#and now i think it’s the worst thing ever made

[perfectyeager]

|| WHO..?; Eren Yeager

|| SYNOPSIS..?; Cheater!Eren who will happily fuck you despite having a girlfriend

|| WARNINGS..?; 18+ MDNI. Smut.

|| A/N..?; HEY so i changed my username so i was @/yeagersackerman but i didn’t fw it anymore so yeah! hey new username who dis lol. enjoy !!

EREN YEAGER had the morality of a wasp.

He had a very, very fucked up moral compass and lacked serious empathy — hence why he fucked you every few days while still having a girlfriend!

“Jeeesus, baby, yeah — fuuuck — yeah, that’s it, that’s my girl.”

You huffed out an annoyed breath, eyelids twitching as Eren delivered a particularly hard slap to your ass as you bottomed out on his throbbing cock in reverse cow-girl on his bed.

“I’m not your girl.”

Eren stifled a laugh, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he ogled at your behind, a large, tattooed hand coming up to rub the soft skin as it rest upon his abdomen.

“Sure, you are, babygirl.” He’d whisper, hands residing on your hips, lifting you fully off his achingly hard cock, and back down again, a loud groan erupting from his throat, whining when his tip kissed your cervix beautifully, “My perfect girl.”

“N-no,” You spoke, your voice unstable as Eren set a pace behind you, his grip on your hips like a vice as he slowly dragged his cock in-and-out of your tight, shamefully wet cunt, “You already h-have one of those, Eren.”

“Have a what, baby?”

He knew what he was doing — you could hear the smirk in his voice as he landed a large hand on your ass once more, forcing a moan to be ripped from your mouth, along with his name in a lewd manner.

“Ereeeen.”

“Hm? Tell me, baby.”

You couldn’t help but feel so disgustingly pleasured as images of his girlfriend filled your head, “Y-you have a g-girlfriend. Who’s not me.”

Eren tutted behind you, rubbing soothing circles on your hips with his thumb as he fucked you slowly, enjoying the painfully slow drag of his cock through your tight, gummy walls.

“Oh, do I?” He’d tease, “Must’ve slipped my mind when you took your clothes off.”

A strained gasp was ripped from your throat as Eren got bored of the pace — now, gripping your hips harder than before and fucking up into your tight pussy like a bitch in heat. Revelling in the way your pussy squelched as he fucked your arousal out of your abused little hole and all over his pelvis, a creamy white ring forming around the base of his cock.

“Fuuuuuck — best pussy on the planet.”

“B-but, what about—“

“What about who?”

He was a tease. He loved making you say it, make you feel guilty for fucking a taken man, make you think about his girlfriend and still continue to bounce your ass back onto his cock, whining his name.

Eren’s hand snaked up your back, grabbing a fistful of your hair, dragging your aching body backwards, your back flush against his heaving chest, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the way your pussy clamped down on his cock and his name was screamed from your swollen lips.

“Tsk — you little whore. You fucking love this, don’t you? Fucking someone’s boyfriend?” His breath was hot against your neck as he panted into your skin, licking and biting at your earlobe.

You whined louder than before, a hot, red blush rising to your cheeks at the thought of making him harder than his girlfriend could, making him cum twice the load, making him say he’d rather you be his girlfriend.

“Y-you’re sick, Rennie.”

“Yet you keep coming back, don’t you, sweetheart?”

You hated how fucking right he was. You’d never ever call it off or try to tell his girlfriend the things he does behind her back because you don’t want it to stop. Because, shamefully not, you don’t feel guilty. At all.

Eren made you feel three times as good as any man could. He makes you cum more times in one night than your ex did in 4 months of dating. So, if being a complete and utter slut and a home-wrecking bitch means getting the best orgasm and dick of your life — then, I guess you take the cake for worst girl on the planet.

But, who could blame you when the man behind you looked like that?

You caught a glimpse of Eren in his mirror — strands of his dark hair had come loose from his bun, now stuck to his forehead in sweat, his cheeks a slight twinge of red, mixed with a cocky smirk and a fucked out expression on his face.

He was positively perfect.

“Fucking love this pussy,” He whined in your ear, the desperation nearly sending you over the edge, “Can’t fucking wait to feel you cum ‘round my cock. Do it better than anyone else.”

Eren’s nimble fingers slipped between your legs as kept up his brutal pace, his middle finger rubbing quick circles onto your sensitive, throbbing clit as he angled his hips to hit your G-spot so deliciously you were seeing stars. Eren’s cock was the longest, and best, you’d ever had — so good that most times you had sex, you were nearing your orgasm without having your clit touched once. The way his cock repeatedly slammed against that sweet spot deep inside you that had you creaming and crying out his name like you wanted someone to hear, and had you fucked utterly dumb.

“‘M close, Rennie —Nngh! —, ‘m there!”

“Yeah, give it to me, baby. Let Rennie feel you cum on his cock — yeaaaah, such a good girl.” He coaxed, fingers speeding up ever so slightly and increasing pressure as your eyes rolled back, the coil in your stomach on the brink of snapping as Eren smirked against your neck, pressing open-mouthed hot kisses to your warm skin.

“That’s my girl.”

The phrase that once sent shivers down your spine in shame, was now pushing you over the edge to squirt on his cock. You cried out in ecstasy as Eren bucked his hips harder into you, his cock driving deeper as you came harder than before, your juices coating this thighs.

“S-shit, baby, you squirtin’? Fuckin’ squeezin’ me so tight.” He huffed, grinding his teeth together as you milked his cock, feeling his own orgasm approaching as you writhed on top of him.

“Rennieee!” You whined, feeling suddenly overstimulated as he continued to ram his hot length into your fluttering walls, your eyes squeezing shut as you gripped his tense forearm.

“Sshh, baby, I’m there, God, ‘M fuckin’ cummin’,” He warned, his face tensing as his mouth fell agape as you clamped down on him once more, “Fuuuck, yeah, that’s it, yeah, take it, take it, take it—!”

Eren was extremely vocal as he let out a low groan, almost growling as he pumped his sticky load deep inside your willing cunt — pushing his cum so deep it squelched out the side of his cock and onto his already soaked thighs. You whined deeply from your chest as you felt Eren fuck his cum deeper into you, wanting to make sure you took every drop.

“Shiiiit, girl.” Eren laughed as he lifted you off his softening cock with a hiss, “‘Made a fuckin’ mess.”

“Your fault.” You mumbled as you collapsed on his bed, curling up into a ball in fatigue as Eren walked to his bathroom casually as if nothing had occurred.

Sleep almost took over your body before Eren’s nonchalant voice hit your ears as he retreated back into the bedroom, phone against his ear as he smirked evilly down at you.

“Yeah, babe, I’m just with Connie. No, I’m not doing anything stupid. What do you mean you checked with Connie’s girl and he said he’s with Jean? Yeah, Jean’s here too, God, at least let me finish, woman.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as his girlfriend’s mumbled, clearly worried and upset, voice rang in the silent room, “Girl, if y’just wanna argue I’m hangin’ up. No, I’m not cheating on you — for fuck’s sake, I’m not an asshole. Okay, there we go, stop crying, you’re fine. Yeah, love you too, or whatever.”

You couldn’t hide your giggle at his fake affection, which you soon stifled behind your hand as Eren smirked down at you.

“What do you mean who was that? It sounded like a girl?” Your eyes shot open as Eren repeated her words, “Babe, I already told you Jean’s had a drop in testosterone recently — it’s a serious condition.”

Like I said, his moral compass was very skewed..

[p0orbaby]

Hi!! Love your writing 🥰

I have a request if you can… pregnant reader x Alexia going to birthing classes together… just pure fluff and chaos 😅

-

“Irene said is useful,” Alexia mutters, like she’s just confessed to shoplifting or murder. You don’t even glance over. You’re too busy watching the instructor peel back a velcro flap on a terrifyingly lifelike model pelvis. Inside is a knitted uterus. There’s a knitted baby in it. A knitted baby.

“Irene also said vegan lasagne is ‘actually good’,” you murmur, biting back a smirk. “We don’t listen to Irene.”

Alexia exhales. Not quite a sigh—more like the emotional equivalent of deflating a beach ball. You can feel the tension radiating from her like passive-aggressive heat. She’s tucked into the plastic chair like she’s bracing for turbulence. Her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, jaw set like she’s in the line-up for a penalty kick rather than surrounded by four couples, two birthing balls, and one very enthusiastic woman named ‘Ma-rree-ahh’. With the rolled r, always.

You lean closer. “She’s going to make us visualise our cervixes. I can feel it. It’s coming. Like a full-body, vaginal TED Talk.”

Alexia doesn’t laugh, but you see the corner of her mouth twitch. A private smile. She only ever gives you those.

“I want coffee,” she says under her breath.

“We’ll get one after. You can emotionally recover over an oat flat white.”

She nods. “Two sugars.”

“Reckless.”

Ma-rree-ahh claps once, sharp and loud, like a P.E. teacher who regrets her life choices. “Today we’re learning about the stages of labour. Partners, this is your time to shine!”

Alexia looks at you. “Why always us?”

“We’re in too deep now,” you whisper back. “We’re too visibly gay. They think we’re trailblazers.”

The laminated sheets come out again. Everything is beige and red and extremely confronting. One of them has a diagram that looks like the cross-section of a ham sandwich in crisis. Alexia squints at it.

“This is not… correct,” she says slowly. “Is like horror film.”

Ma-rree-ahh is now speaking gently, seriously, about the beauty of the body. The magic. The connection. She’s using the word journey too often. The man beside you is crying again. He cried last week too, when they played that video of a water birth and the baby looked like it was emerging from a murky portal of grief.

You lean in. “He’s going to pass out during the actual thing, isn’t he?”

Alexia, deadpan: “I will push him.”

They make you do breathing exercises. ‘Rose and candle’. Inhale like it’s spring. Exhale like your house is on fire. Alexia breathes like she’s been threatened into it.

“It’s weird,” you say. “Thinking it’s coming soon.” You place a hand on your belly. The bump makes your hoodie ride up awkwardly, revealing the elastic waistband of the only trousers you’ve been able to wear for a month. Alexia pulls the hem down gently. Doesn’t say anything. Just presses her thumb into the centre of your palm and holds it there. Like she’s grounding you. Like she’s grounding herself.

You speak again, quietly. “You think we’ll be good at this?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. But… we try.”

That’s the thing about Alexia. No grand declarations. No dramatic speeches. Just a quiet try. The word us always implied.

Now Ma-rree-ahh has pulled out a box labelled LABOUR SIMULATOR. You grab Alexia’s wrist. “Run.”

Her voice is flat. “I cannot run. You are slow now.”

“They’re going to make you pretend to coach me through contractions.”

“I don’t want.”

“I know you don’t want. But you will. Because you love me. And also because I have full control over the Spotify playlist in the car.”

Alexia blinks. “You are manipulative.”

You grin. “And heavily pregnant.”

Somehow, it’s over. Or at least, the worst of it is. You’re released after a demonstration on perineal massage that made a woman in the front row cross herself. The laminated cervix is back in its little A4 pouch. You and Alexia escape into the Barcelona evening like you’ve just been let out of jury duty.

Outside, you loop your arm through hers. She’s warm. Solid. Her thumb finds your palm again.

“You were good in there,” you say, mostly to tease.

She shakes her head. “I was terrible.”

“No, you were quietly supportive. Like a very stoic golden retriever.”

She sighs. “Next week… what is it?”

“Birth positions.”

Alexia frowns. “Positions?”

“Oh yes. You’ll be encouraged to crouch behind me like a backup dancer in a very weird music video.”

She doesn’t reply, but you see it again—that tiny twitch of her mouth.

Quiet. Subtle. Steady. And yours.

“You still want that coffee?” you ask.

Alexia nods. “Please. And cake. For emotional reasons.”

You press a kiss to her shoulder. “You’ve earned it, mamá.”

She groans. “Do not call me that here.”

You smile, already pulling her towards the café. She follows. She always does.

[ckret2]

i come to you today with another samurai jack AU. quick recap of where this AU diverges from canon:

("hey i haven't seen the show and idk what's going on" okay, watch this from 9:56)

Every once in a while somebody goes "do we really KNOW Aku (as a separate entity from the space blob) is inherently evil? or did he just immediately turn evil due to the fact that his very first interaction was his creator telling him he meant to kill him? how would things have gone differently if that hadn't happened?" and I went okay, sure, let's roll with that.

AU where the emperor DIDN'T immediately give Aku a motive to hate humanity and just sort of claims him. that's his son now.

and that's Jack's brother now.

listen, I've made jokes in two different posts about Jack & Aku having the same birthday and y'all should have interpreted that as a threat.

Aku is NOT allowed to name himself Literally The Word "Evil." He gets named Kage. And being called Literally The Word "Shadow" is edgy enough to satisfy him so he goes with it.

Since Jack never gets named "Jack," he's going by his real name. which in this au is Hikari, because adoptive twins named Light and Shadow feels like the kind of corny symbolism this show would jump all over.

it's also an actual phrase: 光と影 (hikari to kage, "light and shadow") meaning "rise and fall; ups and downs; shame and glory; bright side and dark side; light and shadow"

I wonder a lot about the fact that Aku's just, like, created as an adult. We know he's capable of developing and changing—he does during the course of the show—so like, he hasn't been static since he was born. What was he pre-loaded with, then, and what came later?

what if he looks adult to human eyes, but mentally he's just a young child that can already talk & fight. "Guy tells baby he was trying to kill him; baby throws a tantrum and decides to take over the world"—that feels like a perfectly proportionate emotional reaction for an actual newborn less than five minutes old for whom this is not only the worst thing to ever happen to him, but the ONLY thing to ever happen to him.

