#I'm getting pretty efficient at getting these out!

[soluversworld]

I hope I'm doing this right but I have a request for 50 shades of Redacted/Ren The ideas been in my head for ages!

Reader finds out a certain someone has been sneaking into their house at night to steal their underwear, reader catches Ren or Redacted in the act and reader after catching Ren/Redacted ties him to a chair to ���interrogate”(tease) him and then things get steamy?

It would be a nice change of pace to see a more dominant/teasing reader

Genre: smut

Summary: — Reader finds out a certain someone has been sneaking into their house at night to steal their underwear, reader catches Ren or Redacted in the act and reader after catching Ren/Redacted ties him to a chair to “interrogate”(tease) him and then things get steamy?

It would be a nice change of pace to see a more dominant/teasing reader

I decided to make both of them switch, My friend asked for a DOM REDACTED for this request too..

THEN YOU SMASH!!

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content/Trigger warnings

Explicit Sexual Content (NSFW)

Dom/Sub Dynamics (Teasing, control, and edging)

Praise Kink

Strong Emotional Intimacy

Light Roughness (Biting, marking, possessive touch)

Overstimulation

Did not proof read/Rushed.

[REDACTED] had always been meticulous. Quiet as a shadow, gliding through the house like it belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

Well, For fuck sake- You moved with him 5 months ago. Today, You're sleeping alone because you're little mad at him. (It's very silly)

And in a way, you did. You just didn’t know it yet.

But tonight? Tonight was different. Maybe it was the creak of the door. Maybe it was the way the floorboard near your bed gave just a little under his weight. Or maybe, just maybe, you’d finally gotten tired of pretending you didn’t notice your favorite underwear disappearing one by one.

So you waited. Pretending to sleep, breathing steady. Listening.

And sure enough—

A breath. A shuffle. The whisper of your dresser drawer sliding open.

You moved fast.

The lights snapped on. [REDACTED] froze like a deer in headlights, your underwear still dangling from his fingers. Their pink-purple hair was a mess, slightly curled at the ends from the soft humidity of the night. His cheeks flushed a deep red, eyes wide and glinting with something that wasn’t quite shame. It was darker. Needier.

“Angel—” he started, but you were already grabbing the belt off your robe.

“Sit. In. The. Chair.” You pointed toward the wooden one by your desk. It was sturdy, high-backed. Perfect.

“…Y’don’t gotta do that,” he mumbled, shifting awkwardly. “Was just… lookin’.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you were looking for.” You took slow steps toward him, the belt hanging loosely in your hand. "Go on. Sit down, pretty guy."

His breath caught. Still flushed, he obeyed.

You worked efficiently, looping the belt around his wrists and securing them to the slats of the chair. Not too tight—yet. Just enough to keep him still.

“Y’really gonna tie me up?” he drawled, smirking through his flush. “Y’plannin’ on punishin’ me, Angel?”

“You broke into my room to sniff my panties. I think that earns you at least an interrogation.”

“Didn’t break in… live here too,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to where your thighs were now perfectly visible thanks to your raised hemline. “And I didn’t sniff ‘em. Not yet.”

You arched a brow and stepped between his legs, resting your hands on his knees. “So you admit it.”

He smiled, all teeth. “Y’know I’d never lie to you.”

“Come on! REDACTED! It's only for one night.'” you said softly, voice edged with playful danger. “Even though we live under the same roof.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You're just so damn soft… 'n warm… smell like heaven. S'why I can't stop.”

You leaned down until your faces were inches apart, lips brushing against his ear.

“Well, since you’re already in trouble… why don’t we see just how far you’re willing to go for what you want?”

A shiver ran down their spine.

You ran your fingers under the collar of their oversized sweater, tugging it down just enough to expose the delicate chain around his neck—and the quickening beat of his pulse.

He was beautiful like this. Flushed. Tied up. Breathing heavy while pretending not to care. His eyes were half-lidded now, that same sleepy lust pooling like ink.

“Tell me, REDACTED. How long have you been sneaking into my room? When I lived at Rat's kingdom's apartment?” You stick out your tongue, expect for Vi- You hated at place.

He paused. You tightened the belt slightly, just enough to dig into their skin. He hissed, then chuckled lowly.

“….”

Your hand slid down their chest, feeling his breath catch.

“And what do you do when you're in here?”

He hesitated again.

He groaned.

“Look at you. So cocky, but now that I’ve got you tied up, you can’t even answer a simple question.”

His voice dropped, breathless. “Touch myself… sometimes. Just… look. Smell. Pretend you’re there.”

“Oh?” You rocked your hips ever so slightly, watching the way his breath stuttered. “Do you imagine me doing this?”

“Fuck… Angel—”

You cupped their cheek, soft and sweet. He actually shivered.

“You’d jump if I said I loved you, wouldn’t you?”

Their eyes immediately shined over. You saw it—just for a second—the complete unraveling of that dangerous, apathetic persona. He leaned into your hand like a starving man.

“I would,” he whispered. “God, I would.”

You leaned in, lips just barely touching his. “Too bad I won't say it.”

He whimpered.

But then, something in him cracked. His smirk returned—wobbly, desperate, but still him.

“Y’keep this up, Angel,” he drawled, voice low and fraying, “I’m gonna break this chair and fuck you into the mattress.”

You ground down on him, slowly, deliberately.

“No, you won’t. Because if you do… I’ll stop.”

He went utterly still beneath you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good boy.”

He trembled.

“Say it,” you demanded.

“…Good boy f' you” he repeated, wrecked and breathless.

You smiled and dragged your nails down his chest, leaving butterfly kisses, that peeked through his turtleneck. Their head dropped back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut, hips bucking instinctively.

You were in control. Completely.

You leaned close again, this time letting your lips press firmly to his. It started slow—soft, almost sweet—but the moment his tongue brushed yours, it was over.

He kissed like a man starved. Like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment. And maybe he had.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper against his lips, “You’ll ask permission next time, won’t you?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, fuck, anything you want—”

“Shh,” you said, pressing a finger to his mouth. “I want to do something with you a little longer.”

He moaned under his breath, already hard and straining beneath his pants.

You rocked your hips again, slow and torturous, watching as he fought against the urge to buck. He was shaking.

“I could leave you like this,” you murmured. “Tied up."

He whimpered.

“But I won’t. Because I want you to remember how it feels when I make you fall apart.”

“Angel, please—”

You kissed them again, harder this time. Wet and possessive. Biting their bottom lip just hard enough to make them gasp.

And when you pulled back again, their eyes were glazed, lips swollen, panting.

“I think you’ve been punished enough,” you said sweetly.

“…You gonna untie me now?”

You smirked.

“No.”

You slipped your hand between his legs.

He was already half gone. Breath ragged, hips twitching under you, wrists still bound to the chair like a pretty little prize you’d won. His hair stuck to his forehead in soft waves, tips brushing their flushed cheeks.

And you?

You looked like sin perched in his lap.

“You gonna keep squirming, buttercup?” you purred, voice like velvet, “Or are you gonna behave like a good love and let me play?”

REDACTED whimpered—actually whimpered—as you rolled your hips again, dragging along the length of their through the fabric.

“F-fuck, Angel—y’can’t keep doin’ that, I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?” you tilted your head.

Your fingers brushed the metal of his nipple piercing. He sucked in a sharp breath.

Oh.

So that’s what got them.

You smirked and pinched it—not hard. Just enough to test it. He choked on a moan, head lolling back against the chair with a shudder.

“Well, well,” you hummed, voice sickly sweet, “I should’ve known you were this filthy. To be honest, we both are damned for each other but I guess, For Tonight- I enjoy being on top of you."

He mumbled something low and shaky—“only for you”—and you rewarded him with a slow drag of your tongue along the shell of his ear, nipping just below his piercings.

“Y’keep teasin’ me like this, I swear t’god—” Their words died in his throat as you moved to straddle them fully, thighs spread on either side of theirs.

“Swear to God what?” you asked, rocking forward deliberately as your fingers dipped . “You gonna do something about it? Gonna fuck me into the chair like you said?”

REDACTED’s hips jerked up helplessly. “Fuck—can’t like this—m’arms—”

“That’s the point,” you whispered, dragging your nails up his stomach. “You’re not supposed to do anything. Just sit there and take it.”

He whimpered again, utterly pliant under you. Revealing pale skin marred with black ink—lines of kanji, wisps of waves, bold strokes twisting up his arm in the form of dragons and koi fish.

Jesus, why did he hide such a beauty while he was pretending to be Ren?

“Oh my god,” you laughed, leaning down to kiss it. “You are so obsessed.”

Their breath hitched. “Only you,” he rasped. “Told you... I’d do anythin’ for you.”

You kissed a trail , pausing just over one of his coding tattoos. “Wanted to ask you, Is this... a password?”

He groaned. “Y’already got my heart, figured you might as well have access to my email.”

“Fucking- REDACTED!” you giggled, but your hand slid lower, teasing “

He shook his head slowly.

You sucked a breath through your teeth. “God, you’re a.....”

And he moaned. Like that word alone unraveled him.

His cock slapped up against his stomach, already hard and leaking, the metal of his Jacob’s Ladder catching the light.

Your mouth went dry.

“...Well? Remember when you teased me back at the Library- Making me count how many times you.....pumped me in?” you asked, voice thick with lust.

REDACTED was panting now, his head tilted back, eyes dark and desperate.

“Might’ve been thinkin’ about how good it’d feel inside you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Been dreamin’ of it, Angel. You bouncin’ on my cock, squeezin’ ‘round the piercings—fuck—”

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly up the shaft, letting the cold metal roll against your lips.

He howled.

“Shit—shitshitshit—Angel, please—” His hips bucked instinctively, only for you to pull back and slap his thigh.

“Ah, ah,” you tsked. “You move without permission again, and I’ll leave you tied here all night.”

REDACTED whined, trembling.

You lined yourself up and sank down slowly, letting him feel every single inch, every bump of his piercing dragging deliciously against your walls.

He sobbed.

You hadn’t even moved yet and he already looked ruined. Sweater pushed up over his chest, metal glinting from his piercings, eyes wet and glossy.

And when you finally rolled your hips—just once, testing—he let out a strangled, “Please, Angel, pleasepleaseplease—”

You smiled.

“God, I love you like this.”

His breath hitched.

“I didn’t say I love you,” you teased, leaning down to kiss the heart-shaped tattoo on his neck that said angel. “But I love watching you fall apart.”

Then you rode them.

Hard.

Every grind sent their head lolling back against the chair, his abs tightening under your touch, the metal of his piercings pulling sweet friction that made you tremble. His voice cracked under the pressure, cursing, begging, worshiping your name like it was the only word he knew.

“Angel, fuck, Angel, y’feel so good—can’t hold it—m’gonna come—”

“Not yet,” you growled, tightening your grip on his jaw. “Not until I say.”

You bounced harder, chasing your own high, letting the stretch and heat and metal ruin you just as much as it ruined him. Every drag of him inside made you cry out, made your thighs quake.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please let me come, Angel, m’so close, can’t take it—”

“You gonna beg like a good boy?”

He nodded desperately, tears clinging to his lashes.

“Say it.”

“Please, Angel—please let me come—I’ve been good, been so fuckin’ good for you—”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his again.

“Come for me.”

The second he heard it, he broke.

REDACTED came hard, cock twitching inside you, thick ropes spilling as he moaned loud and wrecked, their whole body convulsing under your touch. You followed not long after, burying your nails in his shoulders, the pleasure dragging you under.

When it finally faded, you collapsed against them, still breathless, his cock softening inside you as the sweat on your bodies mingled.

He was shaking.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

He whimpered.

“I’m gonna untie you now,” you whispered, “but if you ever steal my underwear again...”

His eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy.

“You’ll punish me again?” he rasped.

You smirked. “You want that?”

He grinned, slow and drunk on you. “Only if y’ride me again.”

You laughed.

“God, you’re hopeless.”

“But m’yours,” he whispered, voice rough and raw and devastatingly sincere. “Always.”

You were still catching your breath, sweat cooling on your skin, when you reached up to start untying him.

Big mistake.

The second the last knot slipped free, he moved—fast. Strong hands grabbed your waist, and before you could blink, he flipped you onto your back, dragging you down the bed with him until your spine hit the mattress.

“REDACTED—?!” you started, but his mouth was already on your neck, hot and open and claiming.

"Thought y’could tie me up and ride me like a toy," he murmured, voice ragged and low against your skin. “That was real cute, Angel.”

Your legs trembled as he slotted himself between them, Their weight caging you in. He was still panting, flushed and glistening, their hair a wild halo around his sharp face—but there was something dark in his eyes now. Unleashed.

“You’re the one who came in my room,” you gasped, trying to sass through the heat that pooled low in your gut.

He chuckled darkly, dragging his teeth down your jaw.

“And you’re the one who left me tied up,” he growled. “Now I’m thinkin’ it’s your turn to be ruined.”

Then he rocked his hips down, his still-sensitive cock rubbing against your entrance. You gasped, and he smiled—feral.

“That’s it,” he drawled, grinding slow, lazy. “S’posed to be my sweet Angel. But I want to be the one breakin’ the rules. You're okay with this..?"

You nodded.

Well,

Make up!

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one big hand.

His other hand slid down between your legs, brushing through your slick, teasing your sex.

“Y’already this wet again?” he whispered, eyes locked on your face, drinking in your reactions like it gave him life. “Fuck. Guess you really liked my piercings, huh?”

You moaned, arching up into him—and he pushed in without warning, bottoming out with a guttural groan. The stretch, the metal, the heat—it knocked the air right out of your lungs.

“F-fuck—REDACTED!—”

“Shhh,” he hushed, leaning in to kiss your temple sweetly. “I got you, Angel. Just let me make you feel good.”

Then he started to ride you.

And not gently.

REDACTED’s hips snapped into you like he had something to prove—each thrust deep and brutal, dragging every ridge of his piercing inside you until your legs wrapped tight around his waist. His hand gripped your wrists like iron, keeping you trapped beneath him.

"You teased me," he rasped. "Made me beg. Had me cryin’ in that fuckin’ chair."

He pulled out slow—just the tip left in—before slamming back in so hard the headboard rattled.

“Now it’s your turn.”

You cried out, thighs shaking, body overstimulated—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

“Ohh, you're gonna cry f’me now?” he cooed, biting down hard enough on your collarbone to leave a mark. “Yeah... yeah, that’s it, Angel. Wanna see those pretty tears. Want y’to feel everything.”

Your body clenched around him, pulsing with the oncoming orgasm, and Redacted felt it.

