#<- it was not intended to look like that but I like it :)

[slapmeshigaraki]

biiig stretch

♡ pairings: rafayel, caleb x reader

♡ warnings: spit, condescension, slight dumbification, dirty talk, uhhhh caleb is a little grosser than i intended in this, both boys are pretty mean, feet, daddy, fingering, pussy eating, crying but like in a sexy way, mentions of overstimulation, one singular pussy slap, begging, barely proof read i wrote this shit at like 1am

♡ summary: how they handle a 'tight fit'

♡a/n: uhhhh these are a little mean so i apologize,, i was feral when i wrote this idk. also y'all pray for me for my midterms,, it's not looking too good rn lmaoo. enjoy lovelies xx

୨୧ rafayel ୨୧

"Angel, if you don't relax, it's not gonna fit." The mans voice was a soft whisper into your ear, his hot breath gently caressing your skin as his wandering hands explored every inch of your insides. Two of Rafayel's fingers were jammed into your drooling pussy, your juices soaking his palm with every movement that he made past your entrance. You were gripping him so tightly--too tightly now, your entire body tensing up as he tried to slide another finger inside of you.

"Don't be nervous--'m gonna take good care of you, yeah? Just gotta stretch this sweet little pussy open a bit before she can take my cock, right? You trust me, don't you?" Your thighs couldn't help but to weaken as you felt him place sloppy, wet kisses against the crook of your neck, his saliva dripping across your flesh as he toyed with your aching clit with his thumb.

"Y-yes, I trust you."

"Good. Then calm down for me, okay? Show me you can be good--let me inside." You could feel his soft lips form a smile against your skin as he squeezed a third digit inside of you, reveling in the way your body took him in so nicely. His free hand made its way to your mouth, two of his fingers tapping against your cheek, signaling for you to part your lips as he whispered into your ear once more, "Open up this hole for me too--fuckkk, good job, baby. Taking all of my fingers so well. You look so pretty when you get filled, does it feel good, angel girl?" All you could manage was a few muffled moans against his fingers as he jammed them further into your throat, matching the same intensity as the digits inside your other hole now.

"You gonna cum on my fingers again already? That's okay, don't hold it back. This pussy's gonna be so lubed up for me, making so many sweet juices. That's it cum for me, it's okay. I got you--" With no more than a couple pumps of his fingers inside of you, slamming against your g-spot with ease, and his filthy words fogging up your brain, your were cumming. He quickly pulled his fingers from your mouth, desperate to hear your moans uninhibited. The way you sang for him--god, he was so hungry to hear it again.

"Good fucking girl, so good for me, making a mess all over my fingers. You wanna try that on my cock next time, hm?" A fithy squelching sound rang in your ears as he slid his fingers out of your cunt, cream coating his hand as he readjusted himself, lining his wet and aching tip up with your hole.

"Wanna cum on your cock, but I don't think it's gonna fit." Your voice quivered as you felt Rafayel's hot flesh pressed against yours. You raised your head off the pillow a little, attempting to look down at the scene, but you were quickly interrupted.

"Shhh..." A soft kiss was pressed to your cheek, his hand gripping the side of your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Don't look down. Eyes on me, pretty girl. It's only gonna hurt for a second, okay? Just a little while and then I'm gonna make you feel so fucking good. I promise, angel." He was painfully hard, the wetness from his precum coating your lips as he slowly slid himself against you, brushing against your clit with every motion. He wanted nothing more than to force himself inside of you, to feel your gooey walls milking him, to hear the way you whined against him as he muffled your noises with his lips, forcing you to moan into his mouth--but he restrained himself.

"It's gonna hurt more if you don't relax a bit for me, baby. You don't need to be scared, you're already stretched open, remember? It's just the tip right now, but you gotta' tell me you can take it before I try to push it in." His other fingers, still coated in your cum were back on your clit now, slowly working your pussy just the way you liked as he continued rubbing his thick length against you. You'd seen it before, felt it through his pants, had it in your throat countless times, but this was different. You could barely fit him in your mouth for weeks, the feeling of taking him to the back of your throat brought tears to your eyes every time, so the thought of having to take him, all of him, inside of your cunt had your stomach in knots...but you wanted to feel him so bad, to see the way his angelic face contorted as he sung your praises, to have your hole clenching around his cock, to feel the warmth of his cum dripping out of you after he'd stuffed you full.

"Yes...want you to put it in. Promise I can take it." His lips met yours finally, pulling you in for a deep kiss, his tongue forcing yours into submission, desperately trying to keep you focused on anything other than the stretching sensation of his grithy cock squeezing between your walls. You whined out against his mouth, the pleasure of his fingers on your clit mixed with the subdued pain of his mushroom head inside of your tight cunt was enough to make you squirm beneath him. You had this man's mouth watering, your nimble fingers clawing against his back, leaving reddened marks on his skin as you softly moaned out his name. He'd never felt anything so good--so warm, so fucking wet in his entire life. He pulled his mouth back from yours, forcing your eyes to flutter open and lock with his once more, your lips swollen from the earlier attack.

"You took that so fucking good...my sweet girl." He kept playing with your clit, leaving little moans to slither out of your mouth as his other hand forced your leg down against the bed, the weight of his body leaving you completely exposed. "Now you have to trust me again, yeah? I'm gonna put the rest in now and you just have to take it okay...you promised me you would take it for me."

"Wait--no no I can't--"

"I can't wait any longer--fuck--I gotta feel this pussy wrapped around my whole cock. Just take a deep breath for me, okay?" You had no time left to protest before the stinging sensation overtook your body, the stretch bringing tears to your eyes, as the man whispered in your ear, "Biiig stretch...sorry angel, but look, you took it so good--like you were made to take my fucking cock. My perfect pretty girl."

"Feel so full, Rafayel," you whined and whimpered as he slowly rocked his hips back and forth into you, giving you time to adjust to his length after shoving it all in so brutally.

"I know baby, I know. No more tears...just feel good for me now." He continued pressing sloppy kisses onto your skin, his thumb sliding back down between your bodies, finding your clit with ease as he slowly rubbed tiny circles, his entire hand sticky with your wetness. You were back to moaning his name in no time, begging for more.

"See, angel...I told you I'd make it better, yeah? I'm sorry I had to hurt you. Now close your eyes and let me show this pussy some appreciation...she opened up so fucking well for me. It's the least I could do."

୨୧ caleb ୨୧

"Come on baby, give me one more. Let me taste you again." His voice was low, groaning as he looked up at you from between your plush thighs, his big rough hands kneading your flesh as his fat tongue cupped your pussy.

"No more, please just fuck me."

"Wow, you get fucking nasty when you wanna cum, huh? What's wrong, mama? You don't like my tongue?" You didn't answer, the overwhelming pleasure clouding your brain as your hole clenched around nothing, forcing more and more juices out and into Caleb's mouth. He knew just how to make you cum, and he had been mercilessly utilizing this skill for the last hour, the stimulation had been bringing tears to your eyes as he softly sucked your clit, lips latching onto your sensitive nub as his muscled arms pinned you in place.

"Answer me when I ask you a question." Without warning Caleb's grip on your thigh was gone, the warm feeling of his tongue against your cunt soon replaced by a harsh smack to your clit. You screamed out, the surprise of the stinging pain effortlessly catching you off guard.

"Fuck yes I like your tongue. Just--I just wanna feel you...please Caleb."

"Can't fuck you if you can't listen when I'm talking to ya'. Gotta focus for me for just a little longer, okay? Just need you a little bit wetter, wanna see this pussy dripping all over the bed." Caleb was fucking mean when he got like this, pupils dialated, mouth salivating at the taste of you, his hips rutting against the edge of the bed as he shoved his tongue past your tight entrance as you cursed under your breath. It took no time for you to cum again, hips rising off of the mattress, bucking into Caleb's face as he used his weight to press you back down--not wanting to give you the chance to escape his tongue before he was ready.

"Fuckkk you taste so good--so fucking sweet, I could eat this pussy all day."

"No no no please I need to feel you inside of me. I want your dick so bad." Caleb was elated, violet eyes widened in surprise at the disgusting words that were coming out of such a pretty mouth--he'd corrupted you and he liked it.

"Yeah? You want me to stretch that little pussy out, hm?" He couldn't hide the sinister grin that was slowly spreading across his lips as you moaned and begged for his dick inside of you, it made his balls ache just at the thought of watching you try to take all of him inside...he'd dreamed of this moment a million times before.

You watched him, subconsciously biting your lips as he slowly slid his fingers beneath the waistband of his shorts, pulling them down, letting his thick cock spring free. He was so hard, you could practically see his length throbbing as he reached for your hand, placing your delicate fingers around his shaft. "Don't be scared of it, mama. It's not gonna bite--just stroke it for me, okay? Get used to the way it feels in your hand first." You were immediately taken aback at the sheer size of his dick. You'd never seen it before, only felt it through his pants when he'd tell you to come sit on his lap after a long day or when it'd press against the small of your back while he rubbed himself into you as you two cuddled in bed. He was so responsive to your touch, his toned abs tensing and shivering each time he felt your thumb run across the sensitive tip of his cock, relishing in the way his precum was soiling your fingertips as you fisted his length. "Shittt...your fingers are so fucking soft. Wait wait wait, hands off--fuck" The sight of Caleb quivering beneath your touch was intoxicating, his sweaty body glistening, lips still wet with your juices as he licked and bit his bottom lip, desperately trying not to let any moans escape; it only made you want to touch him more, faster, harder. A few more seconds and your hand would be covered in his cum, but just before he was about to lose all composure, you felt him grip your wrist, snatching your fingers away from him.

"When I say hands off--" He was gripping you tightly now, pushing you back down onto the bed, forcing your arms above your head as he growled into your ear, pressing his full length against your soft tummy, "I mean take your fucking hands off."

"Are you that big of a whore that you can't follow instructions? Just want my cum any way you can get it, huh? Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll give you what you want." His big hand effortless held both of your ankles together, pressing your thighs into your stomach, folding you in half and giving him a full view of your soaking heat. You couldn't help but to moan out his name as he slid himself between your lips, his thick cock brushing against your clit at an agonizingly slow pace, coating himself in your juices.

"Say my name..." It was a plea, a desperate request moaned out above the sound of your whines.

"Caleb...please."

"Nuh uh, you know that's not what I want to hear. Come on pretty girl, lemme hear you say it. Beg for me. I fucking need it." You knew exactly what he'd wanted and under any other circumstances, the embarrassment probably would've made you hide your face in your hands, cheeks burning from the humiliation, but you were so fucking wet and needy that it hurt--you'd do anything, say anything just to feel him.

"Please daddy... I want you inside of me." He took a sharp inhale as the words left your lips, groaning in pleasure, shutting his eyes tightly to keep himself from cumming on the spot. You soon felt the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slowly forcing itself inside of your hole, but it was a much tighter fit than you'd initially thought. He wrapped his arm around your legs now, biceps flexing, veins enlarged, forcing your soft thighs against his chest, exposing your clit so his free hand could spread your lips apart, giving him an even better view.

"Baby...you're too tensed. I'm not gonna be able to get inside if you don't loosen this pussy up for me a little bit. You gotta' relax for daddy," You couldn't even respond before you felt a streak of wetness across your leg, his tongue licking from your knee all the way to your ankle.

"I'm gonna try something, yeah? Don't freak out, okay? Just let it feel good. Be a big girl and trust me for a second. Daddy promises it's gonna feel so fucking good. Just close your eyes." You did, and almost immediately, a wave of pleasure washed over you as you felt that same wetness swipe across the sole of your foot, one of your manicured toes being gently sucked into the man's mouth. The second he heard a gasp leave your lips, he pushed the tip in. "Good girl... so fucking sweet for me. That's it--i'm gonna put the rest of it in, okay, just keep feeling good for me and I'm gonna rub your little clit faster." The pace of his fingers quickened, his mouth continuing to lick and suck on every inch of your foot as the vibrations from his moans tickled your flesh. You opened your eyes now, meeting his gaze--you both looked fucking filthy, covered in each other's sweat, bodies entangled as he forced the rest of himself between your tight walls. "Fuckkkk there we go...biiig stretch, shittt. You look so pretty like this, sweet little hole sucking my dick so good. I'm gonna be still for a second, yeah? Let you get used to it." He really did want to give you time to adjust, but he just couldn't stay still, every subtle shiver or twitch of his body made you wriggle around beneath his grasp until you just couldn't fucking take it anymore.

"Daddy... please. I need you to move." A sigh of relief fell from his lips... a minute longer and he would've came inside of you without warning. He wasted no time rocking his hips into you slowly, stretching you with every small movement. He placed his big hand on your stomach, admiring the way he could see his bulge through your flesh.

"You feel me right here? I'm so fucking deep inside you--you're taking it like a fucking champ. My pretty girl... I swear I'm gonna get you fucking pregnant."

[homunculus-argument]

The more I think about it, "I liked the framing device, but I would have liked it better if the art didn't depict something yucky" is such a fucking brutal thing to say, and I don't know if it's more or less so due to the fact that people who say that don't intend it as an insult. Like most people could not come up with something that hurtful on purpose.

Imagine going to an art gallery and looking at a world-famous piece of classic art and going "oh, some parts of this are pretty! I love the gilded frames and the little carved curly decorations! If only it didn't have that big ugly dark stain in the middle", and by the 'big dark stain' they mean the actual painting, that has been framed by the pretty gilded frame around it. Like the frame is the best part of the painting, and would be so much better without the painting.

Or going to a restaurant, ordering a dish and going "ooh, I love this dish! It's so pretty, the flowers painted into the porcelain and the little gilded edges, I love it. If only it weren't for that disgusting slop right in the middle of it."

You mean the fucking soup??? The whole point that the dish is there to serve?

[unabletonotlovesatoru]

it starts with frustration.

your brows furrow as you stare at the mirror, a tie draped around your neck, hands clumsily fumbling with the fabric. you had watched tutorials, even slowed them down frame by frame, but no matter what, the knot kept turning out lopsided or too loose.

you sigh, trying again. loop over, under, through—

“what exactly are you doing?”

—you panic.

“nothing.” you yank at the tie, intending to rip it off, but in your haste, you only succeed in tightening the mess around your neck. nanami sighs.

“stop.” he steps closer, his hands replacing yours with ease, undoing the disaster you created. “if you choke yourself with my tie, i’m going to be very disappointed.”

you grumble under your breath, avoiding his gaze.

he tilts his head. “why are you practicing with my tie?”

you contemplate lying. saying something like, oh, i was just bored or trying to impress my reflection, but nanami would see right through that.

so, instead, you mumble, “i wanted to learn how to tie it.”

“for yourself?”

“…for you.”

there’s a beat of silence. then, quietly, nanami exhales something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

your head snaps up. “are you laughing at me?”

“not at all.” his voice is as even as ever, but the amused quirk of his lips betrays him. “i just didn’t expect that.”

