#he's so bad at this game and he's so good at this game and he's so bad at this game and

[syluses]

big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[yanderenightmare]

Yandere Seven Heavenly Virtues

♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, nsfw, noncon/dubcon, kidnapping, yandere, harsh language, sexual exploitation, age gap, bondage, vomiting/forced/emeto, implied piss-drinking, zero holes safe, misogyny, weight-loss, and more, read at your own risk

♡ FEM reader

Humility is a filthy rich businessman. 

You’re a pretty little young thing on his contract—silly signature keeping you prisoner like a leash.

Yeah, you thought being a sugarbaby was going to be a glamorous gig. But he makes it anything but, keeping you in his penthouse dressed like a peasant girl in only an old-fashioned chemise you have to handwash with a washboard, only allowing you baths in a tin tub with all but freezing cold water you have to gather yourself by the bucket.

You wait on him hand and foot. Like a maid, back in the 1800s. You make his bed, clean his bathroom, serve him food, and eat the scraps he tosses on the floor for you, licking the marble clean like a dog.

He’s into extreme subjugation with a kink of utterly humiliating you, fetishizing watching you clean his house and iron his shirts despite having actual maids who already do that sort of thing. 

He’s a freak. 

Honestly, you thought his senior age was going to keep him mild and mannered and more than happy with some short, sweet vanilla sex. You’d be long gone ages ago if it weren’t for the binding contract you’d signed back when the two of you hadn’t even started the arrangement and you thought the worst thing he would ever ask for was anal.

You really should have read the fine print. But alas, here you are… kissing his boots with only yourself to blame. And you mean that in a literal sense.

“That’s a good girl. Lick it clean. Earn it,” he groans from above.

You try to block it out the best you can. Keeping your eyes closed, you envision it’s anything else. The only issue is that you’ve yet to find anything that has the same leathery texture as a dress shoe. 

At least he isn’t stomping on your head, though he might as well be—the way he’s stomping on your pride like a spent cigarette and all but grinding it into nothing, no embers left.

“Mmh, that’s enough for now, com’ere,” he says after a while. “On the bed.”

You really wish that were better. But far from it.

“Look at you—groveling for coin—offering your body to a man twice your age.” He tuts his tongue at you where you lie before him, thighs spread, presenting yourself in the missionary position he loves so much, giving vanilla sex a bad name. 

“Not a shred of pride left in you, is there? Just a humble little slut ready to take everything and anything this old man gives her.” He feels the smooth inside of your thighs with both hands, stroking and feeling you up like putty with an ugly smile on his face. 

“Open your mouth for me, baby,” he demands while leaning forward. 

And you obey, already knowing what to expect but having no legal stance to disobey despite desperately wanting to. Eyes closed while rolling your tongue out like a welcome mat.

The disgust ignites goosebumps across your body, spreading instantly like wildfire in a dry field—bone-dry despite the blob of spit he’d dropped on your tongue.

“Drink up.” He’s gleeful as he watches you swallow and downright delighted when raising his brow, asking, “What do we say?”

What pride you have left, you swallow to make space for the words. “Thank you, master.”

“What a good girl,” he praises, now with his hands at the meeting point. “Spreading your legs so wide, showing me your pussy.” 

His thumb is crass, pushing your slumbering clit like a button. You’re quite certain he likes you dry. In fact, you’re sure he prefers it. Or else he’d put his drool to better use instead of making you swallow it.

“Such a pretty thing—and you’re giving it all to me just for some spare change?” he cooes—playing a game, using your pussy instead of a gameboard. “What a poor baby—needing to whore herself for a living.”

The slaps makes blood rush to your cunt, followed by unwilling wetness. And again, all you can say is, “Thank you, master.”

And that’s how it goes. Him, going in raw with his viagra-spiked cock and a fist wrapped tightly around your throat, slapping your perky titties while they bounce as he abuses your womb—uncaring if you cum, only caring for how hard you squeeze and milk him.

Your eyes roll back, trying to let your mind take you anywhere else. But at least you’ll be rich by the end of your contract, you think.

You desperately need it—now more than before. 

You know? To pay for all the therapy you’re going to need.

♡ BNHA – Enji, AFO ♡ JJK – Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke

Patience is your therapist. 

You’d been a real wreck. Not really an alcoholic but more or less—a destructive whore, at least.

Something about getting old had you feeling a little crazy, making you act like a teenager discovering booze and sex as if for the first time. Blacked out after yet another day of ill choices, you'd been rolling around in bed and wallowing in the sickness, when you felt a sharp and sudden sting. Rushing to the bathroom, chanting curses out loud, you'd turned around before the mirror and found a pair of angel wings tattooed on your lower back.

And it was in the following moment that you finally decided it was high time you sought professional help.

Best decision of your life. Hands-down. You’d always been skeptical about therapy, but he’s really made you turn over a new leaf. You regret ever having waited. What’s not to like? Having a nice older gentleman listen to all your issues and troubles, giving his sage advice in turn, always warmly thanking you for showing up and telling you how he hopes to see you the same time next week. 

He’s like a father. Teaching you self-respect, how not to invite random men back home from the club, keeping you from falling off track, going weeks and months now without a single drunken night full of stupid decisions, he’s even helped you with cutting off toxic friends without any lingering feelings of guilt haunting you.

For the first time in a very long time, you finally feel your age—still young and free, but ready to let the wild part rest, fully prepared to live your life responsibly as an adult should. 

He listens to you ramble, telling him you feel like a new person, thanking him for all his help, saying that he’s cured you. And all he does is smile—that kind old smile you’ve put all your trust in. 

He really has fixed you, hasn’t he? Polished you like a dirty dime he’d picked out of the gutter. Looking like a sloppy whore he’d found in the worst part of downtown, now sitting there all pretty like a good god-fearing girl.

You were a real handful. He’s had to be very patient. And now, all that patience has finally borne fruit. He never once doubted it would—those who wait never wait in vain.

“I’ve been saving up for this. Haven’t cum once since we started seeing each other,” he groans, hands tangled in your hair, holding your face steady while your arms and hands twist to be freed, using all the air in your lungs to scream—but to no use. Nothing ever leaves these soundproof walls. It’s all confidential. 

“Be a good girl now and relax your throat, this pretty face of yours isn't going to fuck itself. And I’ve got two big balls' worth stored up all for you,” he hums, sending his cock through the ring-gag he’s fixed between your teeth, paying your throaty wails no mind, liking how they strum his length as he props your mouth like a pacifier, watching the fearful tears trail down from your terror-wide eyes, nose leaking above the pretty circle of your widely-stretched lips. 

He only smiles as his cockhead presses up against the back. 

“Gonna give you a nice big reward for finally completing your sessions—so be sure to swallow every drop once it comes.”

You try to pull your hands free for dear life, but the white straitjacket is a contraption meant for the most volatile of patients, not mild-issued muggles such as you. And so he abuses your throat to his heart’s content while you struggle—hacking away at your uvula and enjoying the tight way you gag around him until he finally stills up, throwing his head back and blowing his load right onto your tongue with a loudly enjoyed “Fuck yes!”

It's thicker than you’ve experienced before, and there's a lot. A whole mouthful and more—so much it’s spilling down the side of your chin, running the same path as the drool before it.

“There's more, baby,” he insists in a last-gasp voice, slowly rubbing your face into his crotch. “Wait for it… Get every last drop.”

You sob with his cock in your mouth—his pulsing tip pressed up against the inner-wall of your cheek, making it bulge on the outside, feeling the rest of his load pump out onto your taste-buds, making you retch. And still, he keeps gyrating against your face, slowly, savoring it, wiping himself against the wet, welcoming bed of your tongue, letting it tease the last of him out.

Then he sighs, full-chested and pleased, before backing up and tilting your head up.

“Swallow,” he orders, looking into your open-ring mouth and the pretty white he’d just dumped inside it. Keeping you still with a firm grip around your jaw when you try to shake and spit to the best of your ability. 

His gritty fingertips are rough against the softness of your cheeks, pinching them hollow while he sighs, “I’m a very patient man, sweetheart, I can stand here all day with my cock in your face if that’s what it takes. ‘Cause sooner or later, one way or the other, you are gonna take your medicine like a good girl.”

You refuse. But after a small while, you fear it’ll take the wrong pipe as you feel it starting to trickle down your throat on its own, and you cave. Swallowing harshly—open-mouth and all.

And he grins. “Good girl.” Giving your jaw a jiggle while leering down at you.

“Next is your yellow medicine.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Kenjaku ♡ BLLK – Aiku

Diligence is your personal trainer. 

He’s uber professional, not letting you give up or rest before you’ve completed your goals for the day, and always making sure you stretch properly after. 

You didn't know things were weird. You thought it was normal. How could you have known? You’ve never had a personal trainer before. So what if his bulge squeezed tightly against your mound? It’s not exactly avoidable in this position, and he’s only helping you stretch, right? What’s the harm? You wouldn’t exactly be able to get into this position on your own, now would you? Folded flat, knees by your head, feet behind it, thighs on par with your spine. Never, not even in a million years, would you ever be able to manage!

“Get off!” you squeak—all air pushed out of you. “This is not–”

Okay—that's what you were going to say, but the word is robbed. Trampled by the guy squatting above you—using your own bike shorts and panties against you, having pulled them down to your ankles and wrapped the crotch around the back of your neck—keeping you fixed in the odd position all to his liking.

“I don’t think so, baby. I’ve put in the work,” he gruffs. “And now I'm gonna reap what I sowed and get my dick’s-worth out’a this tight little pussy of yours—give it a good workout just like I did the rest of you, train it to take cock like a champ. Then we’ll see about rewarding it with a little clit-rub—if you’re a good girl, that is.”

He pulls himself out of his sweats while you flail around like a flibbed bug that’s had all its legs ripped off—achieving nothing except exhaustion as he taps your bared pussy with the thick curve of his cock, fucking himself through the chub of your gathered lips for a moment before pressing through them, bullying your hole open with his fat tip—not even savoring it with going slow, but pile-driving himself ball’s deep on the first thrust. 

And even then, when buried from stem to stern, he only whistles at the tightness for a fleeting moment, offering but a breathy chuckle. Holding your thighs in a squeeze while all but sitting on top of you as he starts to pound you fast and utter fucking silly—ball’s slapping your ass while you cunt starts spitting, making noises that have you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head trying to block it out.

“No slacking now, squeeze me with all you got!” he encourages strictly despite the way you refuse, treating it the same way he does when you try to weasel out of doing all your reps. “I wanna feel this pretty little muscle of yours work for it!”

You can’t control it, but you do exactly as he says. Struggling for air in the pressed position—only able to wheeze out moans like a squeaky toy. Feeling him pound your guts—almost like there’s someone kicking you in the stomach. There isn’t much left for you to do but tighten up every core muscle.

“That’s what I thought—sex is the best trainin’ for girls like you,” he laughs with rust. “It’s only natural. Men put in the work, and bitches put out to repay ‘em.” 

Free of air and all sensible thinking, you can only dumbly nod in agreement while he continues to jeer from above, “Lucky you, huh? Allowed to lounge around all day—just a lazy little stay-at-home slut.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Gojo, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Shido

Temperance is your health trainer.

He keeps you on track, telling you when and what to eat and when and how to work off the calories. You don’t know why you hired him exactly... Suppose you just wanted to know what it would be like, as well as a little curious about the results. 

And sure enough, you are losing weight—but holy hell if it isn’t the worst you’ve felt about yourself ever. You’re hungry all the time, and none of your clothes fit anymore. You just wear baggy stuff and feel miserable all day long.

So you decide to quit. You’re going to call and tell him tomorrow. But for tonight, you’re going to enjoy a big tub of Ben & Jerry's to your heart's content, and nothing and no one is going to stop you. And tomorrow, you’re not even going to bother beating yourself up about it.

Or… at least, that’s what you thought…

But it turns out he’d planned a surprise visit.

“You indulged. And now we gotta take out the trash.” His voice is cold and sharp, laced with a certain anger, joined by a streak of sadism as his fingers claw into your cheeks, holding you steady while forcing the digits of his other hand into your mouth, clawing the tips down your throat where he curls them harshly into your tongue.

