check all that apply to you. at the end of each column, add the total you have checked for that category. the one with the highest score is your overall ‘dere.’
please repost; do not reblog!
deredere
[x] you tilt your head when you’re confused.
[x] you love sweets and cute things.
[x] you are often confused and lost in conversations with your friends.
[x] people often call you cute.
[x] you care a lot about your friends.
[x] you embarrass yourself a lot with silly question or statements.
[x] you like bright, soft colors.
[x] you enjoy listening to cute, sweet, gentle songs.
[X] you add things to the end of your friend’s names.
[x] people often say “aww” when you’ve done something clumsy/silly.
[ ] you like anime/movies about romance, love and friendship.
total:10 of 11
tsundere
[?] you come off as tough and confident on the outside when you are actually soft and emotional on the inside.
[x] you often hide your true feelings for someone.
[ ] you are caring but deny it when someone tells it to you.
[x] you are protective.
[ ] when someone bugs you, you tell them right away strongly, but are still worried that you’ve hurt them.
[x] you are easily embarrassed.
[x] compliments make you feel awkward and you always deny them.
[ ] you tease and bully the one you love to hide your feelings.
[X] you can be violent at times.
[ ] you may hurt people a lot, but regret it right away.
[x] you never cry in front of others.
total: 6 1/2 of 11
yandere
[X] you are often loving, caring, sweet - until someone upsets you badly.
[ ] when angry, you normally hide it until the time for revenge is right.
[ ] you can at times, be obsessive.
[ ] people have said you are “two-faced”.
[x] people tell you that you’re nice, but can be creepy at times.
[?] you scare the crap out of your friends when you get upset.
[?] people find it weird to see you anything other than gentle and smiling.
[ ] when you’re upset, sometimes you still smile, even when saying something harsh.
[X] you can get very violent.
[ ] you love to help people, but often love to help yourself more.
[ ] you like colours like dark blue or light red.
total: 4? of 11
kuudere
[x] you don’t show your emotions to others.
[x] when you become close to someone, you slowly open up.
[ ] although you don’t show it, you are easily made happy.
[ ] you care for others a lot, still, you don’t show it.
[ ] people think you are mysterious.
[x] you can be shy.
[x] you aren’t very loud, rather silent.
[ ] you know who to trust and who not to.
[ ] you choose which friend you can trust wisely.
[x] you like simple colors, like light purple or white.
[ ] you are rather mature.
total: 5 of 11
dandere
[x] you are a shy person.
[x] you are quiet and don’t speak up for yourself.
[x] you look down instead of straight forwards when walking.
[X] you sometimes go to extreme levels just to get out of public speaking.
[x] you have stage fright.
[x] you are stoic and not very open.
[ ] you hide yourself with your hair at times.
[x] you speak very quietly in case you say something silly or you sound weird.
[x] you are afraid of meeting new people.
[x] you are a hard worker.
[ ] you do not have as many friendships as others, but those you do have, you’ll cherish them very much.
total: 9 of 11
final dere: A strange blend between Deredere and Dandere
tagged by: ...took it from @eludum
tagging: @bloomingempress, @of-boxes-and-ufos, @notevenjupiter, @mask-0f-rebelli0n, @hvggable, @hyrulecast, but anyone can do this, OR NOT!
૮◞ ‸ ◟ ა sukuna caught his son yelling at his wife in an argument.
art by @/f_tality0 on ig.
The house is supposed to be asleep.
Lights are already off, except for the thin strip of light coming out of your son's bedroom.
It's probably past midnight now, you stopped checking the clock after the fourth time you woke up.
You stand there for a moment, listening. There's no music, no talking. Just a faint, restless sound of a pencil scratching.
You knock gently before peeking your head inside. The first thing that you see is not your son sleeping, but chaos.
Papers everywhere. A textbook lies forgotten on the bed. The desk lamp burns to bright, casting harsh shadow across the laptop.
Your son sits hunched on the chair, shoulders tight, eyes red-rimmed from hours staring at the laptop screen.