“forget it,” you huff, reaching up to take the tie back. “i’ll just—”

nanami catches your wrist before you can snatch it away. “no.” he gently pries the tie from your fingers and loops it around his own neck instead. “if you want to learn, let me teach you properly.”

your heart stumbles. “you don’t have to—”

“come here,” he says simply, beckoning you forward.

hesitantly, you step closer, watching as he takes your hands in his, guiding them through the motions—loop over, cross under, pull through. his fingers are warm, his movements slow and patient.

“see?” his voice is softer now, his breath warm against your cheek. “it’s not so difficult.”

you don’t answer right away, too distracted by the way his hands linger over yours, steady and sure. you swallow, heat flooding your cheeks as you look at his handiwork in the mirror. neat, sharp, effortless—just like him.

“…show me again?” you mumble, glancing away.

nanami chuckles, softer this time. “as many times as you’d like.”

[madthetruemad]

EVERYONE LOVED ANAXAGORAS' WIFE. Especially Phainon and Mydei. Their eyes would track your movements anytime you were in their general vicinity. Phainon was always the first to strike up conversation with you. His charm and easy going smile was comfortable and disarming. You would find yourself happily chatting away with him hours on end. Mydei, on the other hand, would always be the first to come to your rescue. Be it with enemies who infiltrated the city, a merchant trying to pull a fast one on you, or a thug pulling you into an alley. Mydei was always there and you would always pay him back for his help by buying him any food he wants. But as soon as the food is bought he is already sharing some with you, casuing you to stay by his side longer than intended.

As for Anaxa, your husband who you just love to dote on, he enjoys watching these two flit about like fools as they try to win your affection that doesn't even exist for them. It was laughable. Something that shouldn't even be considered a threat, yet, a devoted husband does get tired of others trying to take what belongs to him.

So he decides to silence their antics with an effective solution that he knows will work.

Phainon, though initially surprised by your appearance was quick to jumpstart back into action as he smiled at you, his gaze shifting to your growing bump of a belly, "it feels like yesterday when we all were swinging into adulthood, but now it seems you and Anaxa are taking it a step further."

Phainon could feel his jaw clench as he forced the words out, with how your bump was already showing, you were probably already some weeks along in your pregnancy. It irked him at the thought of Anaxa touching you like that. It made his skin crawl.

You, all the while, were naive to Phainon's inner turmoil as you laid a hand over your stomach, your eyes filled with nothing but love and happiness, "i always wanted a small family of my own, so when Anaxa finally started talking about children a few months ago, I was overjoyed! I always thought he would be too busy for a family, so i was happy that we finally talked about it."

"Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?"

You hummed in thought, "i honestly don't know! But what I do know is that I will love him or her no matter what!"

Even though Phainon was good at masking his disdain towards your husband, Mydei was not. Anytime he looked at you, his nose would scrunch and he would find himself looking away. You wondered if you did something wrong. Oh, but Mydei would never blame you or the child you carry. His anger was solely on Anaxa.

"Are you alright, Mydei? You haven't been yourself," your voice was soft and it caused his heart to ache. He didn't like making you upset.

With his arms crossed over his chest, he eyes your stomach, "when are you due?"

He was finally talking and looking at you! It was a start!

"December."

He seemed to be deep in thought before he finally sighed. His arms falling to his sides as he looked you in the eye.

"I will ... make sure no one harms you during all of this."

You smiled, "thank you, Mydei."

You were glad that your friend was acting normal again. However..., Mydei was anything but normal on the inside. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, but one thing was certain. Anaxa wouldn't be safe.

[darkmatilda]

𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your toothbrush was in his bathroom, clothes in the wardrobe, and the sheets had long since grown accustomed to the scent of your skin. you were practically living together, but that day, when you're about to move in officially, one conversation with your boss, one ultimatum, and one decision change the purpose for which you're packing your boxes.

𝐜𝐨𝐧��𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: glasses reid x bau!female reader, ugh mostly fluff with a bit of hurt and comfort, unspecified height difference mentioned

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.k

𝐚/𝐧: it wasn’t a request, but @penelopegarciaismygf kind of suggested it in a conversation—thank you, thank you, love, for the inspiration <3

The golden light seeped through the imperfectly covered window, making its pilgrimage across the entire width of the room straight to your bodies buried under the bedding and, more precisely, to your eyes.

You furrowed your brow and rubbed your still half-asleep eyes. The morning silence was fragile but steady—it seemed to rise and fall gently, adjusting to the rhythm of Spencer’s breathing as he lay on his side, facing you. Although the prospect of crawling out of bed, getting up, and going to work didn’t exactly fill you with enthusiasm or make you want to leap to the ceiling with energy, a small, lazy smile spread naturally across your lips.

Maybe it was because of the expression on his sleeping face—or rather half of it, since the other half was buried in the pillow. Maybe it was those unruly brown hair strands you wanted to smooth with your fingers, but you held back, knowing that waking him when he looked so peaceful and idyllic felt almost like committing a crime. Maybe it was simply his presence.

At that very moment, the sound of the alarm clock snapped you out of your trance and pulled Spencer from his sleep. His temples tensed for a second as his eyes started to open. You quickly leaned over his body to reach the source of the noise, silencing it before it could take over the room.

He opened his eyes, blinking slowly, as if shaking off the heavy grip of sleep that had just held him. Then, his still partly absent gaze focused on the figure hovering above him—on you.

You crawled onto him, pressing your weight down just enough to keep him from sitting up.

"I've got good news for you," you began, resting your forearm on his collarbones and propping your chin on it as you spoke.

Your voice was soft, husky—the first words you’d uttered that morning.

Spencer, just as you intended, remained on his back. His hand had somehow found its way to your hip, as if he were making sure you wouldn’t slip off. Looking at you through half-closed eyes, he gave you a gentle smile. 

“What is it?” he asked, his voice edged with a bit of morning rasp that seemed to make the air between you vibrate ever so slightly.

For a moment, you stayed still, simply looking into his eyes, until you remembered that you both had work that day and couldn’t afford to be late. It didn’t matter how warm his body felt beneath you, wrapping around you like a blanket, or how the scent of the night you’d just spent together lingered softly on his skin.

“A good fairy visited you and is offering an extra five minutes of sleep,” you murmured. “While she makes coffee.”

His eyebrows arched slightly with intrigue.

“Is this fairy an altruist, or is there a catch?”

“Mhm. There is a catch. But it’s a pretty easy one,” you said. “Just one kiss. There could’ve been more, but you get a discount for those pretty eyes.”

You even closed your eyes again, waiting for him to fulfill your request. But Spencer remained still—physically, at least—though his sleepy face showed growing amusement.

“The fairy should know I have a girlfriend,” he replied with a slight shrug. “And she wouldn’t be too happy about me kissing someone else in our bed. Even if it is an incorporeal being.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the wide smile spreading across your face.

“The fairy already talked to her about it,” you snorted, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “And she thinks five extra minutes of sleep is an offer too good to pass up. So?”

Spencer let out a defeated sigh.

“Well then…”

You leaned in to kiss him, his head still resting on the pillow. Under the pressure of your lips, he sank even deeper into it, and his hand on your hip tightened its hold. His sleepy mind seemed to have forgotten the concept of moderation, wanting everything at once as he pulled you even closer. For a moment, he forgot to breathe, letting out a soft, involuntary whimper when you pulled away. It wasn’t easy, but someone had to make sure you both didn’t end up getting fired.

“Five minutes,” you reminded him before sliding off of him and then out of bed. 

Well, you didn’t mention that you’d already wasted at least half of that time teasing each other.

He kept his head slightly raised, as if wanting to see you off with all the honor and dignity his sleepy state could muster, following you with his gaze until you reached the bedroom door. But as soon as your foot crossed the threshold, the rustle of the sheets announced his swift retreat back into them, fully intending to make the most of the time granted by the good fairy.

After a wake-up like that, a gentle smile lingered on your lips as you made your way to the bathroom. You’d left a toothbrush there for yourself a while ago, and not long after, a face wash had joined it. Before you knew it, your collection of toiletries at your boyfriend’s place had grown larger than the one at your own. The realization hit you one evening when you and the girls from the team were getting ready for a night out—you couldn’t find your favorite lipstick because, well, it was there. Same with your favorite perfume.

Most of your clothes.

You could say that your entire life’s belongings had slowly started to migrate.

It didn’t bother you—in fact, you were spending more and more time there anyway, and it was convenient to have everything within reach. But it did create a bit of a cycle. You spent another night at Spencer’s place because all your things were there, and all your things were there because you spent another night at Spencer’s place.

Soon enough, your own apartment started to feel a bit foreign. Almost like all those hotels you ended up in while working on cases. Sure, you could relax there, catch your breath after a long day, but it just wasn’t the same.

You headed to the kitchen to make the promised coffee. At that exact moment, Spencer appeared in the doorway as well. His eyes weren’t fully open yet, and his hair was a true mess—barely deserving to be called hair at all. He was trying to put his glasses on the wrong way, accidentally poking himself in the eye.

A snort escaped you.

"I seriously doubt even the strongest coffee could pull you out of this state," you remarked with a touch of amused sarcasm.

"It doesn't hurt to try," he groaned, this time managing to put his glasses on correctly and without risking an eye injury. That’s when his gaze fully landed on you. His lips parted slightly, as if he’d just remembered something. "The mugs are—"

"Here," you finished, opening the exact cabinet where they were stored. Spencer nodded, mouthing a silent right. "You don't have to remind me every time," 

"I know, sorry," he sighed, moving closer to you at the counter where you were making coffee and leaning against it sideways.

His hand, straightened at the elbow, rested on the edge, and the pads of his fingers tapped out a rhythm, as if lost in thought. A similar expression appeared on his face. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him watching you in a thoughtful way.

Handing him the mug of freshly made coffee, you raised your eyebrows.

"Do I have toothpaste around my mouth or what?" you asked.

"What?" He jolted, completely caught off guard by your question. For a moment, he froze in place, then shook his head, realizing he'd zoned out. "No—I... Thanks for the coffee," he said, still looking somewhat dazed.

You tilted your head to the side with curiosity. Was it just regular sleepiness, or something more? Somehow, you had a gut feeling that something a bit more elusive was behind his behavior. You were probably becoming an expert at reading him.

"You're welcome," you replied.

"I really like when you're here in the morning."

"Because I make you coffee?"

He let out a chuckle, lowering his gaze to his mug. Standing so close, only two wisps of steam rising from your drinks separated you. You slowly set yours down on the counter, adopting a more focused, expectant stance.

"Not just because of that," he denied, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. For a moment, he held his mug in an uncertain grip, as if he'd forgotten what it was for. Only after a prolonged sigh did he also set it aside, briefly rubbing his forehead.

"Maybe I should put it better. It's not just that I like when you're here in the morning."

He paused, lifting his eyes to meet yours through the small difference in height between you. You saw how the softness in his dark, now fully awake eyes mingled with a hint of nervousness. He swallowed.

"I like when you're here. Just...here."

For some reason, an inexplicable stress washed over you too. For a moment, you felt surprised by it, only to realize a beat later what this feeling was called.

Excitement.

"Mhm," you hummed slowly. "I like it too. I mean, being here."

You thought you knew where this conversation was headed. You thought you wanted to help guide it there, but at the same time, you didn’t want to apply any pressure. If he didn’t ask, that was fine. But if he did...

"I've actually been thinking about this a lot lately," Spencer continued. "You know, we work together. I mean, I know you know we work together..." He blinked. "Okay, from the top. What I meant to say is that since we work together, it would actually be quite practical. We wouldn’t have to commute from two different places and...and our carbon footprint would be smaller..."

"Spencer—"

 "...So it wouldn’t just be convenient, but also economical and, I think, enjoyable, because, as we both just agreed, we like being here, with each other..."

You opened your mouth, but he beat you to it again.

"But if not, that's totally fine. I’m not trying to pressure you, of course—the most important thing is whether you want to, whether we both want to, but I just... I just wanted you to know that I really would like that, and it’s just a matter of..."

"Spencer, are you trying to ask me to move in with you?"

You felt that if you didn’t put it into clear words yourself, he might never get there. He’d sooner deliver an entire lecture on CO2 emissions, lose his train of thought halfway through, and somehow end up talking about the JFK assassination—leaving both of you completely unsure what his original point was.

You couldn’t really criticize him for it, because you knew you’d listen, completely enchanted, for an embarrassingly long time—thinking about how adorable he was when he drifted off-topic without even realizing it.

Spencer paused for a moment, his lips slightly parted, as if he were in shock that it was possible to say it so simply. He nodded eagerly.

You, too, froze for a moment, because, well, it had just hit you. He had really meant to ask that from the beginning—it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination or some mistaken assumption. You drew in a deeper breath, nodding even more eagerly, because forming a full sentence had suddenly become quite difficult.

"Are you sure?" The question slipped out, and he seemed amused by it.

Okay, asking that after he even brought up ecological reasons was seriously unnecessary.

"Of course I am. I've been sure for a while, actually. I wanted to suggest it earlier... but I didn't know how you felt. I wasn't sure if you’d think it was too soon."

You took a sip of coffee, barely tasting it because you were so absorbed in the situation and his words. You, too, had spent a lot of time thinking about moving in together, not knowing how to bring up the topic. There was no universal rule for when a couple should start considering living together—no ancient script with a clear decree to do it after a set number of months. They say that living together is what truly tests a couple, showing you each other in the most intimate situations, in a place where the dress code requires taking off the mask. It's not uncommon for this stage to be the beginning of the end.

But you weren’t worried about that at all. You knew you’d make it work—this thought dominated your mind, and no doubts could withstand its strength. After all, you’d already been practically living together for a while; bringing a few more things from your apartment wouldn’t change anything—if anything, it would only solidify what already was.

The only stress you felt was the good kind.

"I’ll need to move everything over. Well, it’s not that much since most of it’s already here, but still, it’s a job for a day off, which means..." You were already planning everything and estimating how many boxes you’d need. The effect of excitement, probably.

But then your gaze fell on the clock, then on your boyfriend, still in his loose sleep t-shirt, and finally on your own clothes.

"Oh, shit, Spencer, we’re gonna be late!"

He straightened up, realizing the same thing. You pressed the mug to your lips, wanting to finish your coffee as quickly as possible and immediately get moving to get dressed. Despite the rush, you still tried to savor that morning.

Soon, good fairies, moving plans, and cardboard boxes would be replaced by something else—specifically bodies, victims, and unsubs.

*

"I'm exhausted," you groaned, leaning your shoulder and temple against the wall.

Concern shimmered in Spencer's eyes as he stood across from you.

"We'll be home soon," he reassured you gently. But then, his brow furrowed. "At least, I hope we'll be home soon. I have no idea what Hotch wants to talk to us about. Do you?"

You shook your head. The boss had told you both to wait for him outside his office, so there you were, leaning against the wall opposite the door with his name on it. You wondered what this could be about, but you were too tired to really care. The last three days had been spent working on an incredibly difficult case in another state, and all you wanted now was to crash into bed, snuggle up against your boyfriend, and erase everything from your memory.

Tense, you wrapped your arms around yourself.

"I swear, if he comes in here to tell us we're going on some secret mission to Florida to chase a cannibal who makes human soup, I won’t even cry," you declared. "I'll just jump out the window right away."