“Don’t struggle,” is all he says to your screaming, having tied your wrist behind your back with one of your knee-high fuzzy socks—those you wear when you want to cuddle up and get all cozy by yourself—now being used to keep you on your knees before the couch, where he’d caught you red-handed like a pig rolling around in its own filth.

You throw up violently. All melted ice cream with bits of cookie-dough still intact.

“That’s it, come on now—everything must out–” he drawls through gritted teeth, holding you in a tough grip to keep you from fighting as you start coughing and retching around his sticky fingers that don’t stop their pursuit but continue to bury themselves as deep as they can reach down your gullet, as if he wants to reach all the way down into your stomach and start hand-shoveling. “Every last crumb of junk until there’s nothing left.”

You only notice the raging bulge in his pants once you’re done, once every last drop of stomach acid is spent, and you’re left hollow on the inside. That’s when you notice it—how horribly hard it all had made him.

“I thought I could be lenient…” he clicks his tongue. “But I see now, I was wrong.” 

He breaths heavily as he starts pulling you away from the mess—nasty grip in your hair—dragging you across the floor, down the hallway, towards the ajar door at the very end—the one that gives a sneak peek at your bed.

“I should have gone with my instincts from the get-go,” he states. “A girl like you should be on a strict diet of cum and nothing else. So, you better make it a habit of swallowing every drop.” 

There’s a raspy laugh—halfway unhinged, halfway deadfast.

“I don’t think it’ll be too hard for a glutton like you.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Overhaul, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Daichi, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Erwin ♡ WB – Umemiya

Chastity is your crazy cult leader.

A middle-aged madman who happens to be obsessed with preserving your virginity.

He’s sick with it—utterly unhinged. Concealing your pussy behind black tape, two strips marking a cross upon your entrance—or, your purity, as he likes to call it—cooing at you about how cute it is, how it needs to be preserved.

He doesn’t kiss you, either. 

And the restriction makes him so hard—fucking his meat through those pretty pious lips, feeding you his cum when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet. It makes him all feverish from head to toe. 

“Don’t worry,” he’ll say, vowing, “I’ll protect your virginity until the day I die, I promise.”

It only makes you shudder and sob. All but begging him to take your pussy instead when he starts prepping your ass with rough fingers.

He just shakes his head and mollycoddles you, “No, no, no, sweetie—your precious virginity is something to cherish, not something for you to throw away.”

You keep begging as he eases into you, softly bouncing you on his lap, balls-deep in your tight ass, fucking you leisurely whilst cuddling your bound body—a hand holding your cunt, cupping it over the tape, giving it a few soft strokes every then and there—as if consoling it for being denied.

“I know, I know, baby—it’s so overwhelming, isn’t it? You want cock in your sweet pussy so bad,” he all but mocks your whining, rubbing one of your nipples between his fingers—twisting, pinching, and pulling—making you squirm, wanting to rub your thighs together so bad, but not allowed to. 

“Don’t worry, I’m here to keep you pure, baby. I’ll never let anything corrupt your sacred little virgin gem.”

You all but grind against his hand, but he keeps the touch so light it only serves to make you wish for more. The tape all but peels off on its own like a wet bandage from how slick you get. Pussy all chubby with need, desperate to be touched—but cruelly ignored.

He sighs sternly, “Such a needy little virgin.” Clicking his tongue, he huffs again. “Look at the mess you’re making.”

Your cunt drips down his balls where he’s busy stuffing your ass, filling it up with cum from the sight of how wrecked you look—pussy throbbing with need, all glossy and begging to be sated. 

He only smiles, ball’s spent and satisfied, cock softening as he shakes his head at you.

“I’ll have to wash you extra thoroughly tonight.”

He carries you bridal-style, then washes you without even touching it, only with a soft stream of cold water rinsing all the arousal off—like he’s watering a plant—making the waste of pussy juice run down the drain.

And then he fixes a nice snug chastity belt around you—to keep your grubby hands away from playing with yourself.

“Poor thing—I know it’s torture,” he coos, watching you cry for some relief, trying to rub yourself against his thigh. “But I can’t give you what you want.”

The smile on his lips is all but a sneer as he kisses your forehead, hugging you close and rocking with you as if to comfort you.

“Nothing is ever ruining your sweet virginity.”

No, no, nothing at all. It’s all for him to admire—his greatest, most sacred possession. If anything were to happen to it, it would be nothing short of a travesty—he’d be livid with grief.

So you could only regret it when he walks in on you after coming home one day, only to find it butchered…

It’s like stepping into a crime scene. 

Your chastity belt has somehow been pried off and thrown aside, discarded like unwanted trash.

Your precious nightgown has been done the same injustice, lying in a torn heap just shy of the bed.

Then there’s you—lying in a puddle of your own undoing, high off of bliss with three fingers savaging your poor, sweet virgin pussy—every jerk off your hips furthering your fall from grace.

That’s when he realizes… he’s been treating you like something sacred for so long… when really, all this time you’ve been nothing but a filthy whore.

That’s right… a slut who’s only good for being a dirty hole he’s going to bury all his sin inside—like a dumpster. 

And since you brought it all on yourself, you’re not allowed to regret it now. A whore should be used several times every single day by her master—so much she should never be able to leave the bed again.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Aizawa, Overhaul, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Kenjaku ♡ AOT – Erwin ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya

Gratitude is your traditional husband.

And you’re his sweet and pretty stay-at-home wife. 

You wake up and make the bed in the morning, air out the house, beat the carpets, do the laundry, and tidy up room after room—it’s never much when you do it every day—after which you take a long shower where you do all sorts of maintenance, go to your wardrobe and pick out a flowy dress, apply a modest amount of makeup before the mirror, and do your hair up all nicely. 

And then you get started on making dinner, frilly white apron tied together behind your back in a pretty bow, priding yourself on making everything from scratch.

While it simmers and cooks, you clean up and make sure everything’s perfectly splendid for when he comes home. Setting the dinner table with candles and flowers you went out and picked while tilling the garden earlier, then fixing his plate, so that everything’s ready and waiting for him when he comes through the door.

You greet him with a smile and a hug, and a soft “Welcome home~” 

And he in turn smiles lazily and says “Thank you, sweetheart—something smells good, ” and kisses you on the cheek, giving your ass a firm squeeze before lowering his voice into a rusty rumble, “Almost as good as you look.” 

You only giggle, asking, “Really?” Feeling flush and ticklish in his hands as they continue to roam freely, up and down your thin dress, burying his face in the dip of your neck and inhaling your fresh scent. 

“Mh, good enough to eat.”

You take his hungry kisses with an open mouth, letting his tongue make a home down your throat and only moaning sweetly in return. And when he finally parts, you use what breath you have to ask, “After dinner?” 

It would be such waste if the food got cold after all.

He groans, squeezing you tightly against his body, letting you feel the firm bump, before sighing with rust and conceding, “Not a second after.”

The two of you take your seats on either side of the table, then hold hands in the middle. Eyes closed, he begins like usual, “I’m grateful for my beautiful home, the delicious food we’re about to eat, and my loving wife, who makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

And then you, “I’m grateful for my beautiful life and my amazing husband who makes it all possible.”

Then you eat. You ask him about his day, and he answers in detail, and you listen as if his office antiques are your obsession. And after dinner, you take the dishes while he goes to get himself washed up.

You’re all smiles when he returns, ready to make his every desire come true—right there on the cleared table if that’s what he wants.

“I have something for you,” he says. “Close your eyes and turn around.”

You do as suggested, spinning around with your back to him. He takes off your old pearl necklace and replaces it with something light and cold. You turn back around, holding the pretty diamonds in your hand while looking down with them in your reflection.

“Do you like it?” he asks, calm smile on his lips, watching you with love and something darker you never dare put a name to.

You only beam, bright enough for none of it to matter, jumping into his arms while squealing, “I love it!”

He hugs you back, like before, molding you against him, chin on your shoulder and voice at your ear, “Aren’t I good to you?”

“Yes, the best,” you agree.

“Yeah? Show me. Take off everything except your new gift.”

Of course you do, obeying so prettily, like it’s your favorite thing to do, stripping yourself down until you’re just a pretty pin-up doll in a nudie magazine he’d bring with him into war.

“God, I love you, my pretty housewife,” he chants when he has you up against the wall, greedy hands gripping your ass, propping you up to take him as he fucks the moans off your soft lips. “Prettiest in the world and all mine, ain’t that right?”

You nod sweetly, breathing in his exhale like it’s your very life-essence.

“Yeah? You belong to me?” he moans, mouth finding your ear, nibbling on it before sucking your neck full of teeth marks that have you nodding faster. 

“Mh, say it,” he growls under his breath, all raggedy and hot. “Let me hear your pretty voice.”

“I belong to you,” you gasp, “Yours–all yours.”

He grins against your throat, “That’s right. ” 

Hips stilling, he makes sure he’s all the way inside you, spilling his worth right at the mouth of your womb and feeding it all his worth.

“There’s nothing else you want...”

Mumbling into your wet skin, sore from his endless attention.

“You just wanna be my happy housewife forever…”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Touya, Hawks, younger Enji ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Naoya ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku

Charity is a goodwill worker. 

You’re such a skittish little thing—he can’t bear the thought of leaving you to fend for yourself out in the streets all alone with all those ruthless thugs. You’ll be eaten alive! No, he just has to take you in—he’s got more than enough space—no payment required. Trust him, just seeing you get out of those filthy rags is more than enough.

Oh, and aren’t you a sight for sore eyes when you’re cleaned up all nicely? All soft skin in your birthday suit while he lathers you up in expensive lotion.

You may squirm now, but you’ll thank him later on. He just needs to teach you first. Come time, you’ll learn to like eating out of his hand. He might have wrangled you in from the streets like some sort of wildling, but you’ll be a housebroken pet for him soon enough, you’ll see. You’ll love all his soft touches so much you’ll moan for him in the sweetest gratitude.

“Poor baby… you’ve probably never been in a soft bed like this before, huh?” he hums when he has you down on his Egyptian sheets, tied up with silken rope—so that you don’t hurt yourself.

“Please, please, please don’t, please,” you whimper and squirm as he crawls on top of you, terrified out of your sweet mind where you lie, spread open like a starfish that’s had its arms pinned down with nail and hammer. 

“You don’t have to beg me, darling—I’ll give you everything I have and more,” he only croons while pumping your pretty freshly-shaven pussy on three of his thick fingers, making sure you’re all wet and ready for the next thing.

“No, no, no, please–” you whine, sobbing, trying desperately at twisting and hiding, but kept right where he wants you as he lifts his heavy cock between your thighs, kissing and licking your wet slit with his tip before finding purchase at your entrance.

“No—” you croak as he starts easing inside, treading your pretty cunt over his length like a condom bought three sizes too small. Fitting him all snug with a sting that makes your breath erratic, looking down at it as if you expect to be split in two.

He pushes his palm down on the bulge when he’s buried to the hilt.  

“There we go, all seven inches,” he hums, roosting inside you without letting up, keeping you propped full while feeling you squeeze him tight like a vice.

“Ah, please, pull it out, pull it out!” you shriek, wiggling your hips, wanting to escape higher up the bed, but kept in place by the leashes holding your feet tied to each bedpost.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over and licking up the pained tears running down your cheek. “I'm not forgetting about your little clitty.”

Next to you, resting heavy in the bed, was a big black wand with a power cord plugged into the wall. You’d never seen anything like it before—it looked more equipped to be a power tool than something belonging in a bed.

You’re convinced he’s planning on drilling a hole through you when he picks it up and turns it on, buzzing loudly and spinning full circles around itself.

“No, please!”

He brings it down right above where he has you stuffed, pressing it against your clit, merrily kneading the pearl to his heart’s content with the viscous vibrations—paying your protests no mind.

“Ah, no, please! Please turn it off!” you wail while shaking, immediately taken by a vivid toe-curling climax, looking like he’s exorcising a demon out of you with the way you lay there spasming and drooling.

“Yeah, you like that? Your pretty pussy’s hugging me so sweetly, so, so good–”

He only hums as your voice reaches highs he bets you didn’t even know you were capable of. Watching your chest arch off the bed and your hands wring themselves silly. Only beginning to roll his hips back and forth, fucking your pussy while it makes a mess everywhere.

