#because he can’t break his own heart like that

[always-just-red]

Hi!

Can I request a fic where the reader starts realizing they have feelings for Sylus and gets so nervous around him that they can’t resonate anymore?

And Sylus thinks that the reader is scared/disgusted by him again so the reader is forced to confess their feelings to not create a bigger misunderstanding

Thanks!

- 🌻

The moment I got this request I was like HELLO— sunflower anon, you just get me 😌 Anyway! Am back from my break and I hope everyone’s ready for some Vulnerable Sylus™️, because I have got him hot to go!!!

A Gentle Touch

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You really can’t let Sylus into your head this time— he’s living there rent-free already.

Genre: Angst + Fluff (& some Luke and Kieran shenanigans because they were not feeling the angst)

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, injury detail, mentions of possible trauma, humour, some intimacy at the end 😘, Luke and Kieran are having the time of their lives

| Word count: 3.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

If you asked, Sylus would tell you.

You catch glimpses: dark, sharp flickers of something monstrous, maybe even infernal. Blood, everywhere— thick in your mouth and your nose. All over your hands. You feel it, too: a yearning, so intense, and you couldn’t say whom it belongs to. Then there’s death. Searing white. Bottomless black. In the middle of all of it— crimson eyes like dying stars.

Every time you resonate, it envelops you, is laid out bare before you: a nightmare you’re caught in the centre of but forced to watch from outside. An other, a spectator. It’s a show, just for you, but it isn’t quite ready yet; someone’s still rehearsing their lines.

If you asked, Sylus would let you see it. It’s a power you have over him, a constant, self-sacrificial: you want it? It’s yours. So you don’t ask. You never ask. Like words mumbled in a haze of wine or sleep, you let him hold onto it. His hands are open, yes, but you don’t have to take.  

Besides, you have your own, world-changing little secret, and he’s going to see it too.

He’s slumped in front of you, blood sheeting down from two bullet wounds just below his shoulder. He catches his breath— one, two— before he peeks over this desk you’ve overturned for cover. You should be peeking over as well: should be counting your enemies, scouting your next move.

Instead, you’re looking at him and holding back. One minute ago you had no idea where he was, how he was, and it’d been eating away at you from the moment you got separated. Now he’s with you— he found you— and the relief is desperate, gushing; it has to escape somehow. It drips: forbidden daydreams, one after the other, like…

How you want to hold his face and urge him to speak so you can just hear his voice.

How you want to press a hand to his heart and feel the beat of it beneath your palm.

How you want to kiss him, want to taste the blood on his split lip, because this is your story, isn’t it? Messy. Violent. Defiant.

He looks at you, that same blood carving a thin line through the pale of his chin. It drops down onto his silk shirt. “What are you thinking about, kitten?” he grins. His best guess: “This is a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

It’s a fine mess he got you into. “Yeah.” You make yourself look away from him, glancing over the desk to assess how much worse the situation is getting. The answer? Significantly. 

Sylus chuckles, drawing your eyes back as he reloads his gun. “Don’t say I never treat you to anything, sweetie.” He fires a few rounds towards the encroaching danger.

Voices go up across the room. Gunshots ring out, louder. Sylus slinks back down, wincing, holding his shoulder, and his fingers turn red. He deftly undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, peeling it back so he can examine his wounds. His jaw clenches; the punctures aren’t closing over fast enough. It’s too much blood, too quick, and he’ll—

He catches you staring. There’s a sheepish sincerity in the way he smiles, as honest and vulnerable as the holes in his shoulder. He holds out his hand. “Time for an energy storm, don’t you think?”

“No,” you snap. “Save your energy. We might need it later.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow perks up in interest, and it’s just like him to spot a double entendre in the midst of all this chaos.

But you’re staring at his chest through his open shirt and you’re such a hypocrite. “Things might get worse,” you explain.

“Worse?” he repeats as bullets fly over your heads, striking the wall across from you and scattering plaster over the floor. He watches it crumble. “Paint me a picture, kitten— what would worse look like?”

Even Rafayel might struggle with that particular creative prompt.

“Come on,” Sylus insists, using the excuse of your silence to push his hand closer to you. “Now’s not the time to play coy.”

“Sylus, I really don’t—”

He grasps your hand, his fingers locking with yours and squeezing tight. Your heart jumps at the touch. It strangles the protests in your throat and stays there, strung up by anticipation and dread.

You’re feeling so much that it takes you too long to realise nothing is happening.

Sylus’s eyes are fixed on your connected palms. He’s squinting, concentrating, and when that doesn’t work— when your hand is paling in the vice of his— he loosens his grip, his thumb feathering over yours as he mumbles a quick: “forgive me.”

He doesn’t let you go. You can still feel him, all of him, imploring to just let him in.

You don’t, and his eyes meet yours, for a moment— like another bullet has bitten through his flesh. Your mouth drops in fake surprise; you’re always so innocent when you pull a trigger on him.

This time, there’s no wound you can push your hands against in a guilty effort to staunch the bleeding. You have to apologise. Have to stitch it up with every word you’ve been guarding, saving, and it isn’t supposed to be like this. “Sylus, it’s not what you think. I—”

Something metal clatters across the floor behind you, bounces like a failing, stuttering heartbeat, then explodes.

…

“Good news, boss! We figured it out!”

Sylus groans, looking up from a report he’s not really been reading as two figures crash into his room. Not good, he thinks, as Kieran flings himself into the nearest armchair. Whatever this is, it’s not good. Luke settles on its arm.

With a sigh, Sylus removes his reading glasses. They stay, hooked on a finger, as he pushes his hair back like he can feel a headache coming on. His eyes flutter closed, and when they open, the twins are both leaning forward, bristling with excitement.

“Ask us,” Luke whispers in a way that makes Sylus think he might not realise he’s speaking out loud.

Another sigh. “What did you figure out?”

Kieran whips out a tired-looking notepad from behind his back. He clears his throat— “ahem!”— then starts to read: “Reasons why Miss Hunter was not able to resonate with you. Number one...”

“How did you find out about—”

“Sshhhh,” Kieran interrupts, putting a finger to where his lips should be. Sylus’s eyes widen in indignation, and Luke comes to his twin’s rescue, silently indicating Mephisto with a few tips of his head. The crow shrinks down on his perch.

“Number one,” Kieran repeats, matter-of-factly. “Your height.”

“My… height?”

Luke nods solemnly as Kieran continues: “humanityandconquer.com/power-dynamics describes tallness as a ‘natural advantage when trying to dominate a smaller individual.’ You are very tall. Try crouching when you speak to Miss Hunter.” He glances over the top of his notepad. “If you approach her at her level, she’ll know you mean no—”

“Nope. Next,” Sylus dismisses, waving his hand in a fast-forward motion. That headache is coming on.

“Reason two,” Kieran acquiesces, gaze falling, “your eyes.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake—”

“They’re red,” the twin pushes on, “and red means danger. In fiction, red eyes are symony—” he stops, spells it out— “synonymous with the supernatural. Vampires especially. Plus, lots of bad stuff is red.” He’s going off-script. “Blood. Fire. Sunburns.”

“Sunburns are pink,” Luke muses.

“No, like, bad sunburns, y’know?”

“Oh right, yeah.” There’s a shrug of agreement.

Sylus’s will to live is hanging by a thread, and they really don’t have a care in the world, do they? It must be nice. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for your little investigation. If that’s all, I would—”

“Reason three!” Luke chirps, wiggling the same number of fingers, and Sylus’s head lolls back against the sofa.

“Miss Hunter is struggling to separate this version of you from your first impression,” Kieran says.

Sylus looks up. “What?”

Luke is rubbing his hands together eagerly, like they’ve finally gotten to the good stuff. “Well, you remember how you and Miss Hunter met,” his twin explains.

Words won’t do it justice, apparently, because the man begins to act it out. He reaches to grip Luke by the throat and Luke pretends to choke, fingers clawing at the grasp. Then Kieran stands up— throws Luke down into the chair and pins him there with his foot before snatching up his hand.

“See what I mean?” Kieran asks over his shoulder. “I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic. You kinda tore her away from everything she knew. Forced her to use her power, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sylus has gone quiet. He’s vaguely aware that the twins are moving, saying more, but he can’t hear it. He feels sick. Then he feels something different: someone poking at his arm. A hand is waved in front of his face, but he doesn’t react.

“Oh, we so got it,” Luke whispers conspiratorially behind him.

“Hell yeah we did!” Kieran whispers back.

There’s the sound of them high-fiving, and it spurs Sylus into action. He’s up out of his seat, out of their shadows, and then the door as well— long before they can stop him. He needs to breathe. He needs the cold night air and the quiet, and his strides drive him towards it, but not fast enough.

He’s about to use his Evol. To let himself evaporate so he can be whole again somewhere else, somewhere easier, but then he stops. He’s by an open door, glancing in at a decadent living room, where you’re sprawled over a black leather couch. This isn’t easier. This hurts, and it hurts more as he forces himself to close the distance between you.

You’re still asleep. You’ve been unconscious ever since that grenade went off, and it’s for the best, really; getting out of that place was… messy. Sylus’s shoulder still aches, the blood on his shirt now crusty and dark. Some of it’s his. Some of it’s yours.

He’s not sure why he’s still wearing it.

The twins did a pretty good job of patching you up, but— looking over you— he would have done better. It was his role, after all. His duty to you, or maybe just a reason to get close to you. He couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t touch you, no matter how noble the intention. And a little part of him was glad for the excuse; his hands always shake.

A blanket is half on your legs, half on the floor, and Sylus stoops to collect the edge of it. He draws it over your shoulder, adjusting it around your arms— at rest by your face. He’s close, now, and he…

He can’t help himself. When has he ever been able to help himself? He lifts his hand slowly; he wants to kiss you. Even though your blood is still drying on his shirt and it’s all his fault.

…

Someone’s hand is on your face.