This isn't how I interpret Aku by default; but it IS how I'm interpreting him in this AU so that he can mentally keep pace with Jack and so that he has to "grow up" even though he already looks grown. Sure, this means that at a week old he's saying stuff like "if that odious daimyo visits Father again today, I will rip his body asunder and send his charred skull back to his grieving children" but he's also saying stuff like "why does my brother get a blanket but I don't? 🥺"

"oh," you say, "so this is like a nice soft AU where nothing bad happens?"

NO. It's an AU about a demon tree child under constant pressure to make himself smaller & less threatening so everyone stops fearing him, and he's never quite small enough or unthreatening enough unless he's literally disguised as something other than himself—and sometimes not even then.

It's about the less favored son who can never seem to do anything right enough to gain his father's approval. Sometimes he almost thinks his father hates him. But that can't be true, right? After all, his father went out into the wilderness with a potion and some hocus-pocus to make him on purpose, and why would he have done that if he didn't want him? Surely there isn't some other secret reason his father made him that he doesn't know about. Is he just not living up to his father's expectations? Is he too much trouble?

At least his brother loves him unconditionally.

[thepencilnerd]

Hello!!! So, I just wanted to gush and say that "seeing double" was absolutely amazing! I love how beautifully you intertwined the smut with Jack and Robby's genuine love and devotion to the reader... it was the perfect blend of romantic and steamy <3333. I'm wondering, do you think you'd ever write more for this trio in the future??? I will say, in an amazing one-shot the bits at the start about the guys being protective made my heart race especially... do you think you'd ever consider delving into more of them being protective of reader (whether that be in standard/domestic "making sure reader is taken care of" way or the more dramatic "reader is put into dangerous scenario and needs defense (i.e., rude patient)" way)? So sorry for the mini-essay, just wanted to bundle all my thoughts into one! Hope you have a wonderful day! <3

ahh thank you so much anon ㅠㅠ this absolutely made my night. I’m so happy you enjoyed seeing double—that balance between tenderness and heat was such a joy to write, and I’m thrilled it landed for you!!

I would absolutely love to dive deeper into the trio. I've actually started sketching out a blurb about what days off might look like for them (domestic bliss, the quiet ways they take care of each other, plus some mutual pining that never really went away even after officially getting together 😌). below is my IP rambling I have in my google doc for inspo hehe

In my mind, Robby’s always the first to move. The one who leaps into action without hesitation, who steps between you and the threat before you even register something’s off. But Jack—Jack watches everything. He memorizes your tells, tracks the shift of your breathing, the tremble in your hand when the adrenaline dips. He only steps in when it really matters, but when he does—it’s devastating.

Especially with Robby constantly pulled into other cases or wrangling the interns, Jack becomes this steady background hum of protection. Not loud, not flashy—just there. Always. He’s the one who notices if you haven’t eaten, if you start shifting the weight between the balls of your feet after hour 11, the way you roll your shoulders back like you’re trying to keep yourself upright out of sheer will. He watches for the subtle signs, the quiet cues—and he never points them out to embarrass you. Just quietly adapts around them.

If there’s a rogue patient, Robby’s the one who throws himself in the way. Jack’s already calculated every worst-case scenario the moment you were assigned the case—ready to act if he has to. Because he knows combat. He knows his temper. He knows exactly what he’s capable of if he lets himself go. Jack’s done the work—therapy, grief, the slow rebuild. He’s learned how to love without losing himself. But he still carries that edge: grief-shaped rage, the kind that only comes out when something he loves is threatened.

Robby, on the other hand, is still a little “I’ll deal with my feelings later (but I still love you, obviously).” Loud in his loyalty. Earnest in his chaos. Soft in a way he doesn’t realize until it’s too late.

Jack strikes me as someone who didn’t mean to fall in love with cooking; he started because his therapist told him he needed something quiet, grounding, and just for himself. Something to do with his hands that didn’t involve saving lives or burying grief. Something that required attention but didn’t ask for emotional labor. It began as a coping mechanism—recipes, repetition, control, precision—but now it’s care. A ritual. An offering.

Robby is the type to buy you takeout, while Jack seems like the one to cook for you. Both more than willing to meet your needs, but varying in degrees of intimacy and awareness.

And now? Getting to share it with you? Letting someone into that sacred, hard-won space? That’s one of the most vulnerable things he’s ever done. He cooks like he listens: carefully, intentionally, and a little too thoroughly. Quiet love with depth.

Robby’s the kind of guy who lives on caffeine, protein bars, and vibes—but will unthinkingly give you his last granola bar, no matter how long his own shift has been. He’s the “don’t worry about me” guy with dark circles under his eyes and a schedule that makes no sense, but still leaves for work early to swing by that one café because he knows you like the muffins on Tuesday mornings when they’re fresh.

Jack’s the one who notices Robby’s neglect—quietly logs every skipped meal, every too-long shift—and drags him back to earth when necessary, lest he be scolded by you both at home. You and Jack form a sort of quiet alliance in this: always nudging him toward sleep, handing him a fruit bar, replacing his expired snack drawer without comment. But Robby? He never lets his own burnout stop him from taking care of you.

It’s a strange, overlapping rhythm of care. Sometimes it feels like you’re the one looking after Robby—reminding him to hydrate, slipping a post-it note into his locker, nudging a fresh pair of scrubs into his hands when he’s soaked through post-trauma. Robby tries his best to return the favor—sometimes clumsy, sometimes a little too loud—but always with his whole heart. Jack takes care of you with quiet precision, anticipating your needs before you voice them, adjusting around your silences like he’s reading sheet music only he can hear. And together—without ever saying it out loud—you and Jack take care of Robby. You anchor him. Balance his chaos. Give him permission to fall apart, if only for a moment, knowing he’ll always put himself back together again.

but what do i know, daydreams are just sober drunk thoughts :)

[fatesundress]

⭑ lessons in wanting. tom riddle x reader

summary. “you try so hard to be in control, and yet in this one thing, you can’t.” “can you?” of course you can; your will has been steel as long as you’ve had it. you could walk away now if you wanted. but you step forward. and tom understands.

tags. 18+ MDNI, explicitly fem afab reader, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, academic rivals, pureblood reader, she is WEIRD okay i can’t do y/n stuff anymore she’s just got some issues, poor parental relationship, she probably needs a therapist but so does tom so it’s like pedmas basically, students have individual dorms for the sake of smut you're just gonna have to suspend your disbelief ok. tom has a bursary i don't know, fingering, cunnilingus, first times, freak4freak

note. HAPPY TWO YEARS OF FATESUNDRESS! i think the time between when i last wrote smut + the knowledge that i now have moots who are aware of this account and that it is me (GO AWAY!!!!) have worked in agonizing synchrony to give me the worst writer’s block of my life. every word typed felt like it was being spoken directly into a confessional booth. i may never write smut again. we move.

word count. 7k

It started as a natural pastime. Your name rose above his, his rose about yours, bouts of envy crossed bouts of pride and fizzled into renewed initiative. The goal in all of it was the same as it had been since you were a child: to do your best, and be sure your best was better than everyone else’s. Your parents endeavoured to see you to live up to your station and you made it your job to do just that. The fear was instilled in you young — that an ancestral name could draw as much scrutiny as glory if it wasn’t tended well.

So you tend to it. You just have no idea when doing your best morphed specifically into doing better than him.

At some point, though, the importance of the latter supplanted that of the first, and now you wade through your academic achievements drenched in bitterness and lumbering under their weight. A wet, sulking cat, Annette would call you. Congratulatory confetti has become an itch, and ovation a headache. No prize compares to the instantaneous stiffness of Tom Riddle’s shoulders at the call of your name on the top of some comparatively irrelevant list. Nothing is quite so sweet as your smile when you watch the muscles roll negligibly back into place, a little crack of his neck as his perfect posture is resumed, and, God — is he ever not performing?

Inspiration is inspiration. Your good grades don’t care why they’re good.

“Apprenticeships will open in the spring,” you say in a needless hurry, foot tapping under the table, two books open on either side of your breakfast, “which means I need to start planning which ones to try for.”

“I assumed you were trying for them all,” says Annette, her brow raised curiously. She drizzles an impressive amount of syrup over her plate.

“Of course I’m trying for them all. But I have to decide which one I actually want.”

“That should be an issue for when you’re sorting through acceptance letters, shouldn’t it? You’ll pass every test they give you, you don’t have to decide right now.”

“My parents will want an answer. Besides —” Your gaze zeroes in on his figure at the Slytherin table — “I want to know which one will bother Riddle the most.”

Annette blinks, dumbfounded. “I always wonder if I missed the part where he maimed you in first year or something. You know you don’t need to prove yourself to him, right? He’s intimidated enough as is, even if it doesn’t show.”

But you want it to show. What prize is worth more than that? What better proof of your prowess than to beat him in a way that visibly hurts?

You shrug, but it’s tense. “I’m not above admitting the maiming’s been done to my ego. To you, anyway — don’t tell anyone I said that.”

She continues to stare incredulously at you while the tines of her fork stab a pancake. You should know better than to think she would.

“It was somewhat motivational at first,” you sigh, relenting somewhat, “And sometimes it’s still fun, but I mean, he’s just so… Merlin, he’s so…”

“Good.”

Your agreement is a face plant and groan into your textbook.

It’s Defense Against the Dark Arts then.

Two months later, with eyes sunken by the sleeplessness of a winter holiday with your extended family and a new year rampant with work, you prepare. DADA is Hogwarts’ entry into several Ministry fields — auror, DMAC agent, virtually anything in the Department of Mysteries — but you know the position Riddle is vying for is within the castle walls. Everyone knows that. You have no interest in it, but if a poxy little office at Hogwarts is his heart’s desire, far be it for you not to make him sweat for it.

So you let him take notice. Your notes are sprawling with counter-curses, your textbooks with addendums, even your wrists — when parchment is sparse — are bleeding with the ink of cursory reminders: advanced concealment charms, manticore trails, sustained langlock. You have no idea what knowledge is expected on the test, so you reassert your knowledge of all of it.

The day Tom realises your intention, there’s all but a tic in his jaw to prove it. Good enough for you.

He’s returning a bottle to the potions cabinet while you’re feeling proud of yourself, when he stops behind you, barely clicks his tongue at your open notebook, and remarks tonelessly, “Manticore skin isn’t resistant to freezing spells.”

You tilt your head, mouth agape. He’s already gone.

“I think I might actually aim for DADA professor now,” you tell Annette that night, scowling, stomach-down on your four-poster with your head in your hands. “I mean genuinely, out of spite. I don’t want him to have it.”

Her reflection glares at you as she puts her hair into curlers.  “You’ve officially lost it.”

“You didn’t see him, Nettie! He was so smug about it —”

“Which you are not.”

“Ugh.” You’re almost shaking. It’s objectively embarrassing. “The galleons I would give to see him fail at something, just once…”

She flops onto her bed and waves off the light. “Best of luck with that, darling.”

Luck is not what you need.

You’re certain he’s sped up his studies in some regard for the fact that your name remains firmly below his in DADA for the next three weeks. It’s always been his best subject, yes, but there should be some degree of fluctuation. That’s the game. You cross him only for him to push harder and find his way back, and vice versa. But ever since your stint in Potions, he’s immovable. And yet, if his efforts have indeed doubled, he doesn’t show it at all.

Tom Riddle is impervious. You’re starting to think he’s not entirely human.

There’s something exhilarating, typically, about competing with him — about even being entertained as contest. You won’t deny you’re impressed by him as much as you’re frustrated; that he’s managed to climb so high from the strange, quiet boy you remember in your early years, a muggle-born with nothing to his name — he’s still completely amiss, wrong inside in a way you can’t quite deduce, and you do vow to best him, but that isn’t nothing.

The usual exhilaration is lost in his refusal to give you so much as an inch. There’s no fight. You’re in the library day in and day out, your parents have been made aware of your newfound interest in DADA which means the course is set, and Tom doesn’t even have the decency to seem annoyed.

You avert his stolen glance when he enters that evening after dinner, in the slim hours before curfew when most would rather study in their common rooms. Minutely straighter, you cross your legs and jot something down in your notes.

He chooses to sit at a table directly in your line of sight. The prick.

It takes fifteen minutes and profound effort to fully re-immerse yourself in your work, and then your knee taps the edge of the table in rapid focus rather than frustrated distraction. In the last free hours of the night, you write five thoughtful pages assessing the many theories on Patronus forms and causality. The moonlight is soft on your cheek, your hand clamps down on a yawn, and you feel almost sated. Riddle aside, the research is good. You almost understand his interest. You almost don’t glance at him at all (except when he rummages through his bag for new ink, or another student departs and your eyes are pulled to him by no fault of your own but the tug toward movement) or wonder with your head stubbornly down whether he’s glanced at you at all.

He clears his throat. He’s standing at your table (since when?), a brow raised in scrutiny at your notes. On instinct you tuck them into your book. “Did you need something?”