"You’d lose your job," Spencer pointed out. "And, well, you’d die."

"Interesting that you mentioned losing my job first. Boyfriend of the year, no doubt."

"Oh, don’t complain."

He snorted, but a tiny, tired smile lingered on his lips. Before moving closer to you, he glanced around. At work, you both rarely showed affection—it was something you had mutually agreed upon. Well, the FBI wasn’t exactly the place for that kind of thing.

However, the fact that you were completely alone in that hallway convinced him to break your private protocol. He leaned in just enough to press a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“We’ll survive the talk with Hotch, and then it’s just…”

“Sleeping,” you finished with a dreamy sigh, resting your temple against his chest.

“Well, not exactly,” he replied. His hand found its way to your head, fingers gently tangled in your hair. “Tomorrow, we’re spending the whole day cleaning out your old place, remember?”

You let out a long groan.

“Why can’t everything just magically transport itself instead of needing actual human effort…”

“Because…” Before he could respond with some undoubtedly logical explanation, something alerted him, and he stepped back from you.

You glanced over your shoulder. Hotch was approaching, clad in a black suit and, much like you both, wearing a less-than-fresh expression.

"I'm glad you stayed," he said, his tone a bit robotic and devoid of any emotion, which amusingly contrasted with his words.

As if we had a choice, you thought as he led you into his office. He took a seat on the other side of the desk, and you quickly exchanged glances with Reid. You were both starting to feel a bit anxious. There was something in Hotch’s posture and stride that didn’t exactly suggest, say, a raise.

"Did something happen?" Spencer asked, his brow furrowing. "Is it about the case, or maybe the report...?"

"No, it has nothing to do with that," Hotch stated. You held back from exchanging another glance. He froze for a moment, his gaze fixed on both of you, but his expression gave nothing away. Then...he sighed.

"We're all tired, so I'll get straight to the point. This is about the two of you."

"I think we figured that much out," you remarked.

The sarcasm wasn’t meant to be rude—it slipped out as a natural response to the sudden wave of stress that washed over you. Hotch's gaze lingered on you for a moment, and that was all it took. You knew what this was about. You simply felt it.

"You know that relationships between agents aren’t exactly encouraged here."

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer’s face grow taut. A prolonged silence fell over the room. Neither of you spoke, as if staying quiet might somehow halt the conversation altogether—freeze it in that moment and then let it melt away, disappearing like a cube of ice.

A lump formed in your throat, so massive it made swallowing difficult.

"But they aren't forbidden," you said.

It was true—there was no such rule. If there had been...well, you weren’t sure what would’ve happened to you two. Would you have hidden it? Or maybe you’d never have allowed anything to develop between you in the first place? It wasn’t the kind of question you pondered for fun before falling asleep, so you genuinely had no idea.

In theory, you hadn’t done anything wrong, yet in practice, you were sitting in Hotch’s office.

Something had to be up—something had to be wrong.

"Which doesn't change the fact that such relationships are not looked upon favorably," your boss continued. There was no reprimand in his voice—he wasn’t scolding you for being together. In fact, you doubted he cared about it at all. The fact that you were in a relationship hadn’t changed the way you did your job in any way.

"And it also doesn't change the fact that you've attracted particular attention," he paused for a longer moment, cleared his throat, still incredibly calm, though something was beginning to break through on his face as he stared at you both. Displeasure? "If it were up to me..."

"It actually is up to you," Spencer interrupted him, sitting as straight as a string in his seat, staring at him almost without blinking. There was a silent plea in that gaze. And perhaps the last echoes of denial that had long since quieted in you. That’s why you didn’t even flinch when Hotch shook his head. "Right? You could vouch for us...It didn’t start yesterday, you know our relationship has never once caused us to botch a case, or anything like that, not once has it negatively impacted an investigation—"

"Reid, I am fully aware of that. This is not my decision," he emphasized. His next words came out slightly quieter. "Just as it’s not my decision which one of you will leave the team. I know this will be difficult, but I’m leaving it up to you."

Spencer parted his lips, not knowing what to say, while you only took a loud breath and held it at the top. Suddenly, you didn’t feel sleepy anymore. You felt as if a soap bubble had burst right in front of your eyes, and a bit of the stinging liquid had gotten into them. But above all, everything colorful and wonderfully distorted by the bubble’s shifting surface had suddenly vanished.

You could have predicted this. The last few months had been going too well. Something had to burst.

You were the first to shake off the shock and rise from your seat. Your movements felt as if something was restraining you.

“We’ll let you know what we decide,” you said to your boss.

Spencer stared at you with a dazed expression. Not directly at your face, but at the calmness surrounding you. He shook his head, not blinking.

“No, wait, we don’t—” he trailed off, watching Hotch nod as you slowly moved toward the door. He stood up as well, but he didn’t look like he intended to follow you. “We can just figure this out; no one has to leave the team. Who decided this?”

“We should go,” you said quietly, before Hotch could answer him.

He met your gaze, a hint of disbelief in his eyes. From his perspective, it might have seemed strange—as if you were choosing to give up without so much as a discussion or an attempt to change anything. But perhaps you simply accepted things more easily, even the worst news, and recognized when a situation was truly lost.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Spencer finally decided to follow you, clearly unsettled by your strange behavior. Before you both left, you managed to exchange a fleeting glance with Hotch. Brief, yet filled with a certain understanding. Because he, of course, knew.

You didn’t have a heated argument on the way to your car—in fact, you didn’t say a word. He watched you closely, and it was clear that so many questions were pushing against his lips, a whole shapeless, chaotic mass of them. That state lingered even inside, the parking lot nearly deserted, and the night—just an ordinary night like any other day of the year—felt somehow withdrawn and distant, as if it was afraid to come between you.

"I don't understand you," Spencer finally said, his hands dropping onto his knees in a gesture filled with helplessness. He had been sitting completely turned toward the front windshield, his gaze fixed there, and only shifted it to you a second before speaking. "Instead of trying to handle this, you decided to walk out."

"Because it can't be handled," you said firmly, pressing your back hard against the seat. "We can argue and try, of course we can, but what's the point? This isn't some new school rule we don't like—it's our job, our team, and a whole lot of people above us. "Listen, I don't want it to look like I just gave up right away. I just looked at it realistically. If even Hotch couldn't do anything..." You waved your hand with a sigh, as if that gesture could finish the sentence.

Spencer took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He drew out the motion, gathering his thoughts.

"It's not fair that he left us with this decision," he said after a long moment. "Basically speaking, he just dumped it on us. And what are we supposed to do now? Choose which one of us leaves the team?"

You didn't feel like the question needed an answer. This was the situation you were in—that was the fact—and even Spencer seemed to be starting to understand it. You didn't have the strength to face the looming sense of injustice. It would be different if you had actually committed some violation or broken any rules. Then, at least, it would make sense. But as it stood, you were put in this position simply because word of your relationship had reached the wrong ears—ears that had decided to shut it down, seemingly out of nothing more than some arbitrary whim.

You looked at each other again, in a quiet stillness that made it harder for you to breathe. He gave a slight nod, swallowing. He didn’t look like someone making a decision. He looked simply lost. Like you, he was exhausted. Combined, the two of you sat side by side, incredibly fragile and weak, forced to make an overwhelming decision in this state.

You wanted to speak, but he beat you to it.

"I can do it," he declared. He cut the last syllable short, almost swallowing it, as if he was afraid his voice might break. He held eye contact with you only sporadically, but you didn’t need to look into his eyes—or even at him—to understand the obvious truth. That this job meant so much to him. "I have...I really have plenty of other offers. There’s bound to be something even better than the BAU. You should stay."

"Don’t be ridiculous."

"I'm not," he insisted. "I...I'm a good profiler, but I’ve never been great in the field. Not as good as you. You’re smart, you adapt well to new situations. If you stay, you’ll be far more valuable to them than I ever could be."

He looked into your eyes, and the fact that he was saying what he truly felt seemed almost too much to bear. You hid your face in your hands for a fleeting moment, then stretched out your hand, stopping him from saying anything more.

"We’re not discussing this," you declared.

It was, in a way, cruel—to have to look each other in the eye and say out loud which of you mattered more. But, thankfully, you didn’t have to do that. For one reason, a reason that echoed through all the looks Hotch had given you during your conversation. And whose beginning lay a few weeks back, in the offer you had received—but had kept entirely to yourself.

"Well, I’d rather not either, but we have to—"

"We don’t have to," you interrupted him, exhaling sharply. For a moment, you turned your face toward the side window before looking back at him to say the words you hadn’t yet had the chance to voice out loud. "I...Two weeks ago, I also received an offer. Something... something really serious, but I didn’t want to tell anyone because I knew you’d try to convince me to take it, and that would mean, um...it would mean..."

He gently reached for your arm.

"Maybe you should start from the beginning?"

Focusing on his touch, you nodded.

"It's Interpol. And well, not exactly a job—it's training. Undercover Operations and Covert Techniques, something...something that would give me a lot of opportunities."

"Is that something you’d want?"

"Spencer, it's in the Netherlands."

You saw it—the expression on his face shifted for a fraction of a second. He lowered his gaze to hide it, then returned to his original position, forcing a slight smile that didn’t quite land.

"But still. Is it something you want?"

Slowly, you reached for his hand on your shoulder, covering it with your own. You gently ran your fingers over the back of his hand, over his knuckles.

 "I don’t want to leave you."

He leaned his face closer to yours, gently shaking his head from side to side.

"That’s not something that should hold you back. Did you want to take it?"

You shrugged, because, truly, it was a complicated matter for you.

"I was considering it, but I was a bit scared. I’ve gotten used to our team. Well, after today’s conversation with Hotch, I’d probably agree to it without hesitation—after all, one of us has to," you explained on an exhale. "But it’s a different continent, and lately...lately, everything has been so good. Between us. Not that it wasn’t before, but recently, I keep catching myself thinking that I love you, and it feels so natural and so honest and so good, and I was supposed to move in tomorrow, and I feel like I’m going to ruin everything by leaving right now..."

You fell silent, feeling the first tears welling up in your eyes under the weight of all the thoughts and doubts. You tried to push them away by looking up and blinking faster. When you looked at him again, his gaze followed your actions with a gentle sadness.

“You won’t ruin anything,” he promised quietly, his hand shifting in yours, trying to hold on more firmly. Slowly, you relaxed your fingers around his. “It was good, you’re right, but... we can’t stay in the same place forever. And it wouldn’t be wise to turn down such an offer just because of this.”

You stayed quiet for a moment. Once you’d started spilling your doubts and fears, it was hard to stop.

“It’s not just that,” you admitted hesitantly. “I know you know the statistics. What percentage of relationships fall apart when one person leaves?”

“It doesn’t matter because statistics don’t apply to us,” he stated firmly, straightening slightly. “Statistics say drowning in a bathtub is more likely than a plane crash, and I’m sure you’re more stressed about flying than taking a bath.”

"I don’t know what you’re getting at."

 "Me neither."

You stared at him in silence for a moment before the corners of your mouth curled up. It was a somewhat bitter smile, a paradoxical expression of the weight on your chest and the fears swirling inside you. You took a deeper breath, the air trembling as it moved through your lungs, and leaned in to rest your forehead against his. A simple gesture, allowing yourself to close your eyes and, if only for a brief moment, shut off your mind.

"I love you too," he said after a long moment.

You opened your eyes, a bit surprised by the suddenness of his confession.

"Earlier, you said you catch yourself thinking that you love me. And well, if my memory serves me right...I never really told you that, at least not directly. But I do, and maybe, hm, maybe that's why I know that we'll be alright. No matter what happens."

A part of you wanted to ask out loud if he truly believed that. Another part didn’t need any more reassurance—constantly seeking it only fed your insecurities and fears. So you simply nodded gently, your foreheads still pressed together.

“We’ll be alright,” you echoed him.

Those words carried a certain calm with them. They weren’t a promise that could be kept or broken, setting you up for great disappointment. They were simply a fact, tossed into the air, and despite their lightness, they found their own path, eventually sticking to your heart.

“Can we go home now?”

He pulled his head back, leaving his hand in yours, and just nodded softly.

[elodieunderglass]

History of Black jockeys in the USA: tumblr starter pack

The gif above was created by animating the motion study of “Annie G,” plate 627 of Eadweard Muybridge’s 1887 work, “Animal Locomotion”. The horse is a mare named “Annie G.” The jockey, unknown, is a Black man. It is one of the earliest motion studies on record, and captures some of the first humans and first animals to be recorded this way. (The earlier 1878 Muybridge study of the mare Sallie Gardener is more famous but you can’t really see the jockey.)

The Black jockey is referenced (fictionally) as an ancestor n Jordan Peele’s film Nope (2022) which also looks at the relationship between Black men, horses, and the consumption for entertainment of both of their bodies.

Fold into that what we are learning about today’s acceptance of the jockey-as-consumable, of their body as an accessory, of their wellbeing as mostly irrelevant; but then remember that once upon a time, people cared a lot more about horse racing. This is a big, tricky topic in American horse racing. There was a time in American history when Black jockeys were enslaved and forced into a job that we know is dangerous and consuming. Later there was a time in American history when Black jockeys were incredibly influential and important, competing equally alongside white jockeys, and they were deliberately pushed out of a sport they had mastered.

“The Undefeated Asteroid,” Edward Troye, 1864. Enslaved horse trainer Ansel Williamson, right, holding saddle. Ed Brown, jockey on left adjusting his spurs, was the young enslaved jockey. The groom is unidentified.

Press Keep Reading for an essay/signposts to resources. It’s intended as a jumping-off point for curious people and historians to learn more. TW for racial discrimination and discussion of weight.

As we know by now, jockeys are considered consumable/disposable by their sport; they are athletes whose names are less memorable than their mounts and their working conditions are tough. The sacrifices that jockeys make today to remain strong and light are hard enough when the jockey is willing. They have hard weight limits on their profession. And one of the very dark horrors of this was that young enslaved Black men of small stature and riding ability were singled out and used as jockeys. Their sacrifices would not have been willing. While this essay is about the Black athletes who willingly entered the sport post-abolition, I think it’s important to be up-front about the history of enslaved jockeys in America. Jockeys like Ed Brown (above) were forced into the job very, very young.

Horse racing is a bonkers calling, but it’s also one that people willingly follow. Post-abolition, there were many Black American jockeys who were incredible athletes, their records and statistics still impressive today. In a surge of excellence around the 1890s, Black jockeys rose to remarkable influence and power in America, becoming household names above even the horses, travelling the world, greeted with admiration, true celebrities with their faces on merchandise. At the very first Kentucky Derby, raced in 1875, 13 of the 15 jockeys were Black men.