The touch draws you back into consciousness, tender, careful, then suddenly sharp. “Ah,” you hiss. “Sylus?” Always first on your mind and your lips.

“Not even close,” quips the shadow above you.

“Kieran?”

“Bingo.”  

You use your hand to block some of the room’s light as you open your eyes— a birdlike silhouette taking shape through the gaps in your fingers. “Where’s Sylus?” you ask, teeth clenching as the twin applies a thin strip of surgical tape to a cut on your cheek. “Is he ok?”

“Sheesh, relax. He’s fine,” Kieran tuts, then seems to reconsider, “well…”

“He’s brooding,” chimes a voice from behind you. “Out on the balcony.” Luke.

You rub at your eyes, still drowsy with sleep. “Why’s he brooding? What did you do?”

“Told him he traumatised you,” they speak in unison.

“What?! Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” Kieran shrugs. “That’s why you and boss couldn’t, you know…” He twinkles his fingers.

Resonate? Ugh. You slide your feet onto the floor, sitting up straight for a solid second before you bury your face in your hands, omitting a few, pained whines. This is such a mess, and it only got worse while you were asleep. First that stupid grenade, now the twins.

A hand pats at your back. “There, there,” Luke soothes.

You turn to glare at him. His hand retreats.

Forget it; you have to find Sylus.

…

You step out onto the balcony, head full of apologies you’ve had all of a minute to prepare, and it isn’t enough. It felt fitting, in the middle of a shootout— everything was allowed to be frantic and from the heart. Here it’s calm, and if you ruin something— break anything— it’s going to be obvious. There’s no other violence to blame.

Sylus must hear you join him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s leant forwards against the rail, one arm folded upon it, the other outstretched: sporting a glass of liquor that hangs from the tips of his fingers and that he swirls gently, his gaze far away.

The twins really weren’t kidding.

“Hey,” you greet, and it’s sort of pathetic, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” Sylus returns, “are you—” he looks back at you over his shoulder— “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “I mean, the twins are giving me a headache, but that’s, like, standard.”  

He smiles back: a courtesy. You’ve seen him grin through almost every type of pain imaginable, but this one is new. Think about what Luke and Kieran said. What he must be thinking. “Sylus, I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he stops you, turning his body towards you. “Honestly, I’d… rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he chuckles, masking a deeper hurt as he lifts his glass to his lips. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

You are; you hold his gaze as he takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink. He smirks, surrenders at once and admits: “I’m really not that strong, sweetie. That’s why.”

“What if I want to explain?”

The smirk falters, and his eyes make their own, sad, silent confession. If you want to explain? He’ll let you. He’ll stand here, listening patiently while you call him a thing of nightmares. While you break him, bit by tortuous bit, by reminding him just how frightening he is.

He turns back to the view, shrugs, but none of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Go on, then.”

“Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pity me,” he grimaces. “I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’d just… forgotten what I was to you.”

Your captor. Your monster. Except that was a lifetime ago and he’s been so many more things to you since then. Tell him. “Sylus…”

“I felt it,” he snaps, because your voice is still so reluctant, and he’s going to save you the trouble. “When we tried to resonate, I felt it— your fear— just as deep as it used to be. I heard that same voice in your head, the one saying you wouldn’t let me in, couldn’t let me in, so don’t tell me I don’t scare you, sweetie.” The term of endearment tastes sour, you can tell. “I know how you feel. I know—”

“I like you, Sylus.”

“…What?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “I like you,” you say again, and your heart is beating too quickly for eloquence, so you just have simplicity. “You don’t scare me at all, Sy. I care about you. A lot.”

Sylus stares at you, his eyes wide. There’s no confidence. No smile or drawn-out breath of relief. He sets his glass aside on the railing, gaze leaving yours for a moment, and you get the feeling he needs that moment as much as he needed the drink itself.

Then he looks at you again. Asks in a way that makes you ache: “do you mean it?”

Look at him. Your throat stings. “Of course I mean it.”

“Say it again.”

“I mean it, Sylus. I care about—”

His lips are on yours and the rest of your words are lost in his mouth. You, you say with the way you kiss him back, soft and slow, like you’re relishing something that might slip away. You, you insist— your hand finding his face, his hair, as he kisses you deeper, and you, you, you, when he doesn’t stop.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, his fingers around your chin and his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you confirm, equally breathless.

He laughs as he withdraws a little, still caressing your face like you’re something of a dream. “You’re not making this easy, kitten.”

“Worried you might traumatise me again?”    

It's a low blow. He scoffs. “Luke and Kieran said—”

“Luke and Kieran once bought arts-and-crafts feathers for Mephisto because they thought the colours would make him, and I quote: more aerodynamic.” You pinch his ear playfully. “I can’t believe you let them get to you.”

“I know,” he groans, lifting your hand so he can press chaste kisses along the line of your knuckles. “Not my finest moment.” He guides your palm to his cheek— leans into it as he leans into an idea. “They said you hated my eyes,” he pouts.

You can’t help giggling. He frowns. “I mean— aww, no,” you scramble, but you’re still laughing. You can’t stop. “Your eyes are… yeah. So pretty.”

“You had to think about it?”

“There were just too many adjectives, y’know? I was struggling to—”

He kisses you again, saving you: crushing your laughter with his own, lightheaded smile. His hand finds yours as his lips move against you, your fingers interlocking as you resonate— chasing an instinct, a need to be impossibly closer— and you let him see everything. Feel everything.

It’s a mad tangle of opposites. Heaven. Hell. Life. Death. You don’t know what any of it means, but it’s yours and it’s his and it doesn’t scare you half as much as it should. Sylus breaks your kiss. He pushes his forehead against your own with a sigh of contentment, and it doesn’t scare him, either.  

Savour each second. Think of some better adjectives, while you still have the time.

He’s going to earn every single one.

…

✨Epilogue✨

Inside, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that separate the room from the balcony, Luke and Kieran stand, looking awfully smug.   

“Mission accomplished,” Kieran nods, flipping closed his notepad, aptly titled: 101 Ways To Get Boss Laid! (There are only, currently, fifty-two.)

Luke’s arms are folded. “We’re like, the best wingmen ever.”

Kieran is silent. He repeats carefully: “Wingmen. Wingmen.”

The beaks of the crow masks gradually turn to face one-another. There’s a mutual epiphany, and both twins almost fall over laughing.

[hotshotsxyz]

where else but here, who else but us?

(8x06 coda) (buddie) (986 words)

Eddie wakes to the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing, and for the first time in maybe his entire life, he lets himself luxuriate in it. If he’d actually made it to bed last night, he might even go back to sleep.

He stands and stretches, then shivers a little bit as the cool morning air tickles his bare thighs. Eddie grins. He just—

He did something for himself, and the world didn’t end. He did something for himself, and not only did the world not end, it got a little bit bigger and a little bit brighter. He did something for himself and Buck showed up, and that joy he was feeling burned a little bit hotter.

Eddie scoops his phone up off the floor and finds that it’s completely out of juice. He huffs a soft laugh and plugs it in. It’s a silly thought, but—Eddie can’t remember the last time his phone died. How could it, when he’s been so damn determined to avoid anything that might bring him a little joy. Hell, he hasn’t even been letting himself text Buck unless Buck texts him first.

He pads down the hall and into his bedroom and pulls on the softest pair of sweats he owns. He changes into an old, threadbare t-shirt, leans against the wall and exhales.

In his kitchen, Buck is making breakfast. In Texas, Christopher is safe and probably still asleep, and that’s a whole lot more than Eddie’s been letting himself acknowledge.  Here in LA, Eddie is alive and healthy and, if the priest that was maybe hitting on him is to be believed, allowed to forgive himself. He’s not there yet, but he can let himself join Buck in the kitchen.

On his way, Eddie makes a pit stop in the living room. His phone, up to an impressive 8% battery, has already reconnected to the Bluetooth speaker that’s tucked behind one of the photos on the mantle. He queues up a playlist that he and Buck have been curating together for years. Soft music fills the room and Eddie kind of wants to cry.

This is what he’s been denying himself. Easy mornings and raucous evenings and his best friend filling all the empty spaces he’s always been too afraid to try to fill himself. Eddie walks into the kitchen and finds Buck already looking for him.

“Morning,” Buck says, a little rough, like it’s the first word he’s said today. It probably is.

“Hey,” Eddie replies. He steps into Buck’s space and pulls him into a hug, just because he wants to. He feels Buck exhale and melt into him. “You okay?” he asks softly.

Buck pulls back from Eddie’s embrace and bites his lip. “I, uh—honestly?”

Eddie nods.

“I don’t really know,” Buck admits. “I think I just—or, I thought—I don’t know.” He lets out a frustrated huff.  

Eddie slides his hand down Buck’s arm until his fingers are circling Buck’s wrist. “You don’t have to,” he offers.

Buck’s head tips to the side. “You seem different,” he observes quietly.

“I am, I think,” Eddie says.

“What does that mean?” Buck asks

Eddie considers for a moment. “I think I’m just… ready to let some things go,” he says. “Maybe let some new things in.”

Buck smiles, small but genuine. “That’s—I’m glad.”

“Me too.” It’s incredible, but Eddie’s pretty sure he actually means it.

Buck’s gaze slides away from Eddie and hits the floor. “I, um. Me and Tommy. We—or, he—he broke up with me,” he says.

Something clenches in Eddie’s chest. “Then he’s an idiot,” he says.

“Maybe,” Buck says with a kind of hopeless shrug.

“He is,” Eddie says with conviction. “You’re—“ Sunshine. Joy. Perfect. Everything. He lets go of Buck’s wrist and twists their fingers together. “You’re the best person I know,” he says. “If Tommy couldn’t see that, that’s on him.”

Buck blows a disbelieving breath out through his nose. “He said I was going to break his heart.”

“Getting his heart broken by you would be a privilege,” Eddie replies before he can think better of it.

Buck lets out a pained noise. “But I wouldn’t—or, I didn’t want—” He cuts himself off with a frown. He looks up through his lashes and Eddie and Eddie—

Oh, Eddie wants.

