#i annotated the hell out of that book

[maulfucker]

my collection. do you understand...

[bumblingbabooshka]

Tuvok/T'Pel insufferable romance is real to me. I want her to completely match the energy he has in that one "Alter Ego" scene where he like, notices she's reading some sort of very old and long book for pretentious people and says he's actually read the book before. He wrote a paper on it, actually, a very well received paper. If you'd like I could- and T'Pel interrupts to say she's actually re-reading it. "I apologize. / Don't. It's rare to meet anyone who has more than a...passing interest in such things. / I assure you my interest is far from passing. / Mm. However, just because it hasn't yet passed... / (Agreeing with what's unsaid) Persistence is not the same as comprehension. / (T'Pel tips her head in agreement) / If you're uncertain, I'd be more than willing to demonstrate the depths of my knowledge on the subject. " <- They are going to be so annoying together for the rest of their lives. People are gritting their teeth listening to this.

[the-busy-ghost]

There are some books that are just BETTER if you go through them with a pencil and underline the shit out of tiny details, and honestly if anyone found Hogg's 'Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner' difficult to get into, I highly encourage you to give it another go and give yourself a license to extensively research & annotate every little bit

[not-equippedforthis]

this little exchange at the beginning of baskervilles warms my heart so much. i could write an entire essay just on this alone. god.

[preciouspatriots]

convinced my little sister and best friend to read the half bad trilogy. gave them ample warning that it’s the saddest thing i’ve ever read; can’t wait for some commiseration >:)

[slowlyvaliantmoon]

Yeah so I'm going to be talking about Journal 3 in my video about the Book of Bill too...

Just finished re-reading it

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 18th. mattheo — hate fucking / enemies.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: “at least her favourite form of foreplay isn’t an argument…” “or being a bitch her kink..”

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dubcon(meh), ex bf/gf trope, toxic behaviour, mutual manipulation, these two are chaotic as fuck, mentions of blood, gagging, degradation, rough sex PIV, hate fucking, spitting, spanking, uhhh i think that covers it. this one is a ride. can you tell this is my fav trope?

"I'm so fucking sick of you.”

"Get well soon, princess."

"Get fucked, Riddle."

Three sentences, three venomous insults that cut the room in half—heavy enough in their intensity to make you want to tear through dungeon walls, splintering stone and mortar with bare hands if it means sparing yourself another second in this blasted room, with him.

Detention at midnight—on a Friday, no fucking less—is unheard of. But leave it to your dickhead ex to make the impossible a reality. His fault, of course. Like always.

Snape had turned a blind eye for months. It was only a matter of time before something had to give. An hour unsupervised was as good as you'll get.

Sulking defeat, you sink back in your chair, rough wood digging into your spine as you eye Mattheo with a glare that could rival a bullet. He looks like hell, and it's infuriating how even in that state he manages to look so nonchalant, so maddeningly unbothered—like even exhaustion makes a home on him and he's comfortable with it. Bags under his eyes, scar cutting across the bridge of his nose, those dark curls falling messily over his forehead, white dress shirt wrinkled and open at the collar.

You roll your eyes, a gesture that feels like your only act of rebellion left.

And he notices. Of course he does.

"You haven't changed a bit," he spits, and you know it's an insult. You scowl as he swipes the blood off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt. "Always a bitch to me over something."

Bitch. The name strikes you, but you won't let him see it, won't let him know that it lands. You've bled too many times at his feet for him to draw blood again tonight.

"Am I not allowed to be pissed off that you dragged us into detention? We should be at the party, Mattheo. We should be anywhere but here." You hear the frustration rising in your voice, like it's boiling up from somewhere deep, somewhere you can't quite reach. It's hard not to let it slip, especially when he looks at you like that. "This is so fucking typical of you. You mess up, and somehow I'm the one who pays for it."

For a moment, there's silence, and it almost feels like a victory until you realize he's only biding his time, waiting to strike back.

"You really want to get back there? To that party?" He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. You long for the chair to break from under him. "After what your new man was caught doing with Lovegood?"

You snort before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping out like a reflex. You hadn't expected that. And quite frankly, it's amusing—no, downright hilarious—that he's clearly been keeping tabs on you and "new man", and now here he is, trying to play it off like he doesn't care. Like it's nothing.

"I'll spare you the insults this once," you mutter, fingers loosening the tie around your neck with a tug. "Because, clearly, you're ignorant to the truth, even if you think you know every goddamn thing." You pause, ripping out your earrings. "He's not my man, so I don't give a shit what he does with who. He ended it last week. Good fuck, sure—but other than that..."

You trail off, making a mocking noise with your lips, a derisive puff of air, as if you could blow away the memory of him as easily as dust off an old book. A Ravenclaw. Brilliant in all the wrong ways—sharp mind, yes, but utterly thrill-less, like he saw you as just another page to flip through, a textbook he was annotating.

It is what it is.

A moment passes and then Mattheo grins—slow at first, but spreading across his face like fire, destructive in its consummation. It unsettles you. He looks more intrigued than he's been in months.

"A good fuck, huh?"

"That's what I said," you reply, clipped, your tone offering no room for him to crawl inside.

"And why didn't it work out? Too good for you?" He says, twisting the knife just because he can. "Too clean, maybe?"

Your eyes scan the room, searching for something within reach to throw at him, anything to break this unbearable tension. Insufferable. Every inch of him, insufferable.

You find nothing, so you throw words instead. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

He nods, as if that's the truest thing either of you have said all night. Of course he knows.

You barely suppress a dry laugh at his idiocy. "Like I told you—he ended it. If you're so fucking interested in why it didn't work out, then why don't you go ask him?"

There's a pause—he's chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at you. You imagine chewing his head off as you stare at him.

"I'm sure you gave that bookworm the ride of his life," he says, voice half-dry, half-sarcastic, as if he's already bored of the conversation. As if he knew all of this information already. "Everyone knew that was temporary. Your first rebound, congrats."

And just like that, your blood is boiling. He knows how to needle you, how to get under your skin with the slightest flick of his stupid fucking tongue. Your eyes trace the cold stone of the dungeon walls, desperately trying to find something—anything—to distract yourself.

But it's no use. Mattheo's an asshole. He's always been an asshole. That's why you left. All the two of you did was fight and fuck, a chaotic spiral that was as thrilling as it was destructive. Now, he's easily your enemy—dragging you into his messes, never letting you get too far without ruining your life somehow.

And yet—

If you said you didn't miss the sex sometimes, that'd be a lie. Or at least a half-truth. The kind that slips out when you've had one too many glasses of firewhiskey, the kind you'd regret in the morning.

"What about you, dickhead?" You cut through the silence, ignoring his obvious attempt to rile you up. "That Hufflepuff you were seeing—why'd I see her all over Theo tonight?"

He answers far too fast. "They're friends."

You snort, disbelieving. "Right."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room to the bookcase as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The books feel safer somehow, less volatile.

"You're bored of her, aren't you?" You don't care to look at him. You can imagine the way his jaw tenses at the question.

The silence is telling. He doesn't answer right away. You know him well enough to understand what that means. Then, finally, he speaks, a half-answer that doesn't really answer the fucking question at all.

"At least her favourite form of foreplay isn't a fucking argument." He stands, slow, pushing his hair back from his forehead with one battered hand. You glance at him, pulse quickening. "Or being a bitch her kink."

"Does she even have kinks?" It slips out, a knife thrown without aiming. "Sounds like you're bored, Matty."

You watch as he blinks, his eyes darken. That nickname—you know you don't have the right to say it anymore, and that's exactly why you do. It's an insult wrapped in familiarity, and it hits its mark by the way his shoulders tense, jaw tight.

He steps toward you, one calculated step, and you feel it—that chaotic pull, the gravity that's always drawn you both in, no matter how far you try to stay away. A smile pulls at your lips, a cruel thing.

"How cute." He tilts his head just enough to inspect you, eyes dragging over you like he's searching for something to confirm what he already suspects. "Looks like you're jealous."

Your hand grips the bookshelf, eyes locked on him over your shoulder. Jealous? There's not a soul on this planet who could make you jealous. She may be the hero of this story, the girl that gets the guy, might even be everything you're not—

"Looks like you're learning the hard way," you're inspecting him now, too. Every piece of him you once touched. "When it comes too easy it's never gonna' hit as hard, babe."

Another pause from him—something dancing in his eyes. Anger? Maybe. Or something more, something twisted that you don't care to name. You've already lit the match, and now you're just watching him burn.

