#because it hits different when he does it

[7hursday]

tutor!sukuna, who, against his will, is sitting next to you in the empty library with his tongue poked into his cheek as he feels irritation beginning to bubble up inside of him.

it’s not that you’re stupid — no, not at all — but the way your brain processes information is… starkly different from the way his does. you also had a way of attracting bad grades as if they were moths and you were a flame. it was basically inevitable that the teachers had forced him to tutor you.

a heavy sigh leaves his lips as he points at the textbook. “solve this again and tell me exactly what you don’t get.”

you look at him sheepishly, before letting out a nervous laugh. “uhh… I don’t get the entire thing. can we take a break?”

he, of course, rolls his eyes for the nth time that hour. that was until an idea popped into his head, his eyebrows raising slightly in amusement before leaning in to whisper into your ear.

when his hot breath hits your skin, you flinch instinctively, but you can’t help the way your underwear begins to dampen at the way his words come out so roughly and undeniably sexual.

“if you can answer this question correctly, I’ll give you a reward,” his right hand lays flat against your thigh, going up, up, up…

tutor!sukuna who has you sit on his lap, his hard cock pressing against your swollen clit and slick folds as his hand lays flat on your thighs. the library was empty (although, you didn’t seem to mind if it wasn’t), and you were luckily wearing a skirt that was long enough to cover your lewdness.

“mm? you’re doing well. get this right and I’ll put my cock in your wet lil’ pussy.” his dirty words have you rubbing your thighs together, squeezing his already dripping cock in between. this elicits a soft ‘fuck’ from him, his hands moving to grip your hips tightly.

“fuck this. I need to feel you.”

it didn’t take long before he had pushed everything off the table, bending you over and pushing his cock into you in one go. you were internally thankful for how wet both your pussy and his dick was, because the sheer girth of his length was enough to straight up gawk at.

the round, swollen tip of his cock hits that mushy spot that has your toes curling immediately— which doesn’t go unnoticed by sukuna. he leans forward, fingers tangling in your locks as he pulls your head up to look at him.

he pulls out just enough for the tip to barely be inside before slamming back into you, the small tuft of hair on the base just barely tickling your skin as his balls slapped against your already sensitive clit.

his hand reaches forward, placing the textbook in front of you and forcing a pen into your hand. “each question you got wrong is one load of my cum inside you.”

and screw that, because with the way he was driving his cock into your pussy, you were sure you were fucked dumb and completely cockdrunk, the only thing on your mind being him.

tutor!sukuna who can’t help but begin to purposefully teach you a few of the formulas wrong, making sure to fill your cunt up with his cum any chance he gets.

a/n: thinking of making this a full fic. this mere drabble was too long i had to decrease the font size lol. lmk what u think.

[raleighrador]

Thanks for the thoughtful reply!

You obviously (and everyone) is free to make whatever choices around what and how they consume etc so I am not trying to persuade you of anything but I am interested in pursuing this thinking.

Please correct me if I misrepresent anything you said or are trying to articulate.

My basic issue is that in order to accept all of the above we need to rely on what seems to be a false premise: that AI created writing [art in general?] lacks perspective because perspective is a function of choice, and choice is something only humans can do, therefore AI writing cannot have perspective.

First, it isn't clear to me that perspective is a function of choice (certainly not only or even primarily). At the most macro level, if perspective is foundational informed by the lives we've lived, we didn't choose those lives nor do we consciously translate those experiences into a defined perspective. Our perspective is an emergent phenomenon. Translating that into writing - absolutely a human writer makes choices (some conscious some unconscious) about what to put on the page and what to leave off. My claim here is that far more of it is conscious than not. The majority of grammar, diction, arrangement etc is defined for us by custom that we operate within. Faulkner and Joyce are famous examples of not that but are a) exceptions and b) largely incomprehensible (one lit major's gripe). The vast majority of the vast majority of written work is - at best - more like your example of a collage than not. We all have the same lego pieces and the same rules and we're just moving them about.

What informs that arrangement is some choices and a lot of just baked in preferences and habits and patterns.

Second, even if we accept that perspective is a function of (conscious) choice this then needs to be integrated into our characterisation of what "AI writing" is. So far as I am aware there is very little "purely" AI writing i.e. an AI spontaneously picked a topic and generated something. These tools - certainly in the context of e.g. fanfic writing - are all human driven i.e. a human booted up chatgpt and at minimum wrote a prompt and hit "generate".

I guess it is possible that these people are then copy pasting and publishing these outputs without even reading them but that seems unlikely. I think the minimum interaction is they read them and decide if they like them or not - and then publish.

Why are they not making a choice about what to include or not? How is the process so fundamentally different to a more typical writing process? This becomes more evidently (to me) similar when you imagine that this "AI author" likely gets the AI to draft and redraft the output multiple times. They're engaging with what the AI produces and then directing it to make changes - choosing what to tell it to emphasise or remove etc.

If it is human choice that creates perspective, that seems to exist in writing even where the bulk of the "writing" was done by AI.

2 other thought experiments that spring to mind: 1) if the act of consuming output created by others and then saying "more X less Y" is NOT sufficient to create perspective, would you say that the director of a movie is not creating a perspective? They didn't write the script, they didn't say the lines, they didn't sew the costumes. They watched other people read other peoples' dialogue and then they say "make it more/less". 2) Do Jackson Pollock painting's have perspective? He made choices about colour and the force with which he threw or dribbled paint but he didn't control where the paint landed. How much choice, how much control, is required for perspective? And if they don't have a perspective does that mean they aren't worth engaging with?

I think both of the above imply that even absent the majority of the labour you can make choices and those create a perspective AND that conscious choice derived perspective is not a prerequisite for something to be worth engaging with.

I think this land son my third point which - regardless of any of the above the majority of the perceived perspective of a given piece of material is in fact RECEIVED perspective i.e. it is what the VIEWER brings that creates that perspective as much if not more than what the author intends. This is a pretty standard post modern position but even if you think Barthes is a hack the fact that so many people in academia or elsewhere fill so much time arguing over what was meant by any given piece of media is evidence of the fact that a significant portion of the perceived "meaning" of art is created by the viewer and not the artist.

What that implies is even if you accept that AI created/supported writing has none of the human choices that create an identifiable artist's perspective, that doesn't mean the work upon being read wont have a perspective projected onto it.

I think this paragraph of yours is interesting: "Could there be a person-made work that's just as bland and vapid as a ChatGPT work? Sure. A thousand monkeys and a thousand typewriters, etc. Even as I'm sure the person-made work would have a perspective ChatGPT lacks, I'm sure there's a work (or likely several) where I, as a reader, couldn't distinguish whether it's human-written or ChatGPT-generated. But humans also use heuristics to make choices; I've never read a ChatGPT-generated work that I remember a few days later, and I've read hundreds of human-written works that I do remember. It's just a better bet for my time to not bother with a ChatGPT-generated work and read a human-written work instead, even if I might hit a dull work every once in a while."

I basically look at this the other way round - the question is not "Can humans make art as bad as ChatGPT?" the question is "can ChatGPT create art as interesting and engaging as human created art". To me the answer is yes.

I get your point about heuristics but it seems to me that "was this written by/with extensive help from chatGPT" is not a good heuristic, in the exact same way that "was this written by the author in a single draft with no edits and no input from anyone else ever" or "was this written by a committee of authors who all mutually edited each other's drafts" are helpful heuristics.

Again, I am not seeking to convince you of anything and if this heuristic is helpful for you that is great, but I don't understand how.

just saw a fanfic on ao3 have a dedication for chatgpt... that section is meant for your horny perverted mutual who proofread your work, you violated sacred law and you will be torn apart and laid bare btw

[thewertsearch]

GT: I should preface this request with an overture of appreciation. GT: For how much your cool and brotherly friendship means to me. GT: It has just been… GT: Absolutely *bully* having a standup gent like you in my corner. GT: Just a grade a dude whos a cut above the others in class and camaraderie. GT: Phew… *gropes for fresh kerchief*.

Wow, Jake is fucking terrified of this guy - or at the very least, he seems incredibly intimidated for a guy who's ostensibly just chatting with a friend.

Unfortunately, this is exactly what I'd expect from a Bro who's not any different from his adult self. Jake's acting exactly like Dave did, back when he was forced to share an apartment with the guy.

TT: Take it easy, bromide. TT: Just about the only way I could salvage endearment from this perilous slope of horseshit would be to discover, really fucking soon mind you, it was a preamble to some floundering invitation for me to rush to your vicinity as nakedly as possible.

In other words, you wish he was hitting on you.

I really don't think he's kidding, especially since both Roxy and Jane seem to want a piece of English, too. Jake's sitting at the epicenter of at least three crushes, which is not a pleasant place to be sitting when you're fifteen.

TT: But since we've already shot that wad's eventuality on so many dry runs of flustered ambivalence that were as hilarious as they were one sided, TT: That leaves only one hope for this message to avoid spiraling toward qualification as a critical fucking defect in the hull of the Mach 10 rocket that is my precious spare time.

And here's the guy's actual personality. It's a fairly even mixture of Rose and Dave, a combination which synergizes much better than you'd expect.

He's still prone to Dave-style rambles - but unlike Dave, his streams of consciousness are every bit as eloquent as Rose's text, which some extra swear words tossed in for flavor.

It's very good, and immediately does a lot to humanize him, especially when all we've seen so far is "roof. now." and "State your business."

TT: And that hope lies in the extent to which you were practicing artful insincerity. TT: Now's your opportunity to pretend that's what you were gunning for. I suggest you seize it. GT: I… GT: Oh. Yes! But of course. GT: The ironies! GT: Good grief how i was bandying them just now. You know me dude. GT: *Blows smoke off red hot irony pistol.* GT: *NONSUGGESTIVELY!!!!!*

lmaoooo

Alright, I can't actually tell if that was a Freudian slip or not - but I kind of hope it was. If these two became a couple, the vibes would be incomprehensible.

TT: I'm guessing you're probably jonesing for uranium about now. No? GT: Ok can you please just sendificate me some more already?? Im in kind of a hurry! [...] TT: You know. I've offered to construct the rabbit for you many times before. I would craft a much deadlier model. […] GT: Damn it man ive told you this is just something i have to do myself. […] TT: Yeah, I know this is your policy. You've done a good job and you should be proud. TT: But it's my responsibility as your friend to offer one last time. TT: Just as it's my responsibility not to just fork over a bunch of uranium just because you ask me in a moment of weakness. […] GT: Why not??? TT: It's too easy.

Throughout this whole conversation, I've been trying to get a grasp on Bro's general vibe - and I think I'm starting to understand it.

When you're talking to Kid Bro, everything is a game - and he'll make damn well sure that you follow the rules.

Jake previously committed to making the bunny alone, and Bro refuses to rescind that rule, even if Jake's no longer following it himself. He strikes me as a guy who frames every interaction he has as transactional, confrontational, or instructional. He's not capable of just shooting the shit - there has to be an angle.

Mind you, I don't think there's any genuine malice in it. I think this is just how he's wired - and I really do think he's trying to help Jake develop as a person, in his own way.

The problem is, we've been down this road before...

...and nothing good lies down this road.

[7brownsuga7]

The chase | Satoru Gojo

Thinking about popular, arrogant, player Satoru who has never had to chase a girl for anything. So when you, his stubborn neighbour, give him a reality check, does he succumb to the challenge, or does his arrogance get the better of him?

Gojo has always had the world at his feet. His charisma, looks, and power making him a magnet for attention. Women usually flock to him without him having to lift a finger, their admiration feeding into his confidence. But you? You're a different breed entirely.

You aren't fazed by his cocky smirks, the lazy way he leans against door frames like he owns the room, or the way he casually slips his blindfold up just enough to let you glimpse those hypnotic blue eyes. Instead, you roll your eyes, laugh at his overly dramatic antics, and call him out when his ego gets out of hand. It's infuriating for him, and exhilarating.

Gojo has never had to chase anyone, and he sure as hell doesn't intend to start now. At first, he tries his usual tricks: flirty comments laced with innuendo, exaggerated displays of charm, and that present smirk that screams "I know you want me." But when all you give him in return is a raised brow and a scoff, his frustration is hard to hide.

"Playing hard to get, huh?" he teases one evening, leaning close enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne, something expensive and infuriatingly alluring.

"Not playing," you reply, brushing past him without a second glance. Your perfume invading his senses, making him even more crazed. "Just not interested."

And that's the moment Gojo realises he's in trouble. Because now it's not just about his pride, it's about you. The way you challenge him, the way you don't fall at his feet like everyone else, the way your stubbornness sparks a fire in him he didn't know existed.

He starts showing up everywhere you are.

Casual run-ins at your favorite café, unexpected visits during your downtime, and offers to help with things you never asked for. It's subtle at first but Gojo doesn't do subtle for long.

"You know," he says one night, leaning against the counter in your kitchen after somehow convincing you to let him stay for tea, "you're the first person who's ever made me work for it."

"Good," you reply, sipping your drink with a smirk. "About time someone did."

But his persistence doesn't stop there. Gojo begins to push his limits with every interaction.

When you ignore his texts, he will keep on messaging you until you give in and reply. He even resorts to using his infinity to keep you from walking away mid conversation.

"Stop using your powers to trap me, Gojo," you snap, glaring at him.

"Then stop running," he fires back, a rare seriousness in his tone. "I'm not going anywhere, you know. No matter how hard you try to push me away."

And that's when it hits you, he's not just chasing for the sake of the thrill. This is Satoru, the untouchable, the invincible, and he's putting himself on the line for you. His arrogant exterior hides a vulnerability you hadn't seen before, and for a moment, you let your guard down.

"Fine," you say, rolling your eyes. "You get one date. Don't blow it."

His grin is immediate, his excitement almost childlike. "Oh, sweetheart," he steps closer, voice low and alluring.

"You're going to regret giving me a chance. Because once I've got you, I'm never letting you go."

And for the first time, you think maybe, just maybe, Gojo chasing you isn't the worst thing in the world.

That one date? It doesn't take long for it to spiral into something far more intense. Gojo's natural charisma was overwhelming enough, but when he's got you to himself, when there's no one else around to act as a distraction , you realise just how dangerous he can be.

The evening starts innocently enough-a rooftop dinner he somehow arranged under the stars, his usual charm on full display. But it's the way his eyes linger on you, his attention sharper and more focused than you've ever seen, that starts to make your walls crumble.

"You know," he murmurs at one point, leaning over the table so his voice is low and intimate, "I’ve been thinking about this all day. About you, about tonight...about how long it's been since someone made me feel like this."

"Like what?" you ask, your voice coming out softer than you intended.

"Like I'm willing to lose." His lips curve into a slow smile, and it's all you can do to keep your composure.

The night ends with him walking you back to your place. Or at least, that's what you thought was going to happen. But the moment you step through the door, his hand catches yours, spinning you to face him.

"You're not going to make me wait, are you?" he breathes, his forehead almost brushing yours.

You open your mouth to reply, but the words are stolen when he kisses you, hard, demanding, and consuming. His hands find your waist, pulling you against him, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body as if his infinity itself were melting away.

"Gojo-" you manage to gasp, but he silences you with another kiss, his lips parting yours with a confidence that leaves you dizzy.

"Satoru," he corrects, his voice husky as he trails kisses down your jawline to your neck. "Call me Satoru when I'm about to ruin you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, and before you know it, he's guiding you to the couch, his hands working at your clothes with a practiced ease that should irritate you but only fuels the fire building inside you.

"You think you're still in control," you say, trying to keep an ounce of power in this exchange.

"Oh, I know l'm not," he admits, his grin wicked as he looks down at you, his shirt already discarded to reveal the sharp lines of his torso.

"That's what makes this so much fun."

His hands slide down your thighs, his touch setting every nerve alight as he pulls you closer.

