#<- I'm actually about to lose my shit WHY IS THERE TWO OF THE SAME TAG WTF!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hanniebaeee · 2 months ago

Text

Clueless: Wrong Chat?

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: None!

Genre: Best friends to lovers, flufffff, texts

Summary: Hyunjin, your best friend, drops you off for a coffee date with your colleague Mingyu. It's not a date at all, but Hyunjin thinks it is. And he rants in the wrong group chat - completely jealous and unhinged.

a/n: Wanted to make a Clueless series! Thoughts?

Clueless Masterlist

Hyunjin sighs dramatically as he flops onto the couch in his apartment. He's been pouting ever since he'd dropped you at the cafe where you're meeting Mingyu, your colleague for coffee.

Hyunjin: I’m actually losing my goddamn mind.

Hyunjin: She’s out with him. With. Him.

Felix: Hyunjin, it's just coffee.

Hyunjin: OF COURSE IT'S NOT JUST COFFEE, FELIX.

Chan: Oh no🙄

Minho: Here we go. Someone hold his leash.

Hyunjin: This is NOT good. Mingyu is - he’s like…

Jeongin: Are you okay bro?

Hyunjin: I AM NOT OKAY.

How is he supposed to be ok when you, the love of his life is out with some guy for "coffee"? Jisung had taken a girl out for coffee a few weeks ago, and now she's his girlfriend.

Hyunjin sighs. He couldn't think of you being anybody else's. You're his girl. And he's gonna win you over.

Meanwhile, you are sitting across from Mingyu, discreetly checking your phone as it buzzes repeatedly with notifications. You freeze when you see the texts.

Oh, so this is why Hyunjin was in a bad mood the whole morning, you think. He barely said a word to you as he drove you to the cafe.

Changbin: Dude, calm down. It’s just coffee.

Hyunjin: COFFEE LEADS TO DINNER, DINNER LEADS TO NETFLIX, AND NETFLIX LEADS TO YOU KNOW WHAT. ASK JISUNG.

Jisung: HYUNJIN.

Felix: 😳

Minho: Jisung you sly dog.

Chan: Hyunjin, touch some grass.

Hyunjin: I CAN’T, CHRISTOPHER. SHE IS MY GRASS.

Minho: Let it all out. Keep going.

Chan: Hyunjin. Deep breaths. IN through your nose, OUT through your mouth.

Hyunjin: I SWEAR TO GOD IF HE LAYS A FINGER ON HER

Changbin: I don't think he's laying anything on her.

Felix: Okay, Hyun, you need a time-out.

Hyunjin: No, what I NEED is for Mingyu to trip over his stupid perfect legs and fall face-first into a compost bin.

Mingyu smiles at you across the table, gesturing towards his laptop as he speaks. You are trying so hard to focus on the ideas he's laying down in front of you - the startup ideas that you two have been talking about forever. You smile back, nodding, while trying not to choke on your laughter.

Jisung: Stupid perfect legs? Hyunjin, why do you even know what Mingyu’s legs look like?

Hyunjin: Because I have eyes, Ji. I pay attention to the threat level.

Hyunjin: He's like 6 feet tall.

Jeongin: Threat level: Sexy.

Hyunjin: THANK YOU, JEONGIN. No one asked you.

Chan: You're tall enough

Hyunjin: Not enough apparently

Felix: Hyunjin, calm down.

Hyunjin: No, because LISTEN. Who does he even think he is. Asking my girl out. How dare he.

Hyunjin: SHE’S OUT THERE WITH HIM WHILE I’M JUST

Changbin: Lonely and deranged?

Hyunjin: EXACTLY.

Seungmin: Someone hose him down

You are trying to concentrate on the graph Mingyu is pointing to now, but seriously, who are you even kidding. Your cheeks are warming up with the second-hand embarrassment from what's brewing on the group chat.

Hyunjin: And do you know what really sucks? She’s probably looking AMAZING right now. Like, how does she do that? How does she leave the house and make everyone fall in love with her?!

Hyunjin: And doesn't even realize that I love her? She obviously doesn't! Like I'm right here.

Jisung: Why don't you just corner her in the supply closet?? Omg I never thought I'd get a chance to give that back to you 🔪

Hyunjin: Bro. She's my best friend. It isn't the same.

Jisung: Excuses excuses

Felix: Oh SHIT.

Felix: 🚨 STOP 🚨

Jeongin: Wait, what chat is this 👀

Hyunjin: What do you mean what chat?

---

Hyunjin goes quiet for a second.

---

Hyunjin: Wait.

Hyunjin: WHAT CHAT IS THIS???

Chan: You absolute clown.

Felix: I tried.

Minho: LMAO

You: Hyunjin.

Hyunjin: Y/N. Baby. Light of my life.

Y/N: Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re picking me up in 20 minutes. And we're gonna talk.

Hyunjin: Ok. Yes. Ok.

---

Hyunjin was still typing and you were about done with this.

---

Y/N: Baby. Stop typing.

Hyunjin: Shutting up now.

Changbin: She really did put a leash on him.

Felix: This is why I love her 😁

Y/N: And Hyunjin?

Hyunjin: Yes, angel?

Y/N: I love you too.

Hyunjin: 😳😳😳😳

Hyunjin’s heart literally stops when he reads your text. You love him back. You love him back!!! He feels faint, his hands are shaky and he just needs to see you. Right now.

Hyunjin: Picking you up now.

Y/N: Ok baby.

---

And finally, it was all calm again.

---

Chan: Well, at least we get a little peace and quiet now.

---

As you step outside, you spotted Hyunjin’s car pulling up, his face twisted in a mix of nervousness and relief. His gaze immediately locks onto Mingyu, who waves goodbye. Hyunjin behaves just so that he can show you that he can be a good boy when he needs to.

You grin as you get into the car, and pull on the seat belt. When you look up at him, he's watching you eagerly, well he does look a little scared - like a child waiting to be scolded for doing something wrong.

“You ok, Jinnie?” You ask.

“Perfect. I'm perfect.”

You raise an eyebrow, fully aware of the effect you have on him.

“Is that so?” you purr, and Hyunjin gulps, as he nods.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, looking away.

“You know,” you said with a sly smile, “if you had said something sooner, we wouldn’t have had to go through all this.”

Hyunjin’s face turns a sweet pink, and he can't help but smile a little.

“Can you say it again?” He asks.

“Say what?”

“That you love me?”

You feel your own cheeks heating up as you your eyes meet.

“I love you, Hyunjinnie. I have for as long as I can remember.” You whisper, and Hyunjin's head falls onto the steering wheel as he does his best not to scream out in joy.

You giggle at his reaction and he looks at you again.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks shyly.

“Yes please,” You say and that's that.

---

Hyunjin: Guess what, losers?

Hyunjin: WE KISSED.

Chan: Wow. Congratulations?

Minho: Was it a pity kiss? Be honest.

Changbin: I'm sure she did it to shut you up.

Hyunjin: It was magical.

Hyunjin: She looked at me, leaned in, and BAM. Fireworks.

Hyunjin: It’s what poets write about.

Jeongin: Or she just felt bad for you.

Hyunjin: NO.

Felix: Seriously, if you keep this up, she’s gonna see this and run the other way.

Hyunjin: She won't!

Y/N: Hyunjin.

Y/N: GET OFF YOUR PHONE.

Hyunjin: Ok bye.

Chan: Jokes aside, we're happy for you both.

Jisung: Of course we are

Minho: Y/N, sweetheart, get your man a collar

Y/N: Noted.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun

#stray kids #skz #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin x you #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin fake texts #skz fluff #skz x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader

1K notes · View notes

kingkat12 · 5 months ago

Text

art on art (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, oral sex (female receiving), drug mentions, nasty fluff tihi

summary: why hasn't Eric reached out after leaving rehab yet, and how long does it take for marker ink to fade?

word count: 5,272 PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

a/n: this is part 3 of my Eric Draven fanfic draw you! thanks again for the overwhelming support of this series, and enjoy!!<333

Some broken part of me never expected to see Eric again. I knew that the previous men in my life would leave the second they got what they wanted out of me, so why should I hope for this one to be different?

I had been out of rehab for exactly two weeks now, and I knew this meant that Eric was out as well. He had my address, he had my number, and he weirdly enough also had my email address... yet I hadn't heard anything from him. Not a single thing. I wasn't quite sure why my heart was breaking at the realization I had been thrown away again-- I should be used to this.

In actuality, I knew exactly why my hopes were up.

The last time I saw Eric, had been right before I was about to leave rehab. We were standing in my room, the guards no longer watching me as I was technically excused and only there to get my stuff. I was packing everything into a big cardboard box, unable to meet Eric's green eyes as he sat on my bed-- he just looked so damn sad, I couldn't bring myself to watch.

At the same time, I couldn't believe that he was upset about me leaving; no one had ever cared for me like that before. "Why do you look like that?" I eventually asked, stuffing his drawings into a book so that they wouldn't get ruined during the move.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to shoot a puppy,"

Eric snorted, a slight smile finally forming across his lips. "Just thinking about how shit these next days are going to be without you here,"

I dared to gaze at him, watching his chest rise and fall in a long sigh. Even while doing the simplest act of sitting, Eric looked downright gorgeous. His dark hair had grown even longer during the time we had known each other, which allowed slight curls to form along his forehead. Draped in pink, tattoos peeking up from the collar of his jumper, green eyes soft with feelings-- the sight was almost enough to make my breath hitch.

"Oh, you won't notice I'm gone," I mumbled, trying to lighten the mood at the same time as I tried to be discreet about shoving my underwear down into the box. "Time will fly by, don't you worry."

Eric shifted, moving closer to the edge of the bed. He stopped me from picking up the next batch of my stuff, leading my hands into his as his rounded eyes sunk into mine. "You're saying that as though I won't miss you,"

I held my breath, unsure what to say.

Eric noticed my hesitance, squeezing my hands; "I will miss you. Do you understand that?"

Oh, I most certainly did not understand that. Not at all. But it didn't stop my heart from swelling, beating harder than it probably ever had before. It also didn't get any better when Eric led me between his legs, letting go of my hands so that he could put his against my waist. He looked up at me through his thick, long lashes, clearly trying to make me understand the longing lingering in his body. "Will you miss me?"

There was no question in my mind that I would. I'd miss him every second of every day, as I already did. However, I wasn't sure whether it was smart to tell him this, or whether that would make him lose interest like my previous flings. But weirdly enough, something told me I could trust this guy-- or was that just his pretty face doing the talking? "I will," I said, taking his face into my hands, brushing my thumbs over his cheeks in a newfound sense of affection.

Eric's previously glossy look suddenly became a hopeful one-- he pulled me even closer, my hands going up into his hair as he buried his face against the crook of my neck.

There was something so sincere about him, that I couldn't help but smile. Even now, as I remembered it. Was I stupid to imagine that it had all been real? That he hadn't acted like he would miss me just out of pity?

This was definitely my insecurity talking. I needed to get it all out of my head-- which is exactly why I ended up going out tonight, my friends by my side as we made our way into our usual spot at the club downtown. Being back in the darkness of this place, music blasting through my ears, brought a lot of memories back; specifically the dark ones.

However, I wasn't drinking. I wasn't taking anything, and I wasn't planning on doing so. In the back of my mind, I kept imagining a scenario where Eric would finally reach out and find me relapsed... and that was certainly not ideal. Then he'd definitely not want to be with me.

Maybe I just needed to forget about him?

And so I began trying-- it didn't take long before I sat down next to some guy trying to tell me about his life story. I had never been this disinterested in my life, allowing him to put his arm around me as I stared up at the light-show on display across the roof, lost in thought.

I wondered where Eric was. What he was doing, who he was with, where he was. Whether he thought about me at all. It quickly hit me that being sober at a club took away all the fun, and with alcohol floating around right before my eyes, I wondered whether I should bother staying sober or not. I didn't exactly have anyone to stay clean for, as I thought I would.

And just as I was about to ask the guy next to me whether I could have the tiniest sip of his beer, I spotted a familiar tall frame across the room. I blinked several times, straightening up in my seat as though I was a woman possessed. I was sure it was him-- I immediately knew the second I saw the tattooed poem on his back peeking through the top of his shirt.

As though I had heard a gunshot, I got up from the couch, my whole body tingling with unexpected excitement. This was an adrenaline surge unlike anything drugs could give me, and it only grew stronger as Eric seemed to be leaving.

Panicked, I sped up into a light jog despite being in heels, making my way through the crowd on the dancefloor. It didn't take long before I caught up to him, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

Eric had a bewildered look about him as he frantically searched who it could be that had held him back from leaving. When his big, green eyes finally landed on me, they widened as he broke out into a look of relief. "There you are!" he exclaimed, his large hands grabbing my shoulders. "I've been looking for you all over!--"

I was sure I would've started crying if I hadn't reached for the collar of his shirt, tugging him down to my level to press my lips against his in the neediest kiss I had probably ever shared. I flung my arms around his neck as he pulled me closer, both of us letting out relieved sighs at our reunion.

I wanted to stay like this forever, swimming in the bliss of being reunited with the man who had haunted my every waking thought. However, I couldn't let myself revel in the joy before I got the answer to my question; "You never called!" I said, my hands now at the sides of his face. "You never fucking called!"