"Go to sleep," you say gently. "You can finish it in the morning."
His pencil snaps. Slowly, he lifts his head. You can see dark circles under his eyes. "I can't." he replies, voice hoarse.
You step further into the room, careful not to step the papers underfoot.
"Everyone needs sleeps, sweetie."
"Not everyone has three assignments due tomorrow and a presentation."
Your chest tightens. "Why didn't you tell me you had this much work? i could've helped—"
His chair scrapes back so suddenly that it startles you. "Stop saying that." The words come out sharp.
You blink. "Saying what?"
"That you could help. You can't."
He lets out a shaky breath before he continues. "You can't make the deadlines move, you can't do the work for me, you can't—" he cuts himself, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. "I can't even think straight anymore."
You swallow past the tightness in your throat, trying to keep your voice gentle.
"Okay.. okay. We don't have to solve everything right now. How about you take a break—"
"God, can you stop?!" He interrupts, voice sharp and loud that it echoes.
Your heart stutters. He cuts you off again before you can even open your mouth.
"You keep saying take a break! Take a rest! Drink this, eat that! You keep acting like it's a magic solution, like it's gonna help!" His voice rises more and more with each word. cracking at the edges as frustration takes over.
"It won't, mom. I don't have time to sit around and 'rest' or whatever! Stuff is due whether im tired or not!"
You try to keep your tone calm, which is getting really hard every passing second. "I just don't want you to be sick."
"I'M ALREADY SICK OF THIS!" The shout tears out of him, uncontrolled.
"Every time i finish one thing there's always something that's waiting! And you standing there, repeating the same thing over and over isn't helping!"
The room falls silent.
"You don't get it," he says, voice still loud but a little shaky.
"What part did she not get it?"
The voice is low and intimidating.
You didn't hear footsteps coming, or even the door opening. It was just the two of you before, now there's a tall figure in the doorway.
Sukuna's face is unreadable. His brows creased, but he doesn't look particulary angry.
But your son doesn't shrink. His chin lifting, jaw locked tight, adrenaline still burning in his veins.
"Everything," he shoots back. "She doesn't know what it's like to be constantly expected to keep going no matter how exhausted you are."
"Doesn't get it, huh?" Sukuna ask, finally stepping inside the room.
"Yeah, keep telling me to rest, to do this and do that, i don't need it!"
"So, yelling at her makes it better?"
"I'm stressed, okay? I am trying to calm down, but its hard when the person i'm talking to doesn't get what im going through!"
Sukuna steps closer, every movement intimidating. The room feels smaller with each steps.
"You really think," Sukuna crosses his arms. "She doesn't get it?"
before your son can even shoot back, he continues.
"She's lived way longer than you, do you think she's never experienced it?"
He stares deeply at your son, scoffing immediately.
"You think her life has been easy? That everything she's gone through was effortless? Do you really believe that just because she looks... what, calm, like she's handling everything without breaking, she hasn't felt the weight you feel?"
Your son's jaw tightens, chest heaving. "I'm not saying that she didn't go through this stuff!"
"Then stop acting like she doesn't know. You're frustated, i get that. I've been there too. But taking it out on her? treating her care as an annoyance? It doesn't prove how hard you're trying. You let your own struggles control you."
Your son's fists clench harder, jaw still locked tight. "I just can't deal with all of this at once."
Sukuna doesn't raise his voice. He leans in just slightly, gaze pinning him in place.
"You can deal with it. But you do not drag her into it just because you can't handle your own burden. You can be overwhelmed, frustrated, hell—you can be angry, but you're not using her as your punching bag."
Your son exhales sharply, still heated, but there's a flicker of regret in his eyes. He glances at you, and for a moment, his anger wavers.
"She cares about you," Sukuna continues. "You want to be angry? Fine. Take it out on your work or something, but don't ever raise your voice at her ever again. Got it?"