“Aww, you’ve been neglected for so long, haven’t you, baby?” he babies, “I can feel it—so touch-starved you’ve already wet yourself.”

He smiles and turns up the power on the toy while he says it, making your clit go both numb and haywire under the attack. It isn’t long before your lower belly twists in desperation yet again, making you pant as it unravels.

“That’s it, baby, let go for me,” he encourages, watching you tense up and shiver, feeling your pussy throttle him tightly. “Such a sweet girl. Go on, cum as much as you want. I’ll take good care of you from now on—you won’t ever go without again”

Once more, he turns up the power and send you into another thrashing seizure, making you think you’re going to die—panting and drooling and sweating, feverish and delirious, moaning around his salty fingers as he messages your tongue and fucks you with slow abandon.

“I’ll give you everything you deserve,” he smiles, watching you all but lose your mind. “And more.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Gojo, oldman Yuuta ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Isagi, Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ DEADLY SINS ♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[dailygihun]

day 6 || this era lasted like 2 minutes but i love it anyway

[lotusapple-xia]

Caleb's 5 Love Languages

Caleb is a lover boy and he expresses his love for you in many ways ft the five love languages

Caleb x reader

Some headcanons about how Caleb loves you. Struggled a bit with words of affirmation but I hope it’s good 🤞

🪷Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!🪷

Boyfriend Caleb who loves quality time.

Caleb loves to build model planes or Lego sets with you. You both sit on the living room floor with soft music playing in the background while you chat about your lives. When the model or Lego set is complete, he displays it on his shelf, soft, domestic memories flooding his mind whenever he looks at it.

Caleb loves listening to you yap about your new interests. Gazing at you with pure love while humming intermittently to let you know he’s still paying attention to your lore dumps. However, sometimes he gets huffy when you rave too much about a fictional crush, “What do they have that I don’t?”.

Caleb lets you put face masks and serums on him. You recognise that he doesn’t take care of himself when he’s not with you, so you love to spoil him with self-care, which he happily encourages. After realising that his skin is glowing the same as yours, he takes it upon himself to have regular self-care dates at home.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves physical touch.

Every morning when Caleb wakes up, the first thing he does is to reach out to you and plant a soft kiss on your forehead. He squeezes your sleeping body closer to him to feel your warmth while the morning sun washes over your bodies. Caleb’s head nuzzles into yours, breathing in the scent of you.

When waiting for the noodles to boil, Caleb picks you up to sit you on the kitchen counter. He stands between your legs, listening to you ramble about your day. Stroking your back in a gentle caress when he can tell you’re getting to the bad parts of the day and rubbing your thighs as he listens to the good events.

When nights get hot and heavy, Caleb presses steaming kisses down your neck and the length of your body. His strong hands gliding across your sensitive chest as he presses his weight into you. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes watching yours, smirking as the way they flutter in pleasure.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves acts of service.

When you’re sick in bed, with a pounding migraine and a numb throat, he makes you hot ginger tea and dims the lights in your bedroom. He sits by your bedside, gently singing a lullaby from your childhood to ease you into sleep.

Caleb gathers your laundry, washes and folds them on your days off. He knows that your career as a Deepspace Hunter is physically demanding and can drain you of energy. He wants to take the burden off you so you can focus on resting in clean clothes.

Cooking is one of Caleb’s favourite hobbies. Not only is it relaxing, but he can ensure you’re well fed too. No matter what you’re craving, whether that be his signature braised chicken wings or a completely new cuisine, Caleb is always glad to cater to your whims. He doesn’t care how much you eat, he will always feel better knowing you’re satiated and satisfied.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves giving gifts.

Caleb loves spending money on you. Ever since he was a kid, he’d use any money he earned to buy you whatever you desired. You’ve been his spoiled pipsqueak since you were young. Now that he’s the Farspace Fleet Colonel, money comes in abundance. He gets you new clothes you’ve been eyeing in magazines, new food while window shopping, and video games on your to-play list.

Caleb takes immense pride in winning you plushies at the arcade. Even if he spends an egregious amount of money, seeing you smile as he hands you your plushie makes it all worth it. And he’d do it all again, even use his Evol to ensure you get what you want.

Caleb often is the one who does the grocery shopping in your household. He always gets the essential products and ingredients for the house but will always get a little something extra. Whether that be your favourite snack or new hair accessories.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves words of affirmation.

Whenever something has upset you, whether that be work or life in general, Caleb is always there to lend a listening ear and words of comfort. He’ll always praise you after a rough day and make sure to cheer you up. “It’ll be ok honey, I’m sorry you’re goin’ through this.”

After any achievement, no matter how big or small, Caleb is always there to hype you up. Praises fall from his lips like summer rain. “Great job pipsqueak I knew you could do it!” he beamed with a dimpled smile. Caleb wants you to know that he will always be proud of you.

Caleb waxes poetic about how much he loves you. Whether it’s date night or driving you both home from work, he always says, “I love you,”. His sincerity and soft eyes gaze upon your face with the utmost affection, hoping to convey the depths of his love through words.

[electracupide]

FOR REAL I AGREE

Honestly Booktok mainly just consists of people recommending so called “dark romance books” when in reality it’s just thinly veiled abuse marketed as romance

Honestly at first glance while to those who don’t play the game, Sylus does come off as a one of those stereotypical bad boy archetypes. But once you dig deeper into the game, the opposite is quite true. And he’s actually a very deep and complex man and puts the mc’s needs first. While like many of the other LI’s he is not perfect. But that’s what I like about his character, he has his own strengths and good traits, while alternatively also having his flaws and weaknesses.

Also with each event progression Sylus’s character changes and grows. While at his core he does maintain some traits, he doesn’t stay a static character.

In fact there’s this really good video essay about him on YouTube by Cyberspace Maz, I really recommend it. https://youtu.be/PZClZ49qdxY?feature=shared

Can we stop comparing Sylus to these psycho booktok men? Please?

Zade: I chopped off the hands of the man who touched my girl and set them on her front doorstep Sylus: That’s absolutely horrifying why would you scare her like that

Aero: I rubbed my nut on her lips and made her kiss my brother Sylus: That’s deranged and outta pocket seek professional help

Sylus is a TEDDY BEAR for MC he would never scare her with severed body parts or subject her to deranged antics to feed his own dark & twisted pleasure. He wouldn’t murder any man that looks at her. He’s the epitome of “my girl can wear what she wants because I can fight” and he’s secure in himself.

Have you listened to him take care of MC on her period? A sweetie pie fr.

He’s ready for her WHEN SHE’S READY. He is patient and straightforward with his intentions. He never forced her to be with him. The only thing he forced was trying to resonate with her.

Did he watch us from afar? Yes. Is he rough? Yes. Would he kill for you? Absolutely. Would he ever shove his blicky up your kitty? FAWK NO.

Don’t compare my man to those stalker dark romance book men they’re completely different. & this is coming from someone who is an avid dark romance reader.

(I also read other genres don’t get crazy)

[orangepeelknives]

the way it's so obvious that will was raised and mainly influenced by a Boy Mom and mack had a Girl Mom and was mainly raised and influenced by a Boy Dad is sooooo rich to moiiii. 

will "universally beloved" smith being soooo secure in himself all the time. like oh you wanna make fun of me for listening to katy perry and adele?? dgaf. go ahead. wanna have me record stupid tiktoks that are gonna make ppl call me gay on the internet? sure okay teehee! sending flowers on mothers day to his billet mom while halfway across the world. posting up on insta w the sister, the family. the matching tracksuits in boston like yeah yk what i bet will fucking put the idea in the goddamn gc i bet when someone suggested it as a joke he was like yes. absolutely. waiter your ugliest tracksuit pleas. goes back to what i was saying abt insecurities - will is confident. thats not as much of an issue for will when it comes to personal life. he didnt crash out when he was in a slump, he stays positive, he's perfectly okay being made fun of constantly (mack on the podcast just delivering blow after affectionate blow). he has friends and he knows it, he's well liked and he knows it, he's a good hockey player and he knows it. it's not that hes super chill or not conpetitive, its just that hes secure in himself. not cocky, no god complex. absolutely NOT saying that WSH is insecurity-less at all, but i do think he is self assured enough to be capable of handling his insecurities normally. 

my beloved mack on the other hand......oh that boy is RIFE With Issues. First off, Girl Mom Robyn Celebrini? that diva does not gaffff she is a Charley gal all the way. feel like she lowkey just handed the boys over to rick like okay go crazy. she had no issues with the coaching style that rick used to raise mack and aiden, and seems generally more uninvolved than a lot of other hockey moms, even tho colleen is def wayyy MORE involved than normal, robyn lives an hour away and goes to zero practices and zero games. so i think it's a fairly safe assumption that rick is the dominant parental figure here. 

and when your dominant parental figure is also your coach?? you arent getting parented, you're getting coached. the lines blur immensely. 

first of all, let’s underline this: Macklin Celebrini is a product of a Boy Dad household. not just any Boy Dad, but a performance-coach, daily-checklist, grindset-before-breakfast Boy Dad. ricky wasn’t parenting, he was mentoring. Which means there were no real emotional safety nets. you’re sad? skate it out. you’re tired? get better, push through. the idea of comfort for its own sake doesn’t exist in that world. There’s love, sure, but it’s conditional, and it’s communicated through improvement.

so of course mack's entire identity is built around performance = worth. If he’s not doing well, he’s not just failing, he’s not lovable. he has no idea how to separate “im not playing great” from “im a bad person who has disappointed everyone who has ever believed in me.” 

and then there’s will.

will is over here just… being a person. Being confident and beloved and totally fine with the fact that people think he’s a little cringe sometimes. Because Will is backed by a whole childhood of unconditional emotional support. Boy Mom behavior. you know he grew up in a house where they named feelings. where if he cried, nobody told him to suck it up, they probably asked why, made him tea, and listened. of course he doesn’t care if someone calls him gay on tiktok, his mommy has been gassing him up in the comments since U10.

thats why the iihf vid is sooooo revealing. will's recording his little “hope you’re having fun” like it’s no big deal. bc to him, it isnt. hes just talking to his best friend. he knows they’ll make fun of him a bit, but it’s with love, and he can laugh with them. Mack, on the other hand, is out there alone. no wsh to be the buffer, to set the tone, to let him know “hey, we’re all just having fun here.” so mack panics. He overthinks the tone, overcorrects into flat affect, gives absolutely nothing to the camera, artificially deepens his voice. bc if he picks the wrong vibe? if he comes off too affectionate, too weird, too off-beat? he'll get mocked, and not in a fun way. in a way that confirms what he secretly believes: he’s doing it wrong. he always does it wrong.

same deal with the emergency contact video. Mack immediately goes “you go first" not because he’s shy, but because he needs to know if he’s allowed to pick will. he needs to see it reflected back. It’s not enough to feel the closeness, he needs the explicit naming of it, because he’s never been taught to trust his own instincts when it comes to emotional safety. he only knows performance cues. so when they point at each other and he gives that tiny, breathy “okay good” that is not a joke. thats relief. thats “thank god I read this right.” thats “I picked the right person and he picked me back.”

It’s also such a perfect example of how dependent mack is on will for emotional calibration. will is the tone. mack doesn’t know how to read the room unless will reads it first. thats why when will not there? Mack either shuts down or spins out or immediately goes looking for will (read, every practice ever). he has no compass. no stabilizer. his baseline isn’t his own self-worth, it’s “what is will doing? okie, i'll mirror that.”

mack's insecurity isn’t about failure itself, its about what happens after failure. bc in Mack’s world, after a bad game, you don’t get comfort, you get correction. you get game tape. a sharper edge. a checklist. from rick, after a bad performance, the message was never “you’re still enough,” it was “you better fix this before next time.” not because rick doesn’t love him, but because tick only knows how to show love through pressure. And that messes a kid up. thats the issue with having a coach-parent. 

so when will came into mack's life, laughing off his own slumps, staying soft even when frustrated, nottaking his emotions out on the people around him, it changed the blueprint. bc mack learned through will that you could have a shit week and still be met with a chirp and a pat on the shoulder, not silence and homework. in mh opinion thats part of the reason why mack didn’t lose it when will started the season cold. bc he was mirroring. bc will had never punished him for having an off night. so when the roles reversed? mack didn’t need to lash out. He already knew how to hold space, because will had held it for him first. if will thinks its okay to laugh off a bad pass, then maybe it is okay! in the same way that if will thinks its okay to pick me for the emergency contact, or film these dumbass tiktoks for sharks media, or order milk and cookies in the hotel, then maybe it is okay! 

thats the kind of emotional foundation mack is building now: not “im scared you’ll leave,” but “im scared you’ll stop being soft with me.” And Will never does. even when mack is spiraling or shut down or being a sulky freak about stupid shit, will never punishes him. 

anyways in this essay i will...