"You're so clever, huh? So full of advice," he sneers, ripping off his tie and chucking it on a desk. "Go on then, tell me more about how I feel, professor. Since you know everything about me."

You can't help the smirk that curls on your lips. Oh, he's pissed. And that means you're winning.

"What? You don't like hearing the truth? Too much for your delicate ego?" You take a step toward him, savouring every second of this. He hurt you, over and over, the scars from those days still fresh, still bleeding beneath your skin. This has been a long time coming. "You think I care about your new girl, Matty? The one you let your boys fawn over in the common room?...she kissed Theo tonight." You pause, letting that linger. "You think you're doing something, but I see right through you. You don't give a fuck about her. If you did, no one would dare touch her like that. So don't sit here, accusing me of jealousy, like I'm the one hung up on you. You're projecting. And it's pathetic."

He doesn't waste a goddamn beat—his laugh is bitter, sickeningly so—and he advances again, his shadow moving behind him, the space between you now barely there.

"That's amazing, truly. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a goddamn oracle. All-knowing, all-seeing." His voice is infuriating. The look on his face more-so. "What's your verdict then, my lord? You think this is all an act? That everything I'm doing is just to spite you?"

Your heart races, breath catching in your throat as he steps closer. This is a dance you both know too well, the kind where neither of you win.

"I know how you operate." Your chest heaves, anger rising with every breath. "It's all a game to you, Matt. A sick, twisted game to keep yourself entertained."

"That's rich, coming from someone who played it just as well." He takes another step forward. You could reach out and touch him now he's that close. His grin grows. "Too bad your Ravenclaw figured it out before you could sink your teeth in too deep. Next time you see him, make sure to tell him I said you're welcome."

Your brows pinch—the blood in your veins screeching to a halt, backing up like New York traffic at a standstill. You feel it, hot and furious, rushing toward a place it can't go, clogged behind the wall of rage building up inside you—

"You're welcome?" You spit, a sharp snarl caught between clenched teeth. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He's watching you, his eyes darting over your shoulder, fingers brushing over his lips like he's trying to dull that familiar smirk, that cruel little game he's always played.

Your stomach sinks, drops to your feet.

"Mattheo—" you snap, cutting him off just as he opens his mouth, before he can throw another snide word. "Spare me the cryptic bullshit for once in your life—“

His eyebrows lift at that, but there's a nod, a hint of something deeper in it. You taste the smugness in the air between you, can almost feel it slithering through his silence.

"Looks like you don't know everything after all. Isn't that ironic?" He straightens up, letting the moment breathe before his face hardens into something almost serious. "Your rebound came to me in the courtyard about two weeks ago. Had some questions about you."

"What?" Your nerves are vibrating, every cell in your body on edge. Your blood is so clogged, you swear you're seeing red. "What questions?"

"The usual sort of normal stuff. Your birthday. Your favorite colour. Childhood traumas. Our downfall. You know."

The casualty in the way he says it makes you sick, bile rising in your throat, a bitter burn at the back of your mouth. It's all starting to come together now. This stupid motherfucker—

"You're lying." The words feel weak, frail. He wouldn't—no, he couldn't. "You're fucking lying."

"Am I?" His fingers brush your cheek, but your skin's gone numb, your blood too frozen to feel anything but the cold burn of your fury. "Or, is the truth just…too much for your delicate ego to handle?"

Oh, fuck off—

Your wand is in your hand before you even realize you've grabbed it, instinct, pure reflex. There's barely a second of rational thought before you're casting, the spell hitting him square in the chest, sending him flying back into the chair he once sat in. His eyes flash, anger igniting there, and he scrambles for his wand—but you're faster.

"Expelliarmus."

One word and you're across the room before you even know you've moved, chest tight as you slam the tip of your wand against his throat. There's a cut on his lip, blood trickling down his chin for a second time tonight, but that stupid fucking smirk is still there, showcasing rubies for teeth and carved into his face like it belongs.

"Tell me what you did." Your voice cracks, but not from fear—it's fury, burgling through you, burning hot enough to make your whole body shake. You half want to cut him open just to bury your rage inside him, let him feel it. "If what you're saying is true, he ended things just days later. Tell me what the fuck you said to him."

Mattheo’s leaning back, hands raised in mock surrender, eyes glinting with the same smug amusement that's always haunted him. He's daring you, taunting you. He knows you never cared about that guy, not really.

You both know it. He was boring, easy.

This—this is something else.

His tongue swipes at the blood on his lip. "He didn't tell you—"

"Don't." Your wand digs deeper into his skin, cutting off whatever he was about to say. The pressure makes his breath hitch, but not enough. Not nearly enough. "I said tell me."

"Merlin—okay—I told him nothing, nothing really," his voice makes your grip tighten on your wand. He stares at you for a long, hard minute before he adds; "except that he should show me some fucking gratitude."

Your jaw slips, confusion rushing in like a flood. But before you can even question him—

"I told him he should be thanking me." Another pause. "When he's fucking you."

He laps at the blood seeping from the cut on his lip for the second time in only a minute and you barely notice the movement—the words hit you like a brick, but it's deeper than that, something visceral that crawls under your skin and settles in your bones. It's sharp, raw, cutting through the wall of rage so fast it leaves you breathless. You don't know how to explain it, this feeling that twists through you, something far too complicated to be named.

And then, you become aware of everything at once.

His legs, spread wide on either side of yours, the space between you so small, your chest just close enough to his face that his breath feels like it's fogging your skin. You're towering over him, wand pressed hard into his throat, your heart hammering in your chest like you're ready to ruin him—but his eyes, the way he looks up at you, says he'd let you.

"I may have even added that although you're with him, you'll always think of me. Both you and him know it’s true.“ That stupid smirk is gone, replaced with something you've never quite seen before. He pauses, before he continues. "You miss it. Us." Another pause. There’s something victorious in his tone, something that's almost breaking you. "And no matter how many times you try to forget, you never do, do you?"

Salazar save you—you should hex him. You should fucking hex him. Every nerve in your body is screaming for it, begging for it, but you can't. You can't fucking move. Your wand is still pressed to his skin, but it feels like you're the one pinned down.

"Shut up," you finally manage, but your voice is meek, thin, nothing like the fury you want to feel. "You...you're being—"

"I'll shut up," his hand finds your wrist, pressing your wand tip against his neck with more force—enough to make himself wince. "If you make me."

You blink, stunned, and you can feel your anger slipping, slipping faster than you can catch it. You don't know what's happening to you—it’s just him—his sick twisted insanity that disarms you. Time and time again. An endless fucking cycle.

"I could ruin you," you whisper, but it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself than him. You press the wand deeper, just enough to draw a grunt from him, but the look on his face—he's not afraid. No, he's enjoying it. "I have more reasons than most to leave you here bloodied for Snape to find in the morning."

You say the words but the conviction is gone, swept away in the flood of heat between you—the dizzying proximity, the way his lips curl, almost smiling but not quite—

"What are you so afraid of?" He whispers, and there's something fragile in his voice now. "That you might actually want this?"

"I don't want this." You force the words out immediately, hoping they will make it real. Hoping they'll stop this spiral. "I regret ever wanting this."

He’s silent for a moment as he lowers his hands, dark eyes falling to trace your lips—

"I know you hate me, the feelings mutual...but I know. I know I'll always be your favourite regret," those chocolate curls shift, his head tilts closer, too close. Not close enough. "You're still my weapon of choosing."

Merlin. Merlin bloody forgive you—

"…to hurt yourself with?” It's half a question, but you already know the answer.

He nods, and that does it.

Your lips are on his, fast and hard and bruising—and the reaction is immediate, visceral. All that backed-up blood—all that rage frozen in your veins rushes forward in a single, scorching wave. It crashes low, between your thighs, a heat so sharp it aches. The shame comes with it. So does the disgust. A sick knot of self-hatred pulsing through you as you taste his blood on your tongue while his hands are under your skirt, grabbing you like he owns you, pulling you into him. It's only a moment before your wand clatters to the ground, and your hands are tangled in his hair, yanking hard, hard enough to hurt.

You want it to hurt. God, you want it to hurt.

He growls at the sting on his scalp—and then, everything flips.

His fingers tug at something, and you realize it's his own wand, the one you tucked into the back of your skirt—and before you can even think, he's got it, casting a spell that sends you flying back onto the desk behind you. You groan—the world spins, but you don't even have a second to gather yourself before he's advancing toward you, casting another spell on his tie.