Your son swallows hard, tension slipping off slightly from his shoulder. His gaze flickers between you and Sukuna, guilt starting to creep in.
"I got it," he mutters, his voice still tight, but quieter now. "I'm sorry, mom."
His gaze finally settles on you, and the heat in his eyes softens. "I didn't mean to yell at you. I just.. i didn't know how else to deal with everything."
You smile at him as you step forward, voice gentle but firm. "I know, but next time, talk to me, okay? I'm always here to help."
Your son nods, chest still heaving slightly but he's calming down.
"Yeah," he mutters, "I'll try."
Sukuna slips an arm around your shoulder, guiding you toward the door. "Come on, let's get you out of here."
You lean slightly into his side, the tension in your shoulder easing as you step into the hallway. Behind you, there's a soft click of the door closing.
You exhale slowly, letting yourself leaning fully into his body. "Thank you," you whisper.
He tilts his head, eyes scanning you. One of his hand is on your back, keeping you steady.
"Don't think too much about what he said," he reassures. "You don't have to carry his problem too."
You nod as you both step back into your bedroom. He sits you down on the bed, his hand hovering over yours in your lap. He looks up at you with those soft eyes, just for you.
"You're okay," It sounds more like a statement than a question. "No one's gonna yell at you here. Not him, not anyone."
You sigh, smiling at him. "I needed this," you admit. "And maybe some sleep."
He lets out a low hum of agreement. "You're right, it's past midnight."
With that, he settles on the bed beside you, draping the blanket over your shoulders so it rest comfortably against your chest.
"There," he murmurs softly. "Better?"
You nod, closing your eyes. "Mhm, much better," You whisper.
He hums quietly, pressing a soft kiss on your lips.
To me, one of the most intriguing undercurrents to Whitaker's arc this season has been about his feelings of alienation, emasculation, and inability to connect with the other men in the department. Javadi calls him an astrology-girlie. The betting boys club mock him and visibly look down on him. He very awkwardly compliments Robby on his motorcycle . Langdon teases him about the med student badge and then gets in his face about the librium faux-pas, physically intimidating him. Ogilve doesn't take him seriously until the very end, Park the Shark calls him an idiot, Joy loudly outs him as having been unhoused in front of the entire department.
And it is both very telling and very interesting that his final straw is Langdon openly mocking his masculinity, the back-handed compliment of stating Whitaker doesn't seem like a gym guy, starting to make what was obviously going to be a crude and inappropriately derisive joke about his sex life. And I don't think Langdon is intending to be as mean spirited or triggering as Whitaker is perceiving it--he has had moments of trying to be a genuinely good teacher to him, being helpful and kind. But still, he has been condescending and patronizing all day, forcing a familiarity and power dynamic to their non-existent relationship that Whitaker is very clearly not okay or comfortable with at all. And exhausted from this shift, stressed about his badge and the shitty old lady and Amy and money, Whitaker has completely lost his ability to swallow it all down. And so for the first time that day, maybe ever, he asserts a firm boundary and stands up for himself.
And crucially this is the first time, too, we see Langdon take in a boundary, hear it, receive it, and respect it. He apologizes, genuinely, and doesn't deflect or defend or respond with hostility. And when Whitaker feels bad, second-guesses himself and start to backtrack, Langdon says--hey, no. You were right. It's okay. It's a huge moment of growth for them both, and the fact that they really hardly know each other is exactly what is critical to allowing so much development.
warnings: +18 mdni, sex worker!fem reader, religious themes/guilt, dubcon (on account of being paid to have sex but reader gives explicit consent multiple times), porn no plot (so spoiler free!), dry humping, heavy petting, nipple sucking, marking, possessive behavior, dirty talk, begging, praise, a little bit of intimidation, size difference, finger sucking, ormund fucks you on a desk, clit stimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding kink towards the end, might be ooc because this is the first time i've ever written for him, lightly edited!
wc: 1.8k
thinking about pious ormund hightower and whore!reader who is so fucking pretty that she immediately becomes this man's kryptonite.
