#(and of course. knowing how his psyche works)

[mymblesbuir]

for the ask game!! "kill me by your love"

[made-up fic title ask game]

Oooh this stumped me for a bit because my immediate thoughts were all full-on MCD angst which. I do not actually write lol

but then...

(cw for suicidal ideation, also this got a bit long hence the readmore)

Kallus has barely started Fulcrum-ing when he's either found out by someone in the Empire or something else happens that means he needs to flee much earlier, pre-An Inside Man. So no one even knows he was Fulcrum and even if they did he hasn't had nearly enough time to demonstrate his new loyalties with useful information. All he can do is surrender to the Rebellion and hope they at least let him give them as much info as he can before he's executed.

But he's not executed, of course. He's imprisoned at first, but even that is worlds away from the conditions he'd expect in any Imperial prisons. And Zeb visits him.

It turns out Zeb vouched for him, which blows his mind a little, though he insists they wouldn't actually have executed him anyway (Kallus does not believe this).

The thing is, Kallus is convinced he deserves death. When Zeb refuses to agree, he decides to be his worst, bitchiest self to him, trying to goad the Lasat into killing him — bringing up awful shit from his past in an attempt to prove he doesn't deserve to be left alive. This majorly pisses Zeb off, yes, and upsets him deeply, but he still doesn't try to kill Kallus. He just stops visiting him instead.

Which is... much worse.

Eventually, after repeated meetings (they call them interrogations, but they're far too tame for what Kallus associates with that word) and psych evals and time passing without any escape attempts (even when he's let out of his cell, unshackled, for supervised outdoor time), he's allowed to actually work for the Rebellion. This also means running into the Spectres again — including Zeb.

It's horribly awkward. Neither of them know how to act around each other. They don't bring up their disastrous last conversation. When Kallus mentions that Zeb never did get that rematch he talked about on Bahryn, Zeb just stares incredulously at him. But then, a few days later, he finds Kallus and says he's free to finish their fight now. He even has Kallus' old bo-rifle — Rebel command must have given it to him after they took it from Kallus when he first arrived — and lets him wield it again, "just this once, mind you".

And so they fight. They don't attack each other verbally this time, just physically, and Kallus isn't actually trying to win, though he's trying to give a good enough impression of it without actually chancing Zeb losing. When Zeb finally has him pinned and disarmed, he bows his head and waits for the final blow that never comes. Instead, Zeb puts his weapon down and offers Kallus a hand up.

"Why don't you just kill me?"

"You don't get off that easy, mate. You gotta put the work in and do better. Like the rest of us."

After that, for some baffling reason, they seem to become friends. And slowly but surely, as the months — years, even — go by, Kallus learns how to move forward, how to stop chasing death and punishment and pursue true redemption instead. By the time they eventually get together, he realises that all the parts of him that did deserve to die have done so, in a way. It just wasn't violence that killed them.

It was love.

[little-flame-prince]

Ohhh my gods. Oh my gods. Oh my gods. Of fucking course. Very funny.

[abbotjack]

Whatever You Say, Fruitcake

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (established marriage)

summary: Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

warnings/content: Fluff, Hospital setting, strong language, married intimacy, mild sexual tension(?), bodily fluids (mentioned), chaotic workplace dynamics, Myrna.

word count: 1,767, not beta read.

a/n: I’ve written so much smut and angst lately… felt like I needed a fluff filler. Honestly, with everything Robby’s been through too—he deserves one just as much as I do.

Someone left the remains of a hoagie in the trauma fridge again, and now the back hallway reeks of vinegar, cold cuts, and poor life choices.

The smell hits you as soon as you clear the curtain bay—sharp, sour, unmistakably fermented. You pause mid-step. Behind you, Dana makes a strangled noise in her throat and immediately starts waving a clipboard in the air like it’s going to do something other than stir it up.

“If this is Whitaker’s doing,” Dana says, already pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m pulling him from patients and assigning him to mop duty and moral reflection.”

You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not in the union handbook.”

She’s already striding ahead. “Then I’ll write my own damn handbook.”

Just ahead, Robby moves through the corridor like a man who’s been paged three times too many. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, coffee in one hand, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a look that says he’s thirty seconds from announcing his retirement.

Whitaker’s hustling to keep up, slightly flushed and fumbling with a stack of blank admission forms and a clipboard clearly marked for peds. He’s also holding an empty emesis basin and a bag of saltine crackers.

“I dropped the kid off in Pediatrics like you told me to,” he says, catching his breath. “Then someone threw up on my shoes, I handed over some crackers as a peace offering, and I think I accidentally took this chart on my way out while trying to avoid a loud debate about Paw Patrol and screen time.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Why are you holding a puke tray?”

“Someone in Peds handed it to me. I panicked and said thank you.”

“You don’t work there, Whitaker. You work in emergency.”

“Yeah, well, try telling that to the four-year-old who called me Doctor Crackers and wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

Dana watches Whitaker veer off toward supply, jaw tightening just slightly. “If he volunteers himself into another department’s meltdown, I’m having his badge color-coded for liability.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a charge nurse threat?”

“It’s preventative management.”

Before you can reply, the air shifts—like it always does when Myrna materializes. The low squeak of her wheelchair wheels, the jingle of cheap bracelets, and then—

“Hey, fruitcake.”

Robby slows when he sees her. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just—ready, in that way he gets when Myrna’s name is involved in a trauma note or a psych hold request.

He hesitates, jaw clenched, clipboard tucked tighter under his arm as he steps in behind the wheelchair—slow and deliberate, one hand on the back like he's guiding a live grenade disguised in costume jewelry.

Myrna is cuffed, of course—standard protocol—but she’s sitting tall like she’s holding court. Her walker is bungee-corded to the back of the chair, and there’s a half-empty Styrofoam cup in the side pocket that no one remembers giving her. She smells like menthols and peach Schnapps. Her lipstick is smeared. Her eyes are sharp.

She cranes her head slightly to look up at Robby and grins with all the self-satisfaction of someone who knows exactly how to ruin your day and plans to do it slowly.

Robby exhales. “Myrna. What brings you in today?”

“I murdered my husband.”

“How’d you do it this time?”

“Meat grinder.”

She shifts in her seat, adjusting the tilt of her chair. When he stops, she immediately starts wheeling herself toward the empty staff breakroom like she owns the place—completely ignoring the Employees Only sign.

“Where do you think you’re going, Myrna?”

“Oh, none of your business, fruitcake.”

His jaw ticks. The clipboard drops half an inch.

“Actually, everything that happens in this department is my business. And you know what? I put up with a lot around here. I take very good care of you. So you can call me Dr. Robinavitch, or Dr. Robby, or you can use my first name, Michael. But I do not appreciate being called fruitcake.”

Dana leans toward you. “He’s two years and one more nickname away from tossing his pager in the East River and moving into a cabin with no electricity.”

You snort. “He can move to the woods if he wants, but I’m not following him into a life of compost toilets and mosquito nets. He’ll be back the second he realizes I’m not coming with.”

Back in the hall, Myrna shrugs.

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings, cocksucker?”

Dana snorts. You press your fingers to your mouth.

Robby takes a breath. “That said, it has a certain whimsical quality I can probably learn to live with.”

“Whatever you say, fruitcake.”

Without missing a beat, she pivots her wheelchair and rolls with precision toward the ambulance bay doors. The automatic sensor doesn’t catch her on the first pass, so she backs up, then rams the base of the door with enough force to jolt the frame—and nearly set off the motion alarm. A “Wet Floor” sign topples in her wake.

Then, slowly, she lifts her cuffed wrists and waves them at the security camera like she’s on parade.

Robby doesn’t move. Just watches her, unreadable.

She pauses at the edge of the exit, half-turned in her chair, chin tilted up like she’s daring someone to try and stop her.

A nurse nearby mutters, “Do we stop her… or let natural selection take it from here?”

You find him later in the breakroom, elbows braced on the table, fingers pressed into his brow like he’s trying to force the day out through his skull. His coffee sits untouched beside a chart he’s clearly given up pretending to read. The overhead light is flickering, unresolved, adding to the static hum that no one has the energy to report anymore.

You slide your coffee beside his and drop into the seat next to him. No words, not yet. Just your knee brushing his under the table—light, intentional, familiar. He doesn’t look at you, but he exhales like you just gave him permission to breathe.

After a beat: “I’m fine.”

You sip your coffee. “Mmm. Then why have you been brooding like a cursed Victorian husband.”

He drags his hands down his face and groans. “She called me a cocksucker in front of the whole emergency department.”

“And you didn’t throw anything,” you say. “Which, frankly, is a win.”

You nudge your foot against his. “Do you want me to fight her?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Outside. Ambulance bay. High noon.”

That earns the smallest crack of a smile.

“I’m serious,” you add. “I’m fully within my spousal rights to go feral.”

“Pretty sure that’s not in the HR manual.”

“Pretty sure it’s in the vows.”

He huffs out a reluctant laugh, and you feel the air between you shift. Lighter. Less taut. The corner of his mouth tilts in that way you’ve learned to love—subtle, fleeting, like warmth in a place that rarely allows it.

“Dana probably already has a memo drafted,” he mutters. “Something official—‘Effective immediately, all consults will refer to Dr. Robinavitch as Fruitcake.’”

You grin. “She has. It’s laminated. I signed off on it.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m married to you. I take my entertainment where I can get it.”

He finally leans back, posture loosening. “One of these days, I’m torching this whole department.”

“You won’t,” you say. “You love this place too much.”

“I love you. Everything else is negotiable.”

You fall quiet at that, the kind of quiet that makes room for a hand to reach across the table. Yours. His. You’re not even sure. But they find each other easily, like always.

“You were good today,” you say. “The way you handled her. All of it. You didn’t give her the chaos she wanted.”

“She got under my skin.”

“But she didn’t get a reaction. That’s power. That’s control. I'm proud of you.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, it’s quiet in a way this place rarely is.

“You’re always proud of me,” he says, voice softer now.

You smile, just a little. “Not always. Just when you deserve it.”

A pause. He huffs, but it’s fond. “You should put that on a sticker.”

“Already did.” You nudge his elbow. “Slapped it on your locker right under the one that says ‘Fruitcake of the Month.’”

He groans. “I married a menace.”

“You married smart.”

“You tricked me.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I’d do it again.”

The silence that settles next isn’t heavy. It’s married silence. Full of the things you don’t need to say because you’ve already said them a hundred different ways over coffee cups and night shifts and shared exhaustion.

You glance toward the hallway, then back to him, voice lower now. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still standing in all this. You, me. This place.”

He watches you for a long moment, then says, “Because you make it worth it.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’m not kissing you in the breakroom,” he says eventually, eyes still on yours.

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“I know that too.”

Another small smile. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re mine.”

The moment hangs there—warm and quiet and stupidly rare. It's the kind of silence that only happens when two people know each other too well to need more words.

His pager buzzes on the table. You both glance at it but don’t move right away. Then, like muscle memory, he stands and grabs his clipboard. You collect the two half-finished coffees and toss them without comment.

When you step toward the door, your hand brushes his—not by accident. He doesn’t take it, not here, not with the door just about to swing open. But he squeezes your fingers once, fast and familiar. It’s not affection, exactly. It’s reassurance. A habit. A promise.

You exit the breakroom together.

The hallway feels colder by comparison. Brighter. Louder. Someone’s calling out discharge instructions. A gurney wheel shrieks as it sticks on the threshold. The ER is alive again, like it never paused.

He walks ahead of you, falling back into his role like pulling on a second skin—focused, efficient, slightly intimidating. But you know that look. You know the weight he’s carrying.

When his hand grazes yours again at the hallway bend, he doesn’t pull away right away.

You don’t hold hands. You don’t need to.

But the warmth lingers.

That’s the thing about marriage in a place like this : there’s never time. So you take the seconds. And when you find each other in them, you hold on.

[theorist-fox]

Gemstones

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy, childbirth (mentions), the good ending to this (if only he behaved), simon is a good husband and a good dad

Masterlist 🦊

Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.

He thought about giving up, thought about ending it sooner rather than later—easier to expect life to deal another bad hand, considering what he'd been given in the past. The whisper of a blade along his wrists, or, better yet, a ripe bullet fuming in his head.

Prevent the cunt from sliding more poor draws as birthday surprises.

Still, the thought of desecrating the bastard's grave gave him something to look forward to. And when you have a source of anticipation, life tends to slide by in a bearable manner.

The only thing he had to do now was find a reason to go there, to the cemetery where he was buried. He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.

Medals didn't do the trick in his own eyes—never fond of chest candy, he couldn't imagine the ghost of his father being impressed either. His survival mattered little, too. Hell, he could go there to tell him that he had made it out of a grave, at least, while he stayed buried and dead, killed by the same things he once worshipped: alcohol, drugs, and a fat fucking liver.

Nothing quite fit the plan.

Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards — the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.

The only thing he could've bragged about was that he never found it hard to juggle work, relationships, and life.

Mostly because he lacked the latter two. What a brag, aye?

Easy as anything, though: go to work, get the job done, and go back home. Crack open a beer, maybe. Pass out on the couch.

He knows what it looks like. He knows and reluctantly admits it, too. Doesn't need a reminder from his psyche, doesn't need to hear the derisive laugh of his old man echo in his head.

He shuts it all off and drinks on it—paradoxical as it may be.

And as life gets dull and duller, rankled with boredom and self-loathing. With the same beers and the same shows on the telly. With the same silence haunting his flat and the same dreadful black hole swallowing his chest—

A spark. A light.

Out of the blue, during the hottest day of summer. Something that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, like a cat sensing danger—though this is no threat at all. It's the unusual of it, the novelty leaving his stomach knotted and heavy.

A pair of jeans, a light blue shirt left unbuttoned at the top. Just two, nothing too revealing. Open enough to stave off the warmth of HQ, yet still hiding the right amount of skin for a professional setting.

Makes his imagination run wild. Didn't even know he still had it in him, to fantasise.

A necklace you mindlessly toy with between nimble fingers, pretty blue gemstone mounted in gold, as you point at numbers and charts on the whiteboard behind you.

He's heard fuck all.

"Alright then." You snap him out of it. "Any questions?"

It takes him one well-placed elbow in the ribs, surreptitious as the owner, Garrick, for him to notice that he's been gawking at you to the point of discomfort. You're staring back with tightened brows and steeled shoulders, lips furled in either a pensive frown or a disgusted one.

Simon opts for the latter.

Of course he had to go and act like an animal the day he forgoes the balaclava. Not even his need for anonymity could force him to wrap his face in fabric when the temperature is just shy of 35 degrees. And while this has protected him from melting against the chair of the conference room, it has also left him completely vulnerable to bystanders' eyes.

Including yours. Sharper than a blade, cutting him into thin slices until there's nothing left for him to hide.

John asks something. The focus shifts. God fucking bless him alright.

You answer smoothly, crystalline voice that tinkers with his eardrums like they're made of glass.

He takes the ball and brings a hand to his jaw to massage its hinges. It aches. His mouth is dry. Pulse climbing up, palms clammy as they go for his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he's on the verge of having a stroke.

But not even Simon, clueless as he may be when it comes to feelings, is that unfathomably stupid. His cock straining in his trousers is a big, fat hint anyway.

You collect your things. Tap your papers neatly into place. Peel off a post-it note and scribble something on it. He follows the curve of your hand, the sharpness of each knuckle.

Simon blinks, and you're right beside him, sticking that yellow paper on the table in front of him.

Your number penned on it. Your name right below.

Simon has fucked plenty of people without remembering much of it. There are those who care if he comes, and those who fuck him even if he isn't hard at all.

It's a very straightforward way to force his body to feel something that isn't agony. Though he wouldn't describe himself to be a sad person—he doesn't think what he feels is sadness. It's more than that, less fickle than simple heartache.

He's accepted that life could either be this or the complete opposite. Between those two states of being, however, there is a whole ocean to cross, and he's utterly alone on a pitiful raft and with a single oar. At that point, he starts realising that he can either row day and night, hoping to reach a place that only seems to get farther and farther, or he can try his bloody hardest to make the journey more pleasurable.

He's tried drugs. Good for a tick. The aftermath is atrocious, though, worse than whatever has been festering in his guts.

Alcohol knocks him out. That's good. Less frowned upon. Easier to hide. His mouth waters when he pops open his beer and listens to the telltale fizz as the bubbles rise to the top. Foam spills on his knuckles, and he lets it crust. And when the beers are over, he switches to whiskey. It burns so good he wishes he could bathe in it—let it corrode at his skin the same way it's corroding his liver.

Sex is a good, perfect balance.

It can't kill him, for one. Another addiction to add to the list, sure, but at least this one won't have him rotting any time soon.

Whoever lands in his bed is game, to be honest. Doesn't care if he's horny, doesn't care if he can't get it up right away. It's the feeling of it—to be used, to be needed. He'll switch to whatever their hearts desire, as long as they fuck him until the knot in his stomach uncoils and he can somewhat breathe again.

But with you, it feels just slightly different. Or maybe a lot different, and he's not ready to face it yet.

He's not letting himself be used, be needed. Simon is reluctantly accepting that he's wanted, and that he can want too. He can want and he can take, if that's what he fancies.

He takes you. Takes you for all that you are: your sense of humour, your quirks, your wit, how your teeth bite into your cheek when you're thinking, the way your hair sways when you talk excitedly.

The way you fuck him, how you look when he fucks you. How your mouth parts when you cum, the weight of your hands on his chest as you ride him. The gentle breaths in the crook of his neck.

The I love you you whisper that first time.

His stomach gets heavier the longer you stay. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's new and unpredictable, and Simon doesn't like unpredictability. However, he forces himself to digest it because it feels like something in his belly is finally full.

Something in his heart, too.

Life gets harder, though—practically speaking. The scale tips to where the air smells of citrus and steeping teas instead of rotting flesh and cheap kentucky.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, and return home. And if he gets home earlier than you, he has to prep dinner and all. Something nice to treat you right. Has to actually do laundry, the way you like it. Clean the house, much bigger than the studio apartment he used to inhabit.

Can't even brag about being able to juggle his life correctly—the visit to his father's grave has got to wait.

It's alright, he reckons. What's one more year, after all.

He stops enjoying lonely Stellas at night, because he found he doesn't really like to kiss you when his breath smells so heavy. Masks your taste, makes him curl his nose in disappointment.