Within seconds it's slithering across your lips and tying itself around your head, gagging you.

He steps between your legs, parts them with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times before—rough hands gliding up your thighs, eyes wild. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, through your slit, and you try to hold on to any shred of control, but it's gone. You can feel it. The way you forget everything except the way he leans down, breath hot in your ear.

"Look how fucking wet you are," he spits through a sneering grin. "You're goddamn shameless, aren't you?"

You roll your eyes, but your thoughts scatter the moment his fingers shove inside you, curling hard—so hard you gasp into the tie, your back arching violently off the desk.

"He ever get you this wet?" His voice is like gravel, each word grinding into your bones. "Nod your head if he did."

Your body reacts before your mind does, arching against him, but you don't move your head. As much as it hurts your pride to give him that win. You dig your fingers into his hair and pull—hard enough to make him grunt, hard enough to hurt.

His hand comes down hard on your thigh in response, a sharp smack that stings, a warning. You squeal, and his fingers start pumping faster, deeper.

He huffs. "That's what I thought."

His fingers make quick work of you, relentless, and his thumb presses to your clit, rolling circles in a rhythm that has your blood on fire, shame licking at the edges of your vision, but it only makes you burn hotter. This is all wrong. Everything about this is wrong, something you'll regret with every fiber of your being tomorrow, but right now, it's an ache you need.

It's the wound you keep reopening, the pain you crave because it's the only thing that ever feels real.

"Fuck, you're close, aren't you?" He sounds almost shocked, like he can't believe how easily your body betrays you, but you feel it too, the disbelief crashing through you as fast as the pleasure does. Too fast. Far too fast. "Did he ever make you cum? Huh? When's the last time you fucking came?"

You can't answer, just groan, yanking at his hair again. His response is immediate, another stinging slap to your inner thigh, sharp enough to make fluid prick your eyes. Your orgasm is right there, teetering on the edge, ready to tip over—but then he slows his pace, dragging it out, torturing you.

You whine. A pitiful, desperate sound you hate yourself for.

"Look at me." His voice cuts through the haze, and begrudgingly, you do. "He didn't make you cum, did he?"

Your face burns, not from his breath or his fingers or even the astronomical amount of shame you feel—but from the truth of it. You shake your head.

"How long?" His voice shatters the air between you. "A week?"

You shake your head again, biting into the fabric of his tie as his fingers curl deeper inside you.

"Two weeks?"

Another shake. He curses under his breath.

"You poor little thing." His words are venom, but the second they spill from his lips, he pumps his fingers into you again, massaging at your walls, and your vision goes white. "Can't even cum without me."

You would've slapped him if you could, would've torn him apart, but the orgasm hits you like a freight train, ripping through you with violent force. You clench around his digits, thighs trembling as you ride the wave of pleasure, convulsing, moaning into the tie as he watches you like he's won.

"So fucking easy." He withdraws his fingers, and immediately, his hands go to his belt. "We'll make up for lost time."

Everything about this feels like a rerun. The same scene playing out on loop, again and again—a cycle of self-destruction you know too well, like running headfirst into a burning building, certain you can handle the smoke only to choke on it.

He's taking off his belt, ready to fuck you stupid, and by morning you'll be back to the same familiar hatred, tearing each other apart in new, inventive ways. Your hands move sluggishly to rip the tie from your mouth, but you're slow, too slow, still dizzy from the release that blindsided you, one that you haven't felt in so long—the fabric barely grazes your fingers before Mattheo catches your wrists, yanking them back, dragging you to your feet in one rough motion.

The spin disorients you—arms pinned behind your back, his cock sliding between your thighs.

"You've done enough talking today," he hisses at your ear as he drags along your slit. "You want this, don't you?"

Your mind screams for you to shake your head, to end this here and now. You know he'd stop—he's an asshole, but not that kind of an asshole. You know it. You almost do it, almost say the word that would shatter this madness. But then he drags his tip against your clit and you moan before you can stop yourself.

Your head nods with a wanton moan, and it's so full of shame your eyes sting with tears.

"Yeah, I know, baby." He's taunting you, every syllable smug, condescending. "This pussy missed me so much, huh?" His hand tightens on your wrists until your skin burns, the other hand finding its way around your thigh, pulling you closer to him. "Fuckin' lost without me. S'all it's good for, isn't it? Taking my cock."

You groan, shaking your head in defiance, but even that feels like a lie. You hate him. You want him. You hate yourself for wanting him.

"No?" His fingers inch toward your clit, ghosting over it—you squeal, hips jerking for more. "Maybe we should call this off then?"

You blink once and his fingers are gone—wrenching a whine out of you, pathetic as you push your ass back against him, shame burning through you as you shake your head. Fuck him. Curse him. But you need him inside you, need him to fill the aching void that gnaws at you.

"That's my slut," he growls, and before you can process the words, he's inside you—one long, brutal thrust that spears you open, the stretch burning deep. The sting mixes with shock of his fingers returning to your clit, rubbing circles that make your knees buckle. "You know you're the only girl I've fucked raw? This pussy will always be mine."

He's fucking insane. Completely insane. And the worst part is, you're just as insane for wanting him. For needing him. You can't fight it. You don't even want to. Not now. Not when his voice drips like poison and he's tearing you apart in the only way you understand.

"Mmmf—" you groan into the tie and he's matching you, his teeth grazing your shoulder, marking you in ways that will last for days.

"I hope it hurts," he grumbles against your skin, his breath ragged. He's lying, you can feel it in the way his fingers are moving, coaxing you to cum, even as he pretends to wish you pain. "I hope it fucking stings."

Your hands ball into fists, trapped in his grip, and you imagine clawing at his back until you draw blood, sinking your nails in until he feels every ounce of your anger.

"I want you to feel it—fuck—I want you to remember this," he pants, his voice barely more than a growl as your climax crashes toward you, unstoppable now. "Remember how weak I make you. How much of a slut you are for me."

Another harsh thrust and then, you're there—falling into the void—pleasure is so strong it bleeds out of you, forcing your cunt to clamp tight around him, legs trembling, barely able to support you through it. Mattheo’s curses slip through clenched teeth, but this only fuels him—his rhythm picks up, brutal, hips slamming against your ass with a pace that borders on unhinged.

"Fuck. Oh, fuck." The words are barely audible, grunted against the shell of your ear. You're whining, still twitching with aftershocks, but he doesn't care. His hands are on your hips now, fingers digging deep as he thrusts you forward, slamming you over the desk. The wood bites into your palms as you try to brace yourself, but his anger is palpable, drilling into you— "you wanna bitch at me now?"

The moan you release is automatic, instinctual. You can't stop it. Can't control it. His fingers curl around your throat, shifting the tie down to shove two into your mouth.

"Hhhhh—" you're trying to form words around his fingers, but it's impossible. The garbled sound is pathetic, but he knows exactly what you're trying to say.

"You hate me. I know." It’s smug, punctuated by a sharp smack to your ass, the sting of it making you yelp. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping the spit across your cheek before he grips your jaw, forcing your head to turn, to meet his eyes. "Open your mouth."

There's no time to process the demand. His eyes are molten, crazed, filled with something raw and uncontainable. His next thrust is punishing, slamming into your cervix, making you sob—your mouth parting just enough—

He leans in close, and then he spits into your mouth.

"Swallow it." His fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing the order into your bones. "Be a good girl for once."

You choke out a laugh, even as you're panting, even as he's splitting you stupid.

"Never." The word barely leaves your lips before you’re spitting back at him—your entwined saliva landing across his chin and lips.

For a second, you expect the worst—you brace yourself for the retaliation—the slap, the insult, the way he'll tighten his grip and take back control. But to your surprise, instead of anger, there's a grin—wide and feral, big and crazed enough to reach his eyes.

You smile back. His cock twitches inside you.

"Fuck me," he mutters, then crashes his mouth to yours.

You taste the salt and bitterness of mingled spit, a mess of his and yours, and it pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside you. He devours it, greedy, his hips growing erratic, sloppy as his high nears.

His hand drops to your clit, fingers pressing with a precision that obliterates every last shred of sanity—and it takes only moments before the pressure builds again, fast and furious. Your third orgasm rips you apart, your body clenching tight, muscles seizing as you're lost in it. You're not sure where you end and he begins—your breath congealing with his, your moans swallowed in the space between you.

