, he was going to wear it, because you were his favorite, too.

“Thanks babe.” He kissed your cheek, accepting the second keychain and giving you the Nightwing one.

One of the yarn loops broke after it hooked up with something inside your bag, that's why you had put it inside the box. You stopped using your, Dick never took his off. Your crocheted logo was still hanging with his house keys. His excuse was laziness, he was too lazy to take it off so it is just there. But the reality is that he didn’t want to take it off.

He kept the very last things he has from you like a treasure. A priceless treasure that no one was allowed to touch but him. Like he was afraid it would disappear, go away, like you did.

That’s why he kept the box hidden. That’s why his keys were always left in the same place, so he wouldn't lose them, lose your keychain.

He left the keychain inside the box. Everything he had taken out of the box, he put it back in again. He has done with the memory of you.

He wanted you. Real and alive.

He didn’t want to see your physical appearance in pictures, your scent in a broken bracelet that still had your perfume, your voice in the videos he still kept in his phone.

He needed all of that at the same time. He needed your physical presence.

He needed you.

He was probably being stupid, reckless, when he left the open box in his bed and rushed to get his keys.

He was determined to drive from Blüdhaven to Metropolis to see you. He wasn’t sure how you were going to react, but he needed this. Even if you rejected him, his mind would be at peace after seeing you in front of him. Then he’ll move on, promise.

Before he knew it, two hours had passed and he was already standing at your door. You’d probably heard him; you knew he was there. You were just waiting for him to muster the same courage he’d had to come all the way here and ring the doorbell.

“Fuck, I’m stupid.” He complained to himself, rubbing his face with both hands.

He had come to Metropolis with nothing prepared, just love and stubbornness. The drive had been long enough to think of a speech, but instead he had been too distracted with the thought of seeing you again.

And now, that he was standing at your door, his mind was blank and his body was tense and immobile.

Minutes passed and he just stood there. Never moved, never talked, or made a sound.

Until you were the one opening the door. Because you knew he was on the other side. You had known since the moment he left Blüdhaven that he had come to you. And the fact that he hadn’t been able to even ring the doorbell was pissing you off.

“What do you want Dick?” Your voice was sharp enough to cut Dick’s heart in half. And it did.

“I just–” He fought to keep his gaze forward, instead of looking down. Like the coward he was being right now. “I wanted to see you.”

“Mission accomplished then, you can leave now.”

He didn’t remember you being so cold. You have always been so caring, soft, kind. It was almost like someone was controlling you right now.

“I am sorry. Extremely sorry, for everything.”

Your expression softened when he began to apologize. Even though you were angry and rage had taken hold of you the moment you saw him standing in front of your apartment, you still had a soft spot for Dick Grayson—the man you had once considered the love of your life.

“Sometimes sorry isn’t enough.”

“I know but–”

“Dick, you said horrible things to me that night. No one can just forget them and just keep living their life. I can't keep loving you after what you told me.”

He knew he had hurted you. He knew he had been the dumbest jerk that night. He knew you weren’t going to forget it that easily. Because you were smart and you had self respect.

And you knew that someone who truly loved you would never have said such horrible things to you.

“I’m not going to get back with you, Dick. I don't regret all the years we spent together, but I can’t forgive you that easily. I suggest you move on.”

“Fine, yes, I… I didn’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.” He gave up and looked at his shoes.

“Dick,” He looked up again. “I loved you, despite everything, I still remember you with love. I really hope you can find someone else and be happy with them.”

Dick was trying to hold his tears, and he could tell you were too. It was overwhelming to have him standing in front of you for the first time after almost a year since the break up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to form a smile.

You gave him a sad smile back and closed the door. He stood there for a few minutes, like a statue. Tears didn’t fall from his eyes, his heartbeat didn't calm down. But he had to leave now, for good.

Start again with his life. Make a huge effort to get over you.

But before he left he looked at the door one last time and whispered: “I love you.”

A/N: I had this fic unfinished since April so I finished yesterday night and edited today morning. Hope you guys like it. Also I'd love to know what you guys think cuz it motivates me a lot to keep writing.

Dick Grayson taglist: @princesstrunkz @currentblasphemy

stvrw1tch

I’m so happy for the ending but god damn does it hurt :( it’s so good tho !!!

#dc #dc comics #dick grayson angst #dick grayson #dick grayson x reader #dc comics x you #dc comics x reader #dick grayson x you #nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #nightwing angst

raomera

But I love you so..

tags; miscommunication-ish, hurt/comfort-ish, angst to fluff,i wrote most of this in one sitting, no beta

a/n; maybe not what you had in mind? never seen anne with an e, gave it my best shot though

Fourty-three days.

One-thousand thirty-two hours.

Too many minutes to count. You used to, though.