His mouth is everywhere, your lips, your neck, your chest, his kisses alternating between tender and ravenous as if he's trying to map every inch of you.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, his voice softer now. "You have no idea how long l've wanted this."

The intensity in his words is matched by the way he moves, his hands and mouth working in perfect sync to drive you to the edge. And when he finally pushes his cock into you, the world seems to fall away.

Each thrust drives you to the edge. You can’t believe you’ve been depriving yourself from his cock, his touch, him as a whole.

The way he hits your spot so effortlessly has you rolling your eyes back.

"Satoru," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he moves with a slow, deliberate rhythm that has you trembling beneath him.

"Say it again," he growls, his pace quickening as he holds you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "Say my name."

And you do, over and over, until it's the only word you can manage, the only thing grounding you in the overwhelming heat and pleasure he's pouring into you.

If you were to ask Gojo, he’d tell you that your pussy was made for him. The way it wraps around his cock, sucking him in with every thrust has him ready to give anything up for you.

And it doesn’t take long for both of you to reach your end, both tangled together on the couch, your breathing heavy and your body still coming down from the aftershocks of his touch.

"Well," he says after a long moment, his smirk returning as he brushes a strand of curly hair from your face, "I think I just proved that chasing you was worth every second."

You roll your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he replies, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your soft plump lips. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I've got plenty more where that came from."

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][ex-husband!Roy][missionary][fingering][squirting][don't even asking][oral m! receiving][anal fingering][snowballing][hair pulling][he's a desperate man][look at the the new divider. so demure][breeding][daddy kink?][creampie][msub?][idk she says do it, and he does it][i don't make the rules, i just write them:3]

Roy watches Lian settle into the backseat, her backpack tossed haphazardly in Jason's lap as he rifles through the bag, eagerly searching for snacks that he knows you packed in.

"You ransacking my kid now, Todd?"

Roy questions, muscular arms crossing over his broad chest, the T-shirt he's wearing stretched taut across his muscular torso, vibrant red fabric a contrast to his sunkissed, alabaster flesh. The tattoo on his bicep peeks out, green ink swirled marring his skin.

"When you bring perfectly cut watermelon with no seeds to work, I'll ransack you instead." Jason retorts, opening up the clear Tupperware and setting it down on the centre console, between Lian and himself.

Her inky strands are tied back into pigtails, a fuzzy red jumper to fight the slight chill in the air and a pair of daisy dukes, with those red Mary Jane's you insist on buying her in every colour.

She looks nothing like you. Her mother's eyes and hair, she doesn't even look like Roy.

But she looks like you. The fond expression as she munches on the watermelon you packed in, the snort that leaves her when Jason swallows the one singular pit that you've managed to miss and his expression screws up in distaste.

"Mommy says if you swallow a seed, a tree's gonna grow in your tummy, Uncle Jay." Lian hums, reaching into her backpack and pulling out a wet wipe, wiping the red and sticky juice from her hands and from Jason's long fingers, the action almost innately.

The action makes the men soften, because they can see just how much you've rubbed off on Lian.

Her sweet nature, the quirky things she randomly spouts.

"Then your mommy should have a bunch of trees in her belly." Jason hums, his fingers spread out for Lian to keep cleaning his hands.

Roy's stature stiffens, green eyes widening to land on Jason and he mouths, 'why would you say that?'

"Because of all the fruit she eats!" Jason defends but Roy knows.

He knows.

When Roy steps over the threshold of your house, the familiar scent of vanilla and coffee hits him like a freight train and he swallows, taking a deep breath to welcome the scent he's known as 'home'.

He can hear the dishes clanging slightly in the kitchen, the soft hum of music to tinkling alongside the splashes of soapy water and Roy remains quiet, grabbing one of the dishcloths and beginning to dry the dishes.

His gaze remains lowered, eyes trained on the way his hands dry porcelain plates and handmade clay bowls, green pools occasionally flitting to where your manicured hands remain submerged in steaming water.

And he clears his throat.

"I—...uh... Are these new curtains?"

Roy's voice is quiet, his head lifting only enough for him to look up at the curtains that cover the kitchen window.

Mostly white. White lace with a dark brown ruffled edge that matches with the teddy bears printed onto the main part of the curtain.

"Yeah." You answer with a hum. "Lian picked those out." The corners of you mouth twitch at the memory, and Roy notices.

He always notices.

"You're a good mom." Roy murmurs softly, continuing to dry off and pack the dishes into the designated spots. "Would you... Want another? Like.... One of your own?"

It's a question you don't want to answer. Especially not when Roy's asking.

Emerald eyes watch you pensively as you move around the kitchen, your attention on everywhere except Roy because you can't look at him.

And you shrug your shoulders.

"Yeah, I would." You hum softly.

"But you wouldn't want your kid's dad's to be different guys?" Roy states and without thinking much of it, you nod your head.

"I'll give you a baby." Roy states. "A healthy baby. A real chubby bastard too."

"Roy...." You sigh softly, "I don't think...—"

"Don't think." Roy interjects. "Let Daddy do the thinking."

Muscular fingers dig into the daisy-printed cushions of the sofa, and Roy lets out a low groan, head tipping back as he watches you slobber around his aching cock. Half-lidded eyes, a hand threading through your hair and gripping the strands as he feels the way your throat tightens around him, his flushed tip nodding against your oesophagus.

"Fuck, baby, just like that. Just like that..."

He whines, muscular thighs tensing and straining against the fabric of his jeans, feeling the way your nails drag against the material, and the way your soft, pouty lips wrap around his veiny shaft.

He watches the way your cheeks hollow when you suck him, your hands moving up his broad thighs and settling on his tightly toned abdomen.

Only to find out that it's... Not as tightly toned.

A slight pudginess has your eyes widening, your head lifting until his cock slips from your lips with a wet 'pop!' and you stare up at Roy.

"Did you gain weight?" You question with a surprised squeak, eyes widened with surprise and he swallows, the blood rushing through his ears making it difficult to hear you properly.

And it takes Roy a second or two to realise what you're asking and his ears tint red.

"Uh.... Just a few pounds but, I'm gonna start cutting next week ag— oh shit."

Roy gasps, hands gripping the sofa cushion so hard that his knuckles turn white and all he sees are fucking stars. Speckled against his eyelids as an orgasm crashes over him like a fucking tsunami and he gasps, a shaky breath that turns into a high pitched whine when you don't stop sucking.

The taste of cum fills your mouth and you know better than to swallow it immediately, instead milking him with soft, spittle-covered lips before you rise, standing between his thighs.

Your knee digs into the sofa beside his hip, your lips pressed against his and the taste of his own cum filling his mouth nearly has Roy proposing again.

Shaky hands bracket your hips, and he's forcing your skirt towards your waist, fingers pulling your panties to the side as two digits instantly bully their way into your cunt.

Your nails dig into either side of his face, your brows creasing as you struggle to adjust to the intrusion that's been just... Too long.

"Oh, you're so fucking tight." Roy groans, his face moving to nestle in the curve of your neck, inhaling that scent he's missed.

Misses the way it'd cling to his clothes, to his pillows, to his car seat, to his suit.

"You're not fucking anyone, baby?" Roy questions and you meekly shake your head, your hips bucking when he presses his thumb against your clit, and leaves you to your own devices to roll your hips just the way you like to.

"Awh, poor baby." He coos. "Let me take care of that pretty pussy, okay?"

You don't know how long it's been.

Your nails grabbing at the armrests, a heavy hand entangled in your hair and tugging you everytime you lose that arch for even a second.

Roy's beefy hips snap mercilessly, the lewd sound of your squelchy pussy rings out in the quietness of your home, drool dribbling down your cheek and soaking into the throw pillow beneath your head.

"That's it, baby. Fucking take it."

Roy groans, a muscular hand moving to rest on your hip, an iron grip pulling you back against him and with each movement, his cock jams against your cervix in a mixture of painful and pleasurable sensations, and your eyes water.

Your ass is stinging, the sensation only getting worse with each unforgiving thrust of his carved hips, heavy balls slapping against your clit with each movement and it's overstimulating. You don't know how many orgasms you've gotten but goddamn, you're feeling that coiling knot slowly start to build behind your navel.

"Play with your pussy, baby. Play with it." Roy breathes out, his hand leaving your hip and dragging along your plump thigh, giving you a sharp squeeze before guiding the limb to rest on the back of the sofa.

You're not that flexible.

But before you can even object, he's pummeling into you and your vision is getting hazier with each messy circle you make over your clit.

You're uncoordinated, you're sloppy and each time, you feel that thick globs of saliva trickle down the cleft of your ass and trickling down around your stretched out hole.

It's a burning stretch.

The kind that comes after a good workout and your body's bent in almost uncomfortable positions, and you gasp when you come.

Squirting onto the surface of the couch cushions beneath you, gushing so hard that you push Roy out of you but instead of pushing himself back in, his flushed tip swipes across your folds.

And the stimulation is too much, your body going limp and your hips twitch with every weak gush that trickles down your thighs, pooling at the spot where your knees dig into the sofa.

And Roy hums, hips moving to rest, and he leans over you, pressing a kiss to your back just as he pushes back into you, feeling the way your soaked walls attempt to pull him deeper.

To pull him closer.

And he rolls his hips, pressing a sweet kiss to the curve of your neck.

"I'm gonna come back tonight, and give you that baby, okay?" Roy breathes out softly, arms wrapping around your waist and you meekly nod your head, muttering a lazy 'mkay'.

The sound of Roy leaving, and closing the door behind him has you snapping back to reality and you perk up, lashes fluttering and heavy with unshed tears.

—♱—

"What's with the smile?" Jason questions, although, the twinkle in his emerald pools already say he knows.

A drink in his hand as he reclines against the park bench, eyes flitting between Roy's face and where Lian is playing with some lady's chihuahua.

Roy stares at Lian, watching the way her expression lights up when the dog jumps into her lap, tail wagging excitedly.

"I learnt something about myself." Roy answers softly and Jason lets out a hum, silently urging Roy to keep talking.

And a grin creeps onto Roy's face, million dollar smile gleaming in the sunlight.

"I'm not above a good, old fashioned baby trap."

[berryhatfingers]

“He was laughing hysterically from shock”

No. Fundamentally no. He made a point to watch, and he was hysterically laughing from relief and glee.

Andrew goes to therapy. Neil orders hits on people during dinner. They are not the same.

I’m not saying Andrew doesn’t have issues, he definitely does, he’s violent, anti-social, etc. but he knows how to…Idk, function in the world(?) so much more than Neil does. He existed in a mappable environment – not the same or stable because of foster care and abuse – but he was in the US, one primary language, one primary culture, one country, one set of laws, one set of social normals, there were threads to hold onto to ground himself in reality somewhat. He came out of it severely traumatized with a whole bunch of social and behavioral issues, but he had through-lines. Another difference I would be remiss not to name is Andrew entered foster care at birth, he’d never had a home until South Carolina. He was unwanted, intensely abused from the age of 7, if not younger. Like it’s the foster care system, we know what that’s like in the US. He had 12 different foster homes by age 13, and says none of them were good. Was the victim of at 4 child rapists. At 13/14 he goes to juvie (a juvenile detention center) which prison industrial complex and for-profit penitentiaries. During his time in juvie he tells his uncle about the child-rapist at his last foster home and is told he’s wrong, it was a “misunderstanding” and just brotherly-love. At 14/15 he gets early parole and comes to live with him biological-mother and identical twin brother only to discover she’s physically abusing his brother and they’re both addicted to and on drugs. He takes a year to plan killing his mother before staging a car crash (that could have killed him too) at 15/16. He is temporarily placed with his CSA-denying uncle and aunt along with his brother after this. Somehow his brother knows the crash was intentional and hates him for it. His weird-ass 18/19 y-o cousin he’s never met and who there are no photos of comes rolling in from Germany, takes over guardianship, gets them a house, etc. Andrew finally has a supportive figure in a safe environment, said figure is only like 3 years older than him (and he’s gay too). This cousin helps him do the incredibly dangerous act of cold-turkeying his brother off drugs. When Andrew’s 17 his cousin is physically attacked, it’s unknown how bad it could have gotten, by 4 homophobes – Andrew steps in and nearly beats the 4 adult men to death as a 5-foot high schooler. He has prior conviction and juvie stay, the courts deem his behavior in defense of his cousin disturbingly violent and is put on INTENSELY mind-altering drugs by the court. He doesn’t manage to find a non-shit mental health provider for two years (relatable), but then he finds a good one in Betsy Dobson. A coach offers to sign his, his brother, a cousin to be college athletes and he agrees to support them. During his first year of a dude comes to his school, tells him the sport he plays is tied to the yakuza, the second-son who’s supposed to be his bestie is actually a violent mad-man who just shattered this dude’s hand and begs for protection. During his second year an interesting guy joins who’s full of secrets and lies but hot, he’s also somehow liked to this yakuza mess. Also in Andrew’s second year he gets raped by a guy who did that to him when he was a kid, then is sexually assaulted at the facility that’s taking him off his scary meds. He comes out to discover hot-guy looking like he’s been tortured, has a sport-cult tattoo, new hair, and showing his natural eyes. Etc. Etc. He has a weird thing about deals and pathological insistence on their being held, and for example is abusive-levels of controlling to his brother as part of one of those deals. He’s known to drug people, physically assault people (he hits Matt, nearly destroys Allison’s shoulder, throws Katelyn into a wall), pulls knives and it’s implied he’s used them on people. And despite people’s perceptions He’s The More Normal One.

Then there’s Neil. It’s unclear if he went to school before age 10? Regardless his home life from birth-10 was a wild ride. He was trained to use guns, as well as knives (up to and including on dead animals) starting in single-digit-ages. His father and his father’s people serially killing and torturing people his whole life, he was raised with criminal enterprise as the norm. His only outlet/joy was exy and he went there with armed bodyguards under a pseudonym. In the span of 24-hours at the age 10: he played exy with new people, watched his father performatively flay a man (he doesn’t seemingly didn’t find it odd that Kevin and Riko watched), and then his mother took him on the run. He then spent 8 years on the run with people trying to kill him, his mom, and his mom’s contacts, went through 16 countries, had 22 different names/aliases (because there was more than just a name there were backstories as Neil Josten proved). At 18 he notes it had “been years since he had been directly responsible for someone’s death” so there’s a possibility he killed someone as a minor. The altercation in Seattle would not have been the first in 8 years on the run. “teach me how to fight” my ass. His physically and verbally abusive mother was his only through point beyond reading about (and maybe watching videos of?) the sport he loves and those kids from when he ran who turned into stars. And then his mother died, he burns her corpse in the car, buries her bones in a backpack on that beach, before hitchhiking for days to another state to live another alias life, alone. He trades the support line of his mother for a sport he’s obsessed with and attends high school for the better part of a year with no substantive human relationship that we’re aware of. He sniffs cigarettes during this time because it reminds him of burning his mother’s corpse, and still stalks those two boys from when he was 10. Then he joins a college sports team, decides he’s only going to live for a year, antagonized a second-son of an organized crime family, said-second-son has a teammate killed which doesn’t phase Neil besides angering him, the Andrew entanglement, playing at socially normal while being very cagey and abnormal, he doesn’t get to be the one to murder Andrew’s rapist and wants the racket back because he doesn’t care it’s a murder weapon, gets tortured for 2/3weeks for his crush, ignores a countdown for months, still thinks he’s gonna die by summer, gets kidnapped and tortured by his dad/dad’s people, watches his estranged uncle murder his dad and is fucking thrilled, shares truths and lies with the FBI being an absolute nuisance. He also manipulates the new head of the yakuza branch into killing his brother (the memory of which Neil will later relish), while also negotiating for a stay-of-execution for himself and two others. He almost gets killed (again) but then gets to watch that annoying second son get shot and celebrates by making out with Andrew. Flash forward and he is again manipulating the FBI, having dealings with his British Mafia uncle, pulling Jean’s poor soul into it, and also ordering a hit on Jean’s rapist. He Is Decidedly Not Normal.

personally I’m torn on if he was homeschooled or public schooled because public school keeps up airs of normalcy while homeschooling allows for control and monitoring, though his going to school on the run implies he was in school but Idk thoughts?