Eric hummed, connecting our foreheads as he closed his eyes. "I did... just from a different number. You never answered, so I had to track you down all the way here,"

My thumbs stroked over his cheeks, my anger simmering down into a slow ache. The thought of Eric calling without getting a response made me feel worse than bad. "How?" was all I was able to say, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose.

Eric blushed a little before pulling away, and I was unsure whether the reason for my sudden dizziness was the loud music or his smile. God, he was gorgeous. "Our dealers are cousins," he said, wrapping his arms around my waist as we swayed on the dance floor. "And your guy told me I could find you here."

"I see," The loving look in Eric's eyes nearly made me melt— it was clear that he had missed me as well. But my questions kept coming to me; "Why did you get a different number? Is everything alright?"

With that, Eric's smile faltered just a little. His grip around my waist tightened as he brought one hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear in a loving gesture. "I... suppose there's a lot I have to tell you, now that I've come all this way,"

I could sense that this was serious— I had seen enough of those guilty eyes for one lifetime. "I see," I repeated, pulling him in for another kiss, reveling in the feeling of tasting him again. There was nothing I had missed more about rehab than this. "Let's talk it out somewhere else, then?"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It wasn't every day that I brought back men from the club— my policy was no men at my place at all, just in case I encountered a serial killer in disguise. But this thing with Eric was different; he could've moved in for all I cared. He could also proceed to burn it all down, rip me apart with his bare hands, and I'd let him.

However, the difference between Eric and the other men in my life was that I knew, deep down in my heart, that he would never hurt me; which is why I let him into my apartment.

I watched as Eric took a look around, his hands tucked into his front pockets as he whistled; "Quite the place,"

Shrugging, I made my way towards him as he towered over everything in my living room. "Sure is,"

Eric turned to me, a raised brow on display. "You're telling me you're loaded?"

I felt a bit embarrassed— I knew that once Eric found out the truth, he'd think of me just as all the other ones did. The spoiled girl who had nothing else to do but turn to drugs to get a high out of life. I couldn't help but grow nervous, unsure how to explain the truth to him; "Well... It's my parents' money,"

Eric nodded to himself, stepping towards me. "Are they around much? I didn't see them visiting you in rehab,"

The truth stung. "They don't want to look their biggest disappointment in the eye," I mumbled, my gaze falling to my feet. "But they make sure I'm still alive, I suppose. So it's not that bad."

There was a silence before I suddenly felt Eric's long, slender fingers beneath my chin, tilting me up so that I could meet his gaze. I wasn't sure what I was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't this; compassion. "Their loss," he said, the emerald green of his eyes engulfing my being with unexpected kindness. "At least you got a great apartment out of it."

I let out a warm laugh, now keening against the palm of his hand as he placed it to my cheek. "I've missed you,"

As Eric smiled down at me, it was obvious that his heart fluttered at the sight of me. I had never thought someone would ever look at me like that. "I've missed you too," he breathed. "Thought about you during every waking moment of every day. You have no idea how glad I am that I found you."

I could barely believe this was real— didn't stuff like this only happen in movies? "If only I had known you called," I mumbled, placing my hand on top of his. "Being without you was just hell... What happened?"

Eric inhaled a sharp breath, an unintelligible emotion swimming in his eyes. "I want to be honest with you, but... I'm afraid you'll run,"

In a flash of desperation, I placed his hand against my heart. "I have nowhere else to run but to you,"

Eric's green eyes rounded out, his lips parting in confusion— was I maybe not the only one stunned by the confessions of complete and utter love tonight? "I— Fuck,"

With that, Eric's strong hands gripped my waist, pulling me towards him as our lips came together in a hungry kiss. The sheer force of it, along with the element of surprise, nearly had me stumbling a few steps back. But Eric only followed; I nearly moaned out as I felt his tongue against mine, my hands flying up into his dark locks and pulling him closer. I had missed him more than I had ever missed anything in the world, including drugs— all my swarming feelings of never-dying love had me pushing away all my needs for an answer from him regarding his phone, and I let my back hit the surface of the couch as Eric hovered above me.

"Missed you," he breathed in between kisses, a slight growl to his voice. Something told me Eric was trying to melt himself into me to make sure we would never be apart again— it only made my need for him stronger. I clung to him, my legs wrapping around his tall figure as I attempted to pull him even closer than he already was.

Fuck, his lips were so soft. Deadly soft. The way Eric was nipping at my lower lip, occasionally sinking his teeth into it to draw out a whimper, was making a familiar knot form in my lower abdomen. I barely registered that my dress was gone before I watched him discard his shirt somewhere on the floor— now that we finally had time, I let my fingers run over his tattoos, smiling into the next kiss as I realized we would finally have that messy morning I was promised. I couldn't wait to lie in his arms, tracing every piece of art on his skin, taking it all in— this was heaven. Everything about finally being alone with Eric was heaven.

"Missed you too," I eventually managed to moan out, feeling him grow hard against the apex of my thighs. "I don't ever want to be without you again." My breath hitched as Eric left wet kisses down jaw, neck, breasts, and stomach, knowing exactly where he was heading. I drew my hand towards my mouth, gently biting down to suppress a rather girly squeal.

"You'll never be," Eric purred against my skin, sinking his teeth gently into my thigh to evoke a sound. "If you think we're ever going to be apart from now on, I need you to scour that pretty little brain of yours once more."

It was impossible not to smile, and I squirmed against the couch before Eric's big, strong hands grabbed my hips, holding me in place as he pressed a kiss against my clothed sex. However, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing this to avoid telling me what had happened in the moments we had been apart. Despite wanting to give in to the pleasure, let him tease me and keep me on the edge through the night, my mind wouldn't let me.

In the moment Eric threw my underwear to the floor, now kissing up my thighs and leaving me breathless, I propped myself up on my elbows; "Hold on," I breathed, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair in hopes of getting his attention. "Eric, wait--"

As he looked up at me through his brows, eyes wide with confusion as he paused for me, I didn't know whether I could go through with it. This moment was so damn precious, something I had been longing for ever since the moment I saw him; so why couldn't it wait? With a sigh, I laid back down.

"You okay?" Eric asked, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against my hipbone. "Wanna stop?"

That was definitely not it-- I let in a lazy breath, my eyelids drooping over my eyes as my body shivered at the feeling of his hot breath against my cunt. Everything about this situation was making my brain shut down. "No... I don't want to stop," My hands reached for his, and Eric let out a hum, his free hand now ghosting over my sex. "Just wondering whether you drew it or not."

"Drew what?"

"What we did in that stairwell,"

Eric's eyes sparkled with amusement as he laughed, placing a wet kiss against the inside of my thigh. "You bet I did,"

"Will you show me?"

He hummed against my skin; "Later... I'm a little busy here, as you see," Eric hooked his arms around my legs, dragging me closer to him as I yelped. I could only laugh, the realization that I had finally gotten all I had ever wanted hitting me just as I felt the warm trickle of spit running down my cunt-- my hips bucked up in surprise, my breath escaping me. I was about to prop myself up on my elbows for a second time, hoping to get a look at what the fuck he was doing, but as he ran his tongue up between my folds with a ridiculously soft touch, I could only whimper.

The memory of Eric saying he would take his time with me when we were out of rehab suddenly dawned on me-- I was in for the long run.

It didn't take long before he had me writhing beneath him, a whimpering, panting mess. With every swirl of his tongue around my clit, every time he sucked in my aching bud between his plush lips, I held back the urge to buck my hips up against him. It got increasingly hard to keep still, especially when Eric pulled away to simply breathe down on my sex, knowing exactly where he had me.

"Fuck," I cried, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair-- I did my best not to tighten my grip, fighting the urge to use his dark locks as handles.

I could feel Eric smiling against me, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my clit; my breath immediately hitched, bucking up against his mouth in an attempt to beg for more. His fingers dug themselves into my thighs, driving my legs further apart as he made space for his broad shoulders. I whined at the loss of friction when he tilted his head to look up at me, and a shiver ran up my spine at the look of his face, slicked with my arousal.

A mischievous smile spread across Eric's plush, glistening lips; "Someone's impatient,"

I could feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment, lolling my head back down against the couch-- looking at him only made it worse. "Can you blame me? You're doing this on purpose,"

Eric hummed, one hand leaving my thigh to lazily rub soft circles around my clit, using my slick as a lubricant. It only made me squirm, letting out a shaky moan as my back arched slightly off the couch. Even worse, was that I started to feel a small tremble appearing in my hands. "Can't handle a little teasing?" he said, biting his lip as he watched me attempt to suppress my noises. "You keep saying you've waited for me... What happened to your patience?"

I held back the urge to simply kick him-- but that thought immediately slipped out of my mind the second Eric flattened his tongue against me, licking a stripe all the way up to my swollen clit. It was impossible to suppress the hitch of my breath, and the tug I gave his hair in response was purely instinctual. It surprised me further to hear him enjoy it; I decided to keep that observation stored for later.

I had a feeling Eric knew my mind was buzzing, that he wouldn't be able to toy with me much longer. There might've been a few giveaways that I was at my wit's end-- all of which left me feeling like an even bigger mess than I already was beneath him. "I- I can't," I whined, my words leaving me as Eric sucked me in once more. "Wait, please!--"

He hummed against me, now pressing his lips against the crease of my thigh as a chuckle built in his throat. "Fine, fine," he said, playfully sinking his teeth into my skin, his green eyes watching my every move. "I suppose I'm dragging this out... I don't know why I'm feeling nervous."

Nervous? Eric didn't look very nervous to me. "It's just me, though?" I tried, attempting to catch my breath as I laid my hand on top of his. My next words came out shakier than anticipated, especially now that he was kissing his way back up my body; "You don't need to be nervous."

Eric hummed, his large, tattooed hands kneading my chest, kissing along the hem of my bra. "It's just... When you left rehab," he started, his lips pressing along my collarbones. "I realized it took me days to recover after a dream with you in it."

The rush of joy surging through my veins reminded me of a hit of amphetamine-- it was all-taking, consuming, and I wanted nothing more than to press him so closely that we'd melt together. "Eric--"

"I've drawn you over and over," he breathed, kissing up my neck with a toe-curling softness. "In every way possible. Imagined the way you'd look at me after waking up in the morning, how it would feel to kiss your pretty little face good night..." Eric's lips hovered above mine, our shared breaths hot and shaky against one another as he continued; "I want you to burn into me like warm glass, mold into one. It sounds insane, but... how else can I ensure we stay together?"

My eyes were wide, finding his, as my hands reached up to cup his face. Like this, I finally had the time to admire the tattoo above his right brow, the deep scar on his cheek, and the tattoo above it. I stroked my thumb over the ink, holding back from connecting our lips just yet; "If you think I'm ever leaving you, I need you to scour that pretty little brain of yours" I breathed, watching his pupils dilate as I bit back a smug smile. "Do I need to remind you that I'm all yours?" My fingers now ghosted over his lips, still wet with my slick, as an idea suddenly hit me. "Actually..."

Eric watched in confusion as I shifted beneath him, now reaching for the table right by the couch. There, I had left a marker which I had previously used to write a birthday card, and I took it into my hand before laying back down, looking up at the puzzled look on his face. "I'm not able to physically melt into you, but..."

Eric's green eyes widened further, watching as I popped the cap and drew a tiny little heart on the peak of his shoulder.

I met his gaze, beaming up at him; "I can leave my mark,"

The most unexpected thing happened-- The sight of Eric welling up in tears was not something I had counted on when I let my impulses take the lead. For a second, I got genuinely worried I had overstepped all boundaries until he pinned my hand above my head and pressed a needy, passionate kiss against my lips.

I couldn't control the moan that escaped me, my hips bucking up against his, feeling his hard length grind down and brush up against my clit as our chests came together, pulling each other in as close as possible. The need I felt for Eric was undescribable, ravaging through my being-- I had never wanted anyone as bad as this.

Mind dulled by anticipation and pleasure, I barely registered that he had managed to pry the marker from my fingers and pull it into his hand. Eric disconnected the kiss, pressing his wet lips against my cheek before propping himself up on his knees, scanning his canvas. "I'm definitely dreaming now," he whispered, mostly to himself, hovering above me as he drove the marker tip to the point where my ribs met on my chest.

I could only smile, watching my favourite artist at work with admiration blossoming in my chest. Knowing I would be decorated with his work made me even more hot and bothered; I did my best to get a look at what he was drawing without disrupting his process.

Eric drew a line down my chest, a few leaves scattered along it-- it dawned on me that he was drawing a rose. A beautiful, big rose, with that same scratchy style that I recognized from his previous creations. I watched him dart his tongue out, keeping it between his lips, focused; I couldn't help but find it endearing.

"Art on art," he breathed, pulling away to drink in the sight of what he had drawn on my body. Eric's green eyes found mine, his shy smile returning to his plush, glistening lips. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful."

"So are you," I held back the urge to cry happy tears, my hands reaching out for him. "I love it, Eric. I'm scared of needles, so I won't be able to get this tattooed... Meaning you'll have to draw it over and over. Would you do that for me?"