You should be used to this by now.

stvrw1tch

This is what I imagine would happen when dating Grayson

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #dick grayson angst #dick grayson fluff #nightwing angst #nightwing fluff

fromrory

𐔌 ⋮ “Are you man enough?”

feat. dick grayson x fem!reader angst / comfort / healing tw: mentions of SA (canon Tarantula incident, no graphic detail), guilt, trauma, implied PTSD wc: ~2.4k If you're sensitive with any of this themes put yourself first and don't read it,i'll see you on the next post!

✶—Masterlist

The rain had been falling for hours. Gotham rain wasn’t soft — it wasn’t the kind that washed streets clean or made windows shimmer. It was heavy, unrelenting, the kind that crawled under your skin and refused to leave.

You had always thought the Manor felt bigger when it rained. The hallways seemed longer, the ceilings higher. The silence echoed more.

And that night, it wasn’t the rain that kept you awake. It was Dick.

He’d come home late from Blüdhaven patrol — later than usual, drenched and pale. He hadn’t said a word. Just went straight upstairs, peeling off his domino mask and gloves with shaking hands.

You had seen that look before. Not the bruised exhaustion — the emptiness behind his eyes. The kind that said he wasn’t here. Not really.

You waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. The rain only got louder.

Then you went up.

His door was ajar, light spilling from the crack.

“Dick?”

You voice was soft, testing.

No answer.

You pushed the door open quietly, peeking in — and froze.

He was sitting on the floor beside the bed, still in his undershirt and pants, his hair dripping onto his hands. His knees were drawn up, head down, and his breathing was too controlled. Too careful.

“Hey…” you whispered, stepping closer. “You didn’t even change—”

He flinched. Not much, but enough. Like you voice snapped him back into the room.

“Sweetheart—,” he said hoarsely. “Go back to bed.”

“Not when you’re like this.”

He exhaled sharply, hands gripping his knees. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

You knelt in front of him, ignoring the cold water soaking your socks. You rested a hesitant hand on his wrist — he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move either.

“Talk to me,” you murmured.

His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. His jaw clenched. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Then just… sit with me,” you said gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He huffed out a laugh — brittle, humorless. “You don’t get it. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

You tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Broken, I don't know,disgusting.”

Your heart twisted. “You’re not broken and you are not disgusting.”

He looked up then, and for the first time, you saw it — the storm behind his eyes. The guilt. The kind that doesn’t fade, no matter how many years you spend saving people.

“Love…” you whispered.

He swallowed, gaze flicking away again. “There are things I don’t want you to know. Things that—” His breath hitched. “—that change how you look at me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” you said softly.

“You’d be surprised.”

The silence stretched. The rain against the window was the only sound.

Then, quietly — barely a whisper — he said it.

“It wasn’t my choice.”

Your chest went still.

You didn’t need him to explain. You’d read enough between the lines, heard enough whispers from Blüdhaven, seen the way his face changed when that name was mentioned.

He finally met your eyes. “It happened after Blockbuster. I was— I was already done. I’d lost. And she—”

He broke off, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I didn’t stop her.”

Your voice was almost a breath. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” he said instantly. “I could’ve— I should’ve—”

“Richard,” you interrupted, your voice firm for the first time. “You said no.”

His throat bobbed. “Not out loud.”

“You didn’t have to,” you said. “You froze. You were hurt. You were grieving. That’s not consent.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. I didn’t fight back.”

“Because you didn’t have to fight,” you said quietly. “Because you were in shock. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His hands trembled. “You sound so sure.”

“I am.”

He blinked, eyes shining wet in the low light. “How?”

“Because I love you,” you said simply. “And I know what it looks like when someone carries guilt that isn’t theirs.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his breath cracked. A sound escaped him — not quite a sob, but close.

You reached forward and cupped his face, slow, careful. He didn’t move away this time.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

His shoulders trembled. His head fell forward until it rested against her shoulder.

And just like that — Dick Grayson, the boy who smiled through everything, who carried the weight of every city he’d ever protected — broke.

You held him, saying nothing. Your fingers traced slow circles over his back, grounding him.

“I thought I deserved it,” he said after a while, voice muffled. “I let people die. I let Blüdhaven fall. I thought maybe— maybe that was punishment.”

Your stomach clenched. “Don’t say that.”

He laughed — hollow, empty. “You don’t know what I did.”

“I don’t need to. You didn’t deserve that,no one does.”

He shook his head, but his grip on your arm tightened.

You leaned back just enough to make him look at you. “You were hurt, Dick. Someone took advantage of that. That’s not on you.”

He exhaled, eyes glassy. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple,” you said gently. “It’s cruel. It’s wrong. And it should’ve never happened. But that doesn’t make you dirty, or weak, or less worthy of love.”

He closed his eyes, jaw trembling. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Deal with you?” you asked softly. “You’re not something I deal with, love. You’re someone I choose. Every day.”