His release follows right after, crashing over him as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a groan that reverberates through your bones. You hate the way it feels. You hate the way he fills you. But you also can't deny the twisted satisfaction of it—the way you sought this punishment, needed it. The shame consumes you, but it's comforting in its familiarity.

He pulls out, and the silence between you is easy, broken only by your ragged breathing. The room feels impossibly small now, your body still thrumming with the aftermath, but the moment is over. You both start to move—piecing yourselves back together, pulling clothes into place, avoiding the weight of what just happened.

You don't understand how it came to this, how it always does, but you're not surprised. Not anymore.

After a long, silent moment, he looks at you. “I don’t regret what I did.”

You know he doesn’t.

“I know.”

He blinks. “I won’t apologize for it.”

You know he won’t.

“I know.”

He nods, now, a smirk on his lips as he watches you fix your skirt. You note the hair sticking to his forehead, how he’s still catching his breath even though he’s pretending he isn’t.

“You aren’t mad.” An observation.

“I’m not.” You reply. You know you should be, but the relief you felt when that Ravenclaw ended things tells you everything you need to know. “Just, never do it again.”

He nods again. “Sure.”

You’re pretty sure he doesn’t mean that—but, at least now, as you glance over at him, there's a small comfort in knowing you no longer want to kill him.

[peachsukii]

You carry Bakugo back to his dorm room. 『 ♡ - k.bakugo x fem!reader 』 -`✧ katsuki bakugo masterlist 

A quiet night at the dorms of UA, you're sitting in Midoriya's dorm room with Bakugo. The three of you are studying for an upcoming exam while sprawled out with notebooks and text books haphazardly all over the floor.

The time is slowly creeping up to 10:00pm - way past Bakugo's "normal" bedtime. He's leaning on his elbow while annotating a paragraph in his textbook, eyes slowly drooping shut. The pen in his hand grows looser as his arm rocks back and forth, about to collapse at any moment and let his head rest on the pages.

Midoriya shoots a glance your way, silently acknowledging how exhausted Bakugo looks. You both had attempted, multiple times, to get him to go to bed. He refused.

"I can fuckin' finish this. It's only a few more pages."

Bakugo was determined, and stubborn, to get his work done - just like anything else in his life. You peer out of the corner of your eye as he shifts, crossing his arms over the textbook and laying his head down on his forearms.

"Kat, you can go to bed if you're wiped out," you say, patting him on the shoulder. "Studying on top of sparring is enough to kick anyone's ass."

Bakugo grunts, sighing into the papers beneath him. " 'm fine."

You look at Midoriya and mouth, 'he'll be out in five minutes or less.'

And like clockwork, Bakugo passes the hell out, snoring atop the open textbook.

You gently stroke his back to get his attention. "Kat, come on. Let's get you to bed."

He doesn't stir at your voice or touch but rolls over on his side. You shake your head, chuckling to yourself as you cast a smile in Midoriya's direction. It's a good thing you're a hero in training or you wouldn't have the strength to do what you're about to.

In one fluid motion, you bend over and scoop Bakugo into your arms and lift him from the floor. He's much lighter than you expected him to be - you always assumed he'd be dense from the sheer amount of muscle mass that adorned his figure. He still doesn't wake and lulls his head against your arm, mouth hanging open and snoring peacefully.

'Wow, he must be exhausted if this isn't enough to wake him.'

Midoriya opens the door for you and follows you upstairs. He opens the door to Bakugo's room for you as well, considering you - quite literally - have your hands full. He waves and mouths 'good night!' as he shuts the door to leave.

Making your way over to Bakugo's bed, you carefully lower him onto the cool sheets and maneuver your arms out from underneath him. As you're pulling away, he sleepily grasps at your shoulders and pulls, causing you to come crashing down on top of him.

'Damn, even in his sleep he's strong,' you think to yourself, flustered and afraid you'll wake him up.

He swiftly turns over, snaking his arms around your waist, intertwining his legs with your own and nestling his head above yours.

"K-Katsuki...?" you mumble, confused as your cheeks flare with heat by the sudden close body contact. You hope that your face isn't as scorching hot as it feels when it squishes up against his chest.

"Mm...don't go," Bakugo slurs, still halfway in dreamland. "Stay."

"...did you let me carry you to bed just so you could cuddle with me?" you ask, perplexed. He grunts in response and squeezes you tighter.

"You son of a bitch," you curse playfully. "If you wanna be carried like a princess to bed, just ask."

" 'm not a princess," he murmurs as he's nuzzling into your hair like a cat begging for attention.

"You just didn't wanna ask to go to bed in front of Izuku, didn't you?"

"...Nuh uh."

You snort as you shimmy in his hold to get comfortable. By the time you settle on a position, he's fallen back into a deep slumber, chest rhythmically rising and falling with hushed breath. He looks so angelic when he's dreaming.

It's too bad he turns into a devil the second he's awake.

i just wanna hold him tight and squish his cheeks - ya know??

[bluetimeombre]

ׂ╰┈➤ She’s like a shot of Espresso

You work in a coffee shop and suddenly Jacob is a coffee enthusiast

This man has been appearing in my dreams, he’s just begging for my attention. Btw I totally don’t work in a coffee shop…

ׂ╰┈➤

Teenpopbuzz: we've found jacbobelordi favourite coffee spot! the actor has been seen visiting there on three separate occasions

304k likes 211k comments

user: hubba hubba

user: so princess diana coded

user: he's so pretty

user: breaking, jacobelordi goes to coffee shop THREE times

user: daddy

user: babe,,, come back, the children miss you

user: what i would do to be a coffee cup and sit between his lips

user: help someone said he's princess diana coded

ׂ╰┈➤

Jacob was not a nervous person. He never got nervous and never felt awkward. But this was a trip to the coffee shop he'd frequented and he'd slowly started to get the shakes before every time. What the hell was wrong with him?

He knew what was wrong with him, his friends knew what was wrong with him. He had a crush. A crush on the pretty barista who served him every time.

The cafe had only been opened an hour but he was there and so were you. He realised you were there most days, with a smile and style.

The bell over the door dinged as he walked in and as you finished serving your customer. It was all quiet inside as he strode to the counter.

'Hi,' you smiled as the other customer walked away.

'How you doing?' he asked politely.

'I'm good, your usual?'

He grinned. 'You know it already.'

'Of course. Any plans today?' he knew you were probably just making conversation, but it still felt nice to talk to you.

'Nothing much, just got this book I want to finish.'

'Oh yea? What you reading?'

'Grapes of Wrath,' he said. He moved along the counter with you, keeping conversation.

'You know if you like Steinbeck you should try East of Eden, it's my favourite book.'

'Really?'

You went into describing the book and he listened intently, smiling at you as you got excited over the book. He came in with his own prompts too.

‘Sorry, im keeping up,’ You apologized, sliding his coffee over.

‘No please, I love to hear it. I’ve got nothing much on.’

‘Finishing a Book, very important business,’ You tell him.

When another customer walked in, it was his cue to leave, slowly and looking back at you like one hundred times.

Jacob opened the door, calling to you one more time, completely ignoring the customer that was there. ‘I’ll see you soon!’

You smile and blush.

ׂ╰┈➤

liked by… yourusername, sydney_sweeney, enews, tchalamet & others

Jacobelordi: I’ve heard East of Eden is a good read

1m likes 782k comments

user: aesthetic king

user: he’s so pretty

user: babygurl

user: 😍😍

user: I will bet so much money that’s from the coffee shop he likes or something

user: he’s so bf!!! I need him

user: he was written by a woman people!!!

user: how is he so gorgeous!!

user: I am free and single to hang out on Thursday Jacob, I’ll be free Thursday for us to date if you are free on Thursday

user: I want you

user: he so cute fr

liked by… yourfriend, yourfriend, yourfriendsfriend and jacobelordi

Yourusername: oh no!!! I’m posting my three favorite things! Coffee, books and books! Hope a cute guy who has an affinity for these things doesn’t slide into my dms

105likes 20comments

yourfriend: she’s cute

yourfriend: ur so cool urg!!!

yourfriend: the caption, ur so iconic 😭😭

user: jacobelordi follows her?!?

ׂ╰┈➤

Jacobelordi started following yourusername

Yourusername started following jacobelordi

ׂ╰┈➤

Yourusername DMS

Jacobelordi: 📚

Jacobelordi: oh no, I accidentally tripped and dropped all my classics full of my annotations with all my interesting ideas and thoughts

ׂ╰┈➤

Jacob had a mission.