A line from a fanfiction I’ve read (that I do not remember the name off the top of my head, I’m so sorry) is Nickey asking “who’s humanizing whom in that relationship?” And it’s so real. They’re humanizing each other but neither has a real baseline to orbit them towards.

Hey so it's actually batshit crazy that the upperclassmen (other than Renee probably) still think that Andrew is the crazy/fucked up one in the relationship when this was Neil's internal monologue.

Like he's really sat in the back of a COP CAR, covered head to toe in bandages due to the FRESH TORTURE WOUNDS he's currently sporting, and he's just destressing by daydreaming about his father's death THAT HE WITNISSED AND WAS FUCKING LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY ABOUT AFTERWARDS.

[ch0llies]

KISS IT BETTER | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

oneshot - toxic!reader x toxic!chris

You and Chris have been trapped in a cycle for years. Fighting, breaking, making up, and doing it all over again. Every time you swear it’s the last, every time you tell yourself you’re done, he finds his way back to you and kisses it better.

story warnings: oral smut (fem receiving), fighting, pet names (ma, mama, baby), angst, toxic relationship (teetering on the edge of abusive), If any of these topics upset you...don't read!

word count: 5k

“Fuck you, Chris!”

The plate leaves your hand before you fully realize what you’re doing, shattering against the kitchen wall, ceramic shards exploding like fireworks. Your chest is heaving, your hands trembling, but it’s not fear that fuels you. It’s fury. It’s exhaustion. It’s the same goddamn argument, the same back-and-forth that neither of you knows how to stop.

Chris ducks just in time, eyes wild with rage. “Fucking leave then!” he yells, voice hoarse from all the screaming, all the wasted words. “Get out! No one’s stopping you.”

The laugh that rips from your throat is sharp and humorless. “Me?” You throw your arms out, gesturing around the apartment, the place where every fight, every reconciliation, every tangled mess of love and hate has played out. “This is my fucking apartment. You get out. You miserable, useless piece of shit- get out!”

You reach for another plate, yanking it from the open dishwasher, but he’s faster this time. His hands close around your wrist, rough and unyielding. “You crazy bitch,” he growls, shaking your arm until the plate slips from your grip, clattering to the floor.

Your breath is ragged. His is worse. For a second, neither of you move.

His grip tightens for a beat too long before he lets go, shoving your wrist away like even touching you is infuriating. You rip your arm back, rubbing the spot where his fingers left their mark, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

Chris runs a hand through his hair, pacing the small kitchen like he’s trying to hold himself together. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls, in the way his fingers flex like he wants to punch a hole in the wall. But he won’t. Not yet.

“You’re fucking insane,” he spits, shaking his head. “No wonder everyone leaves you.”

The words slice deep, but you don’t let them show. Instead, you smile. “Oh, everyone?” You tilt your head, voice saccharine. “Guess that makes you an idiot for still being here, huh?”

His eyes flash, and you know you’ve hit the mark. He hates when you do that. When you turn the knife back on him, make him feel like the fool for always coming back.

Because he does.

No matter how many times you fight, no matter how many times you scream and throw things and tell each other that this is it, that this is the last time, you know he’ll be back.

Even if he walks out that door right now, he’ll be back.

Maybe it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be a week from now, when the silence becomes unbearable, when the ache of missing each other outweighs the resentment. Maybe it’ll be two in the morning, when you’re both drunk and angry and lonely, and he calls, and you answer, and suddenly you’re in your bed again, pretending you don’t know how it always ends.

You do know.

But knowing doesn’t stop you.

“Fuck this,” Chris mutters under his breath, storming past you, shoulder bumping yours as he moves toward the door.

And for some reason maybe out of spite, maybe out of habit, maybe just because you need him to hurt the way he hurts you, you push him again.

“That’s right, run away,” you taunt, voice dripping with mockery. “Just like you always do.”

He stops.

Slowly, he turns, and when his eyes meet yours, there’s something dangerous in them. Not physical. Chris has never hurt you like that. No, his violence is different. His is in the way he knows exactly what to say to tear you down.

“You act like I’m the only one who leaves,” he says, voice low, steady. “But tell me, where the fuck were you last week when I needed you?”

Your stomach clenches. “That’s different,” you snap.

Chris lets out a sharp laugh. “Right. Of course it is. Because when you do it, it’s different. When you disappear, it’s justified. But when I do it, I’m the fucking asshole.”

You cross your arms over your chest, jaw tight. “You are the fucking asshole.”

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Yeah? And what does that make you?”

You don’t answer. Because you know.

You’re just as bad as he is. Maybe worse. Because you’re the one who keeps letting him back in. You’re the one who keeps answering the phone, who keeps opening the door, who keeps pretending that this time, it’ll be different.

It never is.

Chris exhales, dragging a hand down his face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a split second, there’s something softer beneath all the anger.

But softness is dangerous. Softness means giving in.

So you glare at him, at his stupid freckled face, at the stupid bags under his blue eyes, at the stupid mess of his brown hair. You hate him. You love him. You don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.

“Don’t come back,” you say. It’s a lie. He knows it.

Chris studies you for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering across his expression. And then he turns, yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Your hands are shaking. Your pulse is racing.

You sink onto the kitchen floor, surrounded by shattered pieces of the life you swore you’d never let yourself fall into.

It’s no surprise that hours later as the sun is setting, and the world is going quiet that your phone buzzes. It was like clockwork.

You stare at it, the screen glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. You should ignore it.

But you don’t. You never do. You never have.

The first time you fought, it was over something stupid. It was years ago and you were drunk at a party, slurring your words as you accused him of something you don’t even remember now. Some girl. Some look he gave her. Something that, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t matter at all. But in the moment, it felt like the end of the world.

He had laughed, sharp and bitter, running a hand through his hair as he glared at you across the room. “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

You had shoved him, not hard, just enough to make him stumble back a step.

You hated him then. You hated the way he could make you feel so small with just a few words. Hated the way his anger was never loud, never reckless. It was always just controlled enough to make you feel like you were the problem.

And yet, later that night, you ended up in his bed. Your arms around his neck, his lips on your throat, moaning each other's names, both of you desperate to take back every cruel word without actually saying sorry.

That was how it always went.

Your phone buzzes again.

You don’t pick it up right away. Instead, you stare at the shattered plate on the floor, at the tiny fractures in the tile where it hit. At the reflection of yourself in the broken pieces.

You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

With a shaky breath, you reach for the phone.

You answer, pressing it to your ear without a word.

His breathing is heavy on the other end.

“Open the door,” he says.

Your eyes flicker to the door. Your fingers tighten around the phone.

“No.”

Chris exhales sharply. “Ma.” His voice is softer now. Worn out. Tired. “Don’t do this.”

You swallow hard. “You slammed the door first.”

“You told me to.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Because you did tell him to. You tell him to leave every time. And every time, he comes back.a

Just like you knew he would.

The fights got worse as the years went on.

They stopped being about stupid things like parties and jealousy and miscommunication. They became bigger. Real.

Chris had walked into the apartment one night, the smell of whiskey clinging to his clothes, his knuckles split open. You were already waiting, sitting on the couch with your arms crossed over your chest.

“You were supposed to pick me up,” you said flatly.

He had exhaled, running a tired hand over his face. “I got caught up.”

You stood up, shaking your head. “You forgot.”

“It’s not a big fucking deal, Y/N.”

You had laughed then, cold and bitter. “Right. Not a big deal. Just like every other time you’ve blown me off.”

Chris had rubbed his temples, exasperated. “Jesus Christ, are we really doing this right now?”

You had shoved him then, harder than before, enough to make him stumble back. “Yes, we’re doing this right now. Because this keeps happening, and you never fucking care.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m here now.”

And that was what made you snap. “Yeah, and that’s the fucking problem. You only show up when it’s too late.”

He had left that night. Slamming the door so hard the walls shook. You told yourself you wouldn’t let him back in. You swore, this time, you meant it.

And yet, a day later, he was at your door, his pretty eyes wet and tired, his voice rough. “I’m sorry.”

And, like always, that was enough.

You unlock the door and go back to sitting down in the kitchen.

Chris doesn’t come in right away. He hesitates in the doorway, looking at you on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of your latest disaster.

He steps over the broken pieces and crouches in front of you.

His hands find your knees. “You okay?”

You huff out a laugh. “Are you fucking serious?”

Chris sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate this,” he mutters. “I hate fighting with you.”

You scoff. “Then stop.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression that he lost a long time ago.

His fingers brush your cheek. “Where were you last week?”

Your stomach clenches.

You shake your head. “Chris…”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “I needed you. And you weren’t fucking there.”

You close your eyes. Because you know. You know.

You had ignored his calls, turned your phone on silent, locked yourself in your apartment and pretended you didn’t hear him knocking and banging and nearly kicking down the door.

Because you were exhausted. Because you were sick of being the one who always stayed. Because you wanted to know if he’d break without you. He did.

And when you finally answered, two days later, his voice was cold but so sad. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

You remember the way your chest had ached at the sound of it. The way you had opened your mouth to apologize, but the words never came.

Now, he’s looking at you like that again. Like he’s still waiting for an answer.

You don’t have one.

Chris exhales, pressing his forehead against your knee. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Something in your chest tightens. Because neither do you. But you both know you will.

So you let him pull you into his arms, let him kiss the top of your head, let him whisper all the things you need to hear.

It had been a month.

Somehow, against all odds, things had actually been good.

After that last fight, after the broken plates and slammed doors and the inevitable collapse into each other’s arms, you both seemed to tread more carefully. There were fewer arguments, fewer nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering when the next disaster would hit.

Chris started coming home earlier. He made dinner for you sometimes, even if it was just burnt pasta. You stopped ignoring his calls. You let yourself believe, just for a little while, that maybe things were different this time.

And then came Boston.

Chris had been excited to take you home, to visit his parents, to spend time with his brothers. “They love you and miss you so much,” he had said, fingers threading through yours. “I just want them to see how good we’re doing.”

And for the first few hours, you were good.

His mom hugged you tight. His dad cracked jokes that made you laugh. Matt and Nick filled the house with their usual chaos, and for a little while, you let yourself forget about the way things used to be.

Until she walked in.

Madisyn.

His ex from high school. The one you had never met, the one he never really talked about, but the one whose name had always felt like a ghost in the back of your mind.

She looked good. You hated that she looked good.

“Oh my god,” she said, smiling wide as she wrapped her arms around Chris like she still belonged there. “It’s been forever.”

You didn’t move.

Chris laughed, squeezing her back before stepping away. “Yeah, it feels like forever, hasn’t it?”

You stared at them.

You hated that he hadn’t told you she’d be here. You hated the way she said his name like she still knew him.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just went quiet.

Chris noticed.

At dinner, after Madisyn left, when everyone was laughing, when you were talking to his parents and brothers but barely even looking at him, he noticed.

“Ma,” he murmured under his breath at one point, nudging you. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Except it wasn’t nothing. Because when you talked to his mom, your voice was warm and full of life. When you joked with Nick and Matt, you were animated and laughing.

But with him?

Cold. Quiet. Distant.

And it was driving him crazy.

At one point, his hand found your thigh under the table, squeezing in warning. “Perk up,” he muttered. “You’re being weird.”

That made you seethe. You had every reason to be pissed, and he wanted you to just sit there and smile and pretend everything was fine?

So you ignored him. You smiled at his mom, at his dad, at his brothers. You talked to everyone but him.

And by the time you got in the car to drive home, the air was suffocating.

The second the doors shut, it exploded.

“What the fuck was that!?” Chris snapped, slamming his hands on the steering wheel before peeling out of the driveway way too fast.

You didn’t even look at him. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting.” His voice was sharp, furious. “You gave me the cold shoulder all fucking night, and for what?”

You scoffed, staring out the window. “Are you seriously that fucking dense?”

Chris let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ. Are you jealous right now?”

That made you snap. “Oh, fuck you, Chris.”

He barked out another laugh, gripping the wheel tight. “No, seriously. You’re pissed because Madisyn was there? That’s insane.”

Your hands curled into fists. “I’m pissed because you knew she was gonna be there and didn’t fucking tell me. I’m pissed because you spent all night pretending like I was the one acting crazy instead of acknowledging that maybe just maybe you should’ve fucking prepared me for that.”

Chris gritted his teeth. “I didn’t know she was gonna be there.”

You turned, finally looking at him, eyes burning with rage. “You think I fucking believe that? You weren’t even surprised to see her? Have you been seeing her??”

Chris’s grip on the wheel tightened. “You know what? I don’t fucking care if you believe it or not. You embarrassed me tonight.”

Your mouth fell open. “I embarrassed you?”

“Yes! You were so fucking weird the entire night! My parents asked me if we were fighting. You made it so fucking obvious that something was wrong, and you just, what? You thought that was fine?”

You laughed, sharp and cruel. “Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t perform for you, Chris. I’m so sorry I wasn’t your perfect little girlfriend, smiling and nodding and pretending like everything was fine.”

Chris’s jaw locked. “You were being a fucking brat.”

That did it. Without thinking, without processing, your hand shot out, grabbing the wheel and yanking it to the right.

The car swerved, jerking hard toward the shoulder, and Chris yelled, his hands fighting for control as he slammed on the brakes.

The car skidded to a stop. Silence. You were both breathing hard. Your heart was pounding. You were lucky you were the only ones on the road.

Chris turned to you, furious. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?!”

You yanked at the door handle, trying to get out, trying to escape the fire burning between you. But it didn’t budge. You tried again. And again.

Chris had child-locked the doors.

You turned, eyes wild. “Unlock the fucking car.”

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Not until you calm the fuck down.”

You pounded a fist against the window. “Chris, I swear to God-”

“No.” His voice was sharp, commanding. “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

Your vision blurred with rage. “And you’re a fucking liar.”

Chris laughed again, bitter and cruel. “This is why we don’t work. This is exactly why. Because no matter what I do, no matter how much I try, you always find a way to turn me into the fucking villain.”

You ripped at the seatbelt, breathing hard. “Unlock the car.”

Chris leaned back, running a hand through his hair. He exhaled through his nose, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.

And then he whispered, “I don’t even fucking like you anymore.”

It felt like a slap. Your whole body tensed.

Chris swallowed, rubbing his hands over his face, like he wanted to take it back, like he knew how much that would hurt.

But the damage was already done.

You turned away, staring out the window, blinking back tears.

Chris’s grip on the wheel tightened so hard you thought he might snap it in half. And then-

BANG.

His fist slammed against it with a force so violent that the entire car jolted. You flinched, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at you. Just let out a sharp breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, jaw locked so tight you swore his teeth might break.

And then he sped off.

The tires screeched as he veered back onto the road, the speedometer climbing. The tension between you was suffocating, thick with regret, anger, and something else. Something even worse.

He had said it. He had fucking said it. “I don’t even fucking like you anymore.” And he hadn’t taken it back.

Neither of you spoke the whole drive home.

The only sounds were the engine, the wind against the windows, and the occasional sharp inhale from you, trying to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

Chris never reached for your hand. Never tried to fix it.

The car pulled into the parking lot of your apartment, jerking to a stop.

Chris didn’t turn off the ignition right away. His hands stayed on the wheel, fingers gripping and flexing like he was still holding onto something he had already lost.

You stared straight ahead, your eyes burning, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

Seconds passed.

And then-

Click.

He unlocked the doors.

The moment you heard it, you bolted.