[norrisidous]

I had this as a dream and I woke up all grumpy because I wish it was real 😭😭😭

Basically, reader is a reserve driver for Mclaren but also in f1 Academy, and she and Lando have always been super close. One day, she has to race instead of Oscar, and she ends up leading the race. However, near the end she asks the team to swap with lando (who she kept within DRS to help him out) because she knew he could use the points more than her since she's not an official f1 racer. Lando refuses, and reader wins her very first race. Lando is overwhelmed by how much he loves her and he just marches up to her and pulls her in from her waist to kiss her (could be private or public) and they're both just so proud of each other and so down bad 🥹🥹🥹

In the Slipstream

summary: where a surprise victory, a selfless offer, and a kiss at the finish line—some moments change everything, on and off the track. warnings: none

You never really expected to race in Formula 1—not yet, anyway.

Being McLaren’s reserve driver was already a dream you clutched tightly, and your time in the F1 Academy was sharpening your edge, day by day. You were grinding for the future, for the chance that maybe, if the stars aligned, you’d get that one golden shot. Still, you didn’t expect it to arrive on a cool spring weekend in Imola.

Oscar had come down with a stomach virus—something violent and sudden. When the team principal tapped your shoulder that morning, the pit lane buzzing behind him, you felt your stomach flip in sync with the revving engines.

“You’re up.”

You didn’t even have time to be nervous. It was all a blur—briefings, simulator data, seat fitting, strategy talk, and a surprising amount of people suddenly treating you not like the F1 Academy kid, but like McLaren’s actual second driver.

And then there was Lando.

He was always your rock. From the earliest days at the McLaren simulator to now, he was the constant thread in the chaos. He teased you like an older brother when you first joined, but somewhere along the line, it shifted. Quiet moments in the motorhome, texts that lingered, eyes that held yours just a little too long. The bond between you deepened—unspoken, but undeniable.

As you stood side by side before the race, helmet in hand, Lando bumped his shoulder against yours.

“Nervous?”

You smiled, adjusting your gloves. “Terrified.”

He grinned, green eyes twinkling. “Good. That means you’ll be sharp.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spread like fire.

The race began in a flash.

Lights out. Your start was electric. Years of F1 Academy training and sim practice paid off instantly. Clean overtakes. Smart tire management. You quickly moved through the midfield, shock and awe blooming around you like wildfire.

And then… you were leading.

Not by much—but enough to see the papaya blur of Lando’s car in your mirrors, stuck tightly in your DRS range. You’d coordinated perfectly without speaking, both of you playing the strategy game like chess masters. You gave him DRS when he needed it, pulled when it counted, and he protected your tail like a guardian.

But you knew what was at stake.

You weren’t supposed to be here—not permanently. This race didn’t count toward a championship for you. For Lando, it could mean everything. A podium. A shot at the title. Or even just the points to prove himself in a field that always underestimated him.

So with ten laps to go, your voice broke over the radio, steady but full of emotion.

“Tell Lando… he can take the win. I’ll open the door in sector two.”

There was silence. Then the engineer’s voice returned, startled. “Say again?”

“I want him to take it. I’ll back off.”

More silence.

Then a voice crackled in—his voice.

“Don’t you dare,” Lando snapped. “You earned this. I’m not taking it.”

Your throat tightened. “Lan—”

“No. You’re not giving it away. Not to me. Not to anyone. Finish this.”

You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in your eyes as the turns blurred.

Lap after lap, he stayed on your tail—but didn’t challenge. Not once. Just close enough to show he was there. That he believed in you.

You crossed the checkered flag, engine screaming, heart slamming, and your name ringing through the paddock for the first time in F1 victory.

Race winner: (Y/N), McLaren.

You pulled into the pit lane, overwhelmed, hands shaking. The team was screaming over the radio, cheering like mad. You climbed out of the car and tugged your helmet off, letting the cool air hit your sweat-damp hair.

And then—he was there.

Lando walked straight toward you with purpose, jaw tight, eyes wild. No words. Just energy.

Before you could say a thing, he reached for you, hands gripping your waist, and pulled you flush against him.

Then he kissed you.

Hard, desperate, and real.

The paddock didn’t exist. The cameras didn’t matter. All you felt was him. His hands. His breath. The quake of his chest against yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes still shut.

“I’m so damn proud of you,” he whispered. “And I’m so in love with you.”

Your breath caught.

You couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t stop crying. The win, the adrenaline, the months of quiet longing—it all came crashing down in that single moment.

You held his face gently, brushing a thumb over the smear of sweat at his temple.

“I love you too,” you said softly, voice cracking. “I wanted you to win because I love you.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“I wanted you to win. Because you deserve the world.”

The press didn’t let it go.

That kiss was everywhere. The headlines blared: ‘MCLAREN’S SURPRISE STAR STEALS HEART AND WIN’, ‘F1’S NEWEST POWER COUPLE?’, ‘Lando and (Y/N): Love in the Fast Lane’.

You didn’t care.

That night, after the whirlwind of interviews and champagne and congratulations, you sat together on the edge of the hotel balcony, legs tangled under a shared blanket. The Italian moon cast a silver glow over everything.

Lando rested his chin on your shoulder. “So… world champion next?”

You laughed softly. “One race at a time.”

He kissed your neck. “Then let’s make it the most beautiful one yet.”

[blasphemyandbackshots]

Hi! I just came across your account and instantly fell in love, especially with the sex headcannons since they’re really accurate. So I wanted to make a request for Izuku Midoriya if you could :)) Thank you!!

Izuku Midoriya

1. soft, but dirty mind

He starts shy. All blushing, stammering, asking if you’re okay…but once he’s inside you? All bets are off. “Y-you feel so good… I can’t stop… I don’t want to stop.” And when you moan his name? He gets a little faster, a little rougher.

2. obsessive praise kink

He can’t stop talking. “You’re so beautiful like this…” | “You take me so well…” | “I-I can’t believe you’re mine.” He’s panting, voice breaking, begging you to believe him.

3. possessive, but doesn’t know how to say it

He leaves marks he doesn’t mean to, bruises on your neck, little bites on your neck. Then whispers apologies into your skin while pressing into the bruises again. He wants people to know you’re his, but he’s too shy to admit it until you tease him. “I want them to see it. I want them to know you’re my girl.”

4. nervous dom energy

He’ll sometimes pin your wrists and push you into the sheets. But his voice? Always breathless and hesitant. “Can I move? Is this okay?” And the second you whisper “Yes, Izuku, please,” - he takes you like he had been waiting years for it.

5. cries when it’s too good

When you ride him, slow and deep? Tears spill from his lashes. He clutches your hips, biting his lip hard enough to bleed. “Y-you’re… it’s too much… too good. I can’t.”

6. mutters dirty thoughts like they slip out

When you’re under him, thighs spread, whimpering for more he starts rambling. “So wet for me… s-stretching around me so perfectly… god, I wanna come inside you so bad.” Then he blushes hard because he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

7. insecure but trying so hard to please you

“Did you like that? Should I go slower? Harder?” He’ll finger you for hours if that’s what it takes. He studies you like a science experiment just to learn exactly what makes you fall apart.

8. freak in the sheets, but only for you

Everyone sees the sweet, nervous hero. But in bed? He can be filthy. He wants to tie you up with his gloves. Lick you until your thighs shake. Grit his teeth while he comes too fast and then apologizes while going again.

9. super strength kink

Once he realizes he can hold you up with one hand? Game over. He’ll take you against a wall, one hand under your thigh, the other cradling your face. “D-don’t worry. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

10. aftercare king

He whispers soft praises in your ear while cleaning you with gentle hands. “Do you need anything? I’ll get water. A snack. Anything.” You’re wrapped in his arms while he hums against your shoulder. And when you fall asleep? He watches you like he’s never known peace until this exact moment.

[azonewithu]

Its ok i just haye everyone again. I hot lots of work in a shitty world ive ordered a kilo. Im going back to being Lethal we re likely enemies now. I hate you tv movie bitch assholes. Younreslky arent human once you tske on too nany roles. You no longgee can talk for fear of losing what you have. Or how people look at you. Looknwhet i havevto donEi gs covered in blood heart black. Im cheering for the red wings theyre not in it yhis year do forget hockey. I never really liked thosevtypenof people anyway. Everyone just tries to fit in. Cause sports ste too reptiyive and theyre kind of stupid boring. One a year i need to watch a game of snything. Whiever eins i care not where theyre from nothing. I hate everybidy everywhere so theres nowhere gor me to go. Ill just go home its better there. This place is idiotic snd cruel but you learned thetes bigger fish than humanity in the galaxy like me. And no you never ever had a doecislnllace above other beings in Gids eyes thats a koran fyckn lie fuvk thst rag yoo. Stuff it in ur own ur ass muzzie. We font cste nor do i ever wanna hesr passages for shit. Its s lunatics terririst guidebook to me. Rules too harsh whet muzzie oiece of shit wants to duel? See Emma or sucks to have to cone out and say the truth but i cant lie sboit God. God hates you all now. Thats thevtruth. No one here is kind no one herevis good. I told sn okd lsdy tiday a nice looking kne Gid dedpises this planet hes fone hes tired of propke and hes sent me to kill you all. I said thos to a lil old lady youbkniecehst dhe did sfyer i said utscehet you all deserve. She nodded and dmiled in a funny way. I said do you know already. Youre honna be sll right lady most people no. Yiu lived to understsnd but evrn if ur 22 ignorsnce is nobexcuse. She smiled and put her hand on mine. Good people Emma Watson truly actusl good people im sorry thats realky npt you or I it idbt nor you for sure. But for good people i feel bad for them. Good people suffer yhe most. Evil oeopke these days prosper. So how you doin orospering? Think about that you know nothing about sacrifice. What firvyour career thats not a resl sacrifice. Maybe i shpukd just sacrifice you instead. My troops tecommended thats the beet clurse of scrion to i kill you. I told them unless i say otherwise snyone touches her your ass is universsl grasssss. Youll duffer yhe worst tprture in all history. So theyre chill for now.

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005) + Joe Wright’s DVD Commentary

[moonstruckme]

i mean if you INSISTTTTT….can we see intern reader trying to be flirty back with spence. or like them hanging out/doing something together maybe outside of work, the rest of the team can be there or not idk i just love them and your writing so much hehehe

Thanks for your request angel <3

cw: football concussion statistics? idk not trying to piss off any diehard nfl fans. oh also american football being referred to simply as football because I'm also not trying to piss off the rest of the world, and lastly some borderline HR violations

Spencer Reid x intern!reader ♡ 1k words

“Alright, Jack!” Prentiss claps, before sticking her fingers into her mouth and letting loose a piercing whistle that makes both you and Garcia flinch in surprise. 

“Way to make the extra pass, kid!” Morgan shouts across the field. 

On the other side of the grass, Hotch nods like he seconds this, though his expression stays focussed and his eyes on his players. 

“He’s getting really good,” JJ says. 

Next to you, Garcia grimaces. “I wish he’d be good at something else.” 

“Beautiful,” Morgan chides, “don’t crush the kid’s dreams.” 

“He’s just a sweet summer child! There are, like, a crazy amount of concussions in football. I’m just looking out for him.” 

“In recent years, the NFL has reported a significant decline in concussions in professional football players,” says Spencer. 

Morgan makes a smug noise. “See? He’ll be alright.”

“But,” you raise your voice hesitantly, “wouldn’t the NFL have a bit of incentive to report that?” 

You’re looking at Spencer out of the corner of your eye. He meets your gaze, lips quirking. 

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s what I think, too. Independent studies have been less favorable.” 

Garcia mimics Morgan’s smug noise, victorious. Before she remembers to be worried and frowns again. 