“Anyone who’s lucky enough to be loved by you, even for a second, should know it’d be worth it,” he says.

“Eds,” Buck breathes.

“I mean it,” Eddie says, squeezing his hand. “And if you don’t, I’ll believe it enough for both of us.”

Buck laughs wetly. “You make it hard for a guy to wallow in a breakup, you know that?”

Eddie grins. “Good.” He steps back, tugging Buck’s wrist as he goes. “Come here,” he says, and Buck follows easily.

The coffee and bacon are quickly cooling on the counter, but there’s music in the air and Buck’s in his arms and Eddie’s pretty sure he wants to kiss his best friend. And he thinks that might even be a good thing.

“Eddie, what?” Buck asks breathlessly as Eddie puts a hand on his waist and spins them both.

“We’re dancing,” Eddie says, smiling.

“O-okay,” Buck says, clumsily following his lead.

Eddie can’t help the laugh that bubbles from his chest. A small grin spreads across Buck’s face.

“Maybe I would have,” Buck murmurs quietly.

“What?” Eddie asks, spinning him again, just because he can.

“Broken his heart.”

Warmth spreads from Eddie’s chest to his fingertips. “Yeah?” he asks breathlessly.

Buck hums but doesn’t clarify further. Eddie, though, Eddie’s pretty sure he gets it.

He and Buck—well. It’s hard to imagine a world where they don’t choose each other, over and over and over again. It’s them. How could they ever end up anywhere but here?

Eddie wants. He tightens his grip on Buck and keeps dancing.

[watchmegetobsessed]

UNMATCHED

A/N: it's been like 6 months since i last posted something and honestly, i haven't even written anything, things are very shitty these days but i felt the motivation to write this quickly after watching 'tell me lies' and 'rivals' these past weeks so here we go! if student-prof type of fics are not your thing then don't read it

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

WARNING: age gap, student-professor relationship

SUMMARY: Harry is very strict about staying away from students as a young and handsome professor, but there is one person he can't get out of his head and a Christmas party brings an unexpected turn.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry hates these type of parties, mostly because he can’t imagine inviting dozens of students into his home, his private space, have the roam around and spend an entire evening with them, talking and pretending like they aren’t just trying to get a better grade at the end of the semester with their too friendly behavior. Or, in his case, some girls try to push the boundaries and flirt with him, hoping to hook up with him. 

He is not stupid. He has heard students whisper about him several times, he notices the heart eyes when he is talking in class and he has gotten several phone numbers on papers since he started his PHD studies and started teaching last year. His friends teased him about being the heartthrob of the faculty, but he didn’t think it would actually happen and to this extent. To avoid any possible scandals, not that he planned to make any, he has put on quite a rigid mask towards the students to scare them off from even trying, though that hasn’t stopped some of them from wanting to shoot their shot. 

He wouldn’t have come to this party, he would rather be home and continue his research that’s still not even close to being done, but Professor Bradford, or Stella as she requests Harry to call her, is the only person he gets along with in the faculty. She is 18 years older than Harry, but still younger than the rest of the old men who have been teaching here since probably before the declaration of independence was signed. Those men are the reason younger people don’t like classic literature anymore, with their outdated ways of teaching and unwillingness to bring something modern into their lectures they are scaring the new generations away. But not Stella. She is one of the reasons Harry went into his PHD and now he gets to work with her. He couldn’t just reject her invitation for her annual Christmas Party she holds for her students and some colleagues. 

Now he is standing by the wall, drinking mulled wine and just gritting his teeth, trying to calculate how early is too early to leave. A couple of girls have already tried to chat him up, they like to circle him, leave him almost no room to escape and then make him talk about school stuff, but then they slyly bring up personal things, hoping to break his usual character, but he sees through them always. 

Harry’s best friend, Niall always teases him that he should just give in and have fun with one of them. His morals are a lot looser than Harry’s, that’s for sure. 

Just as he is about to look for the bathroom, not to use it but to hide for a bit, another group of girls spots him and he can already feel his skin crawling as they approach him from down the hallway. He is quick to assess the situation, but he realizes he has no chance of fleeing before they reach him. 

“Profesor! So good to see you here!” 

And here we go. 

It goes the same, they are extremely nice and inquiring about his plans for the next semester and then suddenly they are talking about summer and Harry knows they are moments away from asking what he’ll be doing once the school year is over. One of the girls is talking about going to Italy on a yacht and the others chime in with their own ridiculously over the top plans while Harry is avoiding to even look at them, his eyes roam around the other guests. 

That’s when he sees her. 

Just down the hall he can peek into the kitchen and there she is, with a boy Harry assumes to be her boyfriend. He’s seen them around campus the past few weeks, he even waited for her after Harry’s class and saw them walk away together as he fought the way his stomach churned every time. 

Since the moment she walked into his class at the beginning of the semester Harry has been feeling like he is losing his mind. Whether it be the way she laughs with her friends before class or focuses with undivided attention as Harry explains something by the board, or says hello every time she passes him in the cafeteria, Harry can’t stop thinking about her for days after even though he knows such feelings should be banned from his mind when it comes to a student. Every time he catches himself thinking about her he wants to throw himself out the window, but he still can’t fight it. There’s something in her that draws him in and swallows him whole and it’s not just the looks. Unlike a lot of students who take his classes for easy credits or to drool after him, she is there to learn as much as she can and she’s had the most brilliant thoughts on certain subjects Harry has ever encountered, making him almost jealous he wasn’t the one to think about them. 

She is… unmatched. And forbidden, but impossible to ignore. She’s been his vice for months.

From where he stands it appears she is having a fight with said boyfriend, her always cheerful expression is now rather upset and confused while the boy seems to be over the conversation, almost irritated by her, dismissed. Harry tries to appear not too obvious about watching them, but he is also way too fixated on her to ignore what’s happening just down the hallway. 

He glances away just for a few seconds, but the next time he looks back he sees the boy stomping away, irritated, while she is left there, pulling on her coat before disappearing through the backdoor, swallowed by the darkness of the unlit back terrace. 

And before Harry could stop himself, he is already moving.

“Excuse me girl,” he mumbles disorientedly as he slips out of the small circle. 

He places his glass to a nearby table and then grabs his own coat from the wardrobe in the hallway before making his way outside. After her. 

The moment he steps out into the cold a short sense of realization washes over him that he definitely shouldn’t be here, that he is crossing a line, but then another voice in his head tunes it out, convincing him that he is just making sure she is okay and there’s nothing wrong with that. 

Stopping by the door his gaze rakes through the terrace, but he doesn’t see her, until she spots her slouched form sitting on the bottom of the stairs leading out to the lawn. He hears her sniffling, but she hasn’t acknowledged his presence yet, if she noticed it at all. There’s a couple of moments of hesitation on his end, he can hear the rational side of him screaming somewhere in the back of his mind, telling him to turn around and just walk back inside, yet he still finds himself moving towards him and then that voice is silenced. 

“Everything alright?” Harry asks from the top of the stairs, but he startles her so much that she jumps to her feet and backs away a few feet. That’s when he sees her tearful eyes and red nose. 

“S-Sorry, I don’t–”

“Hey, it’s all good. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just checking in.”

She squints her eyes at him and that’s when he realizes she must not even see his face since the light is coming right behind him. So he walks down the stairs and then finally his face is lit and realization settles in her eyes. 

“Oh, Professor Styles. Hi.”

“Hello Y/N. Are you okay?” he asks again, to which she just chuckles bitterly. 

He can’t miss that even with tears running down her cheeks and her eyelashes stuck together, she looks so fucking beautiful it baffles him. He has to fight the urge to reach out and touch her tear-soaked cheeks. 

“Um, yeah, everything is… perfect,” she scoffs, reaching into her pockets, probably looking for tissues, but finding none so Harry grabs one from his inner pocket, handing it over to her, her fingers brushing against his for the shortest second as she takes it and then it’s over, but his skin keeps tingling. 

“Thanks,” she mumbles before drying her face as much as she can. “I’m good. Just…” She looks at him and changes her mind. “Ah, wouldn’t want to bore you with my nonsense personal drama.”

“Drama is never boring, have you learned nothing in my class?” he jokes and it actually makes her laugh. 

“This drama is not worthy of being taught in class though.”

“I bet some of the big names thought the same thing upon writing what we read in class these days.”

“So you’re saying I should write about how my boyfriend is fed up with me because I told him something he did hurt me?”

“That sounds like something I bet a lot of people would want to read about,” he smiles and when she mirrors it, he can feel his chest expanding. Somewhere way too deep in his mind an alarm goes off, but it quickly becomes one with the void and all he can think about is her. “Actually I can think of a few great pieces that are about similar topics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, believe it or not, you’re not the first one to experience this.”

The way she looks at him is setting him on fire. The mixture of sadness, tiredness and gratitude towards his attempt to cheer her up is still making her glow in a way Harry has never seen before on any woman. 

“Do you mind analyzing one for me right now?”

“I’d be happy to.”

The party is completely tuned out for the two of them. First they actually talk about a novel, but soon it turns into sharing their favorite books and authors, their guilty pleasure reads,  recommendations for each other and even more personal bits Harry would never share with a student, but Y/N is the exception. 

They have no idea how much time passes as they stand outside and Harry ignores how the cold starts to sting his fingertips even in his pockets, because he knows that if they go inside this bubble will pop and he is too selfish to let that happen just yet. 

When there’s a short silence Harry notices that she is probably slipping back into what happened earlier and when she looks at him again he already knows she is about to share.

“I gave him a chance and explicitly told him not to fuck me over, because I can’t deal with that again. But all he has been doing is manipulating to believe that I’m always in the wrong.”

“It’s impossible for you to always be in the wrong.”

“I know. Well, part of me knows, but then I always go back to thinking that he is right, I must have messed up something.”

“That just proves that you have self-criticism, that you don’t just think everything you do is perfect.”

