#and his response to that was 'same thing' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zaynessbeloved · 2 days ago

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Gravity instincts

Synopsis: You’ve been pining for Colonel Caleb in silence, hiding your feelings behind friendship and stolen glances—until one lonely day in his apartment breaks your restraint. Drowning in the scent of his shirt and the ache of unspoken desire, you give in to your need.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, power dynamics dominance & submission (consensual), rough sex, praise & degradation mix, possessive/obsessive behavior, use of evol, mild voyeurism (security camera), slight dubcon vibe (due to voyeurism + power dynamic—but ultimately consensual)

Pairings: Caleb x reader

Word count: 5.9k

The stars never felt farther away than when he was near.

You’ve known him for years now—through turbulence and silence, distance and closeness. Caleb, with his unwavering sense of duty, with that sharp gaze that sees through everything except your heart. A colonel in the Space Fleet, a man responsible for keeping the galaxy stitched together—and yet, it’s the quiet moments between missions that unravel you.

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. Not like this. Not while standing at his side as a technician, tucked into the same command deck where he commands the stars with a single gesture. Not while sharing routine maintenance reports, debriefing sessions, and the occasional cup of coffee in the silence of the observation deck.

You were supposed to admire him. Respect him. Follow orders.

But then he started looking at you like that. Or maybe he always did, and you were just too afraid to believe it.

His Evol never quite stayed confined to his command. It lingered. Pulled. Tangled itself into the fabric of every moment you shared. It wasn’t the kind of pull you could measure in units or explain with science. It was slower, softer, the kind of pull that didn’t slam you into orbit—but whispered, stay.

And so you did. Through every mission, every battle, every long night where he returned bruised and exhausted, and still managed to smirk at you like you were the first calm thing he'd seen in weeks.

But lately, it’s become unbearable. Because no matter how long you stand by his side, you’re always a half-step away. Close enough to feel the warmth of his presence—never close enough to fall into it.

So you do something reckless. Not battlefield reckless. Not strategy-breaking reckless. Something softer. Petty. Aching.

You steal one of his shirts.

Not because you expect him not to notice. Not because you think it will change anything. But because you’re tired of pretending you don’t want more. And it’s the only way you know how to say I miss you, without breaking apart completely.

His place is quiet—sterile, in the way all military housing is—but he’s lived in this one long enough for traces of him to linger. The coffee mug he always forgets to rinse. The flight jacket half-slouched over the back of his chair. His scent, clinging stubbornly to the air. Warm. Subtle. Like cedarwood and ozone.

You’ve stayed here before—dozens of times, even. Sometimes after late-night shifts. Sometimes after a mission when neither of you had the energy to be alone. And sometimes just because it was easier to fall asleep on his couch with the hum of the city cars in the background than face the silence of your own quarters.

You were just friends, after all. Friends who trusted each other more than anyone else. Friends who had learned the hard way that war doesn’t leave much room for hearts to speak freely.

But today is your day off. And he’s not here.

He left in a rush that morning—called back to command before he even finished his coffee. A small part of you had hoped he’d stay. A bigger part was grateful he didn’t. Because it’s only in his absence that you allow yourself to feel the weight of what you’ve been burying.

The ache. The exhaustion. The constant pretending.

You drift toward his room like you’ve done a hundred times before, intending only to grab your datapad, maybe take a nap in the bed he always insists you use when he’s gone. But your fingers pause on the edge of the closet. Hesitate. Then move with a kind of guilty hunger.

You find it folded neatly on the second shelf. A dark, well-worn shirt with his name tag still faintly stitched at the collar. The one he always wears after missions, sleeves rolled up, collar loose. You swear it holds more of him than anything else in this entire apartment.

You press it to your face.

And that’s when everything unravels.

His scent is still there—faint but potent, like static in the air before a storm. It slides down your spine like a whisper. Not just the memory of him, but the ache of being near him and never touching. Of hearing your name in his voice but never on his lips the way you want it.

Your body reacts before your mind can stop it. And you let it.

Because you’re tired. Because you’ve spent too many nights curled on this bed pretending you don’t dream of what it would feel like if he touched you the way you crave. Because you’ve stayed silent while watching him flirt with danger, disappear into missions, return with bruises and blood and never once say I missed you too—but look at you like he did.

So you pull the shirt over your head, drowning in it. It smells like him. Feels like him. The fabric slips past your skin like a memory you’re not supposed to hold onto.

You lie down on his bed, the sheets still creased from where he slept. Your hands start to move.

And this time, you don’t stop them.

You imagine him. Not like he is at work—stoic, powerful, untouchable. But how he is when the world softens. When he forgets to wear the weight of his rank. When he smirks at you across the kitchen counter, teasing you for stealing the last pastry. When his voice drops in the quiet, calling your name like it means something more.

Your fingers tremble. Not from lust. From longing.

This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about the ache. The impossible closeness. The need to feel his warmth when you know you’ll never have it for real.

His shirt swallows you whole. Soft, worn cotton clings loosely to your frame, the scent of him draped over you like heat—masculine, magnetic, undeniably Caleb. It’s too big, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves falling over your hands. But it makes you feel closer to him. Almost like he’s here.

You settle back against his sheets, your knees curling slightly as you sink into the place he’s slept in so many times—where you’ve laid before, pretending you weren’t listening for his heartbeat in the quiet.

But today, there’s no pretending.

Your hand slips between your legs, tentative at first. Not from shame—but from how raw the ache is. It’s been building for months. Years, if you’re being honest. And it’s not just about wanting him—it’s the way he makes you want. The way he looks at you with that unreadable expression, all heat and gravity and something else that never quite reaches his lips.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel.

You imagine him like you’ve never allowed yourself to before.

His voice in your ear, low and rough, calling you a good girl in that quiet drawl he uses when the world slows down. The weight of his body pressing you down into the mattress, his fingers trailing up your thighs, firm and warm and sure.

Your breath hitches. Your touch grows bolder.

You imagine his mouth. The way he’d kiss you—slow and possessive, like he’s waited just as long. His teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pinning you down as he whispers, Is this what you wanted, baby? Wearing my shirt like that? Touching yourself in my bed?

You gasp, the heat building fast and dangerous, everything tightening under your skin. You can’t stop the soft moan that escapes your lips—his name, broken and breathless.

And you don’t know that he hears it.

Because a few levels below, the man himself has just returned from command.

Still in uniform, boots heavy against the steel floors, he exhales as the apartment door hisses open. He wasn’t expecting to be home this early—but the comms were quiet, and for once, there were no emergencies.

He reaches for the wrist panel by the entrance—his home security linked to the system, just in case something went wrong when he’s off-planet.

He doesn’t expect to see you.

On his bed. In his shirt. Hand between your thighs. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Whispering his name.

Everything stops. For a moment, he forgets to breathe. The screen blinks quietly, casting a pale glow against his expression. Blank. Tense. A beat of silence. Then another. He turns off the feed.

And he walks. Slowly. Quietly. Up the stairs toward the woman in his bed.

You don’t hear the door slide open. Don’t hear the soft press of boots against polished flooring. Don’t feel the shift in the air when he steps inside.

You’re too far gone.

Fingers buried between your thighs, breath catching on every gasp, every slow, deliberate drag that makes your muscles tighten and your stomach flutter. The shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—is hitched up around your hips, the fabric clinging to your skin with heat. It smells like him. Still warm with traces of cedar, ozone, and something darker. Something intoxicating.

Your other hand fists the sheets beneath you—his sheets—already damp with sweat and shame and longing.

You don’t even try to stop the sound that leaves your mouth. His name, breathless and wrecked. A whimper. A plea. You don’t know which.

You imagine him here. Not as the Colonel the world salutes, but the man who stands too close when he talks to you, who looks at you like he’s memorizing your every breath. The man who touches your lower back when you’re both pretending it means nothing. The man who haunts you.

You picture his hands instead of your own—larger, calloused, precise. You’ve seen what those hands can do to a battlefield. You wonder what they’d do to you, if he let go of all that control.

“Is this what you do when I’m not home?” The voice hits you like a thunderclap.

Deep. Low. Unmistakable.

You freeze. Your heart stutters violently, blood roaring in your ears.

He’s standing there. Just inside the bedroom, half-shadowed by the low lights. Still in uniform, the dark jacket unbuttoned just enough to show the black undershirt clinging to his chest. His eyes—stormy, narrowed, dark—lock onto you like he’s seeing everything.

And he is.

You’re sprawled on his bed, legs parted, breathing hard. Wearing nothing but his shirt and your guilt. Caught in the middle of a fantasy you didn’t know was real.

You try to speak. To explain. To move. But you can’t.

Not with the way he’s looking at you. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the sin he’s been trying not to commit for years.

His jaw flexes. His fists are clenched at his sides. And still—he doesn’t move.

“I’ve imagined you like this,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “On my bed. In my shirt. Moaning my name.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs clench.

“I’ve stopped myself,” he continues, stepping forward once—slow, measured, dangerous. “Every day. Every night. From touching you. From ruining you the way I’ve craved.”

Another step.

“But you come into my home,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, darker, “put yourself in my clothes, on my bed, and touch yourself like you belong to me.”

You swallow hard. You’re trembling now, heart hammering in your chest. Not from fear. From something far, far worse.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he says.

His voice isn’t angry. It’s reverent. Like you’ve become something holy in his eyes—something he’s worshipped from a distance too long.

And now? Now he’s done watching from afar.

“I—” you choke on the word, scrambling for air, for thoughts, for something to say that doesn’t sound like begging. “Caleb, I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”

You sit up fast, heart in your throat, his shirt falling lower on your thighs like it’s trying to hide you. Your hand trembles as you press it to your chest, like maybe you can force your heartbeat to slow, like maybe this moment will shatter if you just say the right thing.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, still breathless, cheeks blazing hot. “I didn’t mean for you to see. I thought you were still at work, I just— I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry—”

Your voice falters, unraveling with every shaky breath. You can’t meet his eyes. Not when your skin is still flushed, your thighs still slick, your body still thrumming with the desperate need that had built and built—only to snap to attention the second he spoke.

And god, you’re still wet. Still aching. Still ruined with the taste of him on your tongue, even if you’ve never really had him.

But the silence that follows your apology?

That’s what truly wrecks you.

Because Caleb doesn’t speak. Not right away. He just stares. Head tilted slightly, breathing slow, but his jaw clenched like he’s at war with himself.

And then—he laughs. A low, humorless sound that slides down your spine like ice.

“You’re sorry,” he repeats, as if the words are foreign. Bitter. “You think this is something you need to apologize for?”

Your gaze snaps up.

His eyes are darker now. Not with anger—but possession. Obsession. That hunger he always buried beneath rank and reason has cracked wide open, no longer hidden behind a smirk or a casual joke.

“You don’t understand, do you?” he says, voice low, gravelled. “You think I haven’t thought about this? Dreamed about it? You think I haven’t watched you sleep in that bed and imagined pulling that pretty little body apart with my hands?”

Your breath hitches—sharp and sharp again.

“You think I haven’t fought every fucking instinct in me to keep my hands to myself when you look at me like that? When you say my name in that soft little voice like you don’t know what it does to me?”

Your knees press together, a soft gasp caught in your throat.

“I’ve kept this part of me from you,” he says, stepping closer, one slow step after another. “The part that wants to keep you in my bed. In my clothes. Under my command.”