He let out a shaky laugh — the kind that cracked somewhere in the middle.

“I don’t know what to do with you sometimes,” he murmured.

“Just… let me stay,” you said.

So he did.

Minutes passed. The rain softened. His breathing evened out against her shoulder.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet — almost childlike.

“Sometimes I wake up and I can still feel it,” he said. “Like my body remembers before my head does.”

You nodded. “That’s how trauma works. It doesn’t live in words. It lives in the body. But that doesn’t mean you’re still there.”

He swallowed hard. “Then why does it feel like I am?”

“Because healing isn’t forgetting,” you whispered. “It’s learning that you’re safe now. That you’re not alone anymore.”

He went quiet again, breathing slow.

“You make it sound like I deserve to heal.”

“You do,” you said instantly.

He looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

You smiled softly, thumb brushing away a tear on his cheek. “You don’t have to prove you’re okay. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

He didn’t answer, but his shoulders loosened a little. The fight in his jaw softened.

You shifted, sitting beside him now, their backs against the bed. Their hands brushed — his fingers twitching before curling around yours.

It was a small thing, but it was something.

After a while, you asked, “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded, wary but calm.

“What would you tell me,” you said carefully, “if I told you the same story you just told me?”

His eyes flicked to you, startled.

“I’d tell you it wasn’t your fault,” he said immediately. “That you didn’t deserve it. That whoever did it—” his voice broke “—was a monster.”

Your hand tightened around his. “Then why is it so hard to say that to yourself?”

He exhaled shakily. “…Because it happened to me.”

“Exactly,” you said. “You protect everyone else so much that you forget you’re allowed to protect yourself, too.”

He looked at you then, really looked — at your quiet steadiness, your kind eyes, the way you didn’t flinch from the worst parts of him.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he had to hide.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For listening. For not… looking at me differently.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re still you, Dick. The same man who jumps off buildings for fun and eats cereal at midnight and insists on making everyone breakfast when you can’t sleep.”

That earned a quiet laugh.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be fully okay,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to be,” you said. “You just have to keep going.”

He nodded slowly, eyes softening.

Silence filled the room again — not heavy this time, but warm.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, and after a long pause, he rested his against yours.

The rain outside faded into a quiet drizzle.

For the first time in years, Dick Grayson didn’t feel haunted by what he couldn’t undo.

He felt held. He felt seen.

And when you whispered, “You’re safe,” he almost believed you.

Later that night, you woke up to find him still awake, tracing absent circles on the back of your hand.

“You should sleep,” you murmured.

“I’m trying,” he said softly. “But I keep thinking about what you said.”

“Which part?”

“The part where you said I’m still me.”

“You are.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re the first person who said that without meaning it as a reminder to move on.”

You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to move on. You just have to move with it.”

He was quiet for a long time after that. Then:

“I used to hate myself for freezing,” he said. “But tonight… I realized I survived. That’s something, right?”

She nodded. “That’s everything.”

He looked at you— really looked — and for once, there was no shame in his gaze. Just exhaustion, and a fragile kind of peace.

“Thank you,” he whispered again.

You smiled, half-asleep. “Anytime, Grayson.”

When he finally closed his eyes, she brushed a hand through his hair, whispering softly words of comfort, of home.

A/N: posting 2 times the same day? dw i'm just releasing drafts! I wanted to practice writing about more taboo subjects! didk grayson fluff coming to save y'all 🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

stvrw1tch

I’m wounded and heartbroken this is gut wrenching

#nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #nightwing x reader #dick grayson x reader #angst #angst dick grayson #nightwing angst #dc comics #dc robin

sassatoru

Congrats on getting 2k followers!

I would like to request hydrangea (srry if I got it wrong, my memory sucks) + string + "wish you loved me just as much as you loved her (kory)" !

LOVER OF NOT MINE

pairing. dick grayson x reader

warning. angst

prompts used. “wish you loved me just as much as you loved her.”

you could see the difference in the way he looked at you and her. dick could try to deny it, promise you that he and kory were done, but god you could see through him. the stupid looks of pity that his friends sent your way.

and that’s when the doubts started forming in your mind. how could you compare to her. kory was a princess, from another planet. an alien princess and you… you were just you.

a normal person, who lives a normal life. no vigilante tendencies, you had your load of trauma but who doesn’t?

was it you? were you too boring for him? too normal?

this “outing” as he’d called it had confirmed everything you were feeling. he’d dragged you along against your will, you hadn’t wanted to come to this stupid vigilante/superhero/anti-hero get together at some bar.

the second you’d arrived he kissed your cheek to make his way to kory, her eyes lit up at the sight of him as they hugged, his hands lingering on her hips a lot longer than they ever did yours.

what were you going to do now? you didn’t know anyone here, so you sat at the free spot at the end of the bar, alone and disappointed. it’d been half an hour now, and he hadn’t even spared a glance in your direction yet, too busy listening to whatever stupid nonsense was coming out of kory’s mouth.

