#i mean the chances of that are pretty low but still

[socraticcryptid]

“You’ll never guess what I heard at the market today,” Nopalea said.

My lips twitched. My beloved had a knack for overhearing the most outrageous rumours, and it had become a game between us. She won if she got a reaction out of me, and I won if I managed to treat it as normal. She never made them up, as far as I knew. Enough weird things happened in and around our town that she never had to. “Go on.”

“Apparently,” she said, and leaned in close. I should have paid more attention to the mischievous glint in her eye. “Lord Drugath has returned to West Dryland.”

“What the fuck.”

She burst out laughing. “Your face!”

I stared at her, aghast. I realised after a moment that my mouth was hanging open, and hurriedly closed it. “Lea. Are you serious?”

“Yup,” Nopalea said gleefully. “Two different travellers arrived today, and both of them said they saw smoke and movement at Citadel Drugath last week.”

I groaned and let my head fall onto the table. “For Drouth’s sake. You know it’s not me, right?”

“I do,” she said. There was a pause, so I looked up to see an apologetic look on her face. “I trust you. And a couple of my Waterbomber colleagues followed you today, just to be sure.”

I grimaced, but didn’t complain. I was grateful enough to the Bombers for giving me this chance at a second life. They wouldn’t have seen anything more interesting than my working in the clinic all day anyway. “That means they’ve known about this for a couple days then, right?”

Nopalea nodded. “They sent a couple scouts, and they’re pretty sure that it’s someone relatively small-time who’s trying to capitalise on your former reputation. The only problem is that they’re definitely a fire mage. There’s some substantial wards and traps around the Citadel.”

“Mmm.” I could see where this was going. “And it’s not as if the Bombers have a heap of fire mages on call, so they want me to go check it out.”

“Only if you’re okay with it,” Nopalea said. She placed her hand over mine and squeezed gently. “You don’t have to. I know you haven’t been back since, well.”

“Since you vanquished Lord Drugath and cast him into exile.”

My voice was tight. Nopalea smiled apologetically. “Yeah. Since that.”

I sighed. “Alright.”

xxx

It would take a week to travel by the normal route from our town on the edge of East Dryland to Citadel Drugath. But that was for people who had to follow the river, and the Bombers had given me an automagically refilling water flask, so I cloaked myself in smoke and flew directly over the desert. It took only a few hours, and that was including several detours around settlements and nomadic groups.

I used little bits of fire magic all the time in my healing, from clearing out infections to bringing comfort to the grieving. I hadn’t used my other skills in almost six years, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that they still felt natural.

It was dusk when I reached Citadel Drugath, and the low light was perfect for hiding my smoky form from anyone watching. It took me maybe half an hour to pick my way through the wards and traps in the abandoned outer city — I could have simply broken them with a spell or two, but then I would lose the advantage of surprise — and once inside I went straight to the main hall.

I may have left my evil overlord days behind me, but there was a reason why I’d lasted so long. I was damn good at getting and keeping power, and there wasn’t a mage in all of the Six Drylands that could’ve beaten me in a battle. The story goes that Lord Drugath was defeated in an epic battle with Knight Nopalea and twenty of her finest Waterbombers, but the truth was that Nopalea had already convinced me that I hadn’t brought peace and harmony to West Dryland, like I’d hoped, but instead only terror. She had offered me a chance at a better life instead, and when I accepted, we faked the final battle.

I’d removed my belongings from Citadel Drugath beforehand, but I’d built it to be permanent, and permanent it was. Nobody had wanted to live in the surrounding town once I’d left, so the Bombers maintained it as a defensible evacuation point in case of a major wildfire in nearby settlements. And the fortress itself had been imbued with years and years of spells and wards and great workings that made it almost impenetrable for anyone but me.

The main hall was the exception, as Lord Drugath had met with his advisors and citizens there. As expected, when I entered, the would-be new overlord had set up camp there. He had a tent up on the stage, with clothes drying on the backs of chairs and a pile of supplies in the corner, and he was in the process of -

I had to stop for a moment and clamp my hands over my mouth so I wouldn’t give myself away by cackling. He was building a fire by hand! Genuinely, actually, this so-called fire mage was assembling a pile of wood scraps and twigs in one of the fireplaces with a flint and steel on the ground next to him.

Drouth above. Setting up all those wards and traps must’ve taken all his strength, and he still hadn’t recovered a week later.

I’d planned to do this properly, come back in the daylight and stage a battle and all that, but I had no desire to waste my time on this fool. I hid behind a pillar and quietly poured water from the flask onto the ground until I had a nice puddle. Then I swept it up into the air, strode out into the hall, dumped all the water over the fool’s head, and froze him in place.

