#and they both know that and are aware of it.

[comicaurora]

sorry if this is out of left field but you seem to have a lot of good insights on emotions and self awareness so i thought you might be a good person to ask. do you know if theres any good way to deal with jealousy? like, the genuine "other people having/getting certain things makes me want to explode" kind of jealousy that sits in your brain making you feel guilty. (feel free to delete this ask if ur not cool with it btw, i know this is a weird thing to ask a stranger on the internet)

Oogh, that's a tough one.

I think jealousy is a bit of a weird little funhouse mirror. In my experience, while it feels like it's about the lives and achievements of others, it's structurally based on you comparing yourself to them, or rather using them as a metric to judge yourself by. It circles back around to a matter of self esteem. The person you're feeling jealous of isn't the target of the feeling - you are.

Jealousy can feel very poisonous, because it can make you feel extremely negatively towards innocent people, making you feel like a bad person for feeling that way. But it's totally normal to feel negatively towards people who don't deserve any actual negativity - feelings and moods are shaped by a huge number of internal factors, and as long as you don't take them out on the people themselves, you feeling some kinda way doesn't in any way make you a bad person. It just means you're in distress, and it would benefit you to figure out how to mitigate that distress. I don't trust how I feel about slow walkers and loud chewers after a long and overstimulating day, and the Bite Risk feeling I experience when those situations overlap doesn't mean I'm a bad person, it just means I need a nap.

Like most emotions, jealousy has a function and a purpose it serves. I think it's to give you an idea of your goals. It can be deceptively difficult to know what you want, in both the short and the long term. Seeing someone else get something and thinking "oh, that's what I want" can be a valuable first step in pursuing something. You might envy someone's achievements because you yourself want to achieve something you're proud of; you might envy someone's likable personality because you want more, closer friends. It's a reflection of you, not really about them at all.

When a feeling of jealousy pops up, I think it can be good to unpick it and process what exactly you're feeling jealous of. That's going to be the important, actionable thing that you can start intentionally pursuing for yourself. Envy of someone's appearance might actually be wanting their active, exciting lifestyle that sounds fun and energizing, or it could be wanting their confidence, or their financial security that keeps them dressed so nicely. Envy of someone's success could be wanting to accomplish a similar great work, or it could be a desire for fame, or for the close friends they seem to have made in their journey, or anything else.

It's not bad to want things. The only thing wrong with jealousy is the undertone that you could take this thing from the person who has it. You can't; that's not how it works. But you can sate the hunger for yourself if you can find the path forward.

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR III

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3.3k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'm not fully sure how I feel about this chapter, since Jason is surprisingly tricky to write, but I hope you all enjoyed! warnings: attempted mugging & sexual innuendos

GOTHAM STREETS

You hadn’t stopped smiling since you left the bar.

You tried. You really did. Kept your head down, hands buried deep in your coat pockets, boots tapping out a steady rhythm against the uneven Gotham pavement. But every time your mind replayed something he said—or the way he looked at you when you teased him—your lips tugged upward like they were betraying you on purpose.

Dick had surprised you. In all the best ways.

You’d expected someone charming, maybe a little smug—he was too attractive not to be at least a little aware of it—but what you hadn’t expected was the ease. The comfort. The way conversation flowed like you’d known him longer than an hour. How he actually listened when you spoke, even when your words slipped into science—what Milo liked to call your “brainiac voice.” And not only did he keep up, he added to it. Challenged you. Made you laugh so hard at one point you nearly choked on your wine.

And then there was the way he looked at you. How he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like you were someone worth listening too. Worth knowing.

You’d been on your fair share of dates—most forgettable, some mildly scarring. But this one… it felt different. Effortless. Familiar in a way that made no sense. He asked questions that weren’t filler. He listened like he cared. And when you’d said goodbye, he’d looked at you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Truthfully, neither were you.

But you’d insisted on walking home alone—claiming it was close, which, technically, it was—though the real reason had less to do with distance and more to do with needing air. The space to process everything. A few quiet blocks to let the night settle over you before reality crept back in and your logical brain kicked down the door.

It was foolish, maybe—letting one good date stir up that much hope. You weren’t that girl. You didn’t do that. Even with Jake, it had taken a handful of dates (and a bottle of wine) before you’d started to soften. But with Dick?

It had been effortless. Like your heart had skipped the part where it’s supposed to check for red flags.

God help you, but you already kind of wanted to see him again. That was terrifying.

You turned into an alley—a shortcut toward your apartment. You were still buzzing from the date, your thoughts spinning, smile lingering like a stubborn echo. So much so that, for one foolish second, you forgot where you were.

This was Gotham. And rule number one?

Never take an alley after dark.

You didn’t see him coming. One shove and your back slammed into rough brick, the breath knocked from your lungs. A hand clamped over your mouth before you could scream. His breath reeked—alcohol, smoke, something foul and rotting—and the cold press of metal kissed your throat.

“Stay still,” your attacker hissed. “Or I’ll cut your pretty neck.”

Your mind screamed to move, to run—but your body froze. Just for a second. And then the fight kicked in. Old instincts reared up, you weren’t going down like this.

You forced your body to go limp, pretending to give in. Waited. Just until his grip eased. Then, with everything you had, you drove your knee into his groin.

He let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a groan and a wheeze—and stumbled back.

You ran.

Made it halfway down the alley before his hand caught your arm again. You spun, adrenaline lighting you up, and punched him square in the face.

“You bitch!” he snarled.

“Now that’s no way to treat a lady,” a deep, distorted voice drawled behind you.

Your attacker froze.

You felt it—the shift in the air. Watched his expression drain of colour.

“Hood,” he stammered. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like. I swear—”

The knife clattered to the pavement as he raised trembling hands.

Red Hood emerged from the shadows like a walking threat. Boots heavy, twin pistols holstered but clearly visible at his sides. The red helmet gleamed under the flickering alley lights, tilted ever so slightly. Unreadable.

“I saw what it looked like,” he said, voice smooth and mechanical through the modulator. “And I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it didn’t look like a misunderstanding.”

The man stammered. “I—I didn’t touch her, man! She hit me first!”

“Oh, poor you,” Red Hood said dryly, already reaching for him. “Bet that’ll sound real convincing when your jaw’s wired shut.”

He grabbed the guy by the collar and slammed him against the opposite wall—hard. The man whimpered, sliding down like a sack of garbage. Dazed. Bleeding. Breathing. 

Red Hood swiftly zipped tied him for the police and then he turned back toward you, and you instinctively took a half-step back before freezing mid-motion.

That helmet turned.

“You alright?”

You blinked, adrenaline still thundering in your chest. “Define ‘alright.’”

He paused. “Still breathing. Upright. Capable of sarcasm. You’re fine.” His tone sharpened. “Which means you can tell me what the hell you were thinking. Who walks into a Gotham alley at night?”

Your spine straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t just wander into places like this unless you’re actively trying to get mugged,” he snapped, jerking his head toward the man slumped nearby. “You wanna end up dead in a gutter or are you just new here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I have teleported home instead?” you snapped, heart still racing. “It was a shortcut. That’s it.”

“A shortcut?” he echoed, like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Congratulations. You shaved off what, thirty seconds? Was it worth the knife to the throat?”

“I didn’t know he was going to be there!”

“You never know,” he bit out. “That’s the point. It’s Gotham. Rule number one: don’t go out in the dark. Especially not in alleys.”

“I’m not stupid,” you growled, fists clenched at your sides.

“Then start acting like it.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You flinched, breath catching.

He paused, chest heaving slightly beneath the jacket. For a moment, the alley was silent but for the distant hum of the city. “You were lucky tonight. That’s all it was. Next time, maybe I’m not here. And maybe someone worse finds you.”

You stared at him, fists clenched, cheeks burning. Not with fear—but with embarrassment. Frustration. Fury.

“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” you muttered.

“No,” he said flatly. “You asked for a shortcut.”

“Asshole,” you spat.

“Sure. Call me the asshole when I just saved your ass.”

“I had it handled.”

That made him laugh—rough, humourless. . “You had it handled? Right. I showed up just in time to watch you get handled into a wall.”

You stepped forward, eyes blazing now. “Yeah? And I still got out of it. I kneed him first. Clocked him too. Or did you miss that part while playing Gotham’s angriest knight?”

He tilted his head, helmet gleaming beneath the alley’s flickering light. “That’s cute princess. You want a medal for being half a second away from a news headline?”

“No,” you snapped. “I want to not be treated like some helpless idiot because I had one bad night. You don’t know me.”

There was a pause—charged and electric.

“I know enough,” he growled.

You raised your chin, defiant. “Then you should know I don’t take well to being talked down to. Especially not by a guy hiding behind a helmet and a complex.”

He stilled. Just for an unnoticeable moment.

You weren’t afraid of him. Not the guns. Not the name. Not the reputation.

You stood there, furious and unshaken, like he was just another guy off the street who’d pissed you off. Not a vigilante. Not Red Hood. Just a man with too much attitude and a helmet to hide behind.

Normal civilians got scared. Normal civilians said thank you and rushed home with shaky breaths and adrenaline still spiking.

What the hell was wrong with you?

Because you weren’t scared. Not even close.

“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered.

“And you’re annoying.” You folded your arms. “But here we are.”

Another pause.

The tension between you didn’t fade—if anything it seemed to thicken. 

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, he stepped back, retreating into the shadows.

“Go home, smartass,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, crouched to grab your fallen purse, and muttered a string of creative insults under your breath—but when you looked up, he was gone. And yet… you felt him. Somewhere above. Watching.

He didn’t stop watching until you were safely inside your building.

This was your first encounter with a Gotham vigilante—and man, was he an asshole.

Jason had just watched your infuriating ass disappear into your apartment complex—because apparently, Gotham shortcuts were death traps and you didn’t believe in better choices—when his comm crackled to life.

“How was the date, dickhead?” Jason muttered, eyes fixed on your building.

“Someone’s in a mood,” Dick replied, voice disgustingly bright. Jason could practically hear the grin.

Jason grunted. “Answer the question.”

“It was great.”

Jason snorted. “No way.”

“I’m serious,” Dick insisted. “Smart, funny, terrifying—in a good way. Total knockout.”

Jason’s brows furrowed. “Terrifying in a good way?”

“She roasted me and quoted serotonin receptor pathways in the same sentence.”

Jason blinked. There was a beat of silence where he genuinely didn’t know what to say. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward behind the mask, and his eyebrows arched slightly. “…Kinky.”

Dick barked out a laugh. “Right? I think I’m in love.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his masked face. “You say that every time someone tolerates you for more than twenty minutes.”

“This one didn’t just tolerate me—she mocked me with clinical accuracy. It was like foreplay for my ego.”

Jason shook his head, lips twitching again despite himself. “I hate you.”

“She also said she doesn’t do second dates often.” Dick went on, more thoughtful now. “So naturally, I begged like a man with no shame.”

“Which you are.”

“Exactly.”

Jason leaned back against the rooftop ledge, one boot resting on the low brick barrier, eyes still trained on the window across the street. His voice shifted, lower. “So… you’re really doing this?”

There was a pause, just long enough for Jason to hear the sincerity settle into Dick’s tone. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I want to see her again.”

Jason didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. The pause stretched, heavy in its own way, until Dick broke it.

“So what’s got you in a bad mood?”

Jason exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back slightly, gaze dragging upward toward the Gotham skyline. The clouds above were thick and dark, hanging low with a threat of rain. Sirens whined in the distance, their sound warping slightly in the wind.

“You know the usual,” he muttered, “beating up scumbags, saving civilians, keeping the streets clear for romantics like you.”

“Aw,” Dick cooed. “So chivalrous. Anyone ever tell you you’re a real catch?”

“Only in your dreams.”

Dick snorted. “Seriously though—bad night?”

Jason hesitated, gaze flicking toward the apartment window he’d just seen you walk past, you’d made it to your place safe. “Let’s just say Gotham delivered its usual charm. Creep with a knife, a civilian with a death wish, and me playing babysitter.”

“You alright?”

“I’m fine. She’s fine. Dumb as hell, but fine.”

“Dumb?”

“Took a shortcut through an alley. Alone. At night.” His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking hard beneath the edge of his helmet. “You do the math.”

“Oof,” Dick said, wincing audibly. “She’s lucky you showed up.”

Jason didn’t reply right away.

From the other end, Dick sighed. “It sounds like a usual night on the job. So what’s wrong?”

Jason’s jaw flexed. “She mouthed off at me,” he muttered, almost sounding petulant. 

“So do you. Constantly.”

Jason scoffed, pushing off the ledge. He began pacing along the rooftop edge, glancing down at the street below. “She told me off, then strutted into her building like she didn’t almost get stabbed five minutes prior.”

Dick let out a low, impressed hum. “…Hot.”

Jason stopped mid-step, turning sharply. “Shut up, Dick.”

“You’re thinking about her, though.”

His hand flexed at his side. He knew exactly what Dick was doing—and worse, he knew he wasn’t wrong.

“I swear to God,” Jason growled, “if you don’t end this call—”

“Okay, okay,” Dick said, still laughing. “I’ll let you go. But I am getting the full story tomorrow. Don’t think I won’t drag it out of you.”

Jason rolled his shoulders, already turning his back to the apartment and heading for the fire escape. “I liked you better when you were getting shot at in Blüdhaven.”

“Love you too, Little Wing.”

The comm clicked off, blessed silence returning to his ears.

Jason exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. He turned back one last time, casting a final glance at your window.

“Infuriating,” he muttered.

YOUR APARTMENT

You groaned as you rolled out of bed, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. Your side ached, your legs were sore, and your back felt like it was body slammed by a bear. God, you really wished your body was sore for an entirely different reason.

You winced as you stretched, muttering curses under your breath. You really should’ve taken Dick home while you had the chance. Whoever said sleeping with someone on the first date was trashy had clearly never met Dick Grayson. That man could charm the pants off someone’s grandma and probably have her baking cookies for him after.

Speaking of…

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand and blinked against the screen’s glow. One new message. From him.

“Had a great time last night. Can’t wait to see you again.”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the stupid, giddy sound bubbling up your throat as you responded. 

Thankfully, it was the weekend. No lectures. No lab work. No coworkers to fake professionalism around while your brain short-circuited over one man’s text. You had the whole day to yourself, and as you got dressed—tugging on jeans, your favorite coat, and a scarf soft enough to feel like a hug—you already knew where you were going.

First stop: Cafe Nero’s.

Your usual. A buttery croissant and a cup of iced coffee with a splash of vanilla.

Next? The bookshop.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the warm scent of old paper and fresh espresso instantly curling around you. Sunlight bled through the tall windows, casting golden slats across the hardwood floors and over the scattered reading chairs nestled in cozy corners.

You wandered toward the back, cradling your coffee cup in one hand as you traced your fingers over the spines of new novels with the other. The ache in your side throbbed beneath your coat, a stubborn reminder of what almost happened—but you ignored it. Compared to the fluttering thrill still tucked under your ribs from Dick’s message, it felt small. Distant.

He’d enjoyed last night.

He wanted to see you again.

Now, with a croissant in your stomach and your fingers itching for a new read, the world felt calm again. Almost normal.

“I wouldn’t pick that one.”

You blinked, turning your head—and your eyes landed on a man leaning casually against the next shelf. Thick leather jacket zipped halfway, dark jeans worn in all the right places, and bright, poison-green eyes fixed on you with an expression equal parts amused and assessing. His hair—black as ink with a streak of white at the front—was tousled like he hadn’t planned on being seen today, but his posture said otherwise. Confident. Sharp-edged. Like someone who didn’t mind getting into trouble—or starting it.

“Excuse me?”

He nodded at the book in your hand. “That author’s all hype, no heart. You’ll be disappointed by chapter three.”

You arched a brow. “And you care what I read because…?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Call it a public service. Mediocre storytelling is a crime. I’m just doing my part.”

You scoffed before glancing down at the book in your hand. “Right. And here I thought Gotham’s biggest crime was murder. Turns out it’s just bad literature.”

He smirked, completely unbothered. “Hey, murder’s messy. Bad writing’s slow, painful, and somehow still legal.”

You blinked. “…Are you seriously comparing my book choice to murder?”

He gestured to the cover, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying—if you’re gonna invest your time in something, might as well make sure it knows how to keep you satisfied.”

“And what do you know about what keeps me satisfied?” The words slipped out before you could stop them—sounding more flirtier than you intended. God. Milo was creating a monster.

His grin widened. “Because I know books. And I know women.”

You studied him more carefully now—the cocky set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes that said he was used to mouthing off and dealing with the consequences. He had the posture of someone who picked fights with the world for fun, and the scars to prove it. Everything about him was a bad boy, through and through. 

He reached over, his arm brushing just close enough to make your breath hitch, the scent of leather, cologne and…gunpowder? curled around you. His body shifted nearer as he plucked another title from the shelf.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. You recognized the cover—it’d been trending online all week. “Strong plot. Sharp dialogue. Main love interest actually has depth… the kind that keeps you up thinking about them even after the book is done.”

You took the book, more to humor him than anything, and scanned the back cover. “And if it’s terrible?”

“Then you can yell at me over coffee. I’ll even pretend to be sorry.” His voice dropped an octave. “But if you’ve read it already, you know it’s a good pick. And if you haven’t—you’ll thank me for introducing you to it.”

You glanced up at him, “Well, I have read it.”

His smirk widened. 

“And I agree—it wasn’t bad,” you said, slow and coy. “But it’s not her best work. Not even close.”

You state watching as his smirked faltered. 

“You picked it because it’s trending. Vaguely steamy with enough grit to make it look deep when it’s actually just shallow fiction in a leather jacket. Compared to her earlier stuff? It’s second-tier, if we’re being honest.”

His eyebrows rose slightly—whether from amusement or disbelief, you weren’t sure.