Your thighs tremble. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. You're still wet, still burning, and his words only make it worse.

“I’m not a good man, princess,” he breathes. “But I’ve tried to be. For you. I’ve tried to give you space. Time. Patience.”

His gaze drops to your bare thighs, the curve of them just beneath the hem of his shirt. You see his jaw clench again—so hard it looks like it hurts.

“And now you apologize to me,” he growls, a hand running through his hair, like he’s barely holding himself back. “While sitting on my bed, in my shirt, with that sweet cunt still dripping from your own fingers like you were made for me—”

“Caleb,” you breathe—half protest, half plea.

But it’s already too late.

His control is crumbling. And all you’ve done… is invite the part of him he’s kept buried for too long to the surface.

His eyes drag over you slowly—ruthlessly—like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. His uniform fits him like a second skin, dark and crisp and spotless except for the slight looseness at the collar where he always tugs it when he’s tired. The high-ranking insignia gleams on his shoulder, a cold contrast to the heat in his eyes.

You’ve never wanted to be touched so badly in your life.

But he doesn’t move.

Not yet.

He just watches. Listens to every shaky breath you take, to the soft rustle of sheets as you shift, thighs pressing together in a hopeless attempt to ease the throb between your legs. The ache that he caused. That only he can fix now.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he says, voice like gravel and thunder. “Not so loud without my name on your lips now, are you?”

You flinch. Not from fear—but from the way his words twist inside you.

He knows. God, he knows everything now.

“You wanted this,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Don’t lie. You thought about me. You were thinking about me inside you while wearing my shirt, weren’t you?”

You try to look away.

“Eyes on me,” he commands softly. “Or are you too ashamed to admit the truth?”

Your breath catches. Your heart is going too fast, the room spinning in the haze of your own arousal. Your panties are soaked, clinging to you, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“You were fucking yourself in my bed,” he continues, inching closer, voice low and deliberate. “Wearing my clothes. Saying my name. I want to hear you say it, princess.”

You shake your head, unable to breathe through the thick heat suffocating your chest.

He leans in just a little—just enough.

“Say it,” he breathes, tone tightening like a vice. “Say you wanted me.”

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your thighs shaking from the pressure, from the denial. Every nerve in your body screams for him. For contact. For relief. But you know he won’t give it—not until you admit it. Not until you surrender.

“Caleb…” you whisper, voice trembling, “please…”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His eyes are sharp. Unforgiving. Hungry.

“You’re going to look me in the eye,” he says, slowly unfastening the top button of his uniform jacket, the movement agonizingly controlled. “And you’re going to tell me that you wanted me. That you came into my bed, in my fucking shirt, because you were too wet and desperate to keep pretending you didn’t think about me when you touched yourself.”

You’re panting now, knees drawn up, body flushed and aching.

And he knows. He can see how wrecked you already are. How you’re squirming, clenching around nothing, leaking through your underwear just from the sound of his voice. From the image of him, powerful and poised, standing over you like you belong to him.

You can’t take it anymore.

“I wanted you,” you gasp, the words ripped from you like confession. “I wanted you, Caleb—I couldn’t stop thinking about you—I always think about you—”

He exhales through his nose, jaw tight, like he’s been waiting an eternity to hear that.

“I need you,” you whisper, broken now. “Please.”

And finally—finally—his restraint snaps.

Your confession hangs in the air like a live wire—raw, exposed, and trembling. It’s the truth. And now that you’ve said it, you can’t take it back.

But Caleb… he’s far from satisfied.

Not yet.

The shift is subtle at first—a quiet hum beneath your skin, like pressure in the air right before a storm breaks. You don’t notice it immediately, not until your body sinks ever so slightly into the mattress. Like the bed has grown heavier. Denser.

Like something is pulling you down.

Your breath stutters.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tone low and lethal as he drags his jacket off slowly, revealing the sleek black shirt beneath. “But not good enough.”

You stare at him, heart slamming against your ribs, limbs heavy and hot with tension.

“Caleb…” you whisper.

He lifts one hand, fingers loose, and you feel it—a subtle flex of pressure in the air around you. Your wrists press gently into the sheets without being held. Your back arches slightly without your control. It’s not overwhelming, not enough to scare you. But it’s enough to make you feel it. Him.

“You think you get to say it once and have me come running?” he asks, circling the edge of the bed like a predator. “After all this time, after all the nights you’ve laid here and pretended you didn’t want me?”

The gravity pulses again—soft, deliberate, like an invisible hand stroking over your body. Your thighs twitch. Your breath shudders.

“I want to hear you beg,” he says.

You’re already half-gone—mind fogged with heat, hips subtly rolling as you try to relieve the aching throb between your legs. The pressure of his Evol presses down again, just enough to keep you still. Just enough to make you feel helpless.

“Say it again,” he commands, his voice now just inches from your ear, low and dark. “And mean it this time.”

You bite your lip, breath catching. “Please, Caleb—”

“No.” The word cracks like a whip. “Not like that. You want me? You tell me exactly what you want. Use that pretty mouth. Or you’ll stay like this—needy and untouched.”

His words punch through you, hot and sharp.

You writhe beneath the weight of him—not his hands, not his body… but his power. The controlled pressure of his Evol makes your body tremble with frustration. You can’t move the way you want to. You can’t even touch yourself now.

“I want—” you gasp, voice thin and desperate. “I want your hands on me— I want you to touch me—please, I can’t— I need you— Caleb, please, I need you so bad it hurts—”

He lets out a breath—low and hungry—and suddenly the pressure vanishes.

Like a switch flipped.

And you gasp, your body free again, breath flooding your lungs.

“You should’ve said that sooner,” he growls, already crawling over the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Now lie back, princess.”

His hands finally land on you—hot, real, and no longer restrained. One hand grips your thigh, spreading you open, while the other pulls the shirt higher up your body.

“You wanted this?” he murmurs against your neck, mouth trailing fire over your skin. “You’re going to take it now.”

And this time? You will.

His hands are on you—finally on you—and everything else disappears.

He spreads you open like he owns you, like he’s done it a thousand times in his mind, each movement exact, hungry, controlled. The heat of his palms burns against your thighs as he kneels between them, dragging the fabric of his shirt higher, higher—until it’s bunched at your waist and your soaked panties are the only thing between you and his mouth.

And god, the look on his face—like he could devour you whole.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice molten as his fingers trace the wet outline of your underwear. “So fucking wet. Is this all for me, princess?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your body twitching beneath the ghost of his touch.

He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tight, like he’s the one about to lose control.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he growls, pulling the fabric aside to reveal the slick mess underneath. “I’ve thought about your cunt wrapped around my fingers more times than I can count—and now you’re laid out for me, dripping, desperate…”

He sinks two fingers into you with a sudden, slick thrust.

You cry out, back arching, stars bursting behind your eyelids. The stretch, the pressure—him—it’s too much and not enough at once. He groans softly under his breath, eyes fixed on where he’s inside you. “Fuck, you feel even better than I imagined.”

And still, he doesn’t speed up.

He moves slowly, deliberately, fucking you open with long, measured strokes. Watching your every reaction. Your every gasp. His Evol hums in the air again—subtle but present—pulling your hips closer, making it impossible to escape the rhythm of his hand.

“You wanted to be ruined, didn’t you?” he murmurs. “Wanted to come in here, put on my shirt, and make yourself fall apart thinking about my cock.”

Your moan is all the answer he needs. He curls his fingers inside you, finding that spot that makes your legs shake, and presses hard.

You shatter.

Your voice breaks around his name, your body convulsing under his touch as your climax rips through you like lightning—violent, needy, raw. And still, he doesn’t stop. His fingers keep moving, coaxing every last tremble from your body, watching you fall apart like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, leaning over you now, his chest brushing your thighs, his breath hot against your neck. “You’re perfect. Mine.”

You grab for him, desperate for something to anchor you, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head—not with force, but with gravity. You gasp, trembling under the weight of his Evol. Your body is still twitching, hypersensitive and spent—and yet, you’ve never felt more alive.

He leans in, his forehead brushing yours, and for a moment you see it—the crack in his armor. The soft part of him that’s completely ruined by you.

“I tried to be good,” he breathes, voice rough now, thick with emotion. “I tried to keep my hands off you. Tried to pretend I didn’t want to bury myself inside you every time you smiled at me.”

You blink up at him, dazed and dizzy and so, so full of him.

“But I’m not pretending anymore.”

He lets go of your wrists. Grabs your thighs. And pushes them open wider.

“You’re mine now,” he says. “And I’m not letting you go.”

Your chest is still heaving when he moves back over you, his body heavy with restrained power, his gaze locked on yours with a feral kind of focus. His fingers are slick with you, his touch still lingering between your legs like a ghost—hot, consuming, impossible to forget.

You can’t stop trembling. And then you whisper, voice raw and wrecked. “Don’t stop.”

Caleb stills. Just for a breath. And then he smiles. Not soft. Not sweet.

Dark.

His fingers trail along your inner thigh again, lazy now, like he’s memorizing the shape of your need. “Oh, princess…” His voice drops into a low rasp, dragging through you like velvet. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

He kisses the inside of your knee, then higher, and higher—until you’re squirming again, body hypersensitive but already greedy for more.

You reach for him, still shaking. “I want you. Please, Caleb…”

His hands grip your hips hard, pinning you back into the mattress.

“You want me?” he murmurs, leaning in close, breath hot against your ear. “You want me like this? When I’m in control? When I’m fucking obsessed with the way you fall apart for me?”

You gasp. You shouldn’t love how it sounds—but god, you do. You nod, voice barely a whisper. “Yes… I want all of you.”

His hand slides slowly back down between your legs, two fingers teasing your folds again, gentle but commanding. “I bet you thought about it,” he growls, mouth at your jaw now, nipping at your skin. “Didn’t you?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “What…?”

“Me.” His other hand grabs your chin and turns your face to his. His gaze is molten. “At work. In my uniform. All cold and composed and untouchable while you sat there pretending you weren’t soaking wet under your station console.”

You let out a soft, broken whimper.

“You did think about it,” he says, satisfaction curling in his voice like smoke. “You thought about my hands on you while I barked orders. Thought about crawling under my desk, didn’t you? Obeying every word I said like a good little soldier.”

Your breath stutters, your hips lifting into his hand again. His fingers slide against your entrance, teasing—never giving. You’re already soaking again, so needy you could cry.

“Say it,” he whispers against your throat. “Tell me what you thought about.”

“I—” You swallow, body twitching under the weight of his words, of the ghost of his Evol still lingering around your limbs. “I watched you and I… I imagined you taking me in your office. Still in uniform. Rough. Like you couldn’t wait.”

He groans, low, like it’s been ripped from his chest.

“You like me rough, baby?” he breathes, voice no longer in control. “You like me when I’m like this?”

You nod, desperate. “Yes—yes, Caleb—please—”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs your thighs, pulls you down the bed in one swift motion. His mouth crashes into yours—hungry, claiming, filthy—devouring every sound you make. He presses the head of his cock to your entrance, thick and hot and bare, dragging it slowly through your slick folds.

And then he pauses.

“You want this?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you for anyone else?”

You’re breathless. Frantic. “Yes. Caleb, please—fuck me—”

He pushes in. One slow, devastating inch at a time, watching your face the entire time as your lips fall open, your back arches, and you shatter again without even meaning to.