He fancies wine now, like the posh fuckers he's always despised—pop open a bottle and nurse it from one of the two glasses you set on the coffee table at his feet. Bourbon, if he's got nothing to do the next day, and you're off as well. Pepsi, if you're both too tired to digest alcohol that night.

Liquor tastes different now. He doesn't find himself drawn to the bottle if you're not home—at least, not as often as before. He still loves his bourbon, but only after the clink of his glass with yours. A big lad like him can handle a beer or two—still, it tastes better if he can pet your head propped on his thighs as he gulps one down.

Every night, he's got you cuddled in his side, hence passing out on the couch is not an option anymore. The bed it is, then. Better sleep, much more space—hell, better sex for when you're both up for it.

Plus, sunlight hits you just right when he first wakes up and you're asleep, splayed on his chest. He likes the way golden ribbons curl around your shape, threads on your fingers like you're wearing jewels.

Doesn't take him long to actually put a golden band where it belongs, against all fucking odds. When the thought popped in his head, he prepared himself for the devastation that would follow your no. 

However, you nod your head when he takes out his mum's ring from his pocket. You nod your head vigorously, he'd like to add. You say a yes so genuine it cracks him open, leaves him bare for you to see the confusion festering inside. The elation.

The unmistakable joy.

No one believes him when you say yes—though truthfully, his mates do. Still, he's the first among the sceptics. A loud minority in his own head.

Johnny claps his shoulder as he stands there, clad in a suit and sweating bullets. Clammy hands pulling at his tie. However, none of it matters when you come to stand before him. Wedding gown on, and the most gorgeous of smiles. Pearls on your neck and tears in your eyes—gemstones, as precious as can be.

A hand on his cheek, a kiss on the lips.

The last as his fiancée, the first as his wife.

Sure, life becomes harder than his previous one. Responsibilities double, but loneliness halves. And halves. And halves. Until he forgets what it's like to live in a house and not in a home.

Briefly, the thought of finally having something to rub in his father's face crosses his mind. But when you take his hand and bring it to your lips, golden wedding ring catching the sunlight, he thinks it can wait a bit more.

What's a couple more years to add to his thirties, after all.

It's a foggy day when you abruptly wake up, lamenting a stomach ache that won't leave you alone.

"I'm so fucking sure it's yesterday's dinner," you mumble, unable to peel the frown off your face. "Fucking take out—I knew we should've cooked."

He's fixing you a cuppa in the kitchen to help with your nausea when he hears you retch from the bathroom. Simon sprints your way, leaving the tea bag to steep in the hot water for longer than needed.

He kneels beside you, running his hand up and down your back. Hooks his arm under the crook of your knees after you've brushed your teeth and takes you to bed.

You murmur that he's the best husband in the entire world as you nuzzle his chest. He chuckles at that. Thinks you proper insane but never voices it.

Perhaps because he likes to hear it. Perhaps because you're making him accept it too.

It's hard to digest, to metabolise that he is not… rotten. Or at least, not as wasted as life made him believe. Fear rankles his bones—to disappoint you, to disappoint himself. But you hold him like you'd rather be nowhere else, and that makes it easier for him to swallow it all. Have his stomach break it down into pieces and feed it to his soul.

It's worth it—fucking hell, really worth it.

Worth more than anything, especially when you both peek through the gaps of your fingers as you shield each other's eyes. The buzzing of the cold bathroom lights is the only background noise, silence as the companion of your bated breaths.

The ping of your phone signals time's up, and his focus finally lands on that stick. His eyes meet two little lines instead of one.

Pure horror and delight. His father's cruel eyes flash like lightning in his head, ice cold and terribly real, awfully tangible. Thunder cracks. He can't breathe right, not as calmly as he should.

You look into his eyes with gemstones in yours. A smile so bright the clouds part to favour it. It's not sunless anymore.

And it's worth it again.

Worth it, worth it, worth it. 

Worth every back-breaking job he takes next. Worth every solitary mission he goes on, and every particularly dangerous one he rejects. Worth every extra stack of paperwork tossed on his desk. Worth every bit of overtime he spends in HQ.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

Worth seeing you grow, worth seeing you healthy. Worth seeing you hungry and devouring the food he makes, drink from the cups he washes.

Worth hearing your chuckle when he brings home that questionable concoction you crave. Worth holding your hair out of the way first thing in the morning.

Worth making love to you again, and again, and again, knowing that's what being home is supposed to feel like. Knowing that he has it, just right there, in the spaces you inhabit. In the pillow under your head, in the green mug next to his blue, in your hair tangled with his clothes.

Worth it. 

Worth it, to hear her heartbeat.

Worth seeing her move around in black and grey.

Worth feeling her hand pressing up. Her feet kicking at her ma.

"Like a little alien," you murmur tenderly, pressing his fingers to your belly.

She answers every time.

He kisses your skin. "My little bug."

Worth it, to watch you hold her when she first sees the world. To leave you that space, reserved for you two and not another soul. Even if his fingers itch to touch her, lurching to hold her as well—beating crazed, pulse climbing up, as if his heart could break the bones in his chest and reach out to her. To you.

Angel in your gentleness, goddess in your strength. Heavenly, overall, even drenched in blood and sweat.

Worth the fear for your safety, the fear for hers.

Worth the apprehension, the anxiety. He's not fit to be a dad, is he? Not fit for this life, where all is tender where he's hard, where all is comfort where he's pure unease. His hands have dealt more punches than caresses. They've taken the brunt of so much anger, it must have transferred to his bones somehow.

But if rage truly is his inheritance, it must not have taken root in him. Or at least, not as deeply as he thought. Not as invasive.

There's no space for it, no space for a hollow heart or withering anger. No space at all, because everything inside of him is full of you.

And it's so, so worth it.

Worth it all—just to hold her that first time.

Tiny, tiny thing. He could fit her in a hand if he wanted to, have her little legs hang off his forearm.

He could, surely.

He doesn't.

No, Simon becomes a cradle instead. Both arms curl around her as he sits down, afraid his knees might give out. He speaks to her words he never thought he'd get the chance to say, never thought they'd fit the mould life forced him into.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

Tears in your eyes. Gemstones.

In his, too.

Managing life is tenfold harder, especially when his little bug starts crawling.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, get home—no, scratch that.

Now he has to wake up earlier so he can get breakfast ready for you. Feed his daughter so you can sleep in. Kiss you goodbye.

Go to work. Check the baby monitor connected to his phone so he can watch her sleep for a minute, or see her play in the cradle.

Good for his heart.

Get the job d—call you, to see if you're alright, how you're hanging on. He hates with all his guts that he can't stay home longer, but money doesn't grow on trees, and it's not only about him anymore.

Again, back on track: get the job done. Try to. Check the monitor. Send you a text.

His life would be so fucking bleak without you in it.

Might as well play along.

Back to his plans.

Get the job done early, precisely, so he can get home earlier and see you. Help you. Shed the soldier's armour and wear his dad clothes. Give you time to rest as he takes care of everything, until his baby falls asleep, so he can take care of you too. Be your husband again.

His days are harder. Balancing life and job is not as easy as it was when he used to come back to an empty house and a cold heart. It doesn't go nearly as smoothly as when he came home to you only, to warm arms and gentle eyes.

He knows it's not easy for you either.

Still, now he comes back to the smell of milk and baby powder. To changing nappies and sleepless nights, only to wake up at the crack of dawn the next day.

He comes home to your beautiful, tired eyes. Happy, happy as can be, like you've always been. Like he is—unbelievable to even think about it.

Home to the sound of innocent laughter or piercing cries, to tender babbling and chubby hands grabbing at his hair.

He still has to piss on his father's grave. But that's a thought for another day. You're waiting for him to come home, for him to be the man you know. The man you love.

The man he is.

Life's harder, but his heart's regrown. Spread its roots, symbiotic with you.

His little bug is a troublemaker. Curious. Brilliant.

Like her mum, he reckons.

She crawls everywhere, touches things she shouldn't. Not a soul on Earth has baby-proofed the house like Simon has, and still she finds ways to give her dad a chain of consequent heart attacks that leave him floored for the next couple of hours.

Hell, he wouldn't change a thing.

A dinner at home is how Simon properly introduces his daughter to the team.

Kyle can't stop baby talking to her and she giggles loudly every time. John promotes her to Sergeant Riley with a velcro SAS patch attached to her onesie. Johnny juggles her on his knees, but it's the third time she reaches out with those chubby hands to grab the goddamn knife.

Makes sense, to Simon, to just put her on the playing mat and have her handle things she can actually play with.

And as chatter ensues, Simon's hand drawing circles on your thigh under the table, you gasp.

It's a moment of frigid horror. Fear travels like shards of ice through his bloodstream, tips at his skull. But when he follows the line of your eyes, his body freezes in awe.

There she is, standing on her own two feet.

Sage green socks wobbling on the mat. Tiny arms spread out for balance, chubby fingers wiggling in the air as if it could help her keep still.

Gummy smile pushing at her cheeks, tiny dimples pressing in. She looks at her dad with innocent pride.

Simon's mind travels back. Breath lodged in his throat.

He sees you frowning at him in the conference room. Sees your number scribbled on a post-it note, your half-buttoned shirt and the gemstone in between your fingers.

Sees the pearls like dewdrops around your neck. Those eyes charged with gorgeous tears. The gold around your finger, hand clutching his own to your heart.

He sees those same tiny feet, now touching the floor and holding her up, hidden in your belly. Her tireless kicks to meet his hand through you.

Sees her eyes squinting in a piercing cry. His lips to your forehead, coated in sweat and fear and relief. Feels her weight in his arms like that first time, like he's holding her again—small fists bumping around, eyes adjusting to the first light she's ever seen.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

He stands slowly, holding your hand. You follow his movements, eyes locked on your child. The silence in the room is palpable, but it's not a dreadful one—it's anticipation, it's a joy that thrives quietly, bathing each person in the loveliest of lights.

You both crouch a few feet in front of her. Simon opens his arms.

"C'mere bug." His voice trembles, doesn't even sound like his.

You sniffle next to him. "C'mere baby, go to daddy."

There. There she does it. Her babble fades into a giggle. A tiny, tiny step—a tumble. You react automatically, reaching forward with your arms, but his girl's stubborn, resilient.

Like her dad, he reckons.

She stands up again, regaining her balance. And steps forward, and forward, and forward, until the tips of Simon's fingers find hers—solace in her daddy's hold, small hands curled around his bigger thumbs.

Joy explodes. Golden fireworks. His mates laugh brightly, the air is pure delight, and as he picks his daughter in his arms, he holds one out for you.

You scoot inside. Press a kiss wet with lovely tears to your child's cheek. She giggles. It's clueless and light.

It has Simon's heart in a clutch.

He doesn't remember hearing his baby brother laugh like this. Doesn't think he's ever laughed like this either, when he still couldn't even speak.

His baby girl's happy. Loved. You are, too.

His chest tightens when he realizes he is part of the reason why.

"Good job, little bug," you whisper tirelessly, as if no force could stop you from showing how proud you are. How radiant. "Good job my love."

Simon's ears are cottoned. A bubble around you three, impenetrable because Simon has vowed so. His lips on his baby's forehead, then on yours.

His carbon copy looks up at him. Chocolate eyes meet his twin—smaller, fragile, and yet as strong as man can be. His pride, his love, packed inside a mess of curls and dimpled cheeks and pure, gorgeous sunlight.

A small sticky hand lands on his cheek, as if she's trying to make her daddy smile. Simon turns to kiss his daughter's palm and looks into your eyes, glossy with joy—aquamarine tears, glowing from within.

His little bug might look like him, but she's just like you—eyes like gemstones. His treasure trove. Most coveted one, most precious.

"I love you," he mouths to you.

Your smile is wet with tears, chock-full of joy.

You say it back.

His father is buried six feet under. There he'll stay. Drowning under cold, barren soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.

Not his problem. Not anymore.

You kiss him. A quiet peck in front of guests, but still so charged with love it gives his heart whiplash. He transfers it to his daughter's forehead.

Johnny lifts his glass with a loud Cheers. A happy cacophony follows suit, clinking glasses and a small chorus of congratulations to "wee Sergeant Riley".

Life is hard. It's gonna be harder, and harder, and harder.

But Simon doesn't think it's ever been this bright.

[hoshifighting]

“you know what else is pink?”

WARNINGS: roomate!jihoon, smut, ...pink cock, blowjob/handjob, penetrative sex, squirt, overstimulation.

WC: 2.7K

[got inspiration from this tiktok]

jihoon’s got this routine down, locked in. you hear the clatter of keys in the door at exactly 9:17 PM, every night without fail. he comes in smelling like roasted coffee beans and vanilla syrup, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and—of course—that little paper cup in hand as he kicked the door shut behind him with that little flick of his heel.

“got your poison,” he says, tossing the pink monstrosity onto the table in front of you. It lands with a soft thunk, condensation already forming on the sides, and the sight alone is enough to make you grin like a damn idiot.

“thanks, hoon,” you say, grabbing it immediately and taking a sip like you haven’t had this exact drink every day for months. it’s sweet as hell, tastes like summer and cavities, but you can’t help it. you’re obsessed.

jihoon just shrugs like it’s nothing—like he didn’t go out of his way to snag this for you, again.

he chuckles, already moving toward the bathroom while shrugging off his jacket. “you know what else is pink?”

your brain short-circuits. immediately. you blink up at him like he’s just asked you to solve the riddle of the sphinx.

“h-hm?”

he pauses, halfway out of his jacket, and tilts his head back to look at you. a mischievous little smirk stretches across his face, his pearly-ass veneers catching the shitty overhead lighting.

“huh?” jihoon mirrored you, raising his eyebrows all innocent.

you’re left thinking about his elbows now, how they’re faintly pink at the joints, a soft flush that spreads to his cheeks when it’s too hot in the apartment. his knees, the curve of them when he sits cross-legged on the couch watching anime. the way his nipples—god, why are you thinking about his nipples—stand out when he’s shirtless, all pale skin and rosy peaks.

and yeah, okay. you know exactly what he meant.

the “pink drink” sat in your hand, cold and totally innocent, unlike the mental image now burning in your skull.

[...]

the sound of him moving around in the bedroom after his shower is, like, a damn magnet pulling you in. you’ve been pacing the kitchen like a lunatic, the pink frappuccino now safely tucked away in the fridge because there’s no way in hell you’re gonna stomach all that milk with what you’re about to do. your heart’s doing that stupid fast thing, but you’re already walking down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the floor.

the bedroom door is cracked open, and you catch him just as he’s hanging his towel up. his back’s to you, but even from here, you can see how his shoulders move when he stretches, pale skin almost glowing under the shitty warm light of the bedroom. and those shorts are barely covering anything, and his legs look even paler against the fabric.

he runs both hands through his wet hair, brushing it back in that way that makes it stick up all messy, and for a second, you just stand there leaning against the wall beside the door, arms crossed, watching him like a creep. your bottom lip tugs between your teeth as you try to psych yourself up, but nah, fuck it, you’re already moving. you push off the wall and walk straight up to him. he doesn’t even have time to turn around fully before your hands are on him, shoving his chest hard enough that he stumbles backward.

“yo—” he starts, but his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down with a soft oof, bracing himself on his elbows.

his eyes snap up to meet yours, wide. “what’s this about?”

you step closer, standing between his knees, grabbing his chin with your fingers to tilt his head up.

“oh?” he breathes out, his smirk faltering just a bit when your thumb brushes over his bottom lip.

“yeah. oh,” you shoot back, your voice sharper than the shaky confidence you’re working with. you sink to your knees in front of him, your hands trailing down his torso, the little bodyhairs raising up to meet your palm, fingers dragging over that pale skin. his breath catches, and he shifts, spreading his legs just enough for you to settle between them.

you tug at the waistband of those godforsaken shorts, sliding them down. and there it is, the very thing he hinted at earlier—exactly like you knew he’d be, flushed and already half-hard, the head its almost the same shade of your drink, but more human-skin-like, and fuck, you're probably going to think about it everytime he hands you the drink. his breath hitches again when your hand wraps around him.

“what’s wrong?” you tease, tilting your head, your thumb swiping over the tip to smear the bead of wetness there.

“ah-ah-shit—” he mutters, his voice strained. you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip bone, then lower, leaving a trail of warmth as your lips move closer.

he lets out this shaky little laugh, but it breaks off into a hiss when you lean in, your lips brushing over the tip, like you're about to taste it, before wrapping around him completely. his lungs get full of air before moaning all way in while he exhales and you swear you’ve never felt more smug in your life.

his hand comes up to cover his mouth, like he’s trying to muffle the sounds spilling out of him, but it’s useless. the little gasps, the way his voice breaks on your name—it’s making you swallow him in.

your hand moves in partnership with your mouth, stroking him in time with the way your tongue works over every inch of him. when you glance up, his head is tipped back, eyes half-closed, lips parted, and he looks like he is winning a bliss.

“you’re so fucking—good” he stammers, his voice cracking halfway through. “holy shit, keep—keep going.”

you don’t stop, not even when his thighs start trembling under your hands, not even when he’s biting down on his knuckles to keep himself from being too loud.

you hollow your cheeks as you pull back, dragging your lips over him until you reach the tip with a wet, obscene pop.

“jesus fucking—” he chokes out, but his words cut off when you lower your head, tongue dragging along the sensitive seam of his sack like you’re savoring it. you can feel the way his thighs tense on your sides, trembling like he’s caught between pulling away and leaning into you.

your hand is still wrapped around him, firm that his cockhead gets red, keeping that steady rhythm while your tongue works over the delicate skin below.

he lifts his head to look down at you, his lips parted in disbelief, sweat glistening on his forehead. “you—what the fuck are you doing?”

“what’s it look like?” you quip back, grinning up at him before wrapping your lips around his balls again, taking one side into your mouth gently. his reaction is instant—his hips roll under your mouth, and his eyes, roll back.

“this is—holy shit—this is fucked up.”

you hum around him, taking your time, switching to the other side, your tongue lavishing the sensitive skin as you work him over. “fucked up?” you echo between breaths, lips brushing against him. “sounds like youre enjoying it.”

his hand flies up to cover his face, fingers digging into his own hair. he groans, his hips betraying him, twitching toward your mouth like he’s chasing the feeling.

you lean back in, your mouth hot and wet against his cock again, taking him deeper this time, your tongue tracing patterns as you move.

“fuck—fuck—you’re gonna—” his eyes squeeze shut as he lets grits his teeth, failing to hold his whimpers, spilling over himself and inside your mouth.

you don’t stop until you’re sure he’s ridden it out completely, pulling back slowly, your lips slick and swollen, jaw aching, as you wipe your mouth with your thumb.