His mouth tugs at the corner. “The library is closing.”

Oh. Lips pursed, you nod, slightly ruffled, but you'll be damned if he knows that. “Right. Thanks."

He waits for something more, but you only start to tidy your work. 

“Were you working on the Patronus Charm?” he asks. 

Catch.

“No," you say obviously, because it's an insult for him to think you'd need to. “I was studying theories on the Patronus Charm."

 “I fail to see the distinction.” 

Bite.

“A reflection of your cursory judgement," you say through a tight smile, yanking your bag over your shoulder and standing up.

There’s a hint of dryness in his tone, a flicker of his brows going up at your reaction. You offered too much. Still, he answers with a smile either more honest than your own, or more believable in its deception. “Allow me to walk you back.” 

Reel.

Or do the muggles call it hook, line, sinker?

Oh, but how soft his voice is when he’s caught. He would be so good at being kind if he could mean it.

“I’m quite fine on my own,” you answer stiffly, striding past him.

“Shall I pace myself ten steps behind you as we walk in the same direction, then? That’s rather inconvenient for us both."

You don’t appreciate how even his derision is masked in charisma, like it’s lighthearted, like you’re friends. It’s starting to feel somewhat manipulative — that he plays the part so well you might have begun to doubt yourself were you a few cells lighter in the head. Fortunately, you are not. You scowl away the imprint of doubt like the most bitter of women, ironically antithetical to your parents’ desires for you (which are, of course, still a factor in why you’re doing all of this): that you be a wise, accomplished, pretty pureblood heir sans disposition of an ired spinster. 

It’s not your fault, really. It’s just Tom.

“Do as you like,” you tell him, and he would like, apparently with great interest, to walk with you.

His shoes click smoothly on the stone, so much sleeker and finer than the ones you remember he wore once, and he doesn’t allow you the reprieve of silence.

“You’re markedly more interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts this term.”

How does a sentence so innocuous feel so much like winning? Because he cares. He noticed — he cares. God, you’re pathetic, but it sparks to life two realizations and a question.

There is a game at play here.

He’s playing it too.

How long has it been going?

It doesn’t matter. You bury your glee, admittedly overeager and underlaid with exhaustion.

“Apprenticeships will be filling soon,” you hum noncommittally, “I realized I overlooked the subject.”

“I wasn’t aware you overlooked anything.”

You raise a brow. “Apparently so, unless you’ve been looking too much.”

“My apologies,” he says unapologetically, “I only meant to say you’re otherwise astute. I’ve a tendency to find my compliments lost in my presumptions, but then most people don’t notice that either, so perhaps I was right.”

“Or perhaps you presume as excessively as you look.”

He smiles. There’s nothing kind in it. “Do you resent the observation itself or that I’m the one making it?”

“Are you arguing with me?” you ask dumbly, but if a bullet-point list of Things Tom Riddle Does Not Do is in the making, and he’s already offered you self-deprecation, self-awareness, and addressing the unspoken, then arguing plainly should be next. There are far dumber things to ask.

He doesn’t look to agree, and he’s still smiling insufferably. “Not at present. Best of luck with the apprenticeship.”

The door to your common room sighs open with his muttered passphrase. You hadn’t even realized you’d arrived. He doesn’t glance back at you once as he enters, disappearing into the men’s dormitories before you have half a response conjured. Of course, you dwell on it all night, considering a hundred worthy rebuttals to be better prepared next time.

Next time is not for another two months.

Exam season is approaching with a pace rapid enough to stir even the more careless academics among your peers. Quidditch has taken pause, the library is full each night, and a few professors have opened their offices an extra hour or two for additional assistance. You take them up on it often. If you weren’t sleeping before, you certainly aren’t now. Your eyes are bloodshot as a teething vampire’s — a creature for which you now know more than you’d ever cared to before — and your hands jittery with an age beyond your own. You are, effectively, destroying yourself. It makes your parents incredibly proud.

Their letters urge you through the season, stern reminders of potential arrangements to marry and social events dotting every weekend of the summer, that a witch who’s devoted so much of herself to her studies must finish with something to show for it. It’s support in the loosest definition, but it’s what you know. Annette, fortunately, has also come around to your chosen field (though she continues to remind you your reasons are ridiculous), and so you persevere, entangled with the Dark Arts in a way that you never imagined you’d actually enjoy. The predicament is horrible, of course; you would have done well to retain the information from the past near-decade of studies instead of cramming it for a quick runner-up mark.

Is there a way to blame this on Tom? You’ll find one.

He’s an efficient puppeteer, you’ll give him that. The wane and wax of his interest stirs at a nascent hunger in you. He knows exactly how much to offer before rescinding it. His approval, and better yet his ire, are somehow more desirable than that of your pureblood competitors. They were always going to be a challenge. Tom was owed nothing, and had taken it anyway.

If Annette could hear your thoughts she’d urge you to write a love letter and get it over with. Internally, you argue with this imaginary accusation.

This time it’s the common room, half-empty as moonlight spills into the lake, and he takes the seat opposite yours without greeting. He settles softly. You stiffen, finger at the corner of your current page. You hover over a chapter on Ekrizdis until the letters blur.

“You weren’t at dinner,” he finally says.

“Am I your charge?” you respond without looking up. 

You’re giddy. You cannot let it show on your face. His observation alone is an admission of defeat that you will not mar by feeding into it.

“Technically the entirety of Slytherin house are my charges.”

“Then you should at least pretend to remain impartial.”

“Perhaps you could teach me so that I might improve, beginning with pretending to read to appear indifferent.”

You glare at him over the edge of your book and set it down quite forcefully on the table. You cross your legs. You cross your arms for good measure. The huff of air is not for display — he’s just incredibly annoying.

And he smiles. Barely.

“I don’t think I need to teach Tom Riddle the art of pretending,” you say coolly, “Nor do I need his lecture.”

“Meaning?”

“Ah, see? Now you’re pretending to be stupid. I think you understand exactly what I mean.”

“And you’re pretending to have enough interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts to pursue a career in it.”

“You obviously have some assumption you’d like to share, so by all means, do.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get my attention.”

You scoff up a laugh. “If I were, I’m sure I’d be thrilled. You’re here. I evidently have it.”

“And what do you intend to do with it?”

He’s serious. Serenely, slow-blinkingly serious. 

It’s a preposterous question, for one, and you’re momentarily stunned by the urge to interrogate what answer he wants, rather than consider the truth. And you think maybe that is the answer: to make him want what only you can give him. The evidence of it is sitting in front of you. You’ve pushed beyond curiosity and into fixation. He wants to understand and you want him to be driven mad by it. There is nothing else to ‘do with his attention.’ This is it.

Your lack of response only spurs him on. “How far are you going to take this?”

You don’t know. Merlin, you have no fucking idea, because you don’t know what you want. A petty contest should not induce an identity crisis, but — how far are you going to take this? The outline of your life is all but preordained: you’ll graduate, you’ll attend the obligatory summer social rituals, you’ll sit through idle conversation with potential marriage matches like the muggle women of last century, and you’ll work in any field you like because you’re good at everything and not particularly interested in anything. 

DADA is… different. You’re not too fussed about the performance of it in the way most aurors are, waving their wands with the most impressive spells they can think of. It’s the subtleties not taught in your curriculum that have been fascinating. The history of how these spells came to be, the origins of the monsters and by extension the necessity of new protections, the mastery of invention, of bestial capture, of strenuous research compiled over millennia; the core of the subject is phenomenally understated, and for that reason understandably overlooked. 

And maybe professor at Hogwarts is not your highest aspiration — that’s still the game — but you’ve craned your neck over too many tomes in the past few months to dismiss the entirety of your study as summer refuse.

“How far can I take it before you stop me?” you ask instead.

He smiles. “I don’t intend to stop you.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“What? Watching you struggle, for once, to keep your place beside mine? No.”

He says it with such certainty that your cheeks go hot. Like it’s so absurd to imagine you could ever get to him.

“Say what you like,” you press, defensive, “but you’ve come to me twice now, and I know your intrigue is never without suspicion. Do you vanish from the library merely to study more frantically alone? Do you go there only to sit in my line of sight?”

“Do you watch me?”

Embarrassment has a habit of making you angry. Some might say it stems from entitlement. You don’t really care. With all of the etiquette you’ve spent your lifetime absorbing swiftly discarded, you rise from your seat, grab your book, and tell him with the words a bit uncanny to fuck off.

Admittedly, a few more seconds and you might have come up with something less inarticulate and more befitting your station.

Barely halfway across the carpet, you stop, laugh, turn on your heel and laugh again, because how dare he? “You came here just to inform me of my absence at dinner, you absolute — you watch me!”

You stomp off again, passing by his chair when he speaks.

“I do.”

Your heel snags on the tassels of the carpet. The book is comically heavy. There’s a gust of wind, underground, in a room with no open windows, for the first time in the thousand years since its construction. These are the reasons you stumble. There is no correlation between those two words and your feet slipping out from under you.

And yet, you don’t fall. Only in the most blatant sense is crisis averted.

When his fingers balance you by the hip, it is well and truly not because it’s Tom that you react. You’d swear the same thing under Veritaserum and hear the words spill out true: touch is touch. Human beings who have long gone without it will respond when they finally get it, no matter the person. A shudder. A reflex. An instinct to lean in or out, and yes, this time it’s in. That’s all it is; Tom’s instinct — uncharacteristically kind, perhaps — to wrap his hand around whatever will steady you, with fingers long and pressure firm. 

You suck in a breath, goosebumps darting across the sliver of skin exposed by your raised jumper. It’s not because it’s Tom that you react. It is absolutely because it’s Tom that you react like this.

This, to be clear, is not much. For a woman accused of obsession, you’d hold up decently under Annette’s scrutiny now. It is the aforementioned shudder and horripilation at his sudden touch, a fleeting little gasp like opening a door and finding it a few degrees colder than expected, but you hardly tremble in his hold like a vestal damsel. And you are technically exactly that, so what does it matter? Tom Riddle certainly hasn’t been busying himself between anyone’s legs with all the time he doesn’t have, and if he had you would have known, because everyone would have known, and all things considered it’s a bit strange to wonder with such defensiveness at someone’s hypothetical virginity, but describing Tom’s as hypothetical at all is honestly a testament to your generosity.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t need to be much. All it takes is the moment of hesitation before pulling away to become aware of the point of contact. Not that it’s owed or wanted or reviled in any way, but that it had not existed before and now it does. And this, in every tangible way, changes nothing, but in his eyes, slipping away with apology, you understand quite ridiculously that it might change everything. Now it exists, and that means it could exist again.

The thought doesn’t take long to ruin your life.

In fairness, you’ve done a great job of ruining your life all on your own, and this is really a footnote in a very long list, but the ink bleeds through the rest. You are stained by awareness, itching through spring allergies and schoolwork and preparations for graduation. It’s there under everything: the knowing. Some irrational anticipation for a thing you can’t name. Tom hands you a beaker in Potions and you’re actively avoiding the brush of his pinky like you’re five years old and newly horrified at the prospect of cooties. The knowledge goes both ways, of course — Tom is too perceptive not to have noticed the change began with his fingers on your skin — but you’re not so egotistical to imagine it’s as ruinous for him as it is for you.

God, you hope it is.

May comes. Sun bursts through Scottish rain, pulling you (by Annette’s hand) to study in the courtyards for the final stretch of your final term. Your mother sends flowers and well-wishes wrapped in delicate warnings. The message is in her letter as delicately as it wafts through your dormitory in a bouquet of anemone and cosmos: anticipation and order: this is it. Her reminder resides in a charmed vase on your windowsill, red as a blister. 

The tests for the various apprenticeships offered to graduating students are not so dissimilar from the ones you took in your earlier schooling, and Annette wasn’t wrong in assuring you you’d pass them easily. Of course, you won’t be told until the summer that you’ve passed them, but you know. You don’t falter for a moment. Not for the Ministry’s trials or the Alchemist’s League or St. Mungo’s Healer’s Apprenticeship. It’s half an effort to surpass their expectations; the worst consequence at the end of each day is a sore wrist. 

At night, you lie in bed and wonder if it’s the lack of competition. There’s no board to track your name on, and no one you respect who wants the positions you’re seeking anyway, and you’re hardly seeking them yourself, and — is it respect? Is that what you feel for Tom? 

You don’t know. The more you succeed, the less you seem to feel at all.

By June, you’ve exhausted every trial but the undesirables, and the charm on your mother’s flowers has begun to falter. Red petals wilt to brown on your windowsill.

So when a hollow morning rises where you decide to do something you want, with no one else to tell you to want it, you do it quietly, because you’re not sure you know how to do it any other way.

It’s a Sunday. The halls are quieter, dispersed now that there’s light outside to relish in, and there’s no need to tiptoe like you’re out past dark, but you may as well. The post was pinned outside Tomes and Scrolls. The vellum was fittingly thin and ecru, with no flourishments or golden frame. And there you went, and here you are, and it feels like a belated teenage rebellion to even entertain something so simple.