He sinks into you slowly—so slowly it feels like your body might split apart just from the stretch. From the size of him, the weight of him, from the unbearable pleasure of finally, finally being filled by the man you’ve wanted for so long.

Your lips fall open in a silent gasp, your head pressing back into the pillow as your back arches off the bed.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, low and wrecked, forehead pressed to yours as he bottoms out. “You feel… god, you feel like heaven.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, holding himself still like he's barely hanging on.

And you realize—he’s shaking. Not from effort. From restraint.

You feel it in the way his fingers grip your hips just a little too tight. The way his jaw flexes. The way he moans—low and broken—when your walls clench around him, already begging for more.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers against your lips, voice rough and shaking. “So fucking long… Thought about it every night, thought about you on your knees, on my desk, under me in this bed—”

He starts to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that make your breath catch, that force little gasps from your mouth with each one. The sound of your bodies, of wet, slick need meeting brutal control, fills the room with something filthy and reverent all at once.

You cry out, nails clawing at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—won’t stop—just keeps driving into you with long, consuming strokes that reach the deepest parts of you. That stretch you in ways you’ve only ever dreamed about.

“You’re mine,” he growls, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—yours, Caleb, I’m yours, please—”

He grunts, snapping his hips harder, faster now, burying his face in your neck like he needs to breathe you in to survive.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he whispers, voice almost gentle now, contrasting the way he’s pounding into you. “So fucking tight—so goddamn perfect—come on, give it to me.”

His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit with the same precision he uses on the battlefield. And it’s too much—the stretch, the pressure, the way he’s whispering your name like a prayer torn from his chest.

You come undone.

Your body clamps around him, shaking, spasming, screaming his name as the orgasm rips through you like a flood. You see stars—real ones, behind your eyes—white-hot and endless, your entire world collapsing inward.

He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking erratically as he thrusts deep, grinding into you, spilling himself inside with a rough curse and your name broken on his lips.

He collapses onto you, his weight grounding you, both of you drenched in sweat, breath ragged and uneven. His hand finds yours, fingers twining together like it’s the only way he can anchor himself.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just holds you. Inside you. Around you. Against you.

Then— “I’m never letting you go,” he says softly, fiercely, his lips against your cheek. “You’re mine now. In every way that matters.”

And you believe him.

Because even in the silence that follows, you can still feel his gravity pulling you in.

Your body’s still trembling beneath him, boneless and soaked in sweat, skin flushed and glowing with the aftershock of your climax. Caleb’s still inside you, softening slowly, his weight pressing you into the mattress like an anchor—his breath ragged, his hand stroking lazily up and down your thigh like he can’t believe you’re real.

He lifts his head slightly, his lips brushing your temple.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gravelled and wrecked. “Didn’t hurt you?”

You nod, dazed, still high on the intensity of it all. “No. I’m okay.”

He smiles—just barely. A small, almost reverent thing. He leans down to kiss your shoulder, slow and lingering. And for a moment, you can feel it—the part of him that loves you in silence. That worships you even when he won’t say it out loud.

But then you shift beneath him. You roll onto your stomach. Slowly. Deliberately. And you look back at him over your shoulder, your eyes half-lidded, voice soft—but sharp.

“I’m not done.”

Caleb stills. His hand on your thigh freezes.

You reach back, tug his wrist just enough to make your point. “I don’t want soft.”

His breath catches. You arch your hips slightly, offering him the view—the slick, swollen heat of you still pulsing with need. His shirt is still bunched at your waist. Your skin’s glowing. Your mouth is parted. And you’re inviting him.

“Be rougher,” you whisper. “Please.”

His pupils blow wide.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, kneeling behind you now, his cock already twitching back to life as he takes you in from behind. “You think I haven’t imagined this? You think I didn’t dream about what I’d do to you if I ever let myself go?”

You glance over your shoulder again, smirking. “Then show me.”

That’s all it takes.

In a blink, his hands are back on you—gripping, claiming. He spreads your thighs roughly, one hand pressing into the small of your back to arch you deeper while the other wraps tight around the base of your neck.

“Mine,” he growls.

And he pushes in again.

Hard.

You gasp—loud and helpless—as he fills you again in one sharp, punishing thrust. The stretch, the angle, the force—everything is overwhelming. Perfect. You cry out into the sheets, fingers clawing at the mattress as he starts to fuck you in earnest.

No gentleness. No hesitation. Just skin against skin. His hips slamming into yours. His hand wrapped tight around your neck—not choking, just holding. Dominating. Keeping you right where he wants you.

“You wanted this?” he pants behind you, every word punched between thrusts. “This is what you think about? Me taking you like this—owning you?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—Caleb—”

Your voice cuts off into a cry as his grip tightens slightly on your throat, just enough to make your vision blur, to make your body burn brighter with pleasure.

“Say it again,” he demands, his other hand sliding up your spine, holding you in place. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from how good it feels. “I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”

His thrusts get faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room, mingling with your cries and his groans and the slick, desperate rhythm of your bodies colliding.

You’re so close again. So unbelievably close.

“Come for me again,” he growls, voice wrecked, as he pounds into you from behind. “Let me feel you—fucking take it, baby—”

And you do.

You break apart under him again, harder this time—louder. A scream torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you like a supernova. Your body convulses, squeezes him so tight that he curses and thrusts once, twice more before spilling into you with a roar, his hips slamming against your ass as he empties himself inside you.

He collapses over your back, chest heaving, arms shaking, holding himself up just enough not to crush you.

He doesn’t speak for a long time. Just breathes. Against your skin. Inside you. Around you.

Then— “I think I’ve completely lost my mind over you,” he mutters.

And the way he says it—quiet, hoarse, honest—undoes you more than anything else.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

#love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace #caleb x you #caleb lads #lads caleb #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #caleb #lads #colonel caleb

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lyn31 · 2 days ago

Text

Your Touch

Summary

A lighthearted yet intimate experiment in withholding touch backfires when Zayne proves just how much he’s come to crave your affection—leading to a playful battle neither of you really mind losing.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader College AU, fluff, kiss, I got distracted again (suppose to go up the same time as on ao3) but hey here it is!

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You and Zayne are not the type of couple that does PDA. Maybe some light touches here and there, sharing food—things you'd do with a friend. But in private? Neither of you hold back.

You’re always the one reaching for him first. Whether it’s poking his cheek to get his attention, linking your pinky with his when you’re sitting close, or running your fingers through his hair when he’s studying—it’s just natural. And even if Zayne doesn’t initiate as often, he never pulls away. If anything, he leans into it.

You’ve noticed the way his shoulders drop when you absently run your fingers down his back, how he subtly tilts his head into your hand when you play with his hair. The rare times you pull away too soon, he gives you that barely-there frown, the one only you would recognize as sulking.

Which is why, when you come across a trend online—

Stop touching them for a day and see how your partner reacts!

—you just have to try it.

You expect Zayne to notice quickly. Maybe even call you out immediately. But what you don’t expect is how quiet he gets.

You’re in his dorm, sprawled on his bed while he sits at his desk, flipping through his notes. It’s the usual scene—you talking, he half-listening, occasionally humming in response or throwing in a deadpan remark when you get too ridiculous.

“—and I’m just saying, if I were a medieval queen, I’d absolutely have a secret escape tunnel. None of that ‘trapped in a tower’ nonsense.”

Zayne barely glances up. “You’d get lost in the tunnels within five minutes.”

You gasp, placing a dramatic hand on your chest. “Excuse me?”

“Excused.”

Normally, this would be the part where you reach over and flick his forehead. Or poke his cheek. Or, if you’re feeling particularly clingy, lean onto his shoulder despite his halfhearted protests. But today, you simply huff and fold your arms, keeping your hands firmly to yourself.

Zayne’s pen stills on the page.

It’s subtle at first. His gaze flicks to you briefly before returning to his notes. A few minutes later, he shifts in his chair, glancing at your hand when you gesture—but you don’t reach for him. He rolls his pen between his fingers.

Another few moments pass. You keep talking, but you catch the way his shoulders rise, then drop, like he’s suppressing the urge to fidget. His fingers tap against the desk. Then stop. Tap again. Stop.

Then comes the first glance.

Then another.

By the fifth one, it’s not subtle anymore.

You bite your lip, fighting back a smile. Oh, this is getting good.

Feigning innocence, you turn to him. He’s still sitting at his desk, but at this point, he’s fully facing you, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers tapping idly against his knee.

“What?” You keep your tone neutral.

Zayne studies you for a moment, his usual unreadable expression giving way to something more thoughtful. Then, with a quiet sigh, he pushes himself up from his chair and moves to the bed beside you. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but there’s a crease between his brows, his lips pressed together like he’s working through a puzzle.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re mad at me or not,” he says. “But I can’t remember anything I did that might’ve upset you.”

Oh. Oh no. He looks genuinely concerned. For a second, guilt flickers in your chest.

You blink, forcing your expression to stay smooth. “Of course I’m not mad. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. His gaze flickers to your hands—resting neatly at your sides instead of reaching for him like they normally would.

And then, wordlessly, he shifts.

The mattress dips as he leans in, his head lowering until it rests against your lap. The movement is so natural, so easy, like it’s something he doesn’t even think twice about.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets. Stay strong.

“Oh? What’s this?” you tease, biting back a grin. “Does my boyfriend need attention?”

He frowns at you. Then, as if deciding he’s not getting enough from just lying there, his arm loops around your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach instead. His hold on you is loose, but there’s something unmistakably stubborn about the way he presses closer.

You hear a muffled murmur against your sweater.

“Hm? What was that?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, brows drawing together slightly. His grip around your waist doesn’t loosen. “If you’re not mad… then what is it?”

Oh no. He’s pouting. Well, technically, no—but for Zayne, this is as close to pouting as it gets.

You inhale sharply. Don’t laugh. Don’t break.

This would be a great time to come clean. You should just tell him. But he’s still clinging to you, half-curled into your lap, waiting for an answer with a look that’s entirely too cute for his own good.

So instead, you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

His gaze sharpens, suspicion flickering across his face. His grip around you tightens slightly before, without hesitation, he reaches for your hand, takes it, and places it firmly on his head.

You gape at him. Excuse me?

His fingers linger against yours, his touch slow, deliberate. He even strokes your palm once—almost absentmindedly, almost like a silent plea—before murmuring, “You’ve been avoiding touching me.”

Okay. Definitely time to tell him now.

…But.

Wouldn’t it be a waste not to enjoy this just a little longer?

So instead of confessing, you slowly run your fingers through his hair, reveling in the way he immediately leans into your touch.

“Did I?”

His eyes snap open. His body tenses for a second before he abruptly pushes himself up, face now inches from yours. His cool breath fans against your skin, his nose brushing yours.

His gaze drops to your lips for just a second before flicking back up. His fingers flex slightly where they rest on your waist, like he’s suppressing the urge to fidget.

“You’re playing a game,” he says flatly.

Your grin slips out before you can stop it. Your hands find his shoulders, playing with the fabric of his shirt.

“If I say I did,” you hum, “what are you gonna do about it?”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. “Then I suppose it’s game over.”