Between 1890 and 1899, African American jockeys won the Kentucky Derby six times. By the early 1900s, they were history. The key push to exclude Black jockeys came when White jockeys began violently attacking their African American counterparts by boxing them out during races, running them into the rail, and hitting them with riding crops. These attacks prevented Black jockeys from finishing in the money, and endangered fragile and valuable racehorses. Soon after the attacks began, African American jockeys found they could not get rides. Anxiety over job insecurity appears to have played an important role in White jockeys’ actions: there were only a limited number of riding slots. White jockeys would have benefitted in any circumstances from the exclusion of Black jockeys, but in the late 1890s the US was in a depression, and unease about finding rides was especially high. Combined with a growing anti-gambling crusade that reduced attendance at racetracks and eliminated some tracks entirely, jockeys found demand for their services contracting.(National Bureau of Economic Research)

Professor Pellom McDaniels, describing the impact of this on legendary Black American jockey Isaac Burns Murphy:

MCDANIELS: If black people are supposed to be inherently inferior, to have someone who demonstrates success in material terms unravels this idea and therefore those whites during this time period who believe themselves to be inherently superior, something's broken in their psyches. And Murphy represents that kind of attack on white supremacy.

Isaac Burns Murphy, one of the best American jockeys of history, had an unprecedented rate of wins (something like 44% which is almost impossible.) he was born into slavery, but his mother managed to escape with him as a toddler to a Union Army camp. He was inducted into the Jockey’s Hall of Fame in 1955 and Eddie Arcaro was quoted, “there is no chance that his record of winning will ever be surpassed.” (How could it?!)

Today, the American Racing Museum honours many Black jockeys of history in their Hall of Fame, telling some truly incredible stories that are worth browsing.

Like James Winkfield. Born in America 1882, died France 1974. won the Kentucky Derby twice. Left America due to this rising backlash against the growing prominence of Black jockeys, the KKK in particular explicitly objecting to his celebrity and earnings by sending him death threats. Winkfield therefore rode and trained in Europe, settled in Russia, FLED THE 1919 REVOLUTION WITH 200 HORSES?, married an exiled Russian aristocrat (????) and, lest he know peace for five minutes, defended his horses from the European Nazi invasion with a pitchfork(!!!!). Fleeing WW2 to America, where the new racial segregation was now being widely embraced, Winkfield found hotels that had once welcomed the celebrity athlete suddenly turning him away (never forget that segregation was artificial and deliberate.) I am still stuck on him sneaking 200 thoroughbreds out of Russia. Here’s his Britannica article and Hall of Fame bio.

The campaign of racism and terror was successful at driving Black athletes from the profession, and Winkfield was the last Black jockey to win the Kentucky Derby. Jim Crow swept through the USA, and white people in the South comforted themselves with “lawn jockeys,” racist caricature lawn ornaments of Black men in jockey silks.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that Black jockeys began winning high-stakes races in the USA again.

Hopefully this has spurred (ha!) your interest. Here are some links if you find yourself interested in more!

American racing museum: Jockey hall of fame

Kentucky Derby Museum’s Black Heritage in Racing collection

How and Why Black Riders Were Driven from American Racetracks (summary paper, National Bureau of Economic Research)

There is no competition: the legacy of black jockeys (1975 entry in Sepia magazine preserved here. Note that James Winkfield’s picture incorrectly identified as Isaac B Murphy.)

This 1975 photo is from the article above and describes Cheryl Smith, “first Black American female jockey to hold a license.” I haven’t been able to find out much about her, but I’m not a historian - let me know if she takes your interest as a topic!

It looks like there are some big interesting books on the subject, though I haven’t read them myself. If you’re interested in doing a research project, here they are!

The Great Black Jockeys: The Lives and Times of the Men who Dominated America's First National Sport, by Ed Hotaling, 1999

Isaac Murphy: The Rise and Fall of a Black Jockey, by Katharine C Mooney, 2003

The First Kentucky Derby: Thirteen Black Jockeys, One Shady Owner, and the Little Red Horse That Wasn't Supposed to Win, by Mark Schrager, 2023.

[purinrei]

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ RED FLAG

⋆˚˖ wc. 2.3k+ ㅤ♡ྀི ₊ p. sylus x fem!reader ㅤ♡ྀི ₊ nsfw mdni

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cw: heavy degradation, dom!sylus, overstimulation, choking, face-fucking, rough handling, light pain play (spanking), power dynamics, sylus being a menace, explicit language, and intense tension.

this may or may not be cannon, I’ll let you decide..

y’all I know it’s a little repetitive.. i wrote it, also lowercase is intended, the caps were making me angry to type so I js did it in all lowercase. Happy reading

the fight started like it always did—sharp words, frustration burning in your chest, and sylus standing there like he had all the time in the world.

“you don’t get to decide things for me, sylus!” your voice cracked as you glared at him, fists clenched at your sides. “you disappear, you throw yourself into danger, and I’m just supposed to be okay with it?”

sylus exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded and unreadable. “kitten,” he drawled, “i handle things my way. you knew that from the start.”

“you don’t handle things, you shut me out!” you nails dug into your palms, frustration twisting into something raw. “you act like nothing matters, not me, not what I think, not what happens to you—”

sylus was on you in an instant, his hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“careful,” he murmured, red eyes burning into yours. “you’re starting to sound like you think you can tell me what to do.”

your breath hitched, your body tensing, but it wasn’t fear keeping you still—it was him. that steady, unshaken control that wrapped around you like a vice.

his thumb brushed your lip, slow and deliberate. “you’re cute when you’re mad,” he said, tilting his head. “all bark, no bite.”

you tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“you piss me off,” you snapped, but the heat in your voice wasn’t just anger anymore.

sylus smirked. “that so?” his fingers traced along your jaw, his touch featherlight, mocking. “then why are you still standing here, kitten?”

because he knew.

knew how to unravel you. knew that every sharp word, every push and pull, only made you want him more.

and worst of all? he knew you liked it.

your silence made his smirk widen. “that’s what i thought.”

his other hand skimmed down your waist, slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world. his fingers trailed lower, playing with the waistband of your shorts.

your breath hitched. “sylus—”

“you’ve got a real mouth on you,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “maybe I should put it to better use.”

before you could react, he was sinking to his knees.

your heart slammed against your ribs. “wait—”

“why?” his hands gripped your hips, keeping you in place as he looked up at you through thick lashes. “scared you won’t be able to stand once I’m done with you?”

your stomach flipped. “sylus—”

he chuckled, dark and low. “that’s cute.”

then he hooked his fingers into your shorts and yanked them down.

you gasped as the cool air hit your skin, but sylus didn’t give you time to react. he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, his teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver.

your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to keep your balance as he nudged your legs further apart.

“already trembling,” he mused, pressing a hot kiss against your clothed core. “and i haven’t even started yet.”

you whimpered, your fingers tightening against him.

Sylus clicked his tongue. “what happened to all that fire, kitten? just a minute ago, you were so eager to put me in my place.”

his teeth grazed against the thin fabric, a teasing pressure that made your legs shake.

“you—” your voice broke as he dragged his tongue over the soaked fabric, slow and deliberate.

“me?” His breath was warm against you. “i think you meant please, sylus.”

you swallowed hard, your pride warring with your desperation.

he exhaled, amused. “suit yourself.”

then he pulled your panties aside and licked a long, slow stripe through your folds.

your whole body jerked, a choked moan slipping past your lips.

sylus groaned against you. “sweet as always,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

his grip on your thighs tightened as he buried his face between them, licking into you with a slow, torturous precision.

your head tilted back, a breathless whine escaping you.

he hummed in approval, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. “look at you,” he murmured between lazy strokes of his tongue. “falling apart already.”

you gasped as he sucked lightly on your clit, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“s-sylus—”

“you taste desperate,” he mused, his fingers digging into your thighs. “like you’ve been waiting for this.”

youYou had, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of saying it.

he smirked against you. “still holding out?” his tongue flicked over your clit, teasing, taunting. “i can be patient, kitten.”

you whimpered, your thighs trembling around his head.

sylus chuckled darkly. “or maybe i should just keep you like this. weak. shaking. begging.”

your pride shattered. “please,” you gasped. “sylus, please—”

his grip tightened. “that’s better.”

then he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and devoured you.

your knees buckled, a broken cry ripping from your throat as pleasure slammed into you.

sylus groaned against you, drinking in every sound, every tremble, every sharp gasp.

and just when you thought you’d finally tip over the edge—he stopped.

a whimper tore from your lips. “no—”

sylus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, red eyes gleaming with amusement. “you don’t get to cum yet, kitten.”

you stared at him, still shaking, your breath uneven. “you bastard—”

he laughed, slow and dark. “you’re so cute.”

then he flipped you onto the couch, pinning you beneath him with ease.

“you really think you get to tell me what to do?” his fingers slipped between your legs, sliding over your soaked folds. “look at you. dripping all over my fingers. desperate. pathetic.”

you whimpered, your body arching into him.

sylus smirked, pressing his lips to your ear. “now, let’s see how much you can take before i finally fuck you.”

sylus had you right where he wanted you.

pinned beneath him, legs spread, your body still trembling from the way he’d devoured you—only to stop just before you could fall apart.

you whimpered, your nails digging into his arms. “sylus—”

he smirked, red eyes gleaming as he tilted his head. “that’s not my problem, kitten.” his fingers trailed along your thigh, light, teasing. “you should’ve begged sooner.”

your hips bucked against him, desperate for something, but sylus only clicked his tongue.

“look at you,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. “still so needy. you just don’t learn, do you?”

his fingers traced lower, skimming over your soaked entrance but not pushing in. just hovering, making you squirm.

“you’re dripping,” he mused, as if you were the one at fault. “and all for me.”

you whimpered, your breathing uneven. “please—”

sylus exhaled, pleased. “better,” he murmured. “but not good enough.”

then he slapped your soaked cunt.

you gasped, a sharp cry escaping your lips as the sting shot through you—sharp, sudden, and so good it made your body jerk.

sylus chuckled darkly. “that got your attention.”

you trembled beneath him, your legs weak as he slid his fingers between your folds, rubbing slow, lazy circles around your entrance.

“such a mess,” he murmured, almost mockingly. “all that fight, all that attitude—just to end up like this. weak. helpless.”

his fingers dipped in, barely, before pulling back out, teasing you mercilessly.

you let out a choked whimper, your nails raking down his arms. “sylus, please—”

“please what?” His voice was a purr, smooth and taunting. “use your words, kitten.”

you swallowed hard, your pride warring with your desperation.

sylus sighed, clicking his tongue. “still stubborn?” his fingers slid in—just enough to make you moan—before withdrawing again. “maybe I should just leave you like this.”

your eyes snapped open in panic. “no!—”

he smirked, amused by how quickly you broke. “then say it.”

your pride shattered. “please,” you gasped. “please, sylus—f-fuck me, use me, just—just do something—”

sylus groaned, his fingers tightening around your waist. “good girl.”

then he slammed two fingers inside you.

your back arched instantly, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as he curled them, pressing right against that spot that made your legs shake.

“fuck,” sylus muttered, watching your reaction with dark satisfaction. “took you long enough.”

his fingers pumped into you, slow but deep, dragging along your walls with calculated precision.

you whined, your body writhing beneath him.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “whine for me. let me hear how pathetic you sound when I fuck you with my fingers.”

you gasped, your nails scraping down his arms as his pace quickened, his fingers fucking into you so deep you could barely think.

hell, you could barely form words, your moans spilling out in ragged, broken gasps as he fucked you open with his fingers, stretching you, making sure you felt every inch.

“look at you,” sylus murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. “so dumb. so fucking wet.”

his fingers curled, hitting that spot again, making you cry out.

“you gonna cum?” he taunted. “gonna soak my hand like the needy little thing you are?”

you nodded frantically, your breath hitching. “please—”

sylus chuckled, low and dark. “too bad.”

then he pulled his fingers out.

a broken whimper left your throat, your body trembling as you were left aching, so close, so close..

sylus brought his fingers to his lips, his red eyes never leaving yours as he licked them clean.

you shuddered.

his smirk widened. “you taste fucking perfect.”

then he was pressing you back down, his body covering yours, the heat of him making you whimper.

his hand slid between your legs, teasing you with the tip of his cock, rubbing against your entrance but not pushing in.

“you want it, kitten?” his voice was silk, smooth and taunting.

you nodded, your hands clutching at him. “mhm—”

sylus hummed. “i dunno,” he mused, dragging his cock against you, making you feel how thick he was. “you’ve been pretty fucking bratty tonight.”

you whimpered, trying to press down, to take him yourself—

sylus grabbed your hips, holding you still.

“ah, ah,” he tsked, his grip bruising. “not until I say so.”

tears pricked at your eyes from the need. “sylus, please, i—i need it, i need you—”

his lips curled into a smirk, his red eyes gleaming.

“that’s better,” he murmured.

then he pushed in.

slowly.

your breath hitched, your back arching as he stretched you inch by inch, making you feel every part of him.

sylus groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. “fuck, you’re tight.”

you gasped, nails digging into his back as he bottomed out, filling you completely.

sylus leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “you belong to me, kitten.”

you were a mess.

your body trembled, your breath shaky, your skin burning with overstimulation. sylus had already dragged you through wave after wave of pleasure, leaving you whimpering beneath him, barely able to keep yourself upright. but he wasn’t done with you yet.

his red eyes burned as he watched you—ruined, desperate, still needing more. his smirk curled, sharp and teasing.

“look at you,” he muttered, his grip tightening around your waist before dragging his fingers up your body, stopping at your chin. he tilted your face up to meet his gaze, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips. “you’re wrecked, kitten.”

you gasped as he pulled away completely, your body aching at the loss, a desperate whine slipping from your lips.

sylus chuckled, dark and low. “dont pout.” his fingers tangled in your hair, tugging sharply as he guided you down onto your knees. “you know what to do.”

you barely had time to breathe before he pressed himself against your lips. you opened for him, letting him slide inside, your tongue curling around him as you hollowed your cheeks.

“fuck,” sylus groaned, his head tipping back for a brief moment before his red eyes dropped to you again, his grip in your hair tightening. “that’s it—take me in.”

he didn’t let you set the pace. his hand held you there, guiding your movements, forcing you to take him deep. you gagged, your throat tightening around him, and he grinned.

“you love this, don’t you?” he muttered, his voice thick with amusement. “on your knees, drooling all over me. so fucking desperate to be used.”

you moaned around him, your hands gripping his thighs, your nails digging into his skin. he groaned at the sensation, his pace quickening, his pleasure unraveling—

but then his free hand slid between your legs.

your whole body jerked, a sharp gasp escaping around him as his fingers found your slick, already sensitive from everything he’d done to you before. but sylus was relentless, two fingers sliding in with ease, curling just right—

your eyes rolled back, a muffled whimper escaping your throat.

sylus chuckled, his smirk sharp. “oh? you weren’t expecting that?” his fingers thrust deep, his pace perfectly matching the way he fucked into your mouth. “you’re so easy to play with, kitten. so fucking responsive.”

you trembled, pleasure coiling tight in your core. his fingers were ruthless, pressing against that perfect spot inside you, dragging you higher and higher—

“you better cum before I do,” sylus warned, his voice dark, amused. “or I won’t let you.”

your entire body tensed, your release hitting you hard, pleasure crashing over you as you came undone around his fingers. you gasped, whimpering against him, your thighs shaking—

and sylus groaned, his grip tightening in your hair. “dont spill a fucking drop.”

he thrust deep, his release spilling into your mouth as you swallowed around him, your body still trembling from your own orgasm.

he watched you, red eyes sharp, his fingers still buried inside you, dragging out every last aftershock before finally pulling away.

but he didn’t let go of you.

his fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up. “open your mouth.”

you did, your lips parting, tongue out, showing him you’d swallowed everything.

sylus smirked, pleased. “good girl.”

his fingers brushed over your jaw, his voice dropping into something lower, more dangerous. “if you hadn’t—” he chuckled, thumb dragging along your swollen bottom lip. “i would’ve had to teach you a lesson.”

and the look in his eyes told you he meant it.