“you okay there?”

“i don’t think okay covers it...” he grimaces.

“guess i’ll take that as a compliment.”

“you should.” he says, his lips quirking into the faintest smile.

he tilts his head back, his eyes hooded and his lips curling into a lazy smirk as he lifts his hand, tapping his thigh in that slow, cocky way he knows you can’t resist. “c’mere”

you hesitate, for a second, before standing and moving toward him. his gaze stays locked on you, and you feel the weight of it like a physical thing. as you straddle his lap, your dress rides up, pooling around your hips, and his hands are already on you, one gripping your waist while the other skims up your thigh.

he pulls you closer, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. when his tongue drags along your bottom lip, tasting the faint saltiness of himself there, he lets out an obscene groan.

“you taste like me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth before he licks along your lip again, slower this time. his teeth catch the tender skin, biting just enough to sting before he pulls back, tugging your lip between his teeth with a smirk.

your hands grip his shoulders to steady yourself as his hand slides lower, over the curve of your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. “been waiting all night to do this,” he mutters, as his fingers dip under the hem of your dress.

before you can process what’s happening, he hooks a finger under the side of your panties, tugging sharply until the fabric tears with a quiet rip. you feel the ruined cloth hanging loosely against your skin as his fingers brush over the now-bare flesh.

you open your mouth to protest—something about him owing you a new pair—but the words die in your throat when you see him lift his hand to his mouth, his tongue dragging along the length of his fingers.

the sight alone has your breath hitching, your thighs twitching around his. he catches the movement, his smirk widening as he pulls his fingers from his mouth, his free hand squeezing your waist as his other hand trails back down.

when his fingers meet your drenched cunt, he spreads the wetness, the wet noise that follows making your cheeks flush even as your body leans into his touch. he circles sensitive hole at your center, and he chuckles low in his throat when you let out a shaky breath.

“you’re already so wet.”

he shifts under you, leaning back as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly to see if his cock hardens again. his jaw tightens, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as his head tips back. “shit,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut for a second before they snap open to find you, perched right there on his thighs, looking like a fucking fever dream. “of course, it’s you. of course it works.”

and yeah, you don’t really get what he means by that, because he’s brushing himself against you now, dragging just the tip along where you’re already sdripping

“fuck,” he hisses, wincing as his hips buck up just a little. “so sensitive—” his words cut off with a low groan when you shift, your hands steadying yourself on his shoulders as you sink down.

“oh my god,” you choke out, the sensation swamping the second you take him in. “oh my god, hoon—holy shit—this is so good.”

he lets out this strangled laugh, “yeah?” he rasps, his voice breaking a little at the end. “feels good?”

“so fucking good,” you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling against him in these desperate little motions. you’re not even trying to play it cool—you’re too far gone for that, babbling about how full he feels, how perfect, how you’ve never felt anything like this.

and he’s just watching you, his lips parted and his cheeks flushed, looking dazed and a little wrecked, but there’s this smug glint in his eyes, like he is so fucking proub about how horny he made you.

his hands slide up your thighs, gripping tight like he’s trying to slow you down, but you don’t let him. you’re too caught up in the feeling, too desperate for more, and the way he whimpers when you move faster makes you coat him even wetter,

“slow down,” he tries, his voice cracking as his head falls back. “s-slow—ngh!”

but you don’t slow down. you go harder, grinding down on him like you’re trying to burn the feeling into your skin. “n-no,” you whine, your hands bracing against his chest. “you started this, hoon. you wanted to tease me? then t-ake it.”

his laugh is sharp and breathy, but it cuts off with a low, throaty groan when you move just right, your hips snapping against his in this perfect rhythm that has his head spinning.

“fuck, okay,” he chokes out, but it dosent last a second, his hands flying to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he tries to slow you down. “okay, okay, just—fuck—slow—a little, babe, please, i’m—”

you don’t listen. too far gone to register anything beyond the way he feels inside you, the way his body tenses under yours, the way his voice gets high pitch with every ragged breath.

“gonna kill me,” he groans, his hands trembling as they guide your hips into a slower rhythm, even though you can tell he’s fighting himself just as much as he’s fighting you.

he grips your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as he finally, finally uses his strength to slow you down, forcing you to move at his pace. it’s infuriating and perfect all at once because the shift makes his tip angle just right.

when it brushes against that spot inside you, your whole body jerks. your mouth falls open in a silent scream, no sound coming out except for a broken gasp, and your hips stutter helplessly in his hands, trying to chase the feeling even as he keeps you firmly in place.

he lets out a low, relieved laugh, his voice rough but still so maddeningly smug as he leans closer, his breath hot against your neck. “see?” he murmurs, his tone soft and cooing, like he’s teasing and praising you all at once. “isn’t that good? like this? hm?”

before you can even respond—hell, before you can even think—he does it again, using his arms to guide your hips, rolling them slowly, to make him hit that same spot. and this time, the moan that tears from your throat is loud, followed by another and another, until you’re shaking so hard you’re not even sure you’re in control of your body anymore.

“fuck,” he breathes, his grip tightening as he keeps you moving, steady and devastating. “so pretty like this. so perfect.”

you barely hear him, too lost in the way he’s making you feel, your moans spilling out one after another as the pressure inside you builds higher and higher, until it’s too much. your body seizes, your walls clenching around him so hard that he hiccups. and then it happens—a sudden, blinding orgasm that has you gasping, a liquid warmth spilling out of you in an uncontrollable squirt.

“holy shit,” he mutters as he feels it, the slickness making him slip out of you as you convulse in his lap.

he doesn’t even have time to react properly before the sight of you trembling and moaning in his arms—is enough to make him cum. his hand flies to the swollen cock, stroking once, twice, before he’s coming hard, spilling onto the floor. whining and rolling his hips onto his hand.

for a long moment, the both of you cant move, both of you too fucked and out of breath to do anything but sit there.

eventually, your gaze drifts downward, and your eyes land on him—still hard, still twitching slightly, the entire length of him glistening and… pink. ridiculously pink, especially at the head where it’s darker, flushed from how tight you’d been squeezing him.

you blink, your brain still foggy, and you mutter the first thing that comes to mind: “you weren’t kidding about the pink thing.”

he snorts, now shyly, his head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder as he laughs. “told you... thank god pink’s kind of your thing.”

[heavenlybodies333]

Daddy Issues -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

The BAU is quieter after hours. No flurry of footsteps, no clipped commands or rustling case files. Just a low hum of computers left on overnight and the distant tick of the bullpen clock.

You’re curled up in the small corner of the library, cross-legged, back hunched, arms wrapped around yourself like they might hold you together better than he ever could.

You told yourself you weren’t going to cry. Not here. Not again. But the tears crept out anyway. And now you’re here, in the place that always steals him from you, waiting—again—because he swore he’d make it up with dinner, and you believed him. Again.

The door creaks open softly. You wipe your face quickly. “Hey.”

You look up, blinking through tears, and find Spencer standing there in his cardigan and slacks, a file in one hand, a slight furrow in his brow. “What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to sound casual, even as your voice cracks.

“He got pulled into a call,” Spencer says quietly. “He told me to tell you he’d be down as soon as he wrapped it.”

You nod. “Of course he did.” You wipe your face fast. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t respond right away. Just takes in the disheveled state of your textbooks, the uneven stack of flashcards, the smeared mascara on the sleeve of your sweatshirt. He says, soft as a breath, “Tell me what he forgot.”

Your stomach twists. You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s so stupid. I’m twenty, I shouldn’t care.”

“That’s not how people work,” Spencer says, voice warm and achingly gentle. “That’s not how you work.”

You press your lips together. Hard. Trying to hold it in. “He was supposed to come to the presentation,” you whisper finally, like the words shame you. “My psych capstone. It was today.”

Spencer’s chest tightens. “He told me he’d leave early to make it.”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “Well, something came up. Probably another profile. Another victim. Another name on a file that matters more than mine.”

“That’s not true,” Spencer says instantly, but you cut him off with a look.

“You don’t get it. You have no idea what it’s like to be the thing he always chooses last.”

Spencer’s quiet. Not because you’re wrong. But because he knows you’re not. You look away. “He texted me after it was over. Said he was proud. Said he was ‘sure I did great.’ Like I’m some intern giving a slideshow instead of his fucking daughter.”

Spencer’s voice is barely audible. “You’re not second to him.”

You whisper, “Then why do I always feel like it?” voice breaking slightly. “It was on trauma-informed profiling. I used BAU cases for the foundation. His cases.”

Spencer smiles faintly. “Of course you did. I’d like to hear it sometime.” You looked over at him.

“I mean it,” he said. “All of it. The whole thing. In order. Start to finish. I’ll sit through it as many times as you want.”

Your throat tightened. “Even the stats section?” you whispered.

He smiled, warm and soft and proud. “Especially the stats section.”

“I even quoted you, you know.” You nudge him. “Statistically, you’re the most cited member of the team.”

He nudges back. “I’ll never let him live that down.”

And for the first time that day, you laugh. Quietly. Weakly. But it’s real. He holds your hand a little tighter. “I’ll remember your paper,” he says. “And I’ll ask to read it.”

You choke back a sob, “Thanks, Spence.” You lean your head on his shoulder. And for the first time that week, the ache in your chest starts to loosen. Because even if your dad forgets sometimes…Spencer never does.

a/n: Spence is my babygirl

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

♡ TW: fear, prank, prank gone too far, dubcon-ish

♡ GN reader

“Haha, ‘Toru—nice try,” is all you say to the tall figure, having stood patiently in wait and perfectly positioned to do a jump scare with his silly store-bought Ghostface mask on.

You sigh and go back to your dealings, and he remains as if the gist isn’t up—ever-committed to the task as if you’re suddenly going to forget that it’s him. Like—of course, it’s him! Despite what the movies will have you believe, not a lot of guys have bodies like that.

If he was really committed to tricking you, he should have worn something baggier to hide his perfectly shredded chest. But no—he’s set on wearing his black muscle shirt—probably opting to make you both scared and horny at the same time.

You carry on with what you’d been doing—cleaning up the kitchen. “Oi, quit standing there already and come help me.”

He doesn’t. But that’s not unlike him—he’ll take any excuse not to do the dishes. And right now, the excuse is this dumb prank. But it’s your fault in any case—you’re the one that put him up to it by saying he’d never be able to get a rise out of you.

You sigh and scold yourself for being so short-sighted—should’ve kept my dumb mouth shut. Knowing him, he’s probably going to be this way all through October, the insufferable prick.

He still stands there. Silent. And still. Eerily unlike him. And almost, just almost, utterly unlike him.

But no—don’t be stupid! He’s the same height and the same build, for fuck’s sake! What are the odds of someone with the exact same measurements as your boyfriend breaking in right at the time he isn’t around in something so cliche and dumb as a Ghostface replica? No, it stinks of Satoru—it’s got his goofy antics written all over it.

You scoff again—a little winded this time, a little strained. You have to hand it to him—he is a little scary when he shuts up for this long.

“You can knock it off, Satoru. I know it’s you.” You face him again, hand on your hip, with a frown. 

You sigh again when he still doesn’t answer, insisting on his stupid tactic of psyching you out. And you’re getting pissed that it’s actually almost working.

“Ugh, you’re so stupid.” You start stomping over—aiming to rip that dumb thing off his head and point your death glare directly in his insufferable blue eyes—those insufferable blue eyes you’re actually starting to hope are under there more than knowing without a doubt are there for sure. 

“Tch—it’s insulting if you think some half-assed performance like this is gonna be enough to scare me. At least have the creativity to come up with something somewhat decent–”

You stop in your tracks halfway over. Hair is peaking out from under the mask. You hadn’t seen it from afar, matted against the black shirt he was wearing—but how could you? How could you when it’s not white hair?

You flinch backward. Stumbling. Assessing the dark, silken locks a second time before looking up at the mask again—that soulless white warped skull with pitch-black bottomless eyesockets.

You take another step back. Breath hitching in your throat when the figure takes a step as well—toward you.

Your heart flares. It’s not Satoru.

Eyes peeled, you feel the panic overthrow you in an instant—like a cold rush, reaching all the way into your bonemarrow, making it hard to move, hard to do much of anything without feeling vulnerable to what it might trigger.

But once the figure pulls his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a butcher’s knife that catches the light and glints in the air—you have no other choice but to run.

What a perfect fucking day to wear fuzzy fucking socks! Fucking October cold is going to be the reason you die—stabbed to death in your own house by some cringey Scream fanboy. No—this can’t be the end—not this way! Why isn’t Satoru home yet? Why can’t he ever be where you need him to be?

You make your way through the house—hoping to reach the door, but turning the corner has you slip and fall, and the intruder’s on you—knife raised, poised prettily in the air above your helpless body, clad in your tiny heart-print pj’s—like the perfect hot airhead in any slasher spoof.

You scream and squeeze your eyes shut, “No! No—please! Please! Satoru, help!”

And right as the knife is supposed to come down and puncture your chest, making it spurt out red until you finally bleed out, dead and gone, there’s a bang instead as two palms land flat on the floor on either side of your head.

Joined by a muffled voice, “Are yah scared yet?”

With your eyes wide open again, you look up at not one mask blocking out the ceiling light but two. And with all the pure alarm savaging your chest, you manage to let out a real horror-movie squeal—unlike a sound you’ve ever made before.

And then, of all things, there’s laughter—no, not laughter—straight cackling.

And—fortunately or unfortunately—you’re quite sure you recognize that sound.

The last one pulls off his mask, and you really can’t believe it—pretty porcelain face squished in amusement with tears of joy in the corner of his insufferable blue eyes.

That fucking bitch.

“You should have seen your face!” he chortles—downright heaves. But for all his handsome features, he truly must be the ugliest laugher there is. Or maybe it’s just that the bastard always laughs at your expense, and after one too many times, it’s left a bad taste in your mouth.

Still, you sigh, eyes closed in relief, “I hate you, ‘Toru. You took it way too far, you ass.”

“No, no, Satoru, help~” he ignores you and mocks in a high-pitched moan, showing not a sign of remorse—holding his hand over his stomach as he falls to the floor, struggling to leave room for breath between hooting and howling.

Your eyes go to the original perpetrator. “And you? You proud or what?”

The wearer pulls off its mask and is revealed to be none other than Satoru’s best friend—Geto.

Honestly, you should have fucking known...

“Sorry, hehe…”

You’re upset—you make that clear with your pout, giving him your best guilt-tripping look from where you rest beneath him.

But still, within, your heart eases at the sight of his kind face and that apologetic smile across it—ever thankful to see him and not the cold-blooded murderer you were convinced was going to kill you only a moment ago—even when pinned beneath him in a position that should be making Satoru jealous.

But your boyfriend couldn’t care less, it seems—too busy rolling on the floor and laughing out loud quite literally, even banging his fist against the wood. Prick.

“I’m gonna throw up–” you say as the nerves finally settle. “And when I’m done, I’m gonna kill you. Both of you.”

Geto seems to think that’s fair, still with that sheepish smile on his face, but Satoru is quick to interject—laughing fit over as he shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. You said if I manage to scare you once this Halloween, I’d get whatever I want.”

You swear he can be such a child sometimes.

Oh, who are you kidding? He’s always a child. It’s only surprising he’s managed to rope Geto into all this—a guy who’s usually so mature.

“I don’t remember saying that…” you sigh, laying the back of your hand atop your forehead, still calming your breaths and the pounding in your head—your body not yet caught up to the fact that it’s trepidation over impending death was all just some silly joke played on you by two idiots.

You can’t believe him—you can’t believe either of them.

“Fucking shit, Geto—I thought I was gonna die.”

He still hasn’t gotten off you—the look of worry on his face tells you he’s probably just wanting to stay close to make you feel safe. You appreciate it, though it’s a little awkward lying beneath him like this—it’s not exactly a position you share with just anyone…

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work,” he says—eyes slim like always, in that charming way. “I always thought you were smarter than to fall for something this stupid.”

You pull a frown at that—taking it all back. He’s as childish and dumb as Satoru is. He’s just better at hiding it. 

“Oh, shut up—as if you wouldn’t scream if someone chased you down with a knife,” you grumble. “Now get off, you prick.”

You begin to lift yourself onto your elbows, yet despite the clear intention of getting up, Geto doesn’t budge to make it happen.

No, instead, he leans further in—fine-kempt raven hair slipping off his shoulders, falling with the same grace as a veil.

“I was told there’d be a prize for the one that got you to crack, and seeing as I’m the one that made that happen—I want it.”

You have to blink—blanched at the sudden demand.

Satoru, as well, a little stunned—looks wide-eyed at the two of you, upside down where he lies flat on his back, long limbs stretched out like a starfish.

“You what now?” both of you ask in unison.

Geto chuckles before repeating, “My prize. I want it. It’s only fair,” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Satoru rolls over onto his stomach to view you both the right way, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm…” Hand on his chin as if it’s really something to deliberate when the dumbass very well knows what the two of you had bet on and how it very much isn’t a reward you can give to just anyone.

Yet, despite that. “Okay,” he agrees—as if it’s even up to him.

“Hold on now, wait a minute.” You intervene in the almost business-esque dealing they’d somehow held without you. "Not happening.”

“Why not?” they both ask, looking at you. 

And you can’t keep from gaping. The nerve.

Spluttering as you explain, “Because it’s—well, because it was a bet between me and my dumbass boyfriend, and it was very clear what the prize was gonna be, come winner or loser—so, sorry to break it to you, but there is no prize.”

But that doesn’t seem to deter Geto. “Oh, I think there is…” he all but purrs as he leans down further.

“Satoru already agreed. And you’re already on your back beneath me.”

His smile isn’t all so friendly anymore, and still… you can’t help but blush being caught beneath it, holding your breath with fear a little different from the one before but no different in how it makes your heart pound.

“So, if neither of you mind…" he grins slyly. "I think I’ll just take it.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[vnpyy]

is it still me that makes you sweat?

nerd! armin x reader (nsfw)

tags: college au, f/m, tongue piercing, semi-public sex, oral fixation library sex, edging, nipple piercing, dry humping, virgin, smut with plot, dirty talk, nipple play, making out, soft dom/sub, 18+, whimpering

The fall semester is nearing its end, and the only thing you’ve been up to is finals, of course. However, there’s somebody else who has piqued your interest lately at the library where you’ve been studying…

Armin Arlert, the library assistant at your college.