“What—” You notice the way his fingers flex against your waist, his eyes dip to your lips, lingering there just a heartbeat longer than before. Your breath catches. “Wait—are you—”

He moves before you can finish. His lips crash against yours, stealing the rest of your sentence, the air between you evaporating in an instant. His hand on your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, while the other cups your cheek, tilting your head just right. The kiss is firm at first—decisive, like he’s making a point—but it softens as he deepens it, his lips moving against yours in a slow, measured rhythm that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t even realize you’re sinking back until your shoulders meet the mattress. He follows without hesitation, pressing into you, his weight grounding, his fingers threading through your hair as he tilts his head and kisses you deeper. The heat of it curls low in your stomach, leaving you dizzy, breathless—your hands gripping his arms, unsure if you’re holding on or pulling him closer.

By the time he pulls away, you’re both panting, your chest rising and falling in sync with his. His forehead rests against yours, his thumb grazing your jaw in slow, absentminded strokes.

“I thought you hated losing,” you manage, your voice slightly hoarse.

Zayne exhales. “It’s your game over, not mine,” his thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. His voice is even, but there’s something undeniably satisfied in the way he says it.

You frown. “That doesn’t make sense—”

He cuts you off with another kiss. It’s brief this time, but no less deliberate.

You try again. "But that’s not even how—"

Only to get cut off with another kiss. “Mm, your loss,” he murmurs against your lips, punctuating each word with another quick kiss.

You blink, still a little dazed. Okay, well. This is very cute.

You suppose one loss is fine.

Grinning, you loop your arms around his neck, giggling between his kisses. He hums in response, the sound vibrating against your lips as he presses a few more slow, deliberate pecks to your mouth, like he’s savoring his victory. You didn’t expect this reaction, but honestly? It was absolutely worth it.

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Notes

Fluff fest. this week so far ahahahaha but I mean how can I not?

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sweetly-yours-and-mine · 3 days ago

Text

Grocery Store - Frozen Foods

Summary: You run into Hotch after your first few days at the BAU.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x f!Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Eep! I'm planning for this to be a series of oneshots in the same universe of little domestic moments.

Warnings: put the self in self-insert, brief mention of disordered eating (blink and you'll miss it), hotch mention's haley's pregnancy (blink and you'll miss it), a lot being said without being said ig, hotch having massive hands because i said so

The grocery aisles, on a late Saturday night, are predictably empty, still the open space that had been brimming with people only hours before unnerves you. Though you know it’s not true by the sparse cars in the parking lot, it feels as though you were the only one here and that’s not what you wanted when you'd packed up for the short trip over.

The silence hangs heavy in the air, as if the place is holding its breath, waiting to kick you out of it into the dark of the night so it can get some rest in preparation for the Sunday morning crowds.

Your basket hangs in the crook of your elbow and you find yourself wandering between aisles slightly aimless, eyes not really seeing as you look around. The anonymity of the place would usually settle you, calm your racing nerves but right now, mixed with a weekend off from work, with a long stretch of a few days left to fill, it makes the air around you feel like vegetable shortening.

You find yourself in the frozen goods aisles, hoping the chill and rush of the cold can help to ground you when a familiar voice calls out your last name. You turn in its direction.

“Oh!” Even when you’re off from work, work seems to find you. “Agent Hotchner, sir, hi.”

“Evening,” he smiles at you politely. Though he’s out of his high collars and suits, his voice betrays none of the vulnerability you feel is dripping from yours at having been caught outside of work. “Rather late for groceries, isn’t it?”

You look down at your basket, “Just some essentials, sir.” You catch him looking over to the shelves of ice cream to your left, and you let out a nervous laugh, afraid to be caught in a lie you never told, “And an indulgence or two.”

He nods, eyes flitting over to meet yours. “Good.”

Something about this, seeing Aaron in jeans and worn-down shirt, out of the office and where a passerby would mistake you for two acquaintances, makes you feel childish. The similarity between right now and the times you’d run into your elementary teachers outside of school is hard to miss. It’s the same jarring feeling, like the Earth had wobbled on its axis for a moment, thrust you into a pocket of air where rules didn’t seem to apply anymore.

Even when you were little, you were a stickler for them. Wanted, needed, to keep everything in its right place. Your mother always told you stories of your seemingly disproportionate anger, screaming and crying tantrums over the slightest things left out of place.

“And what’s your poison of-” he cuts himself off, tilting his head to read the label on the tub. “Non-Fat, All-Organic, frozen Greek yogurt…” his words trail off, a stitch forming between his eyebrows.

You smile at him sheepishly.

Despite the carefree ease that accompanied most of your childhood, you’re not sure if you’d like to go back to it. You’d rather the burden of responsibility, the burden of control, rather than the unbridled rage you feel was coursing through you at almost any given point in time when you were younger.

“Intriguing.”

You laugh before you get a chance to reel it in, and heat rushes to your face seconds later. The waters were still murky, around the team, but Aaron especially. Despite everyone’s best efforts to make it seem otherwise, there was still a line drawn between you and them. And they held safety in numbers, an elusive entity that spoke a language of its own.

Aaron, as your Unit Chief, only added another layer of complexity to the dynamic. His reputation was famous, infamous in other circles, and it only made you approach each and every encounter with him with hesitancy, scared to get too close and not close enough, balancing on a knife’s edge.

“Forgive me if I’m prying, Agent,” his voice draws you away from your thoughts. “But-but…why the-why-”

You shrug, gnawing at the inside of your lip. There’s a burning hole in the pit of your stomach, and an exhaustion washes over you suddenly. “It’s…uh,” you laugh again to buy yourself some time. “I like the taste.”

Aaron pauses a moment too long, and you watch him as he looks you over, at the things in your basket, the circles under your eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

It scares you how easily he managed to read you. The spinach and unsweetened plant milk in your basket, the clear indications of what your teenage self would call ‘trying to be good’.

The condensation starts to form on the tub in your arm, sticking to the sensitive skin of your inner arm.

“And-uh,” you clear your throat, look around anxiously eager to flick the spotlight away. “What’s got you making the midnight journey?”

The intentional look he was holding on you disappears in favour of a more general politeness, “Same as you.” He turns to the freezers, opening the door and taking two pints of Ben & Jerry’s, holding them in each hand to show you. “Indulgence.”

“Chocolate Therapy?” The label on each pint is the same.

“You’re surprised.”

You stammer for your footing, the sudden boldness a shock to yourself, “I-uh, sorry, sir, it just-”

The sound of his laugh cuts you short, muted and barely perceptible to anyone else had they been walking down the aisle, but at this time of night, it’s only you and him and the fuzzy sound of a Top 40s station filtering out over the speakers.

“What is it, Agent?” He smiles now, properly. The effect is jarring, feels like something you shouldn’t be seeing. “I don’t strike you as a chocolate man?”

It’s hard to find an answer to that. The day had been long, drawn out, you’d barely processed the weight of it, the weight of the week that preceded it, before running into Aaron and striking up this strange vertigo of an encounter.

You wish fervently for the ease the rest of the team has around each other, to be able to summon up a witty, smart answer in a matter of milliseconds and the confidence to say it as well. More often than not you’re left bumbling, hands grasping pathetically at little soap bars of words that all seem inadequate.

“Take a guess.”

“Sorry, sir?”

He gestures to the containers to your left, “Take a guess, Agent.”

You want to rebuttal, apologize profusely maybe, and go back home and pretend none of this had ever happened. Instead, you look over to the freezer, raking your eyes over each label, hoping you can gather your thoughts in a somewhat coherent manner, to come out of this nightmare of a place relatively unscathed. You gaze back over to him and see him watching you intently. There’s a small pint to your right and you make a snap decision before you think too much of it and risk looking daft, “An Éclair Affair.”

“Really?” His face is still unreadable. Nodding, you fight the urge to stutter and change your answer, this dreadful conversation already taking a turn towards treacherous waters. “Hm.”

The fridges beside you switch on with a soft hum, their frequency slightly higher than that of the buzzing fluorescents. Your mouth fills with blood, the inside of your cheek chewed raw by the time he speaks up again, “Good.”

“Good?” you can’t help but repeat, wincing at how dull and parrot-like it makes you look.

He nods, the edges of his mouth curling up and his eyes twinkling in the harsh light. He looks down at the two pints he’s holding stacked on top of each other in one hand, “They’re for Haley. She’s been having cravings recently and…” he gestures vaguely with the hand holding the containers. “She’s very specific.”

You wonder if he knows that his shoulders curl just slightly when he talks about her, that the hard flint of his face smooths over, bricks falling away. You wonder if they’re things he’s schooled himself out of doing and is just letting slip here, or if they’re truly forces of habit.

“She’s got good taste, sir.”

The rush of your victory is still coursing through you, a flicker of hope at the end of the tunnel, a promise that it can and will get better.

You see Aaron struggle for a moment, opening his mouth once, twice, before saying, rather bluntly, “You should get what you want.”

“I-what?”

With his chin, he gestures to the container in your arm, “Indulge. Properly, I mean.”

You fumble for an answer, something right. So much of your new life, your new job, has made you feel you’d never do anything properly ever again. “Is that an order, sir?”

He lets out a soft exhale through his nose, shaking his head as he looks down. To your delight, the corners of his mouth twitch up. Looking up again, he says in a serious tone, “Get the full fat stuff, Agent.”

When you laugh this time, it isn’t followed by twinges of guilt, of fear. It bursts out easily from your throat, and the sheer nothingness that you feel is heady. You see yourself mirrored in Aaron, in the slow, rumbling chuckle he lets out. Despite his composure, you see the tips of his ears turn red, your feelings about this whole thing this evening mirrored in him.

It was strange to see him up close like this, with the weight of his authority lifted off his shoulders. It’s like watching a marble statue spring to life in front of you, pockmarks rippling up on top of previously smooth surfaces.

Aaron keeps looking at you, expectant. The tub grows heavier in your arms, and you shift it higher up. You wonder if you’re just imagining the weight of the decision laying in front of you, the push and pull between should and could.

It has been a long time since your teenage years, since fainting in the shower and brushing out clumps of your hair, but you think that that girl will always be with you, for better and worse. It’s a wonder to you that nobody saw it coming, your insatiable thirst for control spiraling greater and greater until college where it followed your every thought, manipulated your every move.

“Agent?”

You know Aaron well enough at least, to know that he wouldn’t be offended if you didn’t change your choice. He was private, not cruel.

Your eye catches another flavour, and before you let yourself think too much of it, to think yourself out of it, you open the fridge door and switch. The rush of cool air is gratifying, the wash of a good night’s sleep after a long day.

Breathing out softly, you look back to see him shift the containers in his grip, “I’ll see you Monday, Agent.” He nods at you, polite and professional as always.

When he rounds the corner at the end of the aisle, the ice cream catches your eye, a stark contrast to the other things in your basket. The low timbre of Aaron’s laugh rings out in your ears again, the anvil crushing your chest lifted.

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x female!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x f!reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fic #thomas gibson

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devdozes · 1 day ago

Note

Spiderman phainon but what about Spiderman mydeimos???

SPIDERMAN MYDEIMOS‼️

AAAA I NEED TO START DRAWING SPIDEY MYDEI RN

Being Spider-Man's Girlfriend was supposed to be cool, but nobody told you it would involve this much damage control.

"Hold still, Mydeimos, you're bleeding on the couch again."

"It's fine," he said, tone as flat as ever, even as you pressed a disinfectant wipe to his arm. His golden eyes barely flicked toward the wound. "It'll heal."

"Yeah, but my couch won't," you huffed. "You keep doing this, and we're gonna have to invest in plastic covers like an old married couple."