© purinrei 2025, pls don’t steal, edit / translate, or repost my works on other platforms without asking. thank you pookies

[leahsgf]

— SUPERSTAR

leah williamson x teen!reader | masterlist

⤷ you finally get called up to the senior squad - only to feel completely out of your depth when you get there

୨୧

you hadn’t spoken an awful lot since arriving at camp. in fact - apart from the expected, friendly hello’s and the odd word uttered in the heat of a drill, you hadn’t said anything. certainly not because you didn’t want to - everybody had been exactly as you had expected, incredibly welcoming and kind - but more so because you didn’t know how.

this was the lionesses. the team you’d dreamt of playing for ever since you were a little girl, and the only girl on your school team. even back then, when you were combining football boots and princess dresses- this had always been your goal, one that you had pushed yourself to your absolute limits to reach, and you’d finally made it - against all odds.

except - you had spent so long trying to make it that you never considered what what happen if, when you did. and even now that you were here, you weren’t entirely sure that you belonged, or deserved it.

everywhere you looked, no matter where you were, in every training session, every team meeting, even in the physio’s office - there were world class players, who worked and gelled together perfectly, whilst laughing and joking like a family. they belonged here, they had history here.

and whilst you were expecting to feel like an outsider when you weren’t in the team - nothing could’ve prepared you for feeling it whilst you were in the team. a moment that you had worked your entire life for, that should be like a dream come true - instead feeling like you had been catapulted into the deep end with no armbands as everyone watched you drown from the sidelines.

-

as well as you thought you had hidden your inner turmoil, people noticed. in fact, most of the girls did - being naturally all very overprotective of the younger ones (even the ones who struggled to make eye contact with any of them and barely uttered a hello. especially those ones)

leah had been the first by miles to pick up on your quietness. as the captain, she was almost annoyingly observant, and over the span of a few days had realised that it may be a little bit more going on with you than just the expected shyness - something that sitting next to you at breakfast, or passing to you a tad more in training could resolve. she picked up on all of your behaviours, even the ones you hadn’t realised yourself. when you hung back from the group as they walked in from the field, when you bit your lip and hesitated before speaking, your voice cracking softly when you did so, every time you forced a smile, whilst peeling the skin off your fingers and looking like you were on the verge of tears.

she saw it all - every time.

so when you silently disappeared from training, it wasn’t at all shocking that leah was the first to notice.

“anyone seen y/n?” she frowned as she frantically scanned the pitch, it deepening as you were nowhere to be seen.

“she was in the gym inside last time i saw her, maybe she’s still there?” mary replied, mirroring her captain’s expression, as she took a swig of her drink.

the blonde nodded and turned on her heel after promising mary she’d keep her updated on your whereabouts. completely unbeknownst to you - you were a common conversation point within the more senior members of the team, all of them wanting to help you feel like you were welcome and at ease there.

as she made her way towards the gym - worries swirled around her head. something didn’t sit quite right with her about your absence. you were always visibly nervous, you had been since you arrived, but above that you were diligent, never one to miss drills or slip away like this unnoticed. and you had been extra tense all morning - something she had intended to pull you aside to check in about, having not said a word the entire day, only giving out a few tight lipped smiles and nods.

her concerns only deepened as she entered the near silent gym - and realised it was empty. usually, she would be celebrating an empty gym, making the most of it before the chaos that was the rest of the team arrived - but this was a different kind of feeling. one that made her stomach tighten.

she saw an awful lot of herself in you, and that paired with the little bits of information sarina had been allowed to tell her about your background, made her feel the need to be overly protective over you - in an almost older sisterly way.

leah continued to make her way across the room, leaning to check the gaps in between machines and past the stretching mats - just in case.

just as she was about to leave and call for whoever you call when your nineteen year old teammate vanishes into thin air - she heard it. short, uneven, almost gasped breaths, and muffled sniffles, getting louder the further she went.

she found you curled up, practically in a ball against the furthest wall - hidden away, your knees to your chest, and your hands trembling, gripping the cuffs of your sleeves in a somewhat attempt at grounding yourself.

and she could physically feel the way her heart clenched.

“hey, hey” she said softly, practically a whisper, crouching down a comfortable distance away from you, wanting nothing more than to pull you into her arms - but not wanting to startle or upset you even further. “it’s okay, you’re okay.”

your head snapped up at her words, like a deer in headlights - your teary eyes widening, filled with panic. “oh god i-i’m so sorry, i just-”

“you don’t have to apologise, not at all.” she interrupted your ramble - voice gentle. “can i sit?”

you hesitated, before giving a small nod, so small in fact that if her eyes weren’t currently piercing through you, she probably would’ve missed it. she shifted so she was sat cross legged in front of you - a little bit closer but still giving you space.

and for a brief moment, the only sound was your shaky breathing.

“do you wanna tell me what’s going on? i’m here to listen.” she asked, breaking the silence - no pressure behind her words, just simply opening the door for you.

“i- i just….don’t think i fit here, at all” you admitted through choked sobs, sniffling softly - your voice barely audible. “everyone here is incredible - and i’m not good enough, i- i thought i could do it but i can’t. and w-what if i mess up, and everyone realises it too?”

leah exhaled softly - her heart breaking at your words. “oh mate. i get it, trust me. i really do.” she murmured, her expression warm as she made eye contact with you for the first time.

she shifted so she was sat beside you now, looping an arm around your shoulder and easing you into her side gently.

you frowned to yourself, looking up at her through blurry eyes. “but, no. you’re- you’re leah williamson. you’re the captain, one of the biggest players in our game. you’re meant to be here - you are a huge part of what ‘here’ is.”

she chuckled in response, shaking her head lightly as she rubbed your shoulder reassuringly. “you think i’ve never felt like this? trust me, i have had my fair share of ‘i don’t belong here, i shouldn’t be playing football, my world is ending’ moments” she said - tilting her head, and reading your expression like a book.

“but let me ask you something - something i always ask myself when i feel like this - who here, today told you that you weren’t good enough?”

you swallowed harshly, choking back a splutter in response as you register the fact that she’s right.

“um- nobody, i-i guess. not really.”

“right. so, that little, nagging voice in your head? it’s lying to you.” leah shifted again, leaning forward slightly, holding eye contact as to really get the message across. “you’ve not only been called up, which is a huge thing in itself, you’ve been admired by each and every person here - we’ve been watching and waiting for your moment, and are overjoyed that it’s finally here. you’re incredibly talented - and you do belong here. nobody hands out lionesses call ups for nothing. you’ve earned this, kid. give yourself that credit.”

you wipe your eyes, her words beginning to sink in, although still tangled with a cloud of doubt. “i just don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

your words trail off at the end of your sentence, but the captain, your captain - hears them clear as day, and she softens even more. “listen to me, okay - and you can trust that i’m being honest, ask anyone hear and they’ll take the mick about how serious i am with everything. you’re new, yeah. but that doesn’t , and will never mean that you’re alone. we’re a team, and that means we’ve got you. no matter what - you could score five own goals and get a red card tomorrow and we’d still back you. i promise you.”

your lip trembled, more tears slipping down your cheeks as you nod. leah, without hesitation pulls you into her arms, sensing that you could really do with a hug - and not being able to bear seeing you so upset without comforting you any more.

“you’re safe here, promise.” she said firmly, stroking your back gently, and almost rocking the pair of you. “i’ve got you - always.”

she remains like that for what feels like forever, grounding you and whispering words of reassurance until a shaky breath slipped your lips as you nodded, finally starting to believe her words. “thank you. i, um. i needed that.”

“come on then superstar - let’s show the world what you’ve got.” she helps you up and links your arm in hers, giving you a reassuring nod and smile as you both make your way back out to the training field.

“and please don’t actually score five own goals and get a red card - sarina would kill me.”

-

feeling incredibly rusty with writing currently but i have revamped my page + am getting back to it!

and what better way to chuck myself in the deep end other than starting up a new series :’) i hope you love it as much as i do

- el x

[alienlibrarian]

After reading this article (def check it out, its only long email length), I can now point out a specific thing i enjoyed about fanfics I've read and come back to.

yes, while the characters, dialogue details, and actions benefit from the main source often being from visual media, the fanfic that i come back to yeard after its completion are the ones that hold tighter to the literary aspect.

i may be reading about MCUs Iron Man but this fanfic has the added detail of *narrating his thoughts* as well, which can directly oppose the action and dialogue we see. but this opposition brings a tension and personality to the character that makes them *more* relatable. Hes no longer just superhero Iron Man, he's human being Anthony Stark who may or may not think about his mom more than you think. cool detail.

Pulling out of POV, theres also the narrative itself. the repetition of lines or poetry to add loteral aesthetic to a scene (chefs kiss), the extended metaphors stretching for pages, the "summary of scenes", and even the desciption or history of the setting which can become its own character in the plot. (this house is haunted vs this house holds grudges and ghosts).

also, about that "summary of scene" which is so overlooked in visual media. we get so used to the Date Time Location format we forget theres a history involved, an existence even at rest, in death, in silence, and without an audience or viewer.

in screen writing, in stage writing, in any writing that intends to convey *feelings*, that setup is so important. (listening to Epic the Musical song by song vs getting the scene setups in between adds a whole layer and continuity to the story), and since writers become the master of time whether they write fanfic or textbooks, there *can always* be space in the narrative for internal summations.

describe what they say, show us what they do, but tell us how they feel or what the last experience they had that looked like this one would compare to the current situation. adding in things that make us "be-ings" rather than two-dimensional archtypes. we all have a past, we all have unconscious behaviors and beliefs, and these color who we are just as much as our words, looks, and actions.

those are the stories i wanna read, and the ones im gonna write.

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[meinii]

"sick"

summary: Sylus is sick, now it's your turn to take care of him (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

content: fluff, mentions of being sick, mentions of food

୨୧･｡｡･♡･∴･♡･｡｡･୨୧

it wasn’t often you saw Sylus like this—stripped of his usual confidence, his sharp words dulled, his imposing presence softened by the fever making his skin warm to the touch. he wasn’t the type to admit when something was wrong

in fact, you’d only found out because you had shown up at his place unannounced, fully intending to tease him about skipping lunch plans, only to find him slumped on the couch, face pale and drenched in sweat

"Sylus" you had gasped, immediately rushing to his side

he cracked one eye open, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips

"hey... look who’s here," he rasped, voice rough and lower than usual "didn’t think you’d catch me like this... not exactly my best look"

your heart twisted at the sight of him—normally so strong and composed—reduced to this feverish mess. without hesitation, you pressed the back of your hand to his forehead, wincing at how hot he was

"you’re burning up," you said softly "why didn’t you call me?"

he closed his eyes again, murmuring, "didn’t want to worry you... it’s just a fever. not like I’m dying."

"that’s not the point, Sylus," you whispered

gently, you brushed damp strands of silver hair away from his face. his skin felt like fire under your fingertips "you take care of everyone else. let me take care of you this time, okay?"

he grunted something unintelligible—probably a protest—but you ignored it

moving quickly, you fetched a cool washcloth and pressed it against his forehead. His breath hitched at the cold sensation, but after a moment, he relaxed into it

"see? not so bad," you murmured, offering him a smile. his eyelids fluttered, gaze locking with yours for a moment longer than necessary

"you’re... too good to me" he mumbled

"someone has to be," you quipped, though your tone was soft. Standing up, you glanced toward the kitchen "I’ll make you some soup. stay put."

his smirk returned—though faint—as he closed his eyes

"bossy" he muttered, but there was no bite to it

in the kitchen, you found yourself smiling despite the worry gnawing at your chest

Sylus was so stubborn—always putting others first, never letting anyone see his vulnerabilities. but here he was, letting you in. that meant something.

the soup wasn’t anything fancy, but you hoped the warmth would help. carrying the bowl back, you found him half-asleep, arm draped over his eyes

"Sylus," you called gently "hey, sit up for me. I brought you something"

he groaned but obeyed, albeit sluggishly

"you’re relentless" he grumbled

"you’d do the same for me" you pointed out, holding the spoon up to his lips

he blinked at you, clearly debating whether to argue, but eventually sighed and leaned forward

"...tastes better because you made it" he said after swallowing

"flatterer" you teased, but your cheeks warmed anyway

you fed him slowly, making sure he didn’t rush. his eyes kept fluttering shut between bites, and you reached out to steady him when he swayed. "almost done" you soothed

once finished, you set the bowl aside and wiped his mouth gently "there. not so bad, right?"

he chuckled weakly "feel like a kid again..."

"good," you said, grabbing the blanket to tuck it around him "means you’ll listen to me for once"

to your surprise, his hand shot out, catching yours. his grip was warm—too warm—but his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a tender gesture that made your heart skip

"thank you," he murmured, gaze sincere "really."

"you don’t have to thank me," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "you’ve carried so much on your shoulders, Sylus. let me shoulder some of it. just this once... let me be the one taking care of you."

his eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache. he squeezed your hand gently "...don’t deserve you"

"well, tough," you replied, giving him a teasing smile "you’re stuck with me"

he chuckled again, but it faded into a cough. worry flared anew, and you reached up to adjust the cool cloth on his forehead

"sleep," you urged "you need rest."

"you’ll stay?" he asked, voice rough

vulnerable.

"of course I will," you said without hesitation "I’m not going anywhere."

settling beside him, you let him rest his head on your lap, fingers carding through his hair soothingly. his breathing gradually evened out, the tension in his body melting away. you stayed like that, watching over him, heart full

hours passed

he stirred occasionally, murmuring half-formed words—your name among them. each time, you reassured him softly, smoothing his hair back and humming quietly

at one point, his hand found yours again, fingers intertwining

even in sleep, he sought your warmth

you pressed a gentle kiss to his temple "it’s my turn to take care of you," you whispered "and I will. always."

the night stretched on, but you didn’t mind.

Sylus—your Sylus—was letting you in, letting you hold him together when he felt like falling apart

and you’d stay right there, as long as he needed you.