Your cafe was busier by the time he got in around lunch. It had been a busy week and beside talking to you through instagram, there hasn’t been much chance of a chance to see you.

So boy was he gonna see you today. And he had a plan.

He walked in and couldn’t immediately see you but saw your co-workers, another guy and another girl at the counter. He lingered around. What if you weren’t working today? But he was sure you were, you were always in on this day.

He caught sight of you, talking to a couple out for lunch and he smiled, tapping the book in his pocket.

After you left them to eat their lunch, you strode over. He noticed the blush on your cheeks, he’s hoped you’d be just as nervous.

‘Hey,’ he smiled as you slid behind the counter.

Your co-workers wondered away, clearly trying to make it look as if they weren’t listening.

‘I actually brought something for you,’ he said, suddenly wanting to hide behind his cap.

‘For me?’

With a grin, he slid over Grapes of Wrath. ‘It’s my copy, annotated and that. I just thought you might like to read it.’

‘Oh my god, thank you!’ You practically caressed the book. ‘It’s so funny cause I actually have something for you-‘ then, you pulled out east of Eden. ‘My copy. Not quite annotated but there’s a line or two underlined.’

‘Oh woah,’ the two of you laugh about it, thumbing though the pages.

Finally, Jacob knew he had to ask. He couldn’t not. ‘Maybe, if you’re free- and if you’re up to it, we could meet up and chat about it- and other things of course.’

You watch, blushing.

‘A date!’ He suddenly announced. ‘I’m asking you out on a date.’

You nod. ‘I would love to go on a date with you, just let me know when, you have my number.’

Confused, his brows furrowed until you helped him. You flicked open the cover and on the first page of the book, your number was scribbled.

And he knew, he was in bad.

ׂ╰┈➤

Teenpopbuzz: new couple alert?! Jacobelordi has been spotted out and about with a mystery girl a few times now, could this be his new lucky woman?!

856k likes 445k comments

user: that should be me!!! Holding your hand!!

user: omg they’re so cute!!

user: isn’t this yourusername, who works in the cafe?

user: he’s literally just taking pictures of her, it’s so cute!!!

user: she better sleep with one eye open

user: I’m in love with them

user: he looks happy eeeekk

user: yourusername

user: ok I’ve stalked yourusername, she works in the cafe he’s been seen at

user: they’re so cute

user: I like the dog

liked by… yourusername, florencepugh, emmachamberlian & tchalamet

Jacobelordi: six months of free coffee! Thank you my love x

tagged: yourusername

1.1m likes 802k comments

user: AHHHHHHHH

user: he made it official!!!!

user: my parents!

user: she’s actually so pretty wtf

user: I can’t tell who i want to be more

user: the fact they met through the cafe she works at, talk about meet cute

user: telling my kids this is Romeo and Juliet

user: omg the free coffee comment, hahahah

user: do you think she’s seen saltburn?

yourusername: <3

[sciencebecameouraddiction]

title: dancing in the rain

author: sciencebecameouraddiction

fandom: hazbin hotel

rating: PG

genre: slight, baby angst/ major fluff

pairing: Alastor x Reader

summary: all hell had was acid rain, and all you wanted was the rainstorms you knew on earth.

Rain hardly ever was an occurrence in Hell. And when it was, it was acid rain. You sighed, looking out the window and watched the green acid pouring down on everything, missing desperately the rain storms that you had on earth. Being the youngest at the hotel, you remembered more clearly the burn of the sun on your skin, the cool breeze on a fall day and even the mix of the humidity in the air that felt like it would choke you but the reprieve as a rainstorm came and fell from the heavens.

“What has you so melancholy, my dear?” A voice asked behind you, shockingly quiet all things considered, toning down the announcer quality in his voice.

“Hey Alastor, just thinking is all.” You replied and smiled at him, not wanting to explain that the acid rain made you sad.

“Now, whatever it is that you’re thinking about is casting a dark shadow over your usually lovely face. So, tell me, what’s wrong? What kind of hotelier might I be if I didn’t ensure that all the patrons here were happy?” He said, the announcer tone coming back into his voice, which made you wince. Knowing that meant he knew you were lying so he was going to put on a show if you were. You sigh.

“It’s the rain.” You explain.

“The what now?” He asks, all effects gone from his voice except shock and a bit of confusion.

“The rain. I miss the rain. Not this rain. The rain on earth. The smell of the earth after a good rain storm, the way that especially in the summer when it was so hot, the rain was a cool reprieve. It always felt like…” You trailed off.

“Forgiveness?” Alastor finished, looking outside the hotel now too. You blink and look up at him.

“Yes. Are you sure you don’t read minds?” You chuckle, resting your head on your hand. You suddenly feel his microphone tap your head. You look up at him as holds his arm out to you.

“Come with me.” He says, not giving you time to feel confused. As when you take his arm you shadow travel with him to the other side of the hotel appearing at the door of his room.

“This is your room.” You say, confused now.

“Ever observant. A skill many would kill for I’m sure.” He smiles at you, but the sarcasm is evident as he holds open the door for you and you step into his room.

“Just a certified Sherlock Holmes.” You roll your eyes, taking his sarcasm.

“I never had the chance to read those books.” He mused for a moment, as he shut his door and walked around you heading to the forest area. You stayed near the door.

“I have the collection if you’d like to borrow it and read them.” You explain. “They are annotated though, so you’ll have to put up with my notes.” You explain.

“That would be lovely, dear.” Alastor says stepping on the grass and you watch as he takes off his coat and hangs it on a coat rack that appeared suddenly. He turns to you. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I-I guess?” You say, more like a question. You jog over to him and start walking next to him. “Are you killing me in your forest because I complained about acid rain?”

“Oh, no. Not you at least.” Alastor chuckles. “I want to show you something.” You look up at him skeptically.

“Hey Alastor, can you take smaller steps?” You ask having to jog to keep up with him. He looks down and hums seeing how you were almost running next to him.

“Good to know that if I had to catch you I could do so without breaking a sweat.” He says, as he walks slower and taking smaller steps, allowing you to actually walk, instead of run.

“Har har.” You say deadpanned and roll your eyes. You walk into a clearing that has a cabin in the middle. The whole forest felt like it was shrouded in the twilight of fall when lightening bugs gently floated around and the sky was a perpetual shade of blue, purple and pink. You finally looked up and around, seeing the trees, the bugs, the animals, the sky. Tears formed in your eyes. “Alastor, this is beautiful. It looks just like-“ You stop, your throat constricting as emotion overtakes you. You feel Alastor’s clawed hand rest on your shoulder.

“Just like earth?” He finishes, speaking softer than you had ever heard. You nod and look at him, watching him take everything in and then looking down at you.

“Come, let me show you something else.” He says, walking away and heading to the cabin. You walk in and suddenly feel at home. The decor is a little dated and you feel transported to the 1920’s, but it’s all homey. There’s a kitchen, a living room, a lounge and a hall way leading to what you assumed to be a bed room. You walk through the living room, taking it in but trying not to pry at the photos Alastor had in frames along the mantel of the fire place, you see at the back door there is almost like a deck, with a more modern porch swing.

“The porch swing is a nice addition.” You mention, smiling a bit at the modern accessory in what felt like a time capsule.

Alastor chuckles as he sets his microphone down and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. He joins you next to the window. “You haven’t seen the best part.” He murmurs, unusually quiet and reserved. You don’t mention the change in demeanor though, wanting to savor the quiet and this almost more authentic view of the Radio Demon.

“What’s the best-“ You stop when you hear it. The start of a pitter patter of rain on the roof, that builds and when you look outside, it’s raining. “Is that?” You blink a few times.

“It is. Safe for you to touch as well. You won’t get hurt.” He smiles a genuine looking smile as he goes over to the record player and starts playing music. Your hand touches the door, feeling the coolness of the water slide down the glass pane. You can’t stop yourself as Alastor fiddles with the record player, you open the door, quickly closing it so no rain would get in the cabin and rush outside off the deck. Twirling in the grass as the rain poured down soaking you.

“What are you doing?” Alastor yelled from the door, watching you like you had gone mad.

“Dancing in the rain!” You yelled back, a smile feeling permanent on your face.

“You’ll catch a cold, get back inside!” He says, looking up at the sky and then back at you.