The test is half spoken and half defensive. None of the spells are extraordinary displays of magic, but practical — examples of what you might need to know should you ever encounter the odd danger in a field study. The recruiter is old. His skin is sun-spotted and honey. He wears fabrics of great texture and colour, with seams worn from years of use, and in his eyes you see the glint of everything he has seen. There’s so much of it. He isn’t a paid lackey of some magical superior, reading from a script designed to buy you too. He is a living extension of his study. There’s no contest, and so there’s no prize, and for once, absolutely fucking nonsensically, you want. You feel something.

In the courtyard, with your textbook open beside you, Annette picks wildflowers in hues of yellow. You empty your mother’s vase and fill it with them instead.

“It’s an archivist position,” you tell her quietly, like it’s a secret, “or — it’s a bit complicated. There are archives in the shop, but the job is field archaeology? He studies the birthplaces of magic, old battlefields and castles and — I don’t know. I liked it.”

Annette laughs, shaking her head.

You sulk. “You think it’s ridiculous.”

“Stop,” she scolds, but her smile is still there. “I think it’s fucking brilliant, actually.”

“What?”

“You’re doing something just because you like it. It’s been a long time since you’ve done that.”

You bite your cheek. “So I should take it, if I get it?”

Annette deadpans, your name flat and accusatory when she speaks. “If you don’t take this job, I’m going to kill you.”

Ear-to-ear, you grin.

In the last weeks of school, you write only a brief letter to your parents and await a howler each morning at breakfast. You receive none. There’s only a slip of parchment too small to fill an envelope, falling over your first meal of June.

We’ll discuss it when you’re home, your mother says. Sincerely is how the message ends, but you wouldn’t call it that.

Shoved swiftly into your pocket, you find you care less than you probably should.

The repetitive ritual of saying goodbyes and see-you-laters becomes tedious when you’re unsure who falls into which category. You gift your favourite professors small tokens of gratitude and wish them well. Courses dwindle to the summer-steady pace of a curriculum at its bittersweet end, with nothing but a week’s worth of exams to keep you here. It’s nice. To sit in the sun over shared notes and reminisce, to wonder whose faces you’ll know long enough to see age, and who will filter to this moment in time.

Tom is under one of the trees, shaded from the sun and kissed by the breeze. You can’t place which one he’ll be to you.

It’s harder to decide this than the archivist post. Annette, like she’s been waiting for you to come to a conclusion she had years ago, is the one to push you. There are no threats of murder this time, but her glare instills fear enough. Now you’re here, pacing a corridor you had to charm to get to, which feels ridiculous already, but — you can want more than once, can’t you? You can have more than one thing, for no selfless reason, or selfish reward, and with great risk to your pride.

So you knock. A moment passes. You think your heart is going to burst from your chest.

The door to Tom’s dormitory opens and he looks exactly how you imagined he would, late at night, alone and still half-performing. He’s taken off his blazer, at least, folded over the back of his chair, quill propped on an ink pot and candles softly dancing. His tie is absent. You try not to let your eyes drift too far down from his undone buttons, but — so is his belt. He’s as dishevelled as you’ve ever seen him, and the surprise that flickers across his face is still gone too soon.

You swallow. Sense would inform you that this is where a greeting goes; you don’t provide him with one.

“I’m not going for your post.”

Tom straightens somewhat. “You’re not.”

“No.”

“Just like that?”

“It wasn’t quite that simple, but yes, I suppose.”

“So that’s the answer, then? To how far you’d go?” he asks, chin raised, “Right to the end only to not follow through — It’s unlike you.”

“It’s not like that,” you protest, because it isn’t, you’re not giving up or handing him anything. “I didn’t know if I wanted it or not. Now I know I don’t.”

“And what did you want?”

“I wanted it to bother you.”

“Why?”

You sigh. “Does it matter now?”

“Well, for once you came to me. I’m assuming it was for more than to tell me the job is mine.”

“The job isn’t yours yet, Riddle. Some other poor sop might still take it out from under you.”

“I’d curse them for it. Why did you come here?”

“Would you have cursed me?”

He says your name, softly, a warning to steer you back in place. He’s smiling, so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you hadn’t trained yourself to notice everything about him. “Why did you come here?”

You know he won’t ask again.

“Because I didn’t know what I wanted, and now I do, and for a while it was bothering you, and then it became bigger than you. I don’t know when that happened.” You shake your head, aware of the insanity of your confession. “I like the work. It was unnerving at first; I’ve almost forgotten how to like anything without some greater reason, and now the reason is just me, and somehow I — I still wanted to tell you. In the spirit of learning to want things properly, I suppose. I was looking for your name under mine all week. ”

“Your overconfidence is characteristic enough to rule out possession.”

“Please, I was one assignment away from taking your spot and you know it.”

“You still haven’t told me why.”

“Because I like it when your jaw clenches,” you say miserably, if everything is to come out now, “or your shoulders go taut. I like when you try to pretend I don’t get to you, and fail.”

“Why?” he breathes. It’s different from the last.

“Because it’s involuntary. You try so hard to be in control, and yet in this one thing, you can’t.”

“Can you?”

Of course you can; your will has been steel as long as you’ve had it. You could walk away now if you wanted. 

But you step forward, and Tom understands.

“Tell me you want to keep it, and I’ll let you," you whisper, and it comes out a bit jagged, like the line you're both treading. “But I’ll give you mine if you don’t.” 

He clenches his jaw. There's a second. An inch. His breath on your skin, still guarded, but with eyes flitting down to your lips.

“What do you want, Tom?”

There is a literal threshold now, your feet at the line of his doorway, and his hand slips from the frame as if by accident. You know better than that. The space is open to slink beside him, to cross the threshold, to take his silent offer. 

“Oh,” you inhale, mouth twitching not to smile, and his body is close enough now to relish the warmth of his hitching breath.  “I think I know.”

You hear it again when he kisses you.

The technicalities of a kiss are lost to it,  like he’s breathing life into you, and you’d think of it clinically because you’ve known it no other way — to succumb to a wave and wake up to new air blown from mouth to lung, the practiced rhythm of resuscitation — only this isn’t that. There’s no purpose to it but the feeling, sprawled under him and still standing, the door slammed shut, the clumsy brush of noses. You’re surrounded, solid at all sides. 

It's a good thing he's already dishevelled and in no position to complain if he wasn’t, because your fingers wind through the gaps between his buttons, the eager jumping of his pulse where you find his heart. That does nothing to save you, however — you entered this room pristine. Any mess made of you will inarguably be by his hands.

And a mess of you he does make.

“Tom," you sigh between kisses, and you feel his smile on your lips before you see it.

Tom. Not Riddle.

“What was that?”

“Shut up," you hiss, fingers (very deftly, you must say, for the way his hands are travelling down your back) prodding at the uppermost buttons to pop it free. It seems to be resisting. Fucking nuisance. You yank it clean off.

“You're a mess,” he tuts. 

He’s a mess. He's wild, half-unbuttoned and reckless, all of his careful restraint broken to splinters, and you’re kissing him like you’re starving, damn the whole thing.

But when have you felt like this? When have you been kissed like this? When have you wanted, simply, and had? Never.

“What are we doing?” you ask with a disbelieving laugh, like it’s only dawning on you now that you were raised not to do precisely this with men like him.

His answer is low in his throat, warm where his mouth drags down yours. “Don’t you know?”

“You always answer a question with a question.”

“You ask too many.” He glances up at you, and the look in his eyes is devastating. “Let me.”

It’s a request even if it isn’t spoken like one, so earnestly not Tom in its honesty that any reason urging you to deny him is lost to the satisfaction of a thing like that. Neither of you, who seem to know everything, know this.

You barely breathe a yes but he’s so close that it doesn’t matter. He hears you, he knows, and he’s mouthing along your collar while his fingers work on your buttons.

“You’ll have to tell me what you like,” he says at your chest, pressing kisses lower and lower. His teeth drag where he finds your leaping pulse. One of his hands slips your blouse off your shoulder.

“Will I?” you murmur dizzily, clasping a hand in his hair.

Goosebumps trail after his fingers, drifting along the swell of your breast. His smile presses against newly exposed skin. “Another question?”

The bra slips down and you’re half-bare before him, strangely uninhibited, warm with anticipation at what you’ve been taught to find terrifying, because Tom is too. Because he’s studying every inch of you as it’s revealed, as if you are something new to be learned as he wills himself to learn all else. This, you’ll let him best you in. This you will not argue.

He inches down, one knee on the floor before the other, and you can’t imagine that’s the way these things usually go — the positioning seems strange for what you know is meant to be done — but you keep your word. You card your fingers through his hair and watch as his gaze raises higher with every inch he sinks lower.

“You’re insatiable.”

He kisses your stomach. “For you.”

“For everything.”

“Mm.” He lifts your skirt around your waist. He nips your stockinged thigh. “For you.”

The intimacy of his gaze wracks through you, and you shudder, careening over him, hastily gripping his shoulder for purchase. Instinct bids you follow him down, but he stops you. Holds you still. And his hands trace the shape of your thighs to your hips, the elasticity of the stocking band tested when he hooks a finger beneath it and pulls. 

“Tom,” you say, as equally a warning as it is a demand.

You expect his chastisement, but he’s preoccupied, gazing at every stretch of you revealed as he tugs your stockings down. He’s half-knelt now like he’s posed to propose, and he abandons his pursuit momentarily for the buckle of your heels. Guides your foot to rest on his knee. Softly, slowly, slips the rest of your stocking free. Discarded, he kisses the bare skin of your ankle with his eyes still on you.

Context fills in the gaps of your inexperience as his lips trail higher. You pull gently at his hair, coaxing a little noise from him that makes you stutter. “What are you doing?”

Tom tilts his head. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I — No, I — it just isn’t what I… Where did you learn about this?”

His hands snake up the backs of your thighs, finding the last remnant of silk that separates you. “I didn’t.”

The implication is overwhelming. There’s no cause to draw, no attempt to master something read once but never tried, no game. He just wants you.

You nod at an unasked question, and the silk falls. Tom’s breath quickens. Flustered, heart pounding, you look up and away at anything but him — his stack of texts, an engraved chest, the emerald canopy of a bed far more appropriate for this. He digs into your hips for your attention. A breath of your name nearly sighed. You meet his waiting gaze.

“Look at me,” he says.

He leaves no time for you to flush and hide away from him. His fingers slide between your legs. There was a word you imagine meant to come out of your mouth but you can’t remember it. His name is all that you find.

And that he is unpractised in this doesn’t mean he doesn’t endeavour to learn, with every quickened breath, shudder, grasp of his hair, what you like. And you suppose he asked you to tell him, but he didn’t ask you how. He hears you well enough, a moan when he finally presses into you. There’s a moment to adjust, an overwhelm at the newness of it, and then you’re sighing like you could melt, held up by the desk behind you and his hand pressing into your hip.

His mouth follows quickly. You understand without any pretext that this is exactly what he wanted. 

“Tom, I —”

He does nothing but shush against you, his finger curling, his lips sinfully wet. You arch back, fumbling at the desk. It’s an effort you’re losing to remember to look at him, but his grip tightens when you stop, and he hasn’t stopped once — every time your head lulls back to him, he’s already looking. His eyes are half-lidded, blocked from all light but the warm silhouette of the candles behind him, and it chokes a gasp out of you. You think, in the haze of your desire, that you want to make him feel like this too.

And then the thought is gone with all your others. Another finger slides against you, works its way inside so softly, curls right beside the next one. He pulls away from you for a moment, teething the skin of your thigh, licking the mess he’s made. You’re shaking. You can’t look at him. You can’t, you can’t —

His breath fans over you for a second, tongue dragging, and you’re arched halfway onto the desk now, so he relents, pushes you up by the hips so you can sit, spreads you wider to accommodate him. It’s different. He’s deeper somehow. You whine into nothing, bucking against him. He throws one leg over his shoulders and you copy with the other.

“Please, I need —”

“I know.”

His voice is hoarse — you feel it as much as hear it — and faintly, impossibly, you catch a tone of restraint in it. There’s no restraint in what he’s doing to you. You can’t imagine what more he could possibly be withholding. But you slip a trembling leg from his shoulder and understand, hard between his legs where your foot just briefly brushes against him. You gasp as his motions stutter and you’re shoved back in place.

“Tom, you can — ah —”

Apparently not. He repositions you again and that’s all the answer you get, thighs wedged apart, fingers pulled free and digging wet into your hips to pin you there. You make a sound of protest at the emptiness, but it provides his mouth new access. It’s like he’s trying to consume every part of you he couldn’t already, and you want him to. You’ll let him. You understand with his tongue, drinking greedily from you: here’s the restraint gone. All of it. 

It breaks you. The crash gleams like a kaleidoscope, so dizzying to every sense that you can only hold onto him and pray. And you might be sighing brokenly through it, but your voice is gone to the feeling. Tom doesn’t stop for a second; if anything it spurs him on, and you are limp to all sensations, his notes spilled across the floor where you’ve been splayed on the desk for him.

You’re panting as you come down, and he’s suckling softly at the skin of your inner thighs again, hands rubbing soothing shapes above your knees. You look down at him. He still hasn’t looked away. 

“You’re…” You don’t have words for him. You fall back against the desk again.

“Mhm.” You’d mistake his patient mumble for something sweet if you didn’t know him any better.

“Maybe you should be a teacher.”

Tom breathes out a laugh, lips still trailing down, his reverence overwhelming. He doesn’t seem ready to part from this. You think you can convince him.

