#possesive

[camidollie]

please mark me up. it doesnt matter where, my neck, my thighs, my ass, my face, my nipples, it doesnt matter. show everyone how you were making me come undone for you the night prior. show everyone how i take it so well. talk to your friends about how good it is with me. brag about how tight i am. write about me in your journal. whatever you do , never stop thinking about me

[thenocturnaarchive]

[garlicsunshine]

[mylittlecomfortcorner]

Strange Love (Series maybe - PT2)

Rose's frustrations on attempting to do couple things with strange like playing jenga, watching a movie or drawing...he always make things sexual.

Yes, so WARNINGS : NON-CON, Maybe Age Gap, Erotic? What the hell just read at your own risk, um i suck at english so please be lenient (my mom tries her best to help correct wrong sentences) I only scored b4 for English.

The Sanctum’s library smelled of old parchment and candle wax, the kind of quiet that should have felt safe. Rose had dragged a small wooden table into the corner by the fireplace, set up a battered Jenga tower she’d found in a box marked Avengers Game Night – Do Not Touch. She’d worn her softest sweater, the one that didn’t cling, and tied her hair back in a messy bun—practical, innocent, normal.

“Stephen,” she’d said that morning, voice light, “just one game. No magic. No portals. Just… us.”

He’d smiled, the one that made her stomach flip even now, and agreed.

The tower wobbled on its twenty-third block. Rose’s tongue poked between her teeth in concentration. Stephen sat opposite, legs stretched, one hand lazily spinning a coffee mug that refilled itself with dark roast. His eyes never left her face.

“Your turn,” she whispered, nudging the block toward him.

He plucked it free with two fingers, slow, deliberate. The tower swayed. Rose held her breath. Stephen leaned in, breath warm against her ear. “If this falls, you owe me a kiss.”

“It’s Jenga, not strip poker.”

“Everything’s strip poker if you’re patient.”

The tower crashed. Blocks scattered like startled birds. Rose laughed—startled, genuine—then caught herself. Stephen was already moving, chair scraping back, knees hitting the rug. His mouth found hers before she could protest, hands sliding under the sweater, thumbs brushing the lace edge of her bra. The game forgotten, the fireplace crackling too loud, her back against the table’s edge as he lifted her onto it. Wood dug into her spine. The Jenga blocks crunched beneath them.

“Stephen, we didn’t even finish—”

“We will,” he murmured, teeth grazing her throat. “Later.”

Two nights later, she tried again. Movie night. Spirited Away—something gentle, nostalgic. She’d made popcorn with real butter, dimmed the lights, curled into the couch with a blanket big enough for two. Stephen joined her, cloak discarded, wearing grey sweatpants and that half-smirk that promised trouble.

Ten minutes in, Chihiro’s parents turned into pigs. Rose sniffled, reached for a tissue. Stephen’s hand intercepted hers, guiding it to his thigh instead.

“Focus on the film,” she tried, voice small.

“I am.” His fingers traced lazy circles on her wrist. “You’re crying. Let me fix it.”

He kissed the tears from her cheeks, slow, reverent—then not slow at all. The blanket tangled around her ankles. Popcorn spilled across the cushions. The movie played on, forgotten, subtitles flickering over their skin as he pressed her into the couch, one hand muffling her gasps against his palm.

The art room was her last sanctuary. Skylights, canvases, the faint smell of turpentine. Rose had set up two easels side by side, squeezed cadmium red onto a palette like a peace offering.

“Couples paint night,” she’d announced, cheeks pink. “No touching the brushes with anything but paint.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow but obeyed—for twelve minutes.

She was blocking in a sunset, tongue between teeth again, when his shadow fell over her canvas. His brush dipped into cerulean, then trailed—not on his paper, but down the inside of her forearm, cool and wet.

“Stephen—”

“Shading,” he said innocently. The brush moved lower, circling her wrist, then the hollow of her elbow. Paint smeared across her skin like bruises.

She stepped back. “I just wanted to make something. Together. Not… this.”

His eyes darkened. “You are making something. You’re making me insane.”

The easels toppled. Paint splattered—red across his cheek, blue streaking her collarbone. He pinned her to the drop-cloth, mouths clashing, hands slick with color. She tasted turpentine and him. Her sundress hiked to her waist, his belt clinking open. The canvas beneath them soaked up their heat, colors bleeding into a abstract mess neither of them would frame.

The escape attempt came after the art room.

She waited until he portaled to Kamar-Taj for a “briefing.” Three hours, maybe four. She packed light: passport, a hoodie, the emergency cash she’d hidden in a hollowed-out book (Herbology for Beginners). Wong was in the courtyard, pruning bonsai.

“Wong, I—I need to visit my aunt in Queens. Stephen said it’s fine.”

Wong didn’t look up. “Portal’s faster. I’ll open one.”

“No!” Too sharp. She softened. “I want the train. Normal. Please.”

He frowned, shears pausing. “You okay, kid?”

She almost broke then. Almost spilled everything—the prophecy, the nights she woke sore and trembling, the way Stephen’s love felt like drowning. But the Sanctum’s walls had ears. She saw it in Wong’s eyes: trust in Stephen, blind and ancient.