Just because I was a fire mage didn’t mean I couldn’t learn water magic too. I used it a lot in healing, and Nopalea had taught me a trick or two for battle. Turns out that, as a fire mage, I had a knack for controlling temperature. Who would’ve thought.

“Hey! How dare you attack Lord Drugath like this!” the fool said. I rolled my eyes and didn’t answer him. Instead, I lifted him and his block of ice into the air and set off down the hill.

He didn’t shut up for the entire twenty minute walk. If it wouldn’t have ruined my shaky relationship with the Bombers, I would’ve just snuffed out the flame in his heart in a moment. He didn’t even notice when I cleared his wards and traps in the abandoned village, or when I used a little fire magic to speed up our travels.

A small crowd was waiting at the edge of the nearby village — a reserve Bomber, two firefighters, and a few well-built townsfolk. They didn’t look friendly, exactly, but none of them were aiming weapons at me, so I took that as a win. It was a definite improvement over the last few times I’d been here.

“Howdy,” I said. I levitated the block of ice over and dropped it in front of them. “I went to check out the Citadel and found this loser camping in the main hall. He’s definitely not Lord Drugath, and I didn’t see any signs of anyone else. I brought down the wards, so you can go check it out tomorrow if you want.”

“Hmph,” one of the firefighters said. “And who are you?”

I grinned. “I’m a healer from East Dryland. You can call me Lady Melaleuca.”

Many years after the evil overlord was deafeated by the forces of the light, there are whispers rumors that the evil overlord has secretly returned to his citadel. You know immediately it could only be an imposter, as you are in fact the evil overlord, living a peaceful simple life in exile.

[mattslutt]

WORSHIP YOU - m.sturniolo

Matt x You

Gymrat Matt x Curvy Reader

teasing, pet names, worshipping, compliments, fluff.

summary: your boyfriend matt is obsessed with your thighs and always makes sure you feel worshipped and loved.

note: don’t like it, don’t read it.

word count: 877

____________________________________________

Matt’s voice is muffled through the bathroom, something about making dinner together, but you barely process it. You’re sprawled across the bed, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling—a dangerous habit, you know. But today, the algorithm is relentless, shoving image after image of toned bodies, lean legs, impossible proportions right in your face.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, and then you catch your reflection in the black mirror of your phone—a frown, a furrowed brow. Without thinking, your hand moves to your thigh, fingers pressing into the softness, feeling that familiar twist in your stomach. You hate how easy it is for the doubt to creep in.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice Matt until the bed dips beneath his weight, and suddenly, warm hands are gripping your legs, dragging them over his shoulders as he all but buries himself between them. His cheek presses against the plush of your thigh, and you feel his lips—soft, barely-there kisses—trailing across your skin.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice low, a little muffled. He squeezes your thighs, almost like he’s testing the feeling of them in his hands, and there’s a hint of a groan in his voice, like he can’t help himself. “God, I missed these.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, the spell of self-critique cracking just slightly. “You saw me like an hour ago, Matt.”

“Yeah, and it was too long.” His grip tightens, and his eyes—half-lidded, a little dazed—flicker up to yours. “You know, you could suffocate me with these, and I’d say thank you.”

Your cheeks burn. “Matt—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, the playful tone slipping just a bit, replaced by something softer, almost reverent. His fingers trace slow, lazy circles over your thighs, his touch feather-light, but enough to leave a trail of warmth in its wake. “I don’t think you get it. I’m obsessed. These legs, these thighs—” He presses another kiss, this time lingering, his lips hot against your skin. “I love them. I love you.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and you instinctively try to pull your legs away, but his hands are already gripping tighter. “Nope. Not going anywhere,” he insists, his lips still brushing against you with every word. “You can keep thinking whatever you want, but just know I’m gonna keep doing this. Forever. Okay?”

Your heart stutters, the familiar doubt flickering weakly before fading under his touch, his words, his devotion. You reach down, your fingers slipping into his messy hair, and he hums, leaning into your touch like a cat starved for attention.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice a little shaky, a little overwhelmed. “Forever sounds good.”

“Good,” he mumbles, already pressing another kiss to your thigh, his voice going softer, almost sleepy. “Because I’m not letting go. Ever.”

Matt’s lips are still against your thigh, the warmth of his breath spreading across your skin, and his voice drops to a low, almost sleepy murmur. “Softest thighs I’ve ever touched,” he whispers, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles. “Could live right here. Your skin’s perfect. So warm, so soft.”

“Matt—” you try to protest, a nervous laugh bubbling up, but his hands just tighten, pulling your legs even closer around his shoulders.