“And,” you added, stepping into his space, “it says a lot about a guy who picks the easiest option without doing his homework. Because if you really knew anything about women—or me, in that matter—you’d know I’m more than capable of picking out my own damn books.”

Jason stared at you, momentarily stunned.

You set the book neatly back on the shelf and grabbed the one you actually came here for. “So, no. I’ll pass.”

Then you turned, heels clicking against the floor as you walked away, fully prepared to leave him behind in the dust of his own misplaced confidence.

“Wait—hold on—” he started.

“I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time, paperback Casanova,” you tossed over your shoulder, not breaking stride. “I’m sure there’s a girl out there who’s impressed by leather jackets and surface-level charm. Try aisle three.”

And with that, you disappeared down the row.

Then he exhaled a disbelieving laugh. Sharp. Breathless.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

He wasn’t exactly a womanizer—not like Roy, who’d mellowed out a lot since Lian was born—but he’d never been shot down that fast, or that hard. 

You were infuriatingly attractive, all wit and spine, and it pissed him off how badly it worked on him. He really shouldn’t be wasting his time chasing after you —and yet, here he was. Standing in the middle of the aisle like an idiot wondering how the hell he was going to get a second chance. 

You were something he hadn’t realized he was missing lately.

A challenge.

And he couldn’t resist a good challenge.

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Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens

[torglives]

lets talk about how corrupted pangi/ls pangi navigates gender expression. pleaseee. like beyond joking about it. because it's been the only thing i've been thinking about since i watched his vod. im so sad

there's two clips i want to reference: clip one, where ros tells him that he wore a bow and he denies ever wanting to do that. ros pulls out a top hat, and pangi says "that's more like it." -- clip two, where he finds the bow in his enderchest and hovers over putting it on for a several seconds, then stops abruptly, and distracts himself with messaging water.

the second clip in particular is the one that really gets me. because he's just learned that this is something he's apparently done. and his hesitance shows that it's not something he truly believes that he wouldn't do, or not want to do, but rather something he is apprehensive of. he's nervous.

when he says "that doesn't seem like something i'd do," what he means is, "that doesn't seem like something i'd let myself do,"

this isn't to say that pangi is repressed on lifesteal, but both servers harbour very different environments, don't they? i mean, pangi's never said it directly, but other lifestealers have. ash just the other day said, "why everyone is so nice here?" -- and it's true not only in gameplay, but also in general politeness. people are kinder here. it's an entirely new environment. and pangi's been surrounded by these people for almost half a year, there is absolutely no doubt that he's changed and grown accustomed to that kindness in that time. the realm gave him understanding, and he's surrounded by people who have not only given him the chance to be more feminine, but encouraged it. these are people who want to see him at his most comfortable, no strings attached.

to put it simply, it's vulnerability. it's expressing himself in a way that he, as far as he's aware, has never done before. a way in which he has never been given the opportunity. and he's in this new place where people tell him things like "i need you," and "i miss you," and "i cared about you," and he doesn't know the faces behind these words. he doesn't know why they're being so nice to him, it's not something he's used to. maybe it's hard for him, and where he is mentally, to acknowledge that he has ever entertained the thought of being open and vulnerable with these people. he was comfortable here. he was safe. he let people not only see that part of him, but trust them enough to understand it, too. and he doesn't remember any of it.

and yeah, i don't necessarily think this was purposeful from pangi "i made it all up on the spot lol" live, but nonetheless, unintentional queer themes are still queer themes. and even without considering his gender expression, it speaks to how comfortable he was on the realm. how truly at home he felt.

[jordiemeow]

this is how art apologize

sorry i need him so bad i may have gotten carried away when i was bored at work this wasnt supposed to b anything. Whoops

warnings: 18+, smut, f!receiving oral, eating out over underwear, stupid stupid art

Oh. You're mad.

Like, actually mad, not just giving him that look you always send him after he does something mildly irritating just to see your pretty face contort in faux-annoyance. No, you aren't even giving him that exasperated look. It's like he's talking to a brick wall. He's pretty sure clay would be more receptive than this, actually.

His smile drops.

"Babe?" He tries again, hands clasping together in front of him, clammy with sweat following the silence that greeted him upon entering your dorm. His joke about you disappearing before you could congratulate him for winning his match fell entirely flat, apparently. He looks like a scorned dog; tail between his legs and ears down, though he's not entirely sure what for.

You hardly spare him a glance, more focused on the Macbook on your stomach as you lay on your bed. Art swallows, moving towards your bed tentatively. It takes him a moment of watching you to work up the courage to actually take a seat, gingerly lowering himself to the edge of your single. Normally you jump his bones after such a crushing victory. Or after a shower, but you aren't turned on in the slightest by the scent of his shampoo. In fact, his presence is quite bothersome.

Why?

That's the question that's been bouncing around in his head since watching you clear out of the stands before his customary victory kiss. He had been happy enough to let your absence slide—or, well, too desperate for your praise to truly be upset over it. But now you're just blanking him, so there's clearly something wrong...

"What's the matter?" He coaxes, one big hand wrapping gently around your ankle. His hand is cold against your warm skin, and you barely bite back a shiver.

A long silence follows, and then, "You played so well, Artie!" He flinches at the high-pitched mocking tone of your voice. And then finally, finally, it dawns on him.

You're mad about the girl that congratulated him first. Some freshman sitting front row with her friends, gushing over the way his hair bounced each time he moved. Hell, you'd even heard them make a comment about how erotic his grunts were. Oh, the poor girl had no idea what other sounds he could make...

But that's not the problem. She can look all she wants, as far as you're concerned. It's just that your boyfriend is the biggest idiot in the world and doesn't know how to shut down someone who is clearly flirting with him. He's all smiles and friendly arm pats, as if you weren't about to clamber down the seats and jump onto his arms on the side of the court. Completely oblivious to the way her hand was wrapped around his sweaty bicep in a decidedly not platonic way, batting her lashes up on him as she praised his forehand. As if she has any fucking idea what she's talking about.

Yeah, no. You weren't sticking around to watch it, and now he's getting the silent treatment. Very mature.

There's another silence, his thumb rubbing against the jut of your ankle. You're both frowning, and the quiet feels stifling. You're about to tell him to go away to let you cool off when movement catches your eye: Art ducking his head, lips pressing chastely to the skin next to his hand. You tilt your Macbook an inch to the side to watch the way he leaves a lingering kiss there. His eyes flit up to search yours for protest, but you're already looking back at your screen, the sound of your fingers clicking against the keyboard filling your dorm.

He takes that as consent to continue. More light kisses placed against your ankle, your shin...

"I love you," he whispers against your skin, as if that erases the frustration of seeing him beam down at that pretty little blonde girl with the tight-fitting shirt. How desperate can you be?

"More than anything," he adds. He's aware he's talking to himself at this point, but he's okay with that. His mouth continues its path upwards, circling your knees, working his way up your thighs, easing your skirt up...

He takes his time here. Lavishing your inner thighs with attention, enough to draw a soft little sigh of content from you. You're still typing away at the Macbook balanced on your stomach; you both know what's happening here. It's time for him to earn forgiveness for that little display.

"So pretty, baby. M'sorry," he murmurs against you. Soft little praises whispered as if he wants them absorbed into your skin. Maybe that way you'll actually talk to him. A real conversation, not just mocking some girl. "Gorgeous. Most pretty girl in the world."

You won't admit it, but you're loosening up under his ministrations. Legs parting a little more readily, breath quickening as your panties dampen more with each kiss. "Love every part of you. But your thighs are so pretty," he tells you, tongue laving over the soft bite he'd just placed to the apex of your left thigh.

"I'm sorry."

It's only when his fingers hook under your lacy panties to tug them down that you speak up. "Don't."

You feel him exhale heavily against your thigh, and his hands move to splay flat against your hips. "Gotta earn it," you add. He'd be embarrassed by the way his cock twitches in his fresh boxers at that if it weren't for the fact he was used to this sort of treatment.

And so, without hesitation, his mouth descends on your clothed cunt. Lapping and sucking eagerly at the material, as if trying to draw out any taste of your sweet juices coating the other side of them. The way he's moaning into you is downright pathetic, fingers curling into your sides. Your panties grow slick with a mix of your own arousal and Art's saliva—borderline translucent, but he's too devoted to his task to really notice that.

He can hardly breathe with the way he's pressed into the cotton, trying desperately to prove himself to you. "S'only you, babe. All I want," he whines into the fabric.

You roll your eyes. "Doesn't feel like that when you're chatting up girls after your games, Art."

"Wasn't—" He insists, pausing to refocus on his task. It's only when he needs a breather that he lifts up just enough to speak again. "M'sorry. Wanted to see you, but she stopped me—"

"Should have ignored her."

"But—"

"Are you really in a position to be talking back to me right now?"

He swallows. "No. I'm sorry."

"Good. Put your mouth to better use."

"Then can I—?"

"I said put it to use, Art."

Well, that's not a no, is it? You don't stop him when he reaches for your panties again, tugging them down your legs just enough to be able to dive right in. He buries himself back into your sweet little cunt, and he groans with satisfaction at the way he can taste you without the boundary in place.

His voice is practically a whimper when he speaks against you. "Tastes so good—"

"Art," you warn. He doesn't waste his breath on an apology, just nods mutely and gives your pussy his undivided attention. Tongue licking flat stripes against you, nose nudging against your swollen clit.

It takes a herculean effort not to reward him with those sweet little moans he's used to. He knows he doesn't deserve it right now, though, and the fact you're even letting him do this is a miracle in itself. He's gone days without you so much as letting him kiss you when you're really annoyed at him.

He won't take this for granted.

You're almost annoyed at how good he is at it. He's supposed to be earning your forgiveness, sure, but it's hard to think about anything except the way his cheeks are hollowed out as he sucks eagerly on your clit. Each little sound drawn involuntarily out of you is a victory in itself for him.

You try to last out, you really do, but your climax is inevitable when he's whining pathetically against you and trying his hardest to please you. Despite your insistence on him not speaking, the occasional plea is moaned into you, and the sheer desperation behind it eventually sends you over the edge.

"Please. Please, wanna make you cum, baby, please, I'm sorry—"

Your thighs clench around his head, fingers stilled against your keyboard. Your head tips back into the pillow, and you don't bother stifling your moan of pleasure as you come undone against his face.

"Nghhh— Art, ah, ffffuck—"

You can't even be mad when you can feel him smile faintly against your cunt before he redoubles his efforts to work you through it. Moaning and eagerly lapping up his reward. He doesn't stop until your thighs are trembling and you're reaching down to push his head away.

His head pops up above the screen of your laptop, chin slick with your release and lips spit-swollen. "I'm sorry, did I—" He starts, panting softly. "Did I do good? Did I make you feel better? Baby, I shouldn't have—"

"Art," you interject, finally setting your laptop aside and propping yourself up on your elbows. He expects some sort of approval here, maybe a kiss and a long overdue congratulations for his earlier win. But you fix him with a hard look. "Don't ever do that again."

He nods, a bit too quickly. "I won't. I'll come to you first. Swear."

You study him for a long moment. Earnest expression, pleading blue eyes as his hands brace on your thighs. Finally, you give him a short little nod. "Okay. Come here."

You shift forward a little, arms wrapping around him. He practically collapses into you with relief, chin hooked over your shoulder as his own arms circle you. It's only then that he finally sees your Macbook screen open on a document filled with several lines of:

sjwkdkeswid wejjdewijjddk ewjdskwaowidfjkdskw iwanjskjdfkdf

He decides not to comment on it. You've already just forgiven him, after all, so he smothers his smile into your shoulder and makes a mental note about not talking to anyone but you and his coach right after his games.

Though, in all fairness, he gets to eat you out either way. A win is a win.

—

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism

[miniimaelstrom]

And round two, Spicy Boogaloo, on food safety with a side-helping of correlation does not equal causation.

Reminder (restatement as to a post I made a few days ago):

For now, this states that it's food testing laboratories' ability to "do planned quality control work around lab testing." This means the development of more advanced testing, as well as ensuring the consistency of testing between various laboratories. Not the removal of all testing, should concerns about food safety be actively questioned in a given situation. Again: there are not plans to outright suspend the current food testing as-available, according to this. "The claim that the FDA is suspending routine food safety inspections is false. FDA is actively working to ensure continuity of operations during the reorganization period and remains committed to ensuring critical programs and inspections continue." There is indication that more testing will likely be done on a state and local, as opposed to federal, level.

All that reminded about, now onto correlation.

If you read the secondary article (found here) the e. coli lack-of-reports stems from a case that began in November 2024 which we are only hearing about now because the case was closed. The article raises concerns because, in February the FDA "had closed the investigation without publicly detailing what had happened."

Yes, this is concerning. But the thing is, this happened regardless of laboratory funding. This was a decision made by the FDA in-action, not as a result of needing to shift it's testing priorities. Those are two very separate issues.

These two articles are not directly related. The Reuters article talks about cuts that have to happen as of and as a result of decisions made in or around April 2025, months after the closed-as-of-Feb'25-case-actually-begun-in-Nov'24 incident cited by NBC News.

Are things concerning? Yes. Are they worthy of attention, and being more careful of what we do with our food? Absolutely. Should we be paying attention to the news and what it says about coverups and oversight and losing resources? Of course!

Is it worth stirring up panic because the news did what the news does, and dropped stories relevant to current events without actually being A) about the same thing, or B) even semi-connected events (aside from "being about the FDA")? No.

The more we panic, the less we'll be able to actually know when shit hits the proverbial fan. The more we panic, the less we'll be able to see and understand the current break-down as it is, and thus be less equipped to make the necessary actions (whether it be petitions, writing to officials in office, protesting - what have you) to actually try and make something good come from the tangle that food safety regulation is slowly becoming.

Sign up to notified of recalls, yes. Stay aware of how you can implement food safety measures in your own home, yes. Look into nearby sources which also track food safety in case the one you depend on starts getting shaky, yes. Talk to your representatives, who actually have the power to move things in the government when you can't, absolutely yes.

These are both important articles. Don't use them both against each other in ways that prevent others from thinking they need to read the sources because they see those titles together and assume they're closely-linked issues.

[bernardsbendystraws]

can you write a short blurb abt snow and matt having sleepovers pls! im curious as to why and i really just love them. thank you!

ೃ࿔*:･ Snow .ᐟ Reader x FWB.ᐟ Matt

You can't sleep in your own bed.

⚠︎ mentions of previous SA, cuddling, fluff, short

You haven’t been sleeping, at least not in your own bed. 

It’s unusual. Matt does not appreciate when he’s unable to get his alone time. Having nights to himself used to be a necessity—but you were just…different.

He doesn’t know the gruesome details, he doesn’t need to. He’s aware you were hurt—traumatized, even. The way things ended with your ex was not good. It wasn’t even the cheating and manipulation that made you finally break things off with that poor excuse of a man, it was the way he violated you. 

You got rid of your comforter. Every stuffed animal you owned had been thrown deep into your closet, left to collect dust. A soft mattress no longer brought you peace, it made your heart race with a devastating nausea in the pit of your gut. 

“Do you wanna just spend the night?” he asks, hugging you a bit closer under his arm as you both lay on his bed. You nod slightly. Matt sighs as you lazily trace your fingers over his chest, your frizzy hair tickling against his jaw in a way that makes his heart flourish with a wave of comfort. 

You won’t sleep in your own bed—Matt knows you won’t. You’ll show up with tired, swollen eyes the next day. And he hates seeing that. There’s no part of him that minds having you in his bed. In fact, sometimes he craves your touch more than he’s willing to admit. 

It’s confusing. Your own bed—especially alone—feels like utter torture to toss and turn in all night. But sleeping in Matt’s bed is heaven. 

“Are you sure though?” you ask, gnawing on your bottom lip, “-I’ve stayed over like three nights in a row—”

“Do you need clothes or something? We can make a quick trip to your place if you need stuff,” Matt points, completely oblivious to the point you’re trying to make.

“Matt.” you huff, looking up at him with a firm glance. “I mean, I don’t wanna overstay my welcome.” 

“What?” he asks, his eyes furrow in confusion. “No, no—not at all,” he breathes, letting his hand around your waist massage in light circles as he shakes his head side to side. Clutching you close, he cradles the back of your head while pushing you to lay on his chest. 

“You’re gonna get sick of me,” you laugh.

“Nah,” he sighs, pressing a light kiss to the crown of your head, “-just get some sleep, alright?” 

A/N: In no way am I trying to “romanize” anything. I write about real world issues that countless amount of people unfortunately have to endure. I place warnings to prohibit triggering anyone and also try to write everything tastefully. If this is not okay with you, that’s fine but do not send hate about it. You know nothing about me or what I’ve gone through in life.

With love and big tits, Rose 🌹

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello! The way you write so eloquently always astonishes me, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of your work. Would you be able to write some hero/villain whumpee/whumper for us? I haven’t seen any of that in a while and I LOVE it! Thanks for all the amazing writing you do, I want to mix it all up in a stew and eat it. <33

"You know, this would be easier for you if you just -" The villain aimed a sharp kick at the hero's ribs - "stayed down."

The hero doubled over to the floor again, wheezing. Dull and not so dull pain throbbed through their body. "Nah," they managed. "You enjoy it too much. Couldn't deprive you."

Before they could claw their way up onto hands and knees, yet again, the villain placed a boot on the side of their head. They didn't put any pressure. But it was there. Ready.

The hero froze.

A moment passed, two, broken only by the sound of the hero's ragged breathing.

"Look at you," the villain said softly. "You're halfway to broken in all but spirit. Isn't that enough?"

"Gonna have to break me the rest of the way if you want to get through me."

"No, darling," the villain said. "To do that I merely have to apply a little pressure."

The hero swallowed.

They felt the villain's weight shift, not hard enough to crack their skull open like an overripe melon, but certainly enough to grind their cheek into the concrete. To make them infinitely aware of the way a melon or a brain might look dribbling pulp.

Their bruised, bloodied fingers flexed on the floor. The villain hazed in their vision.