Every time you pop into the library for a long study session alone, you constantly manage to grab his attention.

Maybe it’s because of how put-together you always are? Or how good you look in those tiny skirts you wear from time to time?

You’ve had many interactions with him: when you need help finding a book on the subject you’re learning about, or with a question you’re struggling with, somehow he’s always there whenever you need him. You find it cute. Even though he seems somewhat reserved whenever he’s around you. Then again, both of you are somewhat strangers to other. Sometimes you wish it could be more than that…

──────────────────────

“I need to stop procrastinating and finish this damn essay for psych,” you said, heaving a sigh.

“Why don’t you head over to the library instead of staying in the dorm with me and Sasha?" Mikasa offers as she cleans up around the dorm you share. “Plus, once you’re done, we can all have movie night together! I’m dying to have one again,” Sasha chimes in, agreeing with Mikasa.

“Yeah, you’re right. I was thinking about going out in a bit. I just wanna get ready before I go,” you say as you slowly head to the bathroom to touch up your makeup and find a cute outfit to put on.

“Getting ready for the library, I see? Is there somebody specific you’re hoping to see hm?” Mikasa giggles, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of you.

“Maybe y/n is going to pay Armin a little visit,” Sasha teases, giggling with Mikasa.

You froze for a second, thinking about how you’ve been caught…

“How do you guys know me so well,” you sighed in disbelief. Mikasa and Sasha always know when you’re up to something. Maybe Armin has mentioned you when they all hang out… I mean, they’ve all been good friends for years. I’m sure you get brought up from time to time..

“Well, don’t go doing anything stupid. You need to get your finals done, deadlines are approaching way too fast,” Mikasa scolds you a bit for not being on track with your academics.

“I know, I know. I will,” you sigh loudly enough for everyone to hear. You finished getting ready to head out, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “I’m gonna head out now, see you later, guys. I’ll send a text in the group chat if I’m coming back late.” Mikasa nods, and Sasha blows you a kiss goodbye, wishing you well on your studies as you hurry out the door.

You finally made it to the library after you grabbed a coffee and a sweet treat, so you’re motivated enough to write your essay.

As you approach the building, you’re eager to see if the blondie is on his shift. Maybe he’s just as eager to see you, too? You shrug away the thought as you enter the building through those heavy wooden doors.

Finally, you enter the library, inhaling the smell of still air and old books. You take the elevator to go to on 5th floor of the library.

…

*ding* you’re here

Stepping out of the elevator, you sigh in relief at how very few people are on this floor. You walk around, looking at shelves upon shelves of books as you look for a secluded place to do your work.

While looking for a spot, you suddenly catch a glimpse of the very person you hoped to see.

His beautiful blonde hair was hard to miss; those sweet blue eyes that make your heart flutter every time he stares at you a little too long, glasses that slide down his nose when he looks down at you. There was no doubt about it. He was already staring at you the moment he noticed you were here.

He smiled when he saw you, waving slightly. Both of you make quick but heavy eye contact with one another. Before you could break eye contact with him, he says, “Let me know if you need help with anything. I’ll be happy to help.” You blush at his kindness but quickly nod and thank him as he goes back to stacking books up on the shelf.

You continue walking and find a seat close enough to be able find him if you needed to. You set everything down on the table, sipping your cup of coffee and resting a bit before you started working. Eventually, you pull out your laptop and notebooks, getting comfortable and ready to start working when you realize, “shit… I forgot my textbook.” You suddenly recall that you left it on your desk in your bedroom, frustrated at the thought since you need it to write your psych essay.

Maybe Armin can help me… You smile at the thought of him helping you out. Eager to find him, you slowly get up, pulling yourself together while you make your way through the narrow walls of bookshelves, hoping to find him, and you eventually do. You find him near the back; the walls of bookshelves tower over both of you.

There he is…You found him organizing more stacks of books, immersed in his own world.

Before approaching him, you stop to admire him..

You don’t know why, but there’s just something about him that you can’t seem to resist, like a moth attracted to the light. You continue walking closer to him.

“Hey Armin, is there any way you guys happen to have this psych textbook? I desperately need it for my essay that’s due on Friday,” you asked.

He startles and quickly turns to you, immediately recognizing your voice. “Uh- y-yeah, yeah! I definitely have it. What was the name of the textbook again?” he stutters, eyes lowered while trying not to make too much eye contact with you. You quickly tell him the name of the book you’re looking for.

"I believe it should be around here… you can follow me,” he says as you continue to thank him for helping you out, which managed to crack a cute smile from him. “The book should be here somewhere…” He ran his slender fingers along the spines of each book he looked through. At last, he does find it and hands it over to you, giving you a small smile. Before you can say anything, he suddenly decides to asks you something.

“By the way, your name is y/n right? Sorry I know that was out of the blue,” he quickly looks down at his feet out of nervousness, hoping you don’t notice. Your heart skips a beat at the thought of him saying your name. After all, you do have mutual friends, yet you’re intrigued who told him about you...

“Yeah it is. Who told you that?” you shoot him a snarky grin as he stammers to explain himself. “Eren actually told me since you dorm with his girlfriend Mikasa. We’re all pretty close friends and I’ve always seen you around a lot, so I just wanted to know…”he starts rambling in an attempt to reassure you so he doesn’t come off as a perv somehow.

You giggle at what he says. Seeing just how flushed he gets when he talks to you, you can’t help but want to tease him more. “Honestly I wanted to get to know you too. I mean… I see the way you stare at me,” you say as you slowly move closer to him.

He realizes what you’re doing and clenches his jaw as he looks you up and down. You see the way his eyes drop down directly at your chest for a moment, lingering before they snap back up to your face. Can you blame him though? You were wearing a low-cut long sleeve top, with no bra underneath as your nipple piercings peaked through your tight fitting top.

He can’t help the fact that his dick twitches at the thought of being this close to you. The air suddenly feels thick and heavy around you, and he’s trying so hard to keep his composure but the way you look at him makes it all that more difficult… you want him and he knows that.

You can’t help but be a bit bold. “Would you want my number? I think you can get good use out of it, no?” you hummed to yourself. He was not expecting that… He looks dumbfounded at what you said, feeling flabbergasted at how blunt you are. He slowly nods his head, not knowing what to say he blurts out, “y-yeah of course.” He shakily hands you his phone. Putting your digits in, you swiftly hand the phone back to him. His fingers accidentally brushed against yours.

You both don’t say anything for a while; just taking each other in for a moment. The tension between you is unbearable. Armin stands there stiff as wood, trying to figure out what to say to you next, but you quickly say something first to break the silence.

“Well I really should get back to my work. Maybe you can find me again once your shift is over?” you grin, waiting for his response.

“Yeah I get off in about an hour so maybe you can use some help, i-if you would like that. I believe I’ve taken the class before too,” he says while trying to keep his cool. Knowing me, I need all the help I can get. You sigh in relief, nodding at his offer.

“Thenn I’ll see you later okay?” winking at him as you slowly turn and walk back to your seat.

“Fuck me…”Armin mumbles lowly under his breath while watching you walk away, getting a good look at the tiny black miniskirt you happen to be wearing. He can’t help but wonder if you’re the slutty type or if you wear a thong underneath your skirts… Pervert. He shrugs his dirty thoughts away and goes back to his work.

You return to where you left your stuff. Finally, you take a seat, trying to concentrate on your essay, but you can’t seem to get him off your mind. I wonder if he’ll actually help me, you think to yourself as you work on your essay.

Before you realize it, two hours have gone by.

It’s 7:00 pm on the dot, and the 5th floor is completely empty by now. You decide to text the group chat you have with the girls.

You: Guys, I’m still at the library I think I’m gonna be here until it closes, it feels like..

Sasha: Nooo we were hoping you could have dinner with us :((

You: I wish but I have 2 more pages to go babes

Mikasa: I’ll save you a plate so you have dinner to enjoy when you get home <3

Sasha: Aw okay we’ll miss you now go finish that essay !

You: Ily both i’ll catch you guys later :3

As you put your phone away, guess who finally shows up?

It’s Armin, of course. As soon as you see him, you give him a gesture to come over. He notices you as he begins to walk towards you. He’s finally off his shift. In his comfortable clothes, you can’t help but stare at him. He quickly notices, making him nervous as he approaches the seat next to you. Quite bold of him.

“Hey y/n, how’s the essay coming along?” he takes a seat, trying not to make eye contact with you as he starts making himself comfortable, pulling out his laptop and his notes. “I’m telling you this is literally torture. How am I supposed to finish a 6-page essay in two days?” you complained. Felt like the exhaustion from all the stress during finals week has gotten to you.

“It’s doable, but at least I can help you out. Can I take a look?” he asks. You move your laptop so he can see what you’ve written so far, without realizing he gets significantly closer to you to get a better look. You feel his knee bump into yours. That’s when he realizes how close he was to you. “O-oh sorry, am I too close?” he asks, ears turning red from embarrassment. “Get closer if you want,” you say, slightly flustered.

As you say that, he leans slightly closer to you, his body reacting first before his mind does. At this closeness, he can smell the sweet scent of your perfume on your neck. It kinda smells like cherries, he thinks to himself. God, he can’t get enough of you. He wants you on him.

The sexual tension between you two gets stronger; it’s just you and him in the library. Forget your essay. It’s such a perfect time for one of you to make a move on the other. Pausing for a moment, you look up at him. “Armin… have you ever kissed anyone before?”

His breath hitched at your words. “N-no, I actually haven’t done anything like that with anyone before,” he replies. “Really…? Not even a little peck?” you teased him. He quickly shook his head no. All he could focus on was the way you’re looking at him.

“Then… can I be your first?” you ask, failing not to burn up at your own words. He freezes for a moment. “I-I mean.. how can I say no to you?” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. You gently grab his face while staring into his pretty eyes. “Just follow my lead, okay?” you whispered into his ear. He nods. Tilting his head, he’s leaning towards you. Your lips softly brush together, kissing him ever so slowly but desperately. He already lost his composure when you pressed your lips against his. He’s been wanting this for so long.

Armin is a fast learner, though. He’s doing such a good job mirroring your movements to the point where you started wondering if he’d actually done this before… Gaining more confidence, he slowly starts to swirl his tongue around yours, and you feel the slight pressure of his tongue piercing. Oh? It surprised you, the fact that he has one.

Your heart is racing, and you can’t help but crave more. The kiss is getting more intense as he slowly slides his hand onto your thigh, caressing it ever so lightly. You moaned in his mouth, pressing your thighs together from how good he makes you feel. Fuck. If he wasn’t already hard now… he thought, while he breaks apart from the kiss, letting you catch your breath.

He was still grabbing your thigh. “Didn’t expect you to have a tongue piercing,” you said softly as a small smile touched your lips. “Y-yeah.. I kinda forgot to mention that. I hope that wasn’t weird for you.” He swallows hard, throat feeling dry, trying to regain some composure as his hand lets go of your thigh. “No, I enjoyed it. It was really hot,” you murmured slightly, getting close to him again. You put your hand on his chest, gliding it lower and reaching for his crotch. Feeling how hard he is, you gasped quietly.

Armin tilts his head back, letting out a low whine just from your touch. Fuck. He’s so hard it hurts… He clenches his jaw tightly, teeth grinding against each other, thinking about all the things he can do to you while no one’s watching. It’s exactly what he needs to relieve himself. You can’t help but bite your lip, showing him how badly you want it. “You’re such a virgin Armin, it’s cute. Do you want to keep going?” you asked, continuing to palm his erection.

“Yes. Please y/n,” he says as he bites back a moan. With that, you make your move, fixing your bunched-up miniskirt as you slowly get up from your seat. He definitely caught a glimpse of your underwear. “Lace panties? How fitting…” he cooed. Your face turns red at his remark. “You’re such a pervert.” He leans back in his seat, spreading his legs out just a bit. He feels his pants tightening even more at the pretty view in front of him. Armin reaches his hand out for you, and you’re surprised at him taking the lead. You grab his hand, and he’s pulling you straight into his lap.

You’re flustered when he sets you down on top of him, grabbing your waist softly. Immediately feeling his bulge now directly on your cunt, you can’t help but start grinding back and forth on him. Gasps and moans slowly leave your mouth. “You don’t know how badly I’ve been wanting to do this with you,” he whispered. A sudden neediness fills his voice as his hips try to match your pace. He feels how wet you are for him.

Oh fuck. He can cum just by doing this. If you keep going any longer, he might just…

On queue, you slowly stop bucking your hips onto him, almost like you read his mind. “Armin… I don’t want you to cum just yet,” you said coyly. He throws his head back, feeling breathless. “Please, y/n I’ll do anything,” staring at you so desperately with those pretty eyes. “Anything…?” Your adrenaline kicks in a little, continuing the deep eye contact you both make with one another. “You should kiss me slowly down my neck, then you can go from there,” you say in a haze.

“L-like this?” Firmly grabbing your waist, he leans closer, starting to kiss the top of your neck. Not knowing what he’s really doing, he slowly goes lower and lower, nibbling your skin ever so gently, letting out faint moans. “You’re doing so well Armin… you want me to take my top off for you?” you say teasingly as you bite your lip. Without hesitation, he’s already lifting your top off, desperately wanting to see how hot nipple piercings look on you. “Fuck y/n. How do you keep getting hotter,” he murmurs, already grabbing your tits with the cold touch of his hands.

His words send a tingle down your spine as he firmly gropes your chest. Seeing the glare in his eyes you he knows exactly what he wants to do with you. He shudders out a “Can I...?”

Tilting your head, you give him a sweet smirk.

“Go ahead, but... remember what I told you, okay?” He doesn’t even care if you won’t let him cum yet, he just wants to make you feel good..

He exhales, and before you know it, you feel him sinking his mouth in, feeling his tongue piercing glide over your nipple piercing. His tongue circles around it softly as he gropes the other tit.

The feeling makes you quiver, throwing your head back, and blurting out many moans that echo around the library.

Armin realizes how loud both of you have been. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, though..

“If you’re too loud, we might get caught,” he says between heavy breaths. You can’t help but whine in annoyance. “I hope we get caught so everyone can see how desperate you are to get your dick wet,” you say, biting back a moan as you start rolling your cunt over his hard erection again.

He can feel how wet you are against him through the fabric of your underwear. Armin jolts a little as he hears what you said.

“Y/n, please. You’re gonna make me cum and I’m not even inside you..” he whines. Seeing the desperation in his eyes

The way he’s looking at you is mesmerizing, observing his desire for you

You can’t help but give in. How could you not?

You let him know you’re giving in by slowly smirking at him

He starts grabbing onto you waist again moving your hips up and down rubbing against his cock, his pace gets faster and faster

Leaning towards him now kissing him up his neck, slightly biting his collarbone, leaving him all red

Letting desperate whines from his mouth, he breathes out “ Mmph just like that y/n,” he murmured

You remain calm while continuing to kiss him, leaving a few hickey marks on his neck. His groaning is growing louder and more needy

Armin is not lasting another second of this feeling, his vision fading..

“fuck, I can’t— I-I’m almost-” inhaling sharply, bucking your hips down one last time before he releases, he cums fucking hard. His body jolts harshly from the intensity of his orgasm, his hands gripping your hips tightly as a string of moans leaves his mouth. The sight of him like this makes you cry out, reaching your peak. All you can hear is the sounds of your breathing as you come down from your high.

Armin feels his body limp, hair sticks to his forehead from all the sweating. After catching your breath, you feel a wet spot underneath you, realizing you made a mess in his pants and realizing what he just did.

You stop to look back up at him, arching your back lightly as you feel the pool of wetness under you. "armin, did you just cum? I guess you really are a virgin," you tease him.

"Shitt," he says, deeply gasping for air. You lean towards him, putting your head on his chest. As you both try to catch your breath, exhausted, you say, "We should do more of these study sessions. I have a thing or two I can teach you." You giggle, and his face turns red from embarrassment. Soon after you say those words, you both hear an unexpected *ding* from the elevator.

Hearing someone walking inside the building, both of you freeze in place, staring at each other. Remembering you're still in the library, you both realize you aren't alone anymore..

Oh god, if anyone sees you both as a hot mess and you on Armin's lap, both of you are done for. You swiftly hop off his lap, pulling your top back on, fixing your lifted miniskirt. As you do, you finally get a good look at the mess you made all over his pants.

You turn your head away, noticing he was also staring down at his pants.

You sit back down next to him, keeping your composure as he leans back in his chair, wiping the sweat off his forehead, fixing his messy hair, and cleaning off his glasses. You can help but stare, seeing how good he looks after practically ruining him.

"Should we get back to working on your essay?" he whispers, giving u a soft smile.

…

notes: I hope you enjoyed! this is my first time writing something like this so lmk if should more like this

update 6/18: sorry for the long awaited update life has been rough LOLOL but thank you for all the support on my first fic i have a new one in the works stay tuned for more !!

(crossposted on ao3)

[fullfriendnerdclutch]

Revolving Door

When Tate McRae said that "I keep comin' back like a revolving door" in her hit song, I guess that aptly described my relationship with my ex-boyfriend, Kentaro, or Ken for short.

He's a toxic, manipulative, trustfund gym junkie that is completely a red flag through and through, but how can I resist him when he always fashioned himself in an entirely different manner after every single time he fucked up? What I'm about to tell you is absurd but it really is the truth, but aside from being crazy rich due to his parents work, that work done by his parents also enabled him to shapeshift into any human being on Earth as long as he physically touched them. So, imagine my frustration (and obviously massive surprise that almost sent me to cardiac arrest) that after my first breakup with him, the person I have a big fat crush on because of his interest to me that came out of nowhere as I noticed him from ages before but not receiving any signal in return until after my breakup turned out to be Kentaro in disguise!