Eric let out a choked laugh, eyes glossing over as he put the cap back on the marker, discarding it somewhere before returning to his place above me. "I'd do anything for you,"

I hadn't smiled so brightly in what felt like years. Like this, at this moment, I was sure this was it. He was it.

Before I knew it, we were completely lost in the fiery kiss that ensued-- Eric's tongue against mine, hands lost around my waist as my fingers hooked into his dark locks, our chests heaving at one another. I was so gone, so dizzyingly aroused, that when I felt his thick cock pushing past my sopping entrance, I could only gasp.

Eric let out a grunt, both of us moaning into the kiss at the immediate relief-- I could barely believe that this was real, that we were back as one. In a sense, this was the melting together that we had both craved so badly.

My nails dug into his back, leaving crescent marks in their wake as I let him push further into me. Eric buried his face in the crook of my neck, letting out a breathy groan against my skin when he finally moved. His cock stroked my walls the same way it had that one evening in the stairwell, the exact feeling I had chased as I buried my fingers deep inside of me every night since-- I had forgotten how the real deal had felt. How mind-numbingly good it felt to have Eric in me.

I whimpered as I felt his cock throb upwards, immediately hitting my sweet spot, and I wrapped my legs around him, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever. Knowing I bared his mark on my chest, knowing he had dreamed of this as well, only strengthened the electricity running all the way up to the tips of my fingers. I didn't know how I was supposed to last long at all, especially when I heard Eric moan out my name-- I shivered, pressing my lips against the heart I had drawn on his shoulder.

I noticed a blush creep up his cheeks before he connected our lips once more, but it was hard to kiss properly when we were both in a heavy daze of pleasure-- we ended up mostly breathing against one another, Eric's green eyes watching as I let out a string of moans with every stroke of his cock.

"You're everything," Eric rambled, nipping at my lower lip to suppress another grunt. "You're everything, you're-- Fuck!--" His hands dug into my hips, fucking me properly into the couch as he deepened his thrusts.

My heart fluttered in my marked chest as I realized we were both looking down to watch our union-- the sight of Eric's cock pumping in and out of me, the wet sounds of our love filling the room, was almost enough to bring me over the edge. I also caught a glimpse of the petals drawn over my body, realizing I was admiring both the art and his body against mine.

My back arched off the couch as Eric shifted, angling his thrusts upwards-- now, he was dead on pumping his cock against my sweet spot, which had me mewling out against his lips. "Eric, I-- I'm not gonna last, a-ah!--"

With glossy eyes, I watched a smirk spread across Eric's lips; "Let go if you need to," he cooed, his dark hair now kissing his forehead as he let out a laboured grunt. "We'll go again, baby-- hah, don't worry."

That was all I needed-- my heart fluttered, realizing we had all the time in the world to fuck all through the night.

Forever, if we wanted to.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

This was nice. Stupidly nice. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this moment.

The softness of his fingers running up my bare shoulder, the kindness with which he bathed me-- I didn't even know this existed before now. I looked up at Eric, my head nuzzled against his broad, tattooed chest as we lay in post-coital bliss. I reached out to trace the heart I had marked him with, and I wondered what else I could draw on his beautiful body.

However, I knew I had to ask the question he hadn't been willing to answer yet. I had to look past how heavy his beautiful lashes looked in his drowsy state, and how badly I wanted to reach out and trace the upward slope of his nose, to ask what needed to be asked. "Eric?"

He hummed, glancing down at me.

It was incredibly hard to take my eyes off his kiss-swollen lips. "You never told me,"

"Told you what?"

It felt as though we'd had this conversation about three times now; "You didn't tell me why you changed your number. Or why you waited to reach out. Or, better yet, why you didn't just show up here... I even gave you my address," I couldn't stop the imminent pout appearing across my lips-- I had forgotten how upset I was about this. "I waited for you. I nearly drove myself crazy thinking I'd imagined it all."

Sighing, Eric's gaze diverted to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I will tell you everything. Just... could I have one more day?"

"What?" Something told me that his secret was a lot more damning than I initially thought-- why was he so reluctant to tell me? Did he think it would change how I felt?

"One more day," he echoed, his tattoed hand mindlessly traveling up into my hair as his eyes glossed over. "Just give me one more day..."

I didn't know what to say, at a loss for words. Instead, I popped the cap to the marker in my hand, realizing I wouldn't be the one to deny him his one wish. Eric closed his eyes with a sigh of relief as he felt the tip of the marker against his skin once more; time was a gift I was willing to give him.

I was willing to give him absolutely anything he'd ever want-- I just hoped it wouldn't be the death of me.

(a/n: PART 1 and PART 2 linked here<33 thank you for reading!!)

#the crow 2024 #eric draven x reader #the crow x reader #the crow fanfiction #eric draven fanfiction #the crow #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard #eric draven #sorry for the cliffhanger but i love those tihi

1K notes · View notes

esote-rika · 1 month ago

Text

lose some, win some | Spencer Reid Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut 18+, MDNI Summary: COLLEGE AU! When your debate team loses the national championship, you and Spencer return to your shared room and find a productive way to take out your frustrations. Content: Waldorf!Reader is a sore loser, lots of dialogue in the beginning, Sassy!Spencer, some talk of misogyny, Spencer makes up for it by being a munch (so f receiving oral), virgin!Spencer but he’s also a little shit, they are both little shits but it’s cute I swear, handjob, raw p in v but reader mentions she is on the pill, creampies, multiple orgasms for both of them (they’re frustrated and horny give them a break) Word count: 4.8k (it's porn with a plot for once) A/N: Not really frenemies or rivals, they’re just really angry young adults. Idk what Spencer’s actual age was in college, but he studied several times so for this fic, he’s on his third degree and is 21. If the debate stuff is incorrect, I'm sorry. I did do some research but there's so many different rules and styles lmfao. My friend who competes says it’s fine and understandable so :) also massive thanks to @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover and @notlongtolove for helping me brainstorm and @wheresmacoffee because she was there JK ILY ANDY their banter during the filthy part is for you <3.

Spencer Reid doesn’t particularly care about the prestige that comes with winning. Most people crave it for the validation, or because it’s another impressive thing they can slap onto their resumes, but being a genius his entire life allows him not to worry about that. His academics speak for themselves. He doesn’t need to pad it with extracurriculars. Instead, he enjoys the skills that are honed from debate—learning to listen to arguments, finding the perfect way to rebut, memorization and reviewing with like minded individuals. The university team is a well oiled machine composed of four people— him on his third degree, two other male juniors, and you, the only woman.

Over the span of two semesters, he’s memorized the quirks of his teammates. It’s essential to building rapport, after all, and he’s eager to get something good out of this. Something less academic, and more social. Friends, perhaps. While he’s formed a bond with the other members, you have always been an enigma. Stoic and ambitious, you remind him of a statue. Cold and oh so beautiful. You’ve often kept to yourself. And after several rejected attempts at friendship, he’s learned to just observe from afar.

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well.

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since.

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything.

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals.

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing.

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic.

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He’s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together.

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.”

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions, you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak.

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him.

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost.

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him.

That’s inaccurate.

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification.

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body.

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat.

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices.

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body.

Soft. So damn soft.

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat.

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks.

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, “Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience.

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh.

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock.

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his.

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength.

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face.

There’s nowhere else he would rather be.

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed.

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock.

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs.

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust.

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him.

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!”

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.”

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader smut #criminal minds fan fiction #criminal minds x you #waldorf!reader #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #sub spencer reid #virgin!spencer reid

814 notes · View notes

lowkeyrobin · 1 year ago

Text

MCYT ; they have a very obvious crush on you

includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, badlinu, & quackity

warnings ; language

y/s/n = your ship name

masterlist

TOMMYINNIT

constantly donates / talks through tts when you're streaming alone

TommyInnit donated $10!

"Tommy, stop giving me money, just use TTS"

only uses tts when you tell him to each and every time, it's routine

if he's streaming when you compliment him, chat always points out his red face to both of you

"shut up chat! I'm not blushing. you guys suck"

after a while he gets invested in the shipping

"if I open wattpad and don't see three new y/s/n fics I'm gonna lose my shit, guys"

"Tommy, Tommy, check ao3"

"I found one and it actually looks good!"

reading fanfics on stream (with permission of course and being light on the jokes and whatnot)

you and Tommy make your own fanfic too

he gets your friends to read it on their streams too 💀💀💀

literally every bit he writes is something he wants to do with you

such a hopeless romantic

RANBOO

always doing you favors

never saying no to you

"yes sir/maam!"

always donos on your streams while speed running or playing horror games to tell you good luck

it rlly isn't a stream wo one of their donos istg

chat always asking where he is during one of said streams

editors go CRAZY with the misfits vlogs & tom simons vlogs with you two in them

the chemistry???

you react to / watch each sorry boys episode on stream when they come out

editors go crazy with your compliments to ranboo

they do too 😭😭

giggling and kicking their feet cause they're so funny to you

he's literally head over heels bruh

gives u free merch and stuff

FREDDIE BADLINU

he's usually nice/full of compliments but he's so extra with you

claims it's for the bit

lets you dye his hair

ylyl streams with him constantly LMAO

he wrote your name on his bi flag for some reason??? when you ask about it he just says "why not?" and you shrug it off

always helping you pick out clothes and shit when thrifting/shopping

always has to find a pair of sunglasses for you I swear

constantly asks his viewers to edit you guys

it's become a part of your relationship where he clearly has a crush on you but you can't tell if it's for the bit or if he's serious so you never say anything

the tom simons vlogs w you guys go hard

especially the ylyl irl with ran, tommy, charlie, james, and billzo

same with the ylyl american version w jack, tommy, james, harry, etc

editors and fanfic writers have field days with those

just straight up making out as "friends" for the bit????

even Tommy is confused and he's been supporting Freddie through the dumb shit he's been doing

supports the fanfics

he honestly reads them

if you catch him doing so he says he's just interested and he might read it on stream for funnies

QUACKITY

"accidently" sends you free merch nearly every drop

qsmp streams are never complete without you guys flirting or going on a date

basically old karlnapity but you guys on the qsmp

qsmp y/s/n streams go so hard, they're literally the best

cellbit, roier, and jaiden officiating your fake wedding

qsmp y/s/n edits and fanart went crazy

youre like "guys no fanfics or edits of y/s/n, only if hes comfortable with it, I don't want you guys to weird him out"

and hes begging people to make the fanfics, the fanart, the everything

daily tweets of "guys send me more y/s/n fanart" or "any good y/s/n fanfic recommendations??"

cellbit always replies to those tweets with some long ass dictionary ass response to fuck with you two

fitmc of all people makes you guys a little tumblr oneshot.

#lowkeyrobin #mcyt preferences #tommyinnit x reader #mcyt x reader #quackity x reader #ranboo x reader #badlinu x reader #mcyt oneshot #tommyinnit #qsmp #osmp

1K notes · View notes

lorelune · 8 days ago

Text

(@habibisagi made a post about lovesick oliver and now I'M sick. enjoy some lovesick jealously🩷 minors dni)

you and oliver and good (banger) sex immediately but it's not like… the best he's ever had. but he likes you quite a bit and you're sweet but not too clingy. he even thinks about asking you to be his girlfriend after a few hookups but decides against it.

i think it's like. a slow burn for him. like he's still seeing other people and the sex with them is good but like… not quite as good. because it's not you, actually, and he's never had that before which is weird for him.

after one of your hookups, you get coffee together (something you've never done before) and he thinks the little scrunch between your brows while you decide on a drink is … cute. you sit together in a toasty booth and banter like a couple and it's like. really good. he's done this before with other partners but it's not quite the same.

it escalates from there. he brings you a treat when he goes to your place to hookup, instead of his. your cat warms up to him super quickly, and he's kinda charmed by it. you both get a bit cuddlier after sex and it's not weird, it just feels natural.

it all comes to a head as you're planning your next tryst. oliver is at the airport, waiting for a checked bag having just returned home.

"tonight?" you sound grainy from the phone speaker. "i can't, sorry."

"busy?"

"something like that."

"oh?" his tone curls and he snatches his bag from the conveyor belt, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. "what do you have on the docket?"

you're quiet for a moment. "i've got a date."

it feels like a cold shock to his chest. oliver nearly drops his phone.

"a date, huh?"

"yeah." you sound moderately unbothered on the phone. a tinge sheepish, maybe, but maybe oliver's imagining that through the icy hot feeling dripping down his body.

"with who?" his tone sounds normal enough. he's probably saving face.

"some guy that my friend knows. he's seems nice, at least through text."

"that's nice. what are you two getting up to?

"getting coffee, at that cafe we tried in the winter. low stress, you know?"

oliver feels his hands tightening into fists. that's your spot--

"sounds nice. what's the lucky guy's name?'

you're quiet for a moment, then laugh. "why do you want to know, oliver? you gonna track the guy down to give him a background check?"

"i wasn't planning on it, but that's not a bad idea." he laughs, leaning against one of the pillars near the luggage carousel. the crowd blurs together. "just curious. i gotta see how i'm loaning you out to."

you are silent on the other side of the line.

"'loaning me out?'"

"yeah, you know? it's best to make sure you're staying safe."

"i'm not yours, oliver, let alone to ‘loan out’."