"Tch. Ugly."

"So is your arm right now."

He exhaled sharply through his nose—his version of a laugh. His whole vibe screamed 'intimidating man who has no time for nonsense,' but you knew better. Mydei might look like a cold, blunt realist, but he had his moments of secret softness. Not that he'd ever admit to them.

"You saw the news, right?" he asked, switching topics while you bandaged him up. "Everyone thinks Spider-Man is terrifying. Some reporter said I move like a 'predator in the dark.'" He scoffed. "I'm saving them, and they still call me scary."

You patted his arm, amused. "To be fair, you do have that whole 'gruff, intimidating presence' thing going on."

"They can't even see my face."

"No, but you could stop glaring at people like you're deciding their fate."

Mydei clicked his tongue and looked away. He totally did that.

Once you finished bandaging him, you leaned back with a satisfied grin. "There, all done. Now you can go back to swinging around the city like a menace."

"I'm not a menace."

"You also saved a kitten today and pet its head for like a whole minute."

"Shut up."

You beamed. Got him.

He sighed and leaned back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ceiling as if contemplating the entire universe. This was the real Mydei. Not the scary, unapproachable figure everyone thought he was. This was your Mydei—the one who let you patch him up, who tolerated your teasing, who had a hidden love for cute things and a soft spot for you.

You nudged his leg with your foot. "Wanna watch something? I promise not to pick anything stupid."

"Liar."

"Okay, I promise not to pick something too stupid."

He huffed but didn’t object as you grabbed the remote. A victory. A small one, but still.

A few minutes passed before he moved again. This time, he didn’t just rest his arm around you—he practically wrapped himself around you, his strong arms locking you in place. His head buried into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You blinked. "Uh... Mydei?"

He mumbled something unintelligible but didn’t budge.

A small laugh bubbled up in your throat. Everyone called him a tiger, but for you, he was just a big, clingy cat.

"You're really comfy," he muttered, voice low, almost sheepish. "And warm."

Your heart did an embarrassing flip. How was this the same guy who scared half the city?

Smiling, you brought a hand up, gently running your fingers through his hair. "I swear, for someone with a scary reputation, you sure act like an oversized cat sometimes."

"Don't make it weird."

"Too late."

Mydei groaned but didn’t move an inch. If anything, he held you tighter.

Minutes passed, and you realized he wasn’t just holding you—he was trapping you. His arms were ridiculously strong, making escape impossible. Even shifting slightly earned you a grumble from where his face was buried in your neck.

"Uh, Mydei? I can’t move."

"Don’t need to."

You huffed. "Okay, but I kinda wanna grab the popcorn—"

"No."

You tried to wiggle an arm free. Failed. "Mydei, you're literally Spider-Man. You can reach it."

"Lazy."

"You're the one pinning me down!"

"Mhm."

He was completely content like this, muscles relaxed, warmth radiating from him as he clung to you like some oversized, stubborn cat refusing to let go of its favorite person.

Eventually, you gave up and sighed. "You better not fall asleep on me."

No response. Just the steady rhythm of his breathing, still wrapped around you like a human blanket.

You were about to tease him again, but the comfort of his warmth, the quiet hum of the movie playing in the background, and the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours started to lull you into drowsiness. His breath was slow, his hold secure, and before you knew it, your own eyelids grew heavy.

Sinking deeper into his embrace, you let sleep take over, your fingers still loosely tangled in his hair. Mydei shifted slightly, adjusting his grip just enough to bury his face even further into the crook of your neck, murmuring something inaudible in his sleep.

And just like that, you both drifted off—tangled together, warm, safe.

Mydei woke up first, groggy but comfortable. The first thing he noticed was you, still tucked under him, breathing softly in your sleep.

His golden eyes softened. He was heavy, practically draped over you like a living weighted blanket, yet you hadn’t pushed him away. You let him stay.

Carefully, he loosened his grip—just enough to scoop you up in his arms, moving with the silent ease of someone used to carrying people through the city.

You barely stirred as he lifted you, your face nuzzling against his chest instinctively.

Mydei sighed, pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead before walking toward your bedroom. But Just as Mydei tucked you into bed, his entire body tensed. A sharp, unmistakable sting prickled at the back of his neck—his spider-sense screaming.

His golden eyes snapped toward the window, instincts already kicking in. Something was happening.

In one swift motion, he pulled the blanket up over you, making sure you were comfortably settled. His fingers lingered for just a second—reluctant, but there was no time to hesitate. Duty called.

He turned, moving across the room with silent precision, already shrugging on his suit and golden metal claws. The familiar fabric clung to him like a second skin, his mask slipping over his face as he strode toward the window.

He turns his head to give you one last glance, before jumping out the window off to where his senses were taking him. . . . . .When he reached the scene, the first thing he saw was chaos. A messed-up road, broken stones, debris everywhere—

And a car on fire.

His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, scanning the destruction. His gaze caught on something small lying among the rubble.

A Spiderman plushie?

Before he could react, an immense force slammed into him from the side, sending him flying—straight into the wall of a shop.

The impact rattled through Mydei’s ribs as he crashed into the shop’s wall, shattering the glass windows with the sheer force of the throw. Dust and debris clouded his vision, the ringing in his ears a dull reminder that he’d let his guard down. His fingers twitched around the small Spider-Man plushie he had picked up—what the hell was that doing here?

But before he could process it, a deep, guttural laugh rumbled from the cracked road ahead.

"Not so tough now, are ya, Spider?"

Mydei’s sharp golden eyes snapped up, locking onto the massive figure emerging from the wreckage. The guy was built like a wrecking ball—easily over seven feet tall, muscles bulging unnaturally under his torn clothes. His skin had a rough, almost stone-like texture, giving him an armored appearance. His face was twisted in a grin, eyes gleaming with the thrill of destruction.

Super strength. That explained the obliterated street. But Mydei had already noticed something else. The brute’s movements were sluggish—slow to adjust, slow to react. He had power, but speed? Weak.

Mydei cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he tossed the plushie aside.

“Alright, big guy,” he muttered, voice laced with sharp amusement, “You’re strong. I’ll give you that.” He bent his knees slightly, fingers twitching as he prepared to launch. “But let’s see how well you handle someone who actually knows how to fight.”

The brute snarled and charged, the ground trembling beneath his heavy steps. But Mydei was already moving.

WHIP—

A web shot out, latching onto the crumbling remains of a streetlight. In a heartbeat, Mydei launched himself into the air, narrowly avoiding the devastating punch that cratered the pavement where he had just stood. The mutant’s fist sunk into the concrete, struggling to pull it back out.

“Too slow.” Mydei’s voice rang from above.

The mutant barely had time to look up before Mydei came crashing down with a devastating kick to his jaw. The sheer force sent the brute stumbling back, cracks forming along his hardened skin.

"HRGH—!" The villain spat out something red—blood? A tooth? Who cared.

But Mydei didn’t stop.

He was already moving again, flipping midair, using another web to slingshot himself behind his opponent. Before the brute could react, Mydei landed a flurry of precise, brutal punches—each blow aimed at weak points. The ribs. The back of the knees. The joints. The guy was a tank, sure, but even tanks had weak spots.

The mutant roared in frustration, swinging wildly, trying to catch him. But Mydei was untouchable. Ducking. Weaving. Flipping. His movements were as fluid as water, never in the same place twice.

"You know," Mydei mused, narrowly avoiding a grab attempt, "for someone with that much muscle, you’d think you’d be better at actually landing a hit."

The brute’s eyes burned with rage. "STAND STILL!"

“No thanks.”

With that, Mydei shot a web at the mutant’s face—SPLAT!—effectively blinding him.

The villain roared, clawing at the sticky mess over his eyes. And that’s when Mydei saw his opening.

Launching forward, Mydei twisted midair and delivered a final, devastating roundhouse kick to the side of the mutant’s head. The sheer force sent him flying—his body crashing through a half-destroyed car before finally going still.

For a moment, silence.

Then, a groan. The brute twitched, clearly still conscious but dazed.

Mydei landed smoothly, rolling his shoulders. “You’re still awake? That’s impressive. Too bad it won’t last.”

With practiced ease, he shot out several webs, wrapping the mutant up tight against a broken lamppost. Struggle all he wanted, the brute wasn’t breaking out of that anytime soon.

The sirens were already wailing in the distance. Cops were on their way.

Mydei exhaled, finally relaxing his stance.

Then, he noticed it—the little Spider-Man plushie he had tossed aside earlier, lying near the wreckage.

“…Tch.” Without thinking, he picked it back up, dusting it off. He glanced at the unconscious villain, then at the mess around him.

“…Still gotta get back before she wakes up,” he muttered.

Just as Mydei swung through the city, a sudden, searing bolt of energy shot past him—so close he barely dodged in time. Someone was watching. Someone hidden.

Golden eyes narrowed. Fine. If they wanted to play this game—

He’d find them first.

The cowardly villain was a lanky figure wrapped in tattered cloth, his gaunt face shadowed by a hood. His power? Energy-based projectiles. He hid in the dark, firing shots from afar, never engaging in direct combat. He was weak up close—he knew it, Mydei knew it.

Which was why the villain always ran when things got too heated.

And tonight was no exception. As soon as Mydei got close, the villain turned tail, attempting to flee.

But before he could escape, a flying baseball bat shot through the air at an insane speed, striking him directly in the head with a sickening thud. The villain's body crumpled to the ground instantly.

Mydei's gaze snapped to where the bat had come from, and there you stood, arms crossed, glaring down at him from your apartment window with an expression of pure annoyed fury.

"Dear Spider-Man," you said, voice dripping with passive-aggressive venom, "if you're gonna fight, please try to be quiet and not interrupt people's sleep."

Mydei blinked. Then sighed. Oh god hes fucked . . . . . Mydei landed on your balcony with practiced ease, his mask still in place as he crouched, golden eyes watching you with a mix of guilt and amusement. You were still standing at the window, arms crossed, your glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

"I was handling it," he muttered, pulling off his mask.

"Yeah? Well, I handled it faster," you shot back, tilting your chin up. "And now my precious sleep is gone, all thanks to my dear superhero boyfriend who can’t keep it down."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I’ll make it up to you."

You raised a skeptical brow. "Oh? How?"

Without another word, Mydei scooped you up effortlessly, pulling you into his arms before stepping inside.

"Mydei—! Put me down, you dramatic bastard, or what do you call phainon? yeah HKS."

He ignored you, carrying you over to the couch and gently setting you down before disappearing into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a warm cup of tea in one hand and your favorite snack in the other.

He placed them on the table in front of you before sitting on the floor down beside you.

"Accept my offering," he murmured against your thighs.

You huffed, trying to hold on to your grumpiness. But between the warmth of the tea, the comfort of his hold, and the way he was resting his on your lap like some overgrown cat, your resolve crumbled.

"...Fine," you grumbled, taking the tea. "But you still owe me for the lost sleep."

Mydei smirked. "I can think of a way." "Shut the fuck up mydei" But then an idea flashed in your mind as you gave him a cheeky smile.

Mydei eyed you suspiciously as you flashed him a devious smile, pulling something from behind your back. His sharp golden eyes narrowed when he saw the fabric in your hands—a pair of matching Hello Kitty pajamas.

"If you want to make it up to me," you cooed, holding up the ridiculously cute pink pajamas, "then put this on."