honestly you looked too pretty to be left behind like this, you wanted to just go home. you didn’t have the car keys though, dick insisted that he drive the two of you there.

maybe that was his plan, keep you trapped here, watching him and kory so you’d know where you stood in this relationship. you felt that lump in your throat get heavier, you couldn’t walk home. not in fucking bludhaven, this place was nearly as bad as gotham — wait, they’re leaving.

together?

you froze in your seat as they walked past the bar, he’d forgotten you were here, you could tell by the way his eyes focused on her completely.

you should’ve stayed home. guess you’re gonna be walking home after all.

people didn’t pay you any mind as you slipped past them and out onto the chilly streets where you could catch a glimpse of dick’s car speeding away from the bar.

you felt sick. scared and sick. bag clutched as you walked tensely, head low to avoid anyone’s gaze. the dark made the city look a little peaceful, but everyone knew that was far beyond the truth.

you distantly hear a few whistles calling out to you but those men make no move to pursue you either. so you kept walking until you reach the entrance of you apartment building, you stepped in as quickly as you could, pressing the elevator button a few times, impatiently.

the door dinged as it opened, you shivered as you stepped in, pressing the button of the floor you lived on, it was times like this you were glad you hadn’t moved in with dick.

you didn’t bother changing when you crawled into bed, kicking your heels off at the door, greeted by your cat meowing at you and following you to bed.

at least someone was acknowledging you, your little companion jumped up onto the bed, taking the side dick usually would most nights with a purr as he tried to get as close to you as possible.

you couldn’t hold it back anymore, silent tears falling down your cheeks as you curled up. eventually, sometime past 11pm you passed out. you had exhausted all your tears and just given up.

it’s only at 1am that dick comes looking for you. his key to your place jingled softly enough to not stir you as he opened the door, barging through and going straight for your bedroom, the noise startling both you and your cat awake.

you let out a noise something between a scream and a cry and your cat hisses as the sight of dick. he’d never liked your ‘boyfriend’ in the first place, maybe you should’ve trusted his instincts.

“sweetheart, i’m so sorry.”

the apology is the first thing that slipped from his tongue and it all came back to you.

“i lost track of time and—”

“where were you?” you ask, throat sore from your crying, he could see the dried tear stains on your cheeks and he knew he’d messed up past what was forgivable.

he’d left you alone, in a room of strangers with no way home.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, eyes dropping to the floor and you notice the disheveled way his hair sat, collar covered in the same shade of lipstick kory had been wearing, and if you looked close enough there’d be a matching stain on his lips.

you didn’t need this. “get out.”

you gave him no time to argue, standing up and shoving a box of his stuff into his arms. things you’d collected in your state of sad anger, the box contained his clothes, random little trinkets he’d brought along, gifts he’d brought you — never anything expensive just stuffed animals and cards.

“can’t we talk about this?” he pleaded and failed as shoved him further.

“no, if you want kory so badly. then have her, but don’t drag me along to play the fool.”

he winces at your retort, shame settling in his bones.

“is it me?” you cant help but ask, “why can’t you love me as much as you love her? wish you loved me just as much as you love her.”

he’s starting to really wish he’d left the first time you asked — told him to.

“you’re perfect,” he whispers, “but she… me and her, we..”

“just leave, i don’t want to see you again, dick.”

he doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t have the right anymore does he. his heart sinks when he closes your bedroom door behind him and he can hear the way you break down, trying to keep quiet.

you deserved to know but he’d never tell you, it was never real. you and him, you were just a sweet innocent girl he was using to get his ex back, and it worked. now he’ll move on and leave you to suffer the consequences.

stvrw1tch

I love rereading stuff that I know will hurt like a bitch

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson angst #nightwing x reader #dick grayson x reader angst #angst #dc comics #dc characters #dc robin

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lavilavs

୨୧ ── I wish I knew you wanted me

Sequel — Now I know you want me

› Pairing: Dick Grayson x Fem!Reader

› Scenario: Many question your relationship with one another, but it's a different story when it's asked right in front of you. What are you both, anyway? Still letting time pass by and hoping a miracle will happen for both of you?

› Warnings: Underage drinking (brief mention)

› Notes: English is not my first language. Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + angst <3

"You have so much chemistry! Are you aware of that?"

The question takes you both aback. Although it wasn't a difficult question, it had you both tongue-tied. You felt his gaze on you as the reporter tilted her mic further onto his mouth, curiosity etched on her face.

You steal a glance, expecting him to have already looked away. But it didn't—you knew his eyes didn't wander anywhere else except your figure with how dazed he looked.