“All right, fine,” you say breathlessly, “help me up.”

He raises a brow.

“What? It’s my turn.”

[lov3lyl3tters]

“Time casts a spell on you but you won’t forget me”

Summary: He thought breaking things off would set you both free. Now, months later, you’re still right there—quiet, distant, unforgettable. And Spencer Reid is starting to realize: You didn’t leave. You just became a haunting.

warnings: Angst, Post-Breakup, reader haunting spencer, spencer not being able to move on

(Inspired by: “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac (Live 1997))

A/N: i wrote this on a whim and i dare say this is a personal favorite this will be part of a “series” if i can call it that it will basically be around 5 fics inspired by “Silver Springs” they will all be different plots but will surround itself around the song!

He didn’t plan on breaking up with you. Not really.

But he did. He said it quietly, the way he does most things. A soft, apologetic kind of detachment. The kind that makes you feel crazy for crying even as your heart splits clean down the middle.

And now, three months later, you still have to look at him across conference tables and crime scenes.

It never really ends, does it?

⸻

Spencer sees you before you see him that morning.

You’re leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, wind tugging at your coat. You’re laughing at something Morgan said, that tilted, crinkled laugh he used to think of as sunlight made sound.

It still catches in his chest like shrapnel.

You turn, catching his eye. Your smile falters—just a breath—but then you give him a nod. Professional. Cool. Like nothing ever happened.

That’s the worst part. You’re so good at pretending.

He used to know everything about you. How you liked your coffee, what music made you cry, the way you read through case files with a pen between your teeth. He knew your dreams, the big ones and the ridiculous ones. He even knew how you looked in his bed, tangled in sheets, whispering facts back at him when he couldn’t sleep.

Now you’re just… someone he works with.

But God—he can’t not hear you. Even in silence.

⸻

You’re quieter now.

Not cold, exactly. Just… distant. Your edges used to be sharp and playful, all teeth and fire, but now you’re smoothed down to something clinical. Whatever’s left of your fire gets poured into cases. Into victims. Into anything but him.

Still, he sees it. The flickers.

Like today, when a suspect calls you girl and you crack back with, “That’s Agent to you.” Hotch doesn’t blink. Morgan smirks. But Spencer—it twists something in him.

You don’t laugh with him anymore.

You don’t say Spence like you used to. Like you meant it.

And he doesn’t deserve it. He knows that.

⸻

The thing is, Spencer didn’t end it because he stopped loving you.

He ended it because he thought he had to.

He told himself it was better for both of you. Safer. That if he could just carve the feeling out, bury it deep enough, maybe you’d move on. Be happy. Be free of the weight of loving someone like him.

But he couldn’t carve it out. And you didn’t move on.

Not really.

You just got quieter.

And he got haunted.

⸻

It happens late one night, in the quiet hum of hotel walls and unsaid things.

You’re in the hallway outside your rooms, both unable to sleep. A case that’s cut too close to the bone.

“I keep thinking she looked like me,” you say, arms wrapped around yourself. “The victim.”

Spencer shakes his head. “She didn’t.”

“Still,” you murmur, eyes distant. “She loved someone who didn’t love her back. Or maybe he just didn’t know how.”

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

You turn to him, and for the first time in weeks, you’re looking at him. Not the version that smiles politely at briefings. The real you. The one he kissed under the fluorescent light of the BAU break room. The one who used to whisper “I love you” like a dare.

“I would’ve followed you anywhere, Spencer.” Your voice cracks. “And all you ever did was run.”

He can’t breathe.

You don’t wait for him to respond. Just walk away, your footsteps soft and final.

But he hears your voice for the rest of the night.

He always does.

⸻

You start singing to yourself sometimes.

Low, under your breath. When you think no one can hear.

Soft, haunting lines. Familiar melodies. Just fragments.

Time casts a spell on you / but you won’t forget me…

It’s like a ghost trailing through the office. Like the sound of what he threw away.

He doesn’t think you’re doing it to hurt him. But it does hurt. Bone-deep.

Because even though he tries—God, he tries—to focus on case files and logic and coffee and everything else that isn’t you, you’re everywhere.

You’re in the way the air shifts when you walk into the room.

In the way your chair creaks when you lean back.

In the sound of your voice across the comms line, snapping orders, steady as hell.

And it’s killing him.

Because he knows—he knows—he could have loved you. Did love you.

But he didn’t let himself.

And now you’re out of reach, made of anger and silence and a voice he can’t escape.

⸻

You get hurt on a case.

Not badly. Just a scrape and a scare.

But Spencer can’t breathe when he sees the blood.

He kneels beside you, fingers trembling. “You okay?”

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. Just a graze.”

Your voice is too calm. Like you’ve decided pain doesn’t touch you anymore.

He wants to scream. To shake you. To tell you he’s sorry. That he was wrong.

But you just look at him, your eyes unreadable.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Reid,” you say. “I’ll live.”

It sounds like a curse.

⸻

He dreams of you, sometimes.

Not the real you. The before you. The version that would curl up beside him and talk about constellations and old jazz records. The you that whispered stay in the dark.

In the dreams, you sing to him.

I’ll follow you down / ’til the sound of my voice will haunt you…

And it does.

God, it does.

He wonders if this is what you wanted. If you knew what you were doing—leaving pieces of yourself behind in every corner of his world.

But then he remembers your voice in the hallway. The crack in it.

And he knows you never wanted to haunt him.

You just wanted to be loved.

⸻

One night, after another case, you’re packing up files alone.

He walks past your desk, hesitates.

“You said once,” he begins, voice barely above a whisper, “that I wouldn’t forget you.”

You don’t look up.

“I haven’t,” he says.

You close the file slowly. “Good.”

Silence.

“I know I could have loved you,” he says. “I did love you.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“But you wouldn’t let yourself,” you reply. “That’s the part that hurts.”

He flinches. “I was scared.”

“I was, too,” you whisper. “But I stayed.”

And then you’re walking away, heels echoing down the hall like a heartbeat he’ll never quite catch up to.

⸻

Somewhere, in the quiet, your voice sings:

You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you.

And Spencer Reid believes it.

Because he never will.

[gatheringbones]

[“Henry sat quietly while I told him the story of what had happened at the motorcycle rally, the moment of revelation when I’d seen myself for the first time: the boy on the motorcycle with the girl on the back. There were two separate things going on here, obviously, but one of them wasn’t something I was interested in looking at just yet, and anyway, the relief of having finally said the words “I’m gay” out loud to another human being was so great it almost overwhelmed the other thing. I focused my attention on Lola, the presence of Lola, my desire for Lola. I want a girl on the back of my bike, therefore I must be gay. The other thing would have to wait.

I felt it necessary to produce as much evidence as I could to corroborate this statement in case Henry didn’t believe me. While I might have looked a bit like a baby dyke when I was in my twenties, I sure as hell didn’t now, with my hair and my jewelry and my French manicure. Also, I’d never done anything remotely gay. I was forty years old, and I’d never even kissed a woman. But I’d been in love with dozens, so I went back through my history, naming all of them, starting with Georgia, whom I’d met at my first boarding school, and then Lola, whom I’d met while trying to get away from Georgia, and then the girl I had a crush on at art school, and the model I used to drop Ecstasy with, and the actress who once told me she like-liked me, and the musician I’d semi-stalked, and the school mom who’d made me forget how my limbs were supposed to work, and all the other women in between whom I’d pretended not to watch, or want, or wish for, or lie awake at night dreaming about.

By the time I finished, I’d shredded an entire box of tissues into my lap. “It’s like a monster in the cellar,” I said, taking the second box of tissues that Henry was passing me. “It keeps bursting up through the floorboards and yelling, You’re attracted to women and you don’t like having sex with men, and I just put my fingers in my ears and go lalala until it goes away. Because I cannot be gay.”

“Why can’t you be gay?”

“Jesus, Henry, I’m married with four children!”

Henry took off his glasses and started cleaning them with a cloth. I looked at the seascape hanging on the wall. It was probably meant to be soothing. I wanted to throw a brick at it.

“It might be different if I were a man, but I’m a woman,” I said miserably. “I don’t even know what the right type of gay is if you’re a woman.”

“The right type of gay?”

“Well, yes, because it’s different for men, isn’t it?”

“It is?”

“Because gay men can be kind of . . . glamorous, can’t they?”

“And lesbians can’t?”

I winced. “Well, no,” I said. “I mean . . . no.”

Admittedly, I hadn’t actually met any lesbians recently, but I could clearly remember the expression on my father’s face when he saw the pictures of the women at the Greenham Common peace camps back in the 1980s, lesbians with bad haircuts and shapeless clothes aggressively shaking the chain-link fence surrounding the nuclear military base while their boots sunk into the mud. Unfeminine women with left-wing ideologies were my father’s worst nightmare, and somehow I seemed to have absorbed this fear without ever fully questioning it.

I pulled another stack of tissues out of the box and blew my nose. My hands hurt so badly it felt as if my bones were splintering inside my muscles. “Is this what’s been causing the pain?” I asked.

“It sounds like you’ve been building yourself up in layers that don’t belong to you,” Henry said, gently. “Now you can start peeling them off again, find out what’s underneath.”

“What if I peel off all the layers and find there’s nothing there? What if I just disappear in a little puff of smoke?”

“Why d’you think that would happen?”

“Because . . . because . . . I’m frightened I’m not anything!”]

oliver Radclyffe, from frighten the horses: a memoir, 2024

[liesineyes]

Pit Babe Episode One Thoughts -

I loved the first episode. Omg, so much to unpack and so many theories.

I mean who doesn't love AlphaxAlpha boyfriends calling each other Mama and Papa as endearments/nicknames? Only Charlie and Babe can make me like this cringe fest, but honestly it is not even cringe when they do it. 😭

Charlie railing Babe on the bed, against the car hood like Babe absolutely deserves to be.

Alan and Jeff - I didn't think I missed them? But omg, they are so wholesome? Alan? I am down on my knees for you. Jeff has come such a long way from where he started.

Kim rightfully leaving the X Hunter because yeah, that is the right decision if he ever wants to be the number one racer, though it made me sad seeing him go. 🥹

Jeff's powers evolving, wow, I like that direction so much. The whole lab and experiment thing excites me.

Willy is a little bitch, but he is pretty so he gets a pass for now. (I am not supposed to like him, am I? It is just the actor I swear)

Pete being creepy, I mean I expected it from the trailer and all but he surprised me. "I love you too?" Too? Too? Like Pete, sir, hello? He is so delusional and I love it. Bringing that big ass bouquet and brooding over Way. Like his first reaction to Chris was wanting to hug him or something? He is embarrassing fr.😭😂

North Sonic are cute. North not knowing where to look as Sonic tried to stall their conversation. I love the friends to lovers trope they have going.

Tony omg, my heart goes out for Kenta, poor him. Imagine killing your father only for him to turn up alive. I can see his worst nightmare becoming reality.

Overall, the episode was pretty good. I really enjoyed watching it, and I hate that it is only one episode per week. Like what do you mean I have to wait for a whole damn week for the next episode?

[khloberry]

❝ Tequila, a hot friend, and a needy cunt? What’s the worst that could happen…❞

Blame It on the Alcohol

Nicholas Chavez x Reader | 18+ SMUT

Can we please talk?

I took one glance at the text on my phone and tossed it aside. My ex was once again begging for me to take him back. What part of ‘never gonna happen’ didn’t he understand? It had been a week since I caught him sexting another girl and left his ass. He claims that it didn’t mean anything, but since when did sending a dick pic to someone other than your girlfriend become nothing?

“I swear if he texts me again I’m gonna lose my shit.” I picked up my cup and took a long sip of my drink. After the week I had, the tequila was needed. I had planned to go out for drinks with my friend Nicholas, but we decided to just stay at his place.

“Blocking is a thing you know,” Nicholas said with a casualness that made me roll my eyes.

He chuckled. “I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

“That face you made.”

I burst out laughing when he imitated the eye roll I had just given him. Just that easily, I wasn’t thinking about my stupid ex or our breakup anymore. It was impossible for me to not be in a good mood around Nicholas.

“I’m glad you find me trying to help you so funny.” Nicholas grabbed my now empty cup and headed into the kitchen. I followed behind him, taking a seat on one of the bar stools at the island.

“I’m sorry.” I gave him an innocent look, and just because I knew he hated it, talked in a baby voice. “You know I wuv you, my Chavy bear.”

The death stare he gave me was expected, sending me into another fit of laughter.

“I’m this close to putting you outta my house,” he said as he went over to the fridge to get ice.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You do that shit again and you’re fucking out of here,” he warned, though the smile on his face said he was far from serious.

He started to make me another drink and I couldn’t help but notice how good his arms looked while he was shaking the cocktail shaker. I always noticed how good he looked if we’re being honest. There was no harm in looking, right? He was my friend, but I still had eyes, and I couldn’t deny that Nicholas was hot. Really fucking hot. He was the kind of attractive that made you pause and say ‘damn’.

I damned a lot.

When he was finished, Nicholas proudly placed the drink in front of me, complete with a sugar rim and lime wedge— just the way I liked it. I smiled brightly. “Thank you, bartender.” I took a sip and then playfully told him, “All these good drinks, I’m starting to think you might be trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”

Nicholas leaned forward, resting his forearms on the countertop and studied me for a moment. A slow smile spread across his face. “I wouldn’t have to get you drunk, princess,” he said with a wink.