"To do that," the villain said, "all I need to do is shatter your kneecaps the rest of the way so you can't get up. However hard you try. Crack your spine, perhaps."

The hero shuddered. They wished the fear wouldn't come, but it did, like bile. Anxiety lodged in their chest.

"I could then leave you to the mercy of whoever finds you," the villain continued. "You see your will, indomitable though it may be, cares very little for the limitations of your meat sack. Is that the path we need to go down to make you understand that?"

"Screw you."

The villain laughed, without mirth. "Is that fear or recklessness talking?"

"If you can do all that, why don't you?"

"Maybe I'm enjoying myself too much."

"So what you're saying is..." The hero made a sudden grab for the villain's leg, and yanked, rolling to dislodge their positions. "I could do anything and you wouldn't finish it."

The villain landed hard on their knees. The second after that, they'd snapped both of the hero's wrists.

The hero gasped with pain. Black spots danced behind their eyelids.

The villain grabbed a fistful of the hero's hair, dragging their swaying body up in mirror before they could hit the ground.

"Or maybe my ability and willingness to hurt you does not extend to my fucking pleasure." In an instant, the villain's voice was a growl. "Stay the hell down. What is wrong with you?"

"You're the one keeping me up." The hero's voice slurred. They realised they probably shouldn't say that. Shouldn't admit to that. It was getting a little difficult to focus.

The villain's grip on their hair tightened, pulling their head back further as the villain rose to their feet once more. The hero was left contorted, peering wobbly up at them. The villain's other hand cupped their cheek. The anger faded, leaving behind only implacable waters. A leviathan submerged.

"Not looking to make it easier on me," the hero said. "Looking to make it harder for you. Sorry. Wouldn't be doing any of this for easy. May as well commit, you know?"

They weren't sure if they meant the words as conciliatory or goading, but the villain snorted. They patted the hero's cheek.

"Well, now I could accuse you of enjoying it too much," the villain said.

The hero laughed. Or maybe they just sobbed. Choking on it. On the pain on it.

It would be nice to stay down. To not get up again. To rest. To just...stop.

"You'll pass out eventually," the villain replied. Half kindness. Half cruelty. "And I'll move on. I put in contingency time for dealing with you, you're not saving anything."

"But I'm trying."

"But you're trying."

The villain pressed a kiss to the hero's head then let them unceremoniously drop the floor. They stepped back as the hero wheezed all over again, coughing up a glob of blood.

The villain rolled out their shoulders. They checked their watch. They waited.

The hero forced themselves up again.

[reidmotif]

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

[ariaste]

Unfortunately, you can be taken in by propaganda at any age and regardless of how much you've been taught. The way that cult influencers like Andrew Tate work is that they hook into a key feeling of 1) loneliness/isolation, 2) unfairness, or 3) both. Ten year old boys are very aware that the world is unfair, and frankly they're not wrong!They have to listen to and obey adults, they have to do homework and chores, they have to live on other people's schedules, etc. Additionally, although all of those families who are showing preference for a son over a daughter do defend their son to "threats" (such as "gasp the teacher gave him a bad grade") that are external to the family system, within the family system they are also putting a huge amount of pressure on him to perform to expectations (and confusing mixed signals about how great he is at the same time). A 10 year old boy does not get space to figure out his own identity -- he is already being suffocated by toxic masculinity and the patriarchy. So he knows the world is unfair, but he can't quite put his finger on WHY.

Andrew Tate swoops in and says, "Here's why it's unfair!" And the natural emotional response is to go, "Oh!!!" He gives them an answer (the wrong answer, yes, but an answer) to a nebulous question most people of any age are not able to even begun to articulate for themselves. That's Cult Bullshit 101.

If you teach a child that they're not entitled to anything, then that unfortunately only sets them up to feel even more like the world is unfair. And frankly, there is a lot that they ARE entitled to -- privacy, bodily autonomy, and freedom to explore their own identity, for example. But even if you do teach them all that, that doesn't make them immune to propaganda. I know families who did everything right, who thought they were raising a great, kind, caring, compassionate kid, and the kid still got hooked into a cult influencer's orbit. Because feeling vaguely like the world is unfair is kind of part of being a preteen/teenager.

And honestly, feeling vaguely like the world is unfair continues into adulthood! This is just what happens when you are a social species with a big complicated brain! You assess, "Does that other monkey have more bananas than I do? That's not fair." Sometimes the feeling is right (systemic inequality), sometimes it's irrational (coworker brought a candy bar with their lunch and you do not have a candy bar in your lunch oh NO), and sometimes it's flat-out wrong (cult indoctrination).

The good news is that children's brains are VERY flexible, and at that age they're trying on a million different identities and just sort of Spouting Bullshit without actually having those beliefs firmly set in stone yet. The fact that they are discovering that stuff is concerning, but if the adults in their lives can catch it and identify it and do the hard work to guide these kids back out of it, you could potentially end up with a generation of young men who are better equipped to resist misogynistic propaganda because they've been inoculated against it.

With some kids, you can tell them, "Hey, the stove is hot" and they won't touch the hot stove. With other kids, you tell them that, and they touch it anyway, and unfortunately get to learn from the burn rather than from the warning. You can't prevent 100% of singed fingers, but you can catch them before they get badly hurt and patch them up. And then frequently they're the ones most vigilant against other people touching the stove.

I’m fucking livid

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR IV

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.5k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: Y'all do you know how hard it was to flirt using science and the topic of joker toxin?! I think I rewrote this chapter over ten times. I hope the subtext makes sense because I think my brain melted during this process. Also I'm still fairly new to posting on tumblr so I hope I'm doing the taglist correctly :) warnings: sexual innuendos, Jason being a low key stalker

BAT CAVE

Jason stepped deeper into the cave, the heavy echo of his boots bouncing off the stone walls. The cavern smelled faintly of earth, cleaning supplies, and the ever-present sting of coffee left too long to cool—unsurprising, given the miniature landfill of empty cups piled near Tim’s workstation.

“Jesus, Tim,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage. “Have you gotten any sleep?”

Tim didn’t look up. His voice was flat, gravel-edged with exhaustion. “I’ll sleep when I find our ghost.”

Jason arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure you said that yesterday.”

“And the day before that,” Tim murmured, squinting at lines of code bleeding across the massive screen. “I’m aware.”

Jason crossed his arms, stepping closer, gaze flicking over the data. “Any updates?”

Tim let out a hard sigh, slumping back in his chair. He dragged both hands down his face as if trying to wipe away the frustration before answering. “Just dead ends. No facial matches. No fingerprints. No aliases that last longer than a day. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Really good.”

“Something doesn’t add up,” Jason said quietly. “No usual runner is this off the grid.”

“Exactly. And get this—Gordon pulled a small vial off Mancini and handed it off to B.” Tim’s brows furrowed. “Mancini was right. It’s a hybrid. Joker’s original strain—but there’s chemical coding in it that matches Scarecrow’s second-gen fear compound. It’s clean work. Scarily precise. Way beyond Joker’s usual brand of chaos. Even Crane’s compounds weren’t this sophisticated.”

Jason frowned, unease tightening in his gut. “So, what are you saying? That the bastard we’re chasing didn’t just steal the formula…”

Tim looked up, expression grim. “He probably helped make it.”

The words landed with a sickening weight.

Jason exhaled, low and sharp. “Shit.”

Tim turned back to the monitor, fingers already flying across the keyboard. “And Joker’s tearing through the underworld trying to find him. That’s why it’s gone quiet—people are either hiding… or dying. Fast.”

Jason exhaled slowly. “Then we need to move. Fast. If Joker gets his hands on the formula—”

“We’ll have a city-wide crisis on our hands,” Tim finished for him.

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Then we need an antidote. Even if it’s just a prototype.”

Tim shook his head. “We don’t have enough of the compound. No base, no ratios, no synthesis pattern. Without the exact formula, we’d be guessing in the dark.”

Jason slammed a fist lightly against the desk. “Then how the hell did a rat like Mancini get his hands on it?”

Tim shrugged. “Best guess? He stole it from Sionis. Would explain why he was looking over his shoulder every five seconds.”

“Idiot,” Jason muttered. His anger began to cool as he glanced over, noticing the dark circles etched beneath Tim’s eyes. The kid looked wired and worn thin. His voice softened. “You need sleep.”

“I can’t,” Tim’s fingers resumed their frantic pace across the keyboard. “What if I miss something? What if that formula shows up and we’re not ready?”

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Tim. You’ll miss something anyway if your brain crashes mid-keystroke. You’ve been staring at code for three days straight. You’re running on caffeine and spite.”

Tim didn’t stop typing. “It’s worked so far.”

Jason reached out pulled Tim away from the bat computer and forcing Tim to turn around and meet his eyes. “You’re not gonna outsmart this thing if you’re fried. You’ll be sharper after a break. Babs is still digging on her end. We’ve got the patrols. Get four hours. Hell, even two.”

Tim slumped in defeat, rubbing at his eyes as the tension finally bled from his shoulders. “Fine. A nap. But if I wake up and Gotham’s on fire—”

“Then it’s a normal day in this shit hole city,” Jason deadpanned.

A faint smile tugged at Tim’s lips, and he stood with a stretch that earned several cracks from his spine.

“I’ll keep digging until you’re up.” Jason promised, clapping a hand to Tim’s shoulder. “Go.”

Tim didn’t argue. He staggered toward the elevator, muttering about caffeine withdrawal and setting six alarms.

Jason waited until the lift closed behind him before turning back to the monitor. He should’ve jumped straight into the search—he’d been the loudest about stopping Joker’s next move— instead, his mind drifted. Not to Gotham. Not to toxins or their ghost. But to you.

It had been days since the bookstore, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“God, I can’t believe I’m actually becoming a stalker,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Seeing you at the bookstore had been pure coincidence. But now? he could feel his curiosity getting the better of him, he wanted to see you again and with that the thought there, it was too tempting to ignore the resources at his disposal. 

A quick cross-reference of the store’s invoice system, and he’d found the record of your purchase. From there, it wasn’t hard to trace it to a name. A professional profile. A series of academic papers and lecture videos.

Doctor Y/N L/N. Neuroscientist. Lecturer and researcher at Gotham U.

He skimmed your credentials, the corner of his mouth twitching. You were sharp. Accomplished. Brilliant, even. Probably the kind of person who would’ve been Tim’s rival if he ever left the cave long enough to interact with actual humans.

“Damn,” Jason whistled low, scrolling through your faculty page. “You’re not just a pretty face.”

“Who is this?”

Jason nearly leapt out of the chair. “Jesus, Damian!”

Damian raised a brow, unimpressed, before glancing at the glowing monitor, gaze narrowing at the screen. “Who is she?”

Jason shifted awkwardly. “She’s, uh… potential lead. On the toxin thing.” Total lie. No way in hell he was confessing to stalking his own crush to demon spawn.

Damian frowned, clearly unconvinced. He glanced back at the screen. “She doesn’t look like an evil mastermind.”

Jason snorted. “Trust me. She’s smart enough to become one if she wanted.”

He clicked out of the window, not willing to risk further questions, and turned to face the youngest Wayne fully. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I finished this week’s syllabus yesterday,” Damian said with a dismissive wave. “To make me attend that pit of idiocy is a waste of my time.”

Jason raised a brow. “Pretty sure Bruce expects you to show up regardless.”

“Father expects results, not attendance,” Damian replied coolly.

Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “If I call him right now and tell him his little prodigy’s playing hooky and creeping around the Batcave instead of sitting through trig, how fast do you think he’d be down here?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would love to,” Jason said, smirking as he slowly pulled his comm from his belt. “And I’ll tell Alfred to lock up your katanas until your attendance record’s squeaky clean.”

Damian looked murderous. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re going to be late.”

With a muttered curse in Arabic, Damian spun on his heel and stormed toward the elevator like a tiny, furious emperor exiled from his marble court.

“This is why no one respects you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason just smirked. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

Jason chuckled as the elevator doors closed. The cave was quiet again but this time, he left the file closed. He wasn’t risking another one of his siblings catching him mid-obsession.

But even as the lines of data loaded, he couldn’t stop the image of your smirk from flashing in his mind.

Damn it.

He was so screwed.

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

The weekend had vanished in a blink—gone before you had the chance to properly catch some rest. And now it was Tuesday morning, and you were once again standing in front of your lecture hall with a marker in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—woefully undersized for the hour.

You weren’t even sure how you’d survived Monday. And Tuesday? Tuesday was dragging its feet like a teenager being forced out of bed.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Maybe the mounting stack of papers needed to be graded. Or maybe—just maybe—it had something to do with the fact that Dick hadn’t texted since the weekend.

Aside from one polite message—Had a great time, can’t wait to see you again—there had been radio silence.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was being polite.

Maybe he decided that he wasn’t actually interested.

You bit back a sigh and turned back to the board, scrawling across the surface with just a touch more pressure than necessary. Whatever.  Who needed a man when you had a lecture hall full of sleep deprived students a terminal caffeine addiction, and a job that kept your brain so busy it barely had time to spiral?

Still… you checked your phone. Just once. Just in case.

Nothing.

Figures.

You exhaled through your nose, smoothed down your blouse, and turned back toward your students with the kind of smile worn only by women who had absolutely chosen the strong, independent path at seven in the godforsaken morning.

Because, despite everything—despite the early hours, the endless grading, and the fact that your bloodstream was 80% espresso—you loved this.

You loved teaching.

You loved the subject. The research and chaos. The spark that came when something clicked in a student’s eyes.

Teaching neuroscience was more than a paycheck; it was a passion. You just wished passion came with later start times. And a universally accepted pyjama policy.

You took a long sip of coffee, rolled your shoulders back, and turned toward your students, who were only just starting to blink the sleep from their eyes.

“Alright,” you said, clicking the projector to life. “Let’s talk about chemical warfare. And clowns.”

That earned a few raised brows of interest and handful of tired chuckles.

“True to my word,” you went on, as the screen behind you flickered to life, “we’re diving into Joker venom today. Specifically, the various known strains, their molecular architecture, and the neurological impacts they cause upon exposure.”

The first image flickered onscreen: a chart showing the original base compound. Beside it was a grainy field photo of a bright green liquid. The photo looked like it had been pulled from the bottom of a GCPD evidence locker.

“This,” you said, pointing with your marker, “was the earliest recorded version—crude, volatile, and grotesquely effective. Victims experienced intense euphoria, followed by uncontrollable laughter, vivid hallucinations, progressive paralysis, and ultimately… cardiac arrest.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle in.

“But here’s where it gets interesting,” you said, clicking to the next slide. “The formula has evolved. It’s gotten cleaner. More efficient. Some of the newer strains show a disturbing level of sophistication. Less residue. More targeted dopamine flooding. In a few cases—nearly undetectable until it’s too late.”

A hand went up from the front row.

“Is there any known antidote?” the student asked.

You hesitated—just for a beat. “There are a few neutralizing agents that can be effective if administered immediately,” you said. “But a true, universal antidote? Not yet. Especially not for the more recent iterations. Most of our current strategies are reactive, not preventative.”

You paused.

“In short?” Your lips quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t get exposed.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

And then—

A new voice spoke up.

“Is it the toxin that kills them… or the effects it triggers first?”

You froze for half a second—not enough for anyone else to notice.

Your eyes scanned the lecture hall—and there he was. In the back row, half-slouched like the seat belonged to him. Leather jacket. Boots kicked up against the chair in front. Arms folded, expression far too smug for someone who had no damn business being here.

The last thing you’d expected was to see him here.

“Interesting point,” you replied, crisp and professional, like he was another one of your students. You refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “The toxin is the cause, yes—but it’s the chain reaction that actually kills. The laughter, the convulsions, the paralysis… the body shuts down before most people even realize what’s happening.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “So the damage isn’t in the delivery. It’s in what it sets off.”

You clicked to the next slide. “Exactly. The moment it hits, your body stops being yours. It rewires everything—how you feel, how you think. You can’t reason your way out of it.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that and just wanted to hear you say it. “Some people get hit harder than others, though, right?”

You arched a brow. “Depends on the target.”

“Some look fine. At first,” he said. “They act normal. But the toxin’s already working underneath.”

The look he gave you made the implication clear.

You smiled tightly. “Some strains are less effective than they look. Easy to handle if caught early.”

“Wait—” a girl near the middle row piped up, frowning. “I thought there was no cure for Joker venom?”

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flush creeping along your neck. “For the newer variants, yes. They’re more chemically advanced and difficult to reverse. But with some of the older versions—If the symptoms are identified early enough—intervention is possible.”

Jason leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his hand, grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But what if someone lets it run its course anyway?”

You didn’t look at him.

You just smiled for the class. “Then some people are clearly very stupid.”

A few students laughed in confusion, but no one actually picked up on the double meaning of the conversation. You turned back toward the board.

“Now then,” you said briskly, “back to the chemistry before anyone else gets the idea this is interactive.”

You didn’t even make it halfway through the next slide before his voice cut in again—calm, amused, and very much on purpose.

“So how much exposure does it take before the effects become permanent?”

You inhaled through your nose and closed your eyes for half a beat.

Some of the students nodded—taking the bait. A girl in the second row had already scribbled the question into her notes.

But you knew exactly what he was doing.

You turned, voice level, gaze sharper. “Depends on the dosage. And the subject. Repeated exposure can cause cumulative neurological damage, but again—some people are more susceptible than others.”

Jason stood. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked down the aisle like he had all the time in the world. Like none of this was strange or inappropriate.

“Say someone’s exposed to a small dose,” he went on, “but it happens a few times. Do they build immunity? Or will the damage be done?”

He stopped just short of the first row—just shy of your space. Close enough that your skin prickled with heat. You were painfully aware of the eyes of your students on you now.

Your jaw clenched.

“Well,” you said, eyes narrowed, “whoever’s insane enough to try that should probably check themselves into Arkham.”