“Mm, there’s that grip,” he moaned. “Fuck, keep squeezin’ me like that and I’ll come again inside you.”

His hand left your wrists and grabbed your face instead—tilting it up so you couldn’t look away from him.

"You love it," he whispered. "Love bein’ under me. Love when I lose control for you."

You nodded frantically, hips jerking up to meet his thrusts, everything else turning white-hot and hazy.

Then he leaned in and bit your lower lip, tugging just enough to sting.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Right now, Angel.”

And you broke.

Your body spasmed, nails digging into his shoulders as you came hard, pulsing around his cock like you were made for it. And the second you did, REDACTED’s hips faltered—his breath caught—and then he was right behind you, groaning into your neck as he spilled inside you, deep and raw and messy.

For a long moment, all you could hear were your gasps, tangled bodies shaking against each other.

Then—

“...‘M not done,” he murmured, voice still wrecked.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “W-what?”

“I said,” he repeated, grinning with teeth now, “I’m not done.”

He rolled his hips again, still inside you, still hard.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

"I swear! I'm gonna get back at you!"

Your legs were still twitching, your whole body strung tight like an overworked wire. But Ren didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried in you, hips gently grinding, just enough to keep you on that razor edge of overstimulation.

And then he looked at you.

That cocky, smug grin softened—melted—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Angel,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “You’re so pretty like this... y’don’t even know.”

He leaned in slowly, eyes flicking over your tear-streaked cheeks. Then his tongue darted out, slow and purposeful, and he licked a tear from the curve of your cheekbone.

“Mm,” he murmured. “Tastes sweet.”

You gasped, caught between a moan and a shiver.

He kissed the trail after, soft and warm, and then nuzzled into your face like some oversized cat—his breath ragged but his touch so gentle.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek, and pulled him in for a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was deep—melting—your mouths moving slow and heavy as if the world had slowed just for you.

He sighed into it, his body relaxing above yours, even as his cock stayed throbbing inside you. His fingers skimmed your waist, holding you like you’d slip away if he wasn’t careful.

When you finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, slick, and his pupils were blown wide.

"...You okay?" you whispered, brushing back the damp strands of hair stuck to his temple.

He smiled, soft and almost shy now—like he hadn’t just wrecked you six ways from Sunday.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, m’okay.”

Then his smirk returned.

"But you..." he drawled, tapping your lips with two fingers. “Y’real cute when you cry. Bet y’don’t even know how good your face looks when you're beggin’. Makes me wanna ruin you real slow next time.”

Your cheeks flushed hot, and you smacked his chest weakly.

“Asshole.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead.

“Y’love me.”

You muttered something about smug bastards, but didn’t push him away when he wrapped his arms tight around you, holding you like a furnace.

“Shhh, I got you,” he whispered again, lips brushing your ear. “Always got you, Angel.”

He stayed buried inside you, warm and pulsing, his cock twitching every time you shifted, but now it was less about teasing—more about closeness. Like he didn’t want to leave you even for a second.

And when your body trembled from another aftershock, he just tightened his hold, their fingers rubbing soft circles into your back.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured, kissing the space between your brows. “Always.”

[bunni-v1]

Wriothesley SFW & NSFW Headcannons

🍓The offical Bunni Wrio headcannons. Long time coming for me and my husband. I really wish I had the money (that also doesn't need to go into me feeding myself for the next four months) to commission an artist to draw him and my OC together. I'm so regular and normal about him. Anyway, please enjoy my thoughts. I'm a humble loser.

TW: NSFW; Rough Sex; Choking mentioned

Info: Wriothesley x Reader; NSFW below the cut; gn!reader (no explicit body parts or pronouns used); use of "walls" to refer to sexual organs

Word Count: 5.5k

-Wriothesley is both incredibly complex and very simple at the same time, and he doesn’t care if anyone but him understands that fact. He doesn’t need to be understood by anyone else, though he does appreciate it when his friends go out of their way to accommodate him.

-Quite honestly, there are only two people in Teyvat who understand the way he ticks, and he only regularly interacts with one of them. Part of this is honestly because he can’t be bothered to deepen most relationships when he’s so isolated from other people, and a more… honest and vulnerable part of him knows that he doesn’t really enjoy being known.

-His childhood being stripped from him did a number on his ability to trust, as it would any other person. He’s built up a nice, tall, icy wall between himself and most others. He’s not unreachable, of course, but most people don’t even try to get to know him when they see how guarded he is. 

-Again, he doesn’t mind it. He likes the freedom it gives him, and it means he doesn’t have to worry about complicated relationships. He has enough difficulties on his plate from running the fortress in the first place, there’s no need to have any extra stressors.

-Needless to say, romance isn’t something on his mind. At all. In fact, he’s likely never had any kind of romantic relationship. He never had the chance to have one, and he naturally assumes that it’s not his thing. 

-Not to say that he’s never felt anything toward anyone, he’s human, he just never acts on it. He can also easily clock when someone is attracted to him, and makes a mental note to shut them down as quickly and efficiently as possible. If he can’t, he just avoids them. 

-It’s not a fear of romance, nor a disinterest in it, Wriothesley just cannot be bothered. While yes, he has plenty of free time around the fortress, he also lives there. It would be cruel to any potential partner on the surface for him to accept their advances, and anyone in the fortress was either his employee or a prisoner, and excuse him for not wanting that kind of power dynamic in his life.

-Wriothesley was content being single for the rest of his life, down under the sea in his quiet office with no one to bother him. Then you come into his life.

-Sent down to the fortress from Neuivilette after Sigewinne expressed worry about him overworking himself. She tended to mother him a little too much, and Neuivillette listened to her faithfully every time she worried about him. 

-It wouldn’t be much of an issue… If Wriothesley didn’t find himself so stumped on what to give you to work on. He had a good routine that he was used to, and it got things done efficiently, so there wasn’t really anything for you to do. But when you look at him with those pretty eyes, he can’t help but find some excuse to keep you in the office with him just a little longer.

-He doesn’t immediately fall for you, of course. It’s more like a slow flutter down a thousand-foot cavern, unsure of what was at the bottom, but certain that he was falling.

-It just starts as a business, of course. You were technically his superior, as a direct aide of Neuivillette, he had to answer to you more than you did to him. You never really treated it like that, though. You were witty and playful, matching his quick tongue with your own smart jabs. It was nice to have someone on the same wavelength, and this naturally led to more friendly conversations about things outside of work.

-You start spending time with him far longer than you need to, way after either of you has finished your duties for the day, and it doesn’t take a genius to tell what's going on. There’s just one problem… Wriothesley can be a bit… dense when it comes to actual romantic tension.

-He isn’t stupid, of course, he can tell that there’s something there… but he second-guesses himself. He just doesn’t believe that you could possibly be genuinely interested in him; he brushes off the flirting, acts like he doesn’t notice the tension, and eventually, you’re called back to the surface without anything happening.

-It’s easy to shrug off everything for him, chalking it up to circumstances and nothing more. He can’t deny how it stings a little that you could easily act like it never happened, not receiving any letters sucks, but he can’t blame you. Again, he doesn’t believe he’s built for romance.

-He thinks he’s handling the whole thing fine, but Sigewinne clocks him faster than he can say his own name. She points out that within a week that he seems mopey, and that if he misses you so much, he should just visit or send a letter. Of course, he doesn’t, because that requires a level of vulnerability he admits he just doesn’t have in him yet.

-Luckily, he doesn’t need to take that first step. Pleasantly surprised when you make an unannounced visit to his office, only about a month after you initially left. He thinks that maybe Neuivilette had sent you back, but you’re not dressed like you normally would be for a shift with him. (You look very good in your casual clothes, which fluster him quite a bit more than he’s willing to admit aloud.)

-No, you hadn’t come for work or anything like that, you had – with flushed cheeks and eyes dodging his – come just to see him. You admit you had missed your chats, and thought that maybe he might’ve as well. Hoped that he had. And oh, you have no idea what it does to his heart.

-He’s not a musician, but his heart broke out into a symphony that thrummed through his whole body. 

-From there, you become a regular part of his week, coming down to his office at the same time once, then twice, then nearly every day in a week. He finds himself sulking when you can’t make your regular meetings, and feels as if he is on cloud nine when he sees you. He never expected himself to be such a hopeless sap, but he supposes those romance novels weren’t exactly wrong about how much love can change someone.

-Talks over tea turn into gentle, flirty touches. Not so subtle hints at something more, but neither of you is really pushing any further. It’s a very slow build of confidence for Wriothesley, and every interaction reassures him of your shared feelings. It gives him confidence to take the next step, to go a little further, to finally put a label on things instead of pretending nothing's there.

-It’s cute how he goes about it, too. Normally, you’re the one to come down to him after you’re done with work, but instead, he greets you in the lobby of the Palais de Mermonia. He’s got a bouquet of your favorite flowers and the biggest grin on his face – he even cleaned up a bit! 

-It makes you feel silly seeing him all dolled up when you’re still in your work clothes, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he hands you the flowers. Officially asking you on your first date, which is an even cuter picnic watching the sun set together.

-He’s quite a hopeless sap when it comes down to it, he’s very enamored by you, and he does get a little caught up in the newness of it all. It’s still completely genuine on his part, though. While he might have rose-tinted glasses on, he really does feel that deeply for you, and he makes good on showing you that affection.

-Now, before I get into the meat of the cutesy shit with him, we need to acknowledge some of the problems he might have as your partner.

-Firstly, Wriothesley is a very emotionally stunted person. He wasn’t shown affection for a good part of his childhood, and the affection he did receive was coated in deceit, so he struggles to express himself when it counts. He’s great at setting and respecting boundaries, but genuine emotions? Well… count him out. 

-He really struggles to open up to you, despite how much he knows he should – how much he wants to. It’s just not something that comes easily from him. He needs patience, understanding, and maybe a bit of handholding through it all. 

-It is a slow crawl through a lot of cold shoulders and gentle deflection, but he tries his best, and he gets there eventually. He still doesn’t really like to bog you down with his own issues, but if you reach out to him and ask him what's bothering him, he’ll tell you. He’ll allow you to take care of him and worry over his well-being and collude with Sigewinne to get him to take breaks.

-Even when he isn’t willing to let you inside, he’s still appreciative of your efforts, and he shows you through subtle acts of service. Quiet thanks for worrying, even though he’s just not ready to let you see the more broken sides of him.

-Another issue that runs right along this one is his problems with trusting, not just you, but pretty much anyone who isn’t Neuvilette or Sigewinne. (He thinks he also trusts Chlorinde, at least professionally, and Navia is nice enough, but he won’t be spilling his life secrets to either of them.)

-Naturally, you’ve already won him over a bit, so you have more of an advantage than most other people, but he’s not really transparent to start. He’s kind of mysterious, giving you little hints, but never quite letting you past the surface of the sea.

-You’re curious about his past, most people are – what with the giant fucking scars all over his body. Anyone would want to know where their partner got them, and it’s not like he’s ashamed of them… he just doesn’t want you to think of him like that.

-He doesn’t want you to know how helpless he felt all those years ago, the terrible things he did to stay alive, and how hard he fought to get to the point he was at now. Most people would call it a triumphant story, but Wriothesley wants his past to stay in his past. You were his future, and he didn’t want to see the pity in your eyes when he told you about that part of him.

-Yet, no matter how hard he tried, it was a part of him that he couldn’t get rid of. If he wanted a life with you, he was going to have to tell you at some point. He would rather he be the one to get the story to you, rather than someone else (like Neuvilette, who would tell you if you played your cards right.)

-It’s hard for him to tell you, and even harder to see how gentle you are to him as he talks. There’s a sadness in your eyes that makes his heart ache, but you don’t treat him like he’s helpless. You just let him talk, and you listen, and when he’s done, you tell him that it doesn’t change the way you think about him at all.

-You don’t make it a big deal, you just… accept it. It’s nice, and while he doesn’t know how to express that appreciation properly, he knows you know how much it means to him. You always seem to know him better than he realizes, and he thinks you can say the same about him.

-I also mentioned earlier that there’s the issue of him living in the fortress. I know most people headcannon he has a place above the surface, but that just doesn’t really feel in character for him. He has no real reason (before you) to have a home on the mainland of Fontaine, so why would he waste his time and money picking out and decorating a home when he lives in his office most days?

-After getting with you, though, he has to find a way to bridge that physical gap between the two of you more efficiently. Sure, he gets to see you nearly every day when you’re finished with work, but you always return to the surface, and he doesn’t get to wake up to you ever. 

-His solution? Sleep shifts. One night he’ll come up to your place on the surface, the next you’ll stay down with him. It’s not the most efficient method, but he isn’t going to make you stay in the fortress with him, and he can’t reasonably live above ground all the time in case something happens that needs his attention.

-He loves the domesticity of seeing you when he first wakes up. You look so good with your hair all messy and drool pooling on your pillow. It’s not something he’d ever been afforded in his life, so he savors the little moments that he gets to have with you. Frequently, you wake up to him stroking your hair tenderly, watching you with all the love in the world.

-Something else he really loves is making breakfast with you. Whether he’s cooking or you are, it doesn’t matter; dancing around the kitchen while pancakes cook on the stove is a fantasy he’d never imagined he’d be allowed to live out.

-Oh, he also loves it when you help him shave his facial hair. If you like it, he’ll let it grow out a little longer than he normally would, but Sigewinne always complains past a certain point. To keep both of you happy, he lets you shave him when you both have free time.

-Seated on the edge of the sink in the bathroom, he stands between your legs with his hands on your thighs, purring out sweet nothings as you carefully run the razor over the sensitive skin beneath his jaw. It’s a surprisingly intimate moment you get to share with him, somehow made romantic with the way he holds you so close and gazes at you with unspeakable affection.

-It takes a lot of trust to let someone hold a sharp blade to your neck, and while this isn’t the same thing, it’s got the same feel.

-Something to note about Wriothesley is just how gentle he is with you. Regardless of if you’re bigger than him or not, he handles you the same way. He’s never rough with you. He never grabs you, he never pushes you, and he doesn’t ever yell at you either.

-It’s important to him that you feel safe around him. He doesn’t want you to know the sheer terror he had to face as a young child, learning that he was going to be sold off and likely slaughtered by the people who were supposed to love him.

-He does love you, with no secret motive, and he spends every second with you, displaying that with every fiber of his being. Every touch is soft, every word is chosen carefully, and every act of service is made with complete consideration of what you want. It’s like he knows what you need far before you can even think of it, and he makes it seem so effortless. It’s not, though, it’s very intentional and just a silent gesture he uses to show you how much he cares.