How did I found out about it? Well, he revealed himself by shifting right in front of my eyes after he fucked me. He explained that the people he decided to shift into would fall asleep as soon as he shifted into their form and so all the flirting I received from Grant was actually his. I obviously called him a fucking creep right then and there and started to throw any stuff I could find at him, until he shifted into my own fucking boss back then and styled that man in his posing brief as we knew him to be a bodybuilder and even watched his shows as he invited all the employee to support him. He grabbed me with my boss fucking muscular arm and leaned closer to me with a smirk before ravenously kissed me, using his knowledge over my fantasies that I shared with him about my boss as a weapon to attack my defense, which of course unable to resist my own wildest fantasies that came to life at that time

And that's been the dynamic ever since. Every time after our breakup and even when I already dated steadily with my now-boyfriend Lin, or Linford based on his English nickname, Ken would tease me from time-to-time for a quick fling here and there. My younger sis jock boyfriend......

the fucking plumber that worked in my house......

and even a random jogger I bumped with became a string of his identity theft victim and also my passionate lust and no matter how disgusted or wracked with guilt I was, I always returned with fascination to his different kind of embraces and deep obsession with me

He seemed to keep track of me rather obsessively, or maybe I let him track me deep within my psyche as I desired his bold moves, like shifting into my favorite coffee shop barista and sent me a crude message through HIS PHONE offering a fucking during his shift break as a reward for my loyalty to the indie coffee shop!

Or when he shifted into the fucking priest that officiated the wedding of our mutual friend, his eyes probably noticed how long I kept my eyes shut and lulled to the priest's fatherly baritone that enchanted everyone and when I caught seeing for too goddamn long at the priest taking off his suit jacket to reveal an insanely tight shirt that hugged his splendid figure. Ken used all that knowing full-well how much a man that pious turned out to be corrupted and want to fuck another man really stirred my groin with excitement

He seemed to really understand me in a molecular level, at least when it comes to my lust and sexual desires, and he utilized it in ways not a single boyfriend of mine after him managed to do.

So, after one of my escapades with him just a few months ago, this time he was in the form of my CEO's asshole son, he asked me

"What are we, really? I won't keep doing this with you, Evan. I have a life I want to build too and as much as I enjoyed your company with all your ideas and kink, this needs to be put to a stop if you really don't want to end with me. You always returned to me no matter how far you go, why can't you just stay with me then if I'm that irressistible for you?"

I was stunned........but I have no answer back then so I ran right away and leaving him to dust. I ghosted him by blocking all contacts of his because I was surprised he took all of the flings deeper than it should when I treated it as something shallow.

Nowadays, I really enjoyed Linford's presence and I've not cheated from him ever since. He's quite the gym junkie too in the past few months, I told him to bulk up and be strong and he took the advice really well and even more devoted compared to my working out hours as he has the flexibility of remote work. Things are also more exciting as Linford also shown me his shapeshifting power that makes everything so much more exciting in our bedroom, but I love his original look as it is.

[slowburningechoes]

office hours

Summary: After an unforgettable night, Wilson just can't seem to get his mind off you. It's a good thing you work at the same hospital, but it's too bad House is next door... right? (as promised @chardalton & @the-ultimate-obsessive-fangirl !!!)

Pairing: James Wilson (House, MD) x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: 18+ content (NSFW/NSFM) - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT / semi-secret relationship (only from House), inappropriate workplace behavior, semi-public sex, brief sexting, office sex, thigh riding, fingering, female ejaculation, secret lingerie, desk sex, exhibitionism, unprotected sex (pls wrap it up), breeding

Word Count: 5.4k

Inspired by: this post

Here is a link to ao3 if that is your preferred platform.

It was midday when Wilson’s text came through: Charting is killing me. I could use a break... preferably with you on my lap. My office. Now.

You glance at your phone as you wait by the nurse’s station for your next psych consult. The directness of his request makes your cheeks flush as you shift your phone from the threat of any prying eyes. 

You move to lean against a wall (where you’re sure no one will see) and quickly type your response: You really know how to give orders, don’t you? Good thing I’m not feeling too disobedient today, I’m on my way.

When he calls your name to enter after you knock, you can tell from the strained tone in his voice he’s feeling impatient. As you let yourself into his office, it becomes even more apparent. Wilson’s hands are tapping across his desk and his facial features are even more defined from the tension in his jaw.

“Did you need a consult, Dr. Wilson?” you tease, tilting your head and batting your eyes. 

There had been numerous “consults” between Wilson and you since started secretly seeing each other about three months ago and dating for the last month.  House had only recently begun to get suspicious, but, of course, you’d already covered your bases, informing Cuddy and having a quiet chat with HR, just to stay ahead of things.

“Oh, hush,” he groans, his tone flirtatious but laden with desire. “Come here, darling.” Raising a finger and curling it, he beckons you over.

You obliged without hesitation, happily prancing over to meet him behind his desk.

As your message had said, you really weren’t in a disobedient mood today, though you did like to be bratty on most occasions. All day you’d been daydreaming about last night — how Wilson had devoured your pussy like a man starved before fucking you senseless in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Admittedly, you had been wet all day, pressing your legs together desperately, trying your best to focus on clinic duty… but the images always slipped in, corrupting your mind and making you throb with need.

“You’re being awfully cooperative today, aren’t you?” Wilson smirked, caressing his hands over your hips, which were level with his face as he sat in his office chair.

You nod eagerly, biting your lip in an attempt to conceal the depth of desire you’ve been holding onto all day.

“That’s so unlike you,” Wilson hummed, voice coaxing. “Have you been thinking about me, angel?”

He senses your restraint and places a soft kiss on the sensitive spot near the crease of your thigh, the one he knows drives you wild.

A sigh escaped you and your admission slipped out, breathless, “Yes… fuck, yes. It’s been driving me insane all day.”

“I thought so,” Wilson grinned at your confession before adding his own, hands roaming across your torso, but one moving to grip your ass firmly, pulling you closer.  

“I’ve been thinking about you, too. Trying to do all this damn paperwork…,” a small grunt comes from his throat. “It’s so hard to concentrate when all I can think about is this.” His hand runs up the back of your thigh, bunching up your skirt, fingers sliding under the sides of your panties. 

Your skin practically aches under his touch, desperate for any contact it can get. Breathlessly, you moan his name, “J-James…”

“I can’t stop remembering how beautiful you looked last night — my dick buried so deep in you… hair all messy, your mouth gaping open, crying for me…,” Wilson whispers with need, pulling you onto his lap in one fluid motion. You were straddling his thigh, your back flush against his chest, reminiscent of how you were positioned against him as he completely ruined you in front of the mirror last night. “I know it’s only been half a day, but I couldn’t wait anymore…I had to get my hands on my gorgeous girl.”

You rest your head back against his shoulder, the heat between you undeniable as you roll your hips down into his thigh, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his neck. “Then touch me, please,” you whisper, voice thick with need.

Wilson’s groan is low and strained as his hands slide underneath your skirt, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your underwear. His touch is gentle, savoring every second of this tension between you. As he traces the intricate rose-patterned lace beneath his fingers, he stops suddenly.

“Oh?” His voice cracks slightly, full of surprise and lust, the weight of his discovery heavy in the air. “You’re wearing these… here?”

A rush of heat flooded through you, your body responding to the thrill of the secret you’d been carrying all day. You knew exactly what they would do to him when you chose them this morning. The sultry red lace, a cheeky cut pair of panties he nearly tore off you the first time you wore them.

Wilson's fingers begin to move once again, dancing across the meshed fabric before flattening against you

"You really walked around all day like this?" His voice is thick with disbelief and hunger as he lifts up the back of your skirt to reveal the trail of red trim that perfectly curves against your ass cheeks. Wilson muttered a few unintelligible words to himself before releasing a pained groan, “You sat across from me in this morning’s consultation, acted completely normal, while you had these on underneath? Knowing what they do to me?" His fingers press slightly harder against your still-clothed core, lace straining beneath his touch, applying enough pressure you can’t help but gasp.

You bite your lip, catching your breath before nodding earnestly. "I thought about telling you," you admit teasingly, rolling down into him again, your body aching for more friction. "But it was much more fun wondering if you knew."

He presses his thigh against the motion of your hips, almost as if he were answering your request. You feel his desire grow beneath you, making your throbbing need intensify. Wilson’s lips linger just below your ear, voice low and deep, “God, I should’ve known. You kept shifting in your seat, crossing your legs too tightly… I almost asked if something was wrong.”

You smirk, leaning into him until your neck meets his lips, “And if I had told you?”

He places a desperate kiss against your throat before lightly grazing it with his teeth, his hand finally sliding beneath the waistband of your panties. “I would’ve had you in here with the door locked before my first patient. I can’t believe you’ve been this wet for me all day.”

Wilson’s digits don’t hesitate to find your core, sliding between your folds and making small circles against your bundle of nerves. His touch electrifies your senses, sending shock waves through your body, hardening your nipples and making your clit pulsate, desperate for more contact. As his fingers dip between your labia, teasing your entrance, a pleasurable moan escapes your lips (louder, admittedly, than you had expected) in the heat of the moment.

“Shhhh,” Wilson warned, quickly bringing his free hand to clasp over your parted lips, muffling the sound of your moan. “You better stay quiet, doll,” he purred in your ear, the heat of his breath nearly distracting you from his fingers dipping into your heat, testing your restraint. “We wouldn’t want House hearing next door, now would we?”

You smirk underneath his touch, the threat of House discovering you both this way making you ache with need even more. But you can feel from the way his breath hitches, the way his hands tremble slightly against your mouth, and his twitching bulge beneath you, that the thought excites him too.

“Naughty girl,” he hummed, his smirk evident in his voice as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His teeth scraped lightly over your pulse before he soothing the slight sting with his tongue. “You really get off on it, don’t you? Seeing just how much you can get away with before someone realizes just how bad you really are.”

A pitiful near-whine of “uh huh” is all you can manage as you buck your hips into his hand, his fingers now finding their rhythm pumping in and out of you. The pleasure was already overwhelming, but all you could think about was wanting more. More of his touch. More of that very unprofessional dirty talk flowing from his lips. More of whatever he had to give you.

Wilson obliged without the request even leaving your mind, curling his fingers inside you and mindlessly beginning to press his bulge harder against you, soft grunts falling from his lips  The circular motion of his thumb against your clit made your entire lower half numb with warm pleasure, forcing you to bite down on your lower lip hard to stifle the urge to cry out like you had the night before.

"You sat across from me today, acted so damn composed, knowing full well what you had on underneath," Wilson continues, voice tense and thick with the last bit of his restraint. "Now, you’re on my lap making such a mess, hoping that House will hear on the other side of that wall — aren’t you?” His fingers are still curled inside of you, picking up their pace until you feel pressure grow in your abdomen.

Heat floods your face as Wilson makes clear he knows exactly what you were thinking about.“I - I like that he could hear,” you admit, voice trembling with arousal as your clit and inner thighs begin to flood with heat. As you continue, you are practically babbling, mind consumed with numbing pleasure. Wilson’s fingers had found your most sensitive spot, knocking it over and over with just the right amount of force in his fingertips. “K-knowing that he could hear everything — how badly I need you. How good you make me feel. Him knowing what you do to me, how dirty I am — fuck...”

Your tangent comes to a halt as you feel your orgasm crash into you, one that was more intense than any you had experienced before. The pressure that had built inside of you was heavy and nearly painful, but the relief that washed over you as you released on his fingers was mind numbing. You rode out your climax on his fingers with a recklessness that was unfamiliar to you, driven by a hedonistic bliss that was desperate and raw. The satisfaction you felt made your entire body feel like it was on fire and — for once in your life — your mind was completely blank, drunk on some kind of animalistic ecstasy.

“Jesus Christ,” Wilson groans, his large hands on each of your ass cheeks, pushing you up to the edge of his thigh. “You just squirted all over me. Damn, t-that’s so hot…” He stares at his now-soaked slacks and your swollen pussy with wide-eyed admiration.

His trance is broken when you gasp, your sore clit grazing his knee, sending a shock of pleasurable pain through your upper thighs. Responding tentatively with care, Wilson brings you back to rest flush against his chest, pressing multiple tender kisses to your flushed cheek. “You did such a good job, darling. You were perfect, as always.”

Every part of your body is sensitive as he caresses your body, fingers dancing up and down your torso causing bumps to rise along your skin.

“But I hope you don’t think we’re done here, angel,” Wilson whispers teasingly, still gently caressing his fingers through your hair. “You nearly made me cum in my pants… and now, I want House to hear just how pretty you sound taking my cock.”

You whimper in response as your body melts into his touch, every muscle softening as he moves you to bend over the edge of his desk. It’s as if you’ve forgotten how to hold yourself up, hot cheek pressed against the cool wood as he hikes your skirt up around your hips and spreads your legs open for him. He pulls your panties down your thighs with careless want, the lace scratching against your skin before the fabric catches at your knees.

Wilson groaned at the sight of you laid out before him, completely pliant under his hands. His fingers trailed down the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, savoring the way you shivered at his touch.

“Look at you,” he hums, voice thick with hungry admiration. His thumbs press into your hips, holding you in place as he leans in, lips ghosting over your ear. “So sensitive… needy… gorgeous...”

Wilson’s fingers are flat against you again, coaxing your body to open until all you can do is surrender under his touch. Your breath hitches as you feel Wilson’s swollen tip line up with your entrance perfectly before gliding through your folds, causing your pussy to instinctually clench around nothing. There is a deep wanting ache inside of you that hated his teasing, but your body numb with pleasure, could find no reason to complain, reacting with small jumps every time he brushed against your clit.

As you process the pleasure you feel as he continues to slide his cock through your slickness, Wilson’s left hand comes down to grip your ass firmly. Before you can process his touch, he releases his hold, only to apply a stinging slap that motivates a breathy cry to escape your lips. You were shocked at first, he had never spanked you before — even when you were being bratty — but the sharp burning made you become even more wet and desperate for him to fill you.

Wilson’s fingers brushed the warm, flushed skin of your backside. “Guess you really weren’t in the mood to be disobedient today,” the tone of approval in his voice made your clit throb harder. “So good for me… letting me take control like this. Letting me do whatever I want.”

You try to form a response, your mind still hazy and body trembling, but the words escape you. All that comes out is a soft, shaky (and admittedly, pitiful) whimper. You can feel Wilson grin from behind you, his confidence thick in the already charged air. 

“Normally, I love that bratty nature of yours,” he chuckles softly, lining himself back up with your entrance. “You’re always so sassy, testing me, ready with some biting comeback. But this…,” Wilson groaned, finally pressing his cock into you at (a still) painfully slow pace, “...seeing you speechless, so fucked out of your mind already… it’s doing something to me.”

As he bottomed out inside of you, you couldn’t help but moan, a sound coming out that was some attempt at his name. You had already come to know how wonderfully Wilson stretched you, but this heat from your first orgasm made you feel as if you were melting around him, perfectly molding against every vein ridge of his dick. 

Wilson began to move, thrusting in and out of you with small breathy grunts accompanying each movement. His hands braced against your hips, fingers digging deep into your soft flesh. You could feel his gaze drinking you in, flickering between your pussy gripping him and the expression on your face — cheeks rosy, lips slightly parted, and eyes heavy-lidded, rolling back every time he sank into you. 

For the first time in your slew of inappropriate work rendezvous, you didn’t (and truly, couldn’t) hold back the noises that escaped your lips, one cry coming out as some semblance of his name. Wilson’s tip hit against your cervix with the perfect amount of pressure, tapping it just firm enough that you nearly felt it in your stomach.

Your sounds made Wilson twitch inside of you, prompting him to pause briefly to keep himself from coming undone entirely. 

With a low groan, he leaned forward, his chest flush against your back and his lips hovering beside your ear. “Think House is sitting in there, pretending he doesn’t hear how wrecked you sound?” Wilson whispered, an almost mocking tone in his voice. His words send a chill of pleasure down your spine, as his hand comes up to wrap around your throat, pulling you from the desk, your back flat against his heaving chest. He continues, words still against your ear,“Or do you think he’s listening… really listening — wondering what I’m doing to make you come apart like this?”

The thought makes you gasp, the sound echoing , His fingers pressed slightly harder against the sides of your throat as you did. You clench around him, responding in absent-minded pleasure. “J-James,” is all you can whimper.

The idea of House, himself, hearing wasn’t what turned you on — it was the delicious anticipation of him discovering that his careful sensitive friend had completely lost control. The idea of Wilson, usually so measured and cautious, now completely undone, taking you raw, right here on his desk in the middle of the day, was intoxicating. It wasn’t just the thrill of it; it was the satisfaction of knowing you were the one who’d made him forget himself, made him lose his usual restraint. The tension between his normally composed, loyal nature and the raw, reckless abandon he was giving you sent a rush of heat through your veins, knowing it was all because of you. He’d never imagined being so reckless, and yet, here you were, the cause of his unraveling once again.

Wilson’s thrusts were becoming increasingly more sloppy, rutting into you at an uneven and needy rhythm. “God — you look so damn gorgeous, Y/N… letting me have you like this in the middle of the day…” his voice was breathy, trembling just like his legs as he fought to hold onto his control. “Y-you’re perfect… shit — you feel so, so good, my little secret… I - I  can’t…” You thought it was so cute — how he always started to ramble when he was close to cumming, every bit of sense escaping him.

A deep, shuddering moan came from his lips, hand dropping down from your throat, fingers digging into your hips, holding you against him like he never wanted to let go. Wilson’s cock delved deeper within you, so deep it was nearly painful as his hardening tip hit against your cervix with relentless fervor.

You whimper at the sound of his voice, the sensation of his touch consuming you. “James,  baby…” You felt close to the edge again, a familiar knot building within the pit of your stomach. “I-I’m about to…”

Wilson cuts you off with agreement,“I know, angel… me too.” His voice is rough, strained as he presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to your neck. “Let go for me,” he murmurs, nearly pleading, lips ghosting over your ear, breaths hot and uneven. “Come on, sweetheart… let me feel you cum on my cock, please.”

The way he says it, the way he’s holding you so tightly but with so much care — it’s all too much. Your body seizes, that coiling heat in your stomach rushing down your shaking thighs. “F-fuck…” A sharp, broken cry spilled from your lips as pleasure crashed over you. You didn’t care who heard at that point - House, Cuddy, anyone. Wilson groaned in response, as if the sound alone was enough to undo him… and it practically did.

His movements stuttered as your walls clenched around him, only to find euphoric relief as you became so soft and open for him. He was following closely behind you, hips thrusting once more until a guttural, shuddering moan tearing from his throat and you felt him release inside of you. He buried his face against your shoulder, forehead beaded with sweat and his whole body weak as he let go, completely and utterly undone.

Neither of you moves for a long moment, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure. Your breath is still coming in shallow gasps as you cling to him, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat slowing against your back. You both rest, regaining some composure in your muscles before breaking apart from one another.

Wilson presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

“Then keep taking me, James,” You hum, leaning into his touch, your fingers finding their way through his soft and, now, thoroughly tousled hair. He continues to place kisses along your neck as you speak. “Keep taking me like this, over and over… take all of me, until you’re completely satisfied… until you’ve had every part of me.”