He wonders what's going through your head. Are you experiencing the same dilemma he's having inside his head right now? It really is a simple question, yet he feels unsure about what to say. The words are on the tip of his tongue; all it needs is a push. And so, he tries finding the answer in you. He looks at you for something, just something to ease him.

But even if you did, it would be left unsaid.

Dick clears his throat when you break the eye contact, redirecting his attention to the reporter in front of him. He felt disappointed. He knows he shouldn't have expected something from you. There might be a chance—even the slightest chance—that you feel what he feels.

"It's natural that we do. We've been fighting together for fifteen years." Dick ruffles your hair, chuckling when he hears you complain about messing your hair up. You lightly brush it off and give the camera a small smile to show that you're only messing around as friends. The last thing you want right now is another dating headline about you.

"Many citizens think that the chemistry between you doesn't seem to be platonic at all. Are you sure that in those fifteen years, you've never once thought about it?" She questions again, the glint in her eyes telling you she's more than you let on.

The last thing you knew was that you were trying to hide your irritation with the pushy reporter.

"I've never once thought about him that way. Nightwing is an excellent leader and partner. Our status as close friends will remain close friends. Thank you." Dick's eyes narrow with hurt, trying to hide what he felt with a stoic face. But eyes don't lie. Anyone staring at him could instantly tell what he felt.

He felt daggers pierce his heart with every word that left your mouth, not knowing you felt like you were chewing on shards. Hearing those words from you hurt him as much as it hurt saying them. Unbeknownst to each other's pain, you both twist your knives deeper.

You drag him away from the media. With a glare, the media ceased their chatter and nodded at your unspoken words. From adult to adult, they knew better than to continue with their constant questioning. You wouldn't take any more bullshit.

This is why you skipped the interviews and just went home to rest. It adds another problem in your head that you can't stop thinking about. They always know what's beneath your masks. What secrets and feelings you're hiding, they'll find ways to know.

Dick was the opposite. He loved interviews because attention was a given—all eyes and ears are on you. The limelight was something he subconsciously craved. Influenced by the passion he has for acrobatics.

He knows he's talkative, but he's smart enough to dodge questions. Just not the questions about love.

Sure, he'll easily answer if it's about in general or his past lovers like Kori and Zatanna. That was a piece of cake. It only goes downhill when it comes to you.

Richard Grayson's everything.

Words can't even express how much he admires you. He put you on a pedestal that nobody else could reach. Dick knew he set his own standards that are far above his own. That's why he's having trouble forgetting what he feels.

Despite loving you and having you within arm's reach, he never made a move. It was his punishment and blessing. He lives lamenting that he'll never be enough for you. You were too good for him, and no matter how he changes himself to be better than yesterday, you keep on proving to everyone that you're also better than before.

It suffocates him to feel your arms wrapped around his waist like this. The cold air breezing through him contrasts with the warmth building up inside his body. He closes his eyes momentarily, savoring and memorizing how you feel against him. Even for just a second, he can fantasize a reality where you're hugging him just like this. Not on his motorcycle, but within the warmth of your shared home, exchanging kisses and laughter.

Dick cherished moments like this. It's just you and him in this cruel world. He always felt that time moved slower whenever he was with you. It gives him more time to gaze at you without another thought except you in his mind.

His mind keeps replaying what the reporter asked them earlier. It hurt him more than any broken bone he had on his body. The damage was irreversible, as it's only figurative. You've inflicted an everlasting wound inside. No matter who or what he uses to heal himself, your mark lingers and haunts him.

"Dick?" Your soft voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He hums in response, letting you know that you have his attention.

He feels your hold tighten around his waist. He observes the flow of the road before slipping one of his hands down to yours. Dick knew you well enough to understand what got you so tense. He is, too. You both knew that question would linger on your thoughts for weeks.

Like him, you had a lot on your mind throughout this ride. The ETA back to the tower gives you both some time to think about everything. And by everything, it meant everything that made you question how you felt about him and vice versa.

Have you ever shown signs that you like him? Not once. There just wasn't a chance you could take. Your cowardice irritates you. You shove your face onto his broad back more, drowning your thoughts by basking in his warmth and scent.

"Nothing." And a veil of disappointment looms over you both again.

The ride was silent after that. The remaining time back to the tower was spent with unsuspecting touches. Neither of you knows this is what you're both desiring from the other. But you both felt content with it, deluding yourselves into thinking this is all that you're going to get. It was a minor pain to deal with if you deceive your morals that it's alright to be selfish once in a while.

For 15 years, this is all you've been. Nothing more, nothing less. No hints nor talks about where this is all going. And for Dick, he was slightly grateful. If he had noticed a slight change in your dynamic, he fears that he'll fuck up and make it worse by being greedy. He's a risk taker, but he just can't take it with you.

It wasn't because you aren't worth it. Dick was just bound by his thoughts that you'll never feel the same way. Let's face it, he's observant. Dick is a master at reading someone. And by the way you act, it only fuels his thoughts.