"aren't you?"

you curse, then laugh. "oh my god, don't tell me, you're jealous?"

oliver doesn't have a reply. because you're right. he is jealous. crazy jealous and he can feel sweat dripping down his neck from the adrenaline rush that has hit me.

(he's never given a shit about losing a partner before. they come and go. he's never cared about womanizing or whoring around because sex is sex and sex is fun and pleasurable for all parties involved. yet the idea of you doing a fraction of what he has, notoriously, done is sending him spiraling.)

(actually, when was the last time he saw someone... other than you? some girls flirted with him at the bar last night, but he went home alone. he texted you before bed and spent his last wakeful moments ogling a photo you sent. it was a photo of your cat playing with a new toy. incidentally, you took it kneeling in front of your floor length mirror (that he has not fucked you in front of enough, actually). the photo captured you in your very cute pajamas.)

(normally, you wear satin bits to bed that get discarded once you hit the sheets, anyways. oliver prefers you naked, and you're far too fucked out to care by the time he's done with you to want anything other than skin-to-skin contact with him. he's still used to the getups though. he still thinks they're cute.)

(this photo, however? you're in house clothes. some stupidly baggy pants that drag on the floor and an oversized tee shirt that you swim it, going down to your mid thighs. it's worn, any text having faded from the fabric. the sock you're wearing are fuzzy and white with a heart pattern on them. your face is mostly obscured in the photo, but he can tell you're grinning, big and dopey.)

(it makes him want you in a way that is insane. consuming.)

(oliver spent the last bits of his evening not fucking any number of beautiful women that approached him, but flipping between his texts with you to banter, and that fucking photo, which he has both saved onto his phone, his cloud, and committed to the sensory memories stored in the hindbrain.)

(so. you know? maybe he is a bit--)

"jealous?" he voice wobbles, it hardly sounds like him. "what if i am?"

"... i'd think you're fucking with me."

"and if i'm not?"

you're silent on the line. for a moment, oliver thinks you hung up on him.

"i'm not sure if i believe you." your words wobble. "or, even if you are jealous, why you would care that much? it's just some date with a stranger?"

"it's not about him," oliver says without thinking. "it's about you."

"oh."

oliver runs a hand over his face.

"cancel your date." he starts walking toward the exit. "come over tonight. i'll take you out."

"sure you will."

"i mean it."

"you don't need to be coy," you laugh, a shakey thing, fragile in a way oliver hasn't heard from you. "just say you want to fuck him over your dining table and let it be. don't lie."

something in him cracks. "i'm not lying."

"oliver--"

"i'm not lying."

there's a poigant stretch of silence, and then you gulp.

"fine." your voice wobbles, with elation or dread, he can't tell. "you can take me out. if you're fucking with me, or like, pretending to give more of a shit just because you don't want me to fuck other people, i will walk out the door and never come back, you understand?"

the thought of you doing that, leaving him high and dry and cold, makes that crystallin, frigid anxiety that's been living in his chest travel up to behind his eyes.

"absolutely." oliver says, even, with a conviction that's almost startling. "you're mine, you know? i gotta treat you well."

"sure. prove it."

"i'd be happy to."

it's elation. it's excitement. there's fear, sure, because oliver has never treated a partner 'right' in his life but he is lovesick enough to try.

#lore writes #oliver aiku x reader #drabbles #the way muse struck me was so intense #my god #anyways he does in fact crash over about you getting any dick other than his #i'm reeling I'M REEEELING

168 notes · View notes

insanescriptist · 3 months ago

Text

Flip the Table

Casually eavesdropping on what should be highly secure frequencies, Jason sipped his beer in a sleezy saloon style sports bar somewhere on the Vegas strip, nominally watching college(?) football; he's a hockey fan because baseball's boring as shit to watch and he's never got the appeal about American football. Football to the rest of the world was at least worth watching for the drama. Something had the Justice League in a tizzy and Zatanna -the one who normally covered Vegas when it came to the costumed crazies- was off world; Jason didn't have the details exactly but it sounded like Zatanna was dealing with some magical planar stuff and was not expected back for at least six more days. Assuming all went well.

So like any reasonable person who's going away for a time, she turned on her home security, had the alerts wired over to a friend -in this case Justice League Dark- gave a list of what was needed to be done and when -the pick up my mail and mow my lawn equivalants- went on her trip, trusting that the JLD were watching over her city and it wouldn't be on fire when she got back.

Such glorious hope.

And thus something happened so when Jason pulled into Vegas proper to investigate a desperate -read last hope- lead on a missing person's case, Jason happened to spy one of the lesser members of the JLD losing their shit in the sky. And so in a moment of civic duty, Jason started spying on them.

Magic was not something anyone trained by the Bat really ever got comfortable about, but chances were magic bullshit was going to intervene in his case. Justice League shit spilled over everything, all the time. Ghost cultists tripping Zatanna's necromancy alarms or whatever they were, was not Jason's business. Not unless the presumed cultists -those that had survived- had the person he was looking for.

No, he was looking at a missing person's case and his lead was 1. cold and 2. a longshot and 3. in a city full of tourists and catering staff, where "seen anything unusual lately" could be "there was this trio of tourists arguing how sex with your best friend doesn't count as cheating," or "someone having a meltdown over the delayed shipping of organic blueberries to the hotel," or "Sarah Maria got murdered a couple weeks ago on the job, but I haven't seen any notice about her funeral stuff on her social media, why yes, I do know she's dead, oh, she's dead and I'm an idiot for expecting someone dead to post on their socials their funeral deets."

Point was, he could look and ask all he wanted, beat feet for days, but the chances of this lead panning out were basically so minuscule that Jason could treat this more as a hobby case while on vacation. He still did his due diligence, asked the staff a few questions, called the guests on the same floor during the time period of their stay about how they found their stay, ran into the dead end of shitty business practices -they recorded over their own records every two weeks- and so unless Jason got the ability to do magic and do a "point me!" spell, the case would turn cold. It sucked when it happened but sometimes the evidence wasn't there. Or wasn't noticed or was destroyed before it could be collected. Sometimes people just didn't remember shit until three weeks later, which with some follow up digging gave him the lead to the hotel. Which got him nothing after that.

As Jason Todd didn't gain an innate ability to do magic that he was aware of that actually counted as magic bullshit magic instead of a couple cantrips, all he could do was get a beer and some food in a Vegas style Texas saloon bar. Which not his first choice, but it was full enough no one really paid attention to anyone. Technically a sport's bar but also very much was not. It was also busy enough that Jason ended up getting asked if someone could set with him at his table -which real Jason said hell no to, but cover Jason did agree to-

Oh. Meta. Jason realized quickly. Oh no, he's hot.

His hair is on fire!

How did the server miss that? Most metas don't casually out themselves like that! Too many people willing to target them for whatever power.

That hair was flaming, tied back in a low tail; Jason blinked and the hair flickered color, looked like normal hair -black- and then back to white fire, then black fire, some tv static abomination of color, white hair and then black hair. Another blink and it appeared to be black flames for hair and yeah, Jason closed his eyes. Pointedly ignored the hair thing. If the meta asked, Jason was judging him for the stupid little goatee.

The rest of the meta was built along the same lines as Jason himself, tall, broad and built. Packed with muscle, which was something to make note of; metas usually were more durable and could hit harder, so Jason casually made note to not get hit if a fight broke out.

Which it might, or probably would.

That's just how Jason's luck ran. To shit.

Said meta also ordered food and a beer, didn't even get asked for ID -unfair bias- and judging by the sound, turned in the seat to look at the American football screen that Jason had been ignoring. His hair had at least settled to black flames instead of the glitchy hair.

Of course as this was Vegas, people gambled on outcomes of games too. Which is how Jason learned the meta was rich enough to blow a couple grand -not expensive in the world of supers- but more than what the average person would be comfortable betting.

There were better ways to piss away money than gambling on sports. Like on over priced burgers and onion rings with an order of mozzerella sticks. The burger was good, admittedly Jason's had better and then some party of guys was yelling at the ref on a screen. And yup, that's some altercation with another table but the barman broke it up with a couple of words.

His tablemate muttered something about the ref having made the right call if one of the players wanted to continue a career professionally and Jason used that as social leverage to get a name -Dan, no last name given- and a bit more in-depth explanation on what stakes were going on; he's a hockey guy, not a football guy.

Some time later, Dan had caught him up on the football drama -nothing compared to the hockey drama- and conversation had drifted significantly from sports, lightly touched on family -Dan had siblings he shared little about other than they existed, which fair, they could also be metas and at risk- much like Jason did -he had siblings that existed, no further details- and parents weren't mentioned. Instead a lot of engineering talk, a slide into ethics -Dan's opinion on killing super villains was very much that some people needed Ended- and some small talk about how Dan's high school English teacher cursed in classical book titles.

Soon the easy joy of potential friendship ended when his phone rang; that was the Batman ringtone and Jason felt no guilt hanging up on him. And again. And again.

Then Dick rang and nope. He was not dealing with their shit. Dick would just sweeten up whatever shit B wanted to shovel.

And then Oracle's ringtone rang. Oh, now that was serious. Justice League shit spilling into his life again. No fucking doubt about it.

"Uh-huh, so what's up? Because I gotta say, I am a couple drinks in and the whole bar is waiting for one of the football teams to fumble or foul up their next play so they can throw down."

"Jay-" She started because much like Bruce, she would rather go straight into the mission, and Jason absolutely had wrong-footed her. Because instead of making excuses to leave, Jason had absolutely stayed. So now she had to rephrase things on the fly because who knows who might be listening in. "Hey, it's on the news that the Justice League is showing up in Vegas; something about investigating something magical showing up."

"Uh-huh, that's not a surprise. There was some magic ninny flying in a panic earlier. I decided it wasn't my business."

"I hadn't heard that," -bullshit, she just hadn't double-checked that herself yet- "but what I did hear that some cult might have succeeded in bringing something over."

"Uh-huh. Well, no one's praying to Cthulu yet, there's been no troublemaking beyond the usual human malice and nothing's on fire."

"We were just concer-" And Jason hung up on Oracle.

He'd pay for that later, but petty was satisfying now.

"Sounded important."

"Was bullshit."

"So an entity summoned by a cult that tripped a bunch of magicians into a tizzy-"

Yeah, those sharp ears were not for show. Enhanced hearing check. "That's a bunch of incompetents panicking." Time for his good guess to hit or miss. "You're not going to decide to destroy Vegas, are you?"

"Done it before, doing it again seems pointlessly petty." Statements Jason wasn't going to prod further right now.

"And what if Wisconson University loses?"

"Might flip the table." Dan shrugged.

"More beer?" Jason asked.

"Sure."

#dc x dp #Jason Todd #Dan Phantom

292 notes · View notes

honeyryewhiskey · 3 months ago

Text

TIMELOOP ― breaking down at daybreak diner 𖤐 dean winchester

【 pairing 】 dean x fem!reader 【 summary 】 Dean is stuck in a time loop, and it doesn’t take long for him to notice someone else is stuck in here, too. He figures if he wants out of the endless Wednesdays, you’ve gotta be the key. He’s just not sure why. As for you, despite the absurdity of timeloops and the trickster god Dean keeps swearing to gank, a few Wednesdays with this man isn’t the worst thing that could happen. 【 cw 】 slow burn, part 1 won’t include anything besides explicit language but as always mdni, 18+ as the series will progress to that 【 wordcount 】 1.4k

Dean was pissed off and hungry, the cherry on top of the shit pie he’s been eating for the past three Wednesdays in a row. He knew it the moment he woke up the second day, but stubbornly tried to just not believe it was actually happening. Today, however, it was clear he really was living the same day over and over again. Better yet, Sam was two towns over at the nearest college researching with some professor for the case they originally came here for. In yesterday's frustrations he discovered not only that his phone didn’t work, but he couldn’t leave this town either. Three hours spent speeding along back roads just to be warped back into town, at the same random, quiet neighborhood street each time.

Wherever that trickster god was, hiding and delighting in Dean’s frustration, would have a world of wrath to deal with once Dean found him.

Sitting in a booth at Daybreak Diner, he watched everyone move in the same patterns as the days before. Old guy knocking over a cup of coffee, the couple in the corner laughing obnoxiously, a cook calling out ‘order up’.

That is until an abnormality rings throughout the diner. The bell chimes, at 8:36am. That was not part of the pattern. His grumpy eyes dart to the entrance, watching carefully as you rush through the diner.

“I’m so sorry I'm late, Bets,” you sigh to another waitress, “I’ve been having the strangest morning.”

For the past three days you have followed the same script, quietly taking orders with a sweet smile. He had certainly noticed you, in fact the only part of this mess he enjoyed was that he got to flirt with you twice and still got the same coy smile each time.

He watches as you frantically tuck loose strands of hair behind your ears, quickly pin your name tag to the little dark blue dress uniform that matched the other waitresses. The way it fit snug against your body did not go unnoticed by Dean.

None of this should be happening, he thought. When your eyes finally lifted, you caught his stare and he quickly diverted, focusing on the plate of half eaten food in front of him. A moment later, you were standing at his table with your little notepad and pen.

“Can I get you anything?” You ask, voice sounding more meek than it did yesterday.