“No, I mean it,” he continues, voice edging on desperate, like he needs you to understand. “You don’t get it, do you? You could wear anything—shorts, dresses, those leggings I love—and I’d just lose my mind. Sometimes I see you and forget how to talk. I just wanna touch you, kiss you—”

Your face burns, your fingers instinctively tugging at his hair, trying to distract him. “Matt, stop—”

“Not a chance,” he breathes, pressing another kiss, this one wetter, his lips lingering. “I’d spend hours here if you let me. I love the way you feel, love the way you look. I love how soft you are. How perfect.” His voice is a low, steady rhythm, each word sinking into your skin, carving away every ounce of doubt.

“Matt—” you try again, but he looks up, his blue eyes dark and serious, and your voice falters.

“I wish you could see what I see,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “How gorgeous you are. I watch you walk around, and I just—” He lets out a low, breathless laugh. “I can’t believe you’re mine. Can’t believe I get to touch you. I’m so obsessed, baby. So, so obsessed.”

You feel the heat crawling down your neck, spreading across your chest, and you try to squirm away, embarrassment making you lightheaded. “Matt, please—”

“Please, what?” he teases, but there’s a gentleness to it. “Please keep going? Please keep kissing you?” His lips find a new spot on your thigh, his stubble grazing against your skin, sending a shiver through you. “I will. I’ll never stop. Not until you believe me. Not until you understand how much I love every single part of you.”

Your heart is racing, the mixture of embarrassment and something warmer, something more addictive, flooding through you. You try to cover your face, but Matt’s hand catches your wrist, pulling it gently away.

“No hiding, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice a low promise. “Not from me. Never from me.”

____________________________________________

as a curvy girly myself, im very insecure and have been feeling way more insecure recently so i wrote this to feed my delusions but also make myself feel better LMAO.

[bambirex]

I know there are all those videos of irl lawyers reacting to Ace Attorney and how it all comes down to "omg what if court was really like this??" but I can assure you that court is, many times, actually like this. Like you would not believe what goes down sometimes.

The things we have to sit through with a straight face. There might be no ghost-channeling or cross-examining parrots but the level of surrealism is pretty close most of the time.

[ahc-au]

If Darius broke out of prison because there are possible connections with the higher ups of the facility he made during his position of CEO at O'Neil tech and DEFINITELY cause an upstart war with his underground business partners and destroying the whole NNYC .

Or possibly putting bounty on both Cody and President Bishop and eventually the O'Neil Tech doesn't even exist anymore because of his socipath tendencies on ep 20 . That's how I imagined him how monstrous he can become

"If i can't have it , no one will ."

Dunn is definitely vindictive enough to be in that "if I can't have it, no one can" mindset, for sure. But I also think he's more intelligent than he gets credit for, so I don't think an outright war would be his M.O. yknow? He's a man who knows how to cover his tracks and play his cards right. No matter how many connections he has, he's never going to have the cards to beat the entire galactic union of the PGA head-on. Targeting President Bishop is a VERY dangerous game.

He'd definitely want to kill all six, for sure, Cody, Bishop, and the Dark Turtles. Since he's practially lost everything else, I can see revenge being a high priority for him. But he'd have to lay low and play clever about it, if he wanted to pull anything off. Which is considerably harder to do when you're a prison escapee being actively hunted down haha!

--Adelram

[harrylights]

.

[beloveds-embrace]

(a very low-effort post abt 141 x their new hacker- you. For better immersion, click on the song link during Soap’s workout! <3)

The first time you make contact, it’s through their personal phones.

Not the official military-issued devices- no, those would be too easy. You wanted to make an impression.

So when Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap each glance at their personal screens, expecting the usual notifications from Laswell, they’re instead greeted by:

(¬‿¬) Hello, boys.

Price sighs like a disappointed father, having been forwarned of your antics, and still immediately calls Laswell.

“Care to explain why my phone just got hijacked?”

Laswell doesn’t sound surprised. If anything, she sounds like she’s been expecting and waiting for this- for his phone call specifically about getting hacked. “That’s your new hacker.”

Price pinches the bridge of his nose, while the others exchange Looks of Consideration™️. “That’s how she introduces herself?”

“She’s efficient.”

“She’s cheeky.”

“She’s listening,” you interject, making them all jolt as your voice plays from the phone speakers, honey-sweet and undeniably smug.

There’s a long silence. Then Gaz whispers: “What the fuck?”

You giggle. (≧◡≦) flashes onto all their screens right after that, just as cheeky as your tone.

“So she’s just gonna creep around in our phones now?” Gaz asks after that, wary, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

In response, just his screen flickers, and a new message appears.

(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ Rude.

Laswell sighs again, much like an exasperated mother, and gestures at their phones. “Give her a chance. She is, despite everything, good at what she does.”