“No! Come join me! It’s amazing! This is exactly what I remember.” You say holding you hand out to Alastor. His smile looks more like a grimace as he takes you in looking like a wet dog. He looks back inside and waves his hand at something and you see towels appear and the record player is louder so you can hear it outside. He takes off his shoes and socks and places them neatly at the door but far enough away that when you come in, water or mud won’t get on them.

He walks out getting drenched almost immediately as you run up to him and grab his hand and pull him on the grass. You take both his hands and start trying to spin around in a circle with him, as you see his eyebrow raise. You stop and look at him, a little disappointed when he doesn’t spin with you and you start to let go of his hand, until his hand tightens and pulls you to him.

“We can dance in the rain, but we will be actually be dancing.” He says as he proceeds to guide you through a dance that was popular when Alastor was alive, morphing into an odd mash up of a swing dance and you dancing like you were at a rave. You both settled down and were now just slow dancing as the song had turned a bit slower. You watched as Alastor’s eyes were closed as his face angled up to the sky. You made a spit second decision, and rested your head on his chest, really it was like the start of his abdomen but it was as tall as you could reach. You didn’t see his head snap down to you and watch as you seemingly relaxed in his arms, drunk off the warmth he gave and the cool from the rain still coming down. His hand moved up, and grabbed your chin, encouraging you to look at him. As you did, you saw his eyes widen and his cheeks turn bright red.

“What’s wrong?” You ask quietly.

“I’ve never… done anything like this before.” He says quietly, and it breaks the fogginess you felt before.

“You don’t have to be scared. It’s just me.” You say, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world.

“Just you? Darling, just you is enough to have me go to war.” Alastor murmurs and then his eyes widen again, shocked. You realize that he is just blurting things out and there is no filter. You smile.

“Well, I’m honored that the Radio Demon would want to be in my corner.” You say as your hand reaches up to touch his cheek, stopping just a few centimeters away, allowing him to close the gap if he wanted to. He leans into your touch shaking his head.

“Not the Radio Demon, dear. Just Alastor.” He says, looking at you with a vulnerability you had never seen before. Your eyes widen and you smile.

“Even better.”

[cuubism]

I missed my boys. New chapter of bookstore cryptid Dream and coffeeshop owner Hob. E.

-

Dream is reading some bodice ripper again.

Actually he’s on his third romance novel that day, because he reads very fast when he’s into something, sprawled across the couch in the cafe, tongue poking past his lips as he reads. The other books are stacked by the couch, carefully bookmarked and annotated. What the hell is he doing, writing a dissertation on the regency romance genre?

“Want me to get you a few more?” Hob asks, gesturing to the stack of books. “Three wasn’t enough?” They look functionally identical to Hob. Gallant men and elegant swooning women. Some more dressed than others.

Dream takes the chocolate truffles Hob offers him—a new cafe selection—and pops one in his mouth, licking the sugar coating off his thumb. Hob swallows, throat clicking, as he watches. “I need comprehensive notes,” he says.

“For what?”

Dream’s eyes sparkle. “If you wish, you can come with me to get more.”

Hob follows him, still confused, as Dream eats the other truffle in one bite, then stands fluidly and heads for the door.

Across the street, they enter the Library, its cool dusty interior a relief from the summer heat. Sweat prickles on the back of Hob’s neck, but he thinks it’s less the heat outside and more the determined way Dream stalks in front of him. Something is clearly on his mind.

He leads Hob on a winding route back through the stacks, past Dessert Histories and its sister shelf Desert Histories, through Husbandry, through a tiny section on the inside of a doorframe called “thresholds,” and into—

Ah. Erotica.

Frankly Hob’s surprised the Library doesn’t have multiple erotica sections, broken down into its sub—

Dream spins and pushes him up against a shelf.

Hob’s too surprised to do anything but let him, and besides, when Dream looks at him like that, eyes going dark and tongue darting out to wet his lips, Hob is hardly inclined to question it.

“Something on your mind?” he breathes, as Dream’s hands splay over his chest.

“Something,” Dream agrees. “I don’t think I want to pick out another book.”

Hob thinks back to the swooning heroines of Dream’s romance novels. Okay. He gets it. He can play.

He takes Dream by the arms and pushes him up against the shelves in turn. Dream squeaks, but before he can speak Hob’s mouth is on his, claiming. Tipping Dream’s head back. Dream moans, caving back against the shelves. Yes, that’s what he wanted, and he didn’t want to ask for it because he wanted it to be spontaneous and passionate like in his novels. He’s such a silly thing. Hob loves him so.

“Apologies,” Hob breathes, lips brushing Dream’s, as Dream grasps at him with weak fingers. He tries to put on the persona of a character from Dream’s novels. He’s no actor, but he’ll try, for Dream. “I simply couldn’t stop myself. You’re too tempting.”

Dream stares up at him with huge eyes, totally enraptured.

Hob feigns hesitance, stepping back. “I should not—it’s unbecoming, I should protect your virtue—”

Dream grabs his shirt and hauls him back in until their noses are touching. “Perhaps I don’t want you to. Perhaps I want you to take it.”

God he’s hot when he’s hungry like this.

Hob pushes in close to him again, chest to chest, edging in between Dream’s knees. Rolls his hips so Dream can feel that he’s already hard.

“Don’t open that door,” he warns. “I won’t have you let me in and then regret it after.”

“That door has been open to you for a long time,” Dream says. His hands find Hob’s shoulders, his chest heaving. “Were we not to be married?”

Hob fumbles for the thread of the story. “You ended that.”

“I was afraid. Afraid of how much I feel for you.”

“Nothing to fear.” He noses under Dream’s jaw, nips, kisses his neck. Dream shudders. “Am I obliged to marry you, then?”

“No. No obligation. I’m afraid I must have you either way.” He meets Hob’s eyes, lip trembling. “I need you. Even if you walk away from me forever.”

Hob wouldn’t do that. The Hob of this tale wouldn’t either. “Once you let me in I’m never walking away from you.”

He kisses Dream, on the lips this time, plumbing deep in his mouth, just tasting him. Dream moans, and then gasps as Hob gets his hands under his thighs and lifts him, pushing him up against the bookshelf.

Dream wraps his legs around Hob’s waist, skirt rucking up— is that why he’s wearing a bloody skirt today? Was he plotting this all along?

“You clever, naughty thing,” Hob breathes, and Dream smirks, a look that breaks into a gasp as Hob sucks a mark into his throat, fingers bruising on his thighs.

His loose shirt slips over his shoulder as Hob lavishes attention there, kissing his way down his collarbone and to his sternum. Dream’s hips thrust, searching for friction, and Hob rolls up against him, making him cry out.

“Why does something tell me you prepared yourself too?” he breathes, voice going rough just at the thought.

Dream only smiles craftily.

With Dream clinging onto him with arms and legs, Hob manages to reach a hand around and under him, where Dream’s not wearing underwear, pressing lightly. Dream’s tight entrance gives to his fingers, his hole already wet and open. A moan’s wrenched from Hob’s throat. When and where did he even sneak away to do this? In Hob's bathroom at the cafe?

“You’ll be my actual death,” he says.

“Not until after you make love to me.”

Make love. He really is leaning into the romance. It’s sweet when he gets like that. Dream can be so lovely when he’s not too busy being mysterious. (Though Hob can’t kid himself that he doesn’t love the mysteriousness).

“I live to serve you, my love,” Hob says.

Still holding Dream up precariously with one arm, Hob undoes the button and zipper on his jeans and takes himself out. It’s difficult balancing like this, so he only gives himself a few strokes before lining Dream up and, carefully, letting him sink down onto his cock.

“Hob!” Dream cries, throwing his head back, as Hob buries his face in his neck, trying to breathe. It’s so overwhelming to be in him, every time.

“Is that what you wanted, sweetheart?” Hob says once he’s gotten his breath back. “Me inside you?”

“Yes. Yes,” Dream whines. “I need it. I can’t. I can’t live without it.”

Hob’s lost track of whether they’re still doing the story, but it hardly matters. He gets his hands firmly around Dream’s ass and starts bouncing him on his cock. Dream wails, fingers twisting in Hob’s shirt. Hob curses at the feeling of him.

“Feel so good, darling,” he pants. “So good. Perfect.”

Dream whimpers, meeting him halfway as Hob thrusts into him. He pushes deeper, holding on tight to Hob’s shoulders. His back must be absolutely digging into the bookshelves, but he doesn’t complain.

“You really needed this today, huh?” Hob says.