you're first presented to him as a gift. delivered to his bed chamber late one night by some castellan who'd gotten him all wrong, an offer to find common ground.
but ormund isn't an indulgent or lustful man. he honors the seven and resists his impulses. he'll be married one day, after all. he doesn't want to disrespect his future wife by sullying himself before he's even met her.
but you are...gods. the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. and ormund is well traveled, has seen all matter of beautiful women before and has never looked twice.
but the moment he lifts his eyes from the scrolls on his borrowed desk, he feels his resistance waver.
and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.
he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.
at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.
but then he lets himself touch you.
slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.
you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.
he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.
you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.
but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.
when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.
you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.
his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.
his for the taking.
his for the feasting.
ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.
he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.
your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."
he should say no. he knows that.
but then you say, "please, ser."
and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?
ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.
"get up," he says.
you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.
ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.
he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.
gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"
the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.
"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."
he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."
"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.
a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.
but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.
you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.
with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.
his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.
this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.
it should be enough.
and yet it is not.
ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.
he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.
there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.
and maybe you are.
ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.
he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.
the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.
tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.
ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.
he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.
but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?
gods.
it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.
but it's true.
ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.
but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.
he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.
"i want you," you say.
and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.
"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."
there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.
but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.
might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.
his woman.
your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."
he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.
he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.
carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.
ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.
it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.
𝜗ৎ cw: rough sex, light manhandling, mating press, general NSFW content. MDNI. i think i might've gone a little wild this time. but there's also cute bonding time w/ yuji and choso
☆ sometimes, you think CHOSO doesn't realize how strong he is.
you like to believe he's being held back by his love for his family, his gruff but soft-spoken demeanor, and how easy it is for him to be overcome with emotions. that's the thing about him you're most in love with.
he does everything with gentleness until he doesn't.
the sliding door he usually closes with the utmost care? slam! even a little flick of his hand as he pries them open is enough to send a light gust of wind in anyone's direction.
when he hugs you, it feels more like a rib-crusher rather than a cozy embrace from someone who seems so smitten. but you don't complain, because it has its own unique, snug charm.
when he pats yuji (or anyone, for that matter) on the back, it feels like being sent five or so inches forward. and the slap of his palm against is heavy, compact, like it's meant to sting a little.
even the little things like catching a mosquito sounds like he's activating piercing blood, the air around the room crackling a little at the impact of choso's hands clapping together. every time you hear it, you feel the burning in your own palms at the impact.
you fondly remember the rare occasion when you, yuji, and choso had gone out to the park, with the boys playing a more hazardous game of catch while you sat pretty by the picnic blanket. and while you're in the middle of snooping for a snack, you just hear yuji yelp as the ball choso had sent hurtling the younger boy's way had landed square on his chest and actually sent him flying.
sprawling on the grass. knocked out like a ragdoll.
it surprises you. it surprises choso. it surprises anyone who isn't blind.
yup, anything that choso thinks is a light touch but isn't actually, he's following it up with a profuse apology and a few tears from his pathetic brown eyes.
you're not even a casualty, but when he looks at you from his place in the grass, rubbing yuji's front while the younger boy casually laughs it off because of course he can manage force like that, you know he's about to apologize to you as well.
"'msorrymsorrymsorrymsorry—" choso whimpers against your ear, his flushes cheek grazing your calf where he has your legs folded up against your chest in a mean mating press.
he's using his body weight to keep you pressed down onto the mattress, his sweat mixing with yours while his hands, large and veiny, grips at the plush of your ass, very certain to leave marks.
and you can't do anything but take it, babbling in an unrestrained chain as choso's cock, as intimidating as the rest of his body, bullies its way into your already gushing cunt, repeatedly bashin' 'n bashin' against your g-spot like he's trying to prove himself.