He stepped closer, just slightly. Just enough that only you could hear him when he murmured, low and maddening:

“Why do that… when there’s a cure standing right here?”

“Funny,” you said, lips curling into something that might’ve passed for a smile if not for the fire in your eyes. “Because the only thing I see right now is a recurring symptom.”

Behind him, someone cleared their throat—a student, probably wondering whether they were still attending a lecture or some avant-garde performance piece. 

You exhaled sharply and stepped toward him, your expression still pleasant for the room, but your voice dropped to a hiss meant for his ears alone.

“What the hell are you doing? This is a lecture. You’re not cute.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Didn’t say I was. Just here to learn about toxins… and their reactions.” 

You gritted your teeth. “You’re disrupting my job.”

“I’ll stop if you go out with me.”

“Not a damn chance.” You scoff.

Then, as if this was his stage now, he turned slightly toward the class, raising his voice with faux curiosity. “Actually, that reminds me. Has anyone considered how different outcomes might vary depending on emotional state during exposure? Say, for example, if someone was already—”

“I swear to God—”

“Look,” he said, still in that maddeningly calm tone as he turned back to her, “one hour. That’s all I’m asking. If it sucks, you can forget I exist.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I still say no?”

Jason shrugged, entirely too relaxed. “I’ll keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Might even bring snacks next time. We’ll see how interactive this gets.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

God, he was smug.

God, he was gorgeous.

God, you hated this.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “One hour,” you said through gritted teeth. “And if you speak once during the rest of this lecture, I will report you for harassment and ban you from this campus.”

His grin was shameless. “Understood, Professor.”

He backed up, hands raised, retreating like the smug menace he was—but this time with a victory in his step.

He turned and walked back up the aisle, dropping back into his seat like this was the plan all along.

You turned back to the board, face burning, students utterly unaware that their professor had just been emotionallystrong-armed into a date by a six-foot leather-wrapped problem with a smirk. 

Jason, to his credit, didn’t speak again. Not once.

But he didn’t need to.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Surprisingly, Jason actually found himself listening as you spoke. He learned what actually happened inside someone exposed to Joker venom—what went wrong in their brain. He’d never thought to ask before. That was always Bruce’s domain, or Tim’s. The analysis. The endless case files with chemical structures and psych profiles and margin notes scribbled in too-small handwriting. Jason had always preferred the fighting portion of vigilantism. 

But hearing it from you…

Maybe it was the way your voice shifted—calm but impassioned—or how you didn’t shy away from the brutality of it. You didn’t sensationalize it, either. You explained it like a surgeon would describe an autopsy—clinical, controlled, but with a quiet thread of empathy running through every word.

Jason had seen what Joker venom did to people.

He’d dealt the aftermath.

He’d watched the light go out in someone’s eyes while they laughed themselves into oblivion.

But he’d never truly understood it. Not like this.

The way you spoke about neurotransmitter chaos—how dopamine floods rewired fear into joy, how serotonin short-circuited pain into pleasure, how laughter wasn’t just a reaction, but a seizure disguised as euphoria. The complete collapse of inhibition, followed by motor control, then respiratory function—it was horrifying. And fascinating.

You made him want to know more.

And then, in a moment that startled him, he wondered what you’d make of him.

Of the Lazarus Pit. Of what it did to the brain when it brought someone back from the dead. Of the rage. The episodes. The memory gaps. Of the madness that still affected him.

Would you call it neurological trauma? A chemical imbalance? Would you look at him like a subject—or something broken to fix?

He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, fingers tapping idly against his knee. You were pacing now, marker in hand, drawing a new diagram with quick, practiced ease. Sharp lines, fluid motion. You were alive up there—animated and fierce in your element. And he couldn’t help but watch. Not just your words. But you.

The way your voice sharpened when a student asked a half-formed question. The gleam in your eye when someone got it. The small, unconscious smile when the pieces clicked.

You cared. Genuinely.

About the material. About the kids in this room. About what this information could mean outside of it.

“Alright,” you said finally, capping the marker with a soft snap and stepping back. “That’s it for today. You’re free to go—unless you’re dying to ask more questions about the joys of chemically induced insanity.”

Laughter stirred through the room. Chairs scraped back. A few students filtered out with lingering glances and whispered praise. Others loitered to gather notes or quietly debate the finer points of dopamine regulation.

Jason didn’t move.He waited—calm, steady—watching you sort your materials, stack your folders, and close your laptop shut.

When you finally turned toward him, arms crossing over your chest and one brow raised in challenge, he rose from his seat like a man who had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“Ready, Professor?” he asked, voice low, smug as ever.

You rolled your eyes, gathering your bag. “You’re lucky I’m a woman of my word.”

Jason smirked. “Some might say that’s an admirable quality.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Some might say it’s a flaw.”

THE GOLDEN CUP

Jason—as you’d recently learned his name was—took you to The Golden Cup, one of Gotham’s most aggressively popular coffee chains.

On the walk over, you’d checked your phone—more out of habit than hope—and found, unsurprisingly, that there was still no message from Dick.

And that was when you decided.

You weren’t going to wait up for him. You’d had one date. No promises. No exclusivity. Just a good night that clearly hadn’t meant the same thing to both of you.

So fine.

You were going to give Jason a chance.

No matter how infuriating, arrogant, or absolutely insufferable he was—he was persistent. And maybe, just maybe, that counted for something.

Even if he made you want to strangle him half the time.

Especially then.

You forced a polite smile as he held the door open for you. The place had a sleek, modern interior, all brushed steel and pale wood, the kind of aesthetic that screamed corporate chic. Chalkboards lined the walls, scrawled with endless customizable drink options in cheery handwriting, as if sugar and soy milk could compensate for the fact that the coffee tasted like watered-down burnt beans. 

You bit back a grimace. The air buzzed with the frantic energy of sleep-deprived students and frazzled office workers. 

“The Golden Cup?” you asked, more out of disbelief than curiosity.

Jason shrugged, as if the choice had been perfectly logical. “Figured this was your kind of place.”

You mirrored the gesture, masking your annoyance. After how hard he’d worked to get this hour with you, the last thing you wanted was to admit you actually despised it here. “The girls on my gymnastics team used to love this place,” you offered instead.

That made him pause. “Wait—you did gymnastics?”

You nodded. “Bars. Tumbling. The works.”

“Huh.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming over you like he was trying to reconcile that image with the one in front of him.

Your eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “You just don’t seem like the type.”

You stiffened. “And what type is that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he chuckled, the sound light but strained.

But the damage was done. The words echoed louder than they should have—because you wanted this to go well. You’d told yourself you were being open, trying not to let old scars taint something new. Like Milo kept encouraging. But there it was again—another man slotting you into a tidy box. 

Jake used to do the same thing.

“So how did you mean it?” you asked, voice calm but tight.

Jason looked like he wished he’d said nothing at all. “I just meant… never mind, okay?”

The line moved forward. He stepped up to the counter, clearly flustered, and ordered without turning to you. Two hot coffees. Black.

You stared at the back of his head in disbelief. He didn’t even ask.

When he reached for his wallet, you turned on your heel and walked out.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into the Gotham air, crisp and biting against your cheeks. You exhaled hard, realizing only then how tense your jaw had become.

You didn’t make it far before the door slammed open again. Footsteps pounded after you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jason called.

You kept walking until his hand lightly caught your arm.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, met his eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Confusion flashed across his face. “What? It’s barely been ten minutes.”

“And that’s all I needed.”

He stared at you, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Ever since we met,” you said, keeping your tone level, “you’ve done nothing but make assumptions. You act as if you know me based on a glance and a guess.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “I—what assumptions?”

“The book recommendation, the coffee shop itself. You didn’t even ask what I wanted to drink,” you pointed out. “You just ordered hot coffee.”

“Everyone loves hot coffee!”

“I don’t.”

His mouth opened, then closed.

“And then there was the gymnastics thing.”

He winced. “Okay, maybe that came out wrong—”

“It’s not just that. It’s how you said it. Like I didn’t look the part. What—because I’m a doctor?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, like the idea shocked him. “That’s not what I meant at all!”

“You don’t know me, and you clearly don’t care to.” you said, stepping back. “You saw me in the bookstore and figured I looked easy. The kind of girl you could charm in five minutes with a smirk and some half-assed lines.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could try to spin it.

“I said no,” you reminded him. “So now I’m a challenge. That’s all this is to you—a game you don’t want to lose.”

His expression shifted. Defensive. 

“But let’s get one thing straight,” you continued, voice like ice. “Whatever bad boy charm you think you’ve got going for you? It doesn’t work on me. I’ve seen it before. You’re not new.”

Jason scoffed, tension bleeding into sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a suit and talked about Nietzsche.”

You shook your head, a hollow laugh escaping. “God, this is exactly why I’m walking away.”

“Oh, right,” he said, stepping forward. “Because you’re uptight and judgmental? Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine either.”

You stiffened, heat rising in your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice was sharp now, stripped of its earlier charm. “You walked in here with your mind already made up. You want to lecture me on assumptions? Take a good look in the mirror. You’re no better, Princess.”

The words hit like a slap— For a second, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, breathing hard, your pride wounded, your heart thudding against your ribs with something that felt too much like anger… and something else you didn’t want to name.

You were done. Whatever thread of tolerance you’d held onto had snapped clean through. “You know what? I’m not doing this. Let’s just call it a night.”

“Oh, can we?” he muttered, hands flung out to the side. “Please.”

“Good night,” you snapped, already turning.

“Sayonara.”

“Have fun with yourself.”

“Ciao, sweetheart. Tell the HOA at Pretentious Pointe I said hi.”

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Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02, @tinybrie, @smithieandy, @yuhhh03

[sheriffaxolotl]

Better (Abby Anderson x f!reader)

Warnings: Smut (18+ MDNI), cheating, use of words like cunt/pussy Wordcount: 8.4K A/N: This is my first time writing a smut between two characters. So, might be good, might be bad. Please let me know! Critique would be hugely appreciated !

Summary: She could be a better boyfriend than him.

The bass thumps through the house like a second heartbeat, a dull, relentless pulse that rattles the windows and your skull. You already regret coming. The lights are low and tinted too red, and the air smells like spilled beer and too much cologne. Solo cup in hand, you snake your way toward the kitchen, phone raised like a shield, pretending to text someone—anyone—just to avoid making eye contact with the half-drunk crowd grinding to music that hasn’t been cool since high school.

Your boyfriend is nowhere to be seen. Said he’d just stepped out for a second—over thirty minutes ago. Classic.

You lean back against the edge of the counter, shoulders tense, trying to melt into the cabinetry. You scroll through the same three notifications again, wondering if anyone would even notice if you slipped out the front door. Maybe you’d just Uber home. Maybe—

A hand brushes your wrist. Warm. Intentional. And somehow, electric.

You look up.

Abby Anderson.

She’s standing just a little too close. Leather jacket slung over a tight black tee that hugs her just right, jeans riding low on her hips, and that damn smirk tugging at her mouth like she already knows something you don’t. Her hair’s pulled back loose, a few strands falling forward like she couldn’t be bothered to fix them before walking into the party and still managed to make it look effortless. Movie-scene levels of hot.

You’ve known Abby for a while—same classes, mutual friends, occasional gym hangouts—but she’s never looked at you like this.

Like the whole party’s just noise and you’re the only clear thing in the room.

“I can’t believe we’re finally alone,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough, barely audible over the music.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

She chuckles under her breath, the sound low and rich. “You always show up to these things with him. I almost didn’t bother coming tonight.”

Your eyes flick toward the living room, where bodies move in a blur of shadows and bass. Still no sign of him. Of course.

Abby’s eyes don’t follow yours. They stay fixed on you. Watching. Waiting.

“What are the chances?” she says after a beat, taking half a step closer. “Everyone’s dancing, the house is packed, and yet... he’s not with you.”

You feel it then—deep in your stomach. That fluttering, unsettling spark. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or her voice or just the way she’s looking at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or ruin your life. Maybe both.

You shrug, trying to deflect, suddenly too aware of the heat creeping up your neck. “You know how he is.”

Abby’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Yeah,” she says. “I know exactly how he is.”

Her gaze flicks down to your wrist again, to the spot where her fingers brushed you. She doesn’t touch you this time. Not yet. But her hand hovers, twitching, like she’s debating something.

You swallow hard, suddenly needing air that isn’t thick with perfume and tension. “You’re acting weird,” you say, half-laughing, trying to cut the tension before it chokes you.

“No,” Abby says, head tilting. Her voice drops, goes velvet-smooth. “I’m acting honest.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Honest?”

She steps in, just close enough that her breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faintest trace of mint on her lips.

“I’ve been watching you,” she says, quiet but firm. “Every time you show up with him. Every time he disappears on you. Every time you pretend not to care.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

Her voice softens, almost like she’s afraid you’ll bolt. “I don’t know what he’s doing, walking away from someone like you. But I do know what I’d do if you were mine.”

Your heart skips. Then stumbles. “Abby—”

She cuts you off, not with words, but by gently—finally—sliding her fingers around your wrist again. It’s not forceful. Just there. Steady. Real.

“I could be a better boyfriend than him,” she says. No teasing this time. Just quiet conviction. “I’d show up. I’d stay. I’d make you feel seen.”

You exhale, the sound half a scoff, half an attempt to push down the sudden ache in your chest. “You’re drunk,” you say, but it sounds thin. Weak.

“I’m not,” she says, stepping even closer, crowding into your space, but not unwelcome. “I’m dead sober. And I’ve been thinking about stealing you from him since the moment I saw you tonight.”

Your heart skips.

“I could be such a gentleman,” she adds, her voice like velvet now. “Plus—” she grins— “all my clothes would fit.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Abby shrugs, not letting go of your hand, “but I’m not wrong. You know I’m not.”

You should say something clever, something to shut her down or laugh it off. But instead, you glance down at your phone again—three unread texts from your boyfriend.

Where r u 

Be right back, chill 

Don’t start drama pls

You lock your phone and slide it into your pocket.

“I don’t need to tell you twice,” Abby says, reading your silence like a damn novel. “You know all the ways he falls short.”

She tilts her head, studying you with that steady, unreadable gaze that makes your stomach twist. “If I could give you some advice…” Her voice is soft now, like it’s meant only for you, cut off from the noise and heat around you.

You meet her eyes, hesitant. “Yeah?”

Her mouth quirks into a subtle smirk, but there’s something deeper behind it—something that feels like truth. “I’d leave with me. Tonight.”

Your heart lurches. Your lips part, some weak protest fumbling to the surface, but she cuts you off before it can form.

“Ladies first, baby,” she murmurs, her voice rough velvet. “I insist.”

You freeze—not because you’re unsure, but because everything in you is sure, and that’s the terrifying part. The confidence in her words, the closeness of her body, the way she’s just there, so solid and real—every inch of her feels like something you’ve been aching for without even realizing.

You look at her. Really look.

And all you can think is: Why the hell am I still waiting on someone who never looks at me like this?

Abby watches your face shift. Watches the storm behind your eyes and says nothing. Just steps closer, slow and patient, until there’s barely a breath between you.

“I never would’ve left you alone,” she says quietly, her words deliberate and low. “Not glued to your phone. Not standing in a corner like you’re invisible.”

It hits something deep in your chest.

The sounds of the party start to melt away—like someone’s slowly turning down the volume on everything except her voice, her presence. Abby’s hand finds yours again. Warm. Steady. She squeezes once, gentle. A question.

“Let me take you home,” she says.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, you stare at her lips. And she sees it—sees you falter forward an inch before stopping yourself. The air between you turns thick, charged with something neither of you says out loud.

Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Say it,” she whispers. “Or do it. But don’t run back to someone who keeps forgetting how lucky he is.”

You hesitate, just a breath longer.

Then you step in, heart hammering so loud you’re sure she can hear it. You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of her jacket—but you don’t kiss her. Not yet. You stop there, close enough to feel her breath against your skin.

She doesn’t move either. She waits. Eyes locked to yours. Letting you choose.

And you do.

You slide your hand up, curling your fingers into her lapel like a lifeline, and when you finally pull her in, it’s slow. Careful. Like the seconds are stretched out and folded in on themselves.

Your lips meet—tentative, testing—and the first touch is barely more than a breath, a question neither of you wants to ask too loudly. But then she leans in, and so do you, and suddenly you’re kissing her for real—deep, slow, and undeniable.

It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.

It’s full of everything you haven’t let yourself feel. All the longing, all the frustration, all the what-ifs you’ve swallowed down night after night.

Abby’s hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw with a kind of reverence, like she’s afraid to wake you from a dream. You let out a shaky breath into her mouth, your whole body leaning into her without even meaning to.

And then she’s moving.

Her other arm slips around your waist, anchoring you to her like she’s afraid you might still vanish—and maybe a part of you is afraid too. But her grip is real, grounding, and suddenly there’s no room left for doubt.

Abby reacts instantly, her hand gliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she pulls you deeper into her. The kiss changes, sharpens. From a question to an answer. From want to need.

You feel the heat of her body press flush against yours, her chest against your own, the contact dizzying in its intensity. She tastes like mint and something more—something wild and reckless, like the edge of something dangerous, something you didn’t know you needed until right now.

The kiss turns urgent. Desperate. Like you’re both trying to make up for every second wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

Abby backs you up until your spine meets the edge of the counter, the cold granite biting into your skin, a jarring contrast to the fire catching between your bodies. You moan softly into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her lips, and she groans in response—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your chest and straight down your spine.

Her hands slip lower, slow and deliberate, testing the edges of your waistband before settling on your hips. She pulls you against her with intent, with heat, grinding you into the shape of her body like she’s carving you there.

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter that you’re still in someone’s kitchen at a party you didn’t want to come to. It doesn’t matter who’s in the next room or what excuses are waiting on your phone.

All that matters is her.

“You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” Abby breathes against your lips, voice rough, thick with something primal.

You don’t deny it. You don’t want to.