The door flew open, and you were out, your sneakers pounding against the pavement as you sprinted toward the apartment entrance.

You knew what he had just done. You knew that saying those words out loud had fucking wrecked him, but you didn’t care about how he felt.

You didn’t care because he had let it happen. Because he had looked you in the eye and said something he could never take back.

And now, you were going to lock him out.

Just like you had that night last week. Just like you had done before, hoping and praying that maybe this time, he’d take the fucking hint and leave.

But Chris wasn’t stupid. He knew what you were about to do.

You heard his car door slam, the sound of his footsteps against the pavement as he chased after you.

You reached the door first, hands fumbling with the keys, but he was right there, his body closing in on yours as you shoved the key into the lock.

Just as you pushed the door shut, his hand slammed against it, shoving it back open.

You shoved with everything you had, every ounce of rage and heartbreak fueling you, but Chris was stronger.

You knew he was stronger.

And it fucking killed you.

He pushed forward, the door flying open as he stepped inside and slammed it behind him, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

You snapped. Your hands fisted in his shirt, and before you even realized what you were doing, you swung.

Your fists hit his chest, one after the other, a furious, broken rhythm of rage and despair.

“You! fucking! asshole!”

Chris just stood there.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t grab your wrists or shove you away.

He just took it.

Your punches weren’t hard enough to hurt him, but they were hard enough to shake through your whole body. Your vision blurred, your breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps.

And then the tears came.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You didn’t know where one feeling ended and the other began.

Chris swallowed, his hands twitching at his sides, like he wanted to touch you, to pull you into his chest, to fix this.

Your fists slowed, the fight draining out of you, leaving nothing but exhaustion and grief in its wake.

Your sobs were wrecked, broken, gasping for air between every sharp breath. “You can’t-” Your voice cracked. “You can’t just fucking say shit like that and then sit here and act like-”

You couldn’t even finish. The words got stuck in your throat, tangled with every time he had ever left, every time you had ever let him back in.

Your legs felt weak, unsteady beneath you, like the fight had taken too much, left you with nothing but trembling limbs and a heart that couldn’t take any more.

And then it happened.

Your body just gave in.

One second, you were standing, hitting, shaking with rage and crying.

The next, you were collapsing into him, sobbing so hard you could barely breathe.

Chris caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you without hesitation. His hold was tight, solid, like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Your hands fisted into his hoodie, your forehead pressing against his chest as the sobs wracked through you. “Take it back,” you whispered, voice shattered. “Take it the fuck back.”

Chris sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers pressing into your back, his grip almost desperate.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice rough, full of something wrecked, something you weren’t sure you wanted to name. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it.”

But it didn’t matter. Because he had said it.

And that meant, for at least one second, maybe longer, he had felt it.

You shook your head against his chest, gripping his hoodie tighter, like you could force him to undo it, to erase the moment completely.

“Just-” Your voice broke. “Just take it on back.”

Chris exhaled sharply, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. “I swear to god, I take it back.”

“Do what you gotta do,” you whispered against him, your voice barely there. “Just- just fucking fix this.”

Chris held you tighter, like he could pull you into his chest and keep you there forever. “I don’t know how.” His voice cracked, something rare, something raw. “Tell me how.”

You didn’t have an answer.

Because if there was a way to fix this, you would have found it by now.

All you could do was cling to him, feel his breath against your temple, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

He was just holding you, letting it happen, letting you sob against his chest like he knew he deserved it.

But it wasn’t enough. His arms around you weren’t enough, his whispered apologies weren’t enough, the way he was pressing his forehead to yours like he could will this all away wasn’t enough.

It still hurt. It hurt inside when you looked at him, when you saw the guilt in his eyes, when you knew that no matter how much you hated him for saying it, a part of you believed it.

That was the worst part. That little voice in the back of your head that whispered what if?

What if he meant it? What if he didn’t like you anymore? What if all of this, every fight, every bruise left on your hearts, every time you clawed your way back to each other was just stalling the inevitable?

Chris cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming, his eyes dark, desperate. “Baby,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need.”

You let out a sharp, shaking breath, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. “What are you willing to do?”

His whole body tensed. He knew what you meant.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Because what was he willing to do?

Was he willing to stop fighting? Was he willing to fix this, to finally choose something that wasn’t self-destruction wrapped in a love story?

Or was he just willing to do the same thing you always did?

Fix it the only way you knew how.

Chris’s fingers traced down your jaw, then lower, ghosting over your throat, down to your collarbone. “Let me fix it,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

This was how it always went.

“Chris,” you whispered.

“I got you, ma,” he breathed, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek, then lower. “Let me kiss it better.”

It wasn’t real. You knew it wasn’t real. But fuck, you needed it.

You tilted your chin up, letting him press his lips to yours, slow at first, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Chris deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you flush against him. The tension between you hadn’t disappeared, it had just shifted, turning into something equally as dangerous, equally as intoxicating.

You were both still burning. But this time, you were burning together.

Chris hoisted you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you through the dark apartment.

Your lips never left his.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were sinking down into it, pulling him with you, his weight pressing you into the sheets.

Within minutes his lips were everywhere.

On your mouth, your jaw, your throat. Pressing into every inch of skin like he could rewrite the last hour, like he could erase everything he had said and replace it with something softer, something sweeter.

His hands trembled as they slid over your body, gripping you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. Like he was terrified of losing you.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered against your collarbone, voice rough, wrecked. “I swear to fucking God, mama, I didn’t mean it.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, forcing him to keep going, to keep proving it. Because words meant nothing in this cycle you’d built.

But this. This you could believe in.

His lips moved lower, his hands slipping under your shirt, skimming over bare skin like it was something holy. “I like you,” he breathed, dragging his mouth back up to your jaw. “I fucking love you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your face away. “Don’t.”

Chris pulled back slightly, his breath heavy, his forehead pressing into yours. “I do,” he insisted. “You know I do.”

And you did know. But it didn’t change the fact that he had said it. That he had looked you in the eye and let the words leave his mouth in the first place.

Chris kissed you again, harder this time, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress. “I’m sorry,” he murmured between kisses. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You always are.”

His lips dragged over your pulse point, sucking just hard enough to make you gasp. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

That was the problem. You did believe him. Every single time, you believed him.

And that was why you were still here, tangled in him, letting him worship you with his hands, with his mouth, with every breath he had left.

He knew exactly how to undo you.

His hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs, pressing kisses down your stomach. “My poor hurting baby,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he looked you in your eyes. “I know it hurts inside. I fucking feel it.”

You bit your lip, staring up at the ceiling, willing yourself to hold on to the anger, to the hurt. But Chris was so good at making it disappear. So good at making you forget.

His hands slid up your legs, slow, reverent, fingers brushing over every place he had ever touched before. Like he was trying to carve himself into your skin.

Chris kissed his way back up your body, mouth tracing over your ribcage, your throat, your jaw. “I’ll do anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “Tell me what you need, ma. I’ll fucking do it.”

You knew that wasn’t true.

You knew that in a few days, maybe a few weeks, you’d be back here again. Shattered, screaming, tearing each other apart just to put the pieces back together.

But right now, it felt true. Right now, it was enough.

So you pulled him closer, legs tightening around his waist, nails digging into his back.

Chris’s hands were shaking as they pulled at your shirt, his fingers desperate, reverent- like he wasn’t just undressing you, but unraveling you. Like peeling away the layers of fabric would somehow undo the damage he had done.

His lips followed every movement, trailing soft, worshipful kisses down your body, as if he could replace every bruise on your heart with the heat of his mouth when he took your pants.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough with desperation. “I don’t deserve you.”

You wanted to tell him he was right.

You wanted to tell him that sorry wasn’t enough.

But then his mouth was lower, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and fuck, this was how he always did it. How he always made you forget.

He kissed the inside of your thighs like they were something sacred, his fingers gripping you like he was afraid you’d disappear beneath him. “Let me make it better,” he breathed, lips dragging over every inch of bare skin he could find. “Please, mama.”

His voice cracked, raw with something wrecked before he showed you how sorry he really was.

His hands held you open, his mouth finding your core in the way he knew you needed. Like he was trying to earn back every ounce of your love, like he was starving for your forgiveness.

You gasped, your fingers threading into his hair, your back arching as he devoured you.

Chris groaned into you, like this was the only thing keeping him alive, like he couldn’t breathe without you, without this. His hands tightened on your thighs, his tongue moving in the way he knew would undo you, like he wanted you to break, like he needed you to.

You tugged at his hair, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper, and he whimpered at the way you used him.

“Kiss me better,” you whispered, breathless, trembling.

Chris was on his knees for you, his mouth relentless, his hands gripping you tighter like he was afraid you’d take this from him. Like he needed to prove himself with every flick of his tongue, every desperate gasp against your skin.

The apologies didn’t stop.

“I love you.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I’ll never say that shit again.”

He was starving for you, for your forgiveness, for something that felt like redemption even when he knew he didn’t deserve it. His mouth moved over your clit, his hands trembling as they held your thighs apart even further, pressing his lips to the places he knew made you gasp, made you shudder, made you forget just who you both were outside of this.

You tugged at his hair, yanking him closer, and he whimpered against you.

Chris had never been like this with anyone else. Never been this desperate, this willing, this completely wrecked for someone.

But as soon as he heard you moan for the first time tonight, he knew he had you.

His hands gripped you tighter, holding you there, keeping you from escaping even though you had no intention of going anywhere. He was everywhere, tasting, kissing, worshipping like he had something to prove. Like every movement of his tongue was another apology, another please don’t leave me, another way to say I love you without words.

Your back arched, your head falling back against the pillow, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as moans left your pretty parted lips.

Every time you tugged at his hair, he groaned like it physically hurt him. Every time your body tensed beneath him, he whimpered like he was the one unraveling.

Like this wasn’t just for you. Like he needed this just as much.

“Fuck, mama,” he murmured between kisses, pressing his lips to your inner thigh, his fingers tracing slow, dizzying patterns over your skin. “I’ll stay here all night. I don’t care- I don’t fucking care. Just- just let me make it better. Let me kiss it better.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your body trembling from the way he was pulling you under. “Chris…”

“I know,” he breathed, his voice completely and utterly wrecked. “I know, baby. I got you.”

And God, he did. You couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t remember why you had ever been angry, why you had ever thought you could walk away from this. Walk away from him.

Instead of apologizing with words, he was apologizing like this. With his hands gripping your hips, with his tongue moving in ways that made you gasp his name, with the soft, desperate I love yous pressed into your skin between every kiss.

Your body was on fire, your mind spinning, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

And maybe he was.

Because you knew love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But you didn’t know anything else. You wanted it. You needed it.

And so you let him worship you.

You let him kiss it better.



for @mattsobvimyfav 🧡

[wonderjanga]

Competitive

Billy gets strangely competitive when it comes to sports and only sports. He can get thrashed in five different ways by five different people each in five different card or boardgames and he’s fine, but the moment he loses a darn frisbee game he’ll try to crash out. Point is, he’s strangely competitive.

Like the time the JL was playing Shirts vs. Skins football. Marvel was obviously on the shirts team because his costume doesn’t come off.

Supes: “I got it!” *catches the ball*

Marvel: *tackles him through a wall*

As the JL looked from the damaged wall to each other, and then back to the damaged wall, they just hear a loud “WHAT WARRANTED THAT??” from Clark.

or

Flash and Marvel: *playing air hockey*

Marvel: *getting frustrated that he can’t score a goal because Flash keeps blocking*

Flash: *getting slightly scared because Marvel keeps hitting it to him harder and harder*

Marvel: *hits it to Flash super hard*

Flash: *tries to block it but his little hand thingy breaks* “Dude!”

Marvel: *all he knows it that he scored* “Yay!”

Turns out Flash injured a few fingers during that so Billy immediately felt bad afterwords and made him a bunch of pies.

or

YJ and Marvel: *playing basketball*

Marvel: *dunking on these poor kids* “You guys might have to all work together at this point.”

YJ: *everyone on Marvel’s team defects to the other team*

Marvel: *gasps like he literally didn’t suggest they do that* “Wow! I didn’t know I had a bunch of traitors on my team.”

He continued to dunk on them. They even got to a point of using their powers to try and win. That didn’t work and he just got more disrespectful with the way he would score. It can be disheartening to watch to watch the kindest man you know, suddenly push your head down like your five just so he can throw a ball into a hoop.

He took them out for ice cream after.

or

Green Arrow(GA) and Marvel: *playing golf*

Marvel: *not even trying to score and is just knocking his ball away*

GA: *getting more mad as he does this*

They ended up doing this for about 10 minutes until Marvel accidentally got his ball to go into the hole. GA promptly left after saying, and Billy quotes, “Fuck this, and fuck you!”

They got burgers afterword.

[the-ace-with-spades]

So not a lot of people know this but Jake loves random silly decor and trinkets more than anything and has always had a lot of clutter of random items around himself, just on a smaller scale. It's the after-effect of Jake's mom keeping the house in pristine condition and not allowing for any decor that wasn't themed like the pre-existing decor she set up when she was twenty-something - she wasn't an almond mom but like a Texan version of it with a strict tidiness standard, with porcelain sets and old clocks and creepy dolls and flowery wallpaper and old wooden furniture and lace present throughout the house. The family had a color book for buying presents for her, so it'd match her aesthetic.

When he andf Bradley move in together, their house starts looking like a big mismatched mess of different novelty items very fast because Jake refuses to think of their living spaces through any kind of cohesive aesthetics - none of their sheets match, the walls have different colors, they have different types of furniture in any given room, and there's no themes, just whatever Jake liked.

Everyone thinks, given Bradley's questionable fashion sense and taste for bright colors, that it's Bradley who buys all that funky stuff, and they tease him accordingly - he takes the blame because it makes Jake happy.

Random shit Jake buys for their house:

Photo holders shaped like cowboy boots

Croisant cushion that makes it really awkward in their bedroom sometimes

Cock and hen salt and pepper shakers (They say 'hand me the cock' instead of salt after a while...)

Nachos and guacamole platter shaped like a cowboy hat

A mini candy claw machine they have on their kitchen island that entertains kids for ages

Those two Hawaiian shirt drink holders that Jake bought right after Bradley bought another three Hawaiian shirts as a form of protest

A speaker shaped like a camper van that Jake just thought was cute

Candles shaped (and smelling!) like french toast and a cherry pie that are in their kitchen

They also have a whole fruit bowl of cushions on their living room couch:

On top of that, in their bedroom they have a different cactus lamp each, and the tray that holds their dog tags overnight (and eventually their wedding rings) looks like a rubber duck swimming in a pool because Jake loves rubber ducks for some reason:

Jake also has some funky stationery in their office space - none of it sees the outside world because Jake is a grown man and doesn't need crab-shaped stackable highlighters (Bradley disagrees - he is the one who bought them for Jake). The only thing is he uses a variety of sticky tabs when he reads and does paperwork at home and sometimes their unsuspecting CO is reading a training exercise report and gets hit with a chilli pepper sticky notes

[unpretty]

i said it in my original tags but i want to talk out of my ass and say that one place that a lot of current romantasy falls short for me is that it ends up being written by people who mostly read other romantasy without going back to the original genres of romance and fantasy. it's like a 'learn the rules before you can break them' kind of thing. you have all these magical macguffins to hit the tropes but can you make me believe that these characters have chemistry without that? is there chemistry, or did you tell me they're fated mates and now i'm supposed to assume this fight is sexy? does the fantasy aspect exist for anything aside from the magical macguffins? i'm not going to throw stones from inside my house made of worldbuilding designed to make all my fetishes happen, but the really fun part is when the lore spins out of control and you end up really going in depth on linguistic anthropology things that aren't relevant to the makeouts.

and the other thing is that you can't really sub in fanfic for this. plenty of fanfic takes characters from other genres and plops them into romance, but it's not the same. a good romance novel says, "here are two characters. you may know their archetypes, but you don't know them. you are going to get to know them, and you are going to love them, and you are going to want them to love each other, and when they love each other you are going to be happy for them". i love a rakish duke. when a man who's never had to do his own laundry is slutty as fuck that's my shit. but you still have to make me like him. you can take that archetype and make a guy who fucking sucks. most fanfic will not impart to you any knowledge about how to make a reader like a guy from scratch. you already know that guy. that's the whole point. fanfic with as much character building as an original work is the exception, not the rule.

the whole reason i get catty about fics that just make a different guy is that... you've made a different guy. i don't know who this guy is and i don't like him, and you haven't bothered trying to make me like him, because you slapped another guy's nametag on him like a cheat code. it's cool if you did make me like this new guy, but why is he wearing that other guy's nametag if no other aspect of him is present?

read the genres you want to write, obviously, but there's a reason the shitty comphet romantic subplot is a cliche. it's because romance is its own skillset, and if you try to fit romance in your thriller when you only read thrillers it's probably going to be the weakest part. if you want an ensemble cast then chemistry between characters is important regardless of whether they're going to fuck about it.