Morgan laughs. “Hey, I didn’t sign him up. Jack likes football, you gonna tell him to quit?” 

Garcia comes back at him with some teasing remark, but you’re distracted by Spencer’s eyes still on yours. He’s looking at you like there’s something he can’t quite make sense of, which is happening so often lately it’s almost laughable. You have the most obvious crush in the world, and certifiable genius Spencer Reid can’t figure you out. 

You look away first. 

It’s sort of humiliating, how things have escalated between you in the last week. Every bit of that is your fault. You know it’s not professional, but you’ve spent lots of time thinking about it, and really a bit of flirting isn’t so bad if you know nothing is going to come of it. It’s harmless. Spencer is just so, so nice to you, you can’t help but want to be nice back; walking the line between friendly and something-else sort of comes with the territory. You would never actually endanger your position at the BAU. You only want Spencer to feel as special as he makes you feel. He deserves that. 

First it was bringing him breakfast after he helped you prepare your testimony. You wanted to thank him, so you picked up some breakfast tacos like he said he used to have back home in Las Vegas, and so what if you only know that because you’ve spent so much time chatting together? You’re training to be a profiler, remembering details is part of your job. Then you started complimenting him more, which was really just giving yourself permission to say your quiet thoughts out loud, making genuine observations about his taste in psychologists and the care he shows for witnesses even when the whole team is in a rush. And then maybe you began letting him teach you some things about chess even though you’ve never been interested in the game before, and bumping his knee gently under the table when he’s rambling without realizing everyone else has already moved on, and exchanging little smiles when you both look up from your desks at the same time. So what? None of that is a fireable offence. 

“I’m gonna go get water,” Spencer says, standing and starting to descend the metal bleachers. 

“Can you grab me one?” Prentiss asks. The rest of your team immediately chimes in with their requests, and you take a step down from the bleachers as well. 

“Want help?” you ask. 

Spencer seems to have been picturing the same thing you have: him coming back from the cooler in Garcia’s trunk with arms overflowing with plastic bottles, leaving a trail of them all the way back to the bleachers. He looks relieved. “Please.” 

You hop down, unable to look him in the eye when you take the hand he offers you for the last couple of steps. The sun is out in full force today, glinting off the metal of the bleachers and every car in the parking lot. The pavement radiates heat. 

Spencer hovers a hand above his eyes. “I wasn’t made for this.” 

“It’s a hot one,” you agree. 

“If Jack had a different hobby, we could be inside at a science fair right now. With air conditioning.” 

You chance a look at him. “Isn’t being involved in sports good for kids?” 

Spencer shrugs, though you’re sure he knows the answer. “I turned out okay.” 

Your lips tug. There’s no denying that. 

“Here.” You take off the baseball cap you’d put on for the game, holding it out for him as he pops open Garcia’s trunk. You pray to God the hat isn’t sweaty. 

Spencer only looks at it, surprised. “Oh, I—that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” 

“No, look.” You take a pair of sunglasses out of your bag, putting them on. “See? Now neither of us will have the sun in our eyes.” 

“Really?” Spencer asks, only taking the bill of the cap in hand once you nod. He settles it on his head like it’s his first time wearing one. “Thanks. Do I look stupid?” 

You shake your head, staring. “You look good,” you say. It comes out unchecked, before you can think about it. God, you’re so obvious. It’s true, though. Spencer’s still squinting a little even with the shade over his eyes, but it’s relaxed some; it reminds you of the way he looks when he’s puzzling something out. You’re hopelessly endeared by it. His hair, grown to what Garcia lovingly calls boy band length, wings out of the sides of the cap. Practically begging to be coiled around your index finger. 

“Thanks,” Spencer says again, the faintest tinge of pink—which can probably be attributed to the beginnings of a sunburn—kissing his cheeks. 

Bashfulness softens your voice. “No problem.” 

He opens the cooler, starting to scoop up waters and sports drinks (though one of the team moms is supplying drinks for the kids, Garcia had packed for you all like you’d be on the field too). Condensation drips down Spencer’s wrists. 

“Thanks for helping with this, too,” he says. 

“Pretty sure this is what interns are for,” you joke as you grab some too. 

“Always undermining yourself,” Spencer chides, something almost like teasing in his voice. It makes your stomach crowd with butterflies. “You know you’re more than that to us.”

[chiibabie]

nagi's present ♡

“sei!” you gasped, feeling the tip of his cock rub against the entrance of your pussy.

if someone told nagi seishiro that he would one day have a girlfriend who’d dress up in pretty white lingerie wrapped in a pink bow on his birthday, curtesy of his friends who convinced you it would be the best gift for nagi, he’d yawn and go back to playing video games. only now, it became a reality and here you were, looking so pretty dressed in lacy lingerie with a cute little bow to tie it all together.

despite his usual carefree attitude about mostly everything, well, except you, his eyes widened just the slightest bit. apparently, unbeknownst to nagi, reo had decided to add the bow to you just a little bit before all the guests left the surprise party that you and reo planned. and when everyone was gone, reo clapped nagi on the back on his way out. “have fun, man!” reo said.

and nagi was a bit puzzled at first. he didn’t know you were changing into that outfit so he just sat on the couch and whined your name. until you emerged from the bathroom. you looked so, so pretty, dressed up in lingerie in contrast to the pretty little dress you wore at the party, which is exactly how you ended up … here.

“hnnghh..” you whined, feeling him enter you. he was so big that you honestly don’t think you could get used to him no matter how many times you two fucked! “sei.. ‘s stretching me out..”

“yeah angel?” he mutters. “look so pretty f’ me right now.. been thinking about you all night, wearing that little dress.. wanted to get you alone so i could fuck you stupid.. n’ now you changed into this, shit..”

“ha-happy birthday, seishiro..” you whimper, looking back at him with teary eyes. he’s got you on all four, knees shoved into the couch as he takes you from behind.

he hums, before starting to thrust into you. it’s a bit slow at first to get you used to it, before he brutally starts pounding you. his cock hits your sweet spot over and over, and it feels so good you’re already an incoherent mess, blabbering words like “hnnnghh.. feels so good— so full— so good! mm-sei!”

he flips you into numerous positions all throughout the night. you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve creamed around his cock! at one point, he had you on his lap with your back pressed into his chest, playing with your tits and whispering filth into your ear as he pumped his cock repeatedly into you. and now you were on your back again, legs folded to your chest as he kept going.

by now, your lingerie has been discarded and ripped off you, and the bow is .. somewhere. honestly, you don’t know. nagi ripped that off you as well.

nagi groans into your neck, asking “mm angel, you like it like this? jus’ laying there n’ taking it?”

it makes you clench so hard around him. your voice is breaking as you whine out “yes sei, love it—love it so much, want more please.. wanna be your cumdump— fill me please-!”

he chokes on his own moan, hips snapping even harder onto yours. “fuck. say that again..”

“mmm-! wanna.. i wanna.. haaaahhh, m’ your cumdump.. wanna be.. use me— aahh sei! fill me up— want it so bad!”

“y’r such a mess for my cock angel..” he whispers. “i’ll give you what you want. gonna.. gonna make a mess out of your little pussy..”

but your pussy was already a mess!! from the previous load he dumped into you and how much he’s made you cum, there’s so much leaking out. although when he outright says that he’s gonna turn your pussy into a complete mess, it has you clenching down on him and cumming. you’re panting, drooling as you cream around his cock for the countless time as nagi rubs tight circles on your clit.

“oh, you liked that.” nagi blinks, his poker face on display and halting his movements as he watches your pussy twitch and spasm around him. he blinks once more and then starts thrusting into you again, deeper and slow, which of course, makes you cry out.

“mm baby, just lay there n’ take it kay? ‘m gonna stuff you full.. y’re so sweet angel, pussy’s my favorite.. aaghh shit.. so warm..” nagi sighs out.

you’re squirming underneath him, desperately trying to get away. the two of you have been going at it for too long!! but nagi pins his larger body on yours, telling you to “stop squirming..”

the loud noises of skin slapping against skin filled the room as nagi continued to pound into you. although it’s not long before he whimpers that he’s going to cum.

you let out a loud sob as his hot cum fills you up, large spurts of it spilling into you. but even though he’s already cumming, he doesn’t stop, fucking everything back into you. he’s overstimulating both you and himself. honestly, you have no idea how he’s still going.

“haaahh—angel.. i love you.. pussy’s so good— shit— aaghh fuck.. i love you baby..”

but it’s too much to handle and you’re so overwhelmed. he’s buried his face in the crook of your neck and he’s still thrusting weakly into your poor cunt, causing your legs to shake and twitch so much as you beg him to slow down. “sei—seishiro—eeee!— sttoppp.. your cummm!” you whine out. “sstop stop seishiro haaagghhh! it’s-“

“shush.” nagi mutters out. “be good. it’s my birthday..”

you let out a wail. he really was pulling the birthday card. the loud noises of him fucking your spent cunt as the cum was sloshing around in you and practically leaking out, worsening the already damp puddle beneath you two made you so embarrassed! but the plap! plap! plap! sounds secretly turned you on so much that you clenched around him, cumming with a loud cry. “hnngghhh.. sei! sei! i love you!”

finally, he pulled out of you, letting everything spill as finally he collapsed onto you. despite you whining that he was heavy, he clung to you tighter.

after your breathing both evened out, you placed a kiss on his head since he was laying down on your chest, or more specifically, crushing you.

“happy birthday seishiro.” you quietly told him.

“thanks angel,” nagi yawned in response, nuzzling closer into your chest as his arms tightened around your waist. “you’re the best present of my life.”

i know his birthday already passed and i’m super late but i still had to write smth for nagi because i love him sm <3 ch302 literally has me dead so writing smut is my coping method rn i swear stop making him suffer !!! anyways i’m also working on my requests rn so pls be patient with me, i promise they will be out shortly!

[magicaloneandmystery]

distractions

pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x female!Avenger!reader

summary: another team bonding activity forced upon you all by Steve. another opportunity to distract your secret boyfriend. potato patahto.

tags/warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, suggestive themes

a/n: as always, everyone is alive and a close knit family in this fic, because I say so. I crave for the infinity saga's chosen family trope so bad.

note: this is my submission for the @avengers-assemble-bingo Spring bingo, filling the prompt box 'Outdoor games'. my card number is AAS005 🌸

it was a beautiful day, by all accounts. the sun was shining, but not as intense to suck your energy out of your body. the wind was a pleasant companion to the sunshine, rustling the green leaves and blooming petals quietly. it twined around your hair and provided you relief from the fast approaching summer days.

it would've been a perfect day for a team picnic. but no, it had to be a "bonding" day. and it had to be team activities. and it had to be outside. after all, it was a beautiful day.

Captain Steve Rogers was annoying, stubborn, and exhausting like that.

all the Avengers were scattered around the garden of the Compound, in varying athletic wear and warm up routines. you were clad in a sports bra and comfortable leggings. your eyes were drawn to one figure in particular, idling in the perimeters of the group. he was wearing a black tank top and grey tracks. his metal arm was winking at you from afar in the sunlight, and his biceps bulged as he pretended to exercise.

Bucky was never a fan of the "team bonding" activities thrust upon by Steve.

in fact, apart from Thor, rarely anyone was.

but what choice did you have?

so there you stood, shoulder to shoulder with Wanda and Bucky on your sides. it took everything in you to not take his hand and lace your fingers together.

the thing between you and Bucky was fairly new, only a couple of months. you knew that the team would react kindly to you both – maybe even more enthusiastically than you were ready for – but the secrecy just made everything more... fun. and hot.

not in times like these, though.

in times like these, all you wanted was to be on Bucky's team (Steve's team, but your mind was set on your lover) and win these games as a couple. hold hands, wipe away his sweat, maybe run your fingers down his tank top while you were at it...

but since you couldn't do those things, yet, you decided to go a different route.

during the relay races, when Bucky was standing next to you, poised to go first just like you, you gave him a wink, glancing down at your chest before running off.

everything was fair in love and games, right?

Bucky didn't run far ahead from you. how could he? when your chest was bouncing just discreetly enough for him to notice it from right beside you, but for it to be a normal run for everyone else. you smirked, knowing you had him in your clutches. right before the end, you zoomed past him, reaching Rhodey first, knowing your fastest opponent was too busy admiring your body to care about relay races. when the two of you were standing in the back of the line catching your breath, he gave you a narrowed look when you grinned widely at him.