You don’t answer, can’t answer, because she’s already slipping her hand underneath your shirt, her fingertips grazing the soft skin of your stomach, sending shivers through you. You arch into her touch, your mind clouded, your body responding to her in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Her lips trail down your neck, kissing a path toward your collarbone, and you can’t help but moan softly, threading your fingers into her hair to guide her closer. Abby’s hands are everywhere—on your hips, your waist, your back—and you feel like you might just crumble under her touch, the intensity of it stealing your breath away.

But before you can get too lost in the moment, Abby pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against yours, her breath heavy.

“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice low, almost a growl, like a predator checking if its prey is willing.

You blink, struggling to clear the haze in your mind. The answer is there, pulsing in the back of your throat, but the question feels so out of place, considering how badly you want this.

“I’m done waiting,” you whisper, voice shaky but resolute.

Abby’s lips curve into a wicked grin, and she nods, her eyes dark and focused on you. She leans in to kiss you again, but this time, it’s more deliberate, more controlled. She wants to take her time with you, savoring every second.

As her lips crash against yours once more, you know there’s no turning back now. Whatever boundaries you had left, whatever morals or hesitation, have already melted away in the heat of this moment.

And just as you feel yourself sinking deeper into the world Abby is pulling you into, her hand slides to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up slowly, her fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Upstairs," she murmurs against your lips, voice thick with need. "Right now."

You don’t hesitate. Grabbing your jacket from the back of the counter, you take her hand.

Abby’s hand tightens around yours as she leads you through the sea of bodies, her grip steady and possessive, pulling you away from the kitchen and deeper into the maze of the house. The music pulses louder as you pass through rooms, the air thick with the mingling scents of alcohol, sweat, and cheap cologne, but none of it matters.

Not when she’s so close, her body brushing against yours with every step, every shared glance that makes your stomach flip.

You can feel her warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and you’re so close now, your senses overwhelmed by her presence. As you reach a quieter hallway at the back of the house, Abby doesn’t slow down. She pulls you into a room at the end, one that’s been abandoned by the partygoers, a cozy little study filled with mismatched furniture and the dim glow of a single lamp in the corner.

The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and the moment the latch clicks, Abby doesn’t waste any time. She spins you toward her, her lips capturing yours in a kiss so intense that it leaves you breathless. The quiet of the room is a stark contrast to the chaos outside, and every kiss, every touch between you both feels amplified in the stillness.

Abby’s hands roam freely now, sliding down your sides and over your hips as if she can’t get enough. She pulls you closer, her chest pressing against yours, and you feel the heat of her body in the way she holds you—firm, urgent, like she’s afraid you might slip away.

You respond with equal hunger, your hands finding their way to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. She lets out a soft groan when you tug her closer, and you revel in the sound. The tension between you two is palpable, thick in the air like static before a storm, and you can’t think about anything else but her.

“You’ve got me all to yourself now,” Abby murmurs against your lips, her voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, your own words stuck in your throat. All that’s left is the pull of her, the heat that rises between you both like wildfire.

Without another word, Abby’s hands move to the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward with a slow, deliberate motion that has your heart racing. The cool air brushes against your skin, and you shiver in anticipation, watching her eyes darken with something raw and intense as she takes in every inch of you.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” she mutters, her voice thick with desire, and you can’t help the rush of heat that floods your cheeks at her words. You’ve never heard her sound like this before—this unguarded, this raw. It makes something inside you ache in a way you didn’t expect.

You step forward, closing the distance between you as you slide your hands under the edge of her jacket, lifting it off her shoulders and tossing it aside. The fabric of her shirt is soft under your fingertips, and you feel the heat of her skin as you press against her, feeling the outline of her muscles as your hands move lower, exploring.

Abby’s breath hitches when your hands graze over her waist, her lips finding yours again, hungry and frantic now. The kiss is full of promises you both don’t need to say out loud, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a thread pulling tighter and tighter.

The urgency in the air heightens, and every touch, every movement feels like it’s pushing you both closer to the edge. She guides you toward the couch in the corner of the room, but you don’t quite make it before your hands are on her again, pushing her against the nearest wall.

“Abby,” you gasp, voice breaking with a mix of desire and need.

She smirks, her lips curling into something wicked as she presses herself against you again, this time with more force. “I’ve got you now,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear, “and I’m not letting you go.”

Before you can respond, Abby’s hands slide firmly around your thighs, and with a sudden, dizzying movement, she lifts you. Your legs instinctively wrap around her waist as she carries you with ease, like your weight is nothing—like she’s meant to hold you. Her grip is strong, steady, and the muscles in her arms flex with every step as she strides toward the couch across the room.

You cling to her, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, your fingers tangling in the collar of her shirt. “Abby—”

She cuts you off with a kiss—slow at first, savoring it, like she wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your skin, the sound you make when her lips graze yours just so. But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

By the time she lowers you to the couch, her body follows, pressing you down with a heat that makes your skin burn in the best way. Her mouth stays on yours, hungry now, claiming. Her tongue slips past your lips with a confident tilt of her head, and you moan into her before you even realize you’re doing it.

She swallows the sound like it’s a reward—grinning against your kiss as her hands trail down your sides, fingers mapping the curve of your waist with purpose. She presses her hips into yours, grinding slow and deep, and your back arches off the cushions in response, your breath catching in your throat.

Her hands roam lower, gripping your hips with firm purpose, then sliding up beneath your shirt again, this time with no hesitation. She breaks the kiss just long enough to tug it over your head and toss it somewhere over her shoulder. Her own comes off just as quick—revealing toned muscle and the kind of sculpted softness that makes your breath catch.

You stare for a beat, eyes raking over her, lips parted.

“Eyes up here,” she teases, breathless but grinning, and leans down to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, her hands anchoring your hips like she’s claiming them. “Or don’t. I kind of like the way you look at me.”

You barely manage to bite back a whimper as her teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and your hands find the curve of her back, nails digging in when she grinds her hips down into yours.

“Abs…” you whisper, but there’s no question in your voice—just need.

Her voice is a low growl at your ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

She hums in approval, kissing down the slope of your collarbone. “Then lie back, baby,” she says, one hand already guiding you down again with firm, gentle pressure. “And let me take care of everything.”

And you do—because her weight between your thighs, her hands on your body, her mouth claiming yours over and over—it’s the first time you’ve felt wanted in so long.

And Abby doesn’t just want you.

She knows exactly what to do with you.

The push of her thigh between your legs has a moan coming from your mouth that is nothing but desperate. Clearly enough that it causes that wicked smirk to come back to her lips as she leans over you more, gently grinding the muscle against your core as you mutter a low ‘fuck’ as your brain short circuits from the small action.

Her smirk deepens as she watches the way your breath stutters, how your hips instinctively roll against her thigh. Abby leans in, her lips brushing your temple before trailing a slow, deliberate path back down to your neck. She presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, softer one at the hollow of your throat. “You’re so responsive,” she murmurs, voice low and full of pride. “I barely touch you and you’re already trembling.”

You are, and there’s no point in denying it. Your body feels like it’s caught fire—heat blooming at every point where her skin touches yours.

The steady grind of her thigh is both grounding and electrifying, like a steady beat beneath the chaos. And Abby? She’s completely in control. Patient, confident, like she’s been waiting to have you like this and she’s going to take her time now that you’re here. One of her hands slips under you, sliding along the small of your back, the warmth of her palm sending a fresh ripple of sensation up your spine.

 The other brushes up your side, fingers tracing the curve of your ribcage before splaying out across your chest, over your racing heart. She looks down at you like she’s taking a mental snapshot, something she wants to burn into her memory. “You’re beautiful like this,” she says softly, the heat in her eyes belying the gentleness of her voice.

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, dragging her down for another kiss—messier now, fueled by everything swirling between you. Abby leans into it, one hand slipping down, finding the waistband of your jeans with practiced ease. She works the button open, her touch confident but unrushed, like she wants to savor every second.

The zipper gives with a soft sound, and she eases the denim down your hips, eyes never leaving yours as she does. Her gaze lingers, hungry and reverent all at once, like unwrapping a gift she’s waited too long to hold.

Abby doesn’t pause—doesn’t need to. The way your body reacts, the way your breath catches under her touch, is all the answer she needs. Her mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, less like a kiss and more like a claim. You melt into it, fingers threading through her hair as she presses closer, one hand keeping your bodies flush while the other explores every inch of skin she can reach.

“You drive me crazy,” she growls against your lips, her voice rough and low like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Been thinking about this—about you—way too long.”

You can feel it in the way her fingers grip your side, in how her lips move along your jaw, down your throat, like she’s trying to map every inch of you by memory. Every breath is heavier now, laced with tension that’s been building for far too long. The couch creaks beneath you as she shifts, her knee nudging yours apart just slightly, just enough to steal your breath.

Her mouth trails lower, leaving a trail of heat behind, and her hands never stop moving—firm, sure, and undeniably hers. You arch into her instinctively, your head tipping back with a quiet gasp as your hands tug her closer, needing more.

“Just like that,” Abby murmurs, a crooked grin tugging at her lips as she watches you fall apart beneath her touch. “Look at you.”

Your eyes flutter open just enough to catch the way she’s looking at you—like you’re something rare and burning, something she's wanted for longer than she’d ever admit. That look alone sends another shiver down your spine.

She leans down, lips brushing your ear, breath warm and wild. “I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

And just like that, she’s slipping from your grasp—her hands sliding down, thumbs catching the edge of your underwear as she eases it away. Every movement is unhurried and deliberate. Her mouth doesn’t stop for a second—leaving soft, lingering kisses along your neck, across the curve of your chest, down your stomach. Each one lights a spark under your skin, and by the time she settles between your thighs, you’re already breathless.

Her eyes meet yours—dark, intense, unwavering. “Just like that, baby,” she murmurs, her voice all velvet and fire, “keep your eyes on me.”

The way she’s looking at you… it’s too much and not enough all at once. Like she’s reading every unspoken word etched into your bones, every need you’ve barely admitted to yourself. Her grip tightens on the backs of your thighs, anchoring you, steadying you, and when her breath fans across your weeping cunt, a shiver rocks through you. The sound that escapes your lips is a tangled mess of a gasp and a curse, and her fingers only press deeper, holding you in place.

Then she leans in, and the first press of her mouth to your pussy pulls a ragged cry from your throat. “F–fuck, Abs—” But she doesn’t relent. She doesn't even pause.

Her tongue moves with intention, slow and devastating, tasting every inch of you. Every glide, every flick, every swirl against your clit builds you higher, and there’s no room left in your chest for anything but the sounds she draws from you.

The low sound that rumbles from her throat when she sinks deeper sends another tremor through you. She presses closer, one strong arm sliding beneath you to keep you right where she wants you. You’re gasping now, hips jerking, chasing the rhythm she’s setting—your body flushed with heat, your legs starting to tremble.

And then she hums—just a little—and it sends a jolt through your cunt, right to the base of your spine. Your hands find her hair, fingers twisting tight, a plea caught in your breath as your eyes squeeze shut.

It’s happening so fast—and you feel it building, barreling toward something you can’t stop. And maybe you don’t want to.

Because it’s not just her mouth.

It’s what she sees.

It’s the way she shows up.

It’s the way she touches you like you matter, like your pleasure isn’t an obligation, but something she craves—something she’s been waiting to give you from the second you started settling for less.

Your boyfriend hasn’t looked at you like this in months. Hasn’t listened. Hasn’t asked what you need. And when he does touch you, it’s half-there, distracted, like he’s checking off a box, not trying to feel you. Not like this.

Not like Abby.

Abby, who’s on her knees for you like she worships at the altar of your body. Abby, who doesn’t need to be asked twice. Abby, who touches you like she’s making up for every lonely night, every unanswered message, every time you told yourself, “This is just what relationships are sometimes.”

Her lips seal tighter, tongue circling with a purpose that makes your toes curl. You gasp, broken and breathless. And then she slides a finger into you—slow and full and just right—and your back arches off the couch like a current’s shot through your spine.

“Abby, please,” you manage, voice barely a whisper, frayed and desperate. “I’m so close.”

She doesn’t stop. If anything, she doubles down. She knows your body like she’s memorized it in dreams, and now she’s playing every part like a symphony rising to its crescendo.

Your thighs tighten around her shoulders, your hands gripping her as you fall apart with her name on your lips, everything crashing through you in waves.

“I’m gonna cum—oh fuck, Abby—”

The first crest hits you and then everything else after that is lost in the chaos. You lose track of everything—where you are, what you are, who you are—you only exist as a bundle of nerve endings, every single one firing all at once and your entire world turns white.

Somewhere in the distance you hear Abby moan, a sound so filthy it might have pushed you over the edge all over again if your body wasn't already wrung out, your chest heaving, your lungs burning.

Your legs fall open, sliding off her shoulders, limp.

Abby wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and then crawls up next to you, wrapping you in her arms, a kiss pressed to your forehead. Your head falls back against the arm of the couch, your hands slipping from her hair as you try to remember how to breathe.

"Fuck," you sigh, your eyes still closed.

Her hand settles on your knee, thumb brushing along the line of your thigh. "I think that's the most I've heard you swear," she murmurs, the sound of her voice and the warmth of her palm against your skin making it impossible not to open your eyes.

"That's because it's the best I've ever had," you reply, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Abby doesn't even bother trying to hide her grin, preening at the sentence. But she also doesn't just let the energy between you settle. "Told you, I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else." She said, before one hand was wondering up your chest and the other one was lowering down your thigh again.

You can't help but shudder, the promise in her voice alone enough to get you riled up all over again. "You're really not wasting any time," you laugh, but when her fingertips slip between your folds again, you're the one who shudders.

"Not when I've been thinking about this for far too long," she replies, her fingers sliding deep, and you have no choice but to give yourself over to her.

Abby doesn't hold anything back. And you're more than willing to meet her head-on.

By the time she eases back, the room is thick with the sounds of you falling apart, the air hot and heavy. There's a faint sheen of sweat across her shoulders, and her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," the words fall from your lips without thought, and her answering grin is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

She leans in, and when her mouth covers yours, the taste of you lingering on her tongue, a shiver runs down your spine. "Not as gorgeous as you are," she whispers, before her mouth is moving down your neck, fingers tugging the cup of your bra down before latching around your left nipple.

"Oh fuck!" You hiss, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh, the sharp pain melting into pleasure.

She takes her time, alternating between rough bites and soothing licks, her hand sliding up and down your side, her thumb grazing the swell of your breast. Then her mouth is gone, her hand is also gone from you, wrapping around the back of your thigh, spreading you open.

"Look at you, so ready for me," Abby murmurs, her eyes drinking you in. "Really should have taken you out of here, bet you would look even better takin' my strap."

The mere thought of it is enough to make your thighs tremble, and her responding grin is sinful. "Oh, you like that idea, huh?"

"Yes," the word rushes out of you in a breathless rush, and her hand squeezes your thigh.

"Next time, baby," she promises, and then she's lowering herself back down, and her mouth is everywhere.

The slide of her tongue, the nip of her teeth, the warmth of her breath—it's intoxicating, and it's only a matter of moments before you're falling apart again, a hoarse cry slipping from your lips.

You don't even notice she's stopped until her hands slide down your thighs, soothing you. It takes a moment for you to regain the ability to speak, and by the time you've got your eyes open, she's leaning over you, her hair falling around her shoulders.

"Hey," her voice is gentle, a crooked smile curling her lips. "You with me?"

"Yeah," the word falls from you in a slow exhale, and her smile grows.

"Good," She mumbled, her eyes looking over your features. The sound of the party can be heard faintly through the door, but all you can do is look at her. Practically fully clothed besides that black sports bra clinging to her chest, Abby towers over you like a storm still crackling with lightning. Her jeans ride low on her hips, the muscles in her stomach flexing with each slow, controlled breath, and there’s something in her eyes that makes your pulse spike all over again—hunger, satisfaction, and just a hint of smugness.

Her braid’s messy now, strands of gold clinging to her flushed skin, and her chest glistens faintly with sweat. She’s never looked more raw, more dangerous, more real. Every inch of her is tense with heat and control, like she could devour you all over again if she wanted to—and God, you want her to.

Abby braces herself on either side of your head, arms trembling slightly from restraint. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s memorizing every expression you’ve made—every breathless whimper, every broken plea. She dips her head, brushing her lips along your jaw, the ghost of a smile curving into something darker.

“You’re a fucking dream like this,” she mutters, low and rough, voice rasping like it’s been dragged through fire. “Can’t believe I get to be the one to wreck you like that.”

You shift beneath her, hands gliding up her sides, mapping out the lean definition of her torso. Every breath she takes is steady, but you can feel the tension still thrumming in her body—like she’s barely holding herself together.

Then you move, catching her off-guard. With a quick twist and a shove, Abby lets out a low grunt as you flip her onto her back against the couch cushions, her braid falling across the armrest, her legs bent awkwardly before she relaxes into the plush seat with a laugh—surprised, breathless, and completely at your mercy.

You straddle her thighs, palms pressed to her chest, and lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“It’s my turn now.” You whisper, voice low and rough with want.

Abby’s smirk falters, just barely. Her eyes search yours, pupils blown wide, and she licks her lips, her chest rising faster beneath the cling of her sports bra. One of her hands grips your thigh, tight, anchoring herself as if she’s trying to brace for what’s next.

There’s still heat in her gaze—always—but now it’s tinged with anticipation, curiosity, a rare flicker of surrender.

You roll your hips forward slowly, deliberately, and her breath catches in her throat.

“I want to ruin you back,” you murmur, eyes locked on hers. “Want you to feel what I did. Every second.”

Her hand slides up your back, nails scraping lightly through the sweat-slicked skin. “Then take it,” she growls, low and eager. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She lifts her hips, pushing up to meet you, and you grind down into her with a low groan, pressing your body against hers. You bury your face against her throat, mouthing at the damp skin, and she tilts her head back, exposing her neck for you. You bite down, sucking at the soft spot beneath her ear, and she hisses through her teeth, hips rolling into yours, her breath growing ragged.