“Fine,” she lied. “Just homesick.”

Wong nodded, resumed trimming.

She made it to Grand Central. Heart hammering, ticket to anywhere-but-here clutched in sweaty fingers. The train hissed, doors opening—

Time stuttered.

Passengers froze mid-step. A child’s balloon hung suspended. Rose’s legs locked. Stephen stepped out of a portal that hadn’t been there a second ago, cloak billowing like judgment. His expression was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

“Going somewhere, love?”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He walked the length of the platform, boots echoing in the silence, until he stood before her. His fingers brushed her cheek, smearing a streak of cadmium red she hadn’t noticed was still there.

“You left your easel,” he said softly. “We weren’t finished.”

The portal swallowed them both.

Back in the Sanctum, he didn’t yell. Didn’t punish with pain. He simply laid her on their bed, stripped her with reverent hands, and made love to her until she was sobbing—not from hurt, but from the cruel gentleness of it. Until her body arched into his despite her mind screaming no. Until she whispered his name like a prayer she hated herself for knowing.

After, he held her, stroking her hair. “You’ll try again,” he murmured, “and I’ll always bring you home. That’s the real prophecy, Rose. You and me. Forever.”

She stared at the ceiling, paint still under her nails, and felt the last piece of fight drain out of her.

Tomorrow, she thought dully, maybe she’d suggest Scrabble.

He’d probably fuck her on the tiles.

[zzoglass]

"You belong to me"

where fratboy!chris gets possesive over shy!reader at a pool party

warning; swearing, making out,love confessing ,petnames,possesiveness, slight cursing

Finally, Friday..

You and Chris got along well, you guys were close. But Chris...he never liked sharing you with other people..he was what people would call..'overpossesive'.

Friday, 1 AM at jacob's house AKA the popular guy, everyone was invited from your class.

Everything was going good until Jacob walked up to you, he was a little...drunk.

"Hi baby..do you wanna make out in my bedroom?" his breath reeked like vodka and beer together. You became really uncomfortable.

"Uh...no thank you Jacob. maybe it's time to close this party off." Due that Jacob was influenced by the alchohol, he couldn't keep his anger back. "You bitch, you're lucky i even noticed you, you ska-" before Jacob could finish his sentence, chris interuppted from behind you as he wrapped his arms arund your waist. "Dont you dare talk to her like that, you asshole." His voice was firm and his expression was tense until he looked over at you his gaze softend and there was a hint of worry on his face. "Are you okay,sweetheart?"

"I'm okay,baby" you answerd while he pressed soft kisses down your neck. "I love you,ma." he said while you two slowly start to explore eachothers mouth. "I love you too, babe". You guys have a soft makeout session.

The rest of the night you guys go home and cuddle some more before falling asleep in eachothers arms.

PS. this is my first fanfiction,please no hate! 🤞😘

[simi1234-lovely]

THE POSSESSIVE OBSSESSION. - INTRODUCTION (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1543506869-the-possessive-obssession-introduction?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=simi_lovely "Who did this?" Dante said looking at the mark on my neck with red in his eyes. "D-Dante.. it doesn't matter" "I'm going to ask you one last time. Who. Hurt. You?" "Marco" I said looking down. I looked up to see him smirking, death smirk. he turned around and started walking away. "Dante.. don't. you'll.. kill him" ii said that and he turned to me raising his eyebrow. "So?" "nothing. Danta Romano. The most feared mafia in the world. deadly as fuck and cares about no one, meets a young woman who breaks through the walls of stone surrounding his heart. and decides to keep her to himself but what would he do when he finds out he's the one who killed her parents...? Crystal Leonardo. A young orphan with lots of bills to pay, working in a strip club, meets the most handsome man she had ever seen.. he saves her from her misery but it all comes at a price... Lets see, would Dante be able to explain his reasons..? Would Crystal forgive him..?.... What would Crystal do when she finds out he's the cause of her misery..?

[misstycloud]

I normally don’t like play boy archetype characters but you’ve done it again and have made me swoon over a OC of yours 😍

When’s the wedding? What’s the wedding theme? The dress? How many carrots in the ring?

Thanks glad you like him!

The wedding would be as soon as possible(he wants to put a ring on that finger and legally tie you to him) and it would have a traditional, elegant theme. It doesn’t necessarily have to be that he loves fancy stuff but wants to show off and subtly tell you what you tried to give up. He also wants you to know who truly is in control of the relationship by making you feel small(financially) in comparison to him. He says you should help plan the event and brings out magazines and inspiration sources for you to look at. Despite him assuring you’re the main decision maker, it really is he who has the final say, it’s his money after all. It’s not really your wedding.

Both the dress and the ring has to be more expensive than avarage. His suit would be very fine as well. Considering his status, his wedding would be something to talk about so it can’t just be any little wedding the the backyard. Like I said, the wedding might not be the most interesting one you’ll ever see but his goal isn’t the have the most exciting wedding ever, it’s just to trap you with him quickly before you could slip away from him again.

[babygyalpotion]

I love you so much it's not funny 😭😭😭😭