“No,” he starts, clearing his throat, “I, uh, I thought you were working over there today.” He nods towards the opposite side of the diner.

“I do, I mean, Wednesdays I take that side but today I’m over here. I’m always over here on Thursdays.” Your brows knit together, assessing the man, “I don’t remember telling you that yesterday, though.”

So she does remember, he thought to himself and a wave of relief ripples through his body. The feeling quickly turns cold as he realizes that means whoever this poor girl is, she’s caught the eye of the trickster god. Now, Dean’s rage is turning white hot considering whatever perverse scheme she’s falling victim to.

“No, you didn’t.” He answers curtly, “but I think you’ve noticed something’s off about today.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and pray that what you’re about to say doesn’t make you sound insane. You slip into the booth across from Dean, leaning across the table so no one can overhear your conversation.

“I think I am losing my mind,” you start with big scared eyes, “I swear on my life I am reliving Wednesday. I didn’t notice until the radio station started talking about the weather and shit for ‘this beautiful Wednesday, best autumn day we’ve had all season’ which I heard them say—verbatim—yesterday.” you drop your head into your hands.

Dean goes to respond, to assure you that you are not losing your mind, when you cut him off with a loud huff. “I shook that off thinking I must still be asleep or something but then,” your eyes manage to grow wider, and Dean takes note of how you’re able to be both cute and completely wigged out of your mind, “I go outside to see my car with a flat tire that I literally just got fixed yesterday.” You pause long enough for Dean to raise his eyebrows and stare with disbelief, you really are stuck here with him.

“Great,” you groan, “you think I’m losing my mind— hell I think I’m losing it.”

“No, you’re not. Actually the truth is probably worse than having a few screws loose.” He chuckles, quickly clearing his throat and wiping away that smile as your face contorts between bewilderment and horror.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you squeak, suddenly feeling clammy and hot.

“It means,” he strains, “you’re stuck in a time loop. Living the same day over and over, crafty work of a little bitch in the trickster god variety. At least that’s the only monster I know of that has the kinda juice to pull this sorta thing.”

You stare blankly into the green eyes before you, reading his face, waiting for that handsome smile and some weird punch line. But he just returns your blank look, completely unphased by the absolute nonsense he’s just rambled out. He swallows uncomfortably, “You’re still breathing, right?” he tries, worry lacing his strong features.

Slowly, you nod your head. It doesn’t make sense. It sounds like magic, or the work of fiction, but you’re also not quite sure how else to explain what’s happening.

“Sweetheart,” Dean coos, “you’re kinda scaring me here, say something to me. Something, anything.” He’s used to giving the talk to civilians, it’s part of the job after all. But in all his years of navigating this world, nothing comes close to being trapped in a time loop, stuck within a set of coordinates, with a pretty girl who looks as if she’s about to pass out.

“Trick-er god? Monster? And time loop?” Now your head was starting to hurt, working to wrap logic around the situation, “Wait, yesterday you said you were an fbi agent, is this what the government is doing?”

Dean’s heart drops, completely forgetting he had mentioned that when flirting his way to getting your number on a napkin. “Right,” he laughs uncomfortably, “about that, I’m not. I’m a hunter. I hunt things, monsters, that do things like this to people like you.”

A sort of relief hits you, wrangling with the fear of this newfound knowledge. If there is anyone to get stuck in a time loop with, surely someone who takes care of these sorts of things, isn’t the worst scenario.

“Okay,” you nod, “So there are monsters. One of which is doing all of this,” you motion a circle in the air, “and you’re the kinda guy who fixes it. And lies about being a federal agent, for some reason.” You recount with a furrowed brow.

“Uh huh,” he smiles, “so, don’t you worry, I’ll get us out of this.” With that Dean stands from the booth, dropping a few bills on the table.

“Wait, where are you going?” You ask, quickly leaving the booth.

He looks down at you, “To go gank the son of a bitch that’s doing all this. Gotta find him first though.” Dean sighs.

“Well, I’m going with you.” You assure. A smile tugs at his lips, while he wouldn’t mind spending more time watching you stumble your way through understanding his world, he’d never jeopardize the safety of someone with absolutely zero awareness of what kind of danger comes with hunting.

“No way,” he shakes his head, a large hand reaching up to pat your head, “a pretty thing like you has no business around monsters and weapons. Stay alive for one last Wednesday and by tomorrow you’ll be back to your regularly scheduled life.”

“Nuh, uh,” you press, swatting away his hand, “what if the god thing comes here when you leave, huh? Are you really gonna leave me alone and defenseless in this little diner?” Your doe eyes bat up at him, silently pleading that he doesn’t leave you on your own.

He can’t deny you raise a good point. If you’re in his sights, there’s less of a chance the trickster might try to use your life as leverage. Besides, he can always cuff you to the steering wheel if he really needs to. Finally, Dean sighs, “Fine. But you do as I say, no questions asked, got it?”

A bright smile breaks across your face, sending jolts straight into Dean’s chest. Great, as if he hasn’t got enough to worry about with hunting down the god, he’s gotta ignore the incredibly distracting feelings you seem to spark with just a pretty smile.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fluff #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural

193 notes · View notes

deathmetalangel · 9 months ago

Text

HARDLY SEEMS FAIR

robby keene x fem! reader

warnings: "casual" relationship", swearing, arguments, crying, heavily ldr coded, implied hookups, slut shaming, cheating, angsty

“in what world is that fair robby?"

oke so this is kinda a retconnned chapter from my wattpad book that i'm just extending and making more ambigious instead of clearly x oc. i hope y'all like it tho. i am sorry i have been gone for so long :(

Y/n plays with the ends of Robby's hair. He was laying with his head in her lap while they just relaxed in her room. It was calm, domestic. A small and very rare moment for just the two of them. No outside force would intrude and break their safe haven. There was no what if's that lingered in the air. Nor past resentments that hung over them like an ominous cloud determined to damper their moods.

It was just Y/n and Robby. And that's all they'll ever be. No labels. She figured that much after the last time she'd brought it up. But she's become so full of him she can't even bring herself to care. She'd rather have what they have now, whatever it may be with him. Rather than risking losing him, and the routine she's started to build around him.

She hums softly. Her mind far off. "Y/n?" She hymns in acknowledgement without turning her head. "Something happened this weekend."

He was lying. This had been going on for weeks. He had been having doubts for weeks. He'd been seeing her for weeks. "What happened? Another karate fight?" She wasn't the girl who got heartbroken. She was never the second choice. She got what she wanted. And she wanted him, however she could have him.

"I kissed Sam Larusso."

Y/n freezes. Her body betraying her as she tenses up. She has no right, she knows that. They were 'casual'. Just her and Robby. Non-commital.

"I mean big deal right? We were drunk anyways. Just felt bad not telling you. I know were not dating so it's really not your business, but don't worry about it. I mean we've fucked so often what does a kiss even mean?"

A kiss. To her it meant everything. An act of intimacy that they rarley ever shared. So innocent, so pure.

"Get out of my room Robby." Y/n mumbles, her voice above a whisper. The teen sits up from her lap and looks at her incredalously. He was only telling her to keep her in the loop. She didnt have the right to be mad. So why was she making a big deal about this?

"What?"

"You heard me. Get the fuck out of my room Keene."

He furrows his brows in a toxic coctail of anger and confusion. "Why? You can't get pissed at me for this Y/n. We aren't fucking dating. Don't get all aggro on me like you're some psycho girlfriend when you're a friend with benefits at best."

Y/n stands up and pushes the boy out of her room. "Get the fuck out of here Robby! If it didn't mean anything why don't you go fuck her then? Go whine about your mommy issues and daddy issues to her and leave me the hell alone."

"You have some nerve you know that right? Don't act all high and mighty now. You're a whore. Why the hell would I ever actually take you seriously when I can get everything I want without the label or work. You're easy, I could never do that shit with Sam."

Her breath was stuck in her throat as the boy she truly thought cared began to berate her as if she was a random person on the street. The boy she suffered for. The boy that was really never her's to keep. Y/n forces herself to wipe her anrgy tears and push Robby once again.

Y/n's hands were shaky, she desprately wanted to cry. To scream. To give in and give him the satisfaction of getting to her. "Oh so you can come over whenever you want, make me listen to your shitty life, and basically force yourself into my own life, but all that means nothing right? Well guess what Kenne. You kissed her, and she still doesn't want you!" She presses her finger into his chest while her voice level rises. "That same girl is still with Miguel. So just because you wanna jump ship and 'upgrade' doesn't mean she wants anything to do with you. Face it babe, you're just white trash."

"Shut the fuck up Y/n." Robby practically spits back.

"Oh, so you can disrespect me and belittle me in my own fucking room, but when its you its a problem? Grow up Robby. You're a man baby and a hypocrite. In what world is that fair Robby? Maybe in your little made up fantasy where Sam picks you and you leave me for dead. So go stay there. Cause you're sure as hell not welcome here."

Y/n throws everything he's given her at him. Every last peice a memory they shared together. Posters, drawings, braclets, anything that adorned her room. All of it thrown to him and crashing down like victims of a violent storm. Tears streamed down her face as he backed up to her door.

She opens the door for him and grabs his sweater and keys before shoving it in his chest. The boy watches her dumbfounded.

"Stay away from me Robby. Go back to some other slut that can put up with your baggage and shitty attitude for one night stand status. Because I'm done."

He looks at her, but there wasn't the girl he knew looking back at him. Not with how she glared, not with how she stood, and not with how she felt. Her eyes, the e/c irises reflected love, now they were dark. Harbors for her contempt. The grimace on her face was unforgettable. Especially as the last thing he seen before she slammed her door on his face.

Robby swallows the spit in his mouth, a hard lump of guilt not wanting to go down. He didn't think any of this would happen. He wanted her to care, but he didn't want to fight. His temper, his father's god forsaken temper, and his own damned ego.

He wanted what he had with her, with Sam. The girl next door with a rich family and big house. Like something out of a book. Not the girl that did whatever he said for the sake of making him happy. He really did want to just abandon her, didn't he? After everything.

Choking back his frustrations the boy marches down her stairs and lets himself out. He liked what he had with her, but he wouldn't fight for her. Guys only did that for the girl they want.

#deathmetalangel #robby keene x reader #robby keene #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai #the karate kid #cobra kai angst #samantha larusso #miguel diaz #imagines #cobra kai imagine

366 notes · View notes

batmanisagatewaydrug · 6 months ago

Note

You seem like an incredibly well read person, plus someone with a lot of insight into intimacy because of your work. So, in light of your romance book reviews, which are an absolute highlight on your patreon, do you have any insight into what is needed/suggested for a good romance novel?

g o d this is so fucking hard and also really fun to chew on. I want to preface this by saying this is ENTIRELY subjective and based completely on what I *PERSONALLY* find that I enjoy in a romance. this isn't, like, an objective guide on how to write a romance that doesn't suck. that doesn't exist because people like different things, and I'm speaking from one perspective.

also I should say that my preferred flavor of romance novel is solidly contemporary. I haven't read many historicals, certainly not enough to opine well on them, I don't do those mafia dark romances or whatever the fuck, and I've barely dabbled at all in any kind of fantasy romance, whether they're full high fantasy or witchy urban fantasy stories. (although I'm about to do one of the latter next month, you can vote for a book on my patreon rn!)

having gotten all of those caveats out of the way, here's some shit I like and dislike:

there are exceptions to this but broadly, I prefer a POV for everyone involved in the relationship. to me a romance where we're only seeing events from the POV of one member of the relationship automatically makes it seem like one person matters more in a dynamic where everyone should be of equal importance. also, god, if the plot's really going to hinge on not knowing what's going on in one partner's head suggests that miscommunication is going to be a pretty critical part of the plot, and I hate that shit. TALK TO EACH OTHER. I'LL KILL YOU.

on that note, there needs to be an actual compelling reason why the characters can't be together, okay? the #1 driving tension of every romance is "why the fuck can't they be together yet" and you BETTER have a good answer. whether it's interpersonal or external forces, if there's a very easy solution to what's keeping them apart then your characters look dumb and I'm bored. one of the most frustrating romances I've ever read involved two characters who were mutually attracted to each from the JUMP, who refused to act on it because they were coworkers (neither of them in any position of authority of the other, nothing unprofessional or inappropriate about it) and they were "only" living in the same state for A YEAR. A FULL YEAR !!! shut up. get a grip and kiss each other.

now, having said that: whatever your bullshit reason is for these two characters to be interacting with each other, you need to COMMIT to that shit so hard that I, the reader, will feel silly for even questioning the logic. the worst offender I've ever seen on this front is D'Vaughn and Kris Plan a Wedding, which pulls its protagonists together via a reality TV competition and then just... promptly loses any interest in really dealing with the actual realities of being filmed 24/7? it's insanely distracting how little the book engages with its central hook, and was a huge point deduction for me. whereas you have, like, The Bride Test, a book with a premise that skirts dangerously close to a little bit of human trafficking but embraces the whole premise so wholeheartedly that you completely forget about the potentially horrific elements in there. who cares that Esme was bribed here with the promise of a green card if she seduces a man she's never met? there's whimsy happening! we've moved on! it's literally fine and she's in no danger except the danger of a BROKEN HEART.

this one is going to seem SO obvious but like. I need them to be actually like each other. I'm not saying they can't be mutually bitchy while they grow to like each other or anything, they don't have to always be NICE to each other, but there are so many M/F romances where the dude is just flat out fucking MEAN and condescending to the girl until he decides he wants to fuck her. and sometimes even after that! stop it! after a certain point I don't want her to fuck him I want her to run him over a car!!!! there's suuuuch a line between "guy I butt heads and exchange banter with but could fuck if we just got to know each other" and "man who hates me and is for real fucking bullying me."