She sighs and looks away, her gaze distant as she battles herself inside her head, a feeling Harry knows very well, unfortunately. It doesn’t sit right with him that she is visibly struggling because of an immature guy’s untreated problems. She deserves so much more, but how can he tell that without crossing a line?

“Give it some time and you’ll see it clearer. Use your critical thinking on his actions as well, not just yours and don’t settle for less than your worth.”

“You think I did that?” she asks, eyes jumping back to meet his gaze. “You think I settled for less than my worth?”

There’s more behind her eyes than the words she said out loud and he is torn, because he can feel himself being pulled in more than ever, like she just opened the door the slightest and he has the chance to slip in. It’s the first time he senses something on her part and after all the yearning he is eager to take the chance. 

“I think you deserve a lot more, Y/N. You’re brilliant, bright and give so much to others, you should get the same amount if not more back. If someone can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you.”

For a second he wishes he didn’t say a thing, he regrets crossing the line and he fears her reaction, but then… 

Then he forgets everything. Because she is kissing him. 

It happens fast, one moment she is staring up at him with doe eyes, the next her lips are crashing against his, her hands grabbing onto the lapels of his coat. He barely recovers from the shock when she is already pulling away.

“I-I’m so sorry, I d-didn’t mean to, I just—Oh my Go–”

Her stammering is quickly cut short when he kisses her, his hands holding her jaw to angle her face perfectly and while her kiss was closed, rushed and panicked, this one is different. He is quick to beg for her to open her lips so he can explore as much of her as humanly possible, he is letting all the passions loose that he’s been locking up these past months and when she returns it just as eagerly it just pushes him even further. 

They inch back to the wall of the house and when he pins her against it a moan slips past her swollen lips, completely maddening him. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes against her lips, kissing her jawline, savoring the sweet taste of her skin that’s supposed to be cold, but it’s actually burning. For him. 

He keeps one hand on the side of her neck, the other one digs into her hip through her coat and she keeps pushing against him, while her hands wander under his coat, they are on his waist, back and when they move to his lower stomach, brushing against his belt, something snaps inside him. 

But before he could completely lose his mind the backdoor opens and he quickly sobers up, pulling her farther away from the corner so they can’t be seen. 

“...and that was actually crazy,” a girl speaks up, oblivious to how Harry has Y/N pinned against the wall just a few feet away. They are both breathing heavily, but she has her face buried in his shoulder while he covers his mouth with a hand, adrenaline racing through his veins. 

“Ah shit, I’m out of cigarettes,” another girl says.

“Mm let’s get out of here then. I think Max said they are having a little party as well.”

“Okay.”

Then the door opens again and the voices disappear, but reality hits Harry hard in the head.

He slowly pulls back, enough to look at her face and when he sees her swollen lips and slightly smeared mascara he almost combusts. 

Because he wants nothing more than to take her, right here and then everywhere else in the world, but he also realizes what he just did and this time his rational side wins. 

“Fuck,” he gasps as he jumps back, cupping a hand over his mouth.

“I wanted it–”

“Y/N, stop!” he cuts her off. “Fuck, this was a mistake.”

“But I wanted it! You didn’t–”

“I said stop!” he barks and she shuts her mouth right away. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

And before she could protest again or worse, kiss him again, he is already storming back inside, across the house towards the front door.

“Harry! I haven’t seen you all night!” Stella catches him, but he just wants to get as far away from this house and from Y/N as possible.

“I’m sorry, I need to go. I’ll talk to you later,” is all he manages to say before he is already out the door.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[hearts4hughes]

ice skating - jack hughes x fem!reader

holly jolly november

“just focus on me, don’t look down.” jack chuckled, his hands holding yours as he led you farther out onto the ice. you squeal as you are no longer being supported by the boards of the rink.

“jack, jack, jack!” you whine, closing your eyes completely. “i can’t do this. i’m being serious!”

he laughs at your agony, you clutch onto his hands for dear life as he drags you around slowly. “come on, it’s not that bad. trust me, i won’t let you fall.”

“said every person ever right before someone fell on their face.” you raise your eyebrows, finally opening your eyes.

jack grins as he squeezes your hands reassuringly. “well, i’m not every person, am i?” his tone is smug and cocky, just on character for him.

he gives you that steady, warm look, and somehow, it makes the ice feel a little less terrifying. you breath out, trying to regulate your nerves.

“if i fall, im taking you down with me. just saying.” you add teasingly. he barks out in laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty ice rink.

“and what makes you think i’d ever let you fall?” he cocks an eyebrow, causing a pink hue to bless your cheeks.

you snort at the thought, but his confidence feels contagious. slowly, he releases one of your hands, and you’re left holding just one as he glides beside you, letting you take a few steps on your own.

breathlessly, you turn to look at him. a girlish grin tugging at your lips as you begin to move by yourself. “jack, i’m doing it!”

“see? i told you. i always knew you’d get it.” he says with a proud smile. “wish you let me teach you earlier.”

there’s a sparkle in his eye as he watches you, and his gaze makes your heart beat faster than the thrill of skating ever could. he gently pulls you into a graceful, slow turn, guiding you effortlessly.

the world around you seems to blur, and suddenly, the only thing that matters is his warm hands in yours, his steady smile, and the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

he pauses, letting you both come to a stop in the middle of the rink, and reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face. The air feels electric, and all the shivers you’re feeling have nothing to do with the cold.

“I’m really glad you trusted me.” you smile at his words.

you smile shyly at his words, breaking eye contact. “only because you have a good track record.” you tease. he puts a hand on his chest, feigning offense. you giggle and press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

jack laughs, and before you can say anything else, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. it’s sweet and gentle, and you feel yourself melt, forgetting entirely about the ice beneath you.

“guess that makes me pretty lucky.”

[canichangemyblogname]

“The show isn’t going to cater to your fan fiction fantasy 🤣.”

Yeah… no. See, that’s not the issue. 1.) I don’t read fanfiction; can also barely write it, 2.) the issue 100% is that this was very clearly intended to come out of the blue, but because it seems increasingly likely LFJ isn’t returning to the show, there is a lack of resolution. This breakup is result of Tommy’s insecurities in the relationship. He feels he’s gonna get left behind; have his heart broken. The breakup even surprises Tommy. It blindsides Buck, a character who has long been characterized by a listlessness and a lack of defined vision for his future. When his boyfriend breaks up with him because he doesn’t believe that Buck can actually see him in his future, the narratively weighty thing is for the characters to later—after processing this breakup and struggling with competing wants—confront that. But that seems so incredibly unlikely, so it feels more like they kiboshed this for some external reason rather than a narrative one.

Then there’s an issue with the follow through with themes. If this is the end-end— and that seems likely with LFJ’s departure from the show—there’s a lack of follow through on reoccurring themes in the show, like second chances, making one’s own happiness, and how “our people” make life worth it. If the goal is Buck’s return to a 1.0 era, that would be a stark and sharp character regression instead of growth for a character who has come a long way over 8 seasons, which is not narratively satisfying. And when it’s ONLY the bisexual character who ever gets arcs like this, and it’s explicitly because of some “he doesn’t know what he really wants” or “he can’t commit,” then the story isn’t original; it’s a stereotype. There’s also then a very jarring lack of follow through on changes to structure and style they had been planning to explore, like finding ways to integrate a Love Interest into non-romance and non-relationship storylines, being able to expand these characters through professional scenarios together, and that whole thing about Buck getting off the “hamster wheel.” All of these hinted at major structural changes to the way the show writes secondary characters, which would also have major implications for characters like Karen and Josh. This sort of shift, understandably, gets viewers invested in a new era of an EIGHT season show, and disappointed when these structural changes fail (repeatedly, may I add) to manifest.

It’s disappointing because it seems—due to casting changes beyond their control and of no fault of anyone— there won’t be any follow through on this purposefully sudden breakup. Even some upcoming confrontation between the characters could wrap up the tension left in the air. The narrative doesn’t need tropes or some rom-com ending to be narratively satisfying! It can end tragically and still fee resolved.

Most fans’ issue with this is that they did this for the short-term drama, not for the long-term story telling.

—Sincerely, a novelist (a VERY different writing form) who writes tragedies and recently finished a gay romantic tragedy that ends—well—with a break up.

[rebeltigera]

Absolutely obsessed with V!Wukong and Blind!Macaque.

I have questions, overall comments and some hypothesized things. (Feel free to ignore or not answer all of them, but the ADHD has kicked in and I gotta splurge because YES)

OKAY! So;

You’ve mentioned in the past that B!Macaque is terrified of Wukong because of what was done to him, PTSD is a bitch. How would V!Wukong get around this to show that, to Mac, he’s not a threat?

* My first thought was, oh! He could start leaving his things around that smell like him so Macaque gets used to his smell, but that seemed more like training a dog, so probably not. But maybe?

Would V! Wukong try and steal Macaque some new eyes that work or an elixir that could heal his sight? Is it possible for his sight to even be healed at this point? Is that something Macaque would even want?

Once some time has passed and Macaque got more comfortable with this Wukong, would Macaque show his growing trust for V!Wukong by grooming his fur? Or allowing V!Wukong to groom him?

How would they show their growing intimately outside of… well, physical affection? Would they feed one another? Pick out clothes they know the other likes? Little things unique to them.

Would V!Wukong ever tell B!Macaque about his macaque? And if he did, how long would it take him to open up? Same scenario with Macaque, how long would it take him to open up?

I like to imagine that the word “Destiny” is a forbidden word for both of them. Neither of them like hearing it. Good way to get V!Wikong to start growling.

Your B!Macaque is so beautiful, he reminds me of a delicate crystal flower, I like to imagine V!Wukong is scared to touch him for a while because he’s afraid he’ll break him further.

V!Wukong violently protecting B!Macaque is something that just makes my heart happy for some reason, and B!Macaque gently cleaning up and healing him afterwards even though V!Wukong is the last person who’d ever need healing is such a tender vision in my mind.