"good run," you panted.

"great view," he commented.

you were gonna have so much fun.

when you teams were reshuffled for a match of capture the flag – where did those flags even come from? – you ended up being on the same team. much less advantage for your team to have one of their players distracted but equal fun for you.

you loved having your boyfriend's attention on you. more than any game Steve would force you into.

so right before the game was about to start, you innocently called over Bucky to help you with the stretches. he was the closest to you, after all. his want, his slipping control was evident in the way he clutched your hips while you bent down. his other palm rested fully on your back to help you, a possessive weight. you lightly brushed the front of his groin when you stood up. just a mere graze that resulted in a sharp inhale.

later, in the final game of tug of war, you stood in front of him again, a lopsided smirk on your face. he knew that screamed trouble for him.

he almost wished he was on the opposing team but also knew you would've found a way to tease, nay, torture him.

when your team pulled back, you leaned close to him, your ass rubbing his thigh in a perfect sync.

your teammates around you shouted at each other, but your focus was on the way Bucky's breaths fanned your neck just slightly. his slight growl as you managed to whisper a low 'would you let me ride your thighs?'

he was barely holding on to the rope anymore, his eyes trained on your figure, your ass and thighs, and his hands twitching to let the rope go and hold you instead.

"the sooner we win, the sooner we can all go for lunch!" Clint shouted from ahead. that got his attention. "come on!"

in a burst of energy and passion he hadn't shown for the games since they started a couple of hours ago, he put his super strength into the competition. even though Steve was on the other end to balance them out, his newfound determination to get you alone soon helped them win.

you cheered along with the rest of your team, smiling up at Bucky.

"good game," you nodded, eyes glinting in the sunlight.

"the game's just beginning, doll," he winked, smirking down at you. he wiped off the sweat on his brow from the hem of his tank top, his abdomen peaking at you. "let's see how well you keep up with my teasing tonight."

thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[kjhbsies]

Heyy! Can I have a James Potter x reader "Because less than twenty feet away was Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?"

Either Bali or Morocco with a bit of Santorini pls? U can choose<3 Tysm

Bad Habit

navigation | main masterlist | rules

join my 500 celebration!

James Potter x photojournalist!reader

synopsis: She was just supposed to take the football games— not fall in love with a jock during a drunk game of 7 Minutes of Heaven. Now he’s questioning everything, including why he ever thought playing matchmaker with Sirius was a good idea.

wordcount: 3, 029

note: Prompt: "Because less than twenty feet away was Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?" + Morocco: the almost-kiss. fluff again! thanks for the request, i appreciated it (though, i must admit, i found it hard to think of a particular scene that would go well with the prompt) this is modern football player!james REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

It started like a lot of college friendship does— accidentally, inconveniently, and with far too much sweat involved.

You were one of the photojournalists of your university's student publication, and he was the James Potter— star athlete, Gryffindor's varsity football captain, and walking ray of sunshine. You were usually behind the lens, trying to capture the perfect shot of their games— the intensity, the movement, the dedication of every player in the field. But no matter how hard you tried, your shots always seemed to be hijacked by him, James, with his boyish grin, striking some ridiculous pose mid-game like he was in a photoshoot for Vogue.

At first, you didn't get it. Why the hell was he flirting with your camera?

And it's actually when Lily Evans, one of the newswriters, had come to join you at the Gryffindor's game— that you realized that he was just using you to get close to her.

Naturally, you gave him the cold shoulder. Sure, you and Lily were friends, but not to the extent that you knew everything about her. Hell, you didn't even know that he was her crush for years. So, it'd be creepy if you gave him any details about her life. And besides, you don't have time to play messenger for another desperate jock crushing on your friend.

But James, being James, took it as a challenge. Every game? Wink. Smile. Kissy face. Every water break? 'Hey, camera girl, getting my good side?' You tried ignoring him. Really did. But then he started bringing you snacks to your post-game editing sessions. He started sitting beside you on every bus ride. He always caught you in one of the cafes you frequented and treated you to an iced Spanish latte because he said, 'Photographers are always fueled by caffeine.'

The worst part? It worked.

Little by little, the annoyingly loud and arrogant jock turned out to be just... loud. And goofy. And surprisingly genuine. You caught glimpses of his big heart: the way he comforted his teammates after a lost game, the way he checked in on everyone after practice, and how he always made sure his friends were happy. You saw past the bravado and found something lovable in James Potter. And it sucked.

Because, of course, he was still madly in love with Lily. Even if he'd toned down the dramatic serenades and public declarations, he still got that look in his eyes when she walked by. So you buried your feelings, deep, deep down where they couldn't hurt you— or worse, embarrass you.

To make things worse, James got it in his head that you were into Sirius Black. You don't know how it started, maybe you and Sirius bantered a little too naturally after a bus ride home, or maybe James just wanted to believe it so badly. Whatever the reason, he took it as gospel.

"Oh, come on, Y/n. You and Sirius? Absolute perfection." He said with a stupid grin.

You rolled your eyes. "We don't have anything in common, James."

"Oh, you do! You both like... leather and sarcasm."

"Leather?" You repeated.

"Don't question the method, just trust the Cupid."

Sirius, of course, found it hilarious. The guy knew about your feelings accidentally when he found you staring too deeply while watching James and Lily interact. And when you told him about James's assumption, he grinned, shrugged, and just said, 'Well, I am devastatingly handsome,' and he also planned to just play it along just to shut James up.

Which brings us tonight.

Frank's house was packed— an absolute zoo of sweaty students celebrating Gryffindor's third win in a row. Tables were full of beer pong, someone was passed out on the stairs, and the air was thick with cigarettes and weed (thanks to Remus's magic stash). And James— James was distracted.

His friends were talking in the living room. Peter was gesturing animatedly at the couch, but James kept drifting his attention to the nearby kitchen, where you and Sirius were situated.

You were standing by the stereo with Sirius, laughing at something he'd said, one of his rings glinting under the lights as he casually draped an arm around your shoulders. You laughed again, head tilting back, and James choked on his beer.

"What are you looking at?" Remus asked, sipping from a red cup beside him.

"Nothing."

"You look constipated."

"I am not." James glared at him. "Do you reckon they're already together and they're not telling me?" He asked, eyes trained on you and Sirius again.

"Ah, I see." Remus hummed. "Wouldn't be surprised if they already are."

"She's laughing at his jokes."

"So?"

"I tell funny jokes, too."

"Mhm. Do you also tell them with your hands on her hips?"

James flushed. "We're friends."

"So are you and Wormy. But you don't let him cuddle you at parties."

Peter suddenly appeared beside the two of them with snacks. "Would if you asked."

James groaned.

A soft creeakk echoed through the room, despite the music blaring. And everyone turned to look at the random, ancient-looking broom closet emerging from seemingly nowhere.

Frank stood beside it proudly, eyes wide with mischief. "This is the momentum killer of the night!"

Marlene, already tipsy with a red solo cup in hand, a backwards hat on, and a pair of sunglasses, let out a cheer. "Seven Minutes in Heaven!" She screamed.

A chorus of gasps and drunken giggles escaped across the room.

"We spin the bottle, whoever lands it on goes in the closet for seven minutes! You can talk, kiss, declare your love, or hell— even shag, we don't care! We won't judge— well, maybe a little. Just be entertaining!"

Everyone clapped like seals, even Remus, who had already fallen sideways onto a bean bag.

Now, a giant circle was formed, where everyone wanted to participate. You and Sirius were curled up on one of the couches, situated directly across from James. You had been sipping someone's leftover whiskey cola— definitely not yours, but you had lost yours an hour ago. No one was sober. Not even Remus, who had been munching a suspicious brownie earlier.

You were already tipsy, cheeks warm, head dizzy, when the first spin landed on Remus and Mary. Everyone howled.

The two shuffled awkwardly into the tiny broom closet. Seven minutes later, they emerged looking disheveled— Mary's necklace was backwards, and Remus's neatly ironed clothes were wrinkled.

Second spin: Peter and Marlene.

You don't know what happened in there, but there was yelling, loud banging, and when they came out, Peter had no socks on, and Marlene was holding one of Peter's shoes like a weapon. No one asked what happened.

Third spin.

The bottle slowed.

It ticked past Frank.

Past Dorcas.

Past Sirius.

And then it stopped. Right between you and James.

"OOOHH!" Sirius hollered. "This is gonna be so good!"

James blinked. You blinked. The room? Roared.

"Go on, camera girl!" One of James's teammates clapped.

"Use protection!" Remus yelled before falling asleep on Sirius's shoulder.

Marlene shoved both of you inside the broom closet. "Try not to destroy the shelf in there. Or do. Your seven minutes start now." She winked before slamming the door shut.

You two were way too close. James took up more than half the tiny closet— he was tall, broad, and definitely not designed for this cramped space.

Both of you sat down after a few minutes, your knees touching, breath mingling in the closed air. The small bulb did its job on lighting up the space, though still dim, you could still make up the shape of his jaw, the wild hairs curling around his ears, and—

"You're staring," James said with a smirk.

"Really?" You tried playing it cool. "Surprised you could see me with those things." You shot back, pointing at James's foggy eyeglasses.

James chuckled, removing them and shoving them into his pockets. "Fair point. What are we even supposed to do here?"

"Try not to suffocate?" You smiled. "And not sit on each other's laps accidentally?"

"Too late for that," He mumbled, shifting slightly as his knees brushed against yours. "Okay, how about a game? Try to get each other more?"

"Classic stalling tactic." You teased, but smiled anyway. "Alright. What's your favorite color?"

"Red and gold."

"Called it. You're waaayy predictable, Potter."

James snickered. "Your turn. How about... what was your worst experience as a photojournalist?"

You groaned. "Took the best shots in my whole life. Chef's kiss. Only to realize later that my SD card was corrupted."

James winced. "Ouch. That's brutal."

"Tell me about it." You shrugged. "Okay— your favorite coach among everyone that has handled your team?"

He hummed, placing a hand on his chin. "That's a tough one. But... probably Coach Jason."

"Oh, really? The guy who made you run 30 laps at 6 AM?"

"He's tough, yeah. But I can tell he was genuine among everyone else. Made us better."

You nodded, impressed. "Alright, fair."

"How about... who's your favorite football player?"

"Number 3. Sirius Orion Black."

James let out a loud gasp, clutching his chest dramatically as if in mock betrayal. "Y/n! I was hurt! I was your first friend. I was the award-winning captain! I always bring you coffee and snacks when you're hungry!"

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. "Okay, okay, relax! Fine, I was kidding. Of course, you're my number one favorite!"

"Promise?"

You nodded, sincere. "Yes, James. I promise."

A beat of silence.

James cleared his throat, "Okay... here's one: did you ever have a crush on any of the football players?"

You froze.

Your brain screamed at you to lie. Say no. Say someone else.

But maybe it was the alcohol consuming your veins. Or maybe it was this tight, hot space. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you. Those damn hazel eyes.

So, you nodded. "Yeah... #7. James Fleamont Potter."

Silence.

Dead, awful silence.

James stared at you like you just smacked him with a ball. "You what—? Since... when?"

You tried to keep your voice light. "A couple of months ago. But it's fine. It's just a silly, happy crush."

James blinked. "Happy—?"

"You know, soft, small, not too serious." You replied quickly, trying to lie your way out of this awkward situation. "It's whatever. It's done." It isn't.

"Done?"

You nodded, smiling bitterly. "Yeah, I just saw how you were so deeply enamored by Lily, so I kind of... stopped. But, I really liked you before."

Done.

Liked.

Stopped.

The words rattled in James's brain like an echo.

He sat there, stunned, lips parted to say something, but didn't know how.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Hello? Earth to Potter?"

Still nothing.

You shifted, trying to get comfortable. Your foot had gone numb from the cramped position. But as you adjusted, James also moved— just a fraction, really— and suddenly, you lost balance.

With a yelp, you tumbled forward. Right onto James.

Both of you froze.

Your faces were inches apart. Lips practically brushing. You could smell the faint beer on it, and see his stupidly handsome face up close.

He gulped.

His hands instinctively landed on your waist, holding you firmly. His eyes darted to your lips.