"kisses only," "doors closed," whatever term they use for a romance novel without any sex scenes on page, I don't like it. listen: I know that they're not everybody's cup of tea, and I FULLY recognize that a lot of romance novel sex scenes are unfathomably cringe. and yet, I need them. partly because they're funny, but also because if this book wants me to be invested in the developing relationship between two adults who are supposed to be WILDLY sexually attracted to each other, then I want to see the damn sex. no matter how many bad similes or unfortunate adjectives it entails. and if you're not going to show me the sex, don't you dare have the characters gushing about how great it is. I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much. (I'm looking at you, Sorry, Bro.)

related: there's this thing that I call "Horny Wolf Syndrome," which is derived from this tweet:

initially I used it to refer to when previously sweet-tempered male romance protags inexplicably started talking like horny wovles during sex scenes - "LET ME SEE YOUR PRETTY CUNT ON MY COCK" and the like - but now I more generally use it to refer to scenarios in which characters of any gender completely dispense with their established personality while they fuck in order to fulfill a more broadly appealing, one-size-fits-all sexual fantasy. I hate that shit; if your characters act like completely unrecognizable people during sex, you didn't write very strong characters. one of my favorite things about writing sex scenes is that it's so SO interesting to see how their the characters' personal quirks translate into a setting that's very different from most other contexts, and it's deeply disappointing when authors take the easy route in favor of some pornhub dialogue.

one of the things that actually won my most recent read, Raiders of the Lost Heart, a HUGE amount of points with me was how frank the female lead was about initiating sex for the first time. it was completely in character for her and felt really different than any other book I've read, and honestly? it was a breath of fresh air.

#bookblr

156 notes · View notes

susiekern · 3 months ago

Text

wife me up - Gojo Satoru x y/n

a/n: wrote that at work, obv not proofread, my first time writing an actual y/n x character, so any feedback is appreciated

summary: when you first met Satoru, you didn't expected things to go that way, but an heir must do what is expected from them, right?

word count: 4,354

If someone would ask you about your relationship with Gojo Satoru, you'd probably cringe and say it was... complicated. But no one ever asked. They just assumed you'd already clicked, and things were great between you two. You were to get married after all. Well, if only it was that simple.

But let's start from the beginning.

You first met Satoru during an exchange event. He was a third-year student, already a living legend. You were a second-year and an heir to the y/s clan, its future. But back then, it didn't matter. When your paths crossed during a team battle and he saw you fight against Nanami Kento, he was impressed. Nanami was strong, probably a semi-first grade already only in his second year of high school. So at first, Gojo felt bad for a much smaller girl that stood in front of him. Surely that confident smirk on your lips would disappear in a minute or two. Imagine his surprise when you had won that fight, Nanami soon faced flat on the forest floor, bonded by shadows.

For a moment, Satoru was tempted to fight with you to see how long you could stand before losing. Whether you'd lose was not up to question. He was the strongest after all. But he also wasn't as ignorant as he painted himself to be. You would be a refreshing challenge if only he had time for a battle, even a short one. He had to follow the plan and complete the objective. So he left, giving you a last glance over his shoulder, catching your shiny eyes for a second or two.

You wouldn't meet again for many years, until a week after the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. As a first-grade sorceress, you were in the middle of the battlefield when hell broke loose. Dealing with a special curse, with none other than Nanami Kento only a few meters behind your back, having his own fight and taking on a few curses at once. You've met throughout the years, first when he wanted to ask about your technique after the event, later keeping in touch and becoming friends.

Forming shadows into the blades, you send the final blow towards your enemy. You've been fighting for god knows how long already, exorcised dozens of curses, and it felt like you're still far from the end.

“I'll kill Geto myself, I swear. It was supposed to be my time off!” Nanami chuckles hearing you complain. He finished the last curse around and stood next to you for a moment.

“I'm sure Gojo’s taking care of it already.” You nodded and wiped your daggers of a mix created by fluids you didn't even want to list in your head. “I can also bet we're in a slightly better situation than Team Tokyo. Geto’s probably keeping the worst curses near himself.”

“You're doing a great job at encouraging me not to move to Tokyo. Kyoto seems so peaceful compared to your stories, and now this shit happens, and of course, Tokyo is right in the center.” Kento can't help but smile, even as he blocks a curse user attack a moment later, standing back to back with you.

“Isn't that why you're moving to Tokyo after New Year's? More action?” You decided not to answer, focusing back on the fight. Nanami didn't need to know the real reason behind your move. Besides, if everything goes according to your plan, soon you'll be able to forget all about it and enjoy the capital city as you wanted to since childhood.

---

Nothing went according to your plan.

When the elders invited you to a meeting, you expected to see your grandfather and a few others from your clan. Not grandpa, fucking elders of the big three families, and a couple more from clans you couldn't even name.

“Can't believe you're all here to discuss how I'm still single.” Your joke was ignored, rude. Grandpa started the same speech you've already heard hundreds of times. You're an heir, there's a responsibility you need to take and stand up to the expectations, blah blah. What you didn't expect was for the head of the Kamo family, a man probably in his 60s with a long black braid, to speak up.

“I don't think you understand the value of your grandfather's words, y/n y/s. In current times, families like yours, with a long history and such unique techniques, matter more than your humors. That's why, as elders, we all decided what will happen. Either you marry a man from one of the Three Families in the next two years or Yume does it. The choice is yours.”

You could feel your heart stop. In two years? Yume would be barely 16 if they even allowed her to wait for so long. Your sister hasn’t even started high school yet, and they threatened to marry her off? You shot a look of betrayal at your grandfather, but the man sitting there wasn't the same one who taught you basic defense or how to control your cursed energy. You were looking at the head of y/s family, the one who'd do anything to secure the future and position of the name. Even if it cost him his granddaughters. Your heart started beating again, but this time it was powered by anger as you went over options in your head.

But there was nothing you could do to protect both you and your sister. Even if you rebelled, she was under your grandpa's protection and control, you weren't her legal guardian, and she was still in Kyoto. The memory of a lively teenager who blabbered non-stop about how excited she was to start high school soon filled you with almost physical pain. You took a deep breath in, trying to suppress the urge to hurt as many elders in this room as you could before they'd kill you and start choosing a wedding dress for Yume.

“Who am I marrying?”

“I knew you were more reasonable than you pretend to be.” The head of your family, once your grandpa, smiled at you, ignoring the way your face turned in disgust. “We have come to an agreement about securing both y/s and Gojo family lineage by this marriage.”

“Gojo? But... isn't there only one living member?” Your question seemed to amuse some of the elders.

“Yes. You're to marry Gojo Satoru.”

Fucking hell.

---

A few days later you were set to meet with Satoru in a cafe close to Jujutsu High, a place he chose, and when your grandfather asked if you agreed, you simply nodded.

So that's how you ended up sitting with a mug in your hands, eyes fixed on the view behind a wall-tall window. You barely made it on time, but you remembered how many times Nanami complained about Gojo being always late. And apparently meeting his future wife was no exception, you thought when the white-haired man finally stepped into the cafe, looked your way, and first ordered something at the counter before sitting in the chair in front of you. Seeing him open his mouth, you decided to beat him and have the first, and hopefully the last, word.

“I'm not going to become a stay-at-home and cook-the-dinner wife. I'm not giving up my career as a sorceress. And I'm not giving birth to any heirs until I decide to.”

Gojo closed his mouth and was silent for a few seconds. Then he giggled. Giggled.

“Gojo Satoru, nice to meet you too.” He managed to say between laughs and hold his hand out to you. “I know that situation is... inconvenient, but what happened to at least polite introductions?”

You sighed and shook his hand for a second.

“Y/n y/s. You know we've met before, right?”

“Of course. I could never forget a woman who beat Nanamin in less than five minutes. I'm just trying to do this right.” He grinned at you. The situation is shitty, but at least the views are pleasant, you thought to yourself, noticing the dimples in his cheeks.

“With that being said..." Suddenly he got serious, pulled his sunglasses on top of the white hair, and looked into your eyes, hands resting at the table. “I'd never expect anyone to give up their job because of a marital status change. Especially not a sorceress as talented as you, y/n. And I don't expect an heir, at least not now or anytime soon. I want you to understand that I'm not going to force you into anything. The only reason I agreed to this is that I've had enough threats and debates on how I'll keep my clan existing if I can't find a wife. And guessing by your words and evident repulse at the thought of carrying an heir now, you're not exactly doing it to make your dreams come true too.”

You listened carefully to Satoru’s words, and you felt like at least a bit of weight had been lifted from your shoulders. This whole thing could be a lot easier if you're both on the same page.

“It was either me or my younger sister. And I'm not letting these old assholes marry a 14-year-old off to god knows who.” Satoru nodded and leaned back in the chair.

“So, you're moving to Tokyo? Now that you'll have a fiancé here?” He asked, a little smile back on his face.

“Already on the move. Although the apartment I applied for rejected me, apparently single women in their twenties are not the perfect tenants.” You sighed, thinking about your stuff in storage and an uncomfortable hotel bed you've slept in for the past few days. Gojo seemed to be lost in his thoughts for a moment before a waitress pulled him out of it by putting his coffee and a piece of chocolate cake on the table.

“Thanks.” He smiled her way, and poor girl, bless her sweet soul, almost ran away, blushing and giggling.

“How exactly were you unable to find a wife if you just gave this girl a heart attack by just smiling?” The man in front of you almost choked on his salted caramel double sweet cream latte when he heard your question.

“I'm not… It's not like... unimportant." Wiping a drop of liquid from his chin, he grabbed your phone with his free hand, put it in front of your face, and smiled triumphantly when face ID did its job. You were too stunned with his audacity to even ask what he was doing, instead looking as he tapped the screen.

“Here.” Finally, he gave you your phone back, the maps app opened, and an address was saved in it.

“Here…?” You repeated, probably the most confused you've been in your whole life.

“Move in here.”

“Gojo, I swear to god, if you don't explain what you're talking about, I'll lose my mind.” Giggle escaped his mouth, and blue eyes seemed to shine with... you weren't sure with what. Excitement? Mischief? Amusement?

“That's my home. That will be ours anyway when we get married. And knowing the shitheads’ elders are, they'll try to monitor if we're not fucking with them and if we're producing heirs.” You cringed at his word choice, even though he was probably right. “So let's fuck with them for real and act like we're delighted about this situation. They'll leave us alone, and we can always say we're having... issues with making an heir. That's not really something they can verify or control.”

You couldn't believe you were actually thinking about it. As crazy as it sounds, it made sense. Elders had way too much free time, and if they noticed you two not even trying, they'd intervene immediately. But living with Satoru? You just met, and it sounded surreal to even think about. “I have like two spare bedrooms, and with my work, I'm barely home anyway.” He decided to add like he was reading your mind.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

---

And that takes us to the present moment. It’s been a bit over a year since you moved in. Satoru wasn’t lying when he said he was barely home, but during the rare days off, you actually got closer. You probably could say you’re close friends now. You were also two adults working a stressful job, spending most of your free time together, which caused awkward situations from time to time. A glance here and there, a touch that lasts just a second too long to come off as casual, jokes that stopped being jokes at one point, turning to propositions filled with sexual tension instead. But neither you nor Satoru went further with it, brushing it off and changing the topic to something painfully casual.

Satoru thought you were actually making fun of him and his evident crush, while you saw it as a challenge of sorts, wondering how far you could go before he’d make a move or stop you. And ever since Satoru got you a gift and a cake with “Happy Anniversary” on it, exactly a year after you met in the cafe, you got impatient. And bolder in your moves.

You’d accidentally leave your clothes in your room, so, oh no, you need to walk through the entire house wrapped in a towel. Laying your legs over his lap, just a bit too close to his zipper. Insisting on checking on ALL of his wounds if he ever got hurt on the missions (that one happened only maybe two times so far, damn infinity).

“Maybe he just doesn’t like me. You know, like that.” You said one day, sitting with Shoko during her lunch break. You’ve known Ieiri for almost a decade now, you’ve met when she patched you up after an encounter with a special grade curse. She was the only one who knew exactly what your situation looked like.

“I’d have to be blind to believe that. Last week when we went for drinks and you got ready at my place? He almost choked on his own tongue. And he might wear this stupid blindfold or glasses, but it’s easy to guess where he’s looking.” Your friend shook her head and checked the time. “I still think you should make the first move. Better now than in a few years when you actually decide to make an heir. That’d be awkward.”

“God, don’t even say shit like that.”

“Speaking of heirs. How’s Yume?” Ieiri smoothly changed the topic. She loved you, truly, but watching that weird dance between you and Satoru made her regret some life choices.

“Good. I think she likes Tokyo more than Kyoto, and Gojo said she’s getting along with others.”