Okay, I believe that’s the end of my rambling. I can’t think of anything else at the moment. I hope you have a wonderful day!

THE TISM HAS TISMED AAAA LOVE IT-

IDK why y'all decided that this ship is interesting after like - one art sksksmssm

But alr

... Oh boy the first one -

To be honest? I Don't know, maybe it would be his charm, the little things he'd do , or that he'd rescue Mac from falling into his own shadows. I didn't ever thought much about it

Mac wouldn't notice him at first . His heartbeat concealed, his power too. Wukong would indeed leave little things around but not in a "find my smell comforting way" . He would do that , move cluttery n dishes to more accessible places. Mac tend to leave them in the sun (to see them through shadows) but once the sun is gone they are gone from his view cuz they don't leave shadow anymore or are concealed by it.

Mac's eyes are not able to heal anymore. However Wukong would find a way to connect in a way their eyes. It wouldn't be permanent thing , just sometimes. See what I see kind of thing

Mac might not want but would need it. Because the last thing he saw was Wukong striking him . And it stuck like super glue.

Wukong might be the one to get a grooming session first. He'd be so confused and scared in a way . Like- he wouldn't expect that and sit obediently like a puppet till Mac would be done . Wukong wouldn't get to touch his fur tho.

Casual Physical affection would be everything to them . Because they both would be reluctant to it at the start .

Wukong wanting to touch but never doing so , Mac starved for it but never asking for it .

So their trust would be shown by it fully .

One thing that I can think of rn is that wuk would wake him up by gentle touches. He relies mostly on his hearing nowadays so it would be nice n comforting.

Whisper when he'd get a feeling Mac would get overwhelmed.

Outside of it , cooking , clothing etc etc - yeah it would happen

About telling him about his task- he wouldn't. Coming to that universe his memories become no more than flashes of the past. He doesn't even know what he searched so long for . He still get flashes of past Mihou and it brings him pang of pain but it'll pass.

For Mac to open up- months? Maybe years . Once he'd realize that V!Wuk is not a threat It would be easier. Wukong got nothing to hide from him so he'd be open like a book.

Mac speaking of destiny

Wukong growling it's bullshit, while hugging him closer

He'd get some pats.

The other moments he might growl more would be in safe heaven called nest, but it's story for a different acc sksksks

Wukong indeed would be scared to hurt him. Those bloodied hands are the one that destroy everything. He wouldn't dare to taint Mac with em. He would have moments when he'd think if he held him too strong he might crush him . Just like that.

The last thing might've happen , but wukong would rather want to keep to himself if he'd ever got hurt or dirty with blood . Mac is too pure.

[hearts4werka]

NNN day 7 | Underground Secrets

summary: your boss has set up a dangerous mission for you—to take down the intel of the notorious rival gang, The Vipers. Your boyfriend, a drug dealer of a rival organization, Chris is advising you not to go through with the plan because of how dangerous it is for someone like you, will you listen to your boyfriend or value your reputation over the risk of life and go through with the plan?

warnings: ANGST, gang membership, drug dealing, strong language, mentions of committing murder, arguing, a dangerous mission, the risk of life or death, illegal possession of firearm, illegal underground gangs, viewers advisory is supervised! Proceed to read with caution

authors note: and the one week mark finally arrived! Tysm for all of the love and support I’ve received during this whole week and I’m proud to announce that week one has been done, there’s still a lot of steps to take before reaching the end but we’ll get through it! Luv y’all so much & hope y’all enjoy this one

no nut november | masterlist | guestlist

The city's dim lights flickered like a heart in distress, throwing long shadows that danced over the crumbling warehouse walls. I slumped against a rusted pillar, arms crossed, determination etched on my face. Chris, the infamous drug dealer from the rival gang, stood before me. His messy hair showed the exact replica of the tension in the air. Our eyes met, his glare sharp, frustration carving lines into his hardened features.

“Are you fucking insane?” Chris exclaimed, running his fingers through his messy locks in pure frustration with my stubbornness. “You’re seriously thinking about going through with this? Killing that intel guy for the Vipers? That’s a one-way ticket to getting yourself killed!” I straightened my posture, breaking the heavy silence between us like hammer on glass. “This is my job, Chris. I’m backed into a corner. My boss demands results, and if I fail, I’ll be the one buried in a ditch.”

“Do you really think I want to see you six feet underground for some bullshit mission?” He closed the gap between our bodies, his voice filled with urgency. “Listen, I’ve seen how these Vipers play. You’re walking into a total trap. They’ll have their eyes on you, and the moment you walk in, you’ll be history.” I stood my ground, not letting his shooting fire walk all over my resolve. “What did you just say? It’s just a job, I’m good at what I do. I can handle myself for once.”

"‘Handle yourself?’ Chris scoffed, a bitter laugh rumbling in his throat before escaping past his lips. “This ain’t some amateur shit, this is the Vipers we’re talking about! They don’t play nice, and this intel guy, he’s not your average rat. He’s got layers of protection, and I promise you, they’ll be ready to take you down.” His words hit hard, a mix of care and frustration mixed together. But I couldn’t show any signs of vulnerability. ‘I get it, but you can’t decide for me. I’m no damsel in distress, Chris. I can fight my own battles.’"

“Fighting and getting yourself killed are two different things,” he retorted, fists clenched together and almost threatening to do unspeakable acts. “And what do you think will happen if you go in there and fail? You think they’ll just let you go? No! They’ll take you out, and I won’t sit around and wait for news that you’re dead.” “You’re trying so hard to act like you give a shit about me,” I shot back, my anger rising to higher levels. “When have you ever given a shit about anyone but yourself? This is my life! If anyone’s making the final choice, it’s going to be me.”

“Damn it, you’re right,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath. “I can’t afford to care about everyone. But you…” He rubbed his face, laying the vulnerability I never saw coming. “You matter. I don’t want another goddamn funeral to attend because of this war.” For a minute, the walls between us felt like broken glass, and I noticed a spark of connection. But that spark couldn't wipe the weight of the mission on my back. I stepped back, shaking my head. “This deep in, I can’t back down. It shows weakness, you know how they treat that in this game.”

Chris's blue eyes blazed with intensity. “And if you have to sacrifice your life to prove a point, then what does that make you? Some fucking plaything for a bloodsucking boss? You deserve better than this!” A sharp stab pierced through my heart, a mix of rage and something deeper like fear. Fear for my life. Fear for this weird connection that felt like a chain. “This isn’t up for discussion, Chris. I’ve got a job to do here.”

His tone softened, becoming almost desperate. “I’m not asking you to quit. All I’m asking is for you to think. We can come up with a better plan. We can…” he paused, then added, “we can work together.” I become blindsided by his heartfelt sentence but I couldn’t let him get anywhere near danger this high of a lever, even though he is a strong ally to have on your side, I can’t bear the idea of him stepping into the wicked battlefield against the Vipers with not enough experience with them beforehand.

“I’m not letting you get anywhere near danger like this, it’s The Vipers. Without any experience with them in the past, there’s no way you’ll make it out of there.” The weigh of my decision hung above me like a noose, knowing how desperate he’s already got to make me stay and to what levels he could climb to make me think I have no other choice. “I’ll be fine, you can’t do this shit alone.” He pleads, the look in his eyes almost begging me to let him go with me, the vulnerable side of him is starting to show that rarely anyone gets to see.

While in the middle of the conversation mix between stubbornness and desperation, my phone rings inside of the pocket of my jeans, alerting me of an incoming call. Pausing for a moment before answering the call, finding out it’s coming from my boss with a demand to get the job done as fast as possible since if the Vipers figure out our plan they’ll be on the move immediately. He hangs up the phone, it beeping which indicates the call has reached an end.

“I have to go, don’t follow me.” I provide, shoving my phone back into its spot while picking up the black hand gun sitting on a nearby old crate. “Don’t dare to argue with me about this further, I have to get it done before the Vipers catch on.” He slumps over to me, rolling his eyes at how idiotic my decision is. Delivering a soft kiss on my forehead before letting go of me completely, glancing down at my face with sorrow etched into the features of his face. “Just don’t die on me, okay?” “I won’t, I promise.” With the last words placed on the table, I take off and walk towards the exit. Slipping on my helmet for protection before hopping onto a black motorcycle, sparing Chris one last glance before taking off into the dark dangerous night with determination to prove my worth and end the Vipers for good.

Guestlist!

| - @strnzzvsp - @sturnsxplr-25 - @luvvs4chriss - @sturniolosweetheart33 - @choclatestarfishwithahat - @venusxsturnio - @bagsbyclair0 - @sturnstvs - @dykes4chris - @hoe4matt - @cayleeuhithinknot - @strnilolover - @marrykisskilled - @phone4pills - @emely9274 - @cupiidk1lls - @lily-strnlo - @nicksgirlfriend - |

[bullet-prooflove]

Trying: Clinton Skye x Reader

Tagging: @caffeinatedwoman @glazzyglaz @Racheluk @kmc1989

Companion piece to:

Downtime - You receive a phone call from Clinton when a case hits a little too close to home.

Two Weeks - Two weeks is too long to be apart.

Just How Much (NSFW) - Clinton shows you just how much he's missed you.

Good To Be Home - Clinton is happy to be home.

Love Letters - Clinton finds your love letter in his bag.

It's the undercover op that’s the last straw for you. When Clinton calls you from Baltimore to explain his case has evolved, that it requires him to disappear for a few months you lose your shit entirely.

“You’ve already been away two weeks working this case, I don’t understand…”

“You know I would come home if I could.” He had sighed as he stood at the window of his hotel room staring down across the darkening sky. There’s a storm rolling in through the west, already he can feel charge in the air as he grips the phone tightly.

“If you’ve changed your mind just tell me.” You say as you sit at the kitchen table with the fertility schedule in front of you. “You promised you’d do this with me but I’ve spent months jabbing myself in the ass for no reason.”