“I wanted it,” Dream says. “So many tempting scenarios in fiction… why not see if I could pull some into fact?”

“No concern about whether it’s possible, huh?” He likes being involved in Dream’s fantasies, though, being in the stories that go on in Dream’s head.

“You’ve made it possible.” Dream smirks, lips dragging over Hob’s cheek.

Yeah, Hob’s really glad now for all the times he’s carried huge pallets of books up and down the stairs for Dream. It’s the only thing granting him the arm strength to do this. Even so, his shoulders will be sore tomorrow, but it’s worth it for Dream’s happiness.

Dream tugs his skirt up further so his cock can rub against Hob’s belly, smearing pre over his shirt. His fingers dig into Hob’s shoulders. “Hob,” he pants, as Hob bounces him on a particularly hard thrust, nailing his prostate. “Hob. Hob!”

Hob’s arms shake, more from the fire of being inside him than holding up Dream’s weight. Dream clutching at him, wrapped around him, at Hob’s mercy in this position, blazes warmth through him, sets arousal alight on his skin. He buries his nose in Dream’s throat, inhaling the scent of him, paper and coffee, and it does nothing to ground him. He won’t last much longer.

“Hob, I’m—” Dream cries, and then he comes over Hob’s belly, biting down on Hob’s ear, the closest body part he can reach.

Dream’s body clenching around him sends Hob over the edge, and he groans into Dream’s throat as he spills inside him.

He can feel Dream’s heart hammering under his ribcage, the heaving of his lungs, and loses himself in the rhythm of his body for a few moments.

Dream recovers first, combing his hands through Hob’s hair, nuzzling over his temple. “You will have to marry me now, lover,” he says, in that alluring voice he’d used to tempt Hob into this game. “Else my reputation will be in tatters.”

Hob laughs. Back to the story, is it? “If you stay with me, I’ll give you anything,” he promises.

He carefully disentangles them, helping Dream down. Dream winces as he stretches out his legs, gone stiff from holding his position, and Hob rolls his shoulders, hearing them pop. Yeah, he’ll be feeling that tomorrow, but he doesn’t expect he’ll regret it.

He gets Dream situated by the fireplace--of the Erotica section has a fucking fireplace, though Hob had been way too distracted to clock it before--where there is a scattering of pillows and blankets they could definitely have used instead of the wall. He stretches out with Dream settled between his legs, lying against his chest, massages Dream’s sore hips with his thumbs, while privately aroused at the thought of him being sore, of him feeling it.

“Thank you,” Dream murmurs at length, face still mashed into Hob’s chest. “For indulging me.”

“Don’t thank me. I love being able to fulfill your fantasies.” He kisses the top of Dream’s head, burying his nose in his hair. “I love you.”

Dream taps his fingers over Hob’s heart. “I love you.”

They sit quietly, listening to the crackle of the flames. Finally, Hob says, “So. Does the Erotica section enhance the experience for you? You can feel the resonances or something?”

Dream sighs. “I do not have a psychic connection to the books, Hob.”

“You sure?”

Dream pokes him in the side, but immediately undermines his admonishment by slipping his hand under Hob’s shirt to lay against his side.

“Could put an actual bedroom in the Library,” Hob suggests.

“That would be absurd. It is a bookstore.”

Hob’s never going to win this debate. He’s tried.

“Fine, then,” he concedes. “We’ll just have to keep using mine.”

“And the wall,” Dream says, and then giggles. Hob accepts his fate of lifting more weights. And sore shoulders.

And, of course, a happy Dream, curled up with him by the fire, making it all worth it.

[clrasecretdiary]

Oh no, i love him. Pt. 2 | Spencer Reid x Bestfriend!Fem!Reader

more fluff !!

find part.1 here!

content: Spencer calls reader stuff like "honey" (yes, I am obsessed w pet names), Mutual pining, Reader is an overthinker (just like me fr).

warnings: none

--

The day before, you and the team had finally arrested the unsub that was threatening your best friend. You hoped to get a good night of sleep after one week of horrible nightmares, well that's not what happened. 

Instead, as soon as you lied down, your head now started to remind you of everything that went down the previous day. You and Spencer, what almost happened, the awkwardness during the whole day, how you two basically didn't speak the rest of the day, the way the team were staring at you both… You were scared that your friendship was ruined, scared that everything was a misunderstanding and now Spencer thought you were a creep. 

"Fuck this" You say, accepting that there's no way you would sleep, getting up and heading to your living room to at least watch something to pass time until you had to go to work. 

You turn on the TV, and notice that the channel is playing an episode of doctor who. 

"Very funny universe" You say, it's like Spencer is everywhere around you. The cardigan you stole from him on the coat rack, his favorite book that he annotated for you on the coffee table… You can't escape him, and there's no way you're losing him. 

You watch a couple episodes, a few moments later you look at the time. It's 5:30, you start to get ready, have your breakfast and head out to the office. Besides your attempts, you still arrive early, being the only one already in the office besides… him. 

"Couldn't sleep either? " You say to Spencer taking him out of the focus on his paperwork and setting your things down to your table that was close to his. 

"Yeah, there's a lot on my mind to be honest" He says, looking up at you

"Mine to…" You say, grabbing a chair to sit down next to him. "Spence, we really need to talk. I need to tell you something" 

He does not answer, just maintains eye contact, waiting for you to continue. You take a deep breath, gathering courage It's now or never, you'll never know if you don't ask. 

"Ok, yeah… I love our friendship, I really do, it's like top 5 best things that ever happened to me. I don't know what a would do without you, and if you don't... agree with what I say I really need us to continue the same, I cannot do this job, hell I can't exist without you" 

You take a deep breath, gathering courage It's now or never, you'll never know if you don't ask. "But I don't know if I'm delusional, but there's no way this - You point between you two - is just friendship love. And this felling has been driving me crazy for months now, and I need to know and if you don't feel the same that fine. What do you actually feel for me, Spence?" 

Your heart feels like it's coming out of your chest, the seconds before he answers feel like hours and then he just… Starts laughing

"Fuck you Spencer" You say as you see the man laugh in front of you, you expected that he would not reciprocate your feelings but laugh at them was at another level. 

"No, honey, I'm sorry, it's just… Isn't it obvious?" 

"Not really, Spencer" You roll your eyes at him and cross your arms at your chest 

"Darling…" He says, putting his hands on both sides of your face, looking at your eyes, "I don't think there has been a single day on my life since I met you that I haven't been in love with you" 

As soon as he finishes that sentence, you feel your heart skip a beat and your stomach drop. You lean in and kiss him deeply, and he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close. You both stand there, embracing each other. You have never felt so loved.

[fridayiminlcve]

what is your problem with tiktok or booktok and colleen hoover lmao its not that bad surely

the fact that it actively promotes overconsumerism, the way it sells books to you by just playing into already heavily milked out tropes with very specific character niches that are seen in every book nowadays and how the reading is just seen as something aesthetic or a part of the "it girl routine" maybe? if those are enough reasons for you?

does the fact that these books are the first things you see when you walk into a bookstore not bother you? when you ask someone for a book recommendation they'll follow it up with "its a romance slow burn enemies to lovers". it's always about the aesthetic of the book, how many lines can you take out of context and post as a compilation of your super cute romantic annotations page on instagram. no analyzing the book, no theories, no symbolism or meaningfulness at all. how people stand reading those kind of books and still feel any kind of emotions over these flat as hell books with no world or character building is genuinely baffling to me

no one seems to know about actual literature anymore, which not to sound like a boomer but i think its definitely true. there's always been trend cycles, i agree such as the harry potter craze from the 1990s to the 2000s and the dystopia hunger games/maze runner/divergent blast in the early 2010s but tiktok has just.. shortened these cycles so much. as a result, people like our darling colleen hoover whose written around 46 books since 2015 (according to google) try come up with as much fresh content as they can as quickly as possible for the readers (see overconsumption). the fact that this lady outsold the bible is not outstanding to me, its fucking concerning.

and after all that, the result is badly written books with characters who're about as dimensional as a piece of paper, overuse of tropes, read like they've been written by a toddler, toxic-ass relationships being romanticised, very unnecessary sex scenes and countless other things. seriously if i wanted to read about the kind of stories hoover tells i would just open a wattpad account.

not clowning on those who made the choice to read it. i'm trying to highlight some of the flaws i find in authors like colleen hoover, sjm, ali hazelwood, casey mcquinston. some of them might be good, i wouldn't know because i actively try and avoid them at all costs. also i am BEGGING u all who will have an objection to this post to reach out of your comfort zone and read something different like non-fiction or fantasy or one of the classics for once if you only read booktok like seriously it might be hard but just do it for the love of god!! if you're annoying on this i will block you by the way i don't care

[princessbrunette]

all i can think ab tonight is kook!pope with reader who is VERY book smart but MY GOD is she street STUPID. (it’s me)

kook!pope who studies with you in the library for hours, even feeling a little threatened by the way you manage to absolutely dominate a text book, leaving with it under your arm and annotation sticky notes practically spilling out of it — but on the walk home has to begrudgingly hold your hand because you keep walking too close to the road or going to cross the street without looking and it’s stressing him out.