“Oh, I’ll take all of you, sweetheart,” he assured, voice still rich with lust. His hands roam over your body once more, possessive and gentle at the same time, savoring the feel of your skin beneath his touch. “But I’m not going to let you forget how much you want me to… I’m going to take you until you’re lost in me. Until every part of you is completely mine.” His hands drift lower, his fingertips teasing as they glide across your skin, making your body hum with need. “And you’ll beg for it, every time, won’t you?”

“Mhm,” you reply, feeling the tension build inside of you once more. Just as you begin to beg him to spread you open again, reality creeped back in — the cool air against your heated skin, the quiet ticking of the clock, and the ever-present threat of someone walking in. A frustrated sigh escapes you as your fingers slid over his hand, which was cupping your breast, pressing it there for just a second longer before reluctantly stilling him. The disappointment of having to stop was palpable, a slow, burning ache lingering between you.

Wilson shifted behind you, groaning as he peeled himself away from your warmth. “We should… probably make ourselves look decent.” 

You stifled a giggle, watching him blush at the realization of what had just transpired. “Mmm, you think?”

His lips quirk as he reaches for his crumpled dress shirt. “Unless you want House walking in and figuring out why my tie is missing and my pants are all soaked.”

You adjust your skirt back down over your thighs before blinking quickly, confused. “…Your tie is missing?” When did that happen?

Wilson paused, his brows furrowed, equally as perplexed. His eyes look around the room, groaning when he finds it draped over his desk lamp. “Fantastic.”

Smirking, you remove the fabric and thread it under his collar, hands lingering against his still-heaving chest. Though the tension never left, it was palpable again. Wilson’s heart was thumping so hard in his chest, you could feel it beneath your trembling fingers. His eyes, gentler and warmer now, were still filled with lust and need as they admired you make the first loop of the tie knot.

The pulse of desire within the air, however, was so rudely interrupted by the unmistakable rap of a cane against the doorframe. Your heart skips, the rush of heat between your legs suddenly replaced by a sharp jolt of anxiety.

Wilson’s face falls, hand lingering on the edge of your hip, trying to hold onto the moment before reality rushes back in. You can feel his body tense as a whispered huff escapes him. “Damn it…”

House’s voice filtered through, ladened with an undeniably smug amusement. “Wilson! Open up or I start taking bets on what exactly I just heard…” Two more sharp taps from his cane shook the door. “My money is on ‘reckless desk defilement’, but I’m sure that Cuddy might have more creative ideas.”

A look of exasperation was plastered across Wilson’s face, eyes already rolling in annoyance as he reluctantly removed his hands from your side. As he moved to grasp the knob, he groaned in defeat, turning it until the lock clicked in release.

House didn’t let a second pass, stepping just inside the doorway with his usual aura of casual arrogance. He leaned against his cane, gaze flickering across the scene, taking in Wilson’s still undone tie, your messy hair, typically neatly placed desk accessories along the floor, and the undeniable tension that still electrified the air.

“Well, well,” he began, his lips slowly twisting into a cocky grin, “it seems I should have taken those bets. Could’ve made quite a bit of cash.”

“House —,” Wilson started, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying his best to regather a sense of control.

“Oh, dont ‘House’ me,” came the sing-song reply, teasing thick in House’s voice. “I heard everything… but I’m sure you already knew that.” 

You couldn’t deny that his acknowledgement of your recent activities made your core ache in some sick way. Your muscles stiffened, fingers wrapping tightly around the edge of the desk as you felt your cheeks burn. You were enjoying this more than you thought you would.

“Tsk, tsk, Wilson,” House drawled, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I expected better from you. Mid-day debauchery in your office? Highly unprofessional.” He smirked. “And here I thought you were all about romance.”

 “House, please,” Wilson groaned, dragging a hand down his face, blocking his eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not judging,” House interrupted, waving a hand to stop him from continuing. “If anything, I’m impressed.” His gaze slid to you, eyes glittering with mischief. “And you, didn’t take you for an exhibitionist, but judging by that glow…” he gave a slow nod of approval, “you enjoyed this.”

A slow heat crawled up your neck, but you refused to flinch. Instead, you tilted your head, feigning consideration as your cheeks grew flushed. “Maybe.”

House let out a sharp, delighted laugh. “Oh, I like her, Wilson. Try to keep this one?”

“Can we please just skip to why you’re here?” Wilson begged, voice crackly just slightly, painfully embarrassed that his best friend and girlfriend were having such an exchange.

House gave him a pointed look. “Oh, I actually do have a reason other than just confronting your kinky lunchtime rendezvous.” House leaned against his cane, grinning. “Cuddy’s looking for you. Says it’s urgent.”

Panicked questions fell from Wilson’s lips with urgency, “What? Why?”

House’s grin turned wolfish. “Could be about a case… hmmmm, could also be about the very audible display of workplace misconduct that echoed through the halls.” He rubbed his chin. “Really, it’s a toss-up.”

Your boyfriend let out an exasperated sigh, “Fantastic.”

“Wilson,” House said, moving towards the door as he motioned to Wilson’s chest and leg with his cane. “You might want to check a mirror before you go. You still look…” His piercing blue eyes flicked toward you. “Ravished.”

Wilson shot him a murderous glare but didn’t argue, running a hand through his already-messy hair in a feeble attempt at damage control.

House clapped his hands together, proudly pressing them against his lips. “God, this just made my entire week.”

You rolled your eyes, smoothing your skirt. “Try not to enjoy this too much.”

“Oh, don’t worry… I am.” House said teasingly. “The best part is.. it’s our little secret now…”

Wilson’s face grew more red, hot with embarrassment and anger. But with that comment, House strolled out, casually whistling away as if he was innocent to anything that had just occurred.

Wilson exhaled slowly as he fell back into his office chair. “I am going to kill him.”

You grinned sheepishly, stepping closer to him “Later.” Your fingers brushed his collar before continuing to adjust his tie. “Right now, you should probably focus on looking less like a man who just fucked someone senseless.”

“You’re not making that very easy,” he insisted as your lips grazed the skin beside his collar, nibbling lightly on his earlobe.

“That’s too bad,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, “because I’m about to make it even worse.”

“Oh?” Wilson said, suspicion and interest laced in his voice.

You stepped back slightly, letting the moment stretch as he watched you with a mixture of curiosity and hunger, breath becoming uneven once again. 

Slowly, your fingers skimmed along the hem of your skirt, deliberately teasing. Your lips curved into a wicked grin when you saw his gaze darken at the sight. His breath caught as you slid your hands beneath the fabric, fingertips ghosting over your still-sensitive skin. And then, with unhurried precision, you eased your underwear down your thighs. The deep red lace slipped past your knees, pooling at your ankles. 

You stepped out of them with a playful step before gathering the delicate fabric between your fingers and holding them out toward him with a knowing smile.

“Thought you might need a little something to remember me by today,” you murmured, voice rich and teasing.

Wilson’s throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes dark and sharp as they broke from the gift and lifted back to meet yours. He took the lace from your fingers, the brush of skin against skin igniting another spark of anticipation between you. He didn’t say anything at first, rolling the thin material between his fingers before wrapping it in a fist. His expression is nearly unreadable as the silence lingers, jaw tense and lips pressed together tightly.

Then, in a voice low and rough, Wilson spoke, “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Noooo,” you insist sarcastically, smile deepening at his response. “Just trying to make sure you don’t forget me while you’re off being a responsible doctor.”

Wilson exhaled sharply, his free hand gripping the armrest of his chair firmly, visibly struggling to get himself under control. He tucked the lace into the pocket of his dress pants, fingers lingering there for just a moment, as if resisting the urge to bring them to his face, to savor the warmth and scent still lingering on the fabric.

“You do realize what this is going to do to me,” he muttered, warm eyes scanning across your body as you straightened your skirt back down your legs.

His breath hitched as you stepped in even closer, bringing yourself to rest against his still-damp thigh. “That’s the point,” you murmur, voice smooth and sinful. “You’re going to spend the entire day thinking about me. About how I feel when you touch me, about the way I sound when I come undone for you… about the fact that I’m walking around bare beneath my clothes, still full of your cum… and aching for more.”

Wilson groaned deeply, his hand grasping your hip as he attempted to still himself, exhaling hard.

“Jesus, Y/N… you know you’re making it impossible for me to function today, right?” he said, almost like a complaint — but there’s no real protest in his tone, just a quiet, tortured amusement.

Wilson curses under his breath, his hands flexing against his chair again, like he’s a second away from grabbing you again from locking the door and taking you out on the balcony this time. Instead, he tilts his head back slightly, closing his eyes for just a moment, trying to will his restraint back into place.

When he opens them again, his pupils are still blown, voice still rough. “You are so unfair.” 

“I like keeping you on your toes.” You pressed a tender kiss to his cheek before moving to stand.

Wilson huffed a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head as he glanced at the clock. “You better be waiting for me when I get home tonight,” he warns, straightening his tie. 

“Oh, James,” you smiled confidently as you backed toward the door, his gaze following you with a barely concealed hunger. “I’ll be waiting… but I won’t be patient.”

You let your hand hover over the doorknob for just a moment, savoring the tension and truly, not wanting to leave him. With a slow turn of your head, you glanced at him over your shoulder. He was still in shock, sitting so stiffly, like he didn’t trust himself to move… or simply couldn’t.

You smirk, admiring the devastation you’ve left in your wake. “Oh, and James?” you purred, voice cloyingly soft. “Enjoy your meeting with Cuddy.”

Wilson made a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a curse, running a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

You took a slow step towards the door, tracing your finger up your thigh, bunching up the cloth just enough to watch his eyes flick down to your legs, reminding him that there was nothing beneath it.

“Have fun,” your voice dripped with amusement as you finally turned the knob to go, winking playfully at him as you skipped into the hallway.

Wilson let out a long breath, so deep it sounded like he had been holding it the entire time. As you stepped out, just before the door clicked shut, you heard him mutter under his breath – half frustration, half admiration — “She’s going to be the death of me.”

[imadhatt3r]

It kinda irks me when people call Black Mask "Truekechi", because that's not really the case...? Not entirely, at least.

I mean yes, of course, Black Mask IS a part of Akechi's personality, I'm not denying that. The thing is, that it isn't Akechi's WHOLE personality. This kid just went through the biggest crashout of his life, his whole plan he's been meticulously working on for years failed, and the worst part is that it didn't even lead to what he was after, so he didn't even get the revenge he wanted. Of course he's unstable and edgy, I mean, who wouldn't be?

That is not to say that his anger and edginess aren't a part of his "true self"; I'm sure that his glee at taking out shadows is absolutely real, for example, but I believe that it comes from him just being angry in general- at Shido, at Maruki, and at himself. Akechi is rough around the edges, has a short temper and has a tendency to look at others from above, but the situation he's in boosts these parts of his personality as a sort of defense mechanism.

I think that his mementos conversations give a really good insight into this too; Perhaps it's due to my older age compared to the characters in-game, but a lot of Akechi's lines feel so... Forced on his side? He's the one to bring up that other Thieves probably don't want to have him on the team, or that they're unsettled by how he fights, but nobody even said anything about it in the first place...? Even other characters seem kinda done with his act, either that or they accept him being on the team due to their shared goals; Some are even quite nice and friendly, all things considered. This just feels like Akechi's self-loathing twisting itself into this kind of quips because he himself doesn't want to get too comfortable on the team; He's scared of growing closer to the other Thieves, so he tries to keep them at arm's length. He can't just tell them "I think I'm a horrible person" straight up (his pride wouldn't let him), so he has to make himself "unappealing" in other ways.

There's also the other side of these conversations, where you can see him just... Being a kid. He whines about being hungry, or thirsty, or his legs getting stiff in the car, he talks about mundane things with other Thieves like graduation or sports... He's just a teenager as much as his teammates are- it's just that the others weren't hired as assassins at 15 and didn't grow up obsessed with the plan to kill their father. His emotional development and maturation process have clearly been impacted, on top of everything else he had to deal with. So he may act "adult" and more mature than others at first glance (at least before he reveals Loki), but inside he is just as much (if not more, in some aspects) of a kid as the other Thieves are. This means that he is still at the age and mental development level where he is still figuring out himself, who he is, what path to follow etc. It also means that he is prone to being overly dramatic, emotionally extreme, and have poor emotional control- you know, teen stuff.

The key to it all becomes his ultimate persona, Hereward. We all know that Akechi has two personas, but he doesn't get two ultimate personas, he gets only one. I think that it's symbolic of his psyche slowly melding itself into one again. It's not that either one of his "sides" was truly fake or real; Both the Detective Prince and Black Mask ARE parts of the "real" Akechi- it's just that he has been systematically compartmentalizing his whole self into two for YEARS. The awakening of his ultimate persona is him starting the process of healing and allowing these two sides of him to mix and reconnect back into one.

I honestly think that, with enough time and the right environment, Akechi's most extreme traits would even themselves out, and he would stop being AS short-tempered, snarky, and blood-thirsty as he is in the game. He will never be the perfectly plesant Detective Prince, but he also won't be the angry, self-loathing and vengeful Black Mask. He will be something new, something different, a fusion of the two opposite ends of his personality spectrum. Only then he will live as his fully true self.

[nhmkhnh]

heartbeats & half-court shots.

pairings: jock!ellie x brainiac!fem!reader

preface: when a jock can’t help but fall for the quiet genius across the campus, every game turns into a play for love.

author's note: alright I'm back, with another typical dynamics haha! enjoy!

wrn: lowercase, messy.

navigation.

ellie williams wasn’t a literature major, but she swore the girl sitting two rows in front of her in psych 101 had rewritten the entire definition of beauty. and intelligence. and everything that made ellie forget how to talk like a functioning human being.

she wasn’t even supposed to be in this class. joel had told her to pick up something “easy” to pad her gpa, but she had taken one look at the course registration and slammed “psych 101” the second she saw your name on the roster.

you weren’t flashy. you didn’t talk much unless it was to ask questions that had the professor raising his eyebrows like he wanted to write down your words. but you had that quiet charm—the kind that drew eyes without asking for them. and ellie? ellie had been down so bad since week one.

so today, when you walked past her table in the campus café with an armful of books and your laptop tucked under one arm, ellie stared just a little too long. which meant she saw it—your favorite pen—slip off the top of your stack and clatter onto the floor behind you.

ellie was on it like a hawk.

she snatched it up, barely resisting the urge to sniff it like a weirdo, and jumped up from her chair like she’d been called to serve.

“hey—uh, you dropped this!” she called, jogging after you.

you turned, and she almost tripped. god, that soft smile you gave her should be illegal.

“oh,” you said, brushing hair from your face, “thanks. i thought i heard something fall.”

ellie handed it to you. but she didn’t stop there.

“you dropped this… queen,” she added, a sly grin crawling onto her face.

your brows lifted, but instead of laughing at her, you actually smiled wider.

“smooth,” you said, gaze flicking down to the pen, then back to her. “did you come up with that on the spot?”

“born ready,” ellie lied.

you chuckled. “i’m impressed.”

you said it so casually, but ellie nearly exploded. blood rushed to her ears. she shoved her hands in her hoodie and nodded like she wasn’t dying inside.

“see you in psych,” you added, and turned away.

she stood there for a solid ten seconds after you left, staring at the pen-shaped gap in the air where you used to be. then she whispered to herself:

“…holy shit, it’s working.”

ellie was not failing psych 101. but she was not acing it either. not like you.

it wasn’t that she didn’t study. she did. in the locker room after practice. at the dining hall with one airpod in. she even tried those dumb tiktoks that played frequencies while you read. none of it stuck. her notes were 60% doodles of you and 40% semi-legible chicken scratch.

so when the professor casually announced a pop quiz next week and you groaned under your breath—ellie saw her moment. god had opened a door, and ellie was sprinting through it.

you were sitting on the quad, earbuds in, textbook open, a coffee cup tucked beside your knee like it was a limb. the sun hit your face like some kinda romcom filter. ellie nearly choked on her protein bar when she spotted you. but she wiped her hands on her sweatpants and approached like it was nothing.

“hey, einstein,” she greeted, shading her eyes and squinting at you. “studying for the quiz?”

you pulled out one earbud. “unfortunately.”

“cool, cool. you wanna quiz me?”

you blinked. “huh?”

ellie cleared her throat, then flopped onto the grass beside you, cross-legged like she belonged there. like this wasn’t the most nerve-wracking thing she’d done all month.

“you know,” she said, nudging her knee into yours. “i figured…you’re smart, i’m hot—we make a good team.”

you looked at her, head tilted slightly. “you’re hot?”

ellie grinned. “so people tell me.”

you laughed, soft and warm, and ellie felt it hit her like a wave to the ribs.

“…fine,” you said, flipping a page and scooting just a little closer. “what’s the difference between operant and classical conditioning?”

ellie stared at you blankly for a beat.

“okay, maybe we need to start… a little further back.”

you burst out laughing, the kind of full-body laugh that made people turn their heads, and ellie felt like she’d scored the game-winning goal.

“oh my god,” you wheezed. “you’re hopeless.”

“nah,” ellie said, cocky again. “just giving you an excuse to keep talking to me.”

you gave her a look. “you don’t need an excuse, ellie.”

she swore her heart dropped right out of her chest.

it started with a hoodie. not ellie’s. yours.

she’d been sitting at her usual bench after gym—drenched in sweat, headphones around her neck, sipping some godawful green smoothie—when she saw you across the courtyard, shivering under a tree. wind tugged at your sleeves, and you kept rubbing your arms like you’d forgotten how not to be cold.

ellie’s brain? gone. her legs? moving before she could stop them.

she bee-lined it to her gym bag, ripped out a hoodie that definitely still smelled like her deodorant and training sessions, and speed-walked to you like she was delivering a care package to the pope.

“hey,” she said casually (read: breathlessly), holding out the hoodie. “you look like a sad, cold baby bird.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i said—uh—cold,” she repeated, cheeks pink now. “here. take this.”

you stared at the hoodie, then at her. “won’t you be cold?”

ellie shrugged. “i’m built different.”

that got a smile out of you. you took the hoodie—hesitated—and then slowly tugged it over your head.

ellie blacked out a little.

it swallowed you. her name on the front. her scent everywhere. you were literally drowning in her, and somehow you still looked ethereal.