-Even when you argue, Wriothesley does not raise his voice. You will never hear him speak to you the way he speaks to the prisoners of the Fortress. He respects you, even when he is angry or when you are screaming at him. His cold demeanor can come off as uncaring, but you come to realize that he is acting that way because he cares. He would never raise his voice to you, ever. He loves you too much to see you cower under the weight of that.

-This bleeds into his fierce need to protect you. You are an adult, you can take care of yourself, but boy, does he want to do it all for you.

-It’s not an ego thing, nor is it a power thing; he just really likes taking care of you. It isn’t even something that’s really obvious, mostly subtle little shows of care. Like him checking in and seeing if you’ve eaten, or massaging your knots out of your back, or letting you nap on his couch after a long day. It’s usually sweet manifestations like that.

-Usually.

-As the warden of the biggest prison system in Fontaine (the only prison system in Fontaine), Wriothesley has his fair share of people who wish him ill. Comes with the job description, and it isn’t like he didn’t have that even before taking his place as Duke of the Fortress. He can take the heat, it’s not an issue for him.

-What is an issue, however, is when that ire for him is turned toward you.

-Most times it’s just stupid prisoners making a passing comment, (which he doesn’t tolerate either, but doesn’t make a big show out of. A few sharp words shuts them up quickly enough.) You brush them off fine on your own, and you can pack a punch thanks to him, so he doesn’t worry much about them.

-The issue lies with those who mean to harm him. As the Duke of the Fortress and a Pankration champion, most prisoners know he’s pretty untouchable. They don’t have the influence to undo him, and they can’t beat him in a fight. There wasn’t much to hold against him… until there was you.

-It’s no secret to those living in the fortress just how much Wriothesley adores you, you’re quite the soft spot for him. It’s obvious that those who want to get to him would try to use you to achieve that. It’s just… they never really get far enough to do anything in most cases.

-Wriothesley is so attentive to you that he can just get in the way of any plans they might have. If he can’t stop them from trying, usually a show that he knows what they’re doing is enough to get them off you. But there are the brave, stupid few.

-If anyone, and I mean anyone, tries to cause you harm intentionally, they’re a dead man walking. The second they lay a hand on you, their life is essentially over. He’s not above beating the point into their skull if he needs to. Poor Sigewinne has quite a troublesome case on her hands after that.

-Forbid if they actually lay their hands on you. It takes all of his self-restraint not to kill them, which he does not do, because he has a lot of self-control. It doesn’t stop the thought from running through his mind over and over as he escorts them to a high-security cell, though.

-While he cannot legally kill anyone, he works very hard to keep them locked up and stuck with him for as long as possible. They also become a social recluse in the Fortress, as most prisoners and employees are rather fond of you.

-It’s not a side of himself he’s proud of, which is why he tries his best not to let you see it, but it’s part of him nonetheless. He just cannot afford to lose you for any reason. You are the most important thing in his life, and losing you would devastate him to a point he’s never seen before. 

-Other than that, he is usually a very gentle and loving man, wholly devoted to your relationship.

-He values any time that he gets to spend with you, be that sitting quietly in his office doing things separately but together, or having you settled in his lap as he works. It doesn’t matter much so long as he has you there. 

-Speaking of, he is very physically affectionate. You wouldn’t imagine him to be, but with a partner, he just has a need to touch. He’ll settle a hand on your waist, an arm around your shoulder, press a kiss to your temple, pull you into his lap as he works, and pretty much anything that he can get from you, he’ll take.

-Something particularly charming is that when he passes you, he’ll pull you to the side so that he can kiss you. Then he moves on with his day like nothing happened. It leaves you flustered, but it’s so sweet that you can’t find yourself getting mad about it.

-He’s also a tease, through and through. He’s always poking fun at you and making silly comments to get you to smile. It’s just the way he expresses comfort around people, but he really knows how to get under your skin.

-Don’t worry, though, for as much as he can annoy you, he’s doubly sweet and caring. He always knows what you need far before you need it, and if he doesn’t, he makes sure that he can get what you need done as soon as possible.

-He’s reliable, a sturdy rock for you to lean on when you need someone there for you. While you have some issues, what couple doesn’t? Wriothesley is more than willing to go through whatever highs and lows with you, so long as it means both of you can stay happy in love for as long as possible.

NSFW :3c

-Wriothesley’s relationship with sex isn’t something that he likes to talk about for a multitude of reasons.

-He’s not some touch-starved helpless virgin, but he also isn’t the most experienced. Most of his experience in bed comes from a mutual need to get off when he was still a prisoner, a sort of agreement between him and a select few partners that kept them satisfied.

-It was rough and aggressive and honestly a little shameful looking back on it now, not something he really wanted to think about too hard. Certainly not how he wanted to have sex with you, it felt too… disconnected from his feelings.

-He also didn’t want to force things; your first time should be natural, but also intimate. He wanted to lay you out on his (or your, whichever was closest) bed and take his time with it, not bend you over his desk and make you take it. (He could do that, if you wanted him to, but not for your first time together. He was really trying not to live up to the hardened prison warden stereotype, after all.)

-Even with his own expectations in mind, he mostly wanted it to feel good. He wanted things to flow together without needing to push or pull, and he didn’t want you to feel like you had to do anything for him. 

-Yeah… the level-headed Wriothesley was 100% overthinking things. You can’t blame him, though! He’s never really had sex for anything more than a feeling, and he wanted you to feel loved, not like you were an object for his own pleasure.

-This leads to him subconsciously rebuffing your advances like an idiot. You weren’t in the right place, he didn’t have any protection, it was getting too late, blah blah blah. He kept making excuses in his head as to why you wouldn’t want to have sex, when it was really him complicating things needlessly.

-Luckily for you, you had an ace up your sleeve! Sigewinne, your little gossip buddy in the fortress, heard all your woes of Wriothesley potentially not finding you attractive enough to have sex with. He seemingly never wanted to be with you, no matter what you tried or how eager you seemed.

-She shows up to his office one day with a box of condoms and some lube and tells him to get it over with or she’ll have to mix up a special little remedy to deal with it herself.

-Not wanting his first time with you to be under the influence of an aphrodisiac, he takes the hint and mentally prepares to make a move. He’s still nervous as hell because there are a million what-ifs running through his head, but the second you walk through his office doors, it’s like all of that melts away.

-Having the thought of “I’m going to do this” rather than “Should I do this” really helped him out. His usual confident and assured demeanor is back, and when you seem to imply you’d like to spend some alone time in his bedroom together, he tosses you over his shoulder (playfully, of course) and does just that.

-He allows you to take the lead the first time, mostly because he needs to figure out what you like before he can confidently guide you. So, lucky you, one of your first sexual encounters with him is sucking his dick! (The little “Oh wow” you let out seeing his size was an ego booster for sure. The following: “You think it’ll fit?” made his head as big as his dick.)

-He’s someone who learns over time, so it takes him a few times with you before he starts actively pursuing sex. He takes note of things he does that seem to get you hot and bothered. Like the way he tugs at his tie when he’s feeling overworked, or how you stare shamelessly as his arms while he’s moving things around, oh and his ass of course. That’s a fan favorite, it seems.

-It’s a slow thing, but over time, he starts using those little ticks against you. When he’s feeling needy, he makes you feel needy too. There’s a nice sense of pride he gets when you pursue him, especially when he knows you weren’t the one in the mood first.

-It’s also nice to know that he isn’t pushing any boundaries when you come to him for sex first, so he really only engages you like that if he’s sure it’s something you want. He would rather live through a hundred life sentences than ever make a move that you don’t want.

-It’s really sweet, but it can result in him getting… pent up rather frequently. The two of you already rarely have time for sex, and his suppressing his desire doesn’t exactly help either of your positions at all.

-It makes sessions after longer periods without sex come off as more… rough than he would like. He really does want to be gentle and loving with you, but he also really likes the feel of bending you in half. Quite the conundrum he’s got himself in.

-He’ll bring this fact up to you, and if you give him the okay to be rough? Well, have fun! 

-Wriothesley likes it rough, as much as he wishes he could be the sweet, loving, gentle partner all the time, he can’t help that his brain lights up like a switchboard when he sees you struggling so hard against him. It stems from all that time he spends being in control of the prison; it’s very hard for him to let that go, even for you.

-Still, communication is much more important to him. You have very long conversations with him about what is and is not okay, establish a safeword that both of you can easily remember in the heat of the moment, and always make sure that both of you understand that one of you can say no at any time and it’s done.

-So, what does he like?

-Well, he likes it when you fight him. Be that verbally or physically, the fastest way to get him hot and bothered is to act like a brat. You can show that you’re smart and witty, which is already attractive enough to him, but having you intentionally get under his skin? You'd better hope no one will be needing him anytime soon.

-He has fun putting you in your place and reminding you who exactly tops who in the relationship. He even entertains you sometimes, letting you think you’re getting away with your smart ass mouth, only to suddenly bend you over his desk and remind you of your position with him.

-He doesn’t talk much, though, so don’t expect him to verbally degrade you. He thinks the position and the rough treatment should be enough to get the message across. Sometimes he might growl out a little comment about how desperate you are for him, but otherwise he’s mostly grunts and groans. 

-If you physically fight back against his hold, it excites him more. It’s very unlikely you could overpower him, so all of your efforts are futile, and yet you still seem to try every single time. You push and punch and squirm, but it always ends the same way with your legs over his shoulders and hands pinned above your head.

-It’s also a given he’s into restraining you. With his need for control and easy access to legitimate prison-grade restraints, there’s just no way he doesn’t use that to his advantage. Usually, he’ll just cuff your hands to the headboard or behind your back, but occasionally he’ll bring out more heavy-duty stuff at your begging.

-Oh, that’s another thing. He won’t ever ask you to do it, because it’s an odd request in his eyes, but he loves it when you beg. He’ll get you teary-eyed and whining, and the only way to get him to snap out of his teasing is to beg him to let you cum. It works like a charm every single time.

-He also loves to overstimulate you to the point of tears. He can spend hours between your legs pushing you over the edge and watching you cum over and over for him. He thinks you’re so cute when you whine at him like that, and if you don’t tell him to stop, he probably won’t.

-He doesn’t even care about his own pleasure; he’s just so obsessed with watching you fall apart under his touch. His cold blue eyes will stare you down through the whole ordeal, watching every little twitch of your expression with rapt attention. It’s wholly overwhelming to have his intense eyes watching your every little move, but so damn hot at the same time.

-If he isn’t looking at your face, he’s likely watching the way you take him. He just can’t stop himself from staring, it’s an addicting sight to see how he sinks into you over and over – be that his fingers or his cock, it doesn’t matter. It’s mesmerizing all the same.

-And if you pleasure yourself for him? All the better. It’s nice to see you struggle to get off when he knows he can do it so much faster than you can. Almost cute the way you pout up at him when you were the one who asked him to keep his hands to himself.

-He likes to feel you, too, most of the time putting you in positions where as much skin as humanly possible is touching. The way your body reacts beneath his touch is dizzying, he can feel the pleasure twitching through your muscles as he holds you close. Oh, and feeling the air force its way out of your lungs as his hand wraps around your throat is another kind of addiction he didn’t know existed.

-The last, rather odd kink he has, one that he’s very ashamed of, is that he’s huge on smelling you. He’d lean down between your legs and just get a whiff if he could, but since that would be a bit too obvious, he settles for burying his nose into your shoulder and smelling your sweat-slick skin that way.

-Doesn’t stop him from sneaking your used underwear and pocketing it for later use – usually when he’s having a particularly rough day, he’ll bring it out and get a nice long sniff of you. Always gets his ass going until he can see you again and really let his stress out.

-Now, I mentioned earlier that he’s pretty impressive in size, and I wasn’t joking. He’s big for a regular human man. About six and a half inches long, his dick curves upward and slightly to the right, perfect for abusing your gummy little walls. He has several veins, the most prominent being one along the left side of it stopping about halfway up. 

-He’s slightly darker than his actual complexion, and his tip is a pretty light red color, flatter than most other men's. The stretch he gives you is instant, as he only flares out a little from the tip. He’s about 5 inches around, too, meaning he’s not just long. Also, he’s uncircumcised, so do with that what you will.

-He knows how to keep a good balance between rough and soft, and he’s usually more intuitive about what you’re looking for in a given session than what he’s looking for from you. He doesn’t want you to think he only wants you for your body, and as such, he tries to make at least one session in a week soft and gentle if he has the time.

-Sex is a stress reliever for him, yes, but it’s also an expression of trust and love from both of you. He trusts you enough to let you see him in such a vulnerable state, and you trust him enough to treat you the way he does, because you know he would never go out of his way to hurt you ever.

[no34t1ng]

ASAP I'm feeling a bit lost and could really use some help. I was just underweight before, but now I’ve gained most of it back. I currently weigh around 48 kg and my goal is to reach 35 kg. I'm looking for a sustainable and efficient strategy—I want to focus on the process rather than obsess over the goal. What kind of exercise should I do, and what would be a reasonable budget? I’m 155 cm tall. My goal is to be out of the 40s range by August. And I can't lose in June. Thank you so much for your effort<3

hiiii lovelyyy💞🦭

omg babe im so glad u said u wanna find a sustainable and efficient way to l0se w31ght lol🤧🤧💕

first off, based on ur stats, i calculated ur ⒷⓜⓇ to be around 1187-1200

so the safest way is: 34t around ur ⒷⓜⓇ daily, and then create the d3ficit by working out, way safer & helps av0id b1ng1ng too 👩‍🍼👩‍🍼👩‍🍼

for f00d: don’t force urself to 34t 100% healthy right away. let ur b0dy ease into it day by day, that’s way more sustainable!🦦🦦

for workouts, i think u should try working out at home:

•in the morning, do some light stretches to loosen up

•if u have time in the afternoon, try gentle yoga

•at night, do c4rdio + c0re workouts

•then massage ur legs + stretch again before bed

and get at least 7 hours of sleep!!🦧🦧🐾

(that’s literally the routine i’m on rn too, it’s soft and pretty chill tbh 🍤😭)

after a while, u’ll pl4teau, when that happens, do a little ref33d/ch3at day and switch up ur workouts!🤧💗

but only do it for 1–2 days max!!

and lastly: drink enough water every day, babe!!! hydration is everything 💞🦧🦦🦭

hope u get itttt⭐💕🚶‍♀️🐧🦫ilyyyy

[coolwyous]

Let's say there were balloons everywhere on the floor from the aftermath of a party. How would each KATSEYE react and do if you told them to pop a balloon?

sophia: organizes the kats using the power of teamwork to get rid of all the balloons, each member is in charge of a diff color and they get it done so fast and efficiently, she distracts everyone by singing a clean up song like a damn preschool teacher. she thanks them all afterwards and volunteers to sweep up whatever is left over. i love my organized leader!

manon: complains bc she wasn't the one who threw the party and doesn't get why she has to be the one to clean it up (she makes a good point lowkey...) does it begrudgingly but takes forever bc she keeps sucking the helium out of each balloon

lara: agrees to help but ends up just being in the way of everyone bc she won't stop chatting them up, probably only pops like 2 balloons total altogether bc she's too busy giggling being cute. it was also prob her party that she threw and somehow she does 0 of the cleanup but its ok bc she's smiling sooooo pretty the whole time she's distracting everyone, thanking them for helping.....

megan: has a good attitude about helping but takes forever bc she's goofing off. (also sucks the helium out of the balloons but somehow ends up choking on a piece of the latex and the girls have to do the heimlich on her. sophia makes her sit out for the rest of the cleanup and watch from the corner like she's in time out.)

daniela: screams each time someone pops a balloon for at least like 10 mins. screams literally EACH time. even if they explicitly tell her "dani i'm popping another one" she still screams. drama queen fr

yoonchae: does it quickly and without complaining, but finds the BIGGEST possible knife in the house to use to pop them each. is lowkey smiling by the end of her stabbing spree lmao

[six-eyed-samurai]

I had an idea for a bonten oneshot where the bonten members try to strike a deal with a reader who has the same role as Kuro the information broker from gachiakuta!