“so, i’d rather you not die before we take that test on monday.” he pants after ripping you back from the street — causing you to narrowly miss being hit by a truck. “how the hell have you survived this long?”

you shrug happily, seemingly totally unphased by it all before continuing on. it’s not until a few weeks later when the two of you confess your feelings for one another that you reveal you’re not usually that bad — you just feel like you can turn your brain off around him and let him do the thinking. after that, he doesn’t mind so much.

[reareaotaku]

oh my god, prt 2 of School Girls????? You can't leave me liek that

OOH??? Of course! Man, wow

Part 1: School Girls | Pt 3: Made into a Woman

Summary: You've been staying out of Miles' way, to avoid anymore of his treatments, but it only makes him seek you out more Pairings: Bully! Yandere! Miles Fairchild x Fem!Reader TW: Bullying, Harassment Taglist: @tomhockstetter7-111 [Might make a part 3 that goes more into the NSFW part. If I do do a part 3, it will pretty much immediately go into NSFW territory]

You hated him. If there was a hell, he'll surely rot there when he finally croaks. Speaking of the devil, you could feel his glare from across the courtyard. When you looked up from your notebook, you could see him staring at you- Well, staring might not be the right word. He had a strange look on his face- One that was so disconnected from the real world.

You had figured he targeted you because you didn't have any friends, but he didn't either, because of his 'anger issues'.

You stood up from your spot and wiped your skirt. You looked back at him just to see if he was still watching you; He was. You turned away from him and headed inside. You couldn't stand his stare anymore, you needed to get away and you knew the perfect place; The roof.

The janitor had left an extra key in his storage room and you had found it when being locked in there by Miles for something stupid. You were mad at first, but when finding the key, you realized this was the best thing to happen, since he couldn't go there.

You rushed up the stairwell-the same one Miles had cornered you in that one time- and quickly unlocked the roof door. When it clicked open, you slammed it shut and locked it again before smirking to yourself. There was a small part of you that wished you could see his face when realizing he couldn't get to/find you.

You went to the side of the exit, leaning on the wall. If someone would enter the roof, you'd be able to see them before they see you. You moved your bookbag to your feet and grabbed a book '1989' by George Orwell.

You hated the book. The main character, Winston, reminded you of Miles in the way he acts- Though the book wasn't necessarily about how terrible Winston was but more about absolute Government control.

But that's unimportant. You were alone now and you could read the book for your English class. It was strangely peaceful; If you didn't have the book, you'd probably take a nap up here or something. It was nice... for the first time in a long time.

---

Miles' nose scrunched up as he scoped the courtyard. His little attraction had disappeared half an hour ago and he wasn't able to find her and it was starting to piss him off. Then a thought occurred to him... What if she was on the roof?

He had overheard the headmaster and janitor talking about a missing key to the roof. The key the janitor kept in his closet- the same one Miles had locked her in. But, if she was on the roof, there was no way for him to get up there, because it was padlocked; Hence the need for key.

He could tell the headmaster, but that could lead to two things; The headmaster not believing him or Y/n getting suspended. The last thing he wanted was her to be kicked out of school for a week, hell he couldn't even stand 30 minutes of her being gone.

But he needed to get up there. He needed to let her know that she couldn't escape him. That he was always watching... always there. But as of now she probably thought she was safe and the thought made Miles' face scrunch up into a heavy glare.

---

The sun was starting to fall and curfew was coming, so you knew you had to go back to your dorm. Thankfully you had finished the book, but just had a few more annotations to write. Though, you could just come back tomorrow and finish it.

You stand up and wipe your outfit, before pulling the key out of your pocket. You sigh, feeling relaxed, before turning the handle and slowly closing the door behind you. Though your happiness was short lived.

"I didn't know you were such a troublemaker, Y/n."

You could feel your stomach drop and your body froze when hearing the voice.

"What? Can't turn around and face me?"

You were hoping if you didn't move, maybe he'd go away? You held your breath, hoping it was dark enough that he couldn't see you.

"You have nothing to say?"

You turned your head slightly, "What is there to say?"

"Oh, so she does speak? I was worried for second."

You chuckle. "No, you weren't."

"What makes you think that?"

You turn around towards him. You could barely make out his face, but his eyes bored into yours. Dark and cold just like him. It's like he could see every secret that you hid. You could see his silhouette just fine and you were sure he could see yours.

"If you weren't such a bitch, you'd be a beautiful girl."

"If you weren't evil, you'd be an attractive man."

He frowned at your words, causing you to smirk. You could see the frustration on his face. He pulled your hair back behind your ear, before caressing your face. It was strange for him to be so gentle. You didn't like it.

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him off. "It's past curfew."

"Yeah... It is."

---

Your bed felt hard under your body. It was like it had never been used. It was strange. You felt as if you didn't belong. Maybe it was because you didn't. Because you weren't in your bed- Hell you weren't even in your room. You were in his. Though why? You felt the bed dip and looked towards the man of the hour. Why were you here and what was going on?

[on-a-lucky-tide]

"You need your ACL reconstructed."

Price stared at the doctor as she leafed through the scans of his stupid bloody knee, blinking rapidly as he tried to process just exactly how fucked he was. He was running the calculations and the answer was coming up: significantly.

After it had given out on a recent yomp with Bravo Company, he has given in and skulked into medical like a whipped hound. There was only so much ibuprofen a man could neck with his coffee before it became farcical. His stomach was beginning a small revolt. Eventually, his mind unable to accept what it had just heard, he cleared his throat. "Come again?"

She sighed, running a hand through her neat crop of grey hair. After dealing with his bullshit for nearly twelve years, she had no patience left for it. "You're having surgery John, and I'm signing you off for four weeks after. From there, it'll be six months before you return to the field."

"Not happening." Price pushed off the gurney and did a rather shite job of hiding the wince as his knee gave another unwelcome spasm when his foot hit the floor. He remembered the landing that had finally done it; a routine jaunt through Belgrade. Nothing too taxing. Uneven ground, some loose gravel and a distraction because of static through Comms, and he'd gone arse over tit. Gaz had been amused until he realised Price had been struggling to get back up again.

Fucking embarrassing.

"You can huff and puff as much as you want, captain. My decision's final," she said, emphasising his rank to put his impending tantrum in perspective, and then, for good measure, "also, your cortisol levels are high, which is probably why you're getting a bit soft in the midsection. The time off is needed."

"Olright, Janie, bloody hell, no need to go for the throat." He placed a hand on his belly, prodding the layer of give with a sad sigh. "What the fuck am I meant to do for four weeks?"

"Read, go fishing, binge Netflix, catch up with family. You know, what normal people do for R&R..." She glanced up at him and rolled her eyes at the deep frown on his face. "Stop thinking of ways to bribe and blackmail me. I'm booking the surgery for a week's time."

"A week isn't long enough."

"Tough shit. Lost your appetite recently? Belching like a retired general at a Number 10 dinner?"

Price squinted. "Yeah."

"Congratulations, you gave yourself a stomach ulcer by slamming the ibuprofen like Polos," Janie murmured, turning over her notes to annotate her recommendations. "Four weeks--

"--fockin' hell, come in with a limp and leave in a fockin' body bag--"

"--so that's five weeks enforced leave."

Price opened his mouth to argue the toss but it clicked shut when she raised an eyebrow at him. He knew better than to push his luck. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me marm, John. It makes me feel old." She tapped her biro against the clipboard and then gripped it against her stomach, her head tilted, as she considered his miserable sulk. "You need to consider that promotion in the next few years."

"It'll take me outta the field," Price grumbled.

"If you snap something else at the wrong moment, then a bullet's going to take you out of the field. Think it over."

Nikprice Hurt/Comfort?

Yeah, it's Nikprice Hurt/Comfort.