With that, he turned and headed back to the living room. His words were playful enough, but the way he said them seemed to suggest something more. Something that made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I was used to us joking around. It’s what we always did.

But this felt different.

I didn’t know whether I should read more into it or just leave it alone. Maybe it was nothing. We played a lot, but we never really took each other seriously. While everyone else seemed to think there was something more between us, we always laughed it off whenever the question of if we liked each other came up. Our answer was always the same— just as friends. But what would happen if we ever explored the realm beyond just friends? It was a question I never asked myself until tonight, but now I wonder…

As the night went on, Nicholas and I were having as much fun together as we always did. We were playing games, joking around, and drinking enough to be well on our way to being drunk. Even though he won most of the games we played, I still made him take tequila shots with me because friends don’t let friends drink alone, right? I knew that the alcohol had kicked in because everything started to feel good.

And Nicholas?

He was looking really good.

I tried not to stare when he stood up and took a quick stretch, but the glimpse of his abs and happy trail made it hard to look away. My eyes followed the soft line of hair down to the jogging pants he wore that were loose in all the right places, snug in even better ones. I let myself visualize his dick beneath the soft cotton.

Oh god, am I really eye fucking my friend? It’s the tequila shots. Blame it on the alcohol, right?

“Nic, where's your phone so I can order us some food.” I wasn’t sure if I was even hungry, but I needed something to distract me. “What should we get?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He tossed me his phone. “You know what I like.”

I put in his passcode and nearly choked on a laugh when it unlocked and the image of a woman’s pussy appeared.

The tab was still open on Pornhub.

“Dude?” I made a face before turning the phone to him. “Is this what you were doing before I got here?”

Nicholas shrugged nonchalantly. “Like you don’t watch porn. I’m sure if I went through your phone right now I’d find lesbian videos in your bookmarks.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Lesbian?”

“All girls seem to love lesbian porn. But I get it,” he flashed a smile before his eyes dropped to my legs, zeroing in right at the center. “I love pussy too.”

“Nic, stop being nasty.”

He chuckled. “Okay, but first tell me what’s your favorite to watch? Seeing them eat each other’s pussy? Scissoring?” he paused. “I bet that gets you wet as fuck, doesn’t it?”

I grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. “Nic!”

“Come on, Y/N. Just tell me.” He knew he was getting under my skin and his voice dripped with amusement. “I’ll tell you something,” he smiled. “Watching a girl cum always gets me off.”

This conversation was getting dangerous. It was taking my body places that I really didn’t need it going, especially with him sitting right next to me. I squeezed my thighs together, silently pleading for him to stop before the ache building between my legs became too strong to ignore.

He didn’t stop.

He was enjoying this.

“You’re getting wet right now just thinking about it, huh?”

“Oh my god! Shut up!”

“Speaking of wet,” he said, refusing to let up. “I happen to know that you’re a squirter.”

Just kill me now.

“What!? Who told you that?”

“I know things,” Nicholas leaned back against the couch, legs manspread, arms locked behind his head. “A lot of things,” he smirked.

What things? What else did he know? And why was that goddamn smirk so sexy? It could have been the alcohol, but I suddenly felt hot all over and I was wet.

Dripping.

Nope. Definitely not just the alcohol.

“Not every guy can make me cum like that. It only happens sometimes.” I blurted out, and when I looked at Nicholas, his eyes lit up, as if he had taken my words as a challenge.

“Oh yeah?” he smirked again. “Good to know.”

I cleared my throat. “Do you want tacos?” I asked, attempting to shift the subject back to something safe. Between the alcohol and how embarrassingly wet I was right now, I was in the danger zone.

“Do you want to watch porn?” he grinned.

Nicholas took his phone from my hand before I could respond, and a few seconds later, there was porn playing on the TV. The same pussy that I saw when I unlocked his phone was now before my eyes on a 65-inch screen, getting completely annihilated. The room quickly filled with sounds of pleasure and wet fucking. I watched as the camera zoomed in on her pink cunt taking every inch of the man behind her.

“Nic!”

“What? This is a personal favorite. Enjoy it, baby.” He smiled at me and turned to face the TV, watching the video as if us looking at porn together was the most natural thing ever.

How was he so at ease when I was quickly losing it sitting beside him? My head started to spin from the alcohol and arousal I felt. With each passing second, I could feel myself becoming warmer and getting wetter. It wasn’t just the porn. It was him. How good he looked. The way he'd been making me feel all night. The shameless thoughts running rampant in my head right now. How does he fuck? Is it as big as I imagine? What could he do with his mouth?

As I glanced between Nicholas and the TV, a mental image of me on all fours appeared in my head. Nicholas had a fistful of my hair in one hand, the other pressed firmly against the small of my back as he fucked me hard on the very couch we sat on. The image was so vivid that I could almost feel it. I was spiraling. I abruptly stood up, the sudden movement making Nicholas turn and give me a questioning look.

“I need to use the bathroom.” I lied. I couldn’t be around him right now. Not with me imagining him balls deep inside me and his voice talking me through it.

“Just like that. Take it all, princess…”

I hurried into the bathroom and quickly closed the door. Leaning against it, I closed my eyes, the image of us still in my head. My mind was racing. My body was raging. I was a little past tipsy, but not drunk enough that I didn’t know what was happening right now. I was watching porn with my friend and having lewd thoughts of him fucking me in the roughest possible way. How did this night even turn into this?

I could still hear the loud sex sounds coming from the TV, and the more I listened, the more I couldn’t resist the urge. My hands drifted down to my shorts, tugging them over my hips and letting them fall to my feet. Then my fingers slipped under my panties. I held back a moan as I rubbed my clit, imagining it was Nicholas touching me. I could hear his voice whispering roughly in my ear.

“You’re so wet for me…”

I knew this was desperate, touching myself in his bathroom, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop. Self control? I had none right now. I rubbed myself frantically, moving my fingers in a circular motion, chasing the ever increasing pleasure. I could feel the tension in me starting to build tighter and tighter. The fireball in my stomach was about to explode. I kept going, thinking about what Nicholas told me earlier. How watching a girl cum always gets him off. His voice in my head telling me to do it.

“Cum for me, Y/N…”

I did just that.

Then I felt a bit embarrassed for not being able to control myself. I pulled up my shorts and went over to the sink to wash my hands. I took one look at myself in the mirror and my reflection called me a needy whore. Shaking my head and laughing, I collected myself before returning to the living room, where I found Nicholas staring at me. It was almost like he knew, but didn’t say anything. The smirk on his face said it all, though.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Looking at you like what?” he asked, that sexy smirk still there.

“You're looking at me like—”

“Like I want to eat your pussy right now?”

Whoa.

Where the fuck did that come from?

My friend telling me that he wanted to eat my pussy was definitely not on my bingo card. Touching myself in his bathroom wasn’t either. What even was this night?

“You’re drunk,” I said with a small laugh. I glanced at Nicholas, expecting him to laugh back, but when I saw that he was looking at me now like I was something he had to have, I knew it wasn’t just the alcohol talking.

“Maybe I am,” he said as he slid closer, leaving no space between us on the couch, making my pulse race. “Or maybe I just want you. Two things can be true, you know.” He put his hand on my thigh, testing his limits. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t pull away. The way my body was responding to him, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to.

I felt his breath against my neck, his lips brushing my skin as he whispered, “Maybe I’ve always wanted you.” He kissed my neck and I melted. “I think you want me too. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not,” I whispered back.

Then his hand was on the back of my head, pulling me in for a kiss that was anything but slow. His mouth was on me like he had been waiting forever to do it. Things were moving so fast that I could barely process what was happening. I’m kissing my friend? We’re about to fuck? Is this possibly the best kiss of my life?

Soon, I couldn’t even formulate a proper thought. All I knew was the feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue, and the way his hands touched my body had me screaming inside for more. The little moans I let out between kisses seemed to spur him on as he kissed me even harder. His hand moved between my legs, pushing them open, and rubbed me through my shorts.

My body was on fire.

“Take these off,” Nicholas said roughly.

My hands started moving almost as soon as the words left his mouth. He watched as I undid the button and pulled the zipper down, not once taking his eyes off me. Lifting up just a bit, I eased the denim over my hips and slowly pulled my shorts down. Nicholas was back on me in an instant, his fingertips brushing along my inner thigh, moving closer and closer until I moaned out.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groaned, rubbing my panties with just enough pressure to make my eyes flutter shut as another moan escaped me. “I wanna taste you so bad.”

“Do it.”

Without another word, Nicholas moved to the floor and settled on his knees between my legs. He lifted my shirt, pressing a wet kiss just below my belly button and kissing down further until his fingers were on the waistband of my panties. With his eyes locked on mine, he slowly pulled them down. The look on his face told me one thing— you have no idea what I’m about to do to you.

The next thing I felt was him hooking his arms under my legs and pulling me to the edge of the couch. He lowered his head and went for it, running his tongue over me like he couldn’t wait to do it. One thing was clear. He knew just what to do, and I don’t think I could ever look at his mouth again without thinking about how good it felt on me. Just call us friends with benefits now because there was no way this would be a one time deal. Not with the way he ate my pussy so good he had me seeing stars in the ceiling.

He added two fingers, doubling the pleasure, making me cry out his name. My head tipped back as he slid in and out of me, gaining speed and then decreasing, edging me on, making me ache for more. I wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Nic, fuck…” I trailed off as his tongue moved faster.

He let out a low, approving sound. It was the sound of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to me. “I’m gonna make you cum so hard.” His eyes flickered up to mine and it nearly ended me. Nicholas was already so hot, but with his face buried in between my legs, making me feel things I could only dream of? It didn’t get much hotter than that.

And then he was back on me, mouth closed around my clit like a suction cup. I could feel it coming. I knew he could too. The way I pulsing on his tongue. The way I was dripping down his fingers. He pumped into me faster and harder, hitting that right spot over and over, drawing me closer and closer until…

Splash waterfalls.

Nicholas pulled back just enough to watch me with a look of satisfaction as I gushed all over his hand and welcoming mouth.

“Fuck… that’s so hot, baby,” he groaned as he gave me another lick. I came harder than I ever had before, and he didn’t even let up. His tongue was relentless, licking me until my legs were shaking again.

When he was finally pleased with the mess he made of me, he stood up and quickly stripped down, grinning as I watched his clothing hit the floor. I could see how ready he was for me, and my pussy dripped in anticipation. I spread my legs for him.

“Who knew you were such a little freak, princess,” he teased, getting into position.

“Shut up and fuck me,” I whispered breathlessly.

Nicholas laughed, but my wish was his command. He pushed into me and started fucking me so good it felt almost sinful. I clung to his shoulders, feeling every inch of him as he gave me slow, satisfying strokes.

It was pure heaven.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his pace quickening. I had my fair share of good sex, but nothing else seemed to compare to this. This was the kind of sex that I would still be thinking about days later, maybe weeks, maybe forever. It was that good.

Then it got even better.

Nicholas brought my knees to my chest and slid inside me. He slowly pulled out to the tip before sliding back in, filling me more with every little retreat, making me lose my damn mind each time.

“Oh my god, are you trying to make me fall in love with you,” I moaned, feeling the pressure starting to build inside me.

“You already love me.” Then I felt him deeper, his movements coming faster and harder as he hit that spot that made me see stars.

Another deep stroke hits it again.

And then again.

“Nic, I—” I gasped. “I’m about to cum.”

“Me too, baby…fuck,” he groaned, his voice strained, his hands gripping my thighs tighter as he fucked me even harder.

I didn’t last another second. Nicholas followed close behind with a rough groan ripping from his throat as he came inside me. He eased off of me after one last thrust, sinking back into the couch.

As we both caught our breaths, Nicholas looked over at me with a satisfied smile. “You look like somebody who just got fucked good.”

I laughed breathlessly as my mind recalled my thoughts from earlier. How does he fuck? Is it as big as I imagine? What could he do with his mouth?

Like a beast.

Bigger.

Ungodly things.

NAC girlies ♡: @aisforarlili @oliviaambs @fiftyshadeschavez @torikitten @indychanel @exqorcism @iamsebastiansstan @chavezwifeyy @nicholaslut @nickchavezs

[vexwerewolf]

IPS-N

Blackbeard: The Blackbeard's representation is tonally at odds with how it's most optimally used. So many people see it as the Berserker Attack-Attack-Attack mech because of SEKHMET when it actually rewards a very measured, considerate playstyle of grabbing enemies, shutting down their reactions and moving them out of position.

Raleigh: The Raleigh has a niche that it comfortably occupies now, but I feel like it's illustrative that it didn't find this niche until the Stortebeker came along and provided the power fantasy that everyone thought they were getting with the Raleigh the first time they saw it.

Tortuga: Cool you made The Mech That Is Good At Everything and its literal only weakness is it's a bit slow, one of Lancer's easiest problems to fix? The Tortuga is without a doubt my favourite mech and even I think it needs to be nerfed a little.

Vlad: The Vlad is an all-around excellent close combat frame hampered by a slightly unfocused and lackluster toolset. What is the Impact Lance doing here? Why would I ever use Webjaw Snare?