Your hands move up, tangling in her hair, and she gasps, fingers digging into your hip as you drag your mouth along the curve of her throat, biting, licking, marking her. Abby arches up into you, panting, and the feel of her chest heaving beneath yours is enough to make your toes curl, heat racing along your spine.

Your hands fall to her chest, and you drag the tip of one finger slowly across the edge of her bra. Abby bites her lip, groaning, her eyes fluttering shut.

You drag your palm over the curve of her breast, and she lets out a muffled curse, her other hand clamping down on your waist. Her nipples pebble under your touch, and she arches her back, straining against the fabric.

You smile against her throat.

Your fingers loop into the elastic of her bra, and without needing words she lifts her arms up as you pull it over her head. You toss her bra aside, barely catching the way Abby’s eyes darken as they rake over your face. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, bare now beneath your touch, her skin warm, flushed.

You lean in, kissing just above her heart, then lower still, your lips tracing the line between strength and softness. Her skin is flushed, damp, and hot beneath your mouth, every shift of your touch dragging another breathless sound from her lips.

Your hands move down, slipping past her ribs to the waistband of her jeans. The denim is stiff, rough against your fingers, but you pop the button with a slow flick, dragging the zipper down until it parts with a soft rasp. Abby lifts her hips without hesitation, wordless and eager, her eyes never leaving yours.

You ease the jeans down, the tight fabric clinging to her thighs, then her calves, and finally off her ankles. You toss them aside, and it’s then, as you settle back between her legs, that you see it.

Her underwear are soaked — a dark stain blooming at the center of the thin cotton, clear in the low light. A slick line gleams along the edge where the fabric meets her skin, proof of her arousal along the curve of her inner thigh.

Your thumb drags along the edge of the fabric, tracing the damp line, smearing the evidence of her desire. She smells like heat and sweat and something sweeter, and your mouth waters as your gaze drags up to meet hers.

“Fuck,” you murmur, rough and low.

Abby’s mouth curls into a smirk, flushed cheeks and bright eyes betraying the heat roiling just beneath. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice rough. “That’s for you.”

You kiss the edge of her hip, then move lower with intent. Her thighs tremble under your touch, fingers twisting in a couch pillow, breath catching as you lean close enough to drag your tongue over the front of her underwear, teasing and unhurried.

When your teeth graze her gently through the soaked fabric, she gasps—sharp and broken—and her hips rise into your mouth with instinctual urgency. You slide your hands up her muscular thighs, thumbs hooking into the elastic at her hips.

She lifts herself again, silent but begging, and you don’t keep her waiting. You pull her underwear down slowly, watching the wet fabric stretch before slipping free. The scent of her hits you — heady, sweet, and utterly intoxicating.

You press another kiss to her bare hip, then glance up. Abby’s eyes are half-lidded, chest heaving, lips parted with anticipation.

She swallows hard. “Come on, baby.”

Your breath fans hot against the inside of her thigh, and she shivers beneath you, the muscles there taut and twitching. You drag your mouth lower, tasting salt and skin and the slick heat she’s drenched in. Your thumbs press gently into the creases of her hips, holding her open, steady, as your tongue finally slips through the soft hair and glides over and dips into her waiting pussy.

Abby chokes on a breath—sharp and desperate—her hips jolting, one hand flying to your shoulder, the other still gripping the pillow in a white-knuckled clutch. You hum against her, slow and deep, the vibration making her gasp again, and you feel the flex of her abs under your hands as her body tries to curl toward your mouth.

“F-fuck,” she stammers, voice cracking, head tipping back into the cushion behind her. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t plan to. You flatten your tongue, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up through her slickness, then in steady, relentless circles, building her up with every flick, every press, every slow drag through the slick heat of her cunt. Abby’s legs tremble around your head, thighs twitching with every pulse of pleasure, and you hold her open, anchored by the grip of your hands at her hips, the flex of muscle under your fingers.

She’s soaked—utterly dripping—and you can feel it coating your mouth, your chin, the skin by her thighs now slick with it as she writhes beneath you. You moan into her, the sound low and full, and she lets out a cry that cuts off sharp as her back bows off the couch.

“God—” she gasps, breath hitched, eyes squeezed shut. “Your mouth—fuck, your mouth feels so good—”

You hum again, lapping at her with rougher strokes now, your pace no longer teasing but hungry. Abby’s hands are in your hair, gripping hard, hips grinding against your face, chasing every movement you make. When you suck her clit between your lips and flick it with your tongue, she lets out a strangled whimper, thighs clamping down for half a second before you press her open again.

You glance up, just to watch her fall apart. Her lips are parted, glistening with spit, her chest heaving, sweat gleaming along her collarbone and between her breasts. She looks wrecked—utterly undone—and you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“Please,” she pants, voice barely a whisper now. “Please don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t.

You slide one hand from her hip, dragging your fingers down the trail of soft hair under her belly button, guiding over the hair between her thighs, circling lower until you find her entrance. She’s soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease, and she jerks with a sharp inhale, her whole body tightening. You curl your fingers just right, tongue and hand working in perfect rhythm, and the sound she makes is almost guttural.

“Jesus—fuck—!” Abby’s voice breaks, breathless and high, her hand slapping against the couch cushions as her other grips your arm like a lifeline. Her thighs are trembling violently now, her hips stuttering, bucking.

She’s so close.

You feel it in the way she clenches around your fingers, the way her moans lose all rhythm, the way her nails dig in as though she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.

And when her whole body locks beneath you, when her moan turns strangled and her back arches off the couch—you want every second of it.

You press your fingers deeper, curling them just right, and suck harder, flicking your tongue in tight, ruthless circles. Abby lets out a sob of a sound, hips jerking up into your face, and you feel the pulse of her around your fingers—a deep, clenching rhythm that starts low in her belly and ripples outward like a wave crashing through her.

She’s coming. Hard.

Her thighs clamp around your head, trembling with every pulse. Her nails rake down your back, not gentle, not careful, but desperate—anchoring herself to something as her body breaks open around the pleasure. She gasps for breath, her voice caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, chest heaving like she can’t quite get enough air.

“F-fuck—oh my God—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

You don’t. You keep going, pushing her through it, over and over, licking her like she’s everything you’ve ever wanted on your tongue. Her legs are shaking now, uncontrollably, her whole body trembling with aftershocks that just won’t quit, her hips twitching with every stroke of your tongue, every curl of your fingers still buried inside her.

And then—finally—she collapses.

Her body goes slack all at once, like the tension’s been wrung out of her completely. She sinks back into the cushions, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths, one hand falling from your shoulder to rest limply on her stomach. Her skin glows, flushed and glistening with sweat, and there’s a dazed, bliss-drunk look in her eyes as she blinks down at you.

You slowly withdraw your fingers, licking them clean as she watches with parted lips, too wrecked to do anything but breathe.

You press soft kisses to her inner thighs, then climb up her body, your mouth tracing the path of her sweat-slick skin until you're hovering just above her. Her arms slide around your shoulders instinctively, pulling you close, and when your lips meet hers, she moans against your mouth.

“Jesus,” she breathes, still trembling, her voice barely a whisper, yet so full of raw honesty. You can feel the slight shudder that runs through her as she pulls you closer, her fingers threading into your hair, as though she never wants to let go.

You settle next to her, propped up on an elbow, and gently cradle her against your chest. She’s warm and pliant in your arms, skin still buzzing with the aftershocks of pleasure, her breathing gradually slowing as the moments stretch out in peaceful silence.

You press a kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there for a moment, then to the tip of her nose, and finally down to her lips, tasting the softness of her, savoring the sweetness of her kiss.

“Are you okay?” you murmur, brushing a strand of damp hair off her face. Your hand rests on her cheek, tender, as if afraid to disrupt the fragile quiet that’s settled between you.

She nods slowly, her eyes still half-closed, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Better than okay,” she whispers, her voice thick with satisfaction. “That was better than any dream I’ve had of you,” she says, eyes glowing with a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction.

The words settle in your chest like a gentle weight, making your heart thump just a little harder than before. You press your lips to her forehead again, feeling the warmth of her skin under yours, the pulse of her heart still racing, but slowing.

“Glad I could make it better than anything you’ve imagined,” you murmur, your voice hushed with the quiet intimacy of the moment. You tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture gentle, almost reverent, as though you don’t want to disturb the peace between you.

Abby lets out a small, contented sigh, curling into you just a little more, her fingers still stroking over your skin in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. “I didn’t know anything could be this... perfect.”

You chuckle softly, your chest vibrating with the sound. “We’ve got time to see if we can top it.” Your words are light, teasing, but there’s something in your voice that promises more — more time, more closeness, more moments like this.

Her lips curl into a soft grin, a small, playful spark returning to her eyes despite the exhaustion hanging on her. “I’ll hold you to that,” she whispers, her hand drifting back to your side, tracing the curve of your ribs, the feeling of her touch so familiar now, like a rhythm you’ve always known.

As the quiet settles between you, Abby’s fingers continue their slow exploration of your skin, the touch soothing, grounding. But then, after a beat, she pulls back just slightly, tilting her head to meet your gaze. There’s a shift in her eyes, something that’s been building in the subtle movements, in the way she watches you like you’re both caught in a secret, shared between the two of you.

She clears her throat, her voice now low but filled with a quiet, vulnerable intensity. “I’ve been thinking…” she starts, her words softer, but heavier, like she’s working her way up to something important.

You lift an eyebrow, your heart picking up a beat at the change in her tone. You sit up slightly, giving her your full attention. “Yeah?” you mumble gently, a part of you already knowing where this is going.

Abby takes a breath, her gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, then back again. “I don’t think you should stay with him,” she says, her words deliberate but filled with raw honesty. “Not when you could be with me.”

Her words hang in the air for a moment, thick and charged with an unspoken promise. You stare at her, the weight of the moment slowly sinking in. She doesn’t say it in an angry or demanding way — there’s no rush, no pressure in her voice. She just sounds... sure. So sure, like she’s been thinking about this for a while, and she wants you to hear her, really hear her.

“Abby…” you start, but she holds up a hand, stopping you before you can say more.

“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice tender but full of longing. “I’m not asking you to drop everything overnight. But I think you deserve better than what you have right now. I think you deserve someone who’s gonna make you feel like you’re the only one in the world. And... I want that to be me.”

You feel your breath catch, her words slowly winding through your chest, tightening with every beat. You can see it in her eyes — the vulnerability, the hope, the desire — and you realize, in this moment, she’s asking for something more than just this night. She’s asking for you, all of you, not as an option, but as someone who could choose her, choose this.

“I think I could be happy with you, Abby,” you finally say, your voice steady but full of emotion. Your heart is pounding, the reality of it all settling in as you look at her, knowing she’s speaking the truth. There’s no denying the chemistry, the pull between you — it’s been there from the start, only now, it’s deeper, more real.

Abby smiles softly, her eyes lighting up with a mix of relief and hope, like she’s been holding her breath, waiting for you to finally say it. “So…” she trails off, her fingers brushing over your cheek, a playful glint in her eyes. “Will you break up with your boyfriend? And be mine, officially?”

The question lingers in the air, sweet and simple, but it feels like the start of something new. The kind of thing you can’t take back — and for the first time, you realize you don’t want to.

You smile back at her, heart full, the weight of the world suddenly feeling lighter. “I think I already am,” you whisper, your hand reaching out to cup her face, drawing her closer.

And as your lips meet again, slow and tender this time, you know without a doubt — this is just the beginning. Notes:

A/N: This is my first time writing a smut between two characters. Critique would be hugely appreciated ! Literally based off the song 'Boyfriend' by Dove Cameron

[revelboo]

If you’re taking requests, can I ask for starscream smut please and thank you! (preferibly IDW but I’ll take anything!)

Sure! 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Scenario-rite

Starscream x Reader

• “You think I’m going to drop you,” he accuses, tone annoyed as his wings flick and you wince. You don’t think he’d drop you. Intentionally. But unlike him, you can’t fly if something goes wrong. And you want to explain that you don’t really like heights. At all. But this is important to him. Asks for so little like he’s afraid of driving you off or being rejected. Reaching out, you grab his servos. Mass displaced, he towers over you and your head tips up as you move closer, fisting the front of your robe.

• “I trust you,” you whisper and some of his tension eases. Knows this isn’t a human thing, that you don’t understand how important this is. That a flight while interfacing is the ultimate show of trust between mated seekers. Entrusting yourself to your mate knowing they won’t let you fall. Hands sliding to your waist, he lifts you and you wrap your arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist.

• Breath catching as he leaps, thrusters igniting and you can only cling to him as he arcs high above the Nemesis. Until your eyes are closing, face pressed against his neck. “Don’t hide from me,” he growls, cheek brushing yours and you reluctantly open your eyes. Heart racing at how high up you are. And he’s shifting you as you hang onto him. Realizing he’s freed his spike when it nudges against your belly.

• Lifting you as you cling to him, limbs faintly trembling, he knows you’re frightened. But you’re trying for him and it means so much. Finding you, the head of his spike slides against you, slowly pressing inside your familiar heat. “Star,” you whimper and he noses against your face, mouth claiming yours as he rolls in the air to put you on top. Gripping your hips and moving lazily against you as you grow slick for him. Need winning out over fear.

• “That’s right. Just you and me. Everything else far beneath us,” he murmurs in your ear. Fear and exhilaration tangle together as he moves inside you. Closing your eyes to focus on the familiar feel of him stretching you, those rasping growls of his and his venting as it shifts and roughens. Things you know. Pretending you’re not far too high up, trusting him to keep you both from falling as you begin to move to meet him. Mouth sliding against his jaw. Because right now, it feels like it’s only the two of you.

• Gasping his name as he begins to move faster against you, spike stroking deep as you finally relax and soften against him. Submitting to him as he brushes his mouth against your temple. Words catching on the tip of his glossa. How much your trust means to him. How much he needs it. Can’t say those vulnerable things. Not yet. Moving urgently against each other as your mouth finds his, he swallows your cry when you tremble against him, milking his spike. Growling, he manages a handful of thrusts then buries himself deep to overload. And falling with you as he fills you. Hears your scream before his wings flare and his thrusters fire to slow his descent. Holding you close as he lazily rolls aware of the death grip you have on him. But you did well for a first flight. Knows you’ll do better the next time.

My passes and flag finally showed up!

[honourablejester]

… In most stories where robot racism is an issue, the robots in question 100% were designed to be able to think. They were designed to be able to think, act and make judgement calls as well as humans, to enable them to perform human labour. What they weren’t meant to do is develop a sense of self-identity about it, on account of how that makes it difficult to treat them as slave labour.

Now, yes, there are stories where individual robots develop self-awareness, and that is considered essentially aberrant programming, but … well. When you consider that if one has the capability, likely all of them do, and when you consider things like the desire for freedom being historically classified as a mental illness by slave owners, an aberrant program, then that also has its echoes.

The point in most robot racism stories is that the robot in question was also always a person. They were just created into a system that hinges on that never being acknowledged as a possibility, or allowed to be acknowledged as a possibility.

Sure, the robot allegory can be a comparison to marginalized communities if written correctly. But marginalized communities exist independent of those who would use and abuse them.

Is … Is your argument here that slavery is only wrong if someone is kidnapped into it? If someone is born, or in this case created, into slavery, well, sucks to be them, but that doesn’t count? The idea of us creating and manufacturing an entire class of people specifically to be slaves is, broadly, not something with historical precedent, but that’s what speculative fiction does. It imagines our impulses and behaviours in settings where technology or magic gives us tools we don’t have in the real world. (And even with that said, eugenics and slave breeding programmes were a historical evil, and technologies like cloning and artificial intelligence are currently creeping up there to make it a very pertinent current ethical dilemma). And, well. The fact that we created our slaves whole cloth in robot fiction, that we designed them specifically for that purpose, doesn’t really lessen the horror.

Robot allegory for the evils of colonialism and chattel slavery are hardly brushing the surface, the metaphor so vague as to be inappropriate.

Inappropriate? I’m not sure if you just don’t approve of speculative fiction in general here, but I’m not sure how it’s inappropriate to use a fictional technology to explore both the underlying root causes and potential end results of a real human tendency towards evil. It’s also hardly a vague metaphor when it usually directly involves the dehumanisation and denial of the personhood of an entire class of people in order to justify their use as slave labour. Given things like the economic underpinnings of the Atlantic slave trade as a historical example, and, you know, more unfortunately current issues like the prison-industrial system, I’d say that’s quite on the nose.

(Also further to this thread in general, while we’re talking about the prison-industrial system, the idea that we shouldn’t have empathy towards, or treat as people, beings that are dangerous is … also a bit on the nose. There’s a difference between safety precautions and using the idea that someone is dangerous to justify doing whatever you want to them).

As to your last paragraph … Comparing a person to a robot only reinforces cruel behaviour towards them if you’re starting from the idea that it’s inherently okay to be cruel to the robot. If you came away from a story where the robot was very clearly a thinking, feeling person, who wanted their personhood acknowledged and to be free of the system that kept them enslaved, with the idea that that is an inhuman creature that deserves to be put down and treated like shit … Honey, that didn’t come from the story, you brought that with you.

Empathy is a thing that requires training. And that is one of the things that fiction is for.

And one of the ways that fiction does that is to create a metaphor that is partially disengaged from the nitty gritty real life details of the thorny issue so that you can start to pull it apart and examine it more in the abstract. Robots, at least the sort of fully sentient robots of fiction, are not (yet) real. But the issues that they face are very real, and come from root causes (greed and the dehumanisation of other people to justify their exploitation) that we need to look at and explore, not only in ways they’ve already manifested, but in all the ways that they could manifest (and maybe, through that, the ways that they actually have manifested already that we haven’t quite noticed before).

the reason "robot racism" is often a really stupid metaphor is the same reason that like. discrimination against demons or vampires or whatever doesn't work, is because there's often a pretty justified reasons humans are scared of vampires or robots or whatever, in a way that doesn't apply to real life minorities, like a fantasy author will be like "the reason vampires are discriminated against is because most of them and kill and eat people for fun and pleasure, and so humans respond by trying to kill them, isn't that so sad" and like no that's a perfectly fine reason to not trust vampires i think.