“Sienna.” He says softly, pinching the space between his eyes. “You know that’s not…”

“And now you’re telling me that the next time I see you will be months down the line, that it could be two months, it could be six.” You say, your voice breaking. “Why the fuck am I doing this Clinton? Why am I putting my body through hell when you can’t even be bothered to show up?”

You hang up then and Clinton, he’s left staring at the phone with his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t want to leave things like this with you, not when he’s about to disappear.

It’s past midnight when he gets home, the house is locked up but he can see the lamp illuminating the bedroom from the outside window. He knows you’re still twisted up about the situation between the two of you, that you won’t be sleeping tonight because you’ll be worrying about him.

When he lets himself in, he heads immediately to the bedroom because he can’t let this thing sit any longer. He finds you clad in leggings and your old academy t-shirt, curled around  his pillow. Your eyes are rimmed with red and the tears still stain your cheeks. In the bin reside the fertility drugs, the ones you’ve been taking for the past couple of months.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” You tell him as he lies down beside you. “There’s no point in trying if you’re not here.”

There’s an ache in his chest, one he feels acutely as his fingers interlink with yours. He’s always wanted a family, he thought  the two of you could have that together but his job it just keeps taking him away. It’s you that’s doing all the heavy lifting, the injections, the hormonal fluctuations, you’ve handled all of that on your own because Clinton, he’s just not there.

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, his thumb brushing away the tears that stain your cheeks. “I’m sorry that this has all been on you. I always meant to be here…”

“You need to make a choice.” You tell him and his heart breaks because he always knew it would come to this.

His job or a baby, it shouldn’t be such a hard decision but it is because all Clinton can think about are those cases in his desk drawer, the ones that he’s slowly whittling away at because of the resources his current position allows him to have. You must see the indecision on his features because your lips purse together grimly.

“Think about it while your away.” You tell him before you withdraw from the bed and head towards the bathroom. “Let me know what you decide.”

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[thereareotherwaysofpersuasion]

The Storm of Vengeance Which Consumes

Yeah. It's that scene. The swiss cheese scene. The Sushseidon scene. But it's Poseidon POV with a lot of internal emotions. This was written as part of a personal series I'm working on where one of my OCs is looking into Poseidon's history and experiences this memory.

A lot of this was inspired by the various fanarts/animatics I've seen. Such as Gwendy's use of Hermes' sandals, HAH Studios' Get In The Water (specifically Ody's hand on Horseidon's nose), sloansloan's Ody pulling Poseion's hair. So if you're reading something and are like "hmm, this seems familiar" it was probably inspired by something. The discorporation is part of the lore in my series.

Enjoy!

Words: 2300 Warnings: Torture (obviously), graphic descriptions of violence, uhh. Yeah. It's that scene, soooo Characters: Odysseus and Poseidon (with various others mentioned/referenced)

Anger consumes his heart, his mind sharp and clear on the currents of vengeance. The mortal escaped him once. But not this time. His shadow consumes the single man on a raft, his towering figure of water imposing an air of terror. At long last, it will be over. At long last, he will have his revenge. 

“We’re both hurting from loss. Why not leave this here and just go home?” the mortal offers, pain in his features as he pleads. 

The words make the god hesitate. The anger that has carved a home in his heart leaves his chest aching. The minuscule hope that he could let this pain go, that he could be free from it; it tempts him. Could it really be that simple? And yet— “I can’t,” the near broken voice of Poseidon leaves his mouth. 

The mortal dares to raise a hand in offering. A soft gesture. 

And despite himself, the god leans down towards it, ready to receive it. He’s desperate for the relief from the storm, desperate for it to finally be over with.

“Maybe you could learn to forgive,” the mortal offers a gentle smile. 

He stops short, his face a mere few feet from the mortal. What is he doing? Is he, the King of the Seas, swayed by a few silver words and a decade of chase? Is his resolve so fragile? His eyes sharpen. “No.” He pulls back, his form cracking and growing as more water rushes up to join his form. 

The seas grow rougher, almost becoming like solid glass pillars. The wind swirls around harder, creating tornadoes of water.

“Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves,” he declares his mantra once again as he raises his trident, spinning it before plunging it into the water. “Die!”

The water shatters into thousands of rugged pieces. The raft on top of it falls into the depths. 

He watches the mortal that has evaded and outsmarted him at every turn finally sink beneath his power, finally drowning under his wrath. A sharp sense of satisfaction stabs at his heart, adding to the burden of vengeance he carries. But he counts it as worth it. Because he finally did it. His mission is complete. His anger is satiated. 

At least it should be. Why does it feel like he’s not done? He killed the man. He enacted justice. For his son’s pain and his own pride. Why does he not feel satisfied?

The wind continues to whip around, stringing out his long wet hair. The storm rages on. Both outside and within. At long last, he turns to leave.

“Poseidon!” a voice screams in anger behind him.

He turns, his eyes widening. 

The mortal floats high in the air, windbag in hand and Hermes’ winged sandals on his feet.

Fury fills the god as the mortal has once again escaped his demise. He bares his teeth and turns fully around. He barely gets to raise his trident before he feels himself being pummeled. 

Though the mortal’s weapon can’t break his skin, the speed at which each blow is delivered leaves him dazed. Like six hundred men are beating his body. Like the souls of the mortal’s lost crew have come back for revenge of their own. Water is knocked from his form in showers of droplets from every strike. His eyes try to track the mortal, but he’s nothing more than a blur in the air.

In the span of a mere few seconds, his form has been beaten down to its smallest height. His concentration has been shattered, his vision spinning as he falls from the sky, landing on a rocky outcropping.

The first thing he notices when he opens his eyes is the storm of his design raging around them. The second is the mortal standing at the rock’s edge, looking out at the consequences of his actions. A twisted sense of irony and victory worm their way into his heart despite his aching body working to heal itself from the borderline magical onslaught. 

And he laughs. 

“You idiot,” he spits at the mortal, pushing himself up by the rock behind himself. “Can’t you see? You sealed your fate just to beat me!” he continues laughing. The pitiful thing about mortals. For how clever they think they are, their hubris will always be their doom. “You really thought you could control my storm? That it would bow to your whims, King of Ithaca? You will never get back! And it is all by your own hands. Just like the lost lives of your crew.”

The mortal’s head slowly turns towards the god drunk on power. “You’re going to call off that storm,” he growls as he stalks towards him.

A scoff leaves the god. “Or what? You can’t kill me.”

The mortal bends down towards the golden trident laying between them. “Exactly.” He picks it up.

The trident shines in the hands of the descendant of Hermes.

The god’s eyes narrow in confusion at the statement. But as he looks at the prongs coming closer to him, then the mortal’s no longer human eyes, a new sensation fills him. One he hasn’t felt in centuries. The predatory steps unlock something almost human within him.

Terror.

“Wait.” The god starts trying to get up. “Wait!”

But he isn’t fast enough. In his arrogance, he let the mortal breach his weakness. In his own hubris, his own haughtiness over his immortality, he forgot the warning of Prometheus’ fate. Immortality can be a curse.

The metal embeds itself in his chest, pinning him to the rock. For the first time in eons, the cosmos hears him scream. For the first time since Titanchomy, he feels real pain. The sting of a death he cannot have, the tearing of flesh, the warmth of ichor seeping out of his wounds like currents withdrawing from oceanside caves at low tide.

And when the barbed ends are withdrawn, it pulls his body with it until a foot on his stomach stops him. He gasps as the metal is freed, but the relief— if he can even call it that— doesn’t last long. He sees the next blow coming and raises his hand to stop it. 

But the mortal sees this and aims directly for the shoulder.

His arm goes numb, limply falling to the side as he cries out again.

“How does it feel to be helpless? How does it feel to know pain?” the mortal mocks as he dislodges the weapon with a struggle, the barbs getting stuck again and pulling more flesh with them.

His ears burn at the humiliation, his chest tight as he breathes laboredly. His mind is assaulted with the sting of pain, an overwhelming force like none he’s ever experienced before. No one dares to strike the King of the Seas, especially not in a truly hazardous way. No one… except Nobody.

The next stab plunges into his stomach, slicing through muscle and intestines. His own howls join the chorus of wind and thunder.

It is no doubt music to the mortal’s ears as he continues to lay out the god’s sins against him, as he continues to enact his justice.

The god slides further and further down the rock, his eyes and markings glowing as his body desperately tries to heal itself. He’s never been discorporated before. He’s never had his physical form stripped away from him. He’s never experienced the shame of being trapped in his own domain from his failures. But as his body is torn to shreds by the overzealous mortal, he fears for the first time that this may actually be it. This may be the first time he experiences as close to death as gods get.

His power is split between trying to heal himself and trying to start a counter attack. An earthquake, a tidal wave, anything. 

But the mortal, once champion of the Goddess of Wisdom, accounted for that too. And he strikes where he knows it will hurt. The soft flesh of the abdomen, the already broken ribs and pierced lung, the knee, the other shoulder. Every blow breaks the god’s concentration, keeping him trapped against the rock. “Look what you’ve turned me into!”

The god can’t help but comply, staring up at the monster of a man he made. A mortal pushed too far, a man immeasurably beyond his breaking point. It’s almost in slow motion as the god’s gaze fixates on a droplet of rain washing his ichor off the mortal’s face. He can only breathe laboriously, unable to attempt to stop the trident from sinking into his collarbone.

The mortal grabs his hair, pulling the god’s head back to look at him. “Look what we’ve become.” 

His eyes sting, his throat raw from his screams. He’s lost the strength to even try to turn his face away, to fight back for control of his head. The warm vengeance that kept him on the shores of Ithaca for ten years has been transferred into the mortal, leaving the god cold and broken. 

Like a forest that has been consumed by wildfire, leaving fragile dead trees in its place. Like a hurricane that levels towns, like tidal waves that wash everything that was once held dear out to sea. The god has lost everything. A new monster was birthed from his storm of vengeance. 

And even when he thought he finished it, even when he got what he wanted, it didn’t feel like enough. He was left disappointed, unsatisfied. Killing the mortal didn’t end the storm. His revenge has consumed them both, eating them alive as the god’s father had once devoured him.