SSC

Black Witch: "My core power is that if my ally is a CQB mech like the Tortuga, they get to do no damage for a turn and then eat 6d6 damage to the face." Mag Field is so easily circumvented by just not firing into it - or, if a PC is inside it, firing into it a bunch to pump its damage. Also for a piece of pinnacle gear that costs 3 SP, Black ICE Module just... doesn't have enough punch.

Death's Head: As Zee Bashew would put it, "I get to spend one whole turn imagining how hard I'm going to hit this enemy instead of actually taking the turn to hit this enemy." You have to spend your entire turn focusing on an enemy for the potential to roll a ton of extra damage if you crit. Remember that the Railgun, the Death's Head's signature weapon, is an area weapon and bonus damage is halved for multi-target attacks. The enemy can also shut off this extra damage by being in any form of cover. Bad core power. Possibly the worst.

HORUS

Goblin: So I get to spend a Quick Action to lose my action economy and get my friend and I heatgunned and AoE'd to death? And it ends if either of us get Stunned? And this is what I have to spend my core battery on?

Hydra: Hello yes I am The Mech That Procs Twenty Bazingillion Saves, which is why my Save Target is the lowest possible starting Save Target in the entire game. Also my action economy is consumed by handling all these drones but I also have to be an off-striker for some reason!

Manticore: I wish they'd never put that fucking meme trait on this thing. I never fucking hear the end of the stupid fucking LMAO EXPLODE jokes.

Minotaur: Genuinely, what is the power fantasy here? I look at the Minotaur and I struggle to understand what precisely I'm supposed to be imagining myself doing when I pilot it. Couple this with a powerful equipment package, but on a frame that doesn't feel fun or interesting to play, this is a license you dip into to get something important for a completely different frame.

Harrison Armory

Napoleon: So I can spend my core power to just not play the game?

Saladin: This frame has the opposite problem to the Minotaur. It has a very, very clear power fantasy - "create a bubble of impenetrable safety for my friends" - and goes absolutely hard on it. You then discover that being permanently immobilised or slowed and having to spend most of your actions maintaining the bubbles with very little else to do is miserable. The power fantasy is so well-defined you end up discovering why it's not very fun.

You know I glaze Lancer a lot but I really gotta say there are some design issues I feel certain frames have and I should talk about them sometime

[bougiebutchbinch]

Okay now the Poast has died down a tiny bit I wanna say all of those stories did legit happen while I was in the room, although I shortened 'em slightly to make 'em more digestible online and thus many lacked Nuance

(Nuance: the surgeon who said 'this is the worst thing I've ever seen' was young and inexperienced and doubting themself, and their patient was having a last-minute panic but had been informed of the severity. The guys who told the joke while the surgeon was near the spinal cord were having a private little laugh. They didn't expect the surgeon to hear, and the surgeon took a moment to compose themself before continuing (plus, if you can't keep your hands from shaking for like, two seconds while you take a deep breath and calm down you really shouldn't be a surgeon, lol). The surgeon sniffing the electrocauter was just messing with the med student, but I too think it smells kinda yummy. If you disagree your opinion is valid, but you should also Suck It.

And yes, the surgeon who scolded the med student would still have chastened them if they'd made a personal comment about the patient's appearance regardless of whether the patient was under anaesthesia. I have not worked in ANY ORs where that sort of unprofessional behaviour is normalised. I know it does happen, because others have mentioned it, but in my experience it's a thing of the past. I've never had to see such behaviour, and I would report the fuck out of it and call it out. ....But the student wasn't talking about the patient. They were talking about... a kidney stone???? So, like. No patient feelings were harmed in the making of that story. You can chill omg.)

They were all entirely true. All but ONE.

The big dramatic reveal....

The problem with the C-arm had nothing to do with producing X-rays. If the bit that produces X-rays goes haywire the rad would slam the big red button and kill it. The brake had just fuckin suctioned itself to the floor and wouldn't shift for love or money! It was a very old machine and this happened periodically. A good bounce on the brake pedal might get it unstuck - or break it completely, which the rad was afraid of~

[aurumalatus]

you take the stars (i'll keep the moon)

kinich x reader, angst, major character death, discussions of chasing death, non-linear storyline

summary: the first time you both die, you both come back. it's only the first time.

Dying is so, so cold.

You never ask Kinich what it felt like for him. He doesn’t talk about it either, and you’re not so socially stunted as to not know what that means. For a while, you think you’re on the same page about it all.

But Kinich seems to take it differently, at least afterwards. Whereas the exposure makes you shrink, it seems to make him bigger, bolder. He sees it as a blessing that he’d gotten so close and still made it out alive.

Yet, all you can focus on is that you’d gotten so close.

/

“Do you know how stupid that was?” Kinich hisses through his teeth, breath hot against your cheeks. His grip on your arms reminds you of his love—bruising, barely controlled. “Don’t ever do something like that again!”

It makes you want to kiss him, weirdly enough; his face is so handsome, even when smeared with grime and blood, and you just want to bite his bottom lip and tug. You want to tell him he’s being unfair, that he does stuff like this all the time, especially nowadays. That he’s been through six rolls of bandages this week and you’re wondering why you need to buy more already.

But you think that might make him angrier, so you merely shrug.

“Sorry, Kin,” you sigh, “I won’t do it again.”

/

When it’s dark, you lose Kinich in the sky.

His hair is an inky color, the kind that swirls and disappears behind the stars when you’re not looking hard enough. He’s quiet, too, even as he tends to the remains of the blown campfire. 

He’s searching for something in the stars, you think. Maybe his mother, or maybe his father. Love, or vengeance. 

“Kin,” you call, voice echoing delicately through the clearing. He doesn’t turn to you, doesn’t reply, but you know he’s listening. “What are you looking for?”

He frowns. You smile bitterly.

Even he doesn’t know.

/

You and Kinich aren’t in love.

Before you died, maybe you could’ve been a good lover. Maybe a good person, because the two are not the same thing. But now, you’re neither, and you’re not sure what Kinich is either. You’re not in love with Kinich, because you’re not in anything, haven’t been since you died.

Instead, all you are is clawing, running, escaping. It would be good for you to do that much, if you could.

But you don’t. And neither does he.

When you retire for the night, he sleeps facing away from you for the first time. As if to console you, he shoves his share of the blanket in your direction—he always seems to be too warm for his taste.

You don’t want to think too hard about what that means, so you sleep.

/

When the Night Warden Wars come back around, you don’t go.

Kinich finds you sitting upon a cliff overlooking the Stadium of the Sacred Flame. He approaches you wordlessly, and the grass parts politely as he takes a seat. You already know what he’s going to say.

“You’re still going,” you say, always beating him to the punch.

You take his silence as an answer, no matter how rotten it tastes.

The flame is visible, even from here, and you think the rumors must be true—that the flame draws its power from Natlan, that it takes and takes to fuel the future of your people.

There’s no other explanation for the way the oxygen is sucked straight from your lungs.

/

Kinich fails to return from the Wars, and no one can seem to find you for three weeks.

Twenty-one whole days that your friends spend, unsure if you’re still breathing. Mualani will later say it was the worst period of life—unyielding, roaring waves of grief that refused to dissipate, an enduring assault on her heart and soul.

You wonder if you’ll ever manage to weather the same storm.

You’re eventually found, if only purely by coincidence.

Citlali takes a stroll one night, at a time when the sun is long buried. She can’t say why or how, only that she does. And she sees you.

And then, she can’t seem to force the image of you sleeping on Kinich’s grave from her mind.

/

“I’m going.”

With your tears glistening in the moonlight, Kinich feels like the Sacred Flame is burning him from the inside out. Sweat beads on his nape; it’s hot, too hot. He wishes the night was colder.

“But why?” you ask. Your hand inches toward his, and it hurts more than he thought it would. “Why can’t you just stay with me?”

Staying or going—he’s always been caught between the two. Or maybe he’s always lived by going, and it’s the worst kind of habit that he can’t seem to break. So he merely shakes his head and tries to ignore the pang in his heart when you start to sob.

A breeze passes. He shivers.

And yet, he still can’t manage to say he’s sorry.

[thistlerock]

Do you ever think about Ragh coming home after prom to his mother, whom we know loves him so dearly, and telling her that Dane hit him when he admitted he was in love.

Do you ever think about how angry Lydia was that someone would hurt her baby

How sad she was that her Ragh, who is such a sweet person by nature, was made into someone mean by Dane, because he loved him, and got punched for loving him

Do you ever think about how worried Lydia was when she heard that Gorgug kissed Ragh, sacred that maybe this would be just another heartbreak?

Do you ever think about Lydia meeting Gorgug, seeing the boy that made her son smile again, that is so loving and caring and only wants the best for his friends, who (maybe) isn't in love with her son but still wants Ragh to be happy

getting anon asks like this is like if someone did a drive-by on me but instead of shooting me they threw an envelope containing a beautiful sonnet at me, disappearing before I could catch a glimpse of them. sweet promises weaved into beautiful poetry, printed on pages of perfectly folded paper now resting in my lap. I read it over and over again and I feel like I could weep. of joy? of sorrow? I don't know. tangible proof of a great bard in my hands but no way to find them. no way to even search. will they return to grace me with more one day? or will I be left yearning, occasionally hearing soft whispers on the wind? I can only wonder. I can only think to myself, please, come back. Finish that thought coME BACK PL EASE WAIT you can't JUST L EAVE AFTER T HAT I NEED TO CRY AT YOUR DOORSTEP NOW ???? HOW WILL I CRY AT YOUR DOOR STEP IF I DONT KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE

but ye a YEAH I think about them. A lot. I think Lydia didn't know much about Dayne while he was alive because 1) Ragh didn't exactly. Tell. (On SOME level he like. Knew? That he was being a bully and it was shit? And felt bad but that wasn't exactly at the forefront.) And she didn't want to pry? But also 2) this woman's health was. Declining. And she barely had time to keep up with Ragh's school and social life (which I think. Haunts her. That moment when disability doesn't only make you miss out on your life but also your loved ones. HAUNTING. Must be worse when it's your child and you on some level feel like you failed them. Ahaha. Who said that that's crazy.) but that just meant when it all came out she was like. What the fuck?? Oh my god?? PLUS. PLUS. RAGH WAS ACTIVELY BEING GROOMED INTO WEIRD CULT BULLSHIT. BY COACH DAYBREAK. HE WAS AT THIS GUY'S HOUSE??? APPARENTLY??? Lydia finding out about all of this ready to kill. Kill who? Idk man just kill. The WORST things were happening to her son and she had no idea!! Her baby :(

So when he was like. "Oh yeah but don't worry Gorgug grabbed me and kissed me after hitting me really hard and that got me to get my shit together!" I'm SURE she had her concerns. I'm sure she's wary at first. It must be weird, idk. But then Gorgug is the sweetest kid in all of Spyre!! And it's just. Oh. Maybe he's found something good? He deserves to have found something good. </3

[fanficgirl429]

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Y/N admits to Bucky that she has feelings for him

---

Bucky Barnes sat on the worn porch steps of a little house nestled near the bayou, sipping a cup of coffee that was made by Y/N. She had made it a little hot and a little too strong but he didn’t complain. He never did when Y/N made it.

Y/N was Sam’s friend—someone who used to help at the dock with her sleeves rolled up and her mouth full of sharp-witted jokes. She'd seen Bucky at his worst during those early days, still haunted and quiet, carrying the weight of names in a little notebook. But she never looked at him with pity. A few times he had caught her staring at him, her cheeks turning a slight shade of red, when his eyes locked with hers. 

It had been a long time since he had started to get feelings for someone. In fact, he thought that it would never happen again, but he found himself falling fast for Y/N the more he got to know her. 

Now, weeks after the fighting had stopped, he was still here. Not because he had nowhere else to go. Because this place was… comfortable. Everyone was warm, welcoming, and friendly. He liked that most people here didn’t seem afraid of him. 

“You’re brooding again,” Y/N said from behind the screen door. She stepped out barefoot, balancing two plates of food.

Bucky looked up and gave her a crooked smile. “I’m not brooding. I’m contemplating.”

“Contemplating your brooding,” she teased, handing him a plate. “Eat. You didn’t eat anything during dinner.” 

He shifted, accepting the food. “Didn’t feel hungry.”

“You never feel hungry. You just wait until I shove something in front of you.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Her hair was messed up from spending the day in the sun,  a hint of sunburn beginning to appear on her shoulder. 

“You take care of me too much,” he said softly.

Y/N sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “Maybe I like taking care of you.”

He swallowed, the words catching him off guard. “You shouldn’t. I’ve got… a past. A heavy one.”

She placed her hand in his and squeezed it. “We all do. But you’ve got a future too.”

Bucky glanced down at their hands and laced his fingers through hers, his throat tight. No one ever said that to him without a hint of fear or hesitation. But Y/N? She said it like it was the simplest truth in the world.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

----

The next day Bucky stood at the edge of the dock, hands in his pockets, watching the water ripple beneath the soft wind. There had been a small dinner together at the Wilsons house and although Bucky enjoyed everyone’s company, he had needed a few minutes alone. He liked the silence, in fact he preferred it. 

Behind him, the sound of Y/N’s laughter echoed from the open windows of her house. He let out a small smile, happy to hear the sound. It was a comfortable sound.  

A few minutes later he heard the sound of soft footprints approaching behind him. “You’re doing it again,” Y/N called, walking down the dock barefoot with two beers in hand. “Contemplating.”