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: how your future spouse will display their jealousy

Hello and welcome to this reading! Here I will tell you how your future spouse would display their jealousy. I hope you enjoy this reading!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

The extended version of this reading can be found on my patreon, the link of which is here

Pile 1:

Your future spouse sometimes finds it difficult to be able to really tell you how they feel and where their boundaries lie; communication isn’t always their strong suit and when it comes to possibly preventing jealousy this is very much the case. They are embarrassed about the fact they feel possessiveness and jealousy over you; they see it as being insecure in your relationship between one another and being insecure about themselves as an individual. Your future spouse has a hard time accepting their jealousy as fact and will therefore not tell you (on their own accord that is) whether they’d wish you did something different or not. It’s not as if the littlest of things make them jealous, it does take a lot for them to actually get to that point, but if they know they aren’t too comfortable with something you’re doing they wouldn’t tell you, even if simply making you aware would solve it all. Your future spouse definitely shows off their jealousy by becoming more alienated from a conversation if not a complete group, they might not talk to you as much as they usually do and you would very early on notice a change in your future spouse’s behaviour.

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Pile 2:

You and your future spouse are going to meet relatively early in life, think about the age in which you are still partying around, a bit arrogant at times, possibly still in school (college/university), a frat-boy kind of vibe even. Your future spouse whenever they are jealous will be loud about it, and to you maybe even proud (it’s not like they’re hiding their jealousy, everyone is aware of how they are feeling whenever they start). Your future spouse will walk up to the person that causes those feelings, they will put their arm over your shoulder and hold you close, they might even mock the person that is causing them to feel such ways in hopes of making them feel little and themselves feel like a big predator (I am aware to some this comes over as cringe). This is not something that will stay with your future spouse forever, not at all, it purely has to do with the fact you two will meet when you are both relatively young, and for their social settings your future spouse acts completely normal. Surely, a bit immature, but understanding given their circumstances.

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Pile 3:

Your future spouse is a pretty calm and collected person. If they are jealous they will not make it your problem, nor will it be something they are embarrassed about. They realise that jealousy is a feeling that is normal to everyone, something very human, and it’s okay to feel such feelings; however, it doesn’t mean you can react in anyway you wish. Your future spouse will make it known to you if they’re uncomfortable with you doing something, but they will do so afterwards in private as to not embarrass you or make a big deal out of something that shouldn’t be remotely close to it. When jealousy sparks in a group of people or in public in general they will try to not make it known to you, or at least, not so much that you will feel incredibly bad about something; because that is not something they wish to achieve. The most your future spouse will do is tighten their jaw and semi-aggressively chew on something to eat; because they are aware you secretly like to see them jealous every once in a while, so hiding it completely is not needed.

extended reading > paid readings (open again!)

[beasangel]

a very bad time

⤷ joel miller x fem!reader

💭“Is now a bad time to tell you I think I’m pregnant?” “Yes!” he shouted back. “Yes, it is! It’s a very bad time!”

Summary: You noticed the signs back at Bill and Frank’s - missed period, morning nausea. You told yourself you'd wait until you found Tommy, until you were somewhere safe. Until Joel was ready. Then Kansas City happened.

bases on this ask PART 2

a/n i might do a part 2 cuz i'm not sure on the ending

joel masterlist main masterlist

The water was hot. Unbelievably, impossibly hot. You let it run down your back in thick, clean streams, soaking your hair, clouding the mirror behind the shower door. You braced your hands on the tile and exhaled through your nose, letting the heat pull the weight from your shoulders.

God Bill and Frank didn’t know how lucky they had had it.

You hadn’t felt this safe in… years. Maybe never.

You closed your eyes when you heard the door creak open. Then the soft shuffle of boots, the rustle of fabric being peeled away. Joel didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. You moved aside, just a little, enough to make room. When he stepped in behind you, his hands settled gently on your hips, grounding and familiar.

Neither of you spoke.

The shower washed over both of you, and for a moment - just a moment - it felt like you could pretend. That you weren’t in the middle of a collapsed world. That there weren’t scars across your backs and graves behind you. That this wasn’t temporary.

Joel leaned his forehead against the back of your neck and breathed in slow, like he was trying to memorise you. You turned, slowly, and pressed your hand to his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady beneath it.

His eyes were soft in that quiet way they only ever were with you.

You kissed him.

Not desperate. Not hurried. Just… steady. Like two people who had nothing left to run from for one goddamn night.

After, you sat in on of the spare rooms, brushing your hair as Joel made his way down stair to Ellie. You lost your self in the repetitive movements and let your mind wander.

You’d met Joel four years ago, on a run north of Boston. You were twenty-five, not long out of the Fireflies, still too idealistic for your own good. You hadn’t learned yet how to read a room, or a face, or a pair of tired eyes the way you could now.

He’d been gruff, cold. The kind of man you gave a wide berth, the kind who’d been burned too many times to let anyone close. But you were stubborn. You made him laugh once by accident and hadn’t shut up about it for a week.

Eventually, he started partnering with you more. Started trusting you. And once that door cracked open, you saw the man behind the steel, the way he carried too much weight, the way he always knew how to get home in the dark. The way he protected without making promises.

It had been a slow fall. But it was a fall all the same.

The world had taken so much already.

Tess. Frank and Bill, you could still feel the aftershock of it all, the emptiness they’d left behind, the letter Joel hadn’t been able to finish reading aloud. The echo of Frank’s handwriting burned behind your eyes.

Joel hadn’t spoken for a time after that.

You shifted slightly, brushing your fingers over your lower stomach. There was a tension there, not pain, just awareness. The same wave of nausea had rolled through you again earlier, faint and unwelcome. And you couldn’t stop counting days, even if you didn’t want to.

You weren’t sure. Not yet. But the thought had rooted itself in your head and wouldn’t let go.

And maybe, maybe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. After everything. Maybe life finding a way wasn’t always a punishment.

But then you thought of the QZ. Of the kids you saw there, the ones already hardened by ration lines and curfews. Of the smaller ones, silent and too still. You remembered the fear in their eyes, how they flinched at loud noises. You remembered the stories. The trucks.

Your stomach turned.

No. That wasn’t a life. That was survival on a leash.

And Joel… Joel had already lost too much. He still flinched when he saw a girl with Sarah’s hair. Still looked away too quickly. He didn’t talk about her much, but you didn’t need him to, her ghost hovered between every unspoken word. You’d seen it in his eyes, the first time you saw him kill a man, not rage, not even vengeance. Just exhaustion. Loss.

He hadn’t recovered. You weren’t sure he ever could.

And you didn’t want a child, if there even was one, to live in the shadow of someone else’s grief.

…… But does that mean you’d never get the chance to love like that?

You let out a shaky breath and wiped your hand down your face.

Don’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t even sure. It could be nothing.

But the idea… it stayed.

In the morning, the truck waited in the garage, full of supplies, with Ellie already sitting in the backseat. Joel muttered something about seatbelts and kicked the glove box shut with his boot and set off.

You watched the morning light spill across the passing fields and felt the nausea begin to bloom again.

You didn’t say anything.

The hum of the truck filled the silence between you.

Joel had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window ledge, eyes scanning the road like he didn’t trust it not to disappear beneath the tires. Ellie was in the back, flipping through the pages of a book she’d found upstairs. Something about astronauts. You only half listened.

You stared out the windshield at the endless stretch of cracked pavement, trees blurring past in soft, fading green. The world looked gentler in the early morning light. Like it could pretend, too.

Tommy wasn’t far now. Maybe a week at most. Joel seemed sure of it and he was rarely wrong when it came to that sort of thing.

So maybe that was the answer. You’d find Tommy, get back somewhere safe. There’d be someone who could know, someone who could tell you what was happening with certainty, not this vague dread coiled in your chest.

You rubbed a hand over your lower stomach absently, the motion slow and unconscious.

If it’s real, you thought, we’ll figure it out when we get there.

Because it couldn’t be real, not yet. Not in motion. Not while your life was still full of guns and raiders and infected waiting behind the next turn. You couldn’t carry something fragile through all that. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t fair.

But the truth was, some part of you was already preparing for the possibility. The way you avoided certain smells as much as you could. The way you carried yourself without realising it. The way your thoughts looped back, again and again, to the same impossible if.

You looked over at Joel.

He hadn’t spoken in a while, jaw set in that familiar way that said he was thinking too hard, probably about the highway, or Tommy, or the weight of what Bill had written.

His profile was etched in sunlight, and for a moment, you thought of what he would say, if he’d look at you like he had back in the QZ when you brought up kids once, half-joking. A flicker of pain in his eyes. Almost anger.

You hadn’t asked again.

You shifted in your seat and forced yourself to look ahead. The road stretched on like it had no end.

Just a few more days. That’s what you told yourself. Then you could stop running. Then you could breathe. Then, maybe, you could be honest.

But not yet.

Not while you were still surviving.

The first gunshot cracked through Kansas city like a lightning strike.

Your body moved on instinct, slamming into the ground behind a rusted-out car as bits of gravel and glass pinged in the air around you. Ellie dropped beside you, panting hard, her fingers digging into your arm.

“Sniper!” Joel growled, already assessing, eyes sharp as glass. “Up in the house. White two-story.”

You could barely hear him over the hammering in your ears. Joel’s face was tight, focused, the same look he wore when something bad was coming. You knew that expression too well.

“I’m gonna flank him,” Joel said, crouching low. “Stay down. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

Before you could argue, he was gone, slipping out into the shadows, his rifle close to his chest.

Your fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the car door, knees pressed into the rough pavement. Not from fear exactly, (well not just fear) but something heavier. Something you hadn’t said yet. Something you hadn’t let yourself say.

You weren’t panicking. You weren’t thinking this was it. But you were scared of what would happen if one of you got hit. If things got worse. If that little suspicion you’d been pushing down for days became something you’d never get to explain.

Joel had always been steady, solid, even when the world was crumbling around him. And you had always followed, always trusted he’d get you both out of it. But this, this thing inside you, this tiny maybe that had taken root during long nights and longer supply runs, he didn’t know. And that suddenly felt unbearable.

You peeked over the hood. Joel was a dark silhouette now, crouched behind a wrecked pickup across the street, rifle aimed high.

You didn’t want to die not saying it. You didn’t want to die pretending.

So you lifted your head just enough to shout across the street.

“Joel!”

Another shot snapped past your shoulder, and Ellie hissed, “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Joel!” you called again, louder. You saw him, just barely, ducking behind a low wall across the road. He turned at the sound of your voice, his face silhouetted by moonlight, alarmed and worried in equal measure.

You hesitated for a second, then blurted out:

“Is now a bad time to tell you I think I’m pregnant?”

Silence.

Even the gunfire seemed to pause.

Joel just stared at you, blinking, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

Then his face contorted. “Yes!” he shouted back. “Yes, it is! It’s a very bad time!”

Another shot exploded into the ground between you, and you ducked back behind the car, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered to yourself, chest tight. “What the fuck was that, what did I just do-”

“Are you serious right now?!” Ellie hissed, eyes wide.

“I don’t know!” you snapped, voice breaking.

Ellie looked stunned for a moment, then,  “...Shit.”

There was no time to unpack it. A clicker sprinted head first into the car. You grabbed Ellie's arm and ran, lungs burning, weaving between wreckage and gunfire as Joel’s shots cracked beside you from his perch.

You could barely hear over the noise the shrill cries of the infected and your own blood pounding in your ears.

A child clicker lunged at you, its shrill screech piercing. Before it could reach you, a bullet tore through its skull, sending it sprawling. You turned to see Joel, rifle raised, eyes scanning for threats.

The chaos subsided as the last of the infected fell. Joel rounded the rubble, weaving through the carnage until he reached you. Sweat matted his hair, but his eyes searched yours with unspoken questions.

He reaches you, dropping the riffle to hang around his back, his arms instantly reaching out, holding you as he scans for injuries.

“I’m okay too if you’re wondering.” Ellie calls out, you don’t respond but Joel throws her a harsh glare before continuing his search.

You opened your mouth, attempting to explain, to apologise, but words failed. Instead, Joel pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms encircling you, grounding you amidst the turmoil. You clung to him, the world fading away, leaving only the shared heartbeat between you.

[dirtylilspawn]

ᴍᴀɴʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇᴅ

Summary: You prank the lads boys by aggressively manhandling them.

Fandom: Love & Deepspace

Parings: [Zayne x Fem!Reader, Xavier x Fem!Reader, Caleb x Fem!Reader, Sylus x Fem!Reader, Rafayel x Fem!Reader]

A/N: Works been killin my butt. But anyways I saw many prank tiktok videos about women aggressively handling their own partner. Whether it be kissing them, love bites, or putting them on top of the kitchen counter. Figured it make a funny small prompt of how it would go lol.

Warnings: Fluff & humor, suggestive stuff, cursing

════════════════════════════

ZAYNE

You've been feeling pretty clingy today.

You didn't know what it was that made you feel this way. Maybe just seeing Zayne, waking up in his bed, staying over at his place, not bothered by work, both of you doing very domestic stuff, made you feel really touchy feely. And Zayne was much aware of this notion from the very start of the day. Not that he every denied your loving affection, no not ever.

He accepted every hug or kiss, and returned it with much love. Oh, how it only fuels the fire of your clingy nature even more.

Here you are, coming out from the kitchen, to lean against the wall, with a glass of sweet tea in hand. You tilt the glass towards your mouth as your eyes were trained on one thing in particular.

There Zayne sat on the large couch, in the living room, with a book in hand. His eyes soft but narrowed in focus as he reads the pages, he's currently on. His back leaning on the cushions, skillfully flipped each page with his thumb. As his elbow was pressed against the arm of the couch, with a small portion of a sugar cookie the two of you had baked not long ago, in his hands. He immediately finishes it, taking it into his mouth with a small hum. Licking off any specks of crusts lingering on his fingers.

Watching this perfect, handsome, hunk of man as your sipping your tea just sent you up in orbit. It was too much to take in. Does he know how amazing he is, just sitting there? That's what you thought, the audacity of this man to sit and read so cutely, in his causal home attire -white shirt and grey sweatpants-

You had to do something about it.

You walk up to where Zayne was, placing the cool glass on top of the glass ottoman in the middle of the living room. The clink of the glass made Zayne look up at you. His demeanor calm and relaxed, before looking down at his book.

"Any thoughts about what you'd like for din-"

Before he could even finish that sentence, Zayne was attacked.

He found your hands squeezing his cheeks harshly, pulling him closer to your face. You bend down to kiss him on the lips. His eyes widening in shock and confusion.

But you continue you assault on him.

You kiss him very passionately and aggressively. Hands running along his jet-black locks like a crazy loon, messy up his hair. All while you muttered along his lips, words of affirmation.

"God dang it Zayne! You -kiss- are so -kiss- perfect -kiss- uugh!!"

You start to kiss all over his face. To his cheeks, forehead, nose, eyes, and anywhere else you could get your lips on. His book on the floor, as he had already dropped it do to your aggressive love session. His eyes still wide with so much confusion.

It didn't even stop there, as you suddenly push this man, laying his back onto the couch. Pinning him by his shoulders just to keep him still. Your kisses never stopping, as you go lower to his neck, giving him rough kisses down to his collarbone.

Finally, you pull away.

You had found yourself straddling the pour man, your arms still pinning down his upper body.

You look to see his full face that was very much a very funny and cute site. His ears were burning red, hair a mess as he stared at you with such unreadable green eyes. His mouth was slightly agape as if he was trying to figure out what to say to you in that moment. But he closes it, his lips in a tight line, eyes closed, inhaling a long breath to re-catch his own thoughts.

His head leans to the side as he opens his eyes, not looking you in your own eyes. Zayne's heart was pounding in his chest right now.

"You...-sigh-"

You couldn't help but laugh at this site of him. It was too funny to behold, seeing Zayne completely embarrassed and yet flustered at the same time.

"Caught you off guard huh?"

You quip with a prideful smirk on your lips. Zayne brings his eyes to look up at you. You could see he was trying to act all serious, and calm, but it was obviously faltering. As you could see the corners of his mouth flick up in a small grin. His emotions getting the better of him, as he lets out a laugh. A mix between disbelief and fondness.

"Well, I didn't expect to be attacked in my own home by my partner."

He states this, and you laugh even more. An endless supply of giggles and laughter that you couldn't stop. One that Zayne couldn't help but join in, loving the sound of your laughter.

You let go of his shoulders, before leaning down to give a soft kiss to your boyfriend. A sweet smile stretching across your mouth.

"Well, you're just going to have to get use to it. Because there's definitely more to come in the future."

He rolls his eyes at you.

"I fear for my safety."

He says this sarcastically of course, but deep down he's already preparing for the next attack. Just in case, so next time you do this stunt again, he'll be able to calm his heart. Because that shit made him feel like he was having a straight-up heart attack.

════════════════════════════

XAVIER

You were laying on your bed.

Stomach first, as your feet were up in the air. Your hands clutch onto your phone, watching silly videos. Xavier was up in your bathroom taking a shower from a hard day of working. You had already taken a shower first, reasons being that Xavier told you to go in first, and second was because he was already on the verge of sleep. You were about to say to take a shower together, but the man was already nodding off as he sat on your bed. So, you decided to allow him to take a quick nap while you take your shower.

It has been a long day for the both of you, as you had both just got done with work. A bunch of wanderers to take down here and there, nothing too serious of a threat to get badly hurt, but enough to feel exhausted. And it definitely showed with the both of you, glad that it was the end of the day.