Mydei's expression went completely blank. He slowly blinked at you, then at the pajamas, then back at you again.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"I fight crime in the dead of night, swinging across the city, getting smashed into walls, and dealing with the most annoying villains imaginable—"

"And now you're putting on the Hello Kitty pajamas," you cut him off sweetly, pushing them into his chest.

Mydei sighed, running a hand down his face. He was a realist, a straightforward man who prided himself on logic and practicality. There was no practical reason for him to wear pink Hello Kitty pajamas.

And yet, ten minutes later, there he was.

Standing in your living room.

Wearing them.

And looking absolutely massive in the cutesy, oversized fabric.

You barely held in your laughter, eyes sparkling with mischief as you twirled around in your own matching set.

"This is blackmail material," Mydei muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he towered over you, looking both dead inside and resigned to his fate.

"You look adorable," you chirped, hugging his arm.

He grumbled, ears slightly red, before pulling you into his arms like a hostage.

"If I'm doing this, we're doing this right. Movie day," he declared, dragging you onto the couch.

"Exactly! Now, go order snacks," you said, shoving your phone into his hands.

Mydei gave you a long, unamused stare.

"...You're really milking this, huh?"

"Absolutely."

He exhaled heavily but started placing the order anyway. Because, despite his protests, he was completely wrapped around your finger.

And unfortunately for him?

You knew it.

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glitchy1938 · 3 days ago

Note

I didn’t see rules for requesting so I’m sorry if this isn’t something you’d be interested in

but what about the beasts (you don’t have to do all of them if you don’t wanna) with a reader who gets visions of the future and past? Like they’ll occasionally just pause, get this vacant look in their eyes for like 30 seconds and then change what they were doing? Maybe they have a almost knowing look on their face as people speak to them, like they’ll occasionally just know more then they let on.

I hope you don't minde that I add my OC in this story, hope you like it !!

Maybe... If I change it....

[Beasts cookies x reader]

You were the only cookie if the vision who can see the future and past, you were also an ancient, so most of the time, the cookies asked you only abot their future, if they'll have what they want ect... It was insupportable, but you were more worried about the other Ancients, your friends.

Specially Blueberry Milk cookie, mystic floor cookie, Burning Spice Cookie ans Red Chocola cookie... These were your closest friends, but you started to see what would happen to them... You saw by only looking at them, how all of them were devoured by the darkness and got corrupted and how Red Chocola die by trying to stop them but got almost killed if her creatore did heal her while she was trapped like all your friends in the tree....

You didn't want this to happen, you loved them too much to see the vision of their future becoming corrupted... If only- But wait... Yes YOU can change this... ! You can maybe fixed what have they made them broken !...

Blueberry milk Cookie

• He was the cookie of knowledge, he can tell when there is something conserne you. He got a little worried.

• He was surprised that you actually came very time he feel overwhelmed but the cookie who doesn't stop questing him, like you replace him so that he can relax or take a break.

• You also helped him a lot with the chores, whenever he can't do two things, you're right next to him a d doing it instead of him, and he's very grateful for that

• Sometimes, he catch you looking at him and he ask you if you were alright, and you reply by saying 'yes' most of the time. He's really concerned about you and he want to help hou as much as you did.

• He really like your jokes if you make some, or if you sing it really help him with his poems, he's grateful to have a friend like you... But he can't help but to be conserne when you looke at him a d being sad...

"My My, you really are something when you sing dear friend" he said while you two where at his garden and drinking tea, you just smile him back, happy to make him smile "Oh, you know me, always happy to make others happy !!". He then take a sip of his cup, and saw you glas at him... But.... You seem.... Like you were... Sad...

He was worried "Are you feeling alright friend ? You seem concern ?... Is everything in your kingdom ? Are those cookies too much to handle ?" He asked as he look at you. You were alerted and shake your head and just made a fake smile "Oh, don't worry, it's just how responsible it is to use your ability on EVERY cookie until the night, but worry not, it's you and the others who are much more important..!"

He look at you surprised by your words... Did you see something that could happen to him and his friends ??... Why won't you tell him.. but doesn't want to get you worried too much about him so he let go... For now..

Burning Spice Cookie

• Now this man... You knew how was this Kingdom, for him as he described, it was boring, even when Red chocola came to have a little fight to have some fun, it was still boring to him.

• He was surprised when you dragged him out of this Kingdome for the first time, showing new things that seem to intervened him, and it was never the same place you took him every night, you always managed to find new places to show him.

• He was a very grumpy man, but is glad to see other thing than what the same boring cycle hid kingdom was. But he saw the look on your face when he get too bored or when he argue with Red Chocola Cookie when they fight.

• It was like.... You were scared.... if him... He didn't want to scare you !! He may have a grumpy side, but he wouldn't never ever, EVER ley a finger on you or yell at you ! He.... Care deeply for you...!!

• He can see in your eyes that, when you look into his eyes for a second, you were scared of sad.. He want to know what concerns you so much about him, he doesn't want to push you too hard to tell him but he will ask you none stop how are you doing and take care of you

You two just cale back from a festival and you were just laughing of how much fun you two had, he looked at you while you were eating some gummy, but also saw some reed on your eyes... Have you not sleep ??

"Hey, why haven't you sleep ? I told you to stop overworking yourself !" He said a little annoyed by that, you look at him surprised and than touch your face... "Does that show too much...?" You whisper, he looked at you for a few moments before he pick you up with one arms and start walking back to his kingdom.

"h-hey !! What are you doing ?!" "Picking you,what else." He replied still holding you. "You always overworking yourself and that miss me off. I... I care for you you know... So... Don't lower yourself too much okay, but most of all what are you so scared or sad when you look at me?!" He said looking back at you, you look to the ground... You wanted to tell him what would happen to him, but you decided not to, but.... "I'm scared...." You whisper to him as he look at you surprised..."Scared ?... Scared of what ?" He asked.

You remember what you saw in his future, how cruel he became, destroying many cities and villages to is fun, and his horrible laugh.... You were scared of HIM. But not wanted to shock him, you say "of if we will all still together and we don't all including me feel into the darkness..." He then stop walking, he thought for a second and the. Sight. "Firefly." He said as you look at him... "I... Promis you that even if I'll be into the darkness... I'll NEVER EVER hurt you. I wouldn't even dream of harming you !" You too looked at each other and you give him a soft smile, thanking him for this promise.

Mystic Flour Cookie

• She didn't expect you and some of your guards to come and to hear you saying that your guards will protect her from the greedy cookie that comes to her to fulfill their wishes.

• She was happy to see you, don't get me wrong, she's just curious about why do you keep asking her how was she feeling every day or giving her meals so that she can eat or to sleep.

• You almost baby her when she's going on a walk alone, you mostly following her behind but she can still feel your presence.

• She like your musics, she can listen to your voice rambling about anything you like, or hearing you singing make her relax.But she starting to also see how do you look at her.

• Did she do something ? Have you see something happening to her ? She really want to ease your minde, but also want to know what concerns you about her. She know your ability and that made her worried about you....

You two were at the garden as you were singing a calm song for her to relax,she was smiling at the sound of your voice, "you have of an angel, I must say" she said when you finished, you look at her surprised and blushed a little because of the compliment " Thanks, I-I really appreciate it ^^" a small silence surrounded you two.

She look at you, and saw some reed on your eyes, she then told you to come closer and to lay with her on her lap, you decline but she just took you and place you in her lap as she brush your hear, you feel more relaxed when you feel her soft touch.

"Dear, I want to help you as much as you helped me, may you tell me what made you so concern about me ?" She asked, you looked at her and that turn you face away from hers, you didn't want to make her worried about you... You just hoped that the guards you came with will be able to stop the greedy cookies to come any closer to her.

"I-I... I'm just worried about those cookies.... Just like me, we both have some powers for making wishes come true to them, and I can't help but to worry about you...! I don't want them to hurt you...!!" You said as you suddenly hugged her, she was taking by surprise but gently give you back your hug, telling you that none of this will never happen.

That she was still with you and the other Ancients, and she'll never live your side.. maybe you can truest this time...

#mystic flour cookie x reader #crk beasts x reader #beast cookies x reader #burning spice x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #crk x you #cr kingdom #X reader #cookie run x reader #cookie run kingdom oc #cookie run x you #cookie run kingdom x reader

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sick-sad-world-revolution-now · 2 days ago

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That initial response says it all. People are absolutely fine with misogyny and men using the same silencing tactics as always (the way he phrased it didn’t even hide that, this piece of shit is talking like your basic male who domestically abuses his girlfriend or hates all women unashamedly) when the woman in question is someone they despise. Just a reminder as well that even though JK Rowling did talk on social media with right wingers who are despicable and I don’t support that at all it was on the topic of women (having the right to have safe spaces away from the violence and entitlement of men) and women only.

The line about her somehow “not speaking about actual issues women and girls are facing” is a straight up lie. While not active on the terrible platform that is Twitter I regularly see her tweets about women, highlighting situations that are barely talked about, critiquing the politics all around the word that go against women’s rights. She’s pro-abortion, historically supports the Labour Party but has issues with it because of its emphasis on gender, among other things, supported both Hillary Clinton and Obama, is heavily criticising the Republican Party and Trump, is pro-immigrants, anti-Brexit, pro Ukraine, anti Netanyahu. On her website she also wrote this when listing her reasons why she took an interest in talking about trans issues, and this was prior to her opening a woman shelter in Edinburgh (which was heavily criticised by gender activists, but anyway you still understand it’s a feminist action) :

“Firstly, I have a charitable trust that focuses on alleviating social deprivation in Scotland, with a particular emphasis on women and children. Among other things, my trust supports projects for female prisoners and for survivors of domestic and sexual abuse. I also fund medical research into MS, a disease that behaves very differently in men and women. It’s been clear to me for a while that the new trans activism is having (or is likely to have, if all its demands are met) a significant impact on many of the causes I support, because it’s pushing to erode the legal definition of sex and replace it with gender.”

Regardless of people liking her or not, justifying misogyny and saying “fuck her, this dude Vaush in this was right” tells feminists everything we need to know about the state of misogyny right now. It’s normalised, it’s defended, it’s pervasive.

#‪‎feminism #gender abolition #chloé says stuff #jk rowling #politics #liberals #radical feminism #male violence #silencing tactics #sexism

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iamreeder · 19 hours ago

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this is one of the better things i posted on cohost and i wanted it to be more easily accessible again because i still believe it very much. i wrote it in february 2023.

I've been thinking about the things people have said about my art that have stuck with me the longest, and trying to synthesize that into a personal philosophy about how I talk about other people's art - and I think I've got it to a point where I just want to get it out into the world somehow. It does also start with a bit of a humble brag but the story is important to get to my conclusion.

One time I practiced a single piano piece for weeks on end for a once-in-a-lifetime live performance. I was playing a piece called Familiar by the German pianist Nils Frahm... in front of Nils Frahm. This was terrifying. He was sat literally on the floor about 2 metres away from the piano while I played - his eyes shut. After everybody at the performance had played their pieces, Mr Frahm came up to me and said something that justified the work I'd put in: that he really appreciated how delicate my touch on the piano keys was. It made my weeks of practice feel visible and worth it in a way that wouldn't have been quite the same if he'd simply said that he'd enjoyed the performance.