“how do i look?” you teased, turning your head to the side.

ellie pretended not to choke. “it’s giving… girlfriend behavior.”

you raised a brow. “oh yeah?”

“uh-huh,” ellie said, smirking now to cover her panic. “like… you borrow all my clothes, steal my fries, beg me to carry your bag—classic girlfriend shit.”

you tilted your head. “you want me to be your girlfriend, ellie?”

silence. ellie.exe stopped working.

you were grinning, teasing, but her whole body short-circuited like you’d just confessed to marrying her tomorrow.

“only if you’re cool with dating a sweaty gym rat,” she finally managed, voice cracking at the end.

you laughed, stepping closer until you were eye-level.

“i’ll think about it,” you whispered, before walking past her, casually, like you didn’t just end her entire career.

ellie didn’t move for five minutes.

she told jesse she saw god that day.

it started off innocent. ellie just needed help. you were a genius. easy math.

except it wasn’t math. it was psychology. and ellie didn’t want help—she wanted you. but asking you out felt like skydiving without a parachute, so she did what any emotionally repressed jock would do.

she called it a “study session.”

“you free tonight?” she asked casually after class, nudging your arm with her elbow.

you glanced over, already suspicious. “for what?”

ellie cleared her throat. “y’know. studying. the quiz is coming up. i could use a little… tutoring.”

you snorted. “you want me to tutor you?”

“hey, i’m coachable.”

you hummed, pretending to think it over. “fine. my place?”

ellie almost choked. “y–yeah. sure. cool. no big deal.”

it was a very big deal.

she showed up to your apartment looking like she’d rehearsed it five times. hair down. flannel open just enough to show a sliver of collarbone. two coffees in hand. (one was yours. she spent ten minutes texting dina about your starbucks order to get it right.)

“thanks,” you said, taking the drink. “you’re sweet.”

“only for you,” ellie replied before her brain could catch up.

your eyes lingered on her a second too long.

you sat cross-legged on your bed with your laptop open. ellie sat beside you, very aware of how close her thigh was to yours. she tried to focus. she really did.

but you smelled like coconut shampoo and lavender lotion and you kept leaning in to explain concepts in a soft little voice and every time your shoulder brushed hers she nearly blacked out.

“ellie?” you said after she hadn’t answered in a full minute.

“huh?”

“you’re staring at me.”

“i—i’m trying to understand reinforcement schedules,” she lied.

“really?” you asked, turning slightly, resting your cheek on your hand. “because i’m pretty sure you’ve been looking at me for the last twenty minutes.”

ellie’s soul left her body.

she opened her mouth. closed it. considered jumping out your window.

you laughed softly, then nudged her foot with yours under the blanket.

“it’s okay,” you said. “i don’t mind when you stare.”

ellie forgot what a textbook was.

ellie was not in her right mind today. she hadn’t slept. she’d had an energy drink the size of her head. and you were wearing that outfit—the oversized sweater, the cute little skirt, the lip gloss that made her want to bite a desk.

so naturally, she did what any sleep-deprived jock with a hopeless crush would do:

she walked straight up to you and dropped the dumbest pickup line known to mankind.

you were at your locker, swapping out books, earbuds in. ellie tapped your shoulder like she had something urgent to say.

“hey,” she said, breathless. “emergency.”

you blinked, tugging your earbud out. “what?”

“i just—i need you to know,” ellie panted dramatically, “i have two brain cells. and they’re both in love with you.”

you stared at her.

she stared back, hands on her knees like she’d just run a mile.

silence.

then you burst out laughing.

like, hands-on-the-locker, eyes-scrunched, full-body laughter. students turned their heads. ellie grinned like an idiot.

“ellie, what the hell was that?” you managed between giggles.

“peak rizz,” she said proudly. “did it work?”

you didn’t say anything. just looked at her with that same amused, sweet stare and then leaned in—real close—and whispered:

“maybe i’ll let one of your brain cells take me out sometime.”

ellie made a sound that could only be described as feral.

she fist-pumped the air the second you turned away and accidentally hit a locker so hard it echoed through the hall.

jesse texted her 0.3 seconds later:

“yo?? why did i just hear a whole concussion outside chem lab??”

ellie was pacing. in the dining hall. like a psycho.

she saw you sitting alone with your little fruit cup and your leg bouncing and your airpods in like some perfect, unattainable indie movie girl, and suddenly all her usual rizz evaporated. she had nothing.

not a single brain cell willing to help.

so she did what any disaster lesbian would do.

she googled pickup lines in the hallway.

jesse watched her from afar like he was witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “you’re insane,” he said. “i’m in love,” ellie hissed, typing “funny but hot pickup lines lesbian” with one hand.

ten minutes later, she marched up to your table like she wasn’t about to risk every ounce of her dignity.

you looked up. smiled. “hey.”

ellie slammed her tray down and sat across from you, eyes wide, breathing like she’d just run suicides.

“do you—do you believe in love at first sight,” she blurted, “or should i walk by again?”

you blinked.

ellie blinked back.

“…you okay?” you asked slowly.

ellie pointed at her chest. “heart. yours. take it.”

you snorted into your drink. “ellie.”

“i’m serious,” she said, leaning forward. “i’m already planning our future. we’ll have a cat named mozzarella. we’ll fight about paint colors. you’ll win.”

you tried not to laugh. “i think you’ve had too much caffeine.”

“i think you’ve had too little me.”

you died.

right then and there. full-on laugh, head thrown back, fruit cup forgotten. ellie had never felt more victorious in her entire life.

and then—then—you reached over and plucked a grape from her tray.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you said, popping it in your mouth.

ellie stared, slack-jawed. she didn’t even like grapes. but now they were her favorite fruit.

it was game day. ellie was locked in—fully focused, headphones in, cleats on, pacing like a wolf in the tunnel. until—

you walked in wearing her team colors.

not just any colors. her number. on your cheek. in glitter. and her name on your back. in bold black letters.

she actually stumbled. tripped on air. almost faceplanted into the locker door.

you smiled all innocent. “hi, captain.”

ellie grabbed the wall. “you—are you trying to kill me?”

you twirled once. “do i look good?”

“you look like my future wife,” ellie muttered.

“what?”

“you look good,” ellie shouted a little too loudly. “like—very. very good. like i might forget how to play soccer and run in circles kind of good.”

you laughed, stepping into her space. “maybe i wanted to distract you.”

ellie narrowed her eyes. “that’s foul play.”

you smirked. “you gonna card me?”

“i might have to bench myself instead,” she muttered.

and then—god help her—you tugged the collar of her jersey.

“next game,” you whispered, “let me borrow the real thing.”

ellie blinked. “the—my jersey?”

“or your last name,” you said sweetly, then walked off like you didn’t just set her whole soul on fire.

ellie just stood there.

a full minute later, the coach walked in, slapped her on the back, and said, “jesus, who turned you into a tomato?”

ellie didn’t answer. she was too busy texting jesse:

bro. she wants to wear my LAST NAME. i’m gonna throw up. she’s gonna marry me. this is it.

it was quiet.

dead quiet.

and ellie? ellie was suffering.

not because of the exam. not because of the overdue essay. no—because you were sitting across from her in the campus library, hoodie falling off one shoulder, lip tucked between your teeth, reading with those cute little glasses on.

and every time you looked up, ellie would pretend to be writing something. she wasn’t. she was drawing hearts in the margins of her notebook like a 13-year-old at a sleepover.

you glanced up again. caught her. again.

raised an eyebrow like, you good?

ellie immediately held up a random flashcard to cover her face. it said: "operant conditioning is…" (she did not know what operant conditioning was.)

you giggled.

she peeked over the top. “i—uh—i’m studying,” she whispered.

you smirked. “really? because you’ve highlighted the same sentence three times.”

ellie looked down. the page was glowing yellow. “okay maybe i’m… distracted.”

you leaned forward across the table, chin in your palm, voice soft: “what’s distracting you?”

ellie’s brain fried like a cheap toaster. “you. it’s you. you’re distracting me. you’ve been distracting me since the first time i saw you laugh in bio and i can’t focus on neurons when all i want is to hold your hand in the student union.”

…

you blinked. ellie blinked.

that was supposed to stay in her head.

“oh my god,” she whispered. “i—i blacked out. did i say that out loud?”

you nodded slowly. “every word.”

ellie pushed back from the table, fully ready to fake a fire drill just to flee the building.

but then—you reached out.

touched her hand.

and smiled.

“meet me here tomorrow?” you asked. “same time?”

ellie swallowed. nodded. nearly choked.

and when she got back to her dorm, she texted dina in all caps:

BRO I ACCIDENTALLY RIZZED HER IN THE LIBRARY IT WORKED?????? SHES COMING BACK I THINK THIS IS WHAT TRUE LOVE FEELS LIKE

group projects were hell.

ellie hated them. she hated presentations, she hated color-coded slides, and she really hated wearing a button-down shirt like some kind of presentable human being.

but you?

you were thriving.

all calm and smart and perfect, typing fast on your laptop and explaining things with that teacher voice that made ellie want to combust. you even said “we should keep it concise for flow,” and ellie nearly proposed on the spot.

so naturally… she picked a fight.

“i mean,” ellie said, sprawled across her chair with a lollipop in her mouth, “we could do it your way, or we could do it the cool way.”

you didn’t look up. “is the cool way the one where we fail?”

jesse snorted.

ellie pointed her lollipop at you like a sword. “ma’am. i’ll have you know, my cool way once got me a c+.”

“that explains so much,” you muttered, typing.

ellie leaned in. “okay, you wound me. but that’s fine. i like a little pain. makes me feel alive.”

you looked up. finally. raised an eyebrow.

“do you flirt like this with everyone you disagree with?” you asked.

ellie smirked. “only the ones i want to marry.”

jesse audibly choked on his coffee.

you blinked. slowly.

ellie blinked back. stared. gave you the most stupidly confident look known to womankind.

you tilted your head. “if we were lab partners, you’d contaminate the whole experiment.”

“if we were lab partners,” ellie shot back, “i’d mix our dna.”

you stared.

ellie licked her lollipop and winked. “mitochondria’s the powerhouse of my feelings for you.”

you pressed your palm to your face, but you were laughing. and red. like so red. and when you handed her your notes later, there was a tiny heart next to her name.

ellie stared at it for twenty minutes.

she kept the paper in her backpack. still has it. probably framed it.

it was raining.

hard.

the kind of rain that turned sidewalks into rivers and drowned out every thought in your head.

you were standing under the bus stop awning, soaked through, breath fogging in the cold. and then—you heard her.

“hey!”

you turned.

ellie sprinted up, hoodie plastered to her skin, chest heaving, soaked curls sticking to her face like she’d run through the whole damn storm just to get to you. (which she had.)

you stared. “ellie?! what the hell—”

“i need to say something,” she cut in, voice too loud, too urgent.

“ellie, you’re drenched—”

“i like you.”

you froze.

“i—no—i’m in love with you, okay? i tried the whole chill thing, i tried being smooth, i tried pickup lines and study sessions and pretending i didn’t stare at your mouth like it’s the only thing that makes me believe in god—” ellie was rambling now, hands flailing, voice breaking. “but it’s you. it’s always been you. every time you smile at me, i forget my name. every time you laugh, it’s like my entire brain just short-circuits. you’re—fuck, you’re everything.”

you stared at her, breath caught.

ellie swallowed. “and i know i joke a lot, but i’m serious. if you told me to walk across this whole campus barefoot just to hold your hand, i’d do it. i’d run. i’d run faster than i did just now, and i nearly ate shit in front of two frat guys and a goose.”

you blinked. “…a goose?”

“irrelevant.” ellie stepped forward, eyes shining. “all that matters is you. so, please. just—say something. or kiss me. or slap me. i’ll take anything.”

a pause.

the rain roared.

and then—you stepped into her chest. pulled her by the soaked strings of her hoodie.

and kissed her.

hard. soft. all at once.

ellie made a sound like she'd just flatlined and came back to life. her arms locked around your waist like you were the last solid thing in the world, like she could finally breathe. your fingers curled into her hair, and she just melted into you, every part of her soaked and shaking and alive.

you broke apart, gasping. foreheads pressed.

“i like you too,” you whispered.

ellie blinked.

then laughed.

then kissed you again, grinning like an idiot.

and when jesse passed by ten minutes later and saw you two making out under the storm, he just shook his head and muttered, “goddamn. finally.”

AHHHHHHH THANK YOU TO ALL MY DARLING GIRLS ATTENDED TO MY TED TALKS TODAY!! LOVE U ALL! <33

[sunnyside30]

I don't think we talk enough about what Mac falling for Johnny means in terms of his perception of love and his relationship to Dennis. I mean, we talk a lot about Dennis catfishing and e-dating him and the sexual component of it —which gives us plenty to unpack about Dennis' psyche, so it's understandable— but my favorite aspect to dissect is Mac's willingness to "fall in love" with a ghost.

In the episode, Dennis mentions there being texts between them so we know Mac wasn't just talking to a wall the whole time, but he's been stood up by Johnny so many times.. yet he keeps at it, keeps going on errands and to motels just in case Johnny decides to actually meet him this time. He's constantly waiting for someone who never shows up for him, and that's reflective of Mac's entire character. He keeps searching for love and validation from his mom, his dad, Dennis.. and when he doesn't get it, he just keeps on pushing, putting in more effort because maybe this time it will be enough. He holds so tightly onto his faith in god, a being he can't even see or hear, but that represents a hope for eternal love if you do everything right and conform nicely to its supposed expectations.

Mac isn't a stranger to loving distant beings, so of course he fell in love with Johnny. He's so desperate for someone to love him back but the only form of "love" he recognizes is a distant kind. That's why he can't give his date from the episode a chance, and why he doesn't want anything to do with uncle Donald. Easy and earnest love isn't something Mac knows. Hell, it isn't even worth it. Love, in his experience, requires work and sacrifice, otherwise what's the point?

This also plays a lot into his dynamic with Dennis, and why Mac will never let go of it. Sure, we saw him kind of trying to move on in 'The Gang Gets Romantic' by fabricating a love story for himself with Greg, and a more genuine attempt in 'Frank vs. Russia' by dating Johnny, but all roads eventually lead back to Dennis. A part of it can be attributed to Dennis not letting him move on —keeping Mac at arm's length while giving him just enough to keep him hooked— but that's not all. At this point I don't think there's anything Dennis could do or not do to put a definitive end to Mac's obsession with him, because he's exactly the type of person Mac craves in his life. As mentioned before, Dennis is someone that makes him earn his love and respect, and Mac can't find that in other potential romantic partners. He already tried looking for it online, where you can meet all kinds of people from all kinds of places, and who did he find? Dennis.

Obviously, the Johnny thing being orchestrated by Dennis means that Mac "found him" on purpose, but the point here is that Mac didn't know that. From his perspective, it was a fresh start with someone completely new, a guy that met his subconscious requirements. It just so happens that his requirements are Dennis. Because as mushy and gooey as it sounds, at the end of the day Mac is irreversably in love with him. He loves Dennis so intrinsically that he falls for him a second time, without even being aware of it. And I suspect he always will, no matter how many times he tries to move on.

[lynnieverse]

you are in love // drew starkey

oneshot

drew stakery x popstar!reader

part two to like real people do

2.3k words

Things were going great, amazing even. Drew was so sweet, and you two had been getting to know each other slowly but surely until he finally asked you to be his girlfriend. It was adorable; he decorated his entire house with dahlias––your favorite flower––and cooked you dinner. Of course you said yes, and you’d been spending as much time together as possible ever since. It’s been six months, and life is bliss; it’s safe to say you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

But now, you’re nervous for a totally different reason. The first concert of a tour is always anxiety inducing. 

Will they like the setlist? 

Did we plan enough choreography? 

Is it flashy enough? 

Does the set look okay? 

Did we rehearse enough? 

What if I mess up?

All sorts of questions fly around your mind, assaulting your nerves and making you nauseous. You pace back and forth in your dressing room, fidgeting with the sequins on the bodice of your first outfit. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the large mirror on the wall; you’re perfectly put together––hair straightened, lips painted a deep red––but you feel anything but on the inside. You can feel the blood rush in your ears, vein on your neck thumping erratically to the rhythm of your heartbeat. Feeling the panic build in your chest, you fumble for your phone, quickly dialing the one person you know can help. 

“Hey baby,” Drew’s voice crackles through the speaker after two rings. You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes in relief. 

“Hi,” you whisper softly. 

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asks. You let the smooth sound of his voice work its way into your psyche, calming you down immediately. 

“Nothing now, I was just nervous, first show and all.” You put him on speaker, setting your phone on the vanity so you can tug on your boots. You’d sent all the stylists, makeup artists, and assistants out of the room a while ago, wanting to have a moment of quiet before the storm. 

“You’re going to do amazing, Y/N. You’ve rehearsed until you bled, and everyone is going to love it.” You nod along to his words, trying to convince yourself.

“You promise?” 

“I swear.”

“I wish you could be here,” you know it’s selfish, but you pout anyway. He had agreed to his filming schedule before you’d even gotten together, and your tour dates have been planned for over a year, so him missing the first show was just how the cards played out. It sucks, but you understand; you’re both very busy, and he already moved things around to come to your show in L.A., even if it is months away. 

“I wish I could too, baby. I’m cheering you on from set, I’m even going to find a livestream to watch.” Your heart flutters, something that always happens when he does anything related to you, apparently. You’re about to reply when a sharp knock at the door interrupts you. 

“Come in!” you call, zipping up your boot. The door cracks open, Amara’s face popping in through the gap. You smile at her; she’s been the best assistant and friend today. 

“Hey, Y/N, they’re ready for you.” 

“Fuck, okay. Thank you, I’ll be right there.” Amara nods and softly closes the door behind her as she leaves. You pick up your phone and prepare your goodbye. 

“Hey sorry, they’re calling me to the stage.”

“Okay, baby. Knock ‘em dead, okay?” You laugh lightly, shaking your head. 

“You know most people say ‘break a leg’?” 

“Well I’m not most people.” You can practically feel his smirk through the screen. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I have to go, but I’ll talk to you after the show?” 

“Of course.” You smile at that.

“Alright. Bye, have fun shooting.”

“Bye, baby, love you.” You freeze as the line goes dead, staring at your screen in shock. He just said ‘love you’. Drew just said he loves you! Holy shit. Do you call him back? That had to have been an accident, right? Neither of you have even broached that topic yet, and you certainly didn’t expect him to say that over the phone. As you’re debating a response, frantic knocks shake you out of your panic. Guess that’s it then.