You don't have to it if you don't want! Take your time! I love your posts!

<3

SUMMARY: Bonten gets a little more than they bargained for. A/N: SORRY IM SO LATE I've actually thought about this idea a lot and how could I not add Kuro's iconic car chase >:) Ironically I love cars and racing but I'm ready to throw up the moment my dad speeds over a bump... WARNINGS: Reader highkey a lil shit here

🌸How'd the old saying go again? If you make a deal with the devil, be prepared to lose your soul, wasn't it?

🌸The situation Bonten’s found themselves in was exactly like that, except you look nothing like a devil and they'd probably lose everything but their souls and this was less like a deal and more of a one sided battle when all the odds were NOT in their favour.

🌸You've got that kind of glib coyness about you, a pretty person's absolute faith in everyone's helpless chivalry - if not because of it and your importance to their current problem, Sanzu would've probably murdered you on the spot for making them all wait so long for you to show up. Your apologies are about as real as the flowers in the meeting room's vase, but everyone grits their teeth and accepts it. You're annoying to deal with, oh so very manipulative and mysterious and does “straight answer with a reasonable price” just not exist in your book?

🌸But you're a pretty thing, and even if you sweetly threaten the Haitani brothers with your knowledge of their addresses, bank account passwords and what they ate for breakfast they're going to try and flirt with you anyway.

🌸“Don't piss off the information broker.” Mikey's words always went in one ear and out the other when it came to you. Then again you love toying with their buttons, so whose fault is it really?

🌸It sounds so wrong to say but Ran has no shame in saying his type is someone who hates him, wriggling his eyebrows in your direction suggestively. You occasionally behave like all those gushy-giggly girls from the clubs, true, but at least you've got bite, not falling all over yourself to climb into his bed. You're a goddamn expensive tease, Rindou would grumble as you somehow managed to manipulate him into playing cards and gambling everything in his wallet away, AGAIN - the info you've given better be good, if this is the price.

🌸Koko probably hates you the most. Your smile, directed at him, is wide and you absolutely know that. It's probably because he's the one handling finances and dealing with you was like handling a vacuum that just. Won't. Stop. Sucking up all their money and ruining the budget! Every time he's forced to settle your payment, he's in his own personal hell. Why make his life easy by naming a simple price and payment, when you could demand he buy you a new car and cover all expenses that come with it, petrol, repairs, insurance?

“Why can't we just give you thirty thousand for this?” Koko groaned and rubbed his temples. One tiny slip of paper from you cost him several grey hairs and out the window the budget goes again.“It won't kill you to be straightforward, will it?”

“It'll kill me to be boring.” You lean forward and pat his cheek condescendingly.

You're lucky you're the best in the information business. The only thing Koko can grudgingly like about you is that you're efficient and you're never wrong.

🌸Kakucho isn't that fond of you either. You're too wily and cunning for his liking, always with some double agenda with your demands. Or maybe he doesn't like you because he once was unlucky enough to be assigned to take you out on your latest shopping spree and you ditched him the moment some thugs showed up, leaving him flailing while trying to protect all the bags you'd make him carry.

“Hey, hey, don't be mad, I'm sure your boss will be even madder if he found out I got in a, ah, little scuffle and bumped my head, therefore losing your insider information on Harashima Corporations, wouldn't he?”

🌸Ironically you like him the most. Probably because Kakucho is Kakucho and he's reluctantly the nicest to you. Not that being your favourite is fun - you're always requesting him whenever you show up with that irritating little wave and a sing-song “Morning, Kaku-chan ~” The ruder he is to you (which isn't much; it's Kakucho, what did you expect?) the more you'll just wipe a “tear” from your eye and chuckle to yourself..

He's not sure how to feel about you, honestly, because on one hand you save them a lot of trouble with your info…but is playing your ridiculous games worth it?

🌸Funny enough Sanzu tolerates you the most and yours and his interactions are by far the most peaceful, most cordial. Perhaps it's because he's crazy and murderous enough that even you're a little wary of playing around with him, especially after the little incident when you'd called him “Rosie” on your first meeting. You learnt to watch your mouth (and your hands) after that around him, even in more often than not you fail.

🌸Or perhaps it's because Mikey finds you useful, useful enough to keep you around and call you to Bonten's aid constantly, so by extension Sanzu finds you useful and so he won't decapitate you - whatever pleases Mikey, right? (You fixed the haircare trauma he suffered after Baji, even unintentionally, that’s why.)

🌸He’s actually fun to be around though sometimes! You, him and the Haitani brothers, on the occasional day you all share a brain cell (or you manipulate them all into sharing it with you) are a new source of fear for Tokyo’s underworld…and a headache for the rest of the executives.

🌸But right now, you’re a headache for all the executives. For a few measly documents, you want a what?!

“Are you deaf? I thought I was pretty clear, hmm.” The audacity of you, even checking your nails at a time like this! “I said, if you want the info, race me. If you win, I’ll give it to you and our next deal will be a hundred per cent free of charge.”

“And if we lose?”

“Well, you can start by giving me VIP access to all your clubs.” Your smile is angelic; your wink at the Haitani brothers was anything but innocent. “So? Race, no race?”

🌸Unfortunately yes race.

🌸They can’t legally say it out loud, per se, but they’re actually…pretty hyped up about a motorcycle race. It’s been so long since they’ve had any fun, what did you expect?? Except Koko. Koko declared he’d washed his hands of this affair, but apparently he had snitched after all - Mikey showed up right as it was about to start, deadpan as ever and demanding to know what the hell was going on?

You clap your hands, a little celebratory “yay”. “Mikey! Glad you could join us - had a feeling Koko might rat us out, or you might’ve noticed I pulled a couple strings to get them to close off this road.”

He stops short in front of your bike. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t blame them, they’re only upholding their end of the deal if you all want those documents.” Tantalizingly you produce a USB drive from your pocket and wave it around carelessly. “Want to race? I’m afraid only one of you can though. I’m not that arrogant.”

“…you know I could just get those documents from you another way, right?” It’s matter of fact, the way he says it. You know it’s true. He could simply put a gun to your head, throw you in jail, torture you, et cetera et cetera. But he won’t and you know it.

“You could try. But too bad this thing will die with me if anything should happen - and who else will do your dirty work for you in the future?”

“…fine.”

“I knew you’d see it my way!” You patted his head condescendingly. “I’ll explain the rules now-”

“But you’re racing against me.”

Well. Things just took an interesting turn.

🌸One look is enough to silence the protests from Sanzu and Kakucho, to quieten the grumblings from the Haitani brothers; but maybe it was for the best. Reluctantly they moved away from their own bikes and let their boss examine them to pick one, heading off to the sidelines under your direction - “No, no, Ran, you can’t stand there, stand here.” Mikey was the invincible Mikey after all. In what universe could he possibly lose to you, especially in a biking race? You’d be an idiot to try-

🌸(Except…you’re not an idiot. You already guessed Koko ratted them out. You would’ve known Mikey would show up…could you have guessed he’d join too? What’s your game here?)

🌸“It’s very simple, Mikey! All Bonten has to do is stand on the finish line before me, or else the drive stays with me and I get VIP benefits to every single club you own for free.” You clap and secure on your helmet, flashing him one last cheeky grin. “Think you can do that?”

“Ready, set, go!”

🌸Mikey should’ve known from the start racing with you would never have been that straightforward - doing anything on your turf and terms never was. You were fast in your own right, and in any other circumstances Mikey might’ve been able to overtake you.

🌸But nooooo. You just had to make things harder by conveniently forgetting to mention the obstacles in place; pedestrians were still around to avoid and gawk, and you had decided to use the road with the most potholes in all of Tokyo, little shit that you are. You’ve got the upper hand here, already aware about all the things you’ve set on his path and easily dodging and swerving, even turning back to give him a little wave.

🌸Yet, this is the most fun Mikey’s had in a while…he’s almost forgotten the feeling. (What feeling? This feeling, just like when they were all younger and freer and just running around Tokyo on their old bikes, thinking Toman was their whole world, before anyone had di-)

🌸Then, incredibly, impossibly -

“…you won. You - you won.”

🌸At this point you’ve got the whole Bonten ready to get on their knees and start the worship because holy sweet mother of god you beat Mikey. Mikey. MIKEY. They probably would too, if everyone wasn’t too busy gaping like you like a couple of goldfish, something you’re quick to point out with a cheeky, tongue-out expression that could rival Koko’s. “Hey, close your mouths before a fly builds a nest.”

“And I didn’t win. I said first to stand on the finishing line wins, didn’t I?” Your grin widens. “Check your feet~”

“What-”

Oh. You minx. You had Ran standing on the finishing line before the race even started.

“HEY -” Hello?! You won the race? What is this roundabout loophole?!

Aaand you’re off, motorbike revving and leaving them in the dust like the badass mystery that you are, USB drive neatly thrown into the air and caught by a shell-shocked Mikey. “Ta! I had fun, I look forward to our next deal!”

🌸…god, what a pain in the ass you are to make deals with. A regular devil indeed.

BONUS:

“-cheeky, tongue-out expression that could rival Koko’s-”

The white-haired Bonten executive sneezed violently in his office, grabbing a tissue hastily. What the…did someone mention his name? The dumbass author who can’t end this oneshot properly probably…Holy shit. What was this sudden chill he felt down his spine? There was nothing in the office - why did everything feel so scary suddenly?!

“-motorbike revving and leaving them in the dust-”

“JESUS, STOP BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL!”

I’m sorry.

[themeraldee]

Awkward sex prompt: homelander figuring out how to control his strength with a human reader, who still wants rough sex, but would prefer to be alive at the end of it.

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 1.2k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Realistic sex. Communicating during sex. Choking. Penetration (but not specified). Fluff at the end.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“But I want you to.” 

It really should have been no surprise to Homelander when you requested he goes a little rougher on you in bed. At first he was taken aback, stopping the pace he was fucking into you with, jerking his head back as if offended, choking on his breath in surprise. You know who he is, bringing up the use of his strength is no small ask. But you’ve shown the signs before. He could hear the spike in your heart rate anytime he’d showcase the incomprehensible strength he possesses. Whether it was him moving heavy objects, accidentally bending steel frames in his penthouse or breaking furniture—like that one time he ripped the headboard off during a particularly fine blowjob—you loved it. Though he never thought that your dirty little thoughts went straight to him using that strength on you. 

“What if I can’t hold back?” He looks down where you’re right below him, all flushed and spread out for him. He’s been giving you a damn good time but it’s like you can never get enough of him. Always wanting more, more, more.

“You can. You’ve been doing it your entire life. Adding a tiny bit more pressure isn’t gonna change anything.”

The one thing Homelander loves about you the most is the pure trust you have in him. After all you’ve seen of him you still believe that there’s no world in which he would purposefully hurt you. So to hear you all but beg for him to use strength that has more than decimated many gets his heart soaring. The feeling of acceptance and unconditional love blooms warm in his chest spreading all the way out to the fingertips currently wrapped around your neck.

“Come on, what’s the point of being the strongest man in the world if you can’t rough me up a bit? I’ll tell you if it’s too painful okay?”

Your hand sat on top, your fingers tracing over his as you squeezed your hand.

“A little more.” You guide him verbally and manually. Your hand is still squeezing around his own until you reach a point where you’re satisfied with his confidence to do this himself and you pull your hand away. “Yeah, that’s it.” You squeak out a little breathlessly as he restricts your airflow.

“That’s good?” He asks, choking on his words halfway at the way you squeeze around him while he’s still lodged firmly inside you. He jerks with his movement, giving you a very short snappy thrust but after your little intermission where you taught him how to choke even this little sensation made you moan.

Homelander’s eyes widen when he realizes the sheer potential of your request. Not only could he hear your heartbeat, your shaky breaths and moans, he could now also feel them. Right against his fingertips. The moan vibrated against his hot skin, your heartbeat constantly thrumming all around him. He felt it in the way you were tight and clenching around him and now he felt it under his grip.

He released his hand a little, settling the palm of it in between your collarbones.

“See? Wasn’t that good? I love feeling your strength, let me have a little more of it.” You say it with such conviction, inviting him in, accepting him exactly—no, especially—because of the way he is.

The last thing Homelander wants is to not be able to fulfill your needs. As much as the thought of hurting you—actually hurting you—kills him, if it’s something you find excitement in he’ll be damned if he doesn’t deliver.

He pulls you down the length of the bed a little bit to give himself more space and with a grin he pins your wrists above your head, holding them down against the mattress with little effort. He knows he’s doing something right when that startles you, you let out a cute yelp that quickly turns into a moan. God, he could eat you up with the way you’re looking at him. But he’s gonna need to leave that for round two. Now he’s here to fulfill a wish.

He slowly picks up the pace. He’s thrusting slow and deep while his other hand freely explores your body underneath him, giving it generous squeezes as he goes. He’s testing the give of you. Learning where he can apply the pressure you so desperately crave. 

He’s fucking into your faster now, grunting at the sheer heat of you surrounding his cock with every slide. His hand glides up your body, settling back on your neck. He gives you a look as if he was warning you of what’s to happen. Yet he still manages to catch you off guard. With the snap of his hips and the iron-clad grip of his hand your eyes widen in what Homelander only translates to fear.