So when I am responding to art of any kind, this is what I say to myself: find a small detail in the work - something technical, some specific element of it - and talk about that. Be honest about what you appreciate about it. Be precise. You could say a piece of work is beautiful, and sincerely mean it, but if your aim is to compliment the artist in a way you want to land you could compliment the brush strokes on the shadows of the archway, or how an artist captures the slow movement of the ocean in their line work, or the contrast in the colour palette between the artificial and natural. Find something small and intentional, because the small stuff can be the part of the process of making art that consumes our effort and thought the most.

Since I've started trying to apply this rubric in my day to day life, I have found two things: the first is that I've started taking in art of all kinds on a more detailed level, and found a deeper appreciation for the technique involved in its creation; the second is that nobody (so far, and so far as I can tell) has taken this form of response poorly.

#thinking about art

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sukunaspillow · 1 day ago

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CW: Smut, Professor/Student relationship, infidelity/cheating(reader), Age gap, Rough/Unprotected sex pairing: Gojo x reader

a/n: Repost bc, what the flip???

────────────♡────────────

“And you sure your dad-“

“Benefactor.”

“Whatever, same thing. But is your BENEFACTOR okay with me being over?”

Megumi sighed and glanced up from his paper, his gaze meeting yours filled with warmth. He placed a reassuring hand on your thigh and whispered, “It’s okay.” Before pressing his soft lips against yours in a quick, comforting kiss. Pulling back, he chuckled softly and added, “Seriously, stop worrying so much.”

“Fine” you muttered, turning your head away, a flush creeping up your cheeks. You cherished this side of megumi—the one that was so different from the reserved and stoic persona everyone else saw. With a playful pout, you added, “This is so boring. What time are we leaving for the party???”

“We need to finish studying first, then we’ll go. You remember what happened the last time, don’t you?” he said, reminding you of what happened the last time you slacked off instead of studying.

“But that was last time!”

“I don’t care. We’ll go later,” He said sternly before turning back to his notes.

Yeah… despite him being kind of understanding, your boyfriend was pretty boring. It’s not like he has to go clubbing with you, but letting lose for once wouldn’t kill him.

Sighing, you flopped onto the bed and scrolled through your phone to pass the time, but even that got old fast. Your eyelids grew heavy as boredom set in.

“Wake me up when we’re leaving, okay?”

You got a hum in response before sleep pulled you under.

Your eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep. Glancing to your left, you noticed Megumi sleeping soundly beside you.

That little shit! He didn’t even bother waking me up.

The room was eerily silent, the only sound coming from your peacefully asleep boyfriend. You felt a dryness in your throat, but you hesitated to move—just in case Megumi’s benefactor was home. However, as the minutes dragged on, the thirst became unbearable. You had no choice but to go.

Navigating the house in the dark was like stumbling through a maze. You had to rely on pure instinct, carefully feeling your way downstairs, trying not to trip over anything. After what felt like an eternity, you finally found the kitchen. The soft glow of the refrigerator light illuminated the space like a welcoming beacon.

Moving as silently as possible, you rifled through the cupboards, wincing when one of the hinges let out a loud creak. You froze, holding your breath, but when no one stirred, you continued your search. Finally, you found a cup. Filling it with water, you wrapped your fingers around it like a lifeline, bringing it to your lips and drinking deeply, letting the cool relief wash over you.

You were so focused on quenching your thirst that you didn’t notice the tall figure standing behind you.

“The fuck are you doing in my house?”

His voice pierced through the air, scaring you so much that you nearly leaped out of your skin as you turned to face him.

Holy shit

Oh my god

What the fuck

WHAT IS PROFESSOR GOJO DOING HERE???

Your brain scrambled for answers, for any reasonable explanation as to why your science professor was standing in Megumi’s kitchen at this ungodly hour. Then, it clicked.

THIS was Megumi’s benefactor? He never bothered to mention that tiny, crucial detail?

“Uhm, well, uh… me and Megumi were just studying, but we fe—”

“Oh, so you’re the one Megumi said was staying over.”

“Uh… yeah.” You stared at your feet, feeling strangely out of place.

“Oh, my bad.” he said, leaning against the counter and pulling out his phone. “Go ahead, do whatever you were doing.”

You hesitated for a moment before turning back to your water, lifting the cup again, but this time… you drank slower.

What? You just got a little distracted.

It was weird seeing Professor Gojo outside of his usual black coat.

That thing really didn’t do him justice.

You hadn’t even realized you were staring until he suddenly spoke, breaking you out of your daze.

“You like what you see?”

A sly smirk stretched across his lips, and your face instantly burned.

“huh? No-“

“I’m just kidding calm down.” He chuckled, his voice like music to your ears.

But what if I did, what then?

You hadn’t even realized you said it out loud until he looked back at you, eyes widening in surprise. But the shock faded just as quickly, replaced by that same damn smile—lazy, knowing, dangerous.

“Then?” His voice was smooth, teasing, dripping with amusement as his gaze dropped lower, shamelessly tracing the curves of your body. His smirk widened. “Then I’d just have to let you admire me more up close.”

The way he smirked sent a slow delicious heat curling in your stomach..

“Is that what you really want?” He murmured, his voice dropping into soemthig husky, rougher. Something that sent a shiver through you. “To see me up close? To really take me in?”

“Yes” you said gazing into his eyes with pure need, feeling warmth in your insides.

Without warning, he crashed his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you thoroughly. One hand gripped your thigh, hiking your leg up around his hip as he pressed you back against the wall, pinning you with his hard muscular body.

His other hand slid under your skirt, his fingers dancing along your inner thigh, inching higher and higher until they brushed against the damp fabric of your panties.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled but no less intense, as he felt the evidence of your arousal. His hip rocked forward, grinding his hardening length against your core, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through you.

He abruptly broke the kiss, easily lifting you up and setting you on the edge of the counter. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your skirt riding up to reveal more of your thighs. He took a moment to admire the view, his hands sliding up and down your smooth skin before gripping the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.

Without a word, he leaned down, his face hovering inches above your clothed sex. He looked up at you with a wicked grin before diving in, his teeth caught the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs and tossing them carelessly aside.

He wasted no time, his tongue delving between your slick folds, lapping at your essence greedily. He groaned against your skin, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. His hands gripped your thighs, pushing them further apart as he buried his face deeper into your sex.

He focused his attention on your clit, circling the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue before suckling hard. You cried out, your fingers curled, gripping his hair tighter, anchoring yourself to him as the world spun around you. It felt like every cell in your body was screaming with pleasure, every muscle pulled taut and ready to snap.

Your hips bucked erratically against his face, seeking more of that delicious friction. He took it as encouragement, his tongue plunging deep into your channel, fucking you with his mouth.

He could feel your walls fluttering around his tongue, your body tensing as your orgasm approached. He doubled his efforts, his tongue lashing against your clit, two fingers pumping in and out of your tight heat. The pressure inside you mounted, growing more intense with each passing second, until you felt like you might explode.

And then, with a scream of pure ecstasy, you did. Your body convulsed violently, your inner walls clamping down on his invading fingers like a vice. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, your vision going white as your orgasm crashed through you. You could feel your release gushing out of you, flooding his mouth and dripping down your thighs.

Your toes curled, your fingers pulling harshly at his hair as you rode out the intense sensation, your body shaking and twitching with the force of your climax.

He pulled back, his face glistening with your juices, a look of pure satisfaction and greed etched on his features. Without a word, he stood up, his hands gripping your hips tightly, pulling you to the edge of the counter. He undid his belt with quick, efficient movements, the clink of his zipper the only sound in the charged silence of the kitchen

He freed his hard, throbbing cock, the thick length slapping against his stomach as he kicked his pants off.

He stepped between your spread legs, the head of his dick nudging against your sensitive, dripping entrance. He looked into your eyes, his gaze intense and filled with a primal hunger.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice rough and low. "Tell me you need my cock inside you." He rubbed himself against you, coating his length in your slick arousal, teasing you with the promise of what was to come.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice small and needy. "Please, I want it. I want you inside me." You reached down, grasping at his hard flesh, guiding him to your entrance.

Without warning, he thrust his hips forward, the thick head of his cock stretching your tight entrance, pushing past the initial resistance until he was fully sheathed inside you.

A guttural moan tore from his throat at the feel of your silken walls gripping him like a vice. He stilled for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his girthy member, before he started to move. His thrusts were hard and deep, each one punching the air from your lungs, the force of it rocking your entire body.

One hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he took you with a roughness that bordered on painful. The other hand slid under your shirt, pushing the flimsy fabric up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. He leaned down, his mouth latching onto the swell of your breast, his teeth and tongue lavishing attention on the sensitive peak.

He pistoned his hips faster, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with your wanton cries. The counter beneath you shook and rattled, the force of his thrusts threatening to upend it. He was taking you with a ferocity that stole your breath, each drive of his cock striking that secret spot deep inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

He could feel your walls starting to flutter around him, the telltale sign of your impending release. He doubled his efforts, his grip on your hip sure to leave bruises as he fucked you with single-minded intensity.

"That's it," he growled against your skin, his voice rough and low.

"Come for me. I want to feel you come apart on my cock." He bit down hard on your nipple, the mix of pleasure and pain pushing you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing violently as you screamed your release. He followed soon after, with a roar of your name, his hot seed spurting deep inside you, painting your walls with his essence.

He collapsed against you, his weight pinning you to the counter as you both gasped for breath, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure. Neither of you noticed the quiet footsteps creeping up the stairs.

Megumi stood frozen in the doorway of his room, eyes wide, breath shallow. He shouldn’t have seen that—shouldn’t have lingered—but his body betrayed him. Heat pooled low in his stomach as he glanced down, swallowing hard at the sight of the problem straining against his pants.

Maybe he was a weirdo too.

#jjk gojo #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #jjk #dad gojo #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk megumi #smut #x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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petrichormore · 2 days ago

Text

So I’m watching Ros’ pov and I’m taking notes because tr!Ros’ mindset interests me and I just want to point out a few things.

(Bad and Ros are my main realm povs btw, I have watched almost every single one of both of their streams, but Bad moreso than Ros. The following is about tr!characters obviously)

(THIS IS KIND OF LONG)

So Ros tells Pangi and Aimsey what happened with Sneeg and Lukey. She clearly doesn’t want to, she tries to avoid saying it. When she finally admits it, she severely downplays it - she describes it as Sneeg “tapping” Lukey on the head. She tries to make it seem like it’s not a big deal. She says that Foolish resolved the situation and that everything is fine. Neither of these things is correct, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s trying to deceive. She’s downplaying it for Pangi’s sake, and Bad used an advanced wartime technique known as lying to convince Foolish he had prevented war when he’d actually made everything worse - Foolish passed that mistaken belief onto Ros.

Pangi, and then later Ros, and then later twitter, immediately draw a parallel between this incident and Pangi killing Pili which happened the day before. Pangi is the first one to make the connection and it’s because he’s trying to be understanding. He’s trying not to get angry, he’s reminding himself that he hurt Ros in much the same way.