[yailtsv]

Secret - p.b

💌 Syn: Azzi’s younger sister dates one of their teammates behind Azzi’s back

»»— warnings: none i don’t think

»»— notes: i hate how this one turned out 🤠

»»— word count: 917

»»— pair: Paige x Fudd!Gfreader

“shhh we gotta be quiet” you tell paige after she knocked something off of your dresser when sneaking in

paige just ignores you and picks up what she dropped and then closed and locked your bedroom door - heading towards you.

you and azzi share a dorm together with caroline, carols asleep and azzi’s in her room doing homework, so what did you do? called your girlfriend to come over

but…said girlfriend has to sneak in because you both are hiding your relationship. azzi would not approve of your relationship and you both aren’t gonna ask your teammates to lie for you so you can be public around them, that’s just insane.

so that gets you to where you are right now - watching paige get clothes from the bottom drawer of your dresser, and then changing into those clothes

“movie and cuddles?” paige asked after putting the clothes she just took off, onto your desk chair for her to grab when she leaves

you nod, already getting in your bed and under the covers, making paige do the same

you both fell asleep watching the movie, all cuddled up together. but you both woke up to consistent knocking, only waking up fully when you heard azzi say through the door “alright fine i’m using the key” making both of you sit up startled, but before you could move and push paige into your closet the door had opened and in walked azzi.

you could see azzi’s facial expression change, you could tell when she put the scene in front of her together in her brain, you could also see the look of hurt and betrayal all across her face

“az-“ “no! do not say anything!” she tells you before turning to face paige “you’re sleeping with my sister? AFTER i told you she was off limits?”

paige doesn’t really know what to say. azzi’s right, she did tell paige that you were off limits - and has been telling her since paige and azzi first met - which was years ago. paige did follow through with that, up until last year.

she never showed she was attracted to you - she was even in denial with her feelings for you. she always treated you as a friend - a very close friend but a friend.

she never thought you and her would eventually become a thing, she always fully intended to keep you at arms length - so that azzi wouldn’t be mad at her.

she’s not really sure on the time stamp of when she accepted her feelings, but whenever it was, was one of the greatest days. the even better day, was when she finally decided to do something with her feelings - that’s the day you guys started dating.

you and her have been dating for a little over a year now. she thought you guys wouldn’t be caught this far along, and she was wrong, and she’s having a difficult time on swallowing this pill.

“az- i’m sorry” paige stutters out, kinda overwhelmed with this situation “YOU���RE sorry?! you can date anyone in the world, and you chose the ONE person that i said was off limits, and you’re sorry?!”

“azzi i’m an adult, i can date who i want to date.” you tell her, wanting this conversation to be over

“you’re also my little sister dating MY best friend.” azzi responded back, still mad about the situation “why are you making it sound like she’s not my friend too? we’re all teammates, we’re all friends, we didn’t tell you we were seeing each other because we knew you were gonna act like this.”

“act like what?! i told both of you that i didn’t want you guys to ever date each other and look what’s happening now! you guys couldn’t of just respected that wish? i don’t ask anything of either of you but the one thing i do, you go behind my back and do it any ways?”

“azzi that’s not fair-“ paige starts but got cut off “fair?! you wanna talk about being fair?” “if you would let me talk that would be great!” paige said after cutting azzi off

azzi stopped talking and crossed her arms over her chest looking at paige expectingly “go on”

“we both did what you asked. we ignored each other romantically until last year, we spent all of our time together since me and you met at arms length, we’ve done everything, and unexpectedly fell for each other in that time. we are both adults, we can both do what we want - and what we want is to be with each other. you can’t stop us from dating, we’ve respected your wish this whole time but you never say why we can’t date you just say to not date, and that’s not fair at all. if your gonna forbid us from doing something at least tell us why. and until you can come up with a good reason - we’re gonna continue seeing each other”

azzi just looks at paige, her arms still crossed over her chest “i love her” paige replied again after a few moments of silence

azzi doesn’t say anything but after a few seconds walks out the door and back to her room. you and paige both make eye contact before sighing out loud

🏷️ @melpthatsme @rebecca-woso @authentic-girl03 @ldapper

requested on wattpad

[azzibuckets]

All Fell Down ~Part 4~

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

*masterlist with @imaginespazzi

Paige pretends not to notice the looks her teammates exchange when she stumbles back to the group and tells them that Azzi is coming to pick her up. She swallows her embarrassment when they all quietly agree to take turns keeping an eye on her in the booth while she waits. She doesn’t know how she’s going to face her team again after her behavior tonight, but it’s a problem for tomorrow. All Paige can think about now is what she’s going to say when she sees Azzi again.

Time seems to tick backwards in the ten minutes that Paige waits, slumped over the table with her face buried in her arms. Half conscious and inebriated, she can’t remember if her conversation with Azzi over the phone had been real or a fragment of her imagination. She’s almost asleep when she hears shuffling feet followed by low murmurs.

All of a sudden, she can smell Azzi’s perfume, can hear the sound of her voice. Looking up, Paige blinks sleepily as Azzi’s face sharpens into her vision. The warmth of Azzi’s hands cupping her face makes her eyes flutter shut as she relishes the feeling of Azzi’s touch for the first time in weeks. Azzi gently swipes her thumb over her cheek before nodding to Olivia. “I got her.”

As soon as Olivia retreats, the air between them seems to thicken. They stare at each other for a half second, before Paige abruptly grabs her purse and gets up, stumbling in the process. Azzi’s hands shoot to her waist, intending to steady Paige but instead making her head spin with the feeling of the younger girl’s fingers tightening around her waist.

“You always get me right.” Paige whispers into Azzi’s hair, letting her mouth brush ever so slightly against the nape of her neck.

Paige almost sees Azzi shiver, but it’s indecipherable and Azzi recovers quickly. Shaking her head, her mouth pulls into a frown. “You’re drunk, Paige,” she says simply. “Let’s go.”

In the passenger seat, Paige crosses her arms over chest and rests her forehead against the window. “You’re disappointed in me.”

Azzi inhales slowly. “I never said that.”

“I can see it in your eyes.”

The muscle in her jaw tightens. “What does that even mean?”

“I’m your best friend. I can read you like a book.”

“Best friend, huh?”

Paige’s voice falters. “What?”

“Best friend, my ass. Someone wouldn’t ignore their best friend for two fucking weeks.”

“That’s not fair.”

Azzi brakes a little harder than she needs to. “Do you want me to apologize?”

“Apologize?” Paige’s voice is scratchy in the way that it is when she’s trying not to cry. “For what?”

“Hell if I know.” Azzi slams her hands against the wheel. She takes a second to catch her breath, composing herself before she says something she regrets. “Look, whatever I did, I’m sorry, okay?” Azzi inhales sharply, as if she’s suffocating and fighting for her last breath of air. “I don’t know what I did to make you so angry at me, but whatever it is, I’m sorry.” She turns her face away, swiping angrily at her eyes. “You think I haven’t noticed that you can’t even stand to be in the same room with me anymore? Every time I enter, your face fucking falls like you can’t even stand to be in the same conversation as me. And it fucking hurts, Paige, because you’re my best friend.” Her voice catches. “You’re my best friend and I love you and I don’t know why we’re falling apart.”

It feels like a sucker punch to Paige’s gut. “Azzi, stop the car.”

“What?”

“Az, please pull over.”

Azzi pulls over to the curb, her fingers tapping anxiously on the wheel. Paige steps out, goes over to the driver side and flings open the door, and in a flurry, Azzi’s stepped out of the car and is pressed against the door. Paige hovers over the younger girl, mouth centimeters from hers.

For a moment, they stay still, holding their breaths, both of them afraid to shatter the moment between them, shatter the remnants of their friendship. But Azzi, with her slightly mussed hair and her soft eyes, her full lips and the stress line in her eyebrow, is utterly intoxicating, and Paige can’t help but press her mouth to Azzi’s, her teeth biting at the softness of her bottom lip. She moves gently at first, but when Azzi lets out a breathy moan, it turns something in Paige feral, and she slides her hand around the waistband of her low-hanging sweats, thumbs pressing into the dip of her bare hipbones.

Paige is touching Azzi and tasting Azzi and oh my god is this what it feels like to be alive? Because Paige has been living for 20 years but if this is what being alive is like then maybe kissing Azzi is what it feels like to take her first breath.

Azzi’s hand curls around Paige’s neck, the other cupping her jawline, bringing her impossibly closer before her rationale gets the best of her and she forces herself to step away. “Paige.”

The blonde groans as Azzi takes her hands and removes them from her waist. The dark haired girl stuffs her own hands into her pockets, as if she needs to physically restrain herself from touching Paige. “You fucked me and you left me alone in my bed the next morning. Then for weeks you ignore me, only to call me when you’re drunk off your ass to kiss me and fuck with my feelings again.”

“It wasn’t fucking. Please don’t call it that.” Paige can barely even think, her heart careening out of control. She’s high off the feeling of Azzi’s bare skin on hers, overwhelmingly nervous with anxiety over the future of their relationship. Yet she can’t bring herself to regret a single thing she did in the last few minutes, because now that she knows what it feels like having Azzi’s mouth move against hers, softly panting into her ear, she knows she has to experience it again.

“Then what was it? Because the way you left like it meant nothing made me feel like another one of your one night stands. I’ve put up with you being with other girls, but I’m not going to let you treat me like one. I deserve more than that.”

“I’m sorry,” Paige says, and as soon as the apology comes out of her mouth she knows it’s not enough, and it’s not what Azzi wants to hear.

Azzi looks away, and she looks so astonishingly beautiful in the moonlight that Paige’s heart hurts. “You only ever touch me like this when you’re drunk. I’m not an idiot, Paige.”

Paige’s eyes close. “I keep hurting you.” Her voice is throaty. “I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Azzi smiles wryly. “Then maybe stop stringing me along.”

“I’m not-,” Paige cuts herself off. She doesn’t know what to do with this new epiphany, that she’s not good enough for kind, lovely, sweet Azzi, and she never will be. Azzi deserves the world, and Paige can’t give her any of it. “I can’t do this for you. I can’t be this for you.” She stumbles over her words, her breath strangled as if her lungs are collapsing on themselves.

“Paige.” Azzi’s eyes soften, and she brushes her hand over the older girl’s shoulder, her movements hesitant as she realizes how close Paige is to losing all control. “It’s okay. You’re drunk. You need to sleep. Let me take you back to your apartment.”

“I don’t wanna go back there,” Paige is crying now. “I wanna be with you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Azzi’s hands are on her cheeks again, her touch feather light. Paige tilts her head against her palm, leaning into her warmth, and Azzi smiles sadly before tiptoeing to press a kiss to her temple. “We’re gonna be okay,” she says, but it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than Paige.

[0bticeo]

mark grayson | boyfriend material

summary:

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

tags: mlw, aged up a little (early 20's), idiots to lovers, pwp, mark is adorable, pining, sexual tension, making out, fingering, edging, marking, biting, loss of virginity, use of the pull out method (wrap it before you tap it), mark is down bad and so is reader, no y/n, lowercase intended.

there’s a ringing in your ear. nagging, persistent, strident little thing. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue, and your shoulders ache, skin too warm under the tight leather of your catsuit. 

movement to your right. invincible, landing next to you, his hand steady on your shoulder. you lean back against him, panting, just the time for the taste of blood in your mouth to recede, for you to breathe-

a commotion.

your head tilts in its direction, your weary gaze hidden by your domino mask. journalists. it’s almost funny, how they swarm scenes of wreckage, flies drawn to a burning carcass. ruins stretch around you. the wounded are under the GDA’s care. you wonder what the fuck cecil was thinking, sending a team as uncoordinated as the new guardians of the globe on the field. you barely work for him, and neither does invincible, yet- 

here you are, stumbling down a pile of rubble, invincible’s grip steadying you.

“you okay?” he breathes. 

you know he can hear the erratic drum of your heartbeat. smell the blood dripping down your split lip.

“i’m fine. really.”

a flash. a journalist. tall, sharply dressed in a black tailored suit, with a cute pencil skirt, long red hair falling graciously on the long slope of her neck. striking green eyes. the embodiment of the office siren, coming straight at you to sing her pretty song and coax the filthiest gossip out of you.

you share a look with invincible and watch as his lips curl into an exasperated smile.

and so it begins. lights, camera, action!

“my age?”

you frown a little, titling your head to the side. besides you, mark - invincible - snickers. you can almost hear the words. like a cute little puppy. insulting. you’re more of a cat person.

you grin, two fingers tapping your chin. 

“that’s classified.”

the journalist in front of you - twenty something, almost made your jaw drop and did cause you to get slammed into a nearby wall by the lizard league, because wow - groans, green eyes rolling playfully.

“come on, shadow,” she grins, extending her mic a little more. she’s close enough for you to grip her arm and disarm- relax. civilian. “you can’t leave us hanging! we barely know you!”

that’s the point. the voice in your head sounds oddly like cecil. done with this shit, done with life, done with this conversation. but the GDA can and will be up your ass if you unleash a PR disaster, so you humour her.

“and i don’t even have your name, hun’.”

a little blush creeps up her cheeks. your smile widens a little, sharp in all ways it shouldn’t. besides you, invincible rolls his eyes, exasperatedly fond.

“meg.”

“ooh, pretty name. right, ask me anything.”

she seizes you up. you, clad in a catsuit so dark it looks like it’s absorbing the very daylight. you, hip cocked to the side, gloved fingers tapping at your hip bone. the way the lapels of your coat brush the bloodied ground, dripping red. invincible at your side, lazily leaning on your shoulder. you, swatting at him with a tired grin because blood on leather is a pain to clean up. 

meg pulls out her phone. you lean forward a little, intrigued, and catch a glimpse of what appears to be a list of questions.

“are you aware you have a fanbase?”

you exchange a glance with invincible. you may not see the soft melted brown of his eyes, but you know there’s a little spark of mischief beneath his mask. 

“oh?”

“yeah, you guys are as popular as teen team, if not more. how do you feel about them? any gossip you want to share?”

a pointed look. between rex’s… explosive relationship with eve and… well, his other relationship… relationships? with dupli-kate, you’d be stuck here for a while. you settle for a lesser evil. gotta throw a bone or two to the press. makes for nice trivia for fan books. 

“robot recently discovered that he has a fondness for junk food.”

“yep, he’s been pretty unsettled by it.”

meg stares at you with a pointed look. no juicy drama. both of you refuse to play the game. infuriating but understandable. she checks her watch, grimaces.

“shit, gotta wrap this up. ugh, if i had it my way, the two of you would answer the web’s most searched questions.” her gaze snaps back to you, green eyes rooting you in place. “the two of you work incredibly well together. what’s a usual mission like?”

it’s a relatively innocent question. you describe it, invincible occasionally chiming in, still leaning on your shoulder, hovering a little above the ground for comfort. (a flash. you staring up at mark after a mission as he pulls off his mask, feet a few inches off the ground. flying just… feels natural, y’know?)

usually, you get to the scene, assess the situation, neutralise the villain of the day and rescue those caught in the crossfire. get in, punch some people, get out. try not to have a heart attack when you watch invincible getting the shit beaten out of him by aliens/wizards/mafiosi/clones/dragons. cradle his face after a mission while scolding him because that was reckless, you idiot.

meg hums, perfectly manicured finger scrolling down on her screen, on the lookout for the next juicy question. her lips split in a slow grin.