"Uh," You smiled awkwardly. "Hi?"

Then—

SLAM.

The closet door swung open.

"Time's up, lovers— WOAH!" Marlene shrieked.

Everyone turned to see... you... practically on top of James, his hands on your waist, faces a few centimeters apart from each other.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Remus clapped.

Peter yelled, “Knew it!"

You scrambled off James, flustered beyond reason, brushing your hair back as if it would erase the last seven minutes. James looked equally stunned, blinking like he’d forgotten how to function.

Sirius was grinning ear to ear. “So... was it hot in there, or was it just you two?”

You glared at him.

James looked at you.

You looked at James.

And for the first time since the night began, neither of you was pretending anymore.

"Did they kiss?"

"Was that a... straddle?"

"Why did Captain Potter look like he got hit by a football?"

You sighed, trying to ignore the whispers going around. But none of that mattered, though, because as soon as you sat beside Sirius, he nudged you while wiggling his eyebrows.

"Sooo... what happened in there, closet goblin?"

You sighed dramatically and leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder. "I confessed."

Sirius choked on his drink. "You what?!"

"But not like a cute confession," You stared at him, eyes widening. "Like... I-don't-know-why-I-said-that-I-blamed-the-alcohol-and-my-soul type of confession. I said I liked him. Past tense. And then I panicked and told him it was just a silly crush."

Sirius blinked. "Oh."

You nodded slowly. "...Yeah."

Then he blinked again. "...Oh?"

"Please say something coherent."

He grinned, "So you're telling me that you," He pointed at you. "Y/n Y/l/n, keeper of secrets, and hater of feelings, went inside a tiny closet, then came out confessing a crush... and then lied about moving on? A bit bold move, actually. Though I might say that was great."

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "My heart is still pounding like I ran a bloody marathon. I literally fell on top of him. Our lips almost touched. And I'm pretty sure I saw God for 0.3 seconds when he looked at me like that."

"Like what?"

You looked at him and imitated James's face— doe eyes and a pout, to which Sirius snorted.

"Oh, yeah, that's the Potter's dumbstruck in love face, alright."

You smacked his arm, and both of you started laughing.

Meanwhile, across the room, James Potter, star athlete, certified himbo, and former emotionally stable individual, was leaning against the wall while clutching a red solo cup filled with cold water.

Remus, red-faced from him and Mary's 7 Minutes of Heaven and from drunkenness, stood beside him. "You looked like you just walked out of a Greek tragedy."

James gulped his water. "She confessed."

Remus looked at him, dumbfounded. It's as if the alcohol went out of his body completely.

"...Like confessed confessed?"

James nodded dumbly, eyes still glued on you and Sirius laughing together.

Reemus peered in your direction. "And? What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong is— I'm confused!" James whispered-yelled, gesturing to himself and sloshing water on his shirt. "I thought I liked Lily!"

"Thought?" Remus raised an eyebrow.

James ignored him. "And now— now, she was laughing with Sirius like they're starring at a romcom, and I feel like someone should just punch me back to reality."

"I'll volunteer, but go on." Remus patted his shoulder.

"She said she liked me. Liked, Moony! Past bloody tense. And I'm just— why didn't she say anything earlier? I would've done something!"

"Would you?"

James stopped. He paused, pondering everything.

"...Yeah." He admitted sincerely. "Yeah, I would've. Because how couldn't you fall for her? During those times, we were just playing hide and seek in our own little world and calling it friendship. But it was her. It was always her. And now I feel like a bloody idiot because I told Pads to flirt with her just so I wouldn't fall harder!"

Remus gaped at him. "You told Padfoot to— oh, my, Merlin, you created your own love triangle. You're dumb as hell."

"I know!" James whispered-yelled again. "And now I am so, so mad!"

Remus's brow shot up. "And why is that?"

"Because less than ten feet away is Y/n. My Y/n. She's laughing. What was she laughing about? How could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?"

Remus's lips parted. "That was oddly poetic."

"I've evolved."

Remus sighed. "Now, listen. If you're just confused, then let it go. But if you actually want something, then ask her to start over. Do it properly. No closets. No Sirius interference. Just you and her."

James nodded, taking everything that Remus had said.

And then, without hesitation, he downed the rest of his water like vodka and muttered "showtime" under his breath before making a beeline to where you were.

"Can I steal you for a sec?"

You looked up, blinking rapidly. "What?"

"You know, just the two of us. T-to talk..." James scratched the back of his neck.

Sirius wiggled his eyebrows. "Oops. Say less." He gave James a playful salute before standing up from the couch.

You stared at James, absolutely embarrassed. "Is this about what I've said in the closet? Because I swear I was drunk and probably malfunctioning like my SD card—"

He shook his head, then offered you his hand again, like earlier. "Let's start over."

"What?"

"Let's start over," He repeated, kneeling in front of you so you two were at eye level. "Hi, I'm James Fleamont Potter. I'm an Aries, I like football, and I'm currently suffering from an existential crisis brought by a pretty photojournalist who just confessed that she used to like me. And I was wondering if she'd give me a shot to get to know her without pretending I'm into someone else."

You blinked. "You're not into Lily?"

"I thought I was. Turns out, I was just scared. Because you? You terrify the living shit out of me. And not in a bad way. You terrify me in a way that makes me want to be better, funnier, maybe even take those stupid foggy eyeglasses and stare at you properly. So. Start over?"

You smiled. "Alright. I'm Y/n. I like breaking the rules of every party game. I almost once committed arson trying to get a good shot. And I'm trying not to kiss the boy kneeling in front of me."

James's ears went beet red. "Then don't try."

You both stared at each other— heart pounding, breath uneven— and as your faces leaned in just an inch closer—

Marlene’s voice boomed across the room.

“IF YOU’RE GONNA KISS, DO IT IN THE CLOSET LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!!”

Everyone cackled.

James flipped her off, and you just giggled, cheeks burning, heart fluttering.

And then, finally, he kissed you. Right there on the couch.

And you were 100% sure it was better than any seven minutes in any stupid cabinet.

©kjhbsies

[thefeverburningalive]

Spencer reid x fem reader

Frinds to lovers

I mean, he is so in love with her

𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢

spencer reid x fem! reader <3

a/n: tysm for the request babes! feel free to send in your requests i love the inspooo. i decided to use one of my favorite billie eilish songs as inspiration since it always reminds me of spender <3. i love writing fics based on songs so also feel free to request song based fics too.

genre: fluff <3

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯•✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

wake up and smell the coffee, is your cup half full or empty?

the smell of coffee hit you as soon as you walked into the break room of the bullpen. after the last case, you’d been having trouble sleeping- which is something that comes along with the grueling job. “good morning y/n, coffee?” spencer’s warm voice flooded your ears. no matter how bad the days got, spencer was the highlight of said days. over the past three months your feelings for spencer have changed. he’d been your closest friend on the team, aside from penelope, since you’d joined. but recently you’ve been wanting to be more than just friends.

when we talk, you say it softly. but i love it when you’re. awfully quiet.

“yes please, thank you spence.” you spoke just as soft back, admiring spencer as he smiled and nodded while pouring some coffee into a mug. not just any mug, but ‘your’ mug. on your first day at the bau, you’d had dropped and broken a mug- and you where so upset and embarrassed about it. the next day, spencer bought a white mug decorated with small flowers, and designated it as yours without saying so. he poured the creamer and sugar into the mug as well, knowing exactly how you liked your coffee. spencer slid the mug next to you, and you picked it up with a bright smile.

you see, the peice of paper. could be a little greater.

two hours later you, spencer, and the rest of the team where sat in the jet. “this is so funsies i never get to come on the jet!” penelope was beaming across from you. “i brought some card games cmon guys let’s play!” so you, pen, spencer and derek played the silly game she brought. as you exchange cards back and fourth and continue the game, you find yourself constantly losing. you’re not a sore loser- but sometimes being on a team full of the smartest people in virginia has its downsides. there are days where you doubt your own intelligence. after the fourth time losing you sigh in defeat as derek re-shuffles and passes out cards. you start to zone out a bit while playing, almost giving up, until you feel a hand over your wrist. the warmth of spencer’s eyes when you look up at him sends shivers down your spine. he gives you a smile before retracting his hand. as you look down, you notice he’s slipped a winning card into your own hand.

show me, what you could make her. you never know until you try it.

a pit of jealously bubbled in your stomach as you listened to derek go on about the two women who continued to flirt with spencer. “boy genius skipped out on not one pretty girls number- but two! man i’m bringing rossi to the next bar i have to interview.” the team laughed and talked while spencer sat looking somewhat uncomfortable. you hadn’t noticed your own silence until you caught spencer’s sight. his eyes looked into yours, his expression unreadable. he mouthed ‘are you okay?’ to you with a furrowed brow. deciding that saying no was unacceptable, you settled on a smile and nod combination. spencer nodded in response with his own smile, despite not fully believing your answer. “so.. why turn them down reid?” emilys question made you snap back into the conversation. “uh well.. i don’t know i guess they aren’t really my type.” for a split second you’re almost sure he looks in your direction as he says that. “or maybe he’s just not looking to be in the dating scene.” jj was the next to speak up during the discussion. spencer shrugged at her comment. “you never know.” was all he responded with.

and you don’t have to keep it quiet.

to say this case had been rough was an understatement. it was taking a tole on the team for sure, but especially you. tears flowed from your eyes as you paced back and fourth inside your hotel room, your mind running a million miles an hour. before you could think about what to do next- you trip over a pair of shoes you’d left in the middle of the room. you fell to the ground ungrateful, managing to knock a few other things over. an exhausted growl/shout escaped your lips. everything was just getting too much for you. the tears continued to fall as you just sat on the floor exasperated. about five minutes later you hear a soft knock at your door. stumbling up- you open it, finding spencer standing there in some lose grey sweat pants and a black tshirt. if your brain wasn’t short circuiting before- it definitely was now. “s-spencer? what’re you doing here..” you tried to quickly wipe your tears but it was pointless. “i heard a bang and you yell.. i just wanted to make sure you were alright.” spencer was reading you like an open book. he had a feeling this case was getting to be a lot for you. more tears welled in your eyes “im so sorry- i-i wasn’t trying to be loud i fell and then i just-“ the feeling of spencer’s arms around you cut off your sentance. he tucked you head beneath his chin, making you nuzzle into the crook of his neck. “it’s okay y/n. you don’t have to hide and be silent. i’m here for you.”

and i know it makes you nervous. but i promise you it’s worth it.

the only thing on your mind the rest of the following day was spencer. the way it felt to be in his arms, the smell of his cologne, the way his thumb traced little circles onto your back. spencer was suffocating your mind. it wasn’t uncommon for you to constantly think about spencer some days- but today was different, because for the first time spencer actually showed a sign of maybe liking you more than a friend. this wasn’t the first time you’ve tried convincing yourself he had feelings for you. but it is the first time there’s actual proof. the line between being best friends and being lovers was growing increasingly thin. as much as you want to be together you feared you were at risk for losing the most important person weapon in your life right now. he was just within your reach. but the anxiety swarmed your mind and your nerves simply wouldn’t let you. no matter if it was worth it or not.

to show em’ everything you kept inside, don’t hide. don’t hide.

“uhm, spence?” the night had been like any other night at your apartment. chips, dips, and sci fi movies that spencer loves to make you watch. as the movie progressed, spencer seemed to get closer and closer to your side by the second. by the time his thigh was up against yours underneath the thin blanket sprawled between yours and his laps. that’s what led you to begin the conversation- that and the fact that the movie had finally ended. “yes?” it was hard to focus on the task at hand when he was looking at you with this big brown eyes. he tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer at first. “i wanted to uh- well i wanted to talk about… something serious?” you didn’t mean for it to come out as a question; but your brain was already struggling to form the sentences. “of course, is everything alright?” spencer had a tone of worry in his voice. “n-no yeah everything fine i just.. well i’ve been kinda keeping something- from you- and i uhm. i don’t think i want to hide it anymore.” at this point you were looking down at your hands, fiddling with the end of the blanket beneath you. spencer didn’t say anything, not wanting to interrupt your thoughts. “i’ve been too shy to say, but i..” you took a deep in-hail. “i like you spencer. in a more-than-friends type of like. a-and i don’t know how uhm- well how you feel but i couldn’t stop feeling like this i tried to hide it or stop it b-but i can’t. i feel so strongly for you and i-i just.. had to tell you. i get it if y-you don’t feel the same.. or if you want to leave .. but i hope you stay.” you felt like all the air had been stolen from your lungs. the words came so rapidly out of your mouth you didn’t even have time to properly think before you spoke- you didn’t even know there were tears in your eyes. you didn’t dare look up at spencer. you were filled with embarrassment and shame. you thought about getting up and apologizing- but before you could finish you felt his hand cup your cheek. the warmth of his hand added to the heat already in your face. his thumb wiped a tear that dared to spill from your eye. “don’t hide away.” that was all he said before his soft lips reached your own.

come out and play.