How did you get so good at writing??? Did you take classes? I feel like you should get paid all the money for this! (I subscribe to your website!)

after i dropped out of high school i found a torrent of like 5GB of OCRd romance novels and i read like 3 romance novels a day for a while

read enough romance novels and you will realize that they live or die entirely on technical skill. if you are new to romance novels then even bad ones can dazzle you with novelty but by the time you are on your 30th historical fake engagement between a bluestocking and a rakish duke you can grade them and you know when they've failed. when two books have what should be the same main characters hitting the same plot beats, but one of those books is delightful and the other fucking sucks, you learn some things. some books are bad and still delightful. other books are good but they just don't hit. you start to see the seams in the bad ones. 'oh, this is a weird out of character moment because she wanted to have the kabedon moment and didn't know how to get there'. 'she didn't want the ust to end but couldn't think of a better reason than this deus ex cockblock.' that kind of thing.

you could probably do this with other genres but i like romance because the plot is two people fall in love. that's it. everything else is set dressing. if you can figure out how to make that work you can carry it over into whatever other genre you feel like. mysteries would give you a different skillset around plotting that i don't have.

anyway after that i wrote a lot.

[jd-loves-fiction]

Hello hello :3

I'm not sure if you take platonic requests so if you get to mine and you don't, pls lmk <3

Anyway. I would like to request platonic Boothill, Sampo, Mydei (if you can't write him yet then it's okay) and the Astral Express crew (you can leave out characters if it's too much) with a reader who is a former slave like Aventurine but they escaped by force and now respond to certain gestures with violence. Think about it like a wounded animal you're trying to approach. They lash out, bite, scratch, attack, anything.

🌑hello dear welcome!! I do take platonic requests 🫡and you can request as many characters as you want just know the more there are the longer I'll take😅 also I love love this idea 👀👀

✦ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦

Ooh he gets it

You can't exactly hurt him, given the metal body, but even if you try he won't hold it against you

The circumstances might not be the same but he undoubtedly became a different, not violent, man after what the IPC did to his planet

Plus being a galaxy ranger is a lonely existence by design

He respects your need to distance yourself from people

But I feel there's a nurturing side to Boothill he doesn't get to tap into very often

So there's a part of him that will try to comfort you? Relate to you? He doesn't know what he's doing himself but something in his heart breaks for you and pulls him towards you

One stubborn fella about helping you but quite sturdy, let's say he's the guy letting the dog bite him to get its anger out and know that he can be trusted 🥺

✦ 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐨 ✦

Menace I love him

Sampo is a con-man salesman - he wants to know everyone's secrets so that he can exploit them for his benefit

But there's some lines even he won't cross

He's got a soft heart somewhere in there (deep in there) so you can expect that he'll go easy on you when he comes to his scheming

Plus he knows how to calculate risk, so if messing with you is highly likely to get him fucked up, he won't try you... Too much

Another man whose life wasn't exactly easy (which is why he's the way he is) and with a soft spot for people with a similarly difficult past

I think he'd find his own way of showing companionship, implying that you can talk to him about stuff if you want (tho he won't blame you for thinking he's just trying to get to your secrets) and stuff like that. He'll just be very subtle about how honest he's being

Let's say he's the guy slowly leaving treats for the dog and pretending like he doesn't care if it likes him or not (he really does, he's incredibly intrigued)

✦ 𝐌𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐢 ✦

New character so bear with me

I feel like you're very similar in this way

He's got a heart of gold under all that aggression, specially when it comes to his people

He's just bad at expressing it in a gentle way😅

His childhood was... Traumatic to say the least, violence is all he knows

Another sturdy guy, he's literally immortal and seems to enjoy a good fight so hitting him in any way might just start a sparring session💀

If he doesn't know you, he wouldn't engage, he's got better things to worry about

But if he does, you might get to see a gentleness from him no one thought him capable of

He's a patient man but he genuinely wants to see you learn to live with your trauma like him

I don't think he's done healing, mind you, but you might be able to learn something from each other about living with your demons

✦ 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐭 ✦

So much father energy LORD

The way he just immediately takes Sunday under his wing? Guiding him gently and patiently? That's a dad right there

He's deeply altruistic so he will try to help you please don't fight it😭

He's canonically one of the strongest characters so don't worry about hurting him. The fact that you even had to live through what you did, hurts him much more

Gentle but insistent, is how I'd describe him

He will not give up on you no matter what and that is a promise

When and if you decide to open up, he's a great listener

But even if you don't, he'll be there always🫡 because he genuinely just wants to see you be happy

✦ 𝐇𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐤𝐨 ✦

A fearless woman if I ever saw one

On the express she mostly keeps to herself, y'know navigating

But she undoubtedly cares deeply about the team so if you're part of it (let's say you are) you're included in that sentiment

She's not exactly... Motherly, per say, but she does care. She's just a bit... Awkward about it?

The type to do things like invite you to have coffee with her (don't drink it), or offer to teach you about navigating and stuff like that, just try to make you feel included

Not the type to outright ask about what happened but will listen if you tell her and will not judge - she doesn't see anything wrong with the way you handled things (Sunday train flashbacks)

Knows you're capable of protecting yourself, but will become somewhat protective of you

Tries to avoid setting you off as much as possible, she can hold her own no problem but she'd feel terrible if she hurt you in some way

✦ 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟕𝐭𝐡 ✦

Sunshine incarnate

Might come off as overly friendly upon first meeting so if that sets you off well... she'll learn her lesson... maybe

Doesn't remember her past so if you don't wanna talk about yours it's all good with her

But if you do, she's a surprisingly good listener

Tho if you decide to be rude or aggressive to push her away, she'll definitely take it to heart, at first

She'll mope about it for a bit before her determination takes over

She wants to be your friend damnit 😡

She'll call you out for being rude but stick around regardless

She's got thicker skin than expected and she's hard to shake off (like a puppy...) if she decides she wants to be your friend, that's what she's gonna do

Plus after that first time, being rude to push her away won't work, she'll just talk right over you

In the end, she might just win you over through sheer determination 😭

✦ 𝐃𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐠 ✦

Oh he cares so much bless him

Dan Heng is extremely protective of those he's close to

If you're in the express, you're immediately included in that

Quiet comfort is his thing

Like sitting together quietly because you just need some company while he reads or even offering a game of chess as a distraction

Doesn't blame you for how you react, but if you become physically dangerous to be around he will be the first to restrain you

Just because he gets it doesn't mean he likes seeing the people around him get hurt

I feel like he's got some words of wisdom regarding how to make peace with your past

But beyond that he's good to have around because he doesn't push for answers at all

Nobody knew about his past when he came onto the express so he'd be kind of a hypocrite if he cared

It's inevitable that he becomes attached and when he does he becomes just as protective with you as with any other member of the express, regardless of your past

[pastlivesxpastlie]

𓍯𓂃Lovesick

mdni 18+

Summary: Vessel becomes fixated with you after you provide him some comfort at a party. Are you as gone for him, too? Pairing: Vessel x fem!reader wc: 4.7k head's up: vessel x you, smut with plot, friends to lovers, afab!reader, no y/n, oral sex (m receiving), pining + yearning, talk of male masturbation, texting, absolutely idiots in love, angst, bit of a slow burn (?), use of "good boy" and "good girl," tit play, couch sex, cowgirl, light choking, HEA, threats of waxing poetic about progressive metal

Taglist aka Situation Enjoyers™️: @lifemod17 @glitterghost @inv3ga @adenobabe @jeriiicho @milk--bones @myaudiocommentary @horsebiologist @intake-of-breath @fruitsandcheese @0hg00dgirl @goosepond69 @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @lynzeequitlollygagging @thatxxjiyong-ssi @cloudy-soul @daddysaidbringthethunder @cheomain @evisnotok

“On your knees….please. Yes, like that. Mmmmph. Thank you.”

Vessel can’t help but still be polite. He can’t believe his eyes. Nor the feeling of the night air on his hard cock. He’s floating above himself and watching himself get jerked off outside at a house party. It’s not enough that he feels the spit on your palm. That could be his hand and this is just an elaborate fantasy. One of many.

But it would be the first about you. You were untouchable. You’re just a friend…just a friend…just a friend…only a friend. 

“Can I use my mouth?”

Holy fuck. This is real life.

In his fantasies, no one asks. Vessel doesn’t dream about giving consent. He dreams of being craved. Taken. Always willing. His breath catches. 

“Hey, it’s ok,” you whisper, “we don’t have to anyth-“

“Do anything to me. Please.”

His head falls back with a soft thud against the house. Getting head was always fun but this felt therapeutic. You had, of course, asked Ves why he seemed down. You always asked him those kinds of things. “Someone who cares asks those things,” he’d told himself, “but someone who loves you does something about it.” Now you’re on your knees in the dirt sucking him off. How did this even happen?

𓍯𓂃earlier...

Vessel slumped in the couch and mindlessly dragged his fingers on his thigh. He had made his rounds and said “hi” to the people he wanted to talk to and smiled awkwardly at the people he sought to avoid or didn’t know. He deserved a little sit down after that. The past few months had put him in a rut. There was always a post-tour slump but this one hit different. Vessel felt down. Down because he had writer’s block. Down because it had been gloomy this week and the week before and before that etc etc. Down because his bed was cold. Thinking back on the hook-ups during tour already got boring. The old encounters going stale. Does he hook up again with someone randomly against his better judgement or does he deal with it?

On more than one occasion, Vessel had been accused of being naive when it came to love, to which he responded, “I’m just being cautious.” Where some might be naive about love and affection and throw themselves at the first person who did the bare minimum, Vessel was naive in that he just figured people were being nice or he just got lucky. Otherwise, people didn’t really want to mess with being in a relationship with a musician. They’re broody. They’re too busy. They’re married to their work. They’re full of themselves. Vessel internalized those things. Sure he was broody to begin with, but that was his brand. But everything else, sure, he could be married to his work and keep himself busy. “Just earth sign things!” Easy as that. And maybe one day someone else’s indifference towards commitment would rub off on him. His rumination is interrupted when the couch sinks a bit beside him and he feels a soft punch on his arm. 

“What does it mean when I don’t get ‘hi’ or your awkward smile, hm?”

His heart warms up a bit. It’s you. You teeter somewhere between “friend” and “good friend.” It’s always nice to see you but you leave it at that. You see each other when you see each other. He shrugs and looks over at you. “Didn’t see you. Bet you were hiding or something.” 

“Tsk. Fine. Maybe I was. We know too much about each other’s awkward little quirks,” you sigh. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to see you, though. How you been?”

Vessel laughs to himself, thinking of the miserable spiral you interrupted. “Imagine how much more awkward this could get if I told you the truth.” But you don’t laugh at his little self-deprecation. That makes him nervous. His insides churn. You’re just watching him, waiting to hear what he has to say. Why do you do that? So many people ask “how are you” because it’s polite…why do you care so much? “Look.” Vessel finally speaks again and flattens his hair. “I’m not great.” 

You shift and exhale softly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He can see it in your eyes. You’re not trying to have some misery-loves-company-circlejerk. You have that same “mask” on as him. “Hate to hear that.” For a second Vessel feels something stir within him. Your tone is unenthusiastic but he knows it has nothing to do with him. He’s just glad to bond with someone, even if it’s over something lame like depression or whatever is eating at you both. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh just…general bullshit.” You shrug but Vessel knows whatever it is, you can’t just shrug it off. “Like if I’m so stuck, maybe this is where I’m meant to be. Even if it hurts.”

He makes an “o” shape with his mouth and is lost in thought. He has certainly felt that way before, but hearing you say it about yourself is heretical. He hates that you think that way. “No.”

“Oh. Well…alright. Thanks Ves, you healed me.” You chuckle dryly. He rolls his eyes and pats your leg. “So what’s got you down? For real.”

Vessel’s smile fades. “I feel…stuck as well. Just…going through the motions.” He scratches the back of his neck. “All the excitement of the last couple of months just…ripped from me. Gets hard to keep up with my emotions when I’m…frankly…bored. Bored of feeling this way. My own company.”

“I get that. Like you have to have things changing or moving all the time.”

“Exactly. Like some kind of jump that isn’t a substance or…whatever.”

“Hah…yeah… sometimes I just feel like…” you begin but pause.

“Like what?” Why are you blushing like that, he wonders idly. And why is it suddenly the cutest thing he’s ever seen?

“Uhm. I feel like…I need to get laid. That would fix me, right? Huge load of emotions and hormones released with someone you like…what could be better?”

“Oh is it that simple?” Vessel laughs. A genuine, warm laugh. You’re so silly, he just loves talking to you. And he loves how you laugh with him. He was scared for a second that you might take it personally, but he’s glad to see that you too have a sick sense of humor when you’re feeling unwell. 

“Maybe it is. Guess…we won’t know until…” you trail off.

“Until we try…” Vessel’s throat goes dry. He tries to swallow hard before nonchalantly scoping out how many people were on the patio. 

𓍯𓂃

Vessel always had to make things happen, and he was fucking exhausted from it. Now you were happening to him. You clued in on what he wanted when he suggested you both get some fresh air. Hell, you were the one who found the perfect spot for this tryst. 

“Y-you like doing that?” he whimpers. He can’t make out much of your features but he feels you nod and smile and…fuck, take him deeper in your mouth. He’s holding his breath. He knows he shouldn’t but if he doesn’t exert some kind of control over himself he’ll lose it. But when you grab his waist and start literally fucking your face with his cock he has to let go. He grips your hair, willing himself to resist overpowering you and thrusting harder against your movements. “Ffffff-fffuck.” He whimpers softly and bites at his lip… wishing you had kissed him before you got started so he could imagine it again while you savored every inch of him. His entire body shivers when you moan against his cock, making him realize you like the sound of his whimpers. His pathetic little pleas and moans.

“‘That feel good, Ves?” You whisper, stroking his cock as you catch your breath? “Hmm?”

He nods and whines, trying to not be loud. Thank god it was dark, otherwise you would have seen the tears threatening to spill. The way he bit his hand to keep from moaning out loud. What if you two got caught? What if another friend heard what you pulled from him? “Fuck…you’re gonna make me cum…”

“That’s a good boy.” Vessel feels his stomach drop as you start sucking him off again but with more enthusiasm. Like you need him to cum. And he does. But you don’t move…you keep your mouth on him. And he  might be the one cumming down your throat but he’s not claiming you. No. 

You. 

Own. 

Him. 