He smirked. “I thought I was brooding.”

“Depends on your posture,” she teased, handing him a bottle. “Tonight you’re contemplative. Less shadows in your eyes.”

He twisted the cap off and took a sip. “Think I’m getting soft.”

“You deserve soft,” she said, leaning against the post beside him. “After everything, you deserve more than just survival.”

Bucky glanced at her. She didn’t flinch when he looked. She never did. That was the thing about Y/N—she didn’t try to fix him, she just saw him. Not as the Winter Soldier, or the White Wolf, or even just Steve’s friend. She saw him.

“Is that what this is?” he asked. “Something 'more'?”

Y/N looked up at him, the last of the light catching in her eyes. “Could be. If you want it to be.”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want it. But because wanting felt dangerous. Because the last time he let someone in, they either died or were left behind. But here she was—still standing next to him. Still waiting, quietly.

“I want it,” he said, the words coming out rough but honest. “I want more. With you.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just set her beer down, stepped closer, and laid her hand gently on his chest—over the place that still ached sometimes, even when it shouldn’t.

“Then take it,” she whispered.

And so he did.

He leaned in, slowly, giving her every second to pull away. But she didn’t. Her hand slid up, fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw as he kissed her—soft, sure, real. The world didn’t stop, but it got quieter. More focused. Just them. Just now.

When they pulled apart, her smile tugged at the corners of her lips like she’d known this was coming for a long time.

“Told you,” she murmured. “You’re not broken.”

---

The next morning, the rain was pouring down. It was the kind of storm that made you stay in bed longer, wrapped in silence and someone else’s warmth.

Bucky woke first.

Y/N was curled into his side, one arm slung across his chest like she belonged there. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. There was something sacred about the stillness—the way her fingers twitched slightly in sleep, the way her cheek rested against the scarred line of his shoulder like she trusted it not to hurt her.

He stared at the ceiling, heart tight in his chest, as if something fragile inside him might break open if he let it. Not because he was scared of her—but because he was scared of how much this meant.

She stirred eventually, eyelids fluttering open. “You’re thinking again.”

“I think a lot.”

“You also stare like the world might fall apart if you blink.”

He gave a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

“Mmhmm.” She propped herself up on an elbow and studied him, her voice quieter now. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Bucky hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “I used to wake up like this… in Wakanda. Peaceful. But it was always temporary. Always waiting for something to go wrong.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Now it feels real. And that scares the hell out of me.” He turned to face her fully. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to come knocking. For me to hurt someone without meaning to. For you to leave.”

Her hand found his. “I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t know what being with me really means, Y/N. I have nightmares. I disappear into myself some days. There’s parts of me I’m still trying to forgive.”

She nodded. “And I won’t pretend to have all the answers. But I’m here, Bucky. Not just when you’re smiling on the porch, but when it’s 3 a.m. and you’re shaking in the dark. I want all of it, not just the pieces that are easy.”

He closed his eyes, her words wrapping around old wounds like gentle hands. She wasn’t afraid of his shadows. She walked right into them, lit a fire, and sat beside him.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “A real relationship. I’ve never had one that wasn’t… wartime or chaos.”

“Then we learn together,” she whispered. “We take the hard days. We hold steady. And we make a home, right here. Even if the world doesn’t stop spinning.”

Bucky nodded slowly, and this time, he didn’t try to hide the emotion in his eyes.

“I’m falling for you, Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “And that terrifies me.”

She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Then be terrified. But fall anyway.”

[miowyaa]

If it's alright, I have another request!!

I LOVED the story you wrote out of my previous request! It was amazing! And hilarious 😂

Do you think (if you have time and are okay with taking another request from me), you could write a Shidou x GN! Or nonbinary reader? I know you don't do NSFW which is totally understandable, but if you could add a touch of ✨spice✨ that'd be great. Oh! And I already have the trope in mind, enemies to lovers 😁

I hope this request is fun for you! If you need to change it in any way, that is perfectly fine. Thanks!

Leave me alone, you freak! ; Shidou x Gn!Reader

A/N: Thank you for your request! This was so funny to write, if you read the wiki/ egoist bible, it says that before a game, Shidou likes to go take a goodluck poop. Not really enemies to LOVERS but definitely enemies with crushes on each other. So um. Yea, enjoy..

CW: you get chased down by an intimidating shidou (not very romantic, i know :( ) , you basically get jumpscared by him. 

It's not everyday that you’re being chased down some random hallway in a large stadium, tablet in hand, praying to whatever force out there to help you make it out alive. As most people would agree, this doesn't usually happen to them either. You’ve never thought of yourself as a bad person, honestly- quite the opposite! If you had to describe yourself (not to toot your own horn,) you’re pretty much an upstanding citizen for the most part. So is it just that bad things happen to good people? For goodness sakes, you’re just trying to do your job.

“Go away!” You cry, the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes, never in your life have you run as fast you are right now. In hot pursuit, is a demon, a monster straight out of your worst nightmares, the living embodiment of all evil: Shidou Ryusei. Mind you, this was all because you very kindly told him that NO, he could NOT take an extra 15 minutes to go take a good luck dump right before his game especially since everyone was waiting for him already. You thought it was fine, it was cool, everything was all hunky-dory..But apparently not, since right after his match ended, he decided to just start sprinting towards you.

Fear, adrenaline, everything bad is literally coursing through your veins right now. You could care less how stupid you look right now as you flail your limbs around trying to get as far away from this man as quickly as possible. You hear him giggling behind you, and it just infuriates you even more. What is this? Some poorly made horror game you pirated made from free models and random free clips of children cries online? Though, to be fair, those kinds of games have the scariest jumpscares. 

Rounding a corner, you stick yourself to the wall before slumping down. It's a bit hard to believe this is happening, all in the span of a few minutes too. Maybe you can convince Ego to put Shidou on some tranquilizers or something. Alas, this is just wishful thinking. For now all you can do is to pick yourself up and walk yourself somewhere that he hopefully is FAR away from, fingers crossed!

It works out so perfectly, you even bust out a little tune. A little hum, if you will. Free from the beast, you’re given a false sense of freedom, unaware of the looming threat staring, looming, lurking… from afar. You caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure in your periphery, but you brushed it off. No way that's him, absolutely no way. You weren't going to let such a trivial matter ruin the rest of your day, nope!

So why is it now that you find yourself beneath him as he grins way too widely? You’re scared that he’s going to start drooling on you or something.

“KYAAAAAAH!” You scream out, finding yourself trapped underneath his weight. God forbid you want to go take a walk or something, because now, there's a freak basically sitting on top of you, pinning you down. Is this a scene straight out of an otome game? Are you… a pervert for having such thoughts…? Well, no, because this isn't your fault. Nothing is EVER your fault!

After your initial scream, you stay quiet staring directly into his eyes. You don't doubt that your face is a deep shade of pink right now, and it's no thanks to the guy on you right now. Who cares if your mind is cycling through thousands of probably non-PG thoughts right now? Though, your train of thought is finally broken when he finally speaks.

“Got you!” Well, NO SHIT.

“Dont worry, I forgive you,” he muses as if there was really any wrongdoing on your part in the first place. Wrapping his arms around you, he basically traps you even more.. You can feel them getting numb, and although you can't say this position is something you hate, embarrassment prevails! 

You’re shaking from a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and if that wasn't bad enough, he doesn't seem to give a crap at all! (Haha, crap, get it? Sorry.) He releases one of your arms from his grip and uses it to cup your face ‘sweetly,’ his fingers tracing over the outline of your jaw as if this were normal. He even lets out a little “heehee.” Maybe you’ve fantasized about this happening before, or maybe you haven't, whose to say? Though you didn't expect it to happen so quickly, it's definitely happening. This is it, you’re living your main character's life..! Is what you would think if you were sound of mind right now. Sound of mind is one way to put it though, since you’re probably part of a minority who thinks like that normally.

You’re still trapped, dare you say, provocative, position and it doesn't look like he's going to let go any time soon. You’re pretty content with staying in this position forever, just not now. Maybe in a few months or years, when he's toned down or something. But for now, you decide that you need to escape. So with all the strength you can muster, you slam your leg up into the area where the sun refuses to shine.

Expectantly, he weakens his grip which gives you just enough time to flee. As you’re running away for the second time, you stop for a moment to turn around to stick your tongue out at him. If Shidou could read minds, he’d know that you were calling him a “loser” and to have “better luck next time!” And although he does not have the required psychic abilities required to telepathically read your mind, he shoots you a wink which you so lovingly return with a middle finger.

Truly, what a love story! Throw the roses or something, everyone..

© miowyaa | please do not steal, repost, or translate any of my work.

[chericherilvr]

summary: Yeonjun is scared to gift you something he made. w/c: 891 warnings: cursing, fluff, all of the TXT being menaces to Yeonjun... the usual author's note: I started writing and I couldn't stop low key? wanted it to be around soob's wc but I almost doubled it... next reaction 1,5k?? lmfaoo

Dear reader, what is your favourite gift you've ever received? And what was the scarier gift you've ever given? I got to say, there's nothing scarier than the reaction of someone you love to you. Especially when you want them to feel cherished, appreciated… Loved. You can't dictate how someone feels. And then the over-thinking starts. And then the thing you've spent hours working on, suddenly seems worst than no gift at all.

Just like the break down Yeonjun himself was going through.

"Oh lord, what if it is too much?" Beomgyu groans and throws Yeonjun a pillow.

"Just like I've told you for the past TWENTY MINUTES. It's fine and they will love it!"

"No, yeah, you're right, yeah yeah…" He nods to himself.

It wasn't any special occasion really, but he was out shopping… And he saw that cute plushy critter… And then he thought of making a couple key-chain… And he had the materials so… Safe to say, he bought the plushy and spent the last hour or so making the key-chains. Now, twenty minutes later—and after giving Beomgyu the biggest headache of his life. Yeonjun was waiting for your arrival for the usual Friday date.

As a—not so proud—over-thinker, Yeonjun imagines your reaction to his present. He first sees you walking through the door. Beautiful as always and with a killer outfit of course. And then you would see him, and the bag on his side, and probably tilt your head with the upmost adorable frown. He would give the bag to you, awaiting… Sigh, they probably will hate it.

"But," Yeonjun starts speaking, although is cut off by another groan from Gyu. Who stands up and points at him.

"If they hate it, which is quite impossible given how utterly sickening down bad for you they are," Beomgyu says before muttering under his breath, "which I don't know how…" Yeonjun glares at him. "Then you'll just try harder next time, or just I don't know, kiss them as a sorry"

"This isn't one of your dramas in which a kiss solves everything!! What if they like hate it so much they end up hating me?! What if it's too cheesy?! What if they feel uncomfortable?!"

"Dude, you might want to see a therapist for the underlying confidence issues" Beomgyu shakes his head and walks off to his room.

"I do not have confidence issues!!" Yeonjun screams after him, and follows Gyu with a frown. "Hey! Come back here!! I do not have confidence issues!!"

"Who are you screaming after, my love?"

The world stops. Yeonjun almost kicks the bag to the floor with how quick he is moving. You stand in front of him, eyes wandering full of curiosity—and with a killer outfit, of course. He scrambles to get put together and ignores Taehyun—who opened the door for you up your arrival—side eyeing the Yeonjun almost with second hand embarrassment.

"No one!"

You nod slowly at his words, skeptically, before chuckling.

"Sure…"

Yeonjun clears his throat and walks over to you. He smiles and hugs you.

"Missed you so much! Was about to die without you!!" Your whole body twists with a warm feeling upon the confession.

"A bit dramatic, no?"

"Nah, he's saying the truth." A voice snaps you out of each other. "He was so ready to end it all if he didn't see you again."

Kai walks towards the coffee table, going to pick his phone left behind.

"Can I have a single moment of peace in this house in which no one interrupts me?! What happened to being a happy family?!"

Hyuka just refrains to snort and grabbing his phone, waving you goodbye. He walks a couple steps before pausing.

"What is this on the floor?" He bends down to grab the discarded gift bag before a feral Yeonjun drags him. Kai yelps. "HELP A LUNATIC IS TRYING TO KILL ME!! I AM WAY TOO YOUNG TO DIE!!"

You stare at the scene slowly raising your own phone and recording all of it. Perfect for blackmail.

"Aren't you going to separate them?" A voice says behind you.

"Oh fuck! You scared me, oh my god" You look at Soobin, who is eating some snacks. "Shouldn't you? Aren't you like the leader and the responsible one?"

Soobin shrugs and eats another chip before saying, "Four members is okay as well, one less kid to manage."

You just limit to follow him with your eyes, until he disappears inside the kitchen again. Triple blackmail in one, nice.

It takes a grand total of two minutes before Kai gets away from Yeonjun. You only hear Yeonjun muttering some words before the almost-dead Kai runs away to his room. Finally your boyfriend looks back at you, with the culprit of a gift back in hand.

"I have something for you," he says, blushing and avoiding to look at you in the eyes.

You grab the back and carefully look inside. The most adorable plushy ever, with two key-chains—a big one with three initials—and a matching tiny one.

"His name is Boing, he jumps."

Looking back at Yeonjun you catch him with the same key-chain on his trousers. A handmade gift with the letters of your now tiny family.

"I hope it's ok—"

"I love you."