Up until now he thought Zeus stripping him of his divinity and enslaving him to a mortal king was the worst blow his pride could be dealt. But another mortal king is proving him wrong.

The mortal throws the god’s head backwards into the rock, twisting the trident as he pulls it out.

The god gasps, clutching his stomach. This has to end. He has to make it stop. Before he fully experiences defeat. Before he takes on more shame. “Enough,” he orders.

But who is the king to stop? Who is wielding the trident? And so the mortal continues his assault, reopening half-healed wounds in the god’s shoulder.

The god squeezes his eyes shut, a long groan of agony leaving him, “Stooop!” He feels sick as his voice dips further and further into desperation, pleading with the mortal, begging of all things. He cries out louder, as if the mortal couldn’t hear him the first time over his ranting.

But no. The mortal did hear him. The begs were clear as day. And they were ignored. “You didn’t stop when I begged you!” The trident’s aim is true, an extension of the mortal’s emotions, plunging into the god’s throat and left eye at the same time.

The god’s body locks up, convulsing. His whole head is engulfed in pain, the sharp point that penetrated his eye having sunken into his skull. His remaining eye widens as what would have been his loudest scream is silenced by the prong piercing his vocal cords. The sweet metallic taste fills his mouth and drips off his lips. 

The scene goes black. For a moment, he feels himself slipping away. No. He can’t give the mortal that satisfaction. He can’t let him win. Even if he already has. He barely hears the distant words of the mortal, though is mouth is slowly moving, “You…”

“You told me to close my heart! You said the world was dark!” The mortal makes an upwards strike with the trident, lifting the god’s body off the ground a bit to glare at him.

The god weakly glares back with one blue eye flickering in its glow. “Monster!” he cries out, hoping that will break the man, hoping that will end this torment.

But instead, it just seems to fuel the monster in the man as he rips the trident out. His response to the accusation comes in the words the god was so fond of as he raises the trident, unknowing how close he is to finishing the job, “Didn’t you say that ruthlessness is mercy upon our—”

And the god’s resolve shatters. His own words being used against him are almost more painful than his own weapon. “Alright!” he cries out.

The mortal hesitates, trident raised overhead.

The god forces his remaining eye open, though his sight of the mortal is obscured by rain and blood. “Please,” he rasps, brought to his lowest of lows. Subjected to begging for mercy from a mere mortal.

The mortal grips the trident tighter before dropping it with a clang.

The wind and waves die down as the god’s vision flickers. His head slumps forward as the scene turns dark. He barely feels his body hit the cold rocks. Every muscle pulses in pain. He doesn’t know when the mortal flew off on Hermes’ sandals. He doesn’t know how long he laid there trying to heal. Perhaps Apollo would be gracious enough to tend to him. But as time goes on, no one shows. He’s left alone on the tiny island, laying in his own ichor. Olympus has shunned him, probably mocking him.

The god finally begins to move, though immediately crying out as a sharp pain flares in his chest, a crack sounding like something broke. He lays back down, but the pain doesn’t lessen. His head gets lighter and lighter. His body gets weaker. It feels like fluid fills his lungs. Which shouldn’t be a problem, he can breathe underwater. But apparently he can’t breathe ichor.

There’s no storms for months. The tides are the calmest anyone has ever seen. Not a single earthquake is recorded anywhere. For the God of the Sea was nowhere to be found in the mortal world.

[xbomboi]

i know there’s a case to be made for daring suffering some character flanderization in his later appearances, but i like to think the break up with lizzie was just THAT bad.

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: death mention / strangulation mention / stabbing mention / blood mention / self-sacrifice / codependency mention in tags / ]

I think a lot about how common it is for Raph to be the one to have direct focus put on him when Leo gets into all his near death experiences.

Like, when Leo is thrown off a building, it’s Raph who’s right there jumping after him, not even thinking about the consequences to himself when he does. When Leo almost gets skewered by the Krang, Raph’s right there to take the blow and send Leo to safety without a second thought. When Leo’s being strangled to near death, it’s a Krangified Raph doing the job, doing exactly what Raph would never, ever want to do. When Leo is telling Casey Jr to close the portal, it’s Raph who tries desperately to convince Leo otherwise.

Likewise, Leo is consistently very single minded when Raph gets forcibly separated from them. Both when in the sewers and by the Krang, Leo is dead set on finding Raph first and foremost.

I also think it’s interesting that during each of Leo’s near death experiences, the lightheartedness of his words during them goes directly hand in hand with both how close Raph is to him physically and how much danger Raph is also in in that moment. From a literal “I told you so” as Leo’s falling away from Raph to a soft joke about how “hero moves” are Raph’s style - both of these are on the more morbidly carefree side and both of these notably take Leo farther away from Raph and, in turn, have Raph not in immediate danger.

On the other side of things is the apology from Leo, heedless of the danger he himself is in as he seriously and genuinely speaks to a Krangified Raph face to face. Then there’s Leo’s freezing and desperation as Raph takes a hit meant for him and sends just Leo to safety, leaving Raph himself behind. Both of these involve much closer proximity and Raph being directly harmed - these together make Leo much more vulnerable in his words and actions, something not even the threat of death can make him.

These two care about each other so much, and they’re way too much alike for their own good.

[skinreflectsthesun]

I am not well 🤧🤒🥺😴

[micamicster]

I just am obsessed with any story that’s about people who love each other but cannot do justice to that love because they have a duty to something else first. That there is something else fundamental and demanding that they must choose over love every time. To be forced to choose one irreplaceable thing over another etc etc

[s0dium]

𝐖𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐘

A/n: For all my weird tumblr smut AO3 girls Synopsis: No one expects the weird girl to have such a good pussy. Warnings: Male whimpering, squirting, pussy drunk men, pervert y/n, unprotected sex

No one suspects the weird girl to be a perverted fiend.

No one suspects the weird girl who reads AO3 and Tumblr on the bus and has key chains of their favorite chibi anime guy. No one suspects the girl who fumbles over their words during a presentation, the girl who goes to classes in sweaters and sweatpants, the girl who spends her time daydreaming about fictional scenarios. No one suspects the girl who always seems shy and sweet, only to have a secret stash of explicit fanfiction hidden on her phone, the kind that would make even the most confident person turn red.

And of course, no one expects the weird girl to have such good pussy.

So when the confident, smooth-talking guy gets you in his bedroom, how the hell is it possible that he is trembling from pleasure just from slipping his tip in?

"Fuck, I c-can’t—" he groans, his voice breaking as he stumbles over the words. His usual cool demeanor is completely shattered, replaced with breathless gasps and desperate sounds. His head is thrown back, neck taut, and his eyes are screwed shut like he’s trying to hold onto every ounce of composure, terrified that if he opens them, the mind-numbing pleasure coursing through him will slip away. Every time your pussy squeezes around his aching dick his body trembles uncontrollably, muscles tensing and relaxing in waves as he tries to keep himself together.

"Look at me," you coo, your voice steady despite the pounding of your own heart. You may be practically a virgin, but you're by no means an idiot. Hours of reading smut, scrolling through Twitter porn threads, and indulging in endless fantasies have taught you more than you'd ever admit. You've spent too many nights alone, lost in stories and scenes where you imagined yourself in control, learning every filthy detail in your mind until it felt like second nature. So now, laying here with him unraveling over you, you're anything but inexperienced.

He locks eyes with you, big and desperate and you cup his perfect face with trembling hands.

"You're mine tonight ok?" you whisper, bringing him in just enough for your breath to tickle his lips, your voice low and dripping with confidence you didn't know you had. "Every sound, every breath—your mine."

"F-fuck, y-yeah I'm yours" he groans, accentuating his words with a sharp thrust right into your cervix, knocking the wind out of you.

"Mmm!" You cry. It’s painful, but in the pain is so much pleasure. He presses his forehead against yours as he slides in and out of you, gripping the sheets with his supporting hand as your hot, wet entrance swallows his cock. Instinctively, you're cunt squeezed around the foreign intrusion, trying to push it out, making him let out a low groan of his own as he thrusts even deeper into you. 

“Y/n I-I can feel you doing it to me,” he says hoarsely.

His fingers gently press into the skin of your hip, guiding and steadying you as he pulls back and thrusts into you. The sudden friction and collision with your G-spot makes your brain go fuzzy. Ticklish pleasure courses through your veins and you immediately throw your head back against the wall as he rams into you.

"Hnghh, s-so good~~" You whine. It was dizzying, the curvature of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up.

Simultaneously, his other hand sought yours, finding it with a purposeful tenderness. His fingers intertwined with yours, locking them together in a grip that was both a clasp and a caress.

"Were we doing it like this in your head baby?" He grunts, his Adam apple bobs as he groans from the pleasure of how fucking heavenly your pussy feels. "Because this is how we were doing it in mine." He felt good? Try euphoric. How could it be possible that pussy feels this good?

You can't even open your mouth to respond. The friction of his dick against your walls is just too good and as his pace intensified, a dizzying warmth spread through you, filling every corner of your being with a euphoric haze. The sensation of being completely enveloped, utterly connected, sent electric flesh arrows of pleasure through your body, making your eyes flutter and roll back slightly in sheer bliss. Every motion he makes, every time his fat tip collides with your cervix, leaves behind a trail of sparkling heat that seems to light you from within.

And of course, no one expects the weird girl to be a squirter.

You don't know whats happening and you don't have enough to warn him. Release washed over you in an all-encompassing wave, radiating out from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes. It swept through you like a storm, leaving a trail of starbursts in its wake. Your body arched instinctively, clinging to him as the wave crested, then gently, slowly, began to ebb.

He stills his motion and watches through wide eyes as clear liquid sprays onto his abdomen and you tremble and moan. As you floated back down from the heights of bliss, your breath came easier, softer, the lingering aftershocks of pleasure pulsing gently through you.

"Why did you stop?" You whisper.