Immediately, he lets go.

“Why did you stop?!” You look at him, your own hand gliding across where his hand was squeezing a second ago, as if to chase the phantom feeling, recreating it yourself.

“Why did I stop? You got scared and I don’t want to fucking kill you!” He sounds angry but it’s mainly to hide the genuine worry that comes with this irresponsible play. It’s already hard for him to hold back anytime you’re having normal sex. Wanting him to rough you up conjures very different imagery in either one of your minds.

“Baby, the scary part is the best bit. I know you’ll stop before it’s too much. You can feel the give of my body. Let yourself feel that, okay?” You say softly, soothing his fears. In your entire relationship he’s not managed to hurt you, you don’t imagine it was about to start now.

“Now come on, I wanna cum with your hand around my neck.” You give him a cheeky smile that breaks him out of any doubts he had about manhandling you the way you’ve requested.

He’s given you exactly what you’ve asked for. Just enough squeeze and pressure that you feel so overwhelmed with the greatness of his presence pinning you down and nearly squeezing the life out of you that you succumb to your release. Homelander follows you there, unable to hold off after seeing the way you look at him with such adoration right after he let your airways open fully and you regained your senses. 

After you’re both beyond blissed out you snuggle up to one another, locking the jigsaw pieces of your bodies together.

Homelander traces a finger across the bruised finger marks wrapping around your neck. Part of him relishes in the way he’s managed to brand you where you won’t be able to hide it easily. Even with a scarf or a turtleneck, any slight move of the garment will expose the impressive size of your lovingly placed bruises. 

The other part of him isn’t that happy about it.

“I hurt you.”

“Duh! I wanted you to!” You scoff as if it was the most obvious thing.

His fingers trace over them some more before he leans in, placing a soft kiss against the marred skin.  

“You’re fucking crazy.” He lets out a little disbelieving laugh as he pulls you closer into his arms.

“Yeah, you’ve been rubbing off on me.”

“Nope, this is all you.” 

“Maybe. Hey, can we try spanking next?”

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander story): @infinetlyforgotten  @rafecamsgirlll @nervoussystemss

[hollowedhusk]

Alright, I'm gonna say something, and I take no criticism.

Is it just me or do Commander Fox (clone not the furry) and Noble Six give off some similar trauma vibes.

[sleepsucks]

Not sure if you really do asks but I wanted to know; how you do your little comics?

They’re so high quality, with the painterly style and all, and you seem to make so many of them!

my ask policy is i'd like to do em better but generally if i dont reply instantly or have an easy answer i'll let them gather dust in the box and fail to ever get to it

luckily for this one i have an easy way out since i can just point you to the post i made on that a while ago which is pretty much entirely still valid

[simonbrain]

it doesn't matter how quietly you attempt to get off at night; your lieutenant is always listening, always grumpy about the pretty sounds disturbing his slumber.

you were embarrassed when he brought it up to you (keep it down, can't fuckin' sleep with oll tha' racket), so you opted to not use your vibrator the next night, instead using your fingers like some lady from the 1800's. it wasn't as efficient, but it did the job, and you were knocked out after a few orgasms.

you think you're doing good, as he doesn't confront you about your nightly activities for a few days after that. not until one morning when he pulls you over to an obscured area outside, not paying any mind to your stumbling and hissing.

even with the mask on, you can tell he's scowling. "how many times do i 'ave to tell you to keep it down?" he grumbles, peering down at you through golden eyelashes. his head tilts as he speaks, and you have to force yourself to not squeeze your thighs together in front of your superior officer. "i can hear tha' wet cunt through the walls every night—are you tha' thirsty for it, pet?" a finger clips onto your belt loop, and you're being tugged closer, a chuckle rumbling from him when he takes notice of how flustered you're getting.

you've never wanted to explode into tiny pieces more in your life than this moment. your cheeks feel hot, and you can only stare up at him and watch as his gaze roams down your body. heated. predatory.

"i— i don't want—" you try to deny what you know is inevitable because ghost always gets his way, but it's thrilling to watch how he pushes his body against yours, the smell of him overpowering your rational thoughts. he only peels the mask high enough to free his mouth before he's shoving his tongue down your throat, a gloved hand finding its way to the front of your pants.

that night, when you crawl into bed with a fully charged vibrator, warmth already swirling in your belly, you think about how ghost's hands felt on your body. how he so meanly nudged the fat head of his cock in until he was fully sheathed, stretching you so thin you swear he was going to split you apart.

("there we go," he coos—or rather snarls at you, thick fingers filling up your mouth because you were whining too loud for his liking. "knew you wanted this fuckin' cunt stuffed full o'me," he groans while pawing at your chest, harsh pants hitting your ear. "tha's why you're so loud, innit? nasty fuckin' thing.")

how he kissed you like he was trying to consume you, licking into your mouth with such fervour, you were surprised he hadn't already burst into flames. he resembles a brick more than an actual human sometimes, but patience has always been his strongest quality.

you really shouldn't be surprised when ghost pours into your room while you're making yourself dizzy with thoughts of him, your brain liquifying on the pillow from the constant delicious vibrations against your throbbing clit. the sound of the door being kicked shut behind him startles you as he stalks over to your bed.

"i'm starting to think you like pissing me off." he growls softly, the bed squeaking underneath his weight. the vibrator is still buzzing against you, and you swallow when his eyes drop down to the soft, wet mess between your legs. "get on your fuckin' knees, girl."

[teaboot]

This is gonna sound rather conceited but I feel like it highlights an issue we have in Art.

I'm good at art. I've never had a hard time making art. I started using crayons before I could walk. Painting, Beadwork, sculpture, sketching, stippling, whatever- once I have a feel for the material, it doesn't take long to start doing what I want with it. It's been a common theme my whole life.

(Y contrast I'm awful at things like dancing, performance, sports, etc- in all things there is balance, right?)

Now, I've taught myself to use so many artistic mediums now that I KNOW how to most efficiently integrate them into the brain database. Once you really *understand* a material, it's much like memorizing the layout of your house, or flexing a muscle, or something in-between- it becomes PART of your brain in a way I cant quite articulate. But to get there involves just fucking around for a bit doing nothing in particular.

And I've found, especially in group settings, that nobody seems to be able to see you make something badly and leave you alone. Even if you say you're fine, you don't want help, you're happy, you're having fun, it's fine, they gotta ride your ass and hover.

I was at a class the other day for something I hadn't done before. The medium was one I've never used, so once the instructor told us the basics I started experimenting with weight, gravity, texture, viscosity, saturation, temperature, etc. The instructor had given enough info to know what was dangerous and what was safe, and beyond that I just wanted to absorb what I could about it.

And no insult to the instructor, but they kept checking in. Which was fine the first few times.

But then, without asking me what I was trying to do, started giving tips. That I told them I was grateful for but didn't really need just yet. If I had a question, I'd ask.

But they kept coming over. And touching my shit. And manipulating my project. And touching my hands. And using my tools. Without fucking asking.

And this happens every time. EVERY TIME. And by now I know the best way to get them to fuck off is to make something way beyond their expectations so they know I'm capable, then go back to doing what I want.

So I did. I wanted to keep having fun and learning, but instead I made something beautiful that I really didn't want to make, and wasted my time, and really didn't learn what I wanted to learn at all. I knew the formula to create a beautiful thing, so I followed that formula the same way I have a hundred times before, and didn't get to try anything spontaneous or ugly or exciting, just so I could be left alone.

And I know when I was a kid, I was aware aware people saw me puttering alone on something ugly assumed I had a special issue and treated me like I was stupid because of that. (I was neurodivergent.) And at at time I knew that I could do a neat trick for them like a trained pony and they'd go, "Oh, surely they aren't defective if they can do something like that!" And piss off.

But what if I hadn't known how to do that?

What if I hadn't been talented, or "special"?

What if I'd been just any other average kid trying to learn, and I couldn't pop something pretty out of my ass to get them off my back?

My problem my whole life has been that I haven't been allowed to make anything ugly in peace. I'm capable of beauty, so I have to make beauty, or get stepped on. And once people see what I can do, they get loud about it. "Look at this! Look what they did! We all know who the best is, don't we?". And that used to feel good, but it's tiring.

And how many people like me just wanted to play? Just wanted to have fun and experiment? Who were having fun with no goal in mind, or just took longer to learn, who gave up because of all the obnoxious helpers breathing down their neck with no way to shake them off?

How many of us are made to feel defective because we aren't doing things beautifully?

I have a lovely piece of art I didn't want to make.

I think I'm gonna frame it.*

(*I think I'm gonna burn it in my yard.)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

All bets are off

When unions are outlawed, only outlaws will have unions. Unions don't owe their existence to labor laws that protect organizing activities. Rather, labor laws exist because once-illegal unions were formed in the teeth of violent suppression, and those unions demanded – and got – labor law.

Bosses have hated unions since the start, and they've really hated laws protecting workers. Dress this up in whatever self-serving rationale you want – "the freedom to contract," or "meritocracy" – it all cashes out to this: when workers bargain collectively, value that would otherwise go to investors and executives goes to the workers.

I'm not just talking about wages here, either. If an employer is forced – by a union, or by a labor law that only exists because of union militancy – to operate a safe workplace, they have to spend money on things like fire suppression, PPE, and paid breaks to avoid repetitive strain injuries. In the absence of some force that corrals bosses into providing these safety measures, they can use that money to pay themselves, and externalize the cost of on-the-job injuries to their workers.

The cost and price of a good or service is the tangible expression of power. It is a matter of politics, not economics. If consumer protection agencies demand that companies provide safe, well-manufactured goods, if there are prohibitions on price-fixing and profiteering, then value shifts from the corporation to its customers.

Now, if labor has few rights and consumers have many rights, then bosses can pass their consumer-side losses on to their workers. This is the Walmart story, the Amazon story: cheap goods paid for with low wages and dangerous working conditions. Likewise, if consumer rights are weak but labor rights are strong, then bosses can pass their costs onto their customers, continuing to take high profits by charging more. This is the story of local gig-work ordinances like NYC's, which guaranteed a minimum wage to delivery drivers – restaurateurs responded by demanding the right to add a surcharge to their bills:

https://table.skift.com/2018/06/22/nyc-surcharge-debate/

But if labor and consumer groups act in solidarity, then they can operate as a bloc and bosses and investors have to eat shit. Back in 2017, the pilots' union for American Airlines forced their bosses into a raise. Wall Street freaked out and tanked AA's stock. Analysts for big banks were outraged. Citi's Kevin Crissey summed up the situation perfectly, in a fuming memo: "This is frustrating. Labor is being paid first again. Shareholders get leftovers":

https://www.vox.com/new-money/2017/4/29/15471634/american-airlines-raise

Limiting the wealth of the investor class also limits their power, because money translates pretty directly into political power. This sets up a virtuous cycle: the less money the investor class has to spend on political projects, the more space there is for consumer- and labor-protection laws to be enacted and enforced. As labor and consumer law gets more stringent, the share of the national income going to people who make things, and people who use the things they make, goes up – and the share going to people who own things goes down.

Seen this way, it's obvious that prices and wages are a political matter, not an "economic" one. Orthodox economists maintain the pretense that they practice a kind of physics of money, discovering the "natural," "empirical" way that prices and wages move. They dress this up with mumbo-jumbo like the "efficient market hypothesis," "price discovery," "public choice," and that old favorite, "trickle-down theory." Strip away the doublespeak and it boils down to this: "Actually, your boss is right. He does deserve more of the value than you do":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/09/low-wage-100/#executive-excess

Even if you've been suckered by the lie that bosses have a legal "fiduciary duty" to maximize shareholder returns (this is a myth, by the way – no such law exists), it doesn't follow that customers or workers share that fiduciary duty. As a customer, you are not legally obliged to arrange your affairs to maximize the dividends paid by to investors in your corporate landlord or by the merchants you patronize. As a worker, you are under no legal obligation to consider shareholders' interests when you bargain for wages, benefits and working conditions.

The "fiduciary duty" lie is another instance of politics masquerading as economics: even if bosses bargain for as big a slice of the pie as they can get, the size of that slice is determined by the relative power of bosses, customers and workers.

This is why bosses hate unions. It's why the scab presidency of Donald Trump has waged all-out war on unions. Trump just effectively shuttered the National Labor Relations Board, unilaterally halting its enforcement actions and investigations. He also illegally fired one of the Democratic NLRB board members, leaving the agency with too few board members to take any new actions, meaning that no unions can be recognized – indeed, the NLRB can't do anything – for the foreseeable future:

https://www.npr.org/2025/01/28/nx-s1-5277103/nlrb-trump-wilcox-abruzzo-democrats-labor

Trump also fired the NLRB's outstanding General Counsel, Jennifer Abruzzo, who was one of the stars of the Biden administration, who promulgated rules that decisively tilted the balance in favor of labor:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

Trump is playing Grinch here – he's descended upon Whoville to take all the Christmas decorations, in the belief that these are the source of Christmas. But the Grinch was wrong (and so is Trump): Christmas was in the heart of the Whos, and the tinsel and baubles were the expression of that Christmas spirit. Likewise, labor rights come from labor organizing, not the other way around.

Labor rights were enshrined in federal law in 1935, with the National Labor Relations Act. Bosses hated – and hate – the NLRA. 12 years later, they passed the Taft-Hartley Act, which substantially gutted the NLRA. Most notably, Taft-Hartley bans "sympathy strikes" – when unions walk out in support of one another. Sympathy strikes are a hugely powerful way for workers to claim value away from bosses and investors, which is why bosses got rid of them.

But even then, bosses who were honest with themselves would admit that they preferred life under the NLRA to life before it. Remember: labor militancy created the NLRA, not the other way around. When workers didn't have the legal means to organize, they organized by illegal means. When they didn't have legal ways of striking, they struck illegally. The result was pitched battles, even bloodbaths, as cops beat and even killed labor organizers. Bosses hired thugs who committed mass murder – literally. In 1913, strikebreakers working for the Calumet and Hecla Mining Company started a stampede during a union Christmas party that killed 73 people, including many copper miners' children:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Italian_Hall_disaster

Workers didn't take this lying down. Violence was met with violence. Bombs went off outside factories and stately mansions. There was gunfire and arson. Bosses had to hire armed guards to escort them as they scurried between their estates and their fancy parties and their executive offices. The country was in a state of near-perpetual chaos.

The NLRA created a set of rules for labor/boss negotiations – rules that helped workers claim a bigger slice of the pie without blood in the streets. But the NLRA also had benefits for bosses: unions were obliged to play by its rules, if they wanted to reap its benefits. The NLRA didn't just put a ceiling over boss power – it also put a ceiling over worker militancy. Von Clausewitz says that "war is politics by other means," which implies that politics are war by other means. The alternative to politics isn't capitulation, it's war.