Your eyes never linger on him for more than a minute. He almost thought it had a warm look in it, but he may have mistaken it for his reflection looking at you. More so, you never seemed to care about who he's with. You always bid him your best wishes with a big smile on your face. Bigger than the ones you gave when it was just him. You were truly happy for him when he introduced his girlfriends.

How true was it, though? Dick doesn't know how much it pained you every time. And it isn't like you can just come up to him and slap him for the sole reason of, "Why can't it be me?"

It was difficult to express yourself when every time you tell yourself you're about to confess, he comes back with a new girl. You never stood by your hopes, it'll only hurt you more. The only way to face it was to smile and wish him the best. At least now, you'll have a reason to move on.

"Thanks for the ride, Dick." You hit his shoulder lightly as you pass the helmet back to him.

"Don't mention it." He smiles at you.

Another silence envelops you. You steal glances when the other isn't looking. There was a minor problem that needed to be talked about, but it wasn't a problem that you're ready to face just yet.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dick. Good night." I want to be with you.

"Yeah—yeah, good night." Don't leave yet.

He watches you leave with yearning eyes. He has a feeling he should call out to you, run up to you, prevent you from going up to your room, and seclude yourself until you forget about tonight. Will he ever get this feeling again about having the opportunity to talk about his feelings that's still left unsaid after fifteen years?

You might be thinking hard about him too. Thinking about what he is to you. You might even realize your buried feelings for him. But maybe he's overthinking it because he's hoping again. Dick feels everything is complicated and overwhelming at the moment.

You turn on your heels, and a sliver of hope flashes inside him.

"G-Goodbye! Don't stay up too late." You wave at him goodbye. Fuck.

His hands felt heavy to raise—no, his whole body did. Dick waved goodbye back nonetheless, watching helplessly as the elevator doors closed on your face. There goes his chance and yours.

You both wasted the time to relay the secrets you've been hiding. The opportunity was handed over to you on a golden platter, but you both let the fear of being poisoned by what's served to you—miss the sweet taste of each other's love.

The elevator slightly shook when your body slumped down on its railings, tightly holding onto it to support your body from crumbling down. It felt so irritating and stupid that you let another chance go. The metal doors keep you from looking down on Dick's figure at the ground. You wanted to force it to go back.

Dick sat down on the floor and threaded through his hair, gripping it tightly out of frustration. He let you go again. He heard that stutter in your words, but he stayed still. He never heard you stutter once before this, and that made it worse.

Two hopeless people that love each other unknowingly have to be one of the worst set-ups from the universe. It was toying with them. Somehow always giving the other the wrong idea about the other.

You slump down in your room in regret. Frustration was clouding your vision and logic, you wanted nothing more than to scream and thrash around.

The clear skies of the night caught your attention, stopping you from your self-loathing pity.

By the sight alone, you'd have proof that the universe loved making you feel like a joke. The same sight of that constellation above your balcony made you scoff with disdain, a bitter smile on your face as memories of that night resurface.

At the top of the tower laughing and joking around with alcohol bottles scattered around you. It was a simple teenage mistake. The thought of it being bad and restricted made it feel the more enjoyable. You don't know what made him run away that night. But you remember how frustrated you felt, your hands clutched tightly in the air as if it was about to reach out for someone's head.

"I love someone."

He remembers how easily those words left you that night. Dick was also reminiscing about that same night down here.

Those words made his heart tighten, making him run away like the little boy he was back then. He was willing to listen to you. Just not... you confessing you love someone else. The thought of not having a possibility of him being that someone made him run away. After all those drinks and laughter you shared with him, making him feel that he was the one—it was his first heartbreak.

The universe must be relishing at the fact that the two of you will never be together because of simple misunderstandings. How happy it is to see you both frustrated and sad over the other.

You both bury your heads in your arms, tears of defeat streaming down your eyes. The same thought haunts both of you, a subconcious voice telling them they've fucked up and lost the chance to have you as theirs.

I wish I knew you wanted me.

stvrw1tch

This physical hurt me, didn’t even kiss the brick when it was thrown :(

I’m sobbing

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x y/n #dc robin #dc comics #dc universe #angst #nightwing x reader #dick grayson #angst dick grayson #nightwing angst

alexiroflife

"shared space" : ̗̀➛

first part!

hiromi higuruma x secretary!reader

Synopsis: it's just an ordinary afternoon in the office as hiromi counts down the seconds until he can get his hands on you again

to sum it up: your boss kissed you... in what world are either of you expected to carry on like normal?

WC: 3,774

Warning(s): noneee just kissy kissy sappy sappy

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Hiromi's lips buzz for the rest of the day as the clock ticks the slowest it ever has, a great contrast to the way time ordinarily works against him, forcing him to act hastily for the sake of his reputation as well as his clients'.