Sukuna, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Toji Fushiguro

#weirdgirlpussy

[suguann]

Possessive!Gojo who makes you wear his jersey when you go to parties at his fraternity after games, openly admiring the way you dwarf inside his clothes. He leans forward on the edge of the bed to get a better look, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes raking over every inch of you from head to toe. 

"Toru, it's too big," you pout, checking out your reflection in the floor-length mirror on his closet door. “I look silly.”

The tent growing in his sweats says otherwise—all the blood in his body rushing from one head to the other just from seeing two things that are his coexisting—and he gives you another once-over, thinking of several ways to describe you, silly not being one of them.

"You’re so pretty, baby.” He swears he’s a little drunk from the sight of you, but he means it.

Possessive!Gojo who pushes you up against the door inside the locker room before a game—slightly jealous from the guys looking at you as they filed out into the hall, and equally turned on because he knows they can’t have you—telling you he can't play with a hard-on before he's pressing into you from behind.

He can feel your tummy quivering under his hand where he holds you close, feels how his cock is carving its way inside of you, and you both moan when he presses down lightly. It makes him dizzy how tight and small you are; pulsing, wet, and swollen-soft velvet that gives every time he buries himself into you.

"You gonna hold all of my cum in this cute cunt until after the game, y-yeah?" he sucks the question into your neck. “Don’t worry, I’ll lick it out of you afterward. Just keep it warm for me, ’kay?”

You answer him with a high-pitched whine as you clench down hard around him, cumming with a muffled scream against his palm and nearly pushing him out of your warm, fluttering heat.

Possessive!Gojo makes sure to stuff his cum back into your drooling cunt with two thick fingers, curling them into your front wall to pull another soft orgasm out of you—just a little more, ah, there you go, always so good for me—before he helps you fix your panties to trap it there.

His arms wrap around you before he presses a tender kiss to your temple. “Don’t forget to cheer for me.”

Possessive!Gojo whose smirk from watching you squirm in the stands, melts into a glare when a guy takes the empty seat beside you, sitting almost too close for his liking.

“Stop staring at your girlfriend and hit the fucking puck already,” Sukuna grumbles, leaning against his stick.

Possessive!Gojo who makes sure to fuck you in the backseat of his car afterward with the windows cracked in hopes that the guy from the stands would walk by to you moaning Gojo’s name, and he eats you out just like he promised—bending you over the center console, smiling to himself at how shy and squirmy you get—only to fill you up again.

Possessive!Gojo who pouts whenever Nanami manages to steal your attention with something sciency and nerdy (something entirely up your alley) whenever you come over on weeknights. 

“That’s so neat, Nanami,” you smile, hearts practically in your eyes as you listen to him talk about his latest research. “Maybe I can stop by the lab and check it out sometime.”

Possessive!Gojo who doesn’t miss the way Nanami’s ears turn a shade of red from your praise—color high in his cheeks—how he gives a sheepish smile whenever you talk to him.

“Toru,” you say, finally bringing your soft, pretty gaze on him again. “Are you even studying?”

Yeah, he is, but something else entirely, he thinks as he watches how your shorts hug your ass while you walk around the house’s common room—and he’s not the only one staring.

Possessive!Gojo who slaps your thigh, making you jolt in his lap. "Did I tell you to stop, huh, baby?"

You shake your head, biting your lip and avoiding the pair of eyes watching both of you (intently) from across the room—especially you—a quiet observer as you slowly sink onto your boyfriend’s cock while Nanami thrusts his own into his fist. 

"Ah, fuck—b-but–"

Your words break off into a choked moan when Gojo thrusts his hips up underneath you, pressed as deep inside as he can get, and when he looks down, he swears he can see the imprint of himself pressing against your stomach. 

"Tell me what I said,” he says through gritted teeth as he starts bouncing you, the couch continuing its steady squeaking under your knees.

Possessive!Gojo who can tell that it's hard for you to concentrate with the way his cock moves inside you, and you’re unable to answer with anything other than babbling nonsense. He decides to take mercy on you and stops to grind you in his lap instead.

He kisses your cheek, your neck, anywhere he can get his mouth on. "I said, don't stop until you cum, and you’re going to let Nanami see how fucking pretty you look when you do."

The next sound out of your mouth is a squeal when he holds your inner thighs to keep you open as he thrusts up into you again and again—letting Nanami see what can never be his.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “So good for me. Go on, show him how my good girl takes cock.”

Possessive!Gojo who locks eyes with Nanami just as he’s about to cum, burying his groans of pleasure into your neck as white-hot sparks shudder up his spine and heat pools in his gut.

Mine, he tries to say, but Gojo thinks his frat brother gets it when Gojo’s the one cumming inside you and Nanami’s spilling all over his fist.

Masterlist

[teddybeartoji]

“look at me, hm?”

toji's voice is barely above a whisper, his words softer than ever. with his hands circled around your middle, he stands there behind you, his chest glued against your back like a big bear. his heavy head rests on your shoulder, eyes locked onto yours in a quiet plea. you think you hear a pout in his tone. 

but you don’t give him a reaction, gaze locked onto the vegetables on the cutting board in front of you.

you’re upset with him and toji feels like he's dying.

all of this just because you're jealous.

because the love of his life is jealous. 

toji only spared her a glance, brushing her off and saying that his partner is waiting for him – she’s the one that went on and on, talking about the milk carton in his hands as if toji had never seen it before. but little do you know, every single word that spilled from the stranger, went in one ear and right out the other – toji couldn’t be less interested in anybody other than you. if you were to crack open his head and take a look around, it’d be all you. you and your laugh, you and your eyes, you and your hands, you and your hobbies. you and you and you. even when he was standing there with the milk carton in his hand, the only thing on his mind was how he’s going to watch you chomp down a big bowl of cereal the next morning. 

you just happened to see the moment the woman leaned closer with a charming smile on her lips and her hand on his forearm while saying her goodbye, and that was enough for the ugly thoughts to bully themselves into your head.

even though you trust toji, you know he doesn’t entertain any flirting attempts that might come his way, but sometimes… sometimes you just can’t help but feel that you might not be enough. what if he did think the woman was more beautiful, or maybe he did find the guy, who asked for his help at the gym the other day, hot? what if he found them more interesting than you, what if he feels himself stuck to you against his will? 

you heard your own words swimming around in your head and cringed at yourself, ashamed that you were letting that weird growth of jealousy torment you.

but it had already taken root. 

that evil, ugly little thing in the back of your mind. and you couldn’t shake it.

not on your own at least. 

toji had made his way over to you, taking his place by your side while squinting at the little piece of paper in his hands. but you were quiet, more so than usual, and toji isn’t stupid – he might not be the best with feelings and emotions, but he does know you. 

he could tell just by the way you avoided his gaze, the way you started to shorten your answers. the way you pulled away and into yourself – he watched you disappear into your own head right in front of his eyes and he hated it. 

but not wanting to push any wrong buttons here in public, he swallowed your silence with a heavy heart and guided you to your car with a hand on your lower back. he’s not as afraid as he used to be – he isn’t as scared to step into your space, now knowing that this is just what you need sometimes. a little push, a little nudge, to break free from the vines of envy and jealousy and doubt. he’ll burn them, he’ll cut you free. 

the car ride home was quiet. with your head rested against the window and eyes set on the passing buildings and cars, toji found himself stealing glances at you every chance he got. oh, how he hated the pout on your lips, the very same one you’re wearing now. all he wanted to do was to take you into his arms and kiss you, hold you. to make you laugh. to make you forget every single thing that has ever bothered you.

toji let you simmer for exactly ten minutes, just enough for you to change into your pyjamas and to wash up before deciding on your distraction – the dishes. he snuck up on you as silently as he could; the tips of his fingers itched to feel your skin under them, his ears tired from the silence in the apartment. the sigh that you let out as he pressed himself flush against you, sounded better than anything before. toji had already started to miss you in those twenty minutes you were away from him. 

“please… “

it’s not often you get to hear that word, especially in that tone, so it’s hard for you to ignore the stuttering of your poor, sensitive heart. his nose nudges against your cheek and you put down the knife to lean into him on instinct; with your hands on top of his, your bodies mold together like pieces of a puzzle. 

“you know you’re the only one for me…” 

the words form in the back of his mouth and roll from his tongue like a low purr. they’re coated in something sweet, in something only you get to see and feel. his arms tighten around you and you know he means it. his heart beats against your back, as nervous as it is confident. he’s sure about his statement but a part of him is still scared that you won’t have him. that you’ll leave him. 

“she talked about the milk, that’s all she did, sweetheart.” gently, he sways your bodies side to side, letting the warmth of his body engulf you as he ropes you back to him.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“do you believe me?”

it’s something you’ve been practicing in order to get rid of any remaining specks of doubt. it goes both ways; he trusts that you’ll say what’s on your mind and you do the same. 

honesty. 

raw and real.

“yes.”

toji lets out a little puff of air through his nostrils, a wave of relief settling into his body. he knows it’s not over just yet, but it’s a start.

“can i kiss you?”

toji’s mossy green eyes meet yours for the first time in what feels like forever and all he can think about is how much you mean to him. his darling, his baby. he’s not one to be a sap, but hell, when it comes to you, he’s more than willing to drop to his knees and recite love poems for you if that’s what you’d like. anything and everything. 

he watches your eyes flick down to his mouth and then back up again and the little nod you give him is more than enough for him to finally press his lips to yours in a needy, hungry kiss. you melt into each other – skin against skin, tongue against tongue, it just feels right. the spark between you is still there, burning brighter than ever after all the time you’ve spent together. over hills and mountains, through lakes and rivers – nothing is too much or too little for the two of you to conquer together. he’ll be there for you and you’ll be there for him. 

“‘m all yours, sweetheart.”

his hushed words slip right between your lips and slither their way down your throat. inside, they bloom and they flourish. they overtake the rotting weeds that were growing there before and you feel it. you feel it happen. he breathes into you and you become alive again.

"i love you."