Trump has torn up the rules to the labor game, but that doesn't mean the game ends. That just means there are no rules.

The labor movement has many great organizer/writers, but few can match the incredible Jane McAlevey, who died of cancer last summer (rest in power). In her classic A Collective Bargain, McAlevey describes her organizer training, from a tradition that went back to the days before the National Labor Relations Act:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey was very clear that labor law owes its existence to union power, not the other way around. She explains very clearly that union organizers invented labor law after they invented unions, and that unions can (and indeed, must) exist separately from government agencies that are charged with protecting labor law. But she goes farther: in Collective Bargain, McAlevey describes how the 2019 LA Teachers' Strike didn't just win all the wage and benefits demands of the teachers, but also got the school district to promise to put a park or playground near every school in the system, and got a ban on ICE agents harassing parents at the school gates.

This wildly successful strike forged bonds among teachers, and between teachers and their communities. These teachers went on to run a political get-out-the-vote campaign in the 2020 elections and elected two Democratic reps to Congress and secured the Dems' majority. McAlevey contrasted the active way good unions involve workers as participants with the thin, anemic way that the Democratic Party engages with supporters – solely by asking them for money in a stream of frothing, clickbait text messages. As McAlevey wrote, "Workplace democracy is a training ground for true national democracy."

Militant labor doesn't just protect labor rights – it protects human rights. Remember: MLK, Jr was assassinated while campaigning for union janitors in Memphis. LA teachers ended ICE sweeps at the school gates. Librarian unions are leading the fight against book bans.

The good news is that public opinion has swung wildly in favor of unions over the past decade. More people want to join unions than at any time in generations. More people support unions that at any time in generations.

The bad news is that union leadership fucking suuuuuuuucks. As Hamilton Nolan writes, union bosses are sitting on vast, heretofore unseen warchests of cash, and they just experienced a four-year period of governmental support for unions unheard of since the Carter administration, and they did fuck all with that opportunity:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/confirmed-unions-squandered-the-biden

Big unions have effectively stopped trying to organize new workers, even when workers beg them for help forming a union. Union organizing budgets are so small as to be indistinguishable from zero. Despite the record number of workers who want to be in a union, the number of workers who are in a union actually fell during the Biden years.

Indeed, some union bosses actually campaigned for Trump, a notorious scab. Teamsters boss Sean O'Brien spoke at the fucking RNC, a political favor that Trump repaid by killing the NLRB and every labor enforcement action and investigation in the country. Nice one, O'Brien. See you in hell:

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2024/08/teamster-union-trump/679513/

Union bosses squandered a historical opportunity to build countervailing power. Now, Trump's stormtroopers are rounding up workers with the goal of illegally deporting them. Fascism is on the rise. Labor and fascism are archenemies. Organized labor has always been the biggest threat to fascism, every time it has reared its head. That's why fascists target unions first. Union bosses cost us an organized force that could effectively defend our friends and neighbors from Trump's deportation stormtroopers:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2025-01-28-trumps-lawbreaking-also-aimed-at-workers/

Not every union boss is a scab like O'Brien. Shawn Fain, head of the UAW, won an historic strike against all three of the Big Three automakers, and made sure that the new contracts all ran out in 2028, and called on other unions to do the same, so that the country could have a general strike in 2028 without violating the Taft-Hartley Act (Fain was operating on the now-dead assumption that unions had to play by the rules):

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/11/rip-jane-mcalevey/#organize

A general strike isn't just a strike for workers' rights. Under Trump, a general strike is a strike against Trumpism and all its horrors: kids in cages, forced birth, trans erasure, climate accelerationism – the whole fucking thing.

A general strike would build the worker power to occupy the Democratic Party and force it to stand up for the American people against oligarchy, rather than meekly capitulating to fascism (and fundraising), which is all they know how to do anymore:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/10/smoke-filled-room-where-it-happens/#dinosaurs

But before we can occupy the Dems, we have to occupy the unions. We need union bosses who are committed to signing up every worker who wants workplace democracy, and unionizing every workplace in spite of the NLRB, not with its help. We need to go back to our roots, when there were no rules.

That's the world Trump made. We need to make him regret that decision.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/29/which-side-are-you-on/#strike-three-yer-out

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[yanderedrabbles]

Thinking about getting into an accident - nothing too bad, just a little fender bender. But you've had a long day, and you give the guy a lot more attitude than you should.

Snapping that this wouldn't have happened if he didn't brake check you. Asking if he can even afford insurance or if you're supposed to pay for this shit out of pocket. Snarling that your daddy is going to sue the living daylights out of him.

Thinking about the yandere mechanic just off his shift who's too fucking tired to deal with your bullshit. Prissy fucking thing, ain'tcha? Thinking you're so much better than him. Sneering at his truck and his clothes like honest work is the filthiest thing you've ever seen.

Yandere mechanic who's been on the end of his rope for a while now. Pay is shit, boss is shit, can't hold onto a girl for the life of him. All he wants is to go home and have a cold beer. But no. Some little bitch is yelling at him.

Yandere mechanic who's spent his entire life on the the wrong side of the tracks. Kind of guy who's had more than a few run ins with the cops. Who's probably served a year or two in corrections, and who's barely holding onto his parole.

Yandere mechanic who finds himself reaching for the tire iron peeking out of his toolbox without even realising it. God, girls like you are the fucking worst. Prancing around in your short skirts and high heels and turning your nose up at anything that bothers you. Daddy's money bitch that needs to be taught a lesson. Needs to brought down a few pegs. Needs to be fucking humbled.

Yandere mechanic who swings the tire iron right at your temple, and never mind that his mama told him to never hit a woman.

You fold like a fucking marionette, passed out as his feet in less than five seconds. Still breathing, not convulsing. Good. Didn't hit you too hard.

Yandere mechanic who shoves his tools off the backseat and tosses you into his truck. Not so fucking mouthy now, are you? Who rips a pack of zip ties open with his teeth and ties you up with the same casual efficiency he uses to change a tire.

Your skirt rides up a little when he hauls you onto his backseat, and he runs his palm down your thigh before he slams the door. God, you've got such nice skin. Bet you taste like sugar and vanilla.

Yandere mechanic who takes you home and then comes back to dump your Audi way out in the sticks. Anything coulda happened to you. And if he's smart about it, no one will ever catch on that he was involved in your sudden and tragic disappearance.

I'm especially thinking about what it must be like to wake up after he knocks you out.

Your head pounding, your eyes aching. Confused. Disoriented. Not sure where you are or why you can't move your hands.

Thinking about noticing him for the first time, sitting in an armchair a little ways from the bed, legs spread and a beer dripping condensation at his feet. The room dark, the only light coming from the moon and his cigarette.

A real blue collar bastard, still in his wife beater and work pants, stained black with grease.

Just watching you.

The tip of his cigarette glowing with each pull and giving you a second or two to see his face - the mean smirk, the too jaded eyes.

"Not so fucking mouthy now, are you?"

You scream.

No use. It's muffled by the gag. Some random scrap of cloth that tastes of motor oil and digs into your cheeks. You try and sit up, but he's got you trussed up good and proper.

He watches you try and get loose, watches you thrash and scream and cry. Until your hair is all over your face and clinging to the tears on your cheeks.

Thinking about the way he grinds out his cigarette. Thinking about that last bit of light going out and the way it's like a kick to the face.

Thinking of the way he finally stands, and you realise just how big he is compared to you. Not pretty boy gym rat muscles either. But the hard shit you build hauling machinery and parts all day.

Thinking of the way he walks towards you, boots so damn heavy on the floorboards. Already reaching for his belt buckle.

"Gonna take real good care of sweetheart. Just gotta fuck all that attitude out first."

[hyckstarz]

breaking the rival code | l.mk

pairing. rival!mark lee x afab reader

word count. 6.1k

genre. smut · enemies to lovers trope · humour

synopsis. Mark had a way of getting on your nerves, to the point you'd even considered shutting him up for good. However, your best friend eventually planted a seed in your head that fucking your rival, and breaking the unspoken code, would be enough to finally end the long-standing feud.

warnings. 18+ minors do not interact, fingering, use of pet name (baby), choking, oral (fem receiving), haechan as best friend and instigator

A/N. i had this buried in my drafts for months but it had me screaming into my own pillow whenever i read it so, it couldn't stay unpublished for long.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Mark Lee," she's fuming, as per usual. Eyebrows tightly knit and throwing daggers with her hard glare while Mark just laughs, "It's due next week, and you haven't even written up a plan?!"

Mark rolls his eyes, his glasses almost slipping down his nose, doodling absentmindedly in his notebook, "Relax, that's 168 hours of time to work on it, it's nothing."

She sinks back into her chair, crossing her arms in that arrogant way — as Mark would describe it, "Actually, it's less than 84 hours if you factor in sleep, other classes you have to go to, and fucking surviving. Mark, do you take anything seriously?"

Mark rubs his face in frustration, facing her, "It's the first year; none of this counts towards our grade," he goes back to doodling small Spider-Man caricatures but, as always, he can't resist having the last word, "And you're too serious, princess. Live a little."

Small things like that always set her off. She was aware of how she came across but, when it involved Mark, she only ever saw red. She somehow manages to calm herself down, realising they're in the campus library and already earning a few curious, judgemental stares.

"Mark...," she manages to whisper somewhat loudly, leaning in close enough for him to feel her minty breath against his skin, "Can we please get most of this done today? I'd very much like to be free of your presence."

Mark chuckled under his breath, his dark eyes slowly drifting over her subtle features, raising a brow in amusement — the weight of his gaze caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. Finally, he gave in and pulled out his laptop. He began clicking through their assignment brief and taking notes down, surprising even her, who started doing the same. As English literature students, it was a given that they had to read a stack of novels and articles, even for an assignment worth 0% towards their final grade.

Yet even small victories in their relationship were rare. It was a miracle that they were somehow able to work through the tasks efficiently, though that moment was short-lived before they were at each other’s throats, with Y/N starting it again.

"Mark, we're meant to critically analyse, not describe. Do you have any working brain cells in that thick head of yours?" Her fingers twitched, as if to hold herself back from clenching her fists and knocking some ounce of sense into him.

He rolls his eyes in response, jaw hardening as he scowled at her, clearly not in the mood for their usual back and forth, "We need to have a synopsis of the texts, I don't know how else you expect me to include all of the relevant info without having a short paragraph in there."

She simply looks at him in disbelief, shaking her head as if he'd just said the most absurd thing ever, "Mark... do you really think we can afford a whole paragraph just on a summary?"

He just chuckles in response, clearly uncaring. She leaned forward, her fingers digging into the desk and turning white as she struggled to maintain her composure. Mark’s casual smile only fuelled her irritation, but she lets out a heavy sigh, judgy eyes flicking across his face.

"You're like those pretty dumb blondes; the only thing you've got going for you are your looks, sorry to say," she sneers, going back to taking notes, but she internally curses at herself for admitting she found him at least objectively attractive.

Mark pauses, head snapping to her, his eyes flicking over her features, trying to decipher what she'd just said, or if he'd even heard her correctly under the hushed whispers of the library. He spins the pencil in his hand, eyes narrowing at her as a smug expression tugs on the corners of his lips, "You think I'm good looking? I'm flattered."

Y/N gives him an exasperated glance, snorting at his sudden change in demeanour and sitting up to look at him straight on, "I know you took me for a fool, but a blind one too? Damn," she said with a sarcastic lilt.

When Mark doesn't respond, just a cocky smirk widening — his gaze intense — she feels her heart rapidly beat against her chest and, as a way to hide the effect he has on her, she rolls her eyes for the nth time that hour, clearing her throat and focusing back on her task, "If you weren't so annoying, or if you learnt how to shut your mouth and do things correctly, you'd have a lot more going for you," she sends him a glare, "But you don't, so your looks only take you so far, and that's below average in my books."

He mocks in response, "Wow, you read? How surprising."

This time, she couldn't hold herself back. Mark did have a way with getting under her skin, so well in fact, that it led to them being asked to leave the library, only furthering their frustration and anger towards one another.

It wasn't always like this, either. When Mark had first met her, he was a shy, slightly awkward teenage boy and, the first impression she had of him, was cute. He was incredibly sweet and outgoing; it was easy for him to make friends and that meant they easily got close too. The only problem was, they were so alike in all the wrong ways. He was just too competitive and stubborn, always aiming for the top, and so was she. It was only natural that friends turned to rivals, competing with one another over everything. With that being an understatement.

From whom could get to the cafeteria the fastest, to who could submit their assignment the earliest and get the highest grade? It was competition, after competition. Most would get exhausted after the first two or three, but for them, it was thrilling, though they'd never admit that to one another.

"I can't believe your loudmouth got us kicked out of the library," his jaw hardened as he met her intense gaze, "Can't you sit still and take comments with some sort of, I don't know, strength? Because clearly, you're so sensitive over such simple, meaningless words," He slings his bag over his shoulder, already walking off.

Only further proving his point, she chases after him, tugging at his arm so that he wouldn't get away.

"You're the one who can't let things go either, always needing to have the last word, what are you, a child?" she crosses her arms and nods her head with a questioning brow, as if to say, 'go on'.

Mark just scoffs, about to walk off before turning around, his hands moving in frustration as he glares down at her, "You- you're such a pain in the ass, you know that? You really know how to drive me crazy."

He's panting, frustration evident. But it was the way he was looking at her that threw her completely off balance. His narrowed eyes flicked to her lips, brows furrowed as though he were etching her features into his long-term memory. She felt her heart drumming in her chest.

Before she could respond, a familiar yet equally as annoying mutual friend of theirs appears, snickering at the pair and their usual quarrelling, "Jeez, can't you two just fuck already?"

"Shut the fuck up, Haechan" they both say in unison, tearing their gaze away from one another with a scowl.

Haechan only snorts, glancing between the pair with an amused brow, "Clearly there's some sexual tension that I'm interrupting here, it would explain why you look at each other like that," He leans in-between them, as if to reveal the biggest secret in history, "I bet you two dream about each other too — in, you know, that kinda way."

Mark just stands there, mouth agape and in disbelief at the absurdity Haechan was spewing, looking between the two. Y/N just scoffed, grabbing the man by his bag and pulling him away without so much of a word. Haechan waved a chaste goodbye to Mark as he was being dragged off to God knows where.

Someone was going to die today, and it was definitely Haechan.