"choooo, oh my—hic—can't—ngguhh—don' say sorry to me—ahaaaa—baby—fuck! mnghhh—" choso had half a mind to laugh fondly at the way you're trying to form a coherent sentence amidst his relentless pounding, if he wasn't already so lost himself.
his cock feels so raw, squelching in 'n out against your pussy lips. like every time he even dares to pull out, he just buries himself deeper into you just to hear your screams and whines grow higher & louder.
"cho—oh! baby—hic—y'already said—ahhah!—sorry to y-yuj—AAAH—!"
but choso shakes his head, the now unkempt and (undeniably) adorably messy fall of his hair grazing your damp cheeks. if it were possible, his grip on your ass tightens even further, blunt nails digging into the flesh.
this time, he really can't help it. at that sudden raise of your voice, choso just falls, groaning loudly and laying on top of you, his hips bouncing against yours like drums, increasing in speed, increasing in intensity.
all his weight, on you. he pries your legs ooopen obscenely, shuddering when his and your nipples rub against each other. your nails feel so delectable against his sturdy back.
"don' talk abou' my baby brother when—hic—you've got my cock bullyin' you, hun—ggghhh—"
at this point, no one would be able to tell where he ends and you begin. your sweat and tears of heightened arousal and overstimulation mix against each other, your moans just blendin' into each other's mouth.
the constant rub of his pubic hair against your poor clit has you screaming, arching up up against choso. all the while, he keeps babbling against your ears, almost inaudible amidst your mewls and his own pathetic whines.
"you wouldn't let—-nghhhh—me treat you like tha', baby, would'ya? nonono, honey, it won't ever happen—-ghhh-hic—nghhh—can't bring m'self to be s'rough on'ya even if i tried—but look a' me right now, baby…oooohhhh, if m'strength t'—t'much f'r you baby, promise y' get to milk me dry."
you're nodding mindlessly, grip clumsily adjusting as choso speeeeeds up, the fastest he can go as he feels you clamp down on him like you don't want to let go. like you're making good on his promise to milk him dry. until he's shooting blanks. until he can't think and he can actually force himself to be gentle.
"i like y'like this, choso…i—i—hng—i like that y'r strong—like it whe-y-you-you prove it 'cus w'both keep-keep-keep!—" you feel yourself reaching your limit, the coil in your stomach about to break as you let out one last unabashed scream against choso's hairline.
"cummingcumming—-" your voices mix together in a symphony as splurts of white n' clear spill against your joined bodies n' the poor sheets below you. normally, choso would've ended there, revert to the gentleness and nurturing nature he naturally slots into.
but—no. he doesn't stop. "mm…c'mere, baby, 'm not done w'you yet!—"
his hands are practically glued to you as he manhandles you onto your stomach, taking practically a millisecond to revel in the cum flowing out from your cunt before he bullies himself back in, groanin' when he sees the fat of your ass ripple.
"w're not stoppin' until i prove it…might get you knocked up, hun. our—hic—baby might get my strength too—now…" his hands now bury into your scalp, ruttin' into you like it's his sole purpose.
the impact from your first round has left your bed frame creaking for mercy, headboard pounding against the wall. your drool coats the pillow below you, round after round, your body bein' handled higher and higher until your ass is up in the sky.
choso's embrace don't lose purchase of your body, hugging you close as he mindlessly lets his balls slap against your clit, rough fingers toying with your bouncing tits. his thighs and the back o' his knees are the only things keepin' you spread open.
and you take it. dumbified and a little more in love with him by the moment.
no, actually. choso definitely knows how strong he is. only times like these.
before you know it, you're spent 'n boneless, and choso…looks after you like he didn't bully your cunt into oblivion, like your stomach doesn't feel slightly bigger after how many rounds.
"sweet love…giggling to yourself?" he manages to rasp out fondly when he caresses your cheeks, dabbing your hairline with a cool, damp towel. you're still somewhere beyond cloud nine, nuzzling mindlessly and a lazy grin on your swollen lips where he kisses you until you pass out.
and even then, he continues. because what more can he reward his love with?
he may not realize it sometimes, but he sure as hell likes to make sure it hits just the same.