But there’s a difference in how Ros handled it versus how Pangi handled it. Pangi did not try to downplay his actions nearly as much as Ros does - he admits to killing Pili, he says he isn’t trying to justify his actions (he brings up Pili’s behavior towards him as his motivation but he doesn’t try and make the argument that yellow faction shouldn’t be upset by it) and he says he is sincerely sorry for putting Ros in a difficult position. Ros also apologizes, and I think this is where Ros (and twitter) is having a misunderstanding:

Pangi is obviously upset that Ros and Sneeg tried to kill Pangi, but him bringing up Pili proves that he understands he did the same and is trying to take that into account because he cares about Ros. Ros thinks it’s unfair - why can he can attack Pili but she can’t attack Lukey? But listening to the conversation, Pangi seems to be more upset because he thinks Ros is purposefully misleading him about the situation. She says Sneeg only delivered a warning which purposefully didn’t do lethal damage, and then Lukey (more accurately) tells him that no, it definitely could’ve killed him, Sneeg just missed - and Bad later confirms this (Lukey calls Sneeg incompetent for missing by the way, which is funny). I don’t think Ros is purposefully misleading him, though, I think it’s a combination of her not remembering the event perfectly and her clinging to any explanation that will put her faction in the best light possible, even if that explanation is shaky at best.

She also complains to Aimsey, after Aimsey (correctly) points out that Ros killing people will, in fact, lead to them disliking her. She responds by saying she only does it “once in a while” and that “there are people more evil and more full of hatred than her”

This is interesting because it’s… not actually a response to Aimsey’s statement. The argument here is… what? That Ros personally believes she is not evil and therefore Lukey and Pangi don’t have the right to hold her actions against her? That if someone kills for a reason that is ‘righteous’ (I’m coming back to this later), and if they do it less frequently than someone who kills for unrighteous reasons, that it’s different? Are they not both murderers? Ros evidently believes she deserves leeway in this category, from Pangi and Lukey anyway.

And the way she brings up this concept of people “more evil than her” in response to being told to accept that murdering people will stir up resentment. She is right, there are people more “evil” by most people’s definition of the word. People like Bad, who Ros seemingly implies Lukey is wrong not to hate more than her. But… Ros doesn’t hate Bad either. She is actually pretty unique in that respect, with the way she has always treated Bad with respect and kindness even as his kill count rose. She hates Owen, of course, but Owen has not caused nearly the same amount of damage that Bad has - to yellow faction or to the realm in general. Owen’s largest crime so far, that Ros is aware of, is that he’s been absolutely horrid to her. That’s not good, obviously, but if this was really about morality, if this was really about who’s evil and who’s good - then Ros should by all accounts be ranking Bad lower than Owen, and definitely lower than Lukey. Except Bad is her friend. Her friend that she calls evil and thinks deserves to die. But still, somehow, her friend?

So I think that’s where this interesting dissonance is coming in. Ros thinks of herself as good, of her actions as righteous. She wants the freedom to be “a little silly” and “hateful and evil, for once” like other murderers on the server are, but she doesn’t want to align with the ideology that allows them to behave that way so freely. She thinks of herself as separate from that nebulous, undefined Evil, which she and her faction are strictly Not. Except when they want to be, then it’s okay and everyone should accept it. Because at least they’re not Evil all the time. In Ros’ opinion, anyway.

Ros’ moral compass is tearing her apart, spinning in all different directions, pulled by a million different motivations - some of which crumble to stress and overwhelm under scrutiny. She has named the compass ‘Righteous’ and wherever it points must be the right direction. If Bad kills people (even yellow faction!) he is still a friend, but if Owen is cruel to her specifically he is not a friend, and he is worse than Bad the serial killer. Slowly, her compass breaks away from this ‘objective’ morality that she tried so hard to follow in the past, but she cannot bear the mental strain of this realization and so she ignores it. But even if she ignores it, others do not, so what is Ros to do? The yellow faction might reinforce her beliefs, but Owen is the one who claimed befriending people from outside factions is wrong and harmful, and he is Evil. So she reaches out to others, but they look at her compass’ name and they ask “are you sure?” and they don’t realize it will break her to realize she isn’t.

#the realm smp #trsmp #SORRY THIS IS LONG #ITS ALSO LATE AND I DONT KNOW IF IT MAKES ANY SENSE #I JUST LOVE TR!ROS A LOT #anyway I was gonna add another whole paragraph about her convos with tr!bad #and how the reason they’ve been able to get along is because tr!bad didn’t exhibit a lot of loyalty to his faction #and so was able to act as an almost-factionless figure that tr!Ros could vent to and confide in #as long as foolish wasn’t the subject #but now that tr!Bad’s faction has grown he’s taken on more responsibility and more pride in them #and he’s less willing to play pretend that he’s not truly green #and he’s less willing to allow tr!Ros’ venting and beliefs to go unchallenged #might put it all in a post later instead of here in the tags #but for now they stay

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mistercrowbar · 2 days ago

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What advice would you give to someone who wants to start draw comics?

Read comics. Try to absorb the layouts and lettering - there’s so many ways to tackle it! Also even in published comics you’ll see that the art is messy and scrungly and you can take that as permission to be messy and scrungly too.

Comics are about efficiency and Good Enough. If you try to make each panel a masterpiece you’ll be there forever. Reasons why I mostly do simple pencil comics.

Start small. Do a scene or gag comic at a time. Get a feel for the medium and all the steps you have. If there’s a step you hate, find a way to emphasize the steps you love. EG I hate laying down flat colours but love shading, so I make my page form comics painterly greyscale with a gradient map to spruce them up.

Thumbnail!!!!! Figure out your page or panel layout before you start pencils. It can just be chicken scratch and sticken figures but it will help make sure there’s a clean line of action carrying the viewer from panel to panel and that your lettering fits.

don’t skimp on lettering. you can have beautiful artwork but if your dialogue is time new roman on half transparent ellipses or somehow unreadable it’s gonna drag everything else down. Blambot is a great source for free and affordable comic fonts and even has guides from an industry pro.

There are a huge bajillion elements to making comics but once you’ve made like, literally 100 pages you’ll start just intrinsically knowing things like the 180 rule, how to place a speech bubble when the first speaker is on the right, and that you can draw one nice background and then have gradient colour blocks carry you through most of the page/scene. And then you’ll still keep learning. Always learning!

LOTS of example stuff under the cut, mostly for lettering and layouts:

thumbnails vs finished page. The detail is just enough to remind me who goes where. You can see I mostly played with the last part of the scene, going from three panels in one row to making each panel an entire row across three rows. Panels on the same row have less “time” between them as the eyes skips from one to the other faster, whereas there’s a little more gap skipping back to a new row (think resetting a line on a typewriter). Here, the first thumbnail may have fit the artwork more neatly, but I wanted to give Astarion more time to deliberate his decision.

You can also see that I changed the top panel from a close up on Aldiirn to a wider shot showing both. This sets the scene, and the rest of it uses simple/abstract backgrounds until the final panel, which makes a nice bookend while making the overall load easier. One good environment panel will carry you for a while, but don't leave your characters in the void for too long.

Make a script before you start layouts but don’t be shocked if you need to cut things out to have them fit a page. Less is more, generally. This also goes for visual elements - what's most important to the scene? What's just extraneous detail you find fun but is creating clutter?

For the 4-panel comics I don’t put time into thumbnails unless it’s a difficult panel, but I always put the lettering and speech bubbles down first so they have enough room and nothing important gets covered. If you do this much you’re a step ahead imo.

This one I’m working on now and there’s a lot going on with four characters speaking to each other! It’s important to keep a clear line going for the dialogue. Astarion’s first line has the top left corner and clearly starts the conversation. The tail of the bubble carries over to where he whispers to Aldiirn, and we pick up Aldiirn’s lines. The rock wall on the right then draws the eye down to Shadowheart and Gale’s bubble at the bottom. I don’t think the tails on the bottom bubbles are 100% ideal, but it’s Good Enough.

There’s also slightly different points in time going on in this panel, because the art is static but it’s a long convo going on. Gale’s signature finger isn’t in response to Astarion whispering, but to his answer to Aldiirn that comes after. Think of how time works in your panels, especially when you got a big one because size = time.

You can use all sorts of things to direct the eye across a comic page, but I find the strongest things are the bubbles & tails and where characters are looking. Here, Gale’s “stop by” line breaks the panel line to help draw the viewer to him in the last panel, since otherwise the eye was likely to end up at Aldiirn.

I generally like bubbles to be tucked into their panels, either fully inside or up at the edges like “my condolences.” It looks neater than when bubbles are willy nilly over the edges which I see as a sign of poor planning. And! it means when you do break panel lines it can be more meaningful.

the 180 rule is a film/stage thing for composition to avoid confusing the audience, but the simplest way to put it is: if a character is on the left side of the scene, they should stay there until the action or whatever moves them. You can see here that Aldiirn is always on the right facing left, even when the camera is a bit behind him or a bit behind Gale. the 180 line is the front of Aldiirn’s tent, and the camera never crosses it in a way that would put Gale on the right.

I find it distracting when a conversation is happening in comic and a character breaks the 180 for no particular reason, though are times I’ve done it because a panel worked much better that way. The book Framed Ink has some great guides on composition and how to change the 180 line.

You can also see in the above comic that it’s arranged so that Gale’s always the first speaker in the panels he appears so there’s no criss cross bubble tails. Buuuut what if the first speaker is unavoidably on the right?

Stack the speech bubbles. You want the first speech bubble CLEARLY and undeniably the closest to the top left corner and then other speakers can go below.

the middle example above also has some examples of playing with the speech bubbles. Wyll’s “square-y round-y” bubble is the standard, the boxy ellipse. The tail has a slight, lanquid curve. He;s comfortable teasing the poor vampire. Aldiirn’s bubble is pointy! the tail straight! with urgency! And Astarion’s bubble and tail are burbling and grumbling through gritted teeth and pain. Varsh Ko’kuu, even though he’s speaking with a standard shaped bubble, has a sharp point in the tail that speaks to his assertiveness in protecting the egg. And Shadowheart has some hesitation with that wiggly tail.

Either hand drawing or using vector shapes for bubbles is fine, but I recommend staying away from true ellipses because they look static. Square-y round-y is where it’s at. Just make sure there’s enough space between text and edge of the bubble, usually enough to fit a capital H or W, but you can play with that spacing too.

The second panel here breaks the “first bubble goes top-left corner” rule, so it’s ambiguous if Gale or Aldiirn speaks first. However! In this case everyone is giving their responses in a jumble to Rath, so order matters less. I’m pretty sure every rule I’ve mentioned has a time and place to break it, but it’s still important to learn the basics first.

Key thing about comics typefaces: the capital I will have bars and the lower case will not. The barred I is used for I, as in, “I am not inclined to share” where the unbarred is used everywhere else.

When choosing a font, I recommend grabbing one that has Regular, Italic, and Bold/Bold Italic typefaces. I use Milk Moustache for my 4-panel comics because it’s very casual and similar weight to my own handwriting, but it doesn’t have an italic typeface and that drives me nuts sometimes. For the most flexibility, choose a font that has lower case AND uppercase type faces. I stick to upper case 90% of the time but lower case adds more options, like Aldiirn’s “really?” being so small due to his stressed state.

There are some official guides on what should be bold or italic in dialogues but they don’t matter as much unless you’re working for a big publisher with a style standard. Italics for thinking and whispering are common. I go with my gut, like Astarion’s speech is so dramatic I use italics and bold liberally, whereas for most others I may or may not just choose a key word to bold.

I think some programs will let you make text to fit a bubble instead of a square box, but tbh I just spend a lot of time manually making the text fit nicely in that bubble shape.

#comics #tutorial #resource #bg3

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