[rosenclaws]

How does Logan react when he thinks you're dead (either he sees your body, or thinks you're lost in an abyss, anything) but you awake or come back to him.

mm the angst yes please. I got a littleee carried away with each one but uhh its fine.

warnings: violence, injury, blood.

Origins Logan -

Logan is heartbroken. It's pretty much straight out of the movie where you're attacked by Sabertooth and Logan finds you bleeding out in the woods. He thinks your dead and there's a good reason to because of the blood on your clothes and he can't seem to find a pulse. He goes into a rage, he's angry and hurt and he hugs your body close to him and cries. He's dead set on revenge which is how they lure him into becoming part of the weapon x project. Turning his bones to metal in a very, very painful process. He does it for you thinking your dead but the whole time you're a pawn in Strykers game.

You don't knowingly spy on him like Kayla though (Ik she was being threatened but I wanna change things from the plot a little). You love Logan and you'd never do that to him. But they knew that hurting you was the best way to get to Logan so they did. Once Logan left your body they swooped in and experimented on you too to see if they could get anything out of you. You weren't a mutant like Logan and they wanted to see if they could insert the gene manually. When Logan escape it forces them to move you and ramp up their experiments. They try and wipe your memory just like Logan but it doesn't work. Somehow their stupid experiments don't kill you and you escape but now with powers you can't control born from Logan's DNA.

When you find each other again it's emotional. He thought you were dead and at first he thinks it's another trick but he sees you still have his dog tags and he knows you're real. He almost tackles you to the ground, holding you tight and burying his face in your neck. He asks a lot of questions and you don't have a lot of answers but when he sees you're now mutated he gets pissed. He wanted to kill Stryker for what they did to you. He knows the pain they put him through and he doesn't even want to think of how they hurt you. He keeps you by his side as you both try to explore this world now.

Trilogy Logan -

He's absolutely distraught. You're on a mission with the team and things are going fine. The two of you fight like hell and he still finds the time to make flirty quips as he digs his claws into another guy. It's standard. Until it isn't. Something goes wrong and you just don't know what to do. It was a trap, luring you in with mutant children just to kill you all. The building was literally going to collapse in on itself, burying you all alive. You use your powers to try and keep the building up but there are soldiers surrounding the building. it basically turns into a "Grab the kids and lets get the fuck out of here" plan. You keep the building up with every fiber of your strength and Logan is waiting for you. He's got like three kids and you know deep down that you can't go with him. If you break your concentration the building is gone and so are those kids. He refuses to leave you. He can hear scott yelling into his comm so he rips it out of his ear and throws it to the side. He's stubborn as hell but you won't let him put those kids in danger.

You can feel your grip slipping. The building shaking as your strength starts to dissipate. Bullets come flying through the concreate walls and you know that your time is up. So you tell Logan to go and come back. Lying to him that you have it handled and to focus on the mission. He makes you swear that you're okay and you do. You feel bad for lying but its what you have to do. The moment you know Logan is back on the jet you let go. Accepting that this was the end and that you saved those kids, saved your team, and saved Logan. Logan watches the building crumble, crushing anything around and in it. The roar he lets out is painful. They have to go and they know it. If they stay they risk giving up the sacrifice you had made. The jet doors close before Logan can get out. He's banging on them. Yelling and screaming to let him the fuck out. His claws sinking into the metal and it refuses to budge. The whole team is devastated and listening to Logan just makes it so much worse. Jean tries to calm him down but he tells her to fuck off. He's lashing out and everyone knows it.

He basically quits the X-Men for a while. He was a loner for a while and then he found you and this little family and he didn't mind fighting for something, for someone. But now you're gone. He tries to continue on but he just can't. I think he disappears for a while. Just to be on his own again because everything reminds him of you. He doesn't keep in contact with anyone. Just him and the Canadian Rockies. He doesn't know that you survived. That you crawled out of that rubble. Broken ribs and a lot of internal bleeding. That some nice old couple found you and let you stay until you were healed. You found your way back to the mansion months after they all thought you died. They couldn't believe it but the one thing on your mind was Logan and he wasn't there. After a tearful reunion with everyone else you hopped into one of Scotts cars and drove all day and all night until you found yourself at his cabin. He took you once and he promised to take you again.

He was outside chopping wood when he hears the car pull up. He just rolls his eyes and gets ready to tell them to leave him alone but then you step out. He must be dreaming he thinks. He drops the axe as you walk closer. Then his name falls from your lips and he takes off running. The first thing he does is kiss you. It's messy and desperate but holy fuck you're alive and you're here. Your crying and telling him you're sorry and he's just telling you it's okay. The two of you spend a lot of time in his cabin getting reacquainted. You tell him what happened and he listens. He watches you sleep in a not creepy way just because he wants to make sure you're really alive. he He's extra touchy and he's just happy that you're alive.

DOFP Logan -

I think losing you breaks him, I mean he gave up everything for a peaceful future. He went back in time to make sure his fellow mutants. His friends and family are safe. That you’re safe. Things were going well. Until the mansion was attacked. Logan was fighting off the attackers and you were evacuating the kids. It was utter chaos. Somehow an agent slipped past him and managed to fire a full round right into your stomach. The kids were okay, you protected them. But by the time Logan got to you, you were against the wall with blood everywhere. He was angry, pissed at himself and at whoever dared come and hurt them like this. He told you that everything was going to be okay. He wanted to stay with you, protect you. But there was still fighting and Logan had to put the kids first. With tears in your eyes you told him to go and it takes everything in him to leave you. By the time he came back your body was gone. Presumed dead.

The whole mansion could feel Logan's grief. While they all mourned you he was the worst of them all. The happiness had once again been ripped from his life. He thought things were supposed to be better in this new timeline but he just can't be happy apparently. He stopped teaching, hell bent on getting revenge on the group that attacked them. He wanted to avenge you, he was going to make them pay.

When they found them Logan went off by himself. The team could show up if they wanted to but fuck he was going to kill them all. No mercy. He slashed his way through but nothing seemed to heal his heart. No matter how many guards he took down. Until he found a room with lab equipment, attached to it was a small cell and that's where he found you. They had taken you from the mansion and were experimenting on you. But you were alive. Suddenly Logan wishes he spent more time on their deaths, regretting killing them so quickly. He bundles you up and carries you back to the jet where everyone is shocked to see you in his arms. He doesn't let go as they fly back to the mansion. You curl closer to him in your sleep and he promises to never let them take you again.

Old Man Logan -

He doesn't hesitate to kill them all. He just wants to be left in peace but these fuckers keep coming back. Mostly for Laura but the two of you have vowed to protect this little girl with everything you have. The ambushed you in public, shooting up a damn grocery store just to catch the two of you off guard. Logan was off working when he heard about it on the radio. He broke every traffic law in sight to get to you. Pushing past the people running away to get inside. That's when he saw you lying on the ground in a pool of blood and those bastards hands trying to drag Laura away.

All he saw was red. He barely even felt anything as he killed every single person in there. They killed you, tried to take Laura away. They didn't deserve his mercy. They deserved pain and pain is what he gave them. By the time they were all dead he still didn't feel satisfied. Until Laura called his name. She was next to you. Logan felt this horrible pain, knowing he was going to have to tell her you were gone. Then you moved. He rushed to your side and felt your pulse. You were breathing, alive. An ambulance came to take you away and Logan almost put his claws through some damn officers who tried to get him to stay. He told them they could ask him some fucking questions later because all he cared about was you. It was an agonizing amount of time before he was told that you were stable. You looked so frail when he walked into your hospital room. It took a couple days but you woke up and Logan was right there. He didn't tell you what happened after you went down, not about the blood he shed. He just told you Laura was okay and left it at that. He held your hand and listened to your heartbeat, just happy to see you alive.

Worst Logan -

He's fucking devastated. You were at the mansion when they attacked. When Logan was getting drunk at that bar. There was a lot of guilt festering in him but he couldn't find your body. He searched the whole mansion for you but he just couldn't find you. He couldn't even bury you. Like in the movie he turned to alcohol and rage. Killing because he hoped that maybe it would bring back any feeling but nothing could cure the hole in his heart.

When he got dragged to the void the last person he expected to see was you standing at Cassandras side. Your name left lips as he walked towards you only to be thrown into the ground by Cassandra. Are you a variant? You have to be. But as Cassandra probed his brain she made a comment that let him know it was really you. He tried to talk to you, ask you for help but you just stayed quiet. It really was him. You had conflicting feelings and Cassandra could sniff them out in an instant. You promised you were loyal but when Logan came back you couldn't bring yourself to hurt him. Even though he could heal you just couldn't. Cassandra sent you into a wall when she saw your weakness. Logan charged at her, telling her to get her fucking hands off of you. He won't fail you again. She lets you free as she turns her attention to Logan, digging deep into his brain to see all his memories. His failures, his guilt. Somehow his weird red friend managed to stop her. Logan's speech, he looked right as you as he spoke. How he wants to be a better man, to be the X-Man that you and Charles told him he could be. When she made the portal Logan didn't hesitate to grab you and take you with him. He wasn't leaving you again.

When the world was saved and everything was over you two spent some time together away from the crazy. He fell to his knees and apologized for being a coward. For leaving you. You told him how you got there, that the TVA had showed up and zapped you into the void. You joined Cassandra to survive but Logan didn't care about that. He understood. He was just happy to have you back and for once he felt like he could breathe.

[robobarbie]

I turned 30 today!!! Happy birthday to ME!!!! Here's a picture of me with the guy I've been dating. He's kinda like a mix of Toasty and Quest -- a glorious combo.

It's been a while since I posted here, so I figured a 30th birthday is the perfect time for a short little reflective post. Can't believe I'm older than all the BP LIs now -- crazy stuff!!!!

Anyway. Here's some things I recommend from experiences in my 20s.

1. Try therapy

As y'all know, I've pulled back from a lot of stuff online. I've been going through a bit of a life reset since 2022, but it started really getting better when I finally ripped the bandaid off and started therapy in 2023. It wasn't an easy start, but it's helped me actually address bad habits within myself that I thought (incorrectly) I was dealing with well on my own. It's freeing. It's humbling. It's made me excited for what's ahead.

2. Exercise

I started working out seriously in my mid-20s and went through waves of how active I was. But when I was active, I saw a noticeable difference in my mood and energy, especially when it came to managing my misophonia. It's not a cure-all, but it is a great boost that helps me through each week. I focus on weight training and love it for the challenge 💪 do whatever feels best to you!

3. Accept not being "the best"

Like many of you, I grew up pretty smart and that led to a lot of feelings of personal failure if I fucked up in even the smallest ways that made me look "lesser" (non-perfect scores on tests, failing to understand concepts my coworkers got easily, etc). This even used to bleed into game dev, where suddenly a lot of people looked up to me after BP. Learning to let go of that pressure was freeing. I am not a figure on a mountain top -- I am just me.

4. Keep your hobbies fun

I hated game dev for a while because of things like in #3. It became something I had to do to maintain some arbitrary status instead of something I did for fun. It was hard to recognize that in myself and correct it, but I'm glad I did. So, sorry Adonia AI is taking longer than I thought, but I am simply loving life too much rn!!!! And I love game dev again too, which is the best realization of all.

5. Spend time with people

It gets harder to make close friends as you get older. People get busy. Life gets hectic. You get tired. But making the effort to spend time with people is important. Study after study shows that the healthiest and happiest people as they age are those who have good bonds with other people. And I can definitely feel that.

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Love y'all. Stay healthy and stay safe 💚