Somehow, and much to his delight, Vessel does not lose sleep over the ordeal or his new-found, all-consuming feelings for you. In fact, he’s never slept better. Sleeping once meant loud, restless dreams; now it means a nestling in and wondering about you before dozing off…imagining he’s holding you. He keeps telling himself it’s infatuation. It’ll go away. He’s just starstruck from the way you took care of him. But then…the ruminating started…

Each morning, Vessel wondered about you. Maybe today you’ll share something on Instagram that he can make a little comment on. Send a react. Yes, sure, you’re friends, but you’re not “close.” When he looked into your soft, sweet eyes the other night he wondered how a darling little thing like you learned to give head like that. Suddenly your life story became his Roman Empire. Were you a natural? Did someone give you gentle pointers the first few times? Or did you have to do it a lot to get good? Did you have to go jumping from man to man to find the love you so desperately craved? This made Vessel’s blood run cold. The thought of sweet, wonderful you merely being an option to other men. A small voice told Vessel that perhaps he himself was just an option. Maybe you did stuff like this a lot. One among many. Vessel chided this voice. Locked it in a dark little room with no ventilation. You were good. You wouldn’t use anyone. In fact, you probably did learn this from practice because who wouldn’t love you?

Vessel knows he’s being stupid. You two like each other but he won’t reach out. Then again, you don’t reach out either. That’s ok. He had no coherent plan of moving things forward. He was also terrified the spark you two shared would be gone if you tried hanging out again. What if you couldn’t handle his schedule? Or didn’t find it endearing when his moods never let up? What if that stupid voice was right? Most of the time, he resigned himself back to “I’ll see her when I see her,” and a cheeky wank to take the edge off. But that always left him feeling guilty. Empty. 

This particular morning he had been deep in thought about what your favorite position might be and how many times he could make you cum just from fucking you at a torturous pace that way. Today’s position of choice was doggy, but bent over his desk, on top of his notes from recording and writing sessions. That was what you deserved. You drove him to absolutely hopeless distraction…you should be bent over while he stands behind you, fingers melting into your flesh, holding you in place. He swears this will be the last time he jerks off thinking about you…but because of that he can’t help but edge himself. Thinking about you is easy. Not because you yourself are easy…but because Vessel realizes how naturally desirable you are. Seeing the way you took control and took care of him opened his mind to this entirely new world of fantasies. The heat blooming from his groin to his tummy made him stop for the third time. Yes, in this fantasy you were bent over for him…but there was more to it. You were doing him a favor. Good boys got to take breaks. Good boys stuck in a rut need to empty their brains and fill up their girlfriends. FUCK he wanted you to be his girlfriend so bad. And that thought scared him…as does the sound of his phone buzzing a few times. His train of thought vanishes along with his hard-on. Cursing whoever who messaging him this early, he grabs his phone but then makes the most embarrassing noise known to man. 

You: hey isn’t this a band you like?

the second message is the link to an instagram post

You: they’re doing a last minute show next weekend 

And sure enough, one of his favorite niche prog metal bands was playing in place of someone else at a local venue on Saturday. And tickets were dead cheap. Another message. 

You: if I knew anything about metal I’d go with you. Not sure how much fun I’d be 

Sirens! Flashing lights! All the bells and whistles going off in Vessel’s brain are firing. His inner little voices of reason (and everything in between) begin a debate.

“She’s flirting!” “Obviously, she’s flirting she sucked your dick.” “Can’t be that deep mate, she’s just now talking to you after a month.” “Sure it is, it is has to be flirting! She’s practically begging for you to invite her!”

Vessel: lol I could send you a playlist :)

“Mate, come on, what are you doing?” “Invite her over to hear the playlist. That’ll will be cute” “and then fuck her. Fuck her like the sl—“

Vessel rolls over and screams in his pillow. He will not have a meltdown over this.

Vessel: or we could throw you in feet first? Come with me? 

… … … 

Those infernal fucking “typing” bubbles are killing him. 3 minutes of that. Then no response. Vessel isn’t sure what he did wrong or if he did do anything wrong. He tries to go about his day but there’s still that nagging suspicion that he did too much. But when he least expects it…

You: sorry this is so last minute. are you busy tonight? 

Vessel: no, I’m not. Why?

He bites his lip as he waits to see what you’re planning. He wonders if you want to talk about what happened…or maybe do it again…or maybe act like nothing happened. 

You: I just don’t want to be alone tonight.  Vessel: I don’t want to be either.

It’s set then. He’ll go to your place…maybe have some drinks…maybe get a chance to thank you for the fun. He wanted to taste you. To make you cum like he did for you. Too many nights he spent wondering what you’re into. He had cast you in his mind as a soft domme, probably just because that’s what tickled his fancy at the time. But you had this caring…almost nurturing sense about you that night. You touched him like he was precious…like he would break if you didn’t take your time. He wanted to show you he was tougher than that. He could take it. The mere thought of even getting a chance to kiss you and make you feel even a fraction of the pleasure you gave him made his cock twitch. The time between now and when he was reunited with you would be torture.

But when he gets to your place, he doesn’t feel confident enough to act smooth or even touch you. If anything, he wanted to touch your hair. Literally just brush back the strands you missed when you tucked it behind your ear. Finally he musters the courage to stand beside you as you’re getting him some water. You’ve sucked his dick, the least he can do is move your hair. He moves in for the kill…but perhaps a bit too fast, because just as his hand reaches your personal space, you turn your head to look up at him and... receive a cheek full of Vessel knuckles. 

He moves quickly to cup your face, desperate to show you he didn’t mean to whack you, but he’s greeted with a surprised chuckle and your smile. Not that one you put on for friends or staged photos…your real smile. He could die happy right now. Just absolutely melt. If he ever wanted to write true, honest to god love ballads he would think back to this moment. This gooey, gushy feeling. He feels confident, the same confidence the mask gives him, and presses a soft kiss where he accidentally got you.

“Ves…” 

You still smile but he sees something behind your eyes. Vessel keeps his hands on your face…his heart breaking and stomach dropping. He had noticed you weren’t posting regularly on your socials and even then you seemed a bit less animated. He’s learned your tells. There’s smudges from yesterday’s eyeliner that somehow looks effortless but still betrays the fact that you didn’t wash your face last night. In his mind, Vessel likened you to a shrinking violet. The kindest, most gorgeous girl who ever graced him with her presence trying to hide herself away. This wouldn’t do. Even though he didn’t feel like he had the emotional energy for himself…he desperately wanted to be here for you. After the past four weeks of falling down a rabbit hole imagining you as a soft, caring, dominant partner, he suddenly felt needed. He wanted to provide so bad it hurt. 

“What’s the matter, love?”

“I…” your voice cracks and you shake your head. He backs off a bit, letting you have some space. “It’s been a rough few weeks. I’ve…missed you and felt like…a fucking idiot the whole time.”

Vessel nods and takes a drink of his water. “Yeah. Getting laid didn’t fix us, did it?”

You laugh ruefully and cross your arms. “It’s made me worse. How about you?”

“You first.”

You roll your eyes and stretch your neck. Vessel nearly loses his mind at how you bite your lip as you look him up and down. This is what he wants. To be under your gaze. Please. Keep him there. His breath catches. You could tell him to leave right now and he would. But instead, you keep talking. 

“To be completely honest with you, I didn’t think there was anything between us other than like…being friends. So I don’t know what came over me when I just…literally threw myself at you. I shouldn’t have done that. That’s…stupid reckless behavior.” You wring your hands a little and look down. “How can I expect to be taken seriously if I just—“

Vessel puts his hand up. “Stop that.”

“But I’m serious, Vess-“

“I said…’stop that.’ I take you seriously. I’ve always taken you seriously.” Vessel considers you for a moment. While he’d love to take you to bed, he’s desperate to lift you up. To reassure you. “Love, if you think you shouldn’t be taken seriously, imagine how I feel. You could have written me off as a jerk for letting you—“ but Vessel stops himself before he waxes poetic about your blowjob skills and ruins the moment. “I didn’t even follow you after we were done. Call you. Message you directly. After everything…I shouldn’t even have the chance to be with you.”

You shake your head and look down. “I know you’re not after one thing…I know it. But…why can’t I believe it? It’s nothing personal, I swear I just-“

Something deep within propels Vessel to pull you in for a gentle kiss…and to his utter delight you melt right into his touch. You fit so ridiculously perfect in his arms and mesh so well against his lips. He lets out a soft moan right as you break the kiss. Vessel had already been taken with you, but now he was enchanted. “Give me a month. I’ll show you how serious I am about you. It’s not just the sex…I promise.”

Your breath is ragged…you’re overcome with emotion and desire. You nod up at him. “All the time you need…”

“Good girl…” Vessel cocks his head, amused that he just called you that. He meant it in an encouraging way but…if the shoe fits. “Would you like that? To be my good girl?”

Your eyes get a bit dark, but not out of anything malicious. Your chin raises. “Ves…I would be anything you asked me to be. I don’t think you understand what you’ve done to me…” You pause but Vessel can’t even begin to formulate a thought. Were you as borderline obsessive as him? “You shouldn’t be on my mind the way you are. I mean…what are you doing to me? You’ve shown me so much kindness and your own vulnerability…that shouldn’t turn me on. It’s endearing and admirable, sure, but why do I…I just want to take care of you. I’m sorry I just…I feel guilty for…for falling for you because see me and you let me suck you off…I mean…how old are we?”

He’s taken aback a little. Something in your mind is tricking you. “Sweetheart,” he cups your cheek, “if it makes you feel any better, I feel the same. When I saw how down you looked a bit ago…” he shakes his head and sighs, “took everything in me to not start confessing everything just to see you smile. I want you. I want…everything that makes you ‘you.’ And I get the feeling you want the same…right?”

For a long second, you don’t say anything. You stare up at him, glassy eyed. He doesn’t need verbal confirmation. He’s passed that. He’s no longer timid about you. His lips meet yours in an agonizingly slow, tender kiss. Vessel’s hips press you against your kitchen counter, letting you feel his excitement. It wasn’t pure arousal. It was the excitement of being open and honest with each other. The emotional push and pull of comforting you but also receiving your reassurance did things to him. Oh fuck. Oh no. This was love, wasn’t it? Your hands pull at his hips, bringing one of his legs between yours. You moan softly, and he pulls from the kiss.

“Do you think about me at all?” He whispers breathlessly? You moan as his lips ghost your ear. The feeling of your thighs tightening around him makes his cock twitch. He wishes your thighs were around his hips…or even his face. You bite your lip and whine a little as your hips buck involuntarily.

“I think about fucking you on my couch everyday.”

Obviously the next stop is the couch. Vessel sits down and pulls you to straddle him. His kisses become more ravenous. Finally…the girl of his dreams is on him. He’d do anything for you right now, but he wants you a little vulnerable. You, of course, had been pining, too. What’s the harm in being pathetic together? He pulls off your shirt and nearly looses his mind when your soft flesh comes into view. Your precious tummy. Your squishy tits. Fuck. It was all his. “Get your pants off.”

You hop off his lap and do as your told. Vessel just watches and unzips his pants, adjusting them and his boxers to let his cock out. He bites his lip and strokes himself teasingly as he watches you pull off your leggings and panties. Drooling at the sight of your nude legs…the hint of your pussy. He beckons you forward seductively, a little taste of what’s to come once you’re in reach. 

“How wet are you, love?” He asks, letting his fingers dip between your legs. You moan softly as his fingers trail up and down your slit, enjoying the wetness he’s caused. “I don’t even need to help you, do I? Excitable girl. Aren’t you?” All this gets from you is a nod. You’re so gone. He leans back on the couch and pulls you toward him. He’s still completely dressed in his henley and jeans, but you don’t seem to mind. He positions you on his cock and lets you set the pace. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been fucked, but he knows to be kind and let you adjust to his size. His eyes roll back and his head thumps against the couch. Something about how your body takes his cock makes his insides melt. You run your fingers through your hair and arch your back as you lower yourself completely on him. “Don’t move…don’t move, love.” He adjusts slightly to bring your chest to his mouth. His soft kisses and kitten licks pepper your breasts, causing your pussy to clench. It feels amazing. He’s being so gentle, but on the inside he wants to ravage you. Even after getting off everyday for a month thinking about you, you still excite Vessel into a frenzy. 

“Oh…oh Ves…” you gasp as he takes your nipple between his lips. You both moan as his cock twitches against your sensitive walls, but he keeps you still, cockwarming as he teases and makes out with your nipples. He shamelessly buries his face in your chest and moans, squeezing your ass to pull you close. Vessel can hardly believe it. You’re finally in his arms, his cock is stuffed inside you, and you want his love just as badly as he wants yours. He pulls his face away from your body to look up at you and whisper.

“You’re my girl now. You know that?” He puts his finger that had touched your pussy in his mouth and sucks, making sure you how see gone he is for you. “Gonna make you so happy…”

Vessel can hardly believe what’s coming out of his mouth, but pussy from someone who accepts you unconditionally will do that to you. He thought he was only built for fleeting infatuations and hooks up. But here he was…making promises he’d sooner die than break. After playfully torturing you with how his cock twitched inside you every time you kissed him or made a little sound, he starts to move your hips.  You look positively angelic on his lap completely naked taking his cock. His eyes roll back and he realizes that whatever half baked fantasy he had about fucking you didn’t prepare him for how good you felt. How warm and safe he’d feel under the weight of your body. It’s almost too much. Not that he’d cum yet. No. He just wants to say stupid things like “I love you;” and “we should move in together;” and “please call me a good boy.” That little submissive voice was still in him. He knew you were responding well to him taking control but he wanted that gentle control from you again. 

“Am…am I good for you?” He rasps out as you steadily grind against him.

“Mhm…so good…you…you like being good?”

Vessel’s eyes roll back and he nods pathetically. “Just for you.” 

You bury your face in the nape of his neck and suck little pink love marks up and down it. He moans with each one, clenching your body impossibly close. “I can’t move when you hold me like that…” you say backing up a little. You take his wrists gently and pin them against the back of the couch. He licks his lips and smiles dreamily. “Oh you’re pathetic, aren’t you?” Your fingers intertwine and he lets out a contented sigh.

“So pathetic…”

“You like being good but you like getting in trouble, too, huh?”

Vessel’s brain is mush. He knows you’re lightly degrading him and he fucking loves it but he has no concept of what’s happening other than “yippee perfect girl is being perfect.” He just nods and lets you fuck him for all he’s worth, cumming when you wrap your dainty hand around his neck. 

Later at what can only be described as a debrief at the pub, you share a large basket of fries. Vessel takes a deep breath as he attempts to act normal after having his mind blown and emotions pulled in all kinds of different directions. “This is good, yeah?”

“The fries?”

“For Christ’s sake…”

“Oh sorry, you mean…us…yeah. This is good. Really good. Are you scared?”

Vessel looks at the table and then at you. Honesty is his only option. “Terrified.”

“Same.”

He ponders for a moment and puts his hand palm up on the table. “Do it scared?”

You plop your hand down on his, “and together.”

“Now about this gig next week. I need to start your lectures on progressive metal-“

“Oh god.”

[spicyspiders]

Professor Howlett

logan howlett x male reader smut

3.7k words

cw: power imbalance (logan is the reader's professor), age difference, rimming, virginity kink, thigh fucking, size kink, and spit as lube.

“This is utterly disappointing,” Professor Howlett tosses your paper down onto his desk with a thwap. The sound makes you jump, but you quickly steel yourself before he can look up and see how your calm expression is beginning to break.

You have to clear your throat before responding, though it does little to stop the lump you feel forming in your throat, ”I tried my best, professor,” you respond, keeping your eyes locked on the paper littered with red pen marks.

“Did you?” Professor Howlett questions angrily, making you jump once more at the tone, “because this sure as hell doesn’t read like it!”

“Professor, I-” you try to explain, but he cuts you off. 

“The first paper you wrote got the highest grade in the class, and then you go on to write this?” He asks, waving the red pen he used to mark up your paper angrily in the air as he speaks. If you weren’t biting your lip hard enough that at any second you thought it would bleed, you would laugh at the display. 