“no… longer missions? undercover missions?”

oh, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. there’s a little curl to her lips, the sweet professional smile bordering on something more cutting. invincible laughs. you feel the vibration of it seep under your skin, percolating straight to your heart. you think you’re getting a little warmer, the summer sun high above you.

you think invincible’s blinding you with how wide he’s smiling.

“we’re superheroes. not spies.”

she hums, steps closer, fingers lightly trailing over the fabric of your coat.

“people have noticed this little number.”

“oh, yeah, it’s fairly new.”

meg looks up from her phone and smirks.

“we have a question from inviciboyfan25: is it boyfriend material?”

undeterred, you lean a little closer, until all the camera can see is the sharp edge of your smile.

“too heavy for that. the real deal? boxers and oversized tee. unparalleled.”

**

a smack at the back of your head. you let out a little yelp, your phone landing flat on your chin, cradling the sore spot with a pout.

“what was that for?”

mark glares at you, holding up his phone. on it, images of your encounter with that cute journalist three hours ago. he’s got a bandaid on his cheek, another one on his nose, both of them pink with hello kitty patterns.

he’s frowning. you gaze up to the small crease between his eyebrows and wonder how to smooth it away. you boop his nose instead, giggling when his frown deepens. he swats your hand. 

“boxers? as boyfriend material?”

you shrug, your movements stifled from your position between his legs, your cheek pressing up against his thigh. you shift a little, the pleats of the oversized tee you’ve stolen from him somehow having gotten stuck under his leg.

“what? you can’t tell me these-” a gesture towards his boxers, the ones you’re currently wearing “- aren’t the type of stuff a hypothetical girlfriend would steal.”

he groans, leaning back on his pillow. his fingers close on the sleeve of your (his) shirt, the one with seance dog proudly taking off, all heroic blues and reds. 

“but why?”

you grin up at him, scooting a little closer.

“because it’s comfy. and smells like you.”

you’re delighted when you watch the blush blossom on his cheeks, all soft pink awkwardness. he averts his gaze, turning his attention back to the video on his phone. you shrug and grab a nearby comic - seance dog, again, because markus sebastian grayson totally isn’t seance dog’s biggest fan. nope. doesn’t have every collectible on earth. 

you’ve juuust started to get invested in the plot, something about a meteor shower the loyal hero must stop to protect billions from dying, when mark groans again, his hand leaving the sleeve of your t-shirt to cover his eyes.

“dramatic much?”

a muffled groan. you cup your ear, the back of your hand brushing his thigh, the corded muscle of it tensing by a fraction under your skin. 

“sorry, what was that?”

“people are dogs. just… look at the comments!”

you lean back further into him, craning your neck.

“if you’re not planning on reading some out loud, at least lower your damn phone before i break my neck.”

he complies with a grumble, arms framing your head as he holds up his phone for you to see the comments. your eyes widen upon seeing the amount of views under the video.

“one million? you’ve got to be kidding me.”

you scroll down the comment section, the heat of mark seeping into you, your index near his thumb. progressively, your eyebrows raise. something like giddiness takes hold of your heart. people are dogs. you see it all, from people commenting on how sick that coat is, to complaints about property damage, to-

“no way. ‘i just know they be fucking nasty?!’ ”

“that’s one of the tamest ones. someone wrote a literal fanfiction in there.”

you look up at him, neck craned back. mark swears he’s never seen a sight as endearing as this one. you, snuggled up against him, drowning in his favourite shirt, so close he’s freely running his fingers over your shoulder, thumb occasionally creeping up your trapezius.

“you are not shaming fanfiction on my watch, grayson.”

“it’s about us!”

you poke his thigh. he twitches uncomfortably.

“like you haven’t read at least one.”

he flicks your forehead. you squeal, grinning wide.

“you can’t prove anything.”

a pointed look.

“fine. yes, i have. it’s… i don’t know. weird.”

you turn around, flipping on your belly, palms cradling your cheek as you look up at him. his breath hitches in his throat. you’re playing with the hem of his shirt absently, nails lightly scratching the navy fabric, the back of your fingers a light pressure on his adonis belt. you narrow your eyes, and he’s able to make out each individual lashes fanning your cheeks. 

there, in the quiet light of melting sunset, molten golds and pinks frame the edges of your face. he wants to cradle your cheek. he wants to trace the slope of your nose like you do his, down to your split lip, still swollen from that bastard king lizard punching you in the face. he wants-

“you do know invincible shadow is a thing, right?”

he blinks back to reality.

“uh? like a ship name?”

you nod, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt. despite the cool air breezing in past his open window, heat creeps up his neck. his fingers flex in the sheets, nails digging in the cotton threads - egyptian cotton, because dad knows a guy who owes him a favour or two and you don’t say no to omni-man anyway. 

“yeah. a ship name. super popular too. crazy, right?”

right. right. like you’re totally not molding your body to his. he can feel you, down to the bone, pressing against him, skin impossibly soft, lightly smelling of his own laundry detergent, something barely there because viltrumite senses are sharp. he feels the pounding of your heart in his throat, the way your lips part, tongue darting out to wet them. 

“yeah,” he mumbles, voice a little choked. “crazy.”

and fuck, where’s his bravado? fighting alongside you as invincible, when all you can see of each other are smiling, grinning, bloodied mouths, blood drip dripping down chins, is easy.

he thinks you might as well be a part of him, with how the two of you move around each other like you know what the other thinks. he has your six, you have his. his fists back you up at the slightest inconvenience, your shadows ripple whenever someone gets so much as an inch closer to him. 

it’s easy. when he snatches you by the waist after a mission, pressing you close enough to inhale the marrow of you without burying his nose in your hair - doesn’t need to. viltrumite senses are sharp, y’know.

when he zooms insides the drive thru and orders your favourite - that one greasy cheeseburger with french fries. when you remind him for the nth time that, first of all, there’s no way these qualify as fries. this is mcdonald's, for christ’s sake. second, fries are belgian, and- and that’s no reason to steal your fries, dammit!

it’s easy, being with you. when you’re sitting together, shoulder to shoulder on the edge of a skyscraper, your head lolling on his shoulder because you get sleepy once the adrenaline dies down. 

it’s easy. he thinks he’s going to die of a heart attack, with how fast it’s beating. here lies markus sebastian grayson, killed because his best friend is too beautiful for this world and sent him into damn cardiac arrest.

the day melts away. you don’t talk anymore, just bask in each other’s presence, his hand in your hair, your cheek a little beside his knee. his thumb brushes a fading bruise on your cheek bone and he winces in sympathy.

your fingertips run over his knuckles, finding them bruised and torn. you want to press your lips to them. you want to cradle him against you and never let go, because hero work may suck, and his civilian friends may not understand what he goes through every day, getting bloody and beaten and worn down down down, but you’re here.

“so they ship us, huh?” mark mumbles.

“mm.”

“crazy.”

you snort.

“i already said that, dummy.”

he flicks your forehead.

“m’not dumb.”

“are too!”

“that is not true.”

“please, you’re like. the embodiment of the jock stereotype. the kind jock, of course.”

he rolls his eyes, ruffling your hair, ignoring your soft cry of protest because it’s hair day, nooo don’t mess it up!

“i’ll have you know, i have more than decent grades.”

“they’ve been slipping ever since you started out as invincible, though.”

“ouch.”

you chuckle.

“you do have the physique though.”

“yeah, whateve- ow!”

he looks down at you incredulously. did you just… bite his thigh?

your teeth press against the corded muscle, bone over tender skin, a hint of warmth from your breath, and he thinks he’s dying. everything is too hot. too fucking hot, nevermind that it’s the middle of autumn and the air is getting colder and colder. 

shit. he sees the imprint of you in his skin. his hips shift uncomfortably. your tongue laps at the bitemark, soothingly. it’s almost tender, the softness of your tongue against him, scorchingly intimate.

your eyes meet his. time stops. he’s only aware of the metronome beat of his heart and your own - fuck, he can hear your heart, the way the blood rushes south. he lets out a shuddering sigh, and almost moans when he smells it. your arousal. 

something snaps. 

you’re kissing up his thigh, lips a lover’s breeze over his skin, the dips and curves of his muscles. you feel him gasp more than you hear it, when you put your mouth to him through his briefs, pressing soft little kisses to his bulge.

his fingers cup the back of your neck, weave through your hair, a gentle pressure, desperately trying to keep his strength under control. he could crush you like he did with komodo dragon, brain matter staining his fingers, drip drip dripping down to the ground. he doesn’t.

he doesn’t, yet you can feel him strain against the weight of his desire, tensing beneath you, breath shallow and wanting. you nip at his thigh again, a gentle press of tender teeth. he shivers, legs parting for you.

you nuzzle against him, feel the sheer heat of him against your cheek, like the warmth of a blazing sun. you want to melt into him until you don’t know where you start and where he ends.

“w-wait,” he groans. 

heat pools between your legs, and it’s hot, and - and his hand cups your face and he pulls you in until finally, he’s kissing you. it’s soft. a brush of his lips against yours, until you’re melting against him, arching into him because his hand - broad and calloused and heavy - is cupping your breast.

he pulls you close before you can react, lips brushing yours again and again until you’re not sure you can breathe without him. your nose brushes his. your eyes open and you meet his, dark pools of molten desire. 

“hey, you.”

“hey.”

he grins, something a little soft, a little shy. you inch closer and bite back a soft whimper when the motion has your core grinding down against his hardening cock. it strikes you, then. the thin edge you’re walking. he’s your friend. you can still back away. pull away, mumble something about your mama calling you - and it’s quite the walk, so you should go home-

fuck it.

you trace the shape of his abs, nails digging in his skin, and he arches into you, hips bucking up, desperate for friction. you’re dizzy. dizzy with him, with the way his hands encircle your hips, with the way his fingers dig into you, grinding you down on him with barely controlled strength.

“mark-” you gasp.

it’s not enough. doesn’t matter, there’s too much fabric between you, you’re not close enough, you need him in you, you need him to make himself at home between your ribs and burrow himself there, bloody and viscous and yours. 

he cups your cheek, thumb brushing against the plush of your lower lip, gaze impossibly soft.

“have you ever… ?”

you flush a little.

“n-no.”

he pecks your nose, your forehead, your eyelids.

“s’okay. lemme make you feel good…”

he pins you down, fingers slipping under your shirt until he pulls it off you, discards it in the corner of his room. he runs his fingers up your side, brushing against your bruised ribs, lips ghosting the contusion, knees bracketing your hips. you shiver, lips parting in a soft sigh of his name. he grins down at you, a little soft, a little feral, a white flash of too-sharp teeth.

“so, so pretty…” he mumbles, mouthing at your neck, teeth dragging up, up, up, until-

until you let out the softest whimper. he grins against your skin, nipping at your neck, his breath burning brands on that soft spot under your ear. his hands roam your body, trailing lower and lower, dipping past the waistband of your boxers.

“so wet,” he moans, and he sounds as wrecked as he’s making you feel.

his touch is tentative, you can feel the trembling of his fingers as they brush against you, lightly dipping between your folds, almost.. almost petting you. your hips grind against his hand, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist to get him to please, please more-

he tuts, pinning your arm to the side.

“no, no, no, lemme- just relax, i need- please, i want to make you feel good-”

you bring up your other arm willingly for him to keep pressed against his pillow, fingers flexing against your wrist in an unbreakable grip. your thighs part for him and you desperately try not to moan, because- fuck, because his dad may be home, you think, and what if you’re too loud, what if-

he curls his fingers - so pretty and slender and long - and you keen, back arching off the bed. he laughs at that, something breathless and teasing, claiming your lips for himself again and again and again, swallowing your moans. his tongue coaxes your lips open and he lets out a low growl as he finally gets to taste you. 

you think he made you come. you’re not sure. you’re panting. there’s a ringing in your ear. everything is too loud, too much. you’re overwhelmed, maybe. there’s a metallic taste on your tongue - he bit you - there’s a ringing in your ear, and everything is too much- 

mark worries his lip between his teeth, tugging down your boxers, fumbling a little, eager, so very eager to taste you, to make you feel as good as you do him.

you’re squirming in his grip, you realise, distantly, as you try to press closer to him, breasts brushing tantalizingly against the fabric of his shirt and-

“what’s wrong? 

“i need- please let me touch you, mark.”

he blinks, a little owlishly. 

“you- yeah, yeah okay-”

he lets go of your wrists and your hands slip under his shirt, nails raking down his chest, a thumb teasing his nipple and he groans, panting hot against your neck. his hips rut against yours, mindlessly, each thrusts having you biting your lips because the friction is just too much and- and he’s cupping your breasts, mouthing at them.

“ah!”

“too much?”

your breath catches in your throat. he’s looking up at you, chin resting on your chest, a lazy smirk on his lips, one long finger lazily trailing around your nipple, thumb flicking at it. and fuck, the way he looks at you, eyes dark and wanting, like you’re the most precious thing in the universe…

“fuck me.”

he raises an eyebrow.

“are you su- mn...”

you pull him to you, hands cupping his cheeks, kissing him like he’s the very air you breathe. the earth rotates around the sun. the sky appears blue to the human eye. you’re in love with mark grayson.

he knows, you think. with the way you whisper soft praises against his ear, with the way your fingers thread through the baby hairs on his nape. he knows.

he takes it slow. leans back on his heels, taking off his shirt. the moon is kind to him, silver light hiding in the dips of his collarbones, draping the sharpness of his chest, his abs, rippling down his arms, to the edge of the veins curling around his inner wrist.

you trace the shape of him, your touch reverent. he guides you, leading your hand from his chest, from the strong beat of his heart, to his adonis belt. you think you’re dying with how dizzy you feel, your thighs desperately pressed together for some friction.

your fingers wrap around the base of him and you let out a strangled sound. he’s big. he-

“fuck, you’re never gonna fit-”

he laughs at that.

“wanna bet?”

you groan.

“you’re horrible. you’re not the one getting nine inches of your crush-”

his eyes widen. you flush, mortified, eyes darting away, your grip on him faltering. gently, he tilts your head back towards him.

“yeah?”

you nod.

“yeah.”

he pecks your lips, gentle.

“me too.”

he eases you into it. takes you apart, bit by bit, until you’re dripping for him, babbling an incoherent mess of his name as his fingers spread you open, knuckle deep in you. when he lines himself up with you, leaking tip dragging against your entrance, he groans, low and deep and primal in a way that makes your core throb with need. 

a damn tease is what he is, with the way he barely slides in you, tip sliding against your cunt with wet, sloppy little sounds, lightly brushing against your clit in a way that has you biting back a desperate little whine. he pants.

“need- fuck, baby i need you, please lemme-”

“yeah, yeah mark, just-”

your words die on your tongue when he slowly pushes himself into you, holding your thighs apart. he bites his lip at the sight. you, spread wide under him, chest littered with love bites, lips parted as you whisper his name. you, nails digging in his shoulder blades until you draw blood, begging him to please, please get closer. he spreads you open, thumbs holding your folds apart, watching as your walls flutter against him, as you drip down his length, slick and filthy. 