AKA "De-aged Danny finds himself in Crime Alley, Gotham City. It's actually not been super bad, he doesn't know why it has such a bad reputation! (Red Hood could probably tell you.)" DPxDC prompt idea!
Red Hood takes care of Crime Alley kids. He makes sure they aren't being used as drug runners, soup kitchens are always available to them, the community center offers toxin-free water bottles, and he's siphoned a ton of money from Bruce's accounts into making shelters at least tolerable. It's an open secret that you mess with alley kids, you mess with Red Hood (and get a couple of bullets to make the lesson stick). But there are a few that Red Hood knows personally - his goons' kids, his little brothers and sisters' friends, etc. - that get special treatment.
A blood red emblem of a bat stitched into their jacket.
This kid - maybe nine or ten, messy black hair, and bright blue eyes - doesn't have an emblem. He has Red Hood's jacket. It's recognizable enough to make regular civilians do a double take, goons scratch their heads in confusion ("Did Boss mention having a kid?" "No, but they do look pretty similar..."), and get other alley kids jealous. It's more than protection, it's a status symbol. Whoever this kid is, he's important.
...Not that Danny knows that. All he knows is he's suddenly smaller, alone, and needs to contact his parents to pick him up. Unfortunately, he gets his parent's voicemail. Again and again and again. (If he thinks about it too much, his face and throat burn. So he doesn't think about it. Just keeps calling and hopes somebody picks up this time.) But for all that Gotham is supposedly unsafe and super duper crime ridden, Danny's been pretty... unscathed? Like, obviously nobody's helping him, but nobody's hurting him either. He hasn't gotten shot once which is way less times than in Amity. He even found a dope leather jacket left on a railing while walking around downtown.
The only time he gets worried is when he's walking around Gotham (for lack of anything better to do. It helps him think, sue him) and these... costumed people... follow him. Danny doesn't know anything about Gotham, hasn't been able to talk with anybody to get information, so he doesn't know if these are good guys or bad guys. Just that they seem to be following him, watching him with a hawk's eye. And the last couple of days, they've been getting closer and closer until one - a big, dark, incredibly intimidating pointy-eared guy - literally tries to kidnap him off the streets.
Danny runs (or flew, really, screw being discrete, he can be discrete when he's... well, not dead). He realizes pretty quickly that these guys must have some kind of sensor or something because they have no problem seeing through his invisibility. And then Danny's crashing straight into something solid, semi-squishy, and not-quite-human but human-shaped. The kinda-human in question... is wearing a red motorcycle helmet and something like black armor, blood red bat on his chest, and guns strapped to his side. And he's looking straight at Danny.
Oh... shoot.
((+1. Jason notices his leather jacket is nicked maybe 3 or 4 minutes after accidentally dropping it off the roof. The jacket itself isn't super important but the fact somebody was willing to steal Red Hood's jacket while in Crime Alley means there's some "re-education" that needs to happen. He days following a trail of rumors about a young kid wearing his jacket. Which. He's not going apeshit on a kid, but he is going to replace his with a kid-friendly jacket. Jason's pretty sure he left a knife or two in his old one.
Issue is the kid's like a ghost. Appearing one moment and disappearing the next. Jason doesn't expect to nearly be knocked off his feet by the suddenly appearing, quite literally, in his arms... with bright Lazarus green eyes and a shock of white streaking his hair. The sight twists something in his chest. Something that chants same and different in the same breadth. Jason almost doesn't realize the kid is being chased by somebody... and that somebody is Bruce, cowl obscuring squinting suspicious eyes, stiff frown, and tense posture.
Jason's lips tick up in a half-snarling smile. It's well-known Red Hood protects alley kids. As he coaxes the Lazarus-kid behind him, hand over the familiar leather of his jacket, Jason faces Bruce and thinks well... it's a good day for a reminder. Because this kid is definitely his now.))
Commence the Red Hood vs. Batman Adoption Face-Off lol