He looked at you expectantly, and with how angry he looked, you didn’t think any explanation that you could give would be enough. You had to try and do so anyway, knowing the sooner you spoke, the sooner you could leave his office and contemplate dropping his class or dropping out of college in general. 

You suck in a shaky breath before you respond, “I’m sorry, professor,” and when his angry expression doesn’t falter, you continue, “I knew I didn’t give myself enough time and knew I just had to take the hit to my grade and do better on the next paper.”

The man in front of you lets out a bitter laugh, “so you waste my time?”

“That wasn’t my intention, sir,” you respond, slouching down into the chair, trying to make yourself look as small as possible. You look up at the man across from you after a few moments of awkward silence, meeting his eyes as you try to calm your racing heart. 

He lets out a long sigh before he speaks again, “I must have set my expectations for the rest of your assignments too high,” he passes the paper across the desk until it sets in front of you, “I apologize.”

You can feel anger welling up in your body at his words. It was one bad assignment, it’s not like you were now some lost cause. “I can still write a paper just as good as the first one,” you snap before snatching the paper off the desk. “I told you,” you huff, angrily unzipping your book backpack to put the paper inside, “I didn’t give myself enough time, which won’t happen again,” you stand up in a flash, the chair shooting out from behind you fast enough you’re surprised it didn’t tip over, “I apologize, professor.”

“Hey hey hey,” Logan says, racing around the desk to grab your shoulder. He turns you around slowly from where you were about to stop out of his office and slam the door behind you, “I don’t want this to impact your grade.”

”It already is,” you spit, not angry at him, but angry at yourself. You remember getting the notification this morning that your professor had posted the grade, the number immediately turning your mood sour. 

“It’s okay,” Professor Howlett says, running a soothing hand down your shoulder, “I’ll give you a week to rewrite the paper and give you full credit back.”

“I’m not rewriting the paper,” you say with a bitter laugh that sounds a lot like Professor Howlett’s did earlier. 

“I know you can do better than this,” Professor Howlett responds, crossing his arms along his broad chest. 

“As you’ve already said,” you say, rolling your eyes, “I’m not writing an extra paper,” too tired to even think after you stayed up all night bullshitting the paper you had turned into Professor Howlett, you put the decision in his hands: “so what do you want to do, professor?” You ask tiredly.

You stare into Professor Howlett’s eyes, waiting for the man to make his decision. He looks back at you, observing you closely with his dark eyes. You are on the edge of feeling uncomfortable by the time he’s made up his mind, a look that you’re unable to pinpoint settling over his face. 

“Take off your bag and put it in the chair,” he commands, the lone tone of his voice making you shiver. 

“Okay,” you respond shakily, now back in front of him with your bag resting in the chair, “now wh-”

Your back collides with the door, and then a second later, his lips collide with yours. You gasp in surprise against his mouth and feel his tongue enter the opening, the appendage sliding wetly against yours. 

Too caught off guard to respond to the kiss, Logan moans against your unresponsive lips, one of his hands going to your chin to angle your head so his tongue can move deeper. His other hand you can hear beside you fiddling with the lock, and when the knob finally clicks, you can barely hear it over the sound of Professor Howlett’s breathing after he pulls away from the kiss. 

“Professor-” you begin, placing your hands on his broad shoulders, your mind too confused on whether you should push him away or pull him closer. You’ve already crossed the line you never thought you would cross. Sure, you had your fantasies dating back to the first day you walked into class, but you thought those would just stay in your head, only coming out in breaths of the professor’s name when your mind would wonder when you touched yourself.

“Logan.”

“Logan,” you correct yourself, trying to bite back a moan when Professor- Logan pushes his thigh between your legs, “I don’t think-”

He cuts you off with yet another kiss, but this time, you crane your neck to pull away from the kiss, trying your hardest to ignore the weight of your cock chubbing up in your pants. 

The second kiss ending abruptly does nothing to discourage Logan, instead, it gives his lips a new area to map out. “You drive me insane,” Logan moans against the column of your neck, his stubble digging into the sensitive skin. “So smart,” he says kissing down until he reaches the collar of your shirt, “so beautiful,” he whispers, moving to press his forehead to yours, “yet you barely talk in class,” he says, pressing his lips to yours once more, but this one much softer than the last. 

There wasn’t a participation grade outlined in the syllabus for Logan’s class like it was for some of your other professors, meaning you weren’t going to talk if you didn’t have to. Sometimes you did, feeling bad when he would ask a question and no one would respond immediately, hating the awkward silence. And now that you think about it, those were usually the nights your mind would think of him while your fingers were wrapped around your cock. Good job or good answer Logan would say, the praise lighting a coil of pleasure deep in your belly. 

“It’s only for me to see, is it?” Logan asks, his hands moving to hold your hips possessively, “only I get to see how smart you are,” he says in a low, gravelly voice, seemingly answering his own question. His lips go to the racing pulse point on the side of your neck, his teeth sinking into the skin. 

The bite burns, making your mouth fall open with a whimper, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure. Logan’s hot tongue runs over the mark, trying to soothe the pain with warmth. You give way to the feeling, letting your head fall back onto the wooden door, giving Logan more room to work. 

You bury a hand in his dark hair, running your fingers through the dark locks. Logan pulls away at the feel of your fingers in his hair, his eyes now darker than they once were, his pupils dilated in lust. You stare at each other once more before, taking in Logan’s already disheveled appearance with his dark eyes, messy hair, and crooked tie.       

You respond to the next kiss Logan initiates. It’s softer than you expect, at least, it is at the start. It begins to heat up when you tighten the hand in Logan’s hair to change the angle. You both moan when your tongues meet once more, spit mixing together. 

Logan wraps an arm around your lower back so you can stumble your way to the couch that sits against one of the walls of his office. Your lips break for air when you feel the back of your legs meet the cushions, your chest heaving as you suck in lungfuls of air.

Logan pushes you down onto the couch before one of his hands yanks at his tie, pulling it through the neckline of his sweater, and then he throws the garment away as if it has offended him.  Next comes the black sweater, leaving him with dark slacks and a button-up shirt. 

You feel your cock throb in your pants as you watch Logan lower himself onto his knees. He pushes his way between your legs, his hands going to your hips to get your pants down in a pool between your ankles. 

Your breath comes out in a stutter when Logan leans down, his nose coming into contact with the bulge in your underwear. He runs his nose along the length of your cock, then his tongue runs along the same path, paying extra attention to the wet spot on the cloth that rests over the head of your cock.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan when Logan gets your underwear out of the way and swallows your cock. Logan takes it deep enough for you to feel, the hot, wet, constriction of his throat, his hand finding balance on your thighs. 

Logan’s breath puffs wetly against the head of your cock when he pulls away, his spit hardly having the chance to cool and dry as Logan runs his tongue up the length of your cock. He doesn’t take it as deep when he sucks it back inside his mouth, instead, he focuses on the suction. The hot suction of his mouth pulls a glob of precum from the head of your cock onto Logan’s tongue, the older man groaning at the taste.

The vibration through your cock makes your hips jump, sending your cock back deep into Logan’s throat. The movement catches Logan off guard, causing the man to gag around your cock, his throat convulsing wetly around the hard length of your cock. 

You pull the hand over your mouth and put it into Logan’s hair, trying to run your fingers through the strands soothingly. “Sorry,” you gasp, swiping your thumb under Logan’s eyes to wipe away the tears that fell. 

Logan surges up to pull you into a wet, messy kiss. His tongue is immediately in your mouth, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“M’sorry,” you repeat. 

Logan chuckles softly, “it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, pressing soft kisses on your cheeks.

Your stomach tightens at the pet name, affection coursing through your body. You place your hands on Logan’s belt buckle, already knowing how much you’re going to struggle trying to get his pants undone and out of the way. 

It takes you longer than you want to get his belt undone and his pants unbuttoned, and Logan doesn’t make it any easier when he presses, chaste, soft kisses to your mouth. Once open, Logan stands to get his pants down and off, the large bulge of his cock trapped behind his underwear. 

Just the sight of the bulge has you feeling intimidated, while at the same time making your mouth water. Anticipation joins the mix of lust and intimidation in your gut, which all combine into a feeling of pleasure that has your cock throbbing in the air. 

You place your hands on his waistband, Logan’s hands coming to rest atop yours a second later. With Logan’s help, you push his underwear down slowly, watching second by second as his cock is revealed to you.   

Your fantasies did not measure the actual size of his cock in all of its long and thick glory. It hangs heavy in front of your face, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. Past the length of Logan’s cock, his balls hang heavy and full. This up close, you can also smell his musk: heady and all Logan.

A broad palm cupping your cheek draws your attention away, turning it instead to Logan’s face. A wave of heat washes over your body when you realize that in the moments where you were taking in the appearance of Logan’s cock, the man had pulled the rest of his clothes off. The button-up now lays in the pile with the rest of his clothes, giving you a full view of his broad, muscular chest. 

“I’ve never seen you so distracted,” Logan says with a smirk, his thumb running along your cheekbone. 

“What?” You question back, your voice breathy. 

Logan’s smirk broadens into a full smile, “I asked if you wanted to take that off.”

At a loss for words, you can barely think of a response, “oh,” you decide. 

Logan chuckles softly, his other hand running along the slit of his cock. When he pulls it away, a strand of precum follows the pad of his finger. Logan pushes his finger past your lips, still open in the shape of the soft oh you just let out. 

You suck at his finger when it touches your tongue, the salty taste lighting up your tastebuds. You hear Logan groan when you suck harder, wanting to get to the flavor underneath and see what Logan himself tastes like. 

Logan’s finger comes free with a slick pop, “let’s get the rest of this off,” he says. 

You only had your shirt and shoes to get off, and what should have been an easy, less than a minute process, felt like a lifetime. Logan tenderly pulled your shoes and socks off, one and then the other. Your shirt was next, coming off slowly with two broad palms sneaking up your shirt. Logan’s lips followed the path his hands made, all the way up to your lips that he kissed after your shirt was tossed away. 

Logan got back into the familiar position he was just in, but instead of sucking your cock, his mouth went lower. He bit into the meat of your thighs, and though you couldn’t see the one on your neck, you were sure that it matched the new ones he was making. 

“Roll over,” Logan commands, pressing a kiss to the mark he just made on your left thigh. Logan maneuvers your body into the position he wants, leaving your body pressed to the front of the couch, and your feet hanging over the cushions in front of Logan.

You press your forehead into the wall in front of you, feeling the puffs of Logan’s breath along your back, “do you have lube?” He asks in a low voice, his lips running across your skin. 

“No,” you reply, your body tense as you try not to shake in anticipation. 

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his head coming to rest against your shoulder, “that’s okay,” he says, and you feel your body relax, “I can get you wet enough,” With how big his cock was, you doubt it, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. 

Logan’s first step to getting you to be what he says is wet enough is with his tongue. He starts with soft swipes of his tongue, letting you get accustomed to it. It wasn’t like it was hard, especially with the combination of the rough stubble on his face, which only added to the pleasure. 

The next step is spit, which, really you could say goes with the first. You already feel as if there’s enough of it already there from Logan’s tongue, a large extent due to when Logan kept pushing his tongue as far as it could go. It left you clenching down on the wet muscle, clawing your fingers into the couch as it massaged your walls. 

Logan didn’t let up and moved to spit a glob of spit onto your hole when it relaxed after pulling his tongue free. Caught off guard, you jerked forward, your cock coming into contact with the cushion of the couch. The friction had you gritting your teeth trying to stay quiet, hoping that because it was nearly five in the afternoon on Friday, most of the people in the building were already gone. 

Logan was quick to press the spit into your hole with a thick finger, all the way down until you were clenching down on all of it. “There we go,” Logan whispers from behind you, the wet heat of his breath on your shoulder. 

You turn your neck to face him, gasping into the kiss he presses to your lips. Logan swallows the moan that’s punched from your chest when his finger finds your prostate, the older man groaning as you clench down on his finger. 

Logan pulls away from the kiss at the same time his finger is pulled free. You feel the couch shift as Logan moves, the man making his way back down face-to-face with your hole. You’re proud of yourself for not jumping as hard when Logan spits on your hole a second time, the glob going deeper than the first after opening your hole just with one finger.    

“Does it burn, baby?” Logan asks, now that he’s using two fingers to chase after the spit instead of one.

”A little,” you whine around the burn as he scissors them apart. Almost like Logan can read your mind, he brushes his fingers along your prostate when the burn feels like it’s becoming too much. You feel precum leak from your cock, staining the upholstery. 

”That’s normal for your first time,” Logan says, pressing kisses along the shell of your ear. 

”I’ve done this before,” you respond, pushing back into Logan’s fingers. 

”Someone’s fucked you?” Logan asks, his arm coming to wrap around your stomach, right above your hard cock.

”Just my fingers,” you respond quietly. 

“How many?” Logan asks, his fingers coming to a stop. 

“Four,” you grit out, clenching down on his fingers like you’re wordlessly trying to get him to continue. 

Logan lets out a dark chuckle. He lays his hand on top of yours, his big hand bigger than your own. He stretches his fingers out, showing you how they compare in size. “That’s nearly your whole fist,” he says, his fingers starting to move again. 

“Need more,” you whine, clenching down on his fingers. 

“Shh,” Logan coos, “I know,” he lets out a warm breath at the back of your neck, “I can’t fuck you,” he says, pulling his fingers free slowly, “not like this.”

”Please,” you whine, louder than the one before. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he responds, pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck. You feel his weight on the couch shift once more as he spreads your thighs apart. It’s a tight squeeze trying to fit the both of you on the couch, but Logan makes it work. 

He pushes his cock between your thighs, right below your balls, already tight against your cock. He grips your hips tightly before he begins thrusting, only taking a few jerks of his hips before you push your thighs together around his cock. 

The sound of Logan’s groan behind you travels from his chest to your back, letting you feel how good you’re making him feel. ”Does that mean I was the first?” He asks, one of his hands moving to wrap around your cock. 

“What?” You asked, confused, your mind cloudy from the pleasure. 

“Am I the first to touch you like this?” Logan questions, his voice a low growl. His fingers are slick around your cock, gliding along the length. 

You nod quickly, too close to the edge and overtaken with pleasure to even say a single word. You cum to the feel of Logan’s hand around your cock, his teeth biting possessively into the skin of your shoulder, and his cock nudging your balls. Ropes of cum shoot from your cock, staining the couch in his office. You probably won’t be able to look at couches ever the same again. 

Logan’s hand shoots up to your mouth, covering your lips as you moan, overtaken by the pleasure of your orgasm. You rest against his palm, falling forward while at the same time tightening the slick valley of your thighs.

Logan muffles his moan in the crook of your sweaty neck when he cums. It nearly burns, making a bigger mess in your thighs and on the couch. 

In a blur, Logan gets you onto his chest, his back now resting on the couch, “you okay?” He questions, his hand running softly along the sweaty expanse of your back. 

“I don’t think I can move,” you respond, still riding the high of probably one of the best orgasms you’ve had. 

Logan laughs loud enough that your head shakes against his chest. Moments later, when you’re nearly lulled to sleep by the ticking of the clock in his office, Logan speaks, “I’m sorry for getting so frustrated with you,” he says softly. 

“What do you mean?” You question, craning your head to look up at the man.

“I see how smart you are,” he answers, his voice a low rumble, “it made me frustrated to see you not working up to your potential.”

“I said I was sorry,” you immediately respond, not sure if you should pout or roll your eyes.   

“I know, baby,” he says with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “I know,” he leans down to press your lips together softly, “I just wanted to explain myself.”

This time you did roll your eyes, too fucked-out to try and control your expression, “I’ll write a better paper next time,” you grumble, moving to lay your head down once more over his chest.  