Xavier wanted to come over your apartment, because he finds it more comfortable, and wanted to sleep with you tonight. Plus, you figured he was too lazy to go up to his own apartment complex that was just a floor above yours. You never complain, as you would also come over to his complex and sleep there sometimes.

As you were kicking your feet, over the audio on your phone, you could hear the shower suddenly turn off. Indicating that Xavier was all done with his shower. He soon later came out, opening the door the connected to the bedroom. He lets out a silent yawn; while wiping his hair with a small white towel, a large towel was wrapped around his waist. His body shinning in the dim light from the room lights, due to the excess water cascading down his chest and stomach. You can see his full tempting v-line below his abdomen making your face heat up from the delicious site alone. He looked so appetizing yet cute at the same time.

You turned off your phone, placing the device on the bed-side counter. You sat up before getting off the bed, making strong strides towards your gorgeous boyfriend. His eyes open a bit seeing you coming forth, watch as you wrapped your arms around his torso head leaning on his slight wet chest. You didn't mind though, as you snuggled with him, smelling his freshly showered body. The scent of sweet vanilla filling your nose; he used your body wash.

"Hmm...You smell good."

A goofy smile presents itself on your lips. Xavier smiles softly, leaning in your touch as his own arms wrapped around you. His arms holding onto your shoulders rubbing them gently. The small towel he held was draped securely around his neck. His head buried into your hair, nosed pressed against your hair, smelling you as well.

"So do you.."

He whispers this in a low hum, eyes closed as he embraces you. You could feel his heart beat slow and relaxed inside his chest. Xavier's soft snores making you chuckle. The fact that this man can sleep standing up still amazes you.

"Sleepy?"

"Hm."

Xavier hums again, as if to say yes, his arms holding you closer to his body. His body leans into yours, the weight of him not fully on you, as if he was stopping himself from falling on top of you. You let out a sigh rolling your eyes. The cuteness of this man was just too much; it made you giggle a bit.

Without a thought or hesitation, your hands go lower till you reached the back of his thighs. Xavier can feel this, but he doesn't back away nor think anything of it. That was until you used all of your strength, bending your knees, and you use this strength to pick up your boyfriend. Xavier eyes widen as he was suddenly up from the ground, your struggling of course but still it was an achievement. Carrying your sleepy boy by his own thighs, before waking back to the bed. Xavier was very shaken from this move, his hands clinging to your shoulders as he blushes heavily.

"[Y-Y/N]...what are you doing?"

You smiled looking up at your flustered boyfriend, "Carrying...ngh my exhausted boyfriend of course~"

It was all you said, and only Xavier could look at you with wide eyes and a simple nod of okay. His tiredness going away as he watched his own girlfriend carry him around, he didn't know how to feel about this, but it wasn't unwelcomed.

It wasn't long till you reached the bed, slamming the boy right on to the soft bed, making him lay on his back. His small towel was already gone, falling onto the floor when you picked him up. His other towel wrapped around his waist, was defiantly loose, clinging onto him for dear life. But still covered his crotch.

Once settled onto the bed, you crawled your way in between his thighs, your hands running along up his thighs to his stomach. Making way to his chest then finally his soft cheeks. You squish his cheeks in your hands, body resting on top of his. You lips lean in to kiss him on the nose before moving to his lips. His hands were now at your waist, rubbing your sides.

"Are you sleepy now?"

You say this pulling away, but it seemed like Xavier was chasing your lips. His cheeks were still flushed with pink, but his shock expression turned into a very sweet playful grin. His hands tracing along your back, slightly teasing underneath your tank top you were wearing.

"Not at the moment no."

You were suddenly rolled over, as Xavier had now turned the tables. His body pinning you underneath him, his baby blue eyes looking down at you with so much mischief. His hand made its way to your cheek, stroking it was such softness as if you were a delicate relic.

"I think I'd like to stay up for a little while, how about you~?"

You chuckle as you pulled Xavier by his neck, His face and lips close you yours.

"Sounds fine by me~"

You whispered back before his lips connected with yours passionately.

════════════════════════════

CALEB

Pranks were nothing but natural for you and Caleb.

Ever since you were kids you two would pull all types of small pranks on each other. Not mean big pranks that would cause problems in one's relationship. But small harmless pranks that make each other laugh and keep the relationship more fun and fresher. To get competitive and try to one-up each other the next month or two.

It was your love language.

And it was your turn.

Oh, how you've been dying to try and get Caleb back. You were still pouting over the last prank he did. You could remember it like it was yesterday. The man had deliberately placed fake cockroaches all underneath your bed comforter. You of course did not realize it. Already freaking out with disgust and fear, running to Caleb about your "unfortunate" situation. Hugging and whimpering to him while you pushed him to the problem. Only for him to laugh and say how those cockroaches were all plastic toys.

You then start to curse him, while beating his chest -soft punches- giving him the biggest mean mug pout. One that he finds absolutely adorable. He makes up for this by promising to take you out to this new big carnival that just opened up around the neighborhood.

Today was the day of the carnival.

And both you and Caleb were getting ready that late afternoon. Hoping to get there early and on time for the rides and games.

You closed the door to your shared room, checking your small purse to make sure you got everything you needed. You're wearing a nice yellow blouse, white tank top underneath with a light jean skirt. It wasn't going to be cold, just a nice warm day.

Once you made it to the spacious room where the living room and kitchen connected. You could see your boyfriend turned to you. His back bent a little as his focus was on his phone, scrolling aimlessly, elbows on the kitchen counter. He was dresses up as well, in a very familiar outfit. His sleeveless white logo shirt, with black jeans pants.

He looked so handsome in the moment. His muscular back and shoulders showing of through the white shirt, His long arms, especially his biceps that flexed a bit on top of the kitchen counter. His hips tutting to the side a bit. You couldn't see his face fully, but you could already imagine how he looked. Eyes narrowed but soft, probably biting his lip as he scrolls through whatever feed he's on, all while he's waiting for you.

It was in that moment...you had an opening.

Slowly, you sneak your way over to Caleb. Making sure your sock covered feet won't make any noise against the tile floors. It seems he doesn't notice you at all.

So, taking you only shot as you make it behind him, you hand raises to aim for his ass. Immediately striking him down against his left cheek harshly, causing the man to gasp loudly. His eyes were wide, but before he could turn around and say anything, your hand that slapped his ass, remained there. Giving his ass couple of good squeezes while your chest was flushed against his back.

"Fuck, you're lookin so hot! Look at this ass!"

"[Y/N]..!"

You didn't give him any time what-so-ever. Turning him around roughly, only to push him back. You could see his very shocked and surprised face now. His cheeks full on flushed with red, a face that made you grip his cheeks with on hand to pull his close to yours. You give him a big fat kiss onto his lips, before pushing him off, making the man look at you dumbfounded.

"Face matches up nicely, not bad at all~"

You tease as your hands rested against his ass, giving his cheeks a squeeze while playing humping his waist. He looks at you so confused, as if you had two heads. There was a moment of pure silence. That was until Caleb begins to grin so big that it could hurt, before a big laugh erupts his whole body.

His chest heaving and rumbling as his hand makes it way to cover his eyes in embarrassment but much amusement as well. He couldn't stop laughing, and it made you laugh as well, your hands coming off his ass to just wrap around his torso. Head leaning against his chest.

"W-What was that pipsqueak!?"

Caleb's hand goes down from his face, looking at you with a big playful smirk gracing his lips. You smirk back with a wink.

"Nothing! Can't I appreciate my boyfriend's hotness?"

Caleb chuckles, leaning in to give your forehead a kiss.

"Never said you couldn't...but with a stunt like that, I say you must be getting even with me huh?"

Before you can retort back, Caleb grabs up by the waist using his strong arms. You gasp as you're now in the air, Caleb turning you to the counter so he can settle you done on the cool marble. Your legs wrapped around his waist, as your arms wrapped around his neck. He held your tightly against him.

"I would congratulate you on that prank of yours, but I would be lying saying that prank won't cost ya. We might be a bit late arriving to the carnival. After that bit, how can I possibly let you go...naughty girl~"

He says this as his head moves to your neck to place feathered kisses along your collarbone. It tickled causing you to giggle, the thought of missing the carnival making you wiggle in his hold whining.

"Caleb, nooo..!"

Yeah, you were definitely going to be late.

════════════════════════════

SYLUS

Catching Sylus off guard, can be a very difficult task at hand.

It seemed like no matter what, he always knew what move you were going to make. Calculating each future ten step you would say or do just so he can throw it right back in your face. And it definitely frustrated you.

A fierce man who was hard to take down.

In fact, he was the one catching you off guard. He was the one surprising you the most and getting you all flustered in the cheeks with his devious nonchalant attitude. It's a rare and very rare moment when Sylus was ever caught being flustered. And even in those rare occasions, he can easily and quickly hide it inside, composing himself as if it didn't phase him at all. As if he had already predicted your tricks, before you can ever see his reactions.

And so, you were on a mission.

A mission to complete subdue and fluster your Onychinus leader boyfriend. It took you half a month to come up with any idea. A good top idea to catch this man way off guard, just so you can win. You just wanted win over him, even if it's just one time. To get him stuttering over his words. And finally, you came up with an idea, a brilliant idea, one where you hoped and prayed that it will very much work.

You texted Sylus on how you'll meet him tonight at his place. He of course welcomed this arrival, his home literally opened to only you at any time of the day. You made your way, rushing to the N109 zone to Sylus's grand mansion. Preparing yourself for what was about to happen.

Once there, you greeted both Luke and Kieran who both welcomed you back. Wondering what the rush was, but you could only give them both a question back asking where Sylus was.

"Boss is-"

"-In his office." They both said.

Perfect!

Working out exactly how you wanted.

"Thank you, see ya later!"

They watched as you rushed down the hallway with a very confused but interested look, wondering what you were planning.

Sylus was in his office, just finishing up closing a deal via phone call. He sighed as he leaned against his chair running a hand through his own locks, looking around the room with his ruby red eyes. Mephisto was in his office - more luck for you -, and Sylus was thinking about you. Waiting for you to come to him.

He then hears a knock at the door making his lips curl into a smile. He can tell from just the knock alone that it was you.

"Come on in kitten."

Nothing.

The door didn't open, nor was there any sound before or after that came with it. His brow quirks at this peculiar moment.

"Kitten, I said you can come in."

He says this a bit louder, but again no answer, or door opening. And he was already confused from the start, because normally you'd just barge right in with that innocent smile of yours. But you didn't even do that. So, know Sylus was on edge but gratefully intrigued by what was going on. Wondering what you were planning behind that door.

He gets up from his chair, walking towards the lavish design door. Once he made it and he opens the door, he gets suddenly pulled by the collar of his shirt. His body leaning and his lips quickly connecting to yours. His eyes looked at you, wide and in disbelief but it wasn't over yet.

Using a tackling move on him, you swiftly used your leg to grapple behind his left leg. You used you full weight so that he would fall to the ground with a harsh thud. Your lips still on him as your hands moved to grab his own wrists and pin the above his head so that he wouldn't go anywhere. You were now straddling his waist, kissing him roughly before pulling back to only bite his cheek.

The man gasps as he was still to stunned to speak. He could only watch as you aggressively manhandle him. Your bites moved to his neck which caused Sylus to grunt lowly. His cheeks and ears red, still so confused. His brain trying to regain any semblance of reasoning but failing terribly so.

Once you pulled away to look at him, a big smile came to your lips as you looked at Sylus. His expression was priceless, funny, cute even as he looked up at you. You can finally say you've taken down Sylus.

Sylus clears his throat, lips curling into a smirk, shaking his head from your actions.

"Is...this some type of new fighting strategy of yours? If so, I'm not so keen for you to use it on other people."

You laughed.

"Nope, I just wanted to tackle you into submission. And I finally got you!"

You hear a big rich laugh come from Sylus. The pitch a bit heightened as he found this incredibly silly and adorable. He could just maneuver his way out of your hold easily or even use his evol to overpower you. But he doesn't, liking the proud face you made of finally overpowering him. Using your smart skills to gain the upper hand of the situation. It made his heart jump inside his chest happily.

"You know, if you wanted to over-power me, you could have just asked~"

"That's a load of bull and you know it! As if you'd gone easy on me if I did asked!"

Sylus laughs again, making you roll your eyes at him. But your body suddenly sits up right, as Sylus uses his strength to break from your pinned hands. He traps your arms behind your back with his one strong hand, his other hand gripping your chin gently, thumb rubbing the bottom of your lip. His eyes shooting down to your eyes, with his infamous smirk that made your stomach flip.

"You're right kitten. It's more fun to tease and let you work for your food, then to let you have it easy. But don't worry, I'll be gladly waiting for the next time you try to catch me off gaurd~"

════════════════════════════

RAFAYEL

You and Rafayel decided why not work out together.

Well, more like you were going to work out and train your body. But a certain purple-haired artistic man called before you could even go to your local gym. Of course, you picked up your phone hearing him complain about he was bored. You told him how you were going to the gym, and Raf found that as the perfect moment to come along with your endeavors.

He suggested going to his private gym he uses at home. He says he's been wanting to blow off some steam due to Thomas insisting -more like pestering to Rafayel - to create more art for his gallery. The deadline was almost due and Rafayel has been procrastinating with other projects. Telling Thomas there is no deadline to when it comes to art, he'll feel the inspiration when he feels it. And so here he is with you.

This is honestly a first for you.

Working out with him that is.

Watching that beautiful man stretching his own body with much ease as you both did warm-ups. Seeing his biceps and forearms flex as he does push-ups. The way his abdomen tenses when he did crunches. Or how he looked so pretty on the treadmill, running full laps. Hair bouncing, sweat dripping, muscles moving, ass tempting. Even when he took a few walk breaks you could hear his controlled breathing and pants.

He looked so pretty in those moments, truly you were captured by this handsome siren. God, you felt so lucky in that moment, you could watch him run all day long. So much so that you had completely lost track of time, your mind on auto pilot throughout your whole workout session.

The both of you were panting, sweat dripping down your foreheads, Body sore but refreshed in a way all in a day's good work-out. Rafayel sighs sweeping a hand through his front locks with a relieved sigh escaping his mouth.

"I'm exhausted, I don't know who's working me to death, you or Thomas~"

Rafayel grins while joking making you roll your eyes with a small laugh.

He goes into a corner of the gym. There was L-shaped counter with a sink. A mini refrigerator that was set up top, And a round circular table in the middle. Rafayel immediately went to the fringe to grab a bottle of water. Leaning against the table he unscrews the cap taking a few gulps of cool water down his throat.

You do the same, following your boyfriend, but your eyes were only trained on Rafayel. His left arm, behind him, hand placed upon the white table to stabilize himself. His back a bit arched, showing the indent of his pecks and abs through his black sleeveless tight compressed shirt. His waist looking so snatchable as his legs slightly crossed over one another.

Drinking the cool water did nothing to ease the burning tension inside of you.

Rafayel places his water down on the table, his hand reaching out to his shoulders to rub them a little. All while he rambled on and on about his problems, Thomas nagging, and blah blah blah.

That was it you can't take it anymore.

"I swear, I bet Thomas is calling my phone about no-"

Quickly you made your move on Rafayel. You grab at his thighs tightly making him blush and shut up. But then you start to lift him up, causing the man before you to gasp and wiggle in your hands.

"[Y/N]! Aah w-wait!"

You didn't listen to his gasps and pleas, as you use your full strength to pick him up and place his ass on top of the table. His legs wide and spread for you, almost wrapped around your waist. His water bottle accidently falling, spilling onto parts the table and floor. You kept a good tight hold onto him, giving his thighs a good squeeze,

Your lips meet his to kiss him briefly, a tease at the most. Before moving to his cheeks and nose, even his exposed neck.

Rafayel's hands were on your shoulders, not knowing whether to push you off of hold you close to him. His face was redder than a tomato, ears included, as he watches his own girlfriend assault him like this.

You then pull away with mischievous smirk on your face, all you could see was Rafayel with that sweet brattish pout pursing his plump lips. He looks at you, eyes narrowed but it was soft. Rafayel gives you a look of incredible disbelief and shock from what just happened.

"I-I can't believe, did you just..?!"

You laugh at him, causing his cheeks to flush even more. His eyes looking away from your gleeful face. It was adorable to witness it. Seeing him in this type of position. Your hands moved, sliding up to his ass, you can feel him tensing up, his breath getting heavy as though he was working out again. You gave him gentle pats at first, but them with your right hand gave him a hard smack placed upon his cheek.

Rafayel lets out a gasp mixed with a whine, his eyebrows furrowed in a glare. Looking at you with such a appalled face. He was truly was embarrassed.

"H-Hey watch it!"

"What, are you embarrassed baby~?"

Rafayel says nothing, the nickname only making him groan, letting out a long dramatic sigh. His eyes once again still darted away from your owns.

"This must what it feels like to be a woman, being preyed upon by others. I'm all defenseless here, it's scary thing. My own bodyguard taking advantage of me, in my own gym."

"It's not my fault my boyfriend is so beautiful. You really are, looking so pretty while you worked out today."

Rafael didn't really say anything, but you can he was trying not to let your words get to you. But it was failing, as your compliments only made his heart race even more. Fidgeting while you held on tight to him trying to distract himself with the gym appliances around the room.

"Sooo...you're saying you don't like it?"

You give him another kiss on the cheek playfully, making him turn his head finally towards you. His legs bringing you even closer, wrapping fully around your waist to lock you in. While his hands wrapped around your shoulders. It made you giggle, his actions way louder than his actual words.

"I never said that."

You smile as he can't help but smile back at you. He couldn't prolong his pout anymore, he's just too damn infatuated - and slightly aroused - at this new position of his. He leans in to kiss you on the lips, the kiss starting off as sweet before slowly turning deep and passionate. His eyes haze over with a growing smirk of his own.

"I'm definitely not going be able to finish my art piece now cutie~"