The dark haired attorney deduces that you must be made of magic, as he feels more energized, more focused because of you, and yet at the same time, his eyes keep flickering to the clock.

Counting down the minutes, simultaneously sorting through calls and case files with a smoothness his morning and previous days severely lacked.

His earlier sourness has swept away, flown free from his countenance, his expression, his very stiff shoulders. His ordinarily heavy mass feels light. For once, he isn't dragging himself down under the weight of his own masochistic, workaholic habits.

All he can think about is the sweetness of your gentle lips to his. And instead of heavy, he feels... light. His head, as though pulled toward the ceiling by an invisible string, his posture straight, his eyes jumping frantically over words.

Then back to the clock. Then those words. And... seriously, it's only been two minutes?

stvrw1tch

This is me howling and barking !!!! Ughhh what a fine ass man he is

Also this writer right here is amazing, wonderful, fantastic and I just read all their works and it was chief’s kiss

#jjk x reader #jjk fandom #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #anime #jjk #jjk x you #higuruma hiromi #hiromi jjk #hiromi x reader #hiromi smut

fwops

aang, in all his avatar glory, is not above tongue-fucking his cum right back into your quivering, convulsing pussy. his wide, stupefied eyes glow white as he licks and scoops and sucks with relentless devotion, lithe tongue sweeping across your folds with striking precision only a master of the four elements could possess. powerful arms pin your thighs against the mattress while roughened hands palm over your lower stomach, cradling the skin above your uterus with something almost reverent in their touch.

“it has to take. . .” he’s mumbling to himself, practically incoherent, but you can still hear the raw desperation threaded through his guttural chanting. “has to, has to, has to—!”

“a-aang, mmph! what’s wrong? did something happen on your trip—?” you whimper through the haze of overstimulation, hands scrambling against his shoulders as you search for something to ground yourself with. he’s been at it for hours, ever since he returned from his home air temple. had stormed into your shared bedroom with the doors rattling against the walls behind him, barely a greeting leaving his mouth before he was climbing over you, frantic hands shoving the hefty layers of his robes and beads from his body like they’ve suddenly become unbearable.

in mere seconds he had you flat on your back.

then on all fours.

and then on your side and everything else in between.

the room is in absolute shambles— feathers spilling from torn pillows and swirling through the air in frantic, whirling currents. the bed barely remains intact beneath you, headboard split apart and canopy hanging in splintered ruin, all of it unable to withstand the force of him as the elements hum beneath his tortured skin.

“aang, honey, are you— hah!— okay? talk to me, baby. please.”

what new revelation could he have possibly had for him to suddenly fold you into a million different positions?

and you tried to run, to tap out after the nth round, but did you really think you could escape the hold of an avatar in his avatar state? a handsome, beefy, six-foot-five, one-hundred-something kilogram man so utterly desperate to revive an entire bloodline, yet far too in love to want to do it with anyone else but you?

aang’s voice comes out rough, wrecked with pathetic want. “need to get you pregnant,” he finally admits, lips never leaving your twitching clit. “need it right fucking now.”

his sharp, unfamiliar words send a shiver down your spine.

he begrudgingly sits up, one hand keeping you spread for him while the other drags down his chiseled abs, ghosting over the twin downward arrows that curl just above his v–line. he fists his burly cock in slow, measured strokes as he readies another thick load, bright eyes trailing from your flushed face to your heaving breasts, tongue-in-cheek.

your heart jumps. you know that look. “aang, i know how much reviving air bending means to you, the duty you have to your people—” you start in an attempt to soothe.

because when he gets like this you tend to wobble for the next few weeks.

he cuts you off with a dry, humorless chuckle. “you think that’s what this is about?” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing.

stvrw1tch

If I don’t find me a man who yearns for me like this what am I doing in life. This is spectacular like OMG

#avatar aang #aang x reader #the legend of aang #aang x you #aang smut #atla #atla aang #atla smut #atla x reader #fluff

ynifrey

no thoughts just taking anime!dante down a peg.

---

pristine white locks fell into his face as red eyes peered back at you, with the black headboard behind him he almost look like a painting. dante stared at you amused. it was annoying how he was the one tied up and it felt like he had the upper hand.

"so," dante tilted his head playfully, "you are aware that i can break out of these right?" he pulled at the cuffs hanging above his head experimentally.

you sighed, "yes, i am aware of your freakish strength, thanks for asking. but you'll be obedient for me, won't you?"

"well when you sweet talk me like that, how can i say no?"

he was naked sitting on the bed legs crossed, all you did was restrain him and he was already at half-mast.

from your place infront of him, your eyes wandered over his body contemplating your next move.

"want a picture?" dante mused.

you smirked, "trust, i'll be taking alot of those."

"yeah when im old and gray because ive sat here and i think the grandparents next door are having more action than me."

"oh yeah?"