It was quiet. Way too quiet. The coffee shop was empty, hence for the low whispers of the baristas in the far corner, and a cheeky Haechan sitting before her, happily drinking his iced tea after telling his two closest friends that they should fuck each other. She groans, letting her head fall into the palm of her hands.

Usually, this coffee shop was a place where she could find peace and solitude. It was bright, with large windows that let light in all throughout the day, creating a florescent streak of amber and pink through the thin stickers attached to the panels. The colour schemes could easily brighten one's day as whites and pinks peppered along the walls.

The foliage brought life to what would otherwise seem like a cold, simple design, and the bakery added a subtle hint of beige, creating a natural environment. But the best thing about any coffee shop, was the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, and the sounds of the machine working, or even the quiet conversations. Though, sounds were non-existent today, except for her constant groaning, which started to bother her best friend.

"If you make one more frustrated sound, I'm leaving," he takes another sip of his cool drink, "Is it because of what I said earlier? Just know, I wasn't lying, that would definitely help you two."

She pulls her hands away, pursing her lips as she started twirling her straw, watching the milk mix with the coffee and caramel, "No, it's because I'm... I don't know, frustrated?"

Haechan glared incredulously, "Clearly."

"Not like that, I meant... I miss how Mark and I used to be, how we would laugh at silly jokes, or talk for hours without it having to turn into a competition, but now everything he says or does has a way of getting under my skin," She takes a sip of her drink, eyes twinkling at the taste, "He could just be sitting there, doing absolutely nothing, and I'd I just want to-"

"Want to what?" Haechan asks, ears perking up, waiting for a gotcha moment.

"Well, what I usually do." She shrugs, going back to her drink.

Haechan takes everything she says in, nodding his head slowly, "Anyway, it's sort of funny as Mark said the same kinda thing to me the other day...," Haechan takes a sip of his drink, whining when he finds it empty, "He said he missed the old you, or when you guys used to be friends."

She pauses, meeting her waiting friend’s gaze. Her brows furrow. Mark... missed how they used to be? But she doesn't say anything to Haechan, keeping her thoughts to herself.

The usual smug expression returns as he leans back in his chair, leg bouncing under the table out of habit as he crossed his arms behind his head, "Anyway, as I said, you need to get your frustrations out in other ways. You clearly have a thing for each other. The way you express it is a little... unconventional, but you're both immature, so I'm not surprised."

She simply looks at her friend in disbelief, lips parted as she gapes at him, to which Haechan only grins annoyingly at her. He also had a way with words, just like Mark, except he seemed to understand boundaries a lot better, and was chill enough to not want to fight back.

"What? Please tell me you two at least have moments of either flirting with each other or checking the other person out-"

"No." She scowls, shivering at the thought. Though, she couldn't help but remember the way he'd looked at her earlier, brushing off the thought, "It's hard enough to even look at him without wanting to strangle him."

"Okay, so you're into choking, got it." Haechan chuckles, nodding as if to make a mental note of it.

"No, I'm not into that! Whatever, look, I don't have a thing for him, so just drop it." She looks at him with a serious, intense gaze, as if to emphasise the fact she really didn't want to talk about this anymore.

Her friend only nods, putting his hands up in mock surrender, "Okay, just know Mark would definitely jump you if he had the chance — I mean, which guy would put up with your shit? No offence."

She rolled her eyes, taking another sip of her drink in hopes it would be refreshing enough to block out her growing irritation, "Anyway, the sooner I get this assignment done, the sooner I can move on from this Mark topic."

She quickly pulls out her phone before Haechan could drop in another one of his grand ideas, finding Mark's contact and immediately sending him a text. She almost spat out her drink at how fast he had responded.

You: Let's just get this assignment done with. I don't feel like getting kicked out of yet another establishment, so just come over to mine tomorrow or something.

You: *sends her address*

Mark: Fun.

Mark: I'll be there around 4 if that works

You: 👍

She bit her nails anxiously, eyes glancing between the door and the clock on the wall - each tick of the hands signalled it was only getting closer to 4, which was when Mark said he would arrive.

That wasn't why she was anxiously boring holes into the clock, however. She could curse the heavens, the earth and the 12 Olympians, but instead, she chose to curse the lust demon himself, aka Haechan. She buried her head in her hands, tugging at the roots of her hair in frustration. She can't believe she dreamt of Mark last night for the first time and, it wasn't just any dream — which was the worst part. Why did her mind have to be so vivid and make Mark so incredibly sexy? She had no idea.

When a knock came from the door, she stood up a little too quickly, rushing to it and praying that Mark looked far from presentable than he had been in her dream. But he wasn't, of course. She'd never seen him in jeans before and the green hoodie was the cherry on top. She swallowed hard, peering up at him as he adjusted his glasses.

"Are you going to let me in?" He raised a brow, his dark eyes glancing over her features in suspicion, taking a quick, subtle glimpse at her plaid sweatpants and pink t-shirt that didn't do much to hide the outline of her bra. He swallowed hard, tonguing the inside of his cheek in annoyance yet, the only thing that swirled in his mind were thoughts of how fucking attractive she was without even trying.

His annoyed expression grounded her temporarily, falling back into her usual demeanour as she rolled her eyes and held the door open wider for him, "If I catch you slacking once, I'll kick your ass out of here."

Mark gives her a side eye, frowning before kicking his shoes off, "Are you trying to motivate me not to do the work?"

She laughs sarcastically, leading him to her room as she props herself on her bed, noticing Mark looking over her interior.

"I expected your place to be put together, but not drenched in pink," his gaze trailed over her shelf, taking note of the various photo frames and mini ornaments.

She chuckles under her breath, pulling out her laptop and notes, "What, too girly for me?"

He turns his gaze to her, a quiet silence envelops them for a moment, and she takes that time to admire him. She knew he was attractive — objectively — but never had she looked at him in that way. The kind of way that made her heart and mind race.

Mark finally straightens up with a shrug, sitting down on the edge of the bed and getting his things out as well.

It felt strange having Mark in her home. If it weren't for getting kicked out of the library, her apartment would have been the last place he would be at. Though, now seeing him sat almost politely at a respectable distance from her, typing away on his keyboard quietly, made it start to feel right somehow.

She opened their shared document, reading the notes he was typing up. Even though he tended to be a lazy ass — or a procrastinator, as he would call it — there was no doubt he had a way with words. When he really put his mind to something, he would always deliver quality work. At times, she'd look back on why they had turned rivals, or enemies, and then she'd see what a complete genius he was. Maybe it was always her. Maybe she was just jealous that, no matter how hard she worked, Mark would always be ten steps ahead.

"I wrote up all the notes," Mark's voice cut through her thoughts, "How far did you get?"

She turned back to her laptop, pursing her lips at the blank screen. When she took her time responding, Mark scrolled down the document to where her cursor was and sent her a deadpanned expression, "What did you say about slacking off...?"

She doesn't know whether to laugh or smack him, so she picks the secret third option and scowls, "I did more work than you yesterday."

"That's old news," he sighed, looking through their to-do list, "I thought you wanted to get this assignment done and dusted because... what was the reason again? Oh yeah, you wanted nothing to do with me."

She scoffs, sitting up as she points an accusatory finger at him, "Don't act like you don't feel the same way."

Mark clears out the already completed tasks on the list, colour coding the other bullet points to distribute the work evenly between them, "Oh I do, and I wonder why." He doesn't even spare her a glance.

"Go on."

"Maybe it's because you continuously bitch over every little thing, it's no wonder Haechan is the only friend you have and, it's probably because he's waiting for some kind of green light," Mark's bitter words reeked of jealousy as he spoke through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes.

"Excuse me?" She shrieks before she leans over the bed and grasps at his hoodie, his hand immediately grabbing her wrist, "That's too far, Mark, even for you."

He raised an unamused brow at her, fingers tightening on her wrists, yet she doesn't waver, "Maybe, but I'm sick of it. All you ever do is complain and treat me like some sort of idiot and, when I give you the same energy, I'm the problem."

His voice is tight, jaw hard as he doesn't break the eye-contact. She pulls him in closer, anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach, "What a joke, you're just as much of a problem as I am and, you know what? Maybe Haechan was right, maybe we need to fuck for us to finally pull our shit together."

The moment those words leave her lips, she regrets them. From up close, he was even more attractive that those words naturally came out. Mark's eyes widened comically and she could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

His brows furrowed, "Wait, you’re serious? You’re actually suggesting that?" his voice carried a disbelieving tone despite his cheeks growing redder by the minute.

If it weren't for the dream she had last night, or that stupid green hoodie he was wearing right now, she would have laughed it off as a joke or even knocked him out in hopes he'd forget what nonsense she'd just spewed. However, all she could think about in that moment were his hands gripping at her plush thighs, spreading them apart as he lodged himself between her legs, his soft lips parting against hers desperately. She swallowed hard.

"Yes, I am suggesting that," she doubles down, the words more confident now. She knew she wanted him, even if he drove her bat-shit crazy. Even if he'd think she's bat-shit crazy.

It was almost laughable how wide Mark's eyes had gotten, his lips parted in shock, "you're fucking serious, Y/N?" This was too cruel of a joke from someone like Y/N. He knew she would rather curse him out than make absurd suggestions such as sleeping with each other. And the more he thought about it, on top of the intense gaze she carried, the more he believed she was being serious.

She leaned in, her warm breath fanning against his skin. She could smell his musky cologne — it was a scent she felt she could easily get addicted to, "I am serious, Mark," her big, doe eyes peered up at him through her lashes, "Hell, I even dreamt of you last night thanks to that blabby-mouthed Haechan."

Mark suddenly grows flustered, averting his gaze. She dreamt of him? His words practically came out like a croak from the nerves, "H-hey, that's a little..."

She raised a brow, waiting for him to continue his sentence yet he'd only grown quiet, his jaw clenched as he processed the situation. He felt his throat go dry and, the way she was staring at him made him feel breathless - a little too out in the open under her gaze. It was taking everything in him to hold back, but their shared history and his growing annoyance towards her kept him stuck in place.

"What? Mark, don't be a pussy," she scoffed. Despite her harsh words, they had rolled off of her tongue like honey, "Do you want this or not?"

Mark's head whips to her, his brows furrowed, "I am not...," the words faltered on his tongue as his hands came to rest behind her on the bed, his nose brushing against hers. He was way bigger than her, his arms caging her in, looming over her, "I'm not as much of a loser as you think I am, Y/N," the words were bitter; however, he felt like he was falling too deep.

Being this close to her, with her wide, surprised eyes staring back at him, her flowery perfume more prominent at the proximity, and her warm breath... He couldn't find it in him to deny it anymore, "Fuck, I do want this," he muttered, the whispered confession slipping past his lips before he himself could process the words.

At that, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, pressing his nose fully against hers, "I want this too." Her soft words drew him in like a moth to a flame and it felt like the string that held onto his sanity had snapped.

Mark pressed his lips to her glossy, pink ones that tasted like cherry, breathing in her flowery scent, to which she parted her lips against his in response. His hands gripped at the soft flesh of her waist, pulling her in impossibly close. He tasted minty, mixing with his musky cologne and it was like she couldn't think straight anymore, losing her grip on reality and, instead, losing herself in him. In Mark. Her supposed enemy and rival.

It didn't take long for her to pull him on top of her, her back falling against the mattress whilst her leg rode up his side, hooking over his hips. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, nipping at her skin and down the valley of her clothed breasts. She was going insane, and it was his fault, "Mark, take off my damn shirt already," she groaned in frustration, sitting up.

He didn't waste any time. Stripping off her shirt, he subtly admired her plush breasts which sat pretty in her lilac laced bra, barely leaving anything up to his imagination. As much as she got on his nerves, he couldn't deny the effect she had on him by being effortlessly gorgeous even as her brows were tightly knit. He pushed her back down onto the bed, planting his hands on either side of her head, "Are you always this demanding?"

"Only with you," she mutters, tugging at his hoodie impatiently, to which he chuckles, taking it off. She couldn’t help but gawk at him, sending him a glare for being more attractive than her dreams could ever do justice.

He kisses her again, his hand trailing down the side of her breasts, not giving her time to run her mouth. Then, his hand pulls the bra down, letting her breasts slip out as he cupped and kneaded the soft mounds, groaning into her mouth at how they fit perfectly in his hand. He rolled the nub between his fingers, grazing his thumb over them.

Mark kisses down her body, taking a nipple into his mouth — biting and tugging at it as his hand continued to twist the other between his thumb and index. He relished in the soft sounds that escaped her lips and the way she tugged at the locks of his hair.

He continued to move down her body, his finger hooking under the waistband of her sweatpants as he met her gaze, "I know you beat my ass over this, but you sure this is what you want?"

She deadpanned at him, "You just made out with my breasts, Mark. If I didn't want this, I would have stopped you there."

Mark just rolls his eyes in response, slipping her sweatpants down, "Could have just said yes."

She's about to retort when she feels his hand cup her, finger tracing the clothed slit of her pussy and she has to bite her lip to stop her from making a sound. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction so soon. Didn't want him to know just how badly she wanted him — more than she'd like to admit.

However, Mark was as stubborn and competitive as she was, and he wouldn't hold back until she gave in. He pushes her underwear to the side, leaning in so that his warm breath fanned against her sensitive folds, causing her to whimper.

'Fuck,' she thought.

Mark, without warning, slowly licks a stripe up her slit, his flat tongue drawing out a shudder from her — back naturally arching. Each time, he'd go in for more, slowly bringing up the pace. Her thighs clamped around his head, holding him hostage until he groaned and grabbed onto her plush thighs, pinning them to the bed; fingers leaving marks along her soft skin. Her own fingers grabbed at anything they could, from the sheets beneath her, to the healthy lock of hair on his head, letting them knot around her digits and tug with every wave of pleasure he had given her.

She could feel his cocky smirk as he sucked on her clit, enjoying every moment of her falling apart on his mouth. Falling apart for him. When he pulls away from her, she let's out a frustrated whine to which Mark only laughs at, "Open your mouth."

She sends him a skeptical look, "Fuck no."

Mark's patience wears thin, "Don't be a stubborn brat now."

Surprisingly, she obliged and he pushes his fingers past her plush, kiss-swollen lips. Her mouth suckles on the digits, tongue swirling around them, and he retracts his fingers with a pop.

"Fuck, your mouth really does have uses other than spewing insults and demands," he teases, voice low, tracing her entrance which had her letting out shallow breaths.

"At least it has more use than your fingers-" her words cut short when he pushes his finger in, palm pressed to her clit as he looks up at her with a 'you sure about that?' look.