Yume started school last summer, and after a few months, she asked you if there was any chance of transferring to Tokyo High. She didn’t fit in at Kyoto, and you weren’t exactly surprised. After being around Tokyo school so much in the last year, Kyoto felt like a military camp in comparison. Yume was way too fragile for it, and her moving also meant you’d be around if she needed you. That’s how she ended up here, joining Satoru’s first years.

“Okay. I’ve got to go. I have a mission with Nanami, and he’ll kill me if I’m late.” You got up when your phone vibrated on Ieiri’s desk, a reminder about the meeting with Kento soon bright on the screen. You still wanted to say bye to Yume, something you did before every mission, just in case. You kissed Shoko’s cheek as she wished you good luck and left her office, heading towards the stadium. Chilly March air didn’t exempt the kids from training.

The first thing you’ve noticed when you get there is Satoru lying on the bench, probably taking a much-needed nap. When he came back from a week-long mission two days ago, he barely made it to his bedroom before falling asleep, or maybe passing out, you weren’t sure. Yesterday he spent most of the day sleeping off, only leaving the bed in the evening to eat the dinner you’ve prepared and watch a movie together. From what he told you, he only took a few two- or three-hour naps when he was away, and after a week even his body protested.

“Oh, y/s-san!” Itadori was the first to notice you, your sister, who sat next to him, focused on watching Megumi and Maki spar, abruptly turned, and made her way to you.

“I was wondering if you’d make it before leaving.” Yume said while being pulled into your arms for a hug.

“Sorry, kid. Had lunch with Shoko, and I overlooked the time.”

“How long you’ll be gone?” She asked after you pulled away, letting her breathe properly.

“I don’t know. Probably a few days.” That answer didn’t make your sister any less anxious. She wanted to become a sorceress herself, and she knew it was a dangerous job, but every time you were assigned a mission, Yume wanted to stop you from going.

“Be careful. And text me. And watch out.”

“Oi, mini-y/n, your sister is one of the best first-grade sorceresses, and she’s going with a special grade partner. She’ll be fine.” The teenager frowned when Gojo appeared out of nowhere next to her, and he ruffled her hair. “You’re up next with Nobara. Say bye-bye and go to her before she kills someone.”

Yume got on her toes to kiss your forehead, and without another word, she ran off towards the rest of the students. You sighed and looked at Satoru. He ditched his blindfold for a pair of sunglasses today, something he often did after longer missions, you’ve noticed. His hands were deep in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, the same one you’d sometimes steal from his closet.

“She’s paranoid, but she’s right. Be careful.”

“You’ve said it yourself, first grade and special grade. I’ll be fine.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“Mr. Protection, going with you makes me feel a bit better, honestly.” Gojo smiled as you laughed at Nanami’s nickname, but before you could make a joke about it, he leaned forward and left a gentle kiss at the same spot Yume kissed a moment ago.

“Everything’s going to be fine, chill out guys.” You whispered just as Nanami entered the stadium and yelled at you to hurry up. When you turned back to Gojo, he was already back on his bench.

---

Everything went wrong.

That sentence was stuck in your head for the past few hours, when after five long days you were almost back home. Your torso was aching under the warm hoodie, and tight bandages were constantly pushing on sensitive skin, a similar situation on your thigh. Nanami, sitting in the driver’s seat, looked only a bit better, but you knew about a tightly bandaged wound on his chest.

“You’re sure you don’t want Shoko to look at it?” He asked for the hundredth time, and you’d argue about his protectiveness, but exhaustion was taking over.

“I just want to be home already.” Kento only nodded, hearing your tired answer, and the rest of the journey was silent, only soft music playing in the background.

You agreed earlier that he’d drop you off at home and drive to Jujutsu High on his own to report to Yaga and let Shoko patch him up. Maybe in a different order. Half an hour later, you climbed a few steps to the front door and opened it with trembling hands, almost dropping the keys twice. Nanami drove off only after the door closed behind you. It was fairly early in the evening, and guessing by the darkness in every room, Satoru wasn’t home yet. You dropped the duffel bag on the floor, almost falling next to it. Instead, you’ve made your body move to the bathroom and draw a warm bath, something your muscles would thank you for tomorrow.

---

While you tried to relax at least a little bit, Nanami made it to the base and went straight to Shoko’s office. The report could wait a bit longer, his wound that just wouldn’t stop bleeding probably couldn’t.

“Fucking hell, what happened to you?” Ieiri almost dropped a glass when he showed her ripped skin. She quickly got rid of the blood-soaked bandages and asked him to lie down.

“First grade my ass. There were two and one that I’d classify as a special grade.” The blonde man groaned, lowering himself on the bed as slowly as he could.

“How’s y/n?” Before he could answer, the doors opened, and Megumi stepped inside, his teacher right behind him. Fushiguro was holding his arm with the opposite hand, blood dripping down his shirt.

“Shoko, can you fix Megu- Nanamin?” Gojo almost stumbled, noticing the man. He took one look at his wounded chest, and the playful smile he walked in with was gone. “Where’s y/n?”

“Relax, she’s at home. She wasn’t as injured, and the guy in Akita healed the most of it.” Kento said, and before he could explain any further, the white-haired man was already gone. “Knight in a blindfold to the rescue.”

Shoko laughed and signaled Megumi to sit in a chair before focusing on Nanami’s wounds, murmuring something about kids and blindness.

---

You were out of the bath, making a cup of tea in the kitchen. Your body felt a lot better after soaking in warm water, finally out of the tight clothes, opting for an oversized t-shirt instead, fresh bandages on both thigh and torso. Slowly relaxing in the comfort of home, the shirt that smelled like Satoru’s perfume, favorite mug on the counter.

Finally putting your guards down. That’s also why you haven’t noticed an outburst of cursed energy in front of the house, where Satoru warped, since walking or driving would take too long. And after seeing Nanami’s injuries, he needed to see you’re okay.

“Y/n?!” His voice pulled you out of the exhaustion, and before you could even answer, he was already in the doorway, having traced your energy. He took his blindfold off, making slow steps towards you, looking at every millimeter of your body he could see.

“Hi, Toru.” You said, almost shyly, fully aware of his intense stare on your bandaged leg, shirt not doing much to hide it. Finally, his eyes met yours, he took a deep breath in, and you could swear he was about to scold you. He didn’t.

Satoru took one more step your way, and in the blink of an eye, you were sitting on the counter, his warm body between your legs and arms around your back in a gentle embrace. You slowly wrapped your own arms around his neck, feeling him lean his head onto your shoulder.

“What the fuck happened?” He asked quietly. His voice was low and raspy, filled with emotions you couldn’t name properly.

“There were three curses instead of one. But I’m okay, really. Kento took the worst blows on himself.” Your fingers instinctively tangled into snow-white hair, nails gently scratching the skin. You felt how Gojo got tense at first, slowly relaxing. You were safe at home, you weren’t bleeding out, and he was holding your body in his arms. The nerves that filled his mind as soon as he saw Nanami were disappearing with each breath you took close to his ear, each pass of your fingers through soft hair, and every second he spent surrounded by your warmth and scent.

“I almost had a heart attack when I saw Nanami’s wound. All I could think about was if you got a similar one.” Satoru whispered after a few moments. One of his hands was now caressing your back, but he wasn’t sure if it was supposed to calm you or him. Another minute or so later, he gently pulled away, but he was still so close that if you leaned forward, your lips would meet. And Toru seemed to think about it too, his eyes now focused on your lips. “I’ll explain to Yaga why next time if you’re not paired with me, you’re not going.”

“Don’t blame Kento. He saved my life probably more times than I could count on this mission alone.” He smiled softly, like he was amused by what you said.

“I’m not blaming him. He looks like a damn Jigsaw played on his chest, obviously, he did his best.” His forehead leaned onto yours, and you can now feel his lips on yours, gentle touches, almost ghostly, with every word. “But I’m responsible for protecting my future wife. I can do that without getting a cut. So next time you’re taking your fiance with yo-” He didn’t finish. You didn’t let him. Grabbing the collar of his uniform, you barely needed to move to kiss him. And Satoru reacted in less than a second, cupping your cheek with one hand, the other one gently on top of the bandaged thigh.

After a year of thinking, wondering what kissing Satoru would feel like, dreaming about it even, you finally know. And you don’t know what’s with this man, but this feeling—his soft lips on your, tongue slowly exploring your mouth, a gentle bite on your lower lip—was addictive. Just one taste left you hungry for more, mind almost clouded as he pulled away slightly, pulling a quiet moan from you with him. He grinned proudly, looking deep into your glazed eyes, thumb caressing your cheekbone down to the jaw.

“I may rethink this whole producing an heir thing.”

And just like that, the thick mood is gone as you start to laugh, leaning your forehead on Gojo’s collarbone.

“I’m serious. Yaga can’t send you on missions like that one if you’re carrying an heir of not one, but two families.” You shook your head and looked up to him.

“Slow down, Romeo. We kissed after a year of engagement, at least wife me up before talking about any heir.” You joked and pecked his lips one more time.

“Next weekend?”

“Sure, love.”

Only a week later, you realize Satoru wasn’t joking.

#jujutsu satoru #jujutsu kaisen imagines #imagine #jujutsu gojo #satoru gojo #jujutsu sorcerer #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo imagine #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #satoru gojo imagine #jjk satoru #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru fluff

112 notes · View notes

macking-cheese · 2 months ago

Text

Transformers: Earthspark brainworms rn

What if Bee got put under Mandroid's control? GAH ITS EATING ME UP THINKING ABOUT IT

inspired by asimp4bee's (I think I spelled that right) art I saw with the same theory, and the song Control by Halsey

This also includes Breakbee! Ig it's like a situationship but actually they're terrible at feelings and Bee is like “am I not enough for him” and when shit goes down later Breakdown is like “damn I gotta step up fr” (this is probably a terrible explanation and for that I am sorry)

Also this accidentally became an exploration of Jawbreaker and Bee's relationship (AS SIBLINGS!!! I just think that in a way they complement each other and I wanna explore it) (It's probably me just projecting my neurodiversity onto them tbh)

This is like really bee-centric, more than I originally intended for it to be. I wanted it to gauge the terrans’ reactions to losing their brother/mom#2 (this is an inside joke pls don't flame me for it), then it became me wanting that twink mentally obliterated (and studying the journey of healing through family support after the inevitable crash out)

So here's a little drabble? Of me fleshing out the introduction of my ideas a bit more so I have a basic outline of where to go with the fic I'm planning! This has some dark themes (TW: suicidal ideation, kidnapping, torture, violence, harming of children, crazy how most of this is canon typical)

Basically this is set right after the kids break Bee and co out of the G.H.O.S.T cells, he tries one last time to get Breakdown to join them, and is rejected. So Bee goes home with the kids, and after a bit, making sure they're okay and under supervision of their family, he goes back alone to try and get Breakdown to join him again, the first place he looks being back at the facility, hoping he might still be there, but he knew he wouldn't, it was his dumb optimism saying there might have still been a chance.

Of course heading back there first was a bad idea. Probably the shittiest call he could make. He immediately gets recaptured and those G.H.O.S.T fuckers torture him and demonstrate their new mind control technology, trying to break the bot mentally and turn him into a weapon for their own personal/military use. When the big battle happens, he's sent out and,,,,

The terrans are so happy to see him, they missed their brother figure (jokingly their mom#2) and could really use his help and possibly Breakdown's, if he succeeded in his mission, in the fight. He told them he was going back to try and get more recruits, he'd be gone for no longer than a day, but if it takes longer, not to worry. It's been two weeks. (Or however it happened canonically, idk. I haven't actually watched the show in a month so this original setup probably doesn't make sense, really just writing to write here)

But when they get a closer look, he seems so worn down and tired and small. Trying to appear angry and bitter and intimidating, but it looked so fake and they didn't know why he wasn't easing up upon seeing the terrans again, until they see that cold, emotionless white in his optics.

They can't believe it. He’s not wearing a G.H.O.S.T badge. Maybe he's playing an ill-timed prank.

“That's not funny, Bee”

“We need your help”

“You're scaring me”

“Please stop”

“Bee?”

They notice the flicker of blue and the horrid screech-click of a failing vocalizer. The way his body trembles and his arm plating shakes with the effort to keep it from transforming into his stinger.

A last-ditch effort on his end, he turns on his radio with a slurry of static.

“C-an't help thi-sssssssss- should be sk- scared -f me-!”

The terrans are a mix of horrified and worried. They know they should move, run away, some catch up fast enough and do that, having to drag others. Jawbreaker just can't. That's his favorite person, his confidant, his older brother.

“Back-back-ba-ckhss… up!” It was the only semblance of himself that he seemed to have somewhat control of, and he clung to it. The terrans needed to know he didn't mean anything he was going to do.

Jawbreaker did move, a few disbelieving steps away, not fast enough to dodge the hand landing on his chest to move him away, too harshly for anyone's comfort.

Bumblebee was tearing himself up to try and fight for control. It hurt, it hurt so much, he almost wanted to sink into that awful bliss the chip in his back offered. But he couldn't, those were his mentees, his kids. He'd kill himself if he ever brought harm to them.