---

"ngh! i just came..! so s-stop pounding!" ribbons of cum splattered on his already coated chest yet you didn't stop, the thought didn't even cross your mind. you were no where near done with him and that smart mouth.

how many rounds was it now? dante lost track after the first five.

"you know, your dicks been staying soft while i fuck you. maybe i've been using your ass so much your body knows you don't need your dick anymore."

"f-fuck you," dante spat brokenly as you continued pistoning into him like he was a toy. his cock laid limp on his abs, weakly spurting in a pool of cum. his body shook with the after shocks of his orgasm a few moments ago.

the headboard creaked and banged against the wall in rhythm with your thrusts. "not getting enough play still? should i amp it up? you always loved a thrill, dante."

"n-no, please! dont turn it on [name], i swear you'll break me-!" his plea fell on deaf ears as you flipped the switch on the bullet vibrator taped on his shaft.

"ohh fuck!" he screamed, dantes arms flexed in his restrains, it took all his willpower to not pull through the restrains and turn off the intense stimulation.

"there we go," you smirked. "see, when i dig into your pussy the cum just keeps flying out."

"'m close! gonna cum again!" you were surprised dante still had cum left in him.

"oh wait before you do i almost forgot!" you stopped your assault on him for just a moment to lean over to the bedside desk and grab your polaroid camera.

you grabbed him by his hair like he was an animal you conquered and he looked positively debauched to say the least.

"smile!"

the camera flashed in time for dantes first dry orgasm to be on record.

stvrw1tch

oof yes give me 100 more please and thank youu :3

#dante x reader #sub dante #dmc x reader #anime dante x reader #dante sparda x reader #dante x gn reader #dante x male reader #fluff #smut #dante devil may cry #dante sparda #dmc dante #dmc #sub dmc #devil may cry

sleepy-hawks

stvrw1tch

Y’all I am SCREAMING, BARKING, HOLYYYYY MOLYYY!!!!

#atla art #zuko #atla #atla fanart #atla zuko #fire lord zuko #zuko avatar #prince zuko #zuko fanart #barking #screaming #creaming #freak #fanart

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bodhiscurls

baby, it's you!! ( clark kent )

you're the one i love! you're the one i need! you're the only one i see! clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.

pairing: clark kent x journalist fem reader (no use of yn)

themes: angst, fluff, implied cheating (more so accusation)

masterlist.

the voicemails started off polite, poised and then four missed calls later you were bordering into unhinged, murderous woman who had been stood up on her first date territory. which you were- so that take is completely true.

stvrw1tch

This genuinely is so cute, I love this so much!!!!!

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent fic #clark kent blurb #clark kent drabble #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent fanfic #angst #fluff #happy ending #superman fluff #superman imagine #superman x you

buckysfaveplum

krypto, take me home

summary: when Clark can’t make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you

pairing: clark kent x female reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: typical injury/kinda recovery warnings, blood, broken bones, etc. not much else. reader is mentioned have hair once. no other descriptions

a/n: sigh another fic the next day, that’s when you know i’m obsessed. here’s a lil idea i had as soon as i saw the opening scene. if you're new here cause i'm pretty much known for bucky barnes fics, I love angst so that's kinda my lil niche. hope that's okie!

oh and I loved @sharknutz idea of Clark calling the reader sunshine so yeaaa I had to try that out <3

masterlist | send requests

You were never a very light sleeper, per se. It wasn’t like you were waking up with each creak of the floorboards or gust of wind. But you never were one to sleep fully through the night without waking up just once. Clark had this little joke; he could always count on an extra cuddle sometime around 2 am. What could you say? You always slept better with him by your side.

Tonight, sleep proved to be a challenge. Clark had been gone for hours, off handling what you think you heard as some underground group of metahumans terrorizing the capital of Wales? After a while, you couldn’t find it in yourself to watch the news. Sue you, but the constant sight of your boyfriend smashing into concrete and brick buildings wasn’t how you wanted to spend the evening. It never was easy, knowing every time he left in that cape, there was the slightest chance he wouldn’t return. The habit of flicking on the television, just to become distraught and overwhelmed, and turning it off only to cave and flick it on again, consumed your evenings.

The bed was cold, feeling larger than normal without Clark’s large frame claiming more than half the bed and hogging the blankets. Your feet fluttered under the duvet, trying to shake the nerves and unease that engulfed your body. He should’ve been back by now, slipping through the door with a smirk and some half-funny quip about his injuries; it never was all that funny to you. You knew he needed to stop by the fortress first if he was hurt, recharge and heal, and maybe check on Krypto before flying back. Still, it was 4 am, and the news declared the situation to be handled by 1 am.

stvrw1tch

This has me kicking me feet 😩💗

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman 2025 #superman x reader #superman imagine #superman #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #clark kent imagine #fluff #superman x you #superman fluff

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