With no time to demand an explanation, you tuck your phone in your purse and exit the dressing room. As soon as you step into the hallway you’re engulfed by the chaos. People are flying around, doing last minute touches, and everything just seems like a blur around you. Amara appears, and without speaking she grabs your arm and tugs you towards the side stage. 

“Okay, here’s your mic,” she rushes out, handing you the glittery pink microphone. “Ears,” she wraps the wires around the back of your neck, letting you put on the earpiece while clipping the matching microphone pack behind you discretely. “You know the setlist, everything is running perfectly. The only thing you need to do is calm down and sing, okay?” Amara’s eyes are wild, no doubt from the high energy environment they’d fallen victim to today. 

You smile at her brightly, squeezing her shoulders in thanks. “It’s going to be great, just relax.” She nods her head, messing with your hair for a moment before leaning back and admiring the look. 

“Alright, break a leg!” You snort at the irony, thinking of Drew. Amara pushes you into the little elevator under the stage and gives you one more reassuring smile before leaving you to your thoughts. You take in a few deep breaths, running through your pre-show affirmations quickly before the platform starts to rise. With the jerk of the machinery, you plaster a show stopping smile on your face and pose, hand on your hip and microphone by your lips. 

The farther you rise, the louder the screams sound in Nissan Stadium. You feel the joy bubble in your chest, the opening notes to your first hit song playing in your ear piece. The metronome clicking feels like home, guiding you on when to start. 

The screams get significantly louder when you stand, finally on stage, smoke surrounding you. They can only see your silhouette, but it’s enough. You hear the countdown in your ear and as it hits ‘one’, you start singing. 

I don’t mind

Letting you down easy, but just give it time

If it don't hurt now then just wait, just wait a while

You're not the big fish in the pond no more

You are what they're feeding on

The lights illuminate the pit, letting you make eye contact with countless fans, waving enthusiastically as your voice rings throughout the room. You catch a few silly signs, internally laughing at your fans’ creativity. 

So what are you gonna do

When the world don't orbit around you?

So what are you gonna do

When the world don't orbit around you?

Ain't it fun?

Living in the real world

Ain't it good?

Being all alone

Your eyes sweep over the crowd, watching as they eat up every move you make. Your background dancers twirl around you, perfectly in sync and effortlessly hitting every mark. You make your way down the stage, belting Ain’t It Fun as you do. You reminisce on the first time you sang this song live, in a small run down bar in Nashville, when you were only sixteen. Look how far you’d come. 

Don't go crying to your mama

'Cause you're on your own in the real world

Don't go crying to your mama

'Cause you're on your own in the real world

You clap your hands above your head, encouraging the crowd to do the same. They immediately mimic you, the sound penetrating your earplugs. You realize you’re tearing up, completely overcome by the love and support from your fans. 

You finish by striking a pose, the lights cutting off and leaving the entire stadium in almost complete darkness. You step back, standing on your mark as the crew hurriedly brings out a microphone stand and your guitar. You feel the strap being slipped around your shoulders, and grip the neck softly. When you’re alone on stage again, the lights gradually brighten, revealing your smiling face once again. You let the crowd cheer for a minute before stepping up to the microphone. 

“Well hello, Nashville!” You say loudly, placing your hands on your hips. The screams make you laugh, your eyes traveling up to the nosebleeds and all the way back down to the pit. The energy is electric, pride swelling in your chest. 

“I hope you’re ready for the fantastic show we have planned for you!” More screams sound before you continue. You go through your prepared speech, introducing and thanking all the dancers, back up singers, and members of your band that had toured with you since day one. Your eyes flick over to the VIP section briefly, looking for your parents. Your stomach drops as your eyes connect with the familiar blue ones you’ve come to adore. 

Drew is here, and Madelyn is smirking beside him. Your heart swells and you almost want to cry, completely filled with love for this man. You know you look ridiculous, mouth gaped open, but you don’t care. He’s here. Drew smiles at you, arms crossed loosely. You quickly try to recover, turning back to the crowd. 

“I have to be honest with you all,” a hush falls over the crowd. “Someone I care about very deeply is here tonight.” The yelling starts, and you start strumming your guitar while looking at Drew. 

“He surprised me, and so I hope you don’t mind if I change things up a bit.” More cheers, and a confused look from Drew puts a mischievous grin on your face. You glance back at your crew and nod once, hopefully sending the message to hold off on the next song. 

“This is a new song, one I wrote for this person specifically.” Drew stares at you in awe, Madelyn jabbing him in the ribs and laughing maniacally. You can see dozens of fans glancing back at him with their phones up, obviously recording his reaction to your words. You two hadn’t gone public by any official means, but there’d been talk, and this certainly confirmed things. 

“I guess the only thing left to say is…right back at you,” Drew scrunches his eyebrows before realization sets in and he’s right back to smiling. You step back and start playing the chords louder, starting the song. You keep eye contact between you, wanting him to really hear your words. 

One look, dark room

Meant just for you

Time moved too fast

You play it back

Buttons on a coat

Light-hearted joke

No proof, not much

But you saw enough

Small talk, he drives

Coffee at midnight

The light reflects

The chain on your neck

He says, "Look up"

And your shoulders brush

No proof, one touch

But you felt enough

You know he’s remembering every single moment you’ve mentioned, eyes sparkling as he sways to the sound of your voice. 

You can hear it in the silence, silence, you

You can feel it on the way home, way home, you

You can see it with the lights out, lights out

You are in love, true love

You are in love

His lips part, time standing still. Suddenly it’s only the two of you and no one else. The words ring true. You love him. You have for a while. 

Morning, his place

Burnt toast, Sunday

You keep his shirt

He keeps his word

And for once, you let go

Of your fears and your ghosts

One step, not much

But it said enough

You kiss on sidewalks

You fight and you talk

One night he wakes

Strange look on his face

Pauses, then says

You're my best friend

And you knew what it was

He is in love

Madelyn covers her mouth with her hands, jumping up and down excitedly. Drew is still locked in place, seemingly not able to take his eyes off of you. You wink at him and he laughs, shaking his head at you. 

And so it goes

You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round

And he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown

And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars

And why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words

'Cause you can hear in the silence

You let the silence linger, letting the cheers wash over you, feeling all the love you have for Drew simmering beneath the surface. 

You can feel it on the way home

You can see it with the lights out

You are in love, true love

You are in love

You finish out the song, singing happily to the man of your dreams, and everyone knows it now too. You feel unstoppable, completely charged like you always are in his presence. Drew discretely wipes his eyes, causing your own eyes to prickle. ‘I love you too’ you mouth, blowing him a kiss. He beams, nudging Madelyn happily. 

With one last lingering look, you turn your attention back to your adoring fans, smiling cheekily. “Thank you, thank you! How about we get back to the show?” you ask, giggling slightly before immediately going into an acoustic version of gold rush. You love your fans, but all you can think about for the rest of the concert is throwing your arms around Drew and kissing him senseless. And after the encore and the bows, you do just that…going home with the man you love.

[monstersholygrail]

dray the crisis is hitting again can I get yandere mad scientist and their also mad scientist reader who loves experimenting with them? Thank u!!

Omgeee my first yandere ask, thank you sm!! Hope you like it, it kinda went all over the place (much like the couple lol)

Ever since Yandere!Mad Scientist was a boy the twisted darkness of scientific exploration spoke to the depths of his soul. He carried it with him throughout his childhood and the so-called deranged experiments he would conduct on the neighborhood animals.

When you, the new neighbor’s child, cried over the loss of your cat, Yandere!Mad Scientist felt something shift inside of him for the first time in his few years on this earth. He wondered briefly if this is what his parents meant when referring to emotion. He wanted… more of this strange sensation. He also wanted to use his gifts for someone else for a change. Another first your presence has given him.

He knew you would appreciate the gift that resulted from his experiment, and appreciate him, even when no one else ever has. Something in him told him you would understand. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny, no, he believed in cold hard facts and science. But perhaps in this one exception… it was your soul calling out for him. It had to be. Who was he not to answer?

The moment you throw open the gift box in your family’s living room to reveal your cat’s moving head on a mechanical body and your joyous squeals mingle with your parents horrified screams, he knew. The way you marveled at his accomplishment as you hugged your cat close before your parents tore it away from you in terror.

He knew you were meant to be his. And someday when he wasn’t so little and you weren’t under the control of your parents, you would be. By the possessive look you flash him as your parents usher him out and threaten to call the cops, he knows you have the same idea.

As you both continued to age, Yandere!Mad Scientist’s experiments only got more complex and dangerous. Though now you were right there by his side, driving his theories down even darker avenues. Your creative mind just as twisted as his, if not more so. Your genius unparalleled.

Of course, a series of strategic maneuvers had to be set in place every time you both snuck away to meet up given your parents had permanently banned you from seeing ‘the freak kid next door.’ They still hadn’t gotten over the little cat incident. The fact that you kept the cat alive to this day probably not helping them move on either.

But nothing could keep you away from each other. He was yours and you were most definitely his. With your work together you two would take control of the world and destroy anyone who tried to get in the others path. They were all of inferior minds to you two, they had no right to deny you what rightfully belonged to you and him.

No one would be able to touch you or keep you from him again. It was only a matter of time.

When you and Yandere!Mad Scientist got to college it was the real first taste of freedom either of you had ever had. He thought that this was it. You two would never be separated from now on. He’d be in an off campus apartment with you after school and during school you two would have all the same classes.

But then you have to go and betray him, doing the worst thing imaginable. Choosing a different major than him. While he had gone the expected path— the correct one— of a Science Major. You had chosen… Psychology. It was possibly the first time in his entire life that Yandere!Mad Scientist had been furious at you. You wouldn’t believe how tempted he was to handcuff you to him so you’d be forced to always remain by his side

He was actually searching online for a good sturdy pair the night you came to him asking for help with a project, the first you two had spoken in days following the fight you had about it. And that’s when he learns of your true motivations, the reason behind your desire to be a… Psych major of all things.

You see, you had started working on a memory control device that would surely help your plans for world domination. Of course, he immediately agreed to working on this with you. You two had never worked separately since you met and he wasn’t about to start now. Only he was allowed to know the inner workings of your mind, to understand the way your genius wove its clever webs. He was the only one who ever understood you and that would remain true for as long as he had a say about it.

Together, the work on your project progressed rapidly. The two of you working on it day and night. It was a little tricky, given you two only shared a few classes together where you’d pass flirtatious notes filled with complex algorithms. But he made do.

Though as you learned more from your classes and began applying them to the device, something started feeling… off about it all. More algorithms were attempted that he doesn’t remember running, beakers he doesn’t recall turning on were left running till they overflowed, and days seemed to pass him by where it felt like he had done absolutely nothing despite your excited rambling on the progression of the project.

One night, as you two are cleaning up from that night’s experiments, he comes across one of his many notebooks. Buried deep under a dozen others just like it. But this one has a book mark with an arrow pointing down saying ‘Read me.’ On the marked page lays a whole series of numbers and formulas he’s never even seen before in his one handwriting. With a sticky note at the top reading ‘Forget Something?’

He reads through what appears to be his work over and over again. No, this can’t be real. He never did any of this, it’s impossible. But as he watches the formulas grow more successful with each equation, realization dawns on him. It is possible. He just lost his memory of it. He looks up, eyes instantly catching onto your form across the room just as you look back up at him.

That playful smirk and mischievous glimmer in your eye that he loves so much. It’s as clear as day. As is what you’ve been doing to him. His lips curl into a mirroring expression and you just laugh, returning your gaze to your work.

Ah, so that’s how you want to play it, huh? That’s more than fine by him. He can play it right back to ya. To show you that his brain is all yours for fucking around with, so long as you’re his to do the same.

The next time you come to, the pair of you are sitting in an unfamiliar lecture hall. The teacher droning on about a topic you can’t really hear. Still half-asleep with your head resting on your arms.

“Wakey wakey, darling,” he murmurs in your ear, hand petting your head affectionately. You look too cute all groggy and disoriented as you slowly wake up from the device’s effects. He understands why you used it so much on him. Seeing you like this was absolutely irresistible.

You groan, eyes scrunching up tight. Your head feeling like it weighs about a metric ton and your eyes begging to remain closed forever. You open them anyway, lashes fluttering as you try and focus in on your surroundings. The lecture hall is completely unfamiliar to you. And given the stone walls, you’re in a completely different department.

“W-where am I?” You ask, voice slightly slurred from misuse.

He is having too much fun watching you. It’s wild seeing the device be used and the impacts it has on its users. He briefly wonders if you’ll forget all about this feeling just as he had. He cups your chin with a surprising tenderness, slowly bringing your attention back on him.

“Don’t you remember, dear? You decided to transfer into the Science department. Now, we’ll be together in all our classes. Just like you wanted,” he rumbles, his voice like a hypnotic lullaby as his thumb soothingly caresses your jaw.

It takes a moment for you to break through the comforting haze of his touch so his words can register. Your brows furrow deeply, having no memory of leaving your previous major. The words begin to repeat in your head, echoing and pounding against your skull.

Remember.

He can the moment clarity begins to dawn on you. Your eyes losing that dazed effect to them. He practically watches as you put the pieces together, realizing what must’ve happened just like he did. Though he has to give you props for how fast you realized. Your genius only made him fall harder for you, want even more of you.

But when you burst out into a fit of quiet giggles, your eyes lighting up with pride, he can feel the strings you have wrapped around his heart grow impossibly tighter. It was that pride in your work, pride in the success of the device, and even pride in him for managing to get one on you.

Your laughter is infectious and soon he’s laughing right along with you in the lecture hall, leaning in close and marveling at what you two can do when you put your minds to it.

He looks into your eyes, his hand sliding to cup your cheek and holding you like you’re the most the precious thing in the world to him. And just like back when you were kids, with one look he knows what you’re thinking.

That there is nothing better than experimenting with each other. In every way possible.

[stellamarielu]

I kinda think pope would be into risky sex like when you could get caught at any moment or there’s a lot of people around at a cody party. He wouldn’t really mind getting caught because if there’s one thing he’s proud of it’s that he gets to love you and fuck you and that he does it exceptionally well

smut ahead duh if public sex or voyeurism isn’t your thing, close your eyes

ok so if i’m being honest, pope doesn’t strike me as someone who’s into public sex or sex with the explicit risk of getting caught, because he’s so reserved and private. however, what you said about him being proud of getting to love you and knowing that he fucks you exceptionally well, is rewiring something deep in my pope cody psyche…

i can see the risk of it turning him on, but more than that, the pride of everyone knowing he’s the only one that gets to touch you like that.

he hates the outrageous parties that always find their way into his home. the loud music, obnoxious guests, and plethora of illegal substances, usually have pope retreating to the quiet confines of his bedroom, only now he puts up with the chaos just to keep an eye on you.

you love the parties— more so, you love his brothers. you’ve come to enjoy the lively environment of the backyard when it’s filled with strangers; the new faces, the constant laughing, the endless drinks that fill your hand. it always makes for an adventurous evening.

and pope loves you— so he’ll find a seat somewhere in the shadows of the patio and watch as you dance and giggle along with his family. like clockwork you’ll come back to him every fifteen minutes, asking how he’s doing, or plopping down in his lap and throwing your arms around his neck, always sending a deep flush to his cheeks when you touch him in front of other people.

he likes it. of course he likes it— a public display of affection that lets everyone on the premises know you’re his. but he can’t help how flustered he gets by your blatant effort to prove your love for him in such public scenarios.

tonight you catch the twitch of his smile as you settle into his lap, burying your head into the crook of his neck and placing a gentle kiss right below his ear.

“are you having fun?” you whisper into his skin with your arms still wrapped around his neck, your fingertips playing softly with his auburn curls.

he nods subtly, his eyes darting to the pool where almost everyone is gathered. the dark corner of the patio he’s been sitting in for the last hour is almost completely concealed from the lights illuminating the rest of the backyard.

“but i can’t say i love watching craig’s sleazy friends try to hit on you.” his voice picks up a sly tone of sarcasm as he shakes off the pink hue warming at his cheeks.

“they’re harmless.” you place another kiss on his neck through your words.

“oh, i know.” the rasp of his voice gives away the effect your soft kisses have on him.

“they couldn’t make you come like i do.”

it’s rare for andrew to talk this way— to be so forward with his words. it makes you pull back slightly, aligning your eyes with his as you cock your head to the side.

“you don’t think so?”

you test the waters, the question slipping from your lips in a smirk before andrew’s hand quickly grips your thigh strewn over his lap.

“i know so.”

it’s almost too dark to see him, but you sure as hell hear the smile in his words as his palm slides up your leg, slipping underneath the material of your dress.

“andrew-“ you almost warn him that there are people less than 20 feet away, but you stop. the two of you had never done this— the risk of getting caught suddenly making you clench and writhe in his lap.

“stay still.” it’s a nearly silent command as his fingertips tease the wet spot seeping through your panties.

he pulls the soaked material to the side, slipping a single finger into you and groaning at the feeling of you pulsing around him.

in an effort to prove his previous statement, he works his digit against your slick walls in a way that makes your jaw go slack. you can already feel your release building at your core.

then his thumb finds your clit, working in tandem with the finger curling right inside your entrance, to make your head fall forward against his neck.

“oh andrew, fuck.”

you’re moaning and whining as quietly as you can into his shoulder, the sounds muffled by the cotton of his t-shirt as he keeps a steady pace between your legs.

“what was that?” his voice is low and thick with gravel as he mocks you.

“i don’t think they could hear you.”

his eyes stay focused ahead of him, surveying the party goers who have absolutely no idea that he has you on the brink of an orgasm right now.

you want to playful slap his chest, or roll your eyes at his absurd commentary, but all you can do is tighten your grip in his hair.

pulling at his curls in desperation, your voice threatens to spew out more profanities as you lose all control under his touch.

just when you start to feel that familiar coil in your abdomen tighten past the point of return, a loud yell pulls you from your fucked-out state of mind.

“heads up!”

someone’s hollering in your direction, causing andrew to draw his hand back from your dress, opting for a loose hold on your waist instead.

a volleyball comes rolling toward your feet stopping just shy of andrew’s chair as you sit up straight in his lap.

all eyes are on the two of you as you stand to your feet, grabbing the ball and tossing it back into the pool before prancing back to andrew who hasn’t moved an inch in his chair.

“your room. now.” you lean down to murmur in his ear, and soon enough he’s following you into the house like a love sick puppy.