“please, move,” you whisper. “i can take it, i need-”

“yeah? you need me?”

“mn.”

he smiles at that, a happy little lopsided smile, as he slowly starts thrusting into you, biting back a groan at how tight you are. 

“shit, baby-”

he pulls you up, hand cupping the back of your neck as he plunders your mouth, lightly suckling on your tongue. he’s everywhere, hands reaching for you, pulling you closer, and closer, until your chest is flush to him and he’s fucking himself into you with reckless abandon, hips snapping against yours. 

and what else can you do but take it? but wrap your arms around his neck and pull yourself closer, nipping at his earlobe, the vein jutting out of his neck. but let your nails dig in his back and feel his muscles ripple with contained strength - and fuck, if the thought of him holding back for your sake doesn’t make you wetter. 

“m’gonna cum, mark-”

he grins at that, something like a broken chuckle escaping his kiss swollen lips. he tilts your head back, one hand on your hip as he drills himself in you, the other under your chin. 

“yeah? gonna cum for me, baby?”

you nod, heat burning across your cheeks, your chest, your core. he hums, hand pressing against your abdomen, where he can feel himself move in you. satisfaction flashes in his gaze, at having you this full of him. (at having you.)

“good girl.”

that does it for you. you come apart, face buried in the crook of his neck, choking on his name. there’s that ringing in your ear. you think you hear him chuckle. you do know that he slides out of you, leaving you empty, hollow, and you reach for him with a soft whine of protest. he leads your hand to his leaking cock, guiding you, hips stuttering towards you as you pump his length, until he cums, thick ropes of it landing on his stomach, on your hand.

everything is still. he reaches for the tissues on the nightstand and cleans the slick mess between your thigh, something like longing on his face. his eyes meet yours, and you feel heat creep up your neck, gaze darting away from his, stuck on the way he wipes away his cum, abs rippling under the crumpled tissues.

“what?” you mumble.

“next time, i’ll eat you out.”

you let out something like an undignified squeal, burying your face in your hands. he laughs. strokes your cheek, lowering you down on the mattress, cradling you against him. he pulls the covers over you, a hand on your hip, the other lacing with yours.

“feel okay?”

you smile, a little sleepy, nuzzling against him, pressing a soft kiss to the hello kitty bandaid on his nose.

“mn.” you let your finger trail down the slope of his nose. “love you.”

he gives you a closed-eye smile, and you think you’ve met your sun.

“love you too.”

[gojosoups]

cw: yandere Gojo, royalty au, mentions of sexual relationships, unhealthy behavior, manipulation/coercion, blood, death, abuse of power, gaslighting, toxic relationships, possessiveness, and jealousy. not proofread lol

a/n: I had this idea come to mind when I was cleaning lol, might make this into a mini series, like 4-5 chapters? this was in my drafts for a while, but it went through some VERYY heavy editing

Gojo Satoru who's been obsessed with you since childhood, the kingdom's beloved princess and heir in line for the throne. Betrothed to another, a man of the neighbouring kingdom for the sake of diplomacy,

Gojo Satoru—your shadow, your other half—your best friend since childhood, trusted with your life by your parents. Gojo Satoru, a mere servant, and yet he was entirely yours to serve.

The years passed, and what was once an innocent friendship blossomed into something more. Childhood years that were spent in the same bed, throwing sleepovers and tossing feather pillows at each other were now spent with longing glances, shared whispers, and stolen touches beneath the very same sheets.

But of course, no one could know.

The King and Queen would never allow it—their pride and joy, the heir to the throne—lusting after a mere servant? Unbelievable. After all, you were a princess, meant for greatness, beyond whatever a mere palace worker could offer you.

And yet, behind closed doors, your secret was kept safe.

Behind closed doors—you were his. Each day began in his arms, and each night was spent in his arms.

In the eyes of the court, both of you kept up the act.  

Gojo who kept you busy during galas, an arm wrapped around your waist, guiding you towards the ballroom, away from the prying eyes and hands of the men. Meanwhile you, just as possessive of your lover, who kept the female servants busy and as far away from him, because even if he were a mere servant, he certainly was a sight for sore eyes across kingdoms. 

Of course, this secret would not last forever. 

Not when the king and queen, bless their old souls and frail bones, had dreams of grandchildren running around the floral grounds of the palace. Not when they announced your coordination and engagement in front of the whole kingdom. 

While the kingdom rejoiced, streets bustling with excitement as preparations began, that night, you wept in the arms of your lover, crying for your untold future as he held you close. Sobbing into his chest, gripping onto him like he was the only thing you knew. He held you tighter, soothing you and whispering sweet promises in your ear. 

Promises he intended to keep. He would never let you go.

Overnight, the kingdom was taken down.

Your so-called in-laws never made it past the palace gates. Their carriages left abandoned at the border, the once-pristine gold and polished wood torn down. And not a single soul in sight—only a trail of blood leading into the depths of the wood. Yet no one said anything.

Not when the crown was placed atop Gojo Satoru’s head. Not when he took his rightful place on the throne and the kingdom could only bow.

Your parents—silenced with a mere look—could only watch as they were exiled, sent far away from the imperial palace, and kept under his watchful eye. 

After all, how could they object? 

He gave them everything they wanted. 

A kingdom. A legacy. And above all, an heir with eyes as blue as his. 

And he would never let them—or anyone—take you away from him again.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[seumyo]

the art of loving bakugou katsuki’s name.

You loved his name.

You remembered the first time you had heard it—Bakugou Katsuki. It wasn’t an uncommon name, but it was his. His name was easy to remember, sharp on the tongue, and impossible to forget.

And that’s the funny thing about names, isn’t it? No names were ever truly the same. It could be written with the same characters, spoken in the same pronunciation, but the person behind them made it unique.

His was different.

His was his.

Getting to know Bakugou’s name had been one of the most exciting parts of meeting him. The way it rolled off your tongue the first time you said it out loud. The way he grumbled at you when you got too familiar too quickly, scowling at you and scolding you—telling you to say it right or don’t bother at all.

You grew to whisper it in the quiet of study halls, writing it absentmindedly in the margins of your notes when you were too exhausted to focus. You had yelled it across battlefields when you were still young and reckless, had murmured it in moments of vulnerability when it was just the two of you—when the world felt smaller, safer—because he shared the world with you.

It softened over the years, how you said his name. How he let you call him Katsuki when no one else could.

You loved his name.

Because it had been yours to say back then.

And now, he shared it with someone else.

It was a cruel thing, really. To love a name, to cherish it, to include it in a solemn prayer every night just as you’re about to fall asleep, only to have it slip through your fingers.

The wedding was beautiful. Grand, as expected for someone like Bakugou.

The kind of celebration is fitting for a man who had always been larger than life, someone who fought hard and loved even harder. The bride—his wife—was stunning, radiant in a way that made you feel something you didn’t want to name.

“Do you, Bakugou Katsuki, take your—“

His name sounded different now.

You had imagined this moment before, once, a long time ago. Not like this—never like this.

You forced a smile when they exchanged vows, when they kissed, when the crowd erupted in cheers.

You lifted your glass when it was time for the toasts and laughed when it was appropriate.

You played the part of an old friend, a guest who had long since moved on.

Because today was all about him. Not you.

But when the celebration stretched into the late hours, you found yourself stepping out, out into the quiet of the evening just outside the reception hall. You had too many thoughts and too little drinks acquired at the mini bar to drown out this incessant feeling.

You closed your eyes and whispered his name once, just to hear it. Yours.

“[Last Name]?”

Your breath hitched.

You turned, and there Bakugou Katsuki was—standing at the threshold, half in shadow, looking at you the same way he always had. His tie was slightly undone, and his suit jacket draped over his arm. He looked tired. But more than that, he looked at you like he still knew you.

Like he still saw you.

That version of you that only he met and got to know well.

“Hi,” you greeted. “Congrats on getting married, by the way. All my congratulatory messages are in your gifts.”

He scoffed, though it’s quiet, barely audible.

“Right.”

. . .

His gaze lingered, searching. Searching for something that he will never find.

“You okay?”

“Of course. It’s your wedding day. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The answer was too quick, too . . . prepared.

Bakugou didn’t retaliate right away. Instead, he stepped closer, just enough that you could see the way his brows furrowed, the way his jaw tensed.

“[Last Name]—“

“Katsuki.”

His name left your lips before you could stop it, like muscle memory. Like a prayer.

You had intended to call him by his last name. A formality. A distance.

Bakugou stiffened.

You had spent years getting to know his name, understanding every way it could be spoken. The anger in it, the laughter, the quiet tenderness in the dead of night.

And now, for the first time, you didn’t know how to say it.

Because words shouldn’t hurt, they shouldn’t feel like your throat’s being repeatedly stabbed.

. . .

“I never wanted things to end like they did.”

You let out a slow breath. “Neither did I.”

But it had ended. And you both knew why.

Careers. Distance. Bad timing.

Then it all just got too much to fight for.

Because love, even if it’s meant to fight for, gets exhausting when you can no longer love that person the way you used to.

And no matter the reason, endings were still endings. It can’t be erased and rewritten. It isn’t a story on paper that can be edited with a simple pencil and eraser.

“You ever think about—“

“I don’t.” Not anymore, at least, you wanted to add.

Because thinking about it now—on his wedding day—is like disregarding all that he made for himself after you. Disregarding his wife, the one he vowed to love ‘til hell freezes over and whatnot.

“You should go,” you smiled once you heard his wife calling his name.

He lingered for a second longer, as if debating whether to say more. Then, with a nod, he turned and walked away.

You watched as Bakugou joined his wife, the woman who now shared his name, the name of the person you had loved with every fiber of your being.

The name you thought you’d share with him—and once dreamed to keep as yours.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[lov3yv4mps]

Can you make aftercare with bangchan and fem reader please! Of course only if you want <3

Yes, of course! Thank you guys so much for all the requests!

⋆⑅˚₊ aftercare ₊˚⑅⋆

Warnings: MDNI, suggestive content, some kissing, some cursing, let me know if i missed any!

The world felt like it was still spinning, but in the best way possible. The remnants of shared moments hung in the air like the fading scent of perfume, warm and intoxicating. You lay nestled against Chan’s chest, your body pressed so close to his that it felt like you were both part of one another. His heartbeat, steady and rhythmic, thudded in your ear, grounding you.

Chan shifted slightly, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soothing circles on your back as if checking in with you, making sure you were still in one piece. His touch was tender but firm, the kind of touch that made you feel safe and cherished. “Feeling okay?” His voice was soft, laced with that quiet concern you were so used to hearing, yet it never failed to make your heart flutter.

You nodded, your cheek still resting on his chest. The lingering sensation of your time together hadn’t quite worn off yet, but you were comfortable. He always made sure you were comfortable. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice still thick from the intimacy of it all. “Just... tired.”

A low chuckle escaped his lips, a sound that vibrated through his chest and directly into you. “I figured as much. You really gave me a run for my money,” he teased, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, burying your face into his chest. “Shut up.”

Chan’s grip tightened gently, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Nah, not a chance.” He paused, the teasing tone giving way to something softer. “I’m proud of you, though.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were soft, searching yours like he always did when he wanted to make sure you were okay. “For what?” you asked, voice a little less steady than you intended.

He smiled that warm, sincere smile that made your chest tighten. “For trusting me. For letting me take care of you,” he said, his voice low, steady. “You’re always so strong, but tonight, I saw you let go. And it made me proud.”

His words hit you in a way you didn’t expect. There was something in his tone—something raw and real—that made your heart swell. You weren’t used to hearing that kind of praise. Not like this.

You swallowed, feeling your cheeks warm. “You’re such a sap,” you muttered, looking down to hide the way your heart was beating a little faster than usual. Chan chuckled, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but only for you.”

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in the warmth of each other’s presence, the kind of silence that didn’t need words to be understood. But you knew he wouldn’t let you rest for long without taking care of you properly.

“I’ll be right back,” Chan murmured, carefully untangling himself from the sheets. “Stay put, okay?” You groaned softly, curling into the blankets. “Fine, but hurry up. I’m comfy.” He laughed quietly, a soft, affectionate sound. “I’ll be fast.”

When he returned, it wasn’t long before you felt him gently lifting your head to place a glass of water into your hands. “Drink,” he instructed softly, his voice tinged with that same caring authority that always made you feel a little weak in the knees.

You took a sip, grateful for the cool relief. He watched you with that intensity in his eyes, as if making sure you drank enough, his gaze never leaving your face. You finished the glass and handed it back, letting out a soft sigh. “Good girl,” Chan murmured, his tone warm but with an underlying trace of something that made your skin flush.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a flutter in your chest. “Stop calling me that,” you teased, though the effect of his words had your heart beating just a little faster. But Chan’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I’ll call you whatever I want, baby.” His lips curled into a smirk. “And you love it.”

You didn’t even try to hide the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but your tone was fond, affectionate. Chan leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead before murmuring softly, “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” You groaned in protest, curling back into the sheets. “I don’t want to move.”

“I know, but you’ll feel better after,” he coaxed gently, already pulling the blankets back and making his way to the bathroom. He scooped you up effortlessly in his arms, his strength comforting and solid as he walked with you toward the bathroom.

“You’re such a show-off,” you muttered, though you couldn’t suppress the smile that pulled at your lips. “And you love it,” he teased, pressing a playful kiss to your temple.

Chan’s gentle care didn’t stop once you were in the bathroom. He helped you out of the tangled sheets, his hands moving with an ease that came from years of knowing exactly how to make you feel cared for. There was no rush. No shame. Just the comfort of him taking care of you in the soft glow of the bathroom light.

You stood before him, naked and vulnerable in a way you had never felt with anyone else, yet with him, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Chan’s eyes softened as they traced over you, his touch tender as he gently took a warm washcloth and pressed it against your forehead. The coolness of it calmed your senses, but his steady hands were the true relief.

“You’re amazing,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. Chan’s lips curled into a soft smile as he brushed the washcloth down your neck, gentle and slow. His touch made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. “I just want you to feel good, baby. You deserve it.”

The water on your skin made your body feel alive again, but there was something so calming about his care—his focus solely on you, his gaze warm, loving, but with just enough edge that made you shiver. “Feel better?” he asked, his voice smooth, with that soft teasing tone that always lingered.

You nodded, unable to stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered, leaning into his touch as his hands gently rinsed off the remnants of the night’s heat from your skin.

After a few more moments, he helped you back into bed, carefully tucking you under the blankets as if you were the most precious thing in the world. His own skin, warm and close to you, kept you grounded as he climbed into bed beside you.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured, his voice a soft promise. You smiled, resting your head against his chest again, letting his heartbeat lull you back to comfort. “You say that every time,” you teased, your voice soft but warm. “I mean it every time,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head.

The night stretched on, quiet and comforting. Chan’s kisses, his tender words, his touch—they were all you needed. With him, everything else faded away. There was no rush, no expectations, just a space where you could both exist together, safe and loved. And as your eyes fluttered shut, you knew—you had everything you could ever need in this moment.

v4mps note: this was so fun to write! Please spam me with requests I absolutely love them!