He wondered if the chip would stop him if he tried now. Maybe he could fry his circuits if he kept pushing against the breaching walls of code. Maybe he could shoot himself or something.

With that thought his arm finally transformed and the kids booked it. He couldn't stop himself from aiming at them and landed a few painful shots. He begged for forgiveness as he lost himself, giving up and letting the parasite fully enter him.

All this for Breakdown, and he didn't even know if it was worth it to have gone back in the first place.

-----

There's so much more I have running around in my head and my notes for this! You're welcome to share any thoughts, and please disregard if this was structured oddly. I'm jumping in my seat right now with excitement and my thoughts are a bit scattered trying to get this out.

#transformers #transformers earthspark #earthspark bumblebee #bumblebee #earthspark breakdown #breakdown #breakbee #earthspark terrans #mandroid's bitch ass #thrash malto #twitch malto #jawbreaker malto #hashtag malto #nightshade malto #let these kids have a normal childhood dammit #can't have shit in Witwicky #my ass is NOT contributing to this #gnawing at the bars of my enclosure

90 notes · View notes

dimplyowl · 5 months ago

Text

Today I want to talk about intentions. A while ago I made a post about why Izzy's toxic masculinity and internalized homophobia doesn't give him a free pass to treat other people like shit and then not try to atone for that. A lot of the Izzy apologists I see seem to be of that opinion: that because we take into consideration Ed's past trauma when thinking how his actions have hurt the people we care about, we should give Izzy the same grace.

Well, I don't actually think we should, and I'm going to tell you why.

First, though, I want to say that this isn't about attacking people who enjoy characters who are pieces of shit. Please, by all means, enjoy your grubby little shitstain characters (I absolutely have some of my own that I love). This is about discussing why it's problematic to twist the canonical narrative to label Ed as abusive and Izzy as a victim.

And, in my opinion, it comes down to intentions.

"But dimplyowl," you say, "someone's intentions don't matter when the result is harmful to the people around them!" And I think, to a point, yes, that's true. People who hurt others through careless or reckless behavior need to bear the responsibility of their actions and own up to it (something that imo Izzy does not do). But I think there's also a distinction that needs to be made between people who hurt and control others because they take pleasure in feeling powerful over them, and those who don't.

If we take a look at Izzy's actions in season one and compare them to Ed's actions in season two, in my personal opinion, it becomes clear that one of these men is someone who has repeatedly taken pleasure in mistreating the people around him, both insubordinates and people that he claims to "have love for." And that man isn't the dread pyrate Blackbeard.

Does Ed enact violence on other people? Yes. Does he "love a good maim?" Also yes. Does he enjoy hurting people? Mm, debatable. The thing about Ed is that he has a complicated relationship with violence. To him, it's a tool to be utilized when necessary. I think he certainly gets a sense of vindictive pleasure when instructing Fang to skin the French captain or when the people at the French party descend into chaos and set themselves on fire. But, importantly, it's because those are people who wronged him. Those are people who hurt him, who dug at his race and his background and took pleasure in using those things to hurt him.

But Ed doesn't enjoy violence for violence's sake. There's always a reason, whether it's in reaction to being insulted, belittled, or threatened, or whether it's because it's literally just in the job description, he has a reason.

In season two, his reason for mistreating the crew is that he's trying to provoke them into mutinying on him. And, like, honestly, he does a pretty shitty job of it. Up until we rejoin them, his big crime is overworking them. The crew is tired emotionally and physically, but for the most part they're unharmed. They lost Ivan on a raid, but any one of them could die on a raid at any time, because it's literally just a hazard of the job. Not a single one of them is even considering mutiny at this point.

Ed hits his breaking point when Izzy suggests that they try and "talk it through," and imo completely understandably. It's his fault that the morale on the ship is low, is it? It's his fault because he was sad and heartbroken and vulnerable? It's his fault because he was healing in his own way, but that wasn't acceptable to Izzy at the time, but now because the ship isn't fun for Izzy anymore, because Izzy is on the verge of losing his position of power as Blackbeard's first mate, now is when Izzy decides that maybe talking it through might actually be helpful? Yeah, if I were Ed, I would fucking shoot him too.

But not once do we get any evidence that Ed is taking any pleasure in wearing down the crew. When he hits his breaking point, he is very clearly not having a good time. He realizes that if he wants this to end, he needs to up the ante. He hands Izzy a loaded gun and offers himself up as an easy target. Izzy laughs at his suicidal boss, friend, someone that he "has love for", and tells him to do it himself. He prolongs Ed's suffering. He puts the crew in even more danger. And even as Ed is trying to make the crew kill him, he doesn't touch them. By this point, we've seen this crew turn to mutiny twice, once because of Stede's ineptitude and once because of Izzy's abuse when he took over as captain. It shouldn't take much to get them to act, and yet it takes Ed threatening to get them all killed in a storm for them to finally act. Because up until that point, he's been unstable, he's been clearly going through a crisis, but he hasn't hurt them, he hasn't been abusive. He's clearly not enjoying any of this, he's going through some shit, he's hurting, and they love him, and until their lives are imminent danger, they're discussing how to help him.

If Ed wanted to hurt them, if he wanted to push them into mutiny sooner, there are so many things he could have done to terrorize them. Instead until the point he decides he can't live anymore, his only hope is that either he'll get killed in a raid, or he'll overwork them enough that they'll kill him themselves. This is not about abusing his crew, this is about abusing himself.

In contrast, when we look at Izzy's behavior throughout season one, we see someone who very clearly enjoys his position of power over other people, and who gets pleasure out of abusing that power. In 1x2, he sows distrust and uncertainty in Ivan and Fang about Ed's decision-making, telling them that he's half-mad, keeping Ed separate from the crew, and discouraging any questions by asserting himself physically over Fang. (He then claims in 1x4 to have reassured the crew when they've doubted Ed's leadership, when in fact he seems to be the cause of that doubt). In 1x3 he blatantly lies to Ed about having "explicitly" (his word) told Stede that "Blackbeard wants a word with him." He is practically gleeful when he passes on Stede's message to go suck eggs in hell, clearly expecting that to get a rise out of Ed, certainly to get him to drop his fascination with the Gentleman Pirate, and probably intending for Ed to attack Stede himself for disrespecting him.

In 1x4, he flip flops between caring that some of their crew died while fighting the Spanish to get Stede and his crew, and telling Ivan and Fang to kill anyone who refuses to fight the Spanish. Intending to fight the Spanish warships that have caught up with him is absolutely going to get everyone slaughtered, when there are other options. Ed actually advises anyone who can to leave, knowing that that's their only chance for survival, and similarly he tells the Revenge crew to surrender when cornered by the British. In 1x4, he clearly considers every death that would occur to be his responsibility when he tells Stede that being Blackbeard means that everyone's going to die, and it's going to be all his fault. Who's the one who actually cares about what happens to his crew here?

In 1x5 Izzy attempts to exert control over Lucius and punish him for, apparently, not working on his day off? Never mind that there are two other people in that room who are slacking off. Izzy targets Lucius, who is an effeminate unapologetically gay man, who Izzy clearly believes will be an easy target. He attempts to mock his sexuality (which actually winds up being more telling on himself), decides that it's his right to tell someone else's crew what to do at all, and attempts to use Lucius as an example to show the rest of Stede's crew that their "days of doing fuck-all are over", but then doesn't give jobs to the rest of the crew? He catches one of his own crew members fucking off with Lucius, and from what we can extrapolate, decides to only punish Lucius, because clearly Lucius as the "seductress" is to blame. He threatens to blackmail Lucius into obeying him, is visibly enjoying threatening him and manipulating him, and leaves like a pissy toddler when he doesn't get his way. And by "get his way", I mean successfully gains control over someone through threats and manipulation.

In 1x6, he once again decides that an effeminate gay man needs to be punished for his existence, but this time it's Stede he sets his sights on. He decides that he needs to take action only after hearing Ivan say that he's never seen Ed so open and available. Izzy can't have that, because he needs Ed to be dependent on Izzy, so that Izzy can continue to isolate Ed from the rest of the crew, can remain the only source of contact between Ed and the crew, and thereby easily control and manipulate both parties. He pressures Ed into finally acting on what he said he would do, belittling Stede and Ed's connection to Stede by referring to Stede as Ed's pet. (It is not an accidental choice that the writers will later have another antagonist refer to Stede as Ed's pet; it's deliberate mirroring to Izzy as an antagonist). He uses Stede's ego to manipulate him into insisting on putting on the fuckery so that they can get rid of Stede today--almost as if he knows that putting immediate pressure on Ed to act won't give him time to reconsider, to rethink, to back out, to maybe consider why Izzy is so adamant about this--and then uses Stede and Ed's relationship to further manipulate Stede into doubling down on doing the fuckery when he's doubting himself. And doing it in possibly the creepiest way possible?? Stede literally puts up a physical barrier between them, and Izzy pushes against that, actually literally pushes up against the curtain to push against the boundary that Stede has put up.

And then when it's clear Ed isn't going to kill Stede, Izzy decides that he's going to take that decision out of Ed's hands. He decides he knows better than Ed what's best for him, places more value in his own decisions than Ed's, essentially mutinies on Ed by disobeying him, and on Stede by challenging him to a duel. He clearly believes he's going to win, and easily, in the process forcing someone he again claims to "have love for" to watch as he destroys the only thing that's brought hope and life and light and enjoyment back into Ed's life. He's embarrassingly easily goaded into losing his temper, relishes the moment he thinks he's won, the moment he stabs Stede, loses his temper again when his sword is stuck. Canyonites love to talk about Ed having anger problems, but this episode clearly demonstrates who actually has the anger problem. He looks to Ed when he realizes he's lost, as if Ed is going to forgive him, let him stay, when he just tried to kill Ed's friend and (only in Izzy's mind at that point) lover.

Izzy then turns to the fucking cops to turn Stede in. He reinforces his belief that Ed isn't capable of making his own decisions when he refers to Stede as having "done something" to Ed's brain, as if Ed is a weak-willed, easily manipulated child. He sends Jack in because he knows that Jack will put a wedge between Ed and Stede, and hopefully to get Ed out of there before the navy shows up. He apparently doesn't consider the fact that Ed is the most wanted pirate in the world, and if Jack doesn't succeed, will be in life-threatening danger. But maybe he doesn't care about that, considering what he tells Ed later.

He arranges for Ed to be put into his custody. Like, I shouldn't have to say anything about that, because it's fucking disgusting. Like Ed is property to be handed over to Izzy. He tries to convince Ed that Stede's execution is actually a kindness, despite knowing what it will do to Ed. When that fails, he tries to convince Ed not to take the Act and sign the contract, but...isn't that what Izzy himself just did?

In 1x9 we get more of his control and manipulation over the crew. Taking away a week of Wee John's rations for making a comment about Izzy's terrible name for his ship, as he is actively eating in front of him. Making Ivan and Fang serve him, telling them his food needs more salt, and then not even eating more of it when they salt it? Fucking gross. That move is all about control.

And then 1x10, which I shouldn't even have to talk about, but the fucking horrible way he treats Ed apparently is still something that goes over some peoples' heads. Once again keeping him secluded from the crew, refusing to give them answers about what's going on, keeping them busy by literally spitting on their clean deck, when he could have just dumped the coffee out on it. Watching Ed grieve and bond with the crew, once again deciding for Ed that he knows what's best for him, interrupting his grieving process, telling him that what he's become is worse than death. Threatening him that if he doesn't return to the very specific image that Izzy says Blackbeard is, that Izzy will kill him. Later on his deathbed apology admitting that he knew that being Blackbeard was harmful to Ed, but that he kept pressing because Izzy needed him, needed Blackbeard in order to feel powerful, to keep the level of respect and fear that other people had for him.

All of this paints a picture of a person who enjoys feeling powerful, who enjoys using that power to hurt and abuse and control the people around him, who will do anything, even at the detriment of someone that he has "love for", to keep that power for himself. A person who takes pleasure in hurting people, physically and emotionally.

I see a lot of people trying to say that what Ed did was worse than what Izzy did. I personally don't think it was, when you add up the consistent way that Izzy mistreats every person around him. But I think that what's even more important in this discussion are the intentions behind the hurt.

Ed did everything he could not to harm his crew until it became evident that the only way he could be successful in getting them to kill him would be by giving them a very present, very real threat. And even then, the way he went about doing it was very distant. Making Jim and Archie fight each other. Sailing directly into a storm. Damaging the ship to make an already dangerous situation even more dangerous.

Izzy repeatedly enjoyed exerting his control and physical and emotional violence on other people. He displayed a pattern of believing himself to be the only person capable of making the right choices, of removing the agency from the people around him, specifically of removing Ed, a person of color's, agency. He hurt every single person around him, all for his own benefit, for his own gain.

Maybe it comes down to value systems, maybe intentions behind someone's behavior really don't matter to you, but I know that I am much more forgiving of someone who hurt me as a byproduct of hurting themselves than I am someone who knowingly, repeatedly hurts people because they enjoy it.

#this is extremely long #if you made it to this point then wow #thank you #that's actually incredible #our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd s2 #edward teach #stede bonnet #ofmd meta #izzy hands hate club #izzy hands #izzy critical #izzy hands critical

118 notes · View notes