It doesn't take long for Mark to add a second finger, curling them in search for the spot that would make her see stars. And then, he finds it, and she let's out a sharp gasp which only grows louder when his lips wrap around her clit, continuing his earlier ministrations of lapping at her folds like a man starved.

Just as her dreams failed in visualising just how attractive her nemesis was, it had also failed in expressing how utterly, impossibly, and irritatingly good he was with his hands, lips, tongue-

"Mark, fuck-!" She starts to tense under him, eyes pierced shut as she chases that feeling of ecstasy.

"I believe I'm getting there...," Mark chuckles, the vibration of his voice fluttering against her.

And, just as she starts to see the twinkling behind her eyelids, the light at the end of the dark tunnel, and a glimpse of the heavens, Mark pulls away, leaving her empty, wanting, and embarrassingly needy.

Forget Haechan, Mark was the number one man on her hit list.

In a second, he's over her again, cupping the back of her neck and lifting her slightly up to kiss her. She can taste herself on his tongue, feel the way his lips apply just the right amount of pressure to say he's here, and it's so soft, so gentle, so wanting — it was the perfect contrast, the perfect contradiction to the image she'd created in her mind of him. His thumb brushes against her jaw, fingers tangling in her hair, before he pulls away, forehead resting on hers as he breaths against her.

His eyes flicker open to gaze down at her; warm and oh so inviting. It felt like the Mark she once knew. The genuine, loving and calming person. Though his next words threw her completely off balance, and she was quick to retract her claims.

"I'm going to fuck that sexy, infuriating attitude out of you, baby," he lets the pet name draw out. In every other context, with any other person, she would have cringed at that word, but it felt so undeniably attractive coming out of his lips, that she wanted to hear him say it more than once.

Mark got up off of the bed, pulling out his wallet to fish for a condom that had been in there for God knows how long, chucking it on the bed next to her and kicking off his jeans and boxers in record speed. She barely had a millisecond to admire the sheer length of him before he was on her again.

His deep brown eyes kept their hold on hers and she could see a subtle hint of affection; the space between his brows crinkling in focus as he slowly pushed into her. His calloused fingers pressed along her waist, leaving white marks along her curves, while she could feel every ridge, vein and pulse of his cock.

When he bottomed out, she immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in impossibly close. Needing him closer to her. She could feel the rough planes of his body pressed to her soft ones as he started to rock against her. He gripped her thigh, pushing it further up so he could angle himself better, remembering the spot that had her seeing stars earlier.

Each time he'd hit that spot, she'd clench naturally, rocking her hips to meet his that had him softly groaning by her ear. He smelt so good, felt so good, was so good. She felt her mind start to fog up, jaw slack from the loud, erotic sounds that forced its way out from her throat. It was too much in the best possible way.

That wasn't as far as Mark would go though, he wouldn't stop at just good. He wanted best. His hand snakes up her body, gently wrapping around her neck — thumb pressed to her jaw — as he applied enough pressure to her pulse point. She knew then that maybe she did actually enjoy being choked or, at least, enjoyed anything Mark did.

She throws her legs around his waist, pulling him down, desperate to feel more of him, to reach her release she craved, pride long forgotten, "Mark... Mark, fuck- please..."

Mark pressed a sweet, uncharacteristic kiss to her cheek, "Please what, baby?" he brushed the strands away from her forehead, never halting his movements.

"Need more of you...," She could barely get the words out, but Mark knew exactly what she meant. Without time for her to process, he flipped her onto her stomach, pressing her face against the pillows, fingers tangled in her silky hair as he snapped his hips into her with more strength.

She could have sworn she started hallucinating seeing stars in the room from how deep he was reaching in this new angle, hitting her spot with added ease. Her glossy lips stayed parted against the pillows, drool staining the cotton case as she let out soft grunts.

Mark's head rolled back at the filthy sounds of her and how fucked out she looked. It made him want to carve this scene into the deepest part of his memory, "You're doing so good for me... So pretty like this."

His soft voice did not match the roughness of his fucking, but it made her clench around him, "C-close..."

Mark hummed, grabbing locks of her hair and tugging it back so that she arches against him, "Be a good girl and come all over my cock, then."

She nods eagerly, reaching behind him to grab at his hips, urging him to go faster, harder. She chased that release as if seeking closure from her pent up frustrations at Mark and hers usual bickering and challenges. She sits up to lean against him, knees pressed to the mattress and head rested on his collarbone — his own arms wrapping around her body. Finally, she came, body shuddering in his hold and, at the feel of her convulsing around his length, Mark bit her neck, muffling his sweet sounds as he followed suit.

They stayed like that for a while, panting, hair sticking to their foreheads. She wouldn't be close to exaggerating by saying this was the best sex she'd ever had, but she would also blame that on the sheer tension they carried for years around one another.

When Mark slips out of her, she fully expects him to make some usual smart comment, but he only pulls her with him as he lay in her bed, keeping his arms around her, "Who knew we'd be so compatible?"

She snorts, "I can name at least one person," she thinks of her best friend, the whole reason this night even happened and speeding up the process between them.

Mark smiles, snuggling into her and letting out a soft sigh, feeling sleep catching up to him, "I hope this isn't just a one time thing, though," he says suddenly with a soft voice, "you don't know how long I wanted this for. Wanted you. It drove me insane trying to be... I guess, respectful and casual about it all."

She sat up, turning to look down at him with a playful look of disbelief, "I call bullshit, you weren't respectful about nothing. Not that I'm complaining, it's attractive seeing you annoyed."

Mark rolls his eyes, smirking at her, his cockiness returning, "I knew you found me more than just objectively attractive, you're down bad."

She easily admits it, "Yeah, I am. But you're in way deeper for asking Haechan for advice of all people."

Mark immediately sits up, his face pale from the shock despite his cheeks being flushed, "Dude- Wait, what?"

"We're on dude terms now after you fucked an outline of my body into this mattress?" she scoffs, her crude words making Mark increasingly more flustered than he already was, "The choking kinda gave it away. I just know Haechan threw that in conversation with you."

Mark laughed sheepishly, pulling her into his chest as he pressed a kiss to her temple, "Guilty as charged. Though, I'm proposing we get back at his arrogant ass by not telling him a thing. We'll slowly drop hints to mess with him a little — see how long it takes for him to catch on."

"I'm in," She giggles, feeling sleep overtake her as she nestled into Mark's chest.

Before today, neither of them would have imagined that fucking each others rival would be the secret to finally ending the long-standing feud and breaking the rival code.

© hyckstarz

[redsray]

i do love the idea of the wayne kids giving bernard shovel talks about taking care of tim and all that but also give me batfam who are just as protective of bernard as they are of each other.

give me bernard, attending his first wayne gala as tim's significant other. having a suit custom tailored and funded by bruce even if bernard insists it's not necessary because he already has one. arriving at the gala anxious because of course he is, it's a goddamn socialite event, but being protected from every side by the wayne kids even when tim is dragged away.

Socialite: Oh, and who might you be?

Bernard: Oh, um, hi. I'm Bernard Dowd, nice to meet you.

Socialite: Dowd? I've never heard of your family before. Who...?

Bernard: I'm not here with my family, miss, I'm here with my boyfriend.

Socialite: ... Boyfriend?

Bernard: Yeah, I'm here with Tim.

Socialite, frowning: Tim... as in Drake-Wayne? He has a boyfriend?

Dick, coming up next to Bernard: He sure does! Bernard here is practically one of ours now, aren't you? He matters to Timmy, so he matters to us.

Bernard: Dick—

Dick: C'mon, let's get you back to Timmy. Farewell, Mrs!

Bernard: I could've handled that.

Dick: All the rules that apply to my siblings during galas apply to you too. I'm sure you could've, but you shouldn't have to. I've got your back too, now, yeah?

Bernard: ... Yeah. Thanks, Dick.

Jason, coming up to Bernard at the bar: Not to freak you out, kid, but there's a guy starin' at ya from the other side of the bar. Y'know him or should I encourage him to look away?

Bernard, startled: Huh? (looks around) Oh. No, I don't know him. Why... is he looking at me like that, actually?

Jason, scowling: 'S just how the slimy fuckers at these events are. Can't keep their eyes off anything that's small, young or pretty. Disgusting. I'll deal with him— where's your annoying other half gone, inferior blondie?

Bernard: Tim? He got pulled away for quote; 'something important' by some lady. He said he'll meet me here after he's done, so I've been waiting.

Jason: Huh. If I see him I'll point him yer way. Hey, don't be 'fraid to ask any of us questions or for help if ya need it. We know the best how daunting this shit can be.

Bernard, genuinely touched: ... Thanks, Jason.

Jason: Yeah, yeah. Don't tell Timmers I said that, though, he'll call me a loser.

Bernard, laughing: I won't.

Bernard, being talked to by several people at once and a bit overwhelmed by the attention: Uh— I'm—

Damian, stepping between him and the socialites: Dowd. I require your assistance.

Bernard: Um— hi, Damian— with what?

Damian: You will see when we get there. Follow me, Drake's more tolerable half.

Bernard: Okay... so what do you need from me?

Damian: Nothing. You seemed to dislike the attention from all of the nosy adults over there. It was the most efficient way of extracting you from the situation.

Bernard: Oh. Thanks, Damian.

Damian: Tt, don't thank me yet, Dowd. I am still criticising your choice in romantic partners.

Bernard: Didn't you threaten me with a katana to not dampen Tim's mood in any way shape or form?

Damian: Slander. I said quote 'if you make Drake more annoying by breaking his heart I'm going to maim you.' I don't see how you got the message you did from that.

Bernard, grinning: Sure, Damian. Sure.

[fireinmoonshot]

maybe one day | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Every time you wake up from a nightmare, Bob is there to help you get back to sleep. This time, however, is a little different. Warnings: Mentions of nightmares and traumatic pasts (nothing specific). It's also fairly angsty. Word Count: 1k A/N: It's been a while! I have been in the depths of a writing slump for the past three weeks or so but Thunderbolts has seemingly brought me out of it. I assumed it would be Bucky that did that but it ended up being Bob... I love him. He's been living rent free in my head ever since I saw the movie last night. I just had to write about him. This fic is just a small one, as obviously it's the first thing I've written since falling into a slump, but I'm pretty proud of it. Bob is very different to write for (especially different to Joaquín who is all I've been writing for lately) so I hope I've done him justice. I look forward to continuing to write for him!

The bedroom is still dark when you wake up. The only sign that you’re not alone in the room is the faint silhouette of someone sitting in the armchair at the end of your bed and the steady sound of fingers tapping against the material of the chair. Strangely, the presence isn’t scary but comforting. There’s only one person it could be. 

“Was I having another nightmare?” You ask. 

You’d woken up to the feeling of your bed shaking gently. It isn’t an unfamiliar feeling – you’ve woken up this way several times in the past few months. It’s Bob’s way of waking you up without shaking you awake himself.  Using the most minimal of his powers to help you.

While he’s not in control of his powers, he can’t risk hurting you. Even just holding your hand could send you into one of your worst memories. And like all of the other members of your team, back in New York you’d been forced to live through them all because of the Void. 

Since then, you and Bob had become closer. You’d all moved into the old Avengers tower now that you were the new Avengers. Bob’s room had been across the hall from yours. He’d heard your screams from the first nightmare and had been there to wake you up from them  almost every night since. Most nights, he sits by your bed to keep you company until you fall back asleep. It’s not the most efficient way to help, he knows. But the last thing he’d ever want to do is to accidentally send you back into the memories that had given you so much trauma.

“You were.”

You sit up properly in your bed and reach out a hand to turn on the lamp that sits on your bedside table. The bulb is dull, only bright enough to bring a dark yellow glow to the room but it’s enough for you to be able to see Bob. He looks exhausted.

“Have you gotten any sleep tonight? What time is it?” 

“I slept a little,” he nods. “I don’t know what time it is. Three a.m? Four, maybe.”

You stifle a yawn and run a hand through your hair. It’s thick with sweat, courtesy of the nightmare you’d been having – though you’re thankful that you don’t remember exactly what it was about tonight. “You should go back to sleep, Bob.”

“I will when you do.”

For a moment, you simply look at him. The way he looks at you despite his exhaustion doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You can see the worry in his eyes, the way his eyebrows are drawn and his lips are a little pursed. You want nothing more than to crawl to the end of your bed, reach out a hand and tug him up so he can crawl into bed with you and hold you while you fall asleep. But you know that he’d never allow himself to do something like that.

“Will you stay with me?” You ask anyway.

Bob hesitates, opening his mouth and then closing it again before he shakes his head. “You know that I can’t. I can’t until I know I can control it. I won’t put you through that again.”

“I’ll put a pillow barrier up,” you offer. Bob lets out a small laugh at your words. “I mean it, Bob. I want you to stay with me. Not on the chair at the end of my bed, not on the floor. In the bed, beside me. If you can’t hold me, that’s the next best thing.”

Bob sighs and stands up from the chair before heading around to the opposite side of the bed and pulling back the covers. You smile to yourself as you grab an extra pillow and place it in the middle of the bed. Once your head hits your own pillow again, you can look right beside you and into Bob’s eyes. It’s the closest you think he’s ever let himself get to you. 

“Can I try something?” You ask, voice soft.

He nods once, though you can see he’s a little concerned that you might be about to rip down the pillow barrier and latch yourself onto him, as if you’d ever do something like that without his consent first.

You raise a hand, palm towards him, and smile as you see him raise his own hand. He moves it towards yours, just hovering it next to your hand. You can almost feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. His hand is so close to yours that you could move the smallest bit and brush your fingers against his, though you restrain yourself. 

“I wish I could hold your hand,” Bob mutters quietly, voice a little muffled by the pillow.

“Me, too,” you hum, watching as your hands dance close together. “I want to know what it feels like to touch you. To have your fingers entwine with mine. To feel your skin against my skin. Is that weird to say?”

Bob shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I want that too.”

“Maybe one day?”

He looks away from your hands and meets your eyes. “One day.” It’s not a maybe. It’s a certainty. Once he can control his powers. He removes his hand from the air and tucks it underneath the blankets. “You should sleep now.” 

“I will when you do,” you murmur, forcing yourself to keep your eyes open as your hand falls onto the pillow in-between the two of you, a sudden wave of sleepiness overtaking you.

Bob smiles to himself as he watches your eyes flutter closed and sleep takes hold of you. He’s glad he stayed. Even if all he wants is to push the pillow away and pull you into his arms. Even though he’s probably not going to get a wink of sleep while he lays beside you, too content with just watching you sleep, seeing how peaceful you look.

But as long as that pillow stays in place, you’re safe. Until he can control his powers, this is the way things have to be. To keep you safe from the nightmares. From the Void. From him.