[angelofthenight01]

The witch's secret

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

genre: fluff  ||     warnings: none

Summary: You're best friends with Pietro and Wanda is avoiding you as much as possible.  Little do you know that the reason is that the witch is falling in love with you.

The stale, recycled air of the Avengers training room hits you like a damp rag as you step inside. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the corner of your shirt, already feeling the familiar ache in your muscles. It’s been a long morning, dodging energy blasts and deflecting vibranium projectiles, all courtesy of your best friend, Pietro. He’s leaning against the wall, a smirk playing on his lips as he examines his nails like some haughty prince.

"Took you long enough," he crows, pushing himself off the wall and stretching his arms high above his head. "I was starting to think you’d finally given up on keeping up with my god-like speed."

You roll your eyes, already used to his theatrics. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, Quicksilver. Some of us need sleep." You grab your water bottle, taking a long swig. You’ve known Pietro since… well, since forever. You met at one of those weird, half-way houses run by the government when you were kids. You’d bonded over shared experiences and the inability to understand why everyone was so obsessed with being “normal”. You’d been inseparable ever since. And, naturally, that meant you’d gotten to know his twin sister, Wanda, very well too.

She’s… different. A chaotic storm wrapped up in a quiet demeanor. She’s a puzzle you’d gladly spend a lifetime trying to solve. However, lately, solving her has been like trying to catch smoke with a butterfly net. She’s been avoiding you, and not in a mild, subtle way. This is avoidance of Olympic proportions. If you’re in the kitchen, she’s suddenly urgently needed in the library. If you’re on the training floor, she’s busy meditating on the roof. It’s as if you’ve suddenly become radioactive.

"So," Pietro says, breaking your thoughts. “What’s the workout for today, oh, mighty planner of our pain?”

You shrug, pulling out the tablet and swiping the screen. "I was thinking a bit of hand-to-hand, maybe some sparring. What do you think?"

"As long as it involves me winning spectacularly, I'm in." He flashes that trademark grin, and you can’t help but chuckle.

You spend the next hour getting pummeled by Pietro’s ridiculous speed and impressive strength - but you also get some good hits yourself. You know, he may be fast, but you have been learning from the best. As you’re catching your breath, you hear a door open behind you, and your heart skips a beat, just like it always does.

It's not Wanda. It's Kate Bishop. She's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, and a look on her face that spells trouble. You like Kate, she’s funny, quick-witted, and a total bad-ass with a bow and arrow. She's also Wanda's best friend, which is why you’re sure she’s about to deliver some cryptic message or distraction.

"Hey, guys," she says, her tone a little too casual. "Wanda needs my help… with… uh… quantum physics equations."

Pietro raises an eyebrow. "Since when does Wanda dabble in theoretical physics?"

Kate's face is a picture of forced nonchalance. "Since… now? Yeah, she’s on a real quantum kick. Anyway, gotta go, quantum stuff, you know." With that, she’s gone, leaving you and Pietro alone again.

“Quantum physics,” Pietro says, shaking his head and chuckling. “That girl is so awkward. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s trying really hard to avoid you.”

You almost choke on your water. “Avoid me? Why would she avoid me?” you ask, trying to sound casual, as if you hadn’t noticed.

Pietro shrugs. “Beats me. Maybe you smell.” He wrinkles his nose dramatically, making you laugh.

The next few weeks continue in the same vein. Every time you try to talk to Wanda, she vanishes as if she's a figment of your imagination. You find yourself increasingly frustrated, not just because you have no idea what you did to annoy her, but because you really miss her company.

One afternoon, you’re attempting to meditate in the common room, hoping to find some inner peace when you hear footsteps. You open one eye to see Kate Bishop walking towards you, a determined set to her jaw. You see the mischievous glint in her eye, and brace yourself.

"Okay, look," she says, grabbing the cushion next to you and sinking down. "This whole thing has gone on long enough."

You raise an eyebrow, wondering if she’s finally about to let you in on what’s going on.

"Wanda likes you," Kate blurts out, her cheeks turning a shade of pink.

Your eyes widen. "Likes me? Like… as in a friend?" you ask, even if you already know the answer.

Kate groans. "No, as in, she’s completely head-over-heels smitten with you. She’s been losing her mind about it ever since you saved her from that rampaging Ultron drone last year."

Your stomach does a backflip. “Wait, what? But why is she avoiding me?”

Kate sighs. "Because she's Wanda. She’s not good at this whole 'feeling' thing, especially when they're feelings of the lovesick variety. She's terrified you’ll find out, and then laugh at her or reject her, or whatever other dramatic scenario she's conjured up in her head. So, she decided the best course of action is to run away."

You shake your head, a smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "That's... incredibly Wanda." Something warm blooms in your chest, partly from the revelation, partly from the fact that, if Kate is to be believed, your feelings for Wanda are reciprocated.

"So, what now?" you ask.

Kate grins, that mischievous glint back in her eyes. "Now, we set a trap. She has got to face this. And maybe… she could actually go on a date or something? She’s been miserable, poor thing.”

The "trap," as it turns out, involves a suspiciously placed book in the library, a strategically timed fire alarm, and a very confused Pietro. You find yourself facing Wanda by the garden, which, somehow, you’d been guided to under the pretext of a "minor training accident".

She's standing by the rose bushes, her back to you, her shoulders tense.

"Wanda," you say softly, approaching cautiously.

She turns, and her eyes are wide. She’s beautiful. As always. And your heart is about to burst.

"I… I…" she stammers, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

You take a deep breath. "I know," you say.

Her brows furrow. "You know?"

"Yeah, Kate told me. About… everything."

Her cheeks flush a vibrant red. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I’m so embarrassing. I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I just… you're so… I…" She trails off, unable to form a coherent sentence.

You step closer, reaching out and gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Wanda," you say, your voice a low hum. "I'm not uncomfortable, I'm… I’m glad. Because… I feel the same way. I’ve been… completely, overwhelmingly, kind of in love with you since forever.”

Her eyes widen further, and a small, hopeful smile flickers across her face. "You… you do?"

You smile, nodding. “I do.”

The silence stretches between you, charged with an energy you both feel. You lean closer, and she does too, and then you’re kissing. Her lips are soft and sweet, and the world disappears around you. It’s perfect, and magical, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

As you pull away for air, you hear a snort behind you. You turn to see Pietro standing nearby, his face a mask of exaggerated disgust.

"Oh, for the love of all that is holy," he groans, putting a hand over his eyes. "I’m going to be sick. My best friend and my sister? It's disturbing, revolting, and completely not acceptable. I need to go drink something and forget I ever saw this.” He is clearly overdoing it, and you end up bursting into laughter, which is soon joined by Wanda's giggle.

You look at her, and your heart flips over again. This is it. This awkward, beautiful mess of a romance. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[allllium]

Meet Cute

~ Spencer Reid x Barista!Reader

~ I hope this makes sense to people other than me 😭

~ Fluff, first seasons Spencer WC: 979

- You have a very cute customer -

Being a barista isn't the best job in the world but it definitely has a couple benefits. One being the cute boys that stop by everyday.

Well, only one boy.

He came in a couple months ago for the first time and has come in everyday since. His name is Spencer and unfortunately that's about all you know.

He comes in very early in the morning and orders multiple very different coffees. He seems shy but you haven't talked to him enough to really know.

The strangest thing about to it, is how he only comes in when you're working. According to all your coworkers when he comes in on your days off and doesn't see you, he leaves.

You want to believe that means something. Like he's only coming here for you. But that's just wishful thinking.

"Good morning." He says when he comes to counter. It's a couple minutes earlier than when he usually arrives, not that you're keeping track.

"Good morning." You smile at him.

"Can I get the same thing as last time?" He asks, unsurely. You best guess is he's trying to see whether or not you'll remember it. Does that matter to him? He's probably just trying to save time.

"Yeah of course. It shouldn't take too long."

"Thanks." He nods slightly as he says it. And you fall into an awkward silence.

"What are you doing up so early?" You ask, hoping the question isn't too invasive. It's not something you'd ask any other customers.

"Work." Is all he says. It answers your question but you were expecting more.

"Where do you work?"

"I work for the FBI, in the behavioral analysis unit."

"Really? That's so weird, usually I forget the FBI is made up of actual people and not just robot things."

"Why would they be robots?"

"Because they work for the government?" You phrase it as a question so he doesn't think you're crazy. You probably shouldn't have said that if being crazy isn't your goal.

"Y'know the conspiracy of robots being in the government without people knowing stems for the similar conspiracy that birds are robot spies for the government."

"I could see that. People are so suspicious of the birds it would be easy to sneak robots in as humans."

"Are you joking?"

"Partly." You laugh a little. "I don't actually think the government is making robots that are functional enough to behave as humans, they aren't smart enough for that."

"I could be." He states it as a fact.

"Are you building a robot army?"

"Not at the moment." His smile at you widens as your conversation progresses. He's very, very pretty.

"But in the future you might?"

"You never know." As you go to respond, your coworker yells over that the drinks are done.

"I hope you enjoy them." You say as you hand them to him.

"They're not all for me." He says quickly, "I get them for my coworkers."

"That's a very nice thing for you to do."

"Caffeine can be a very helpful thing for certain people when it comes to work productivity."

"Do you have lots of facts like that?"

"Yes."

"Good. I like facts." He leaves with both his drinks and a smile on his face.

The next morning is the same story. He comes in, way earlier than you deem socially acceptable to be awake, orders a couple coffees, the same ones every time, and gives you a random fact or two.

"Did you know that giraffes are 30 times more likely to get hit by lightning than people are?"

"No I didn't. That makes a lot of sense though, I don't know why."

And the next day,

"The electric chair was invented by a dentist."

"Were his patients pissing him off that bad?"

"He saw someone get electrocuted and it inspired him."

"Makes sense."

And obviously the next,

"Three presidents died on July 4th."

"Similar causes?"

"Different enough."

And the next day,

He didn't come.

For the next week that you worked, Spencer didn't come in. You don't understand why this makes you so upset.

You don't even know his last name. You don't really know anything about him, why does this matter to you.

Another week passes by, and when it becomes obvious he's probably done with whatever friendship thingy you thought you had. Oh well, you try to think but it's no use.

You really thought he was coming in for you. Well not for you, for the coffee. But also a little for you.

"Did you know dolphins name each other?"

"Are you saying there's a couple dolphins named Fred?"

"There could be." He smiles at you. Is it normal to feel a little angry right now? No it's not. You don't know this man. At all. He doesn't have any obligation to only get coffee from you.

"Where have you been?" You ask, trying to be super nonchalant.

"Work got really busy."

"Too busy for coffee?" You half joke.

"Unfortunately it's too long a walk from the hospital." He shrugs like it's nothing.

"You were in the hospital? Are you okay?" What is wrong with this man? Walking in here, announcing he was in the hospital like it's nothing.

"I'm fine now."

"This is not how I saw my morning going." You mutter to yourself.

"Do you wanna get dinner with me?" You freeze.

"Like a date?" You ask gently.

"Yes, it would be a date."

"Yeah," you agree softly, "That would be great."

"Good. Okay. I'll give you the details." Five minutes later he's walking out the door again, this time leaving you completely speechless.

"Spencer!" You call out to him before he can walk outside.

"What?"

"Why are you asking me now?"

"Lifes to short to have regrets." He explains simply and walks out. He never said why he was in the hospital.

[coffeegnomee]

I feel like Ls!pangi doesn’t get talked about a lot like tr!pangi and I see analysis of other Lifestealers(mostly zam) and pangi just feels like a side piece for character development and want to see some love to ls!pangi

So Pangi on lifesteal doesn't get involved in the lore for like 90% of the time he is online. He used to a hell of a lot more back in s4, but around s5 he really started to hit his stride with his silly, more laid back video style. And in s6 he well full-out on making silly videos because he wanted to publish a video every single week from the start of the season to the end of the year. And in order to make people feel comfortable coming to his recordings, he became a pacifist and did not enter into the lore unless he found it absolutely necessary.

So that's the backstory on why people don't really write about ls!pangi. There just isn't that much to write about. And he isn't active, spending a lot of time on the realm (which is great).

He joked to Flame on the last session (saturday) that on lifesteal he is the weakest player, but on the realm he is the strongest. And that makes him approach the realm so completely differently.

That being said, his pacifism has strangely endeared himself to Flame, who generally hates pacifists but also loves Pangi's silly videos and wants to make sure Pangi can record. He went out of his way to help with the warden situation when mapicc dropped a bunch of wardens on Pangi's Christmas set, he helped stop the fire on the Christmas tree when Mane burnt it down and reprimanded Mane for being too much of a menace, and he is borrowing Pangi hearts (from his own secret backup in-case-i-get-banned-off-the-server-and-need-hearts stash) so all the chunguses involved in his Hunger Games will have 10 hearts.

Charmander duo is amazing and pangi's origin story with the lore is one of my favorite times of ls!pangi

In the early days of the season Flame decided to blow up spawn and Pangi decided to take it upon himself to talk to Flame, give him pseudo-therapy which turned into a really good mutual-understanding session that genuinely transformed Flame's mindset towards blowing up spawn more. He had Flame build a house and was incredibly supportive as Flame reluctantly approached building, and gently encouraged him to think about how much care people put into builds and how much pride you can have in your own accomplishments in building.

Flame was dead set in not playing along. Dead set in not getting any attachments to this house. Determined to say none of it mattered.

Pangi says he will blow up the house, to see what Flame really thinks. Flame gets really sad and asks him not to, and eventually Pangi relents giving the obvious analogy that clearly Flame care about this house and would rather not see it blown up, just as they would rather not see spawn be blown up.

The next day Flame threatens and does blow up spawn because nobody shows up for the fight, but when zam goes to investigate the damages, it is no where near as bad as the first time.

A couple days later, Pangi has been trying to coordinate the server into doing the 10v1 that Flame wants, but when he logs on, Mane starts being a menace to him. Mane stops being a menace to have a convo with Flame and Pangi about the fight, and everything is set. Pangi gets Flame to promise to make sure spawn doesn't get blown up again before the fight.

Pangi leaves but soon enough wemmbu shows up as well and starts threatening to blow up mapicc's castle. Pangi tries to get Flame to see that this is his responsibility, as a teammate of wemmbu, to prevent the destruction as per their agreement. Flame is lackluster and basically taking absolutely zero responsibility for wemmbu and mane, only saying he will not blow up spawn. Wemmbu is his ally, not teammate, he insists. This isn't good enough for Pangi, but Pangi leaves saying anything more and the deal is off.

Five minutes later Flame calls him back to his house, the one they built together. Wemmbu has blown it up. He mocked Flame for having a house then destroyed it in front of him despite Flame's pleas to stop. Flame is absolutely despondent about not being able to stop wemmbu in the slightest and doesn't know what to do. Pangi can see this is a huge struggle for Flame, but still insists Flame is the only one who can do anything; he can't and the server can't. They part for the evening.

Well, low and behold, mapicc was not happy in the slightest that wemmbu blew up his castle (for the second or third time at this point) and he tnt minecarted the circle of fighters that Pangi got together: 6 kills in one cart. It was legendary. Best cart in lifesteal history.

With the failure of this fight, Pangi gave up trying to be involved in the lore. He did what he could. Flame also more or less let go of the spawn battle, waiting a few weeks for a session and arriving with 1000 dogs and just killing whoever was around.

This was an Amazing series of Pangi lore, honestly one of my favorite couple of streams of the season. Watching Pangi genuinely approach the lore without great seriousness, actually using all of his brain to come up with ways to convince Flame and Mane and Wemmbu to stop, dealing with being helpless but pushing though despite it all because he believed Flame had a good heart. It was amazing pangi lore.

It was also in August. (8/25 to 8/29)

So.

Not too recent.