And so from that that moment on, you’re everywhere; they don’t see you, but they feel your presence. You’re in their systems, their devices, and their comms.

Ghost boots up his laptop one day, only to find that his standard background has been replaced with a pixelated skull and crossbones- like those they did on pirate ships in movies. Below it, in small text:

For the spookiest boy.

He says nothing, just tilts his head slightly before closing the laptop.

And when Price logs into the briefing room terminal, instead of the standard military insignia, the screen briefly flashes with the words:

WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN DILF.

Soap loses it. Price glares at him, then at the screen, then sighs, muttering, “Christ.”

Soap isn’t free from your shenanigans, though.

One day, while doing his usual workout, he pulls up his playlist. The moment he presses play, his music app forcefully closes and reopens with “The Drunk Scotsman” blasting at full volume.

“NO, NO, NO-“ Soap scrambles to shut it off as the entire base turns to look at him.

On his screen, once the app is blessedly closed, a message pops up:

(ʘ‿ʘ) Dance, pretty boy.

And then Gaz’s torture is quieter, but no less effective.

Every so often, while he’s texting, his camera light flickers on. Not long enough to take a photo- just a brief, eerie blink before an emoji appears on his screen:

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

He groans. “She’s messing with me.”

“You mean flirting?” Soap smirks, leaning closer to the phone and chuckling as the camera light flickers back on for just another few seconds.

Gaz scowls. “…I hope so.”

Still, despite all your antics, you’re brilliant at what you do. And they learn this firsthand during their first mission with you.

“All teams, check-in.” Price orders as they move through a darkened compound.

Instead of Laswell’s voice responding, it’s yours. Soft, smooth, and playful.

“Five by five, Captain.”

There’s a pause- brief but notable. Then, Price exhales. “You hacking my comms now, too?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good hacker if I couldn’t, would I?”

Soap snorts, snickering with Gaz. “She’s got a point.”

Ghost, listening quietly, murmurs: “Thought you didn’t speak.”

“Only when necessary. Or when I feel like annoying you.”

Your voice is warm, teasing. If Ghost were anyone else, he might have smiled. And then, just like that, you’re all business.

“Sniper on the rooftop, two o’clock.”

Ghost adjusts, and then fires. A body drops.

“Price, your six.”

The captain pivots, taking down the enemy creeping behind him.

“Soap, slow down.”

“I got this,” Soap insists- only for a grenade to go off near him. “…I don’t got this.”

“Clearly.”

“…Shut up.”

With you in their ears, everything runs smoother. Their feeds don’t lag. Their encryptions are tighter. They feel- secure. With you and Laswell? Almost untouchable, but they don’t let it get to their heads.

When they return to base, exhausted but alive, their phones light up with a single message:

(￣︶￣) Good job, boys.

They stare at their screens, and then Price huffs a laugh. Soap grins. Gaz shakes his head. Ghost, unseen beneath his mask, smirks.

They don’t know your face. Haven’t met you in person.

But they decide you’re theirs, and they are yours. Even if you’re just unknown- for now, anyways.

[meowdei]

(temporary) birthday blues — ft. sylus

tara doesn’t mean any harm when she tries to set you up on a blind date—she doesn’t know it’s sylus’s birthday, or that he’s yours. but the thought of you sitting across from someone you’re actually allowed to be seen with hits him harder than he wants to admit

word count. ❤︎ 6.6k words — at least it’s an even number

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; takes place after sylus bday card but you don’t need it to understand ; reader is a hunter and is implied to have his myth’s lore ; jealous and slightly insecure sylus ; hurt/comfort ; praise (lots actually. almost corny amounts) ; reader wears lingerie ; he picks reader up ; cunnilingus ; hand jobs ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; painfully soft sex ; not proof read

commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my angel boy ever. but more importantly — I MADE IT IN TIME LETS GOOOOO

You and Sylus return home from his birthday date just a couple of hours after the sun sets. 

By Sylus-standards, the day has hardly begun—he still has roughly a little under half the day left before it’s his (ridiculously late) bedtime. By your standards, since it’s your boyfriend’s birthday, you have to spend his entire day with him, even if his clock works a little differently than yours. 

Will you be staying up until six in the morning? Yes. But you planned accordingly. You took an entire extra day off just to sleep in with him tomorrow and spend as much time together as possible. It’s your first birthday with Sylus. You’re the only one who knows it’s his birthday at all. Work is important, sure, but sometimes you have to reevaluate your priorities a little.

Boyfriends are a pretty important priority—well, only if they’re Sylus. He’s the only boyfriend that matters. The rest of the boyfriends in the world are not quite so impressive, so they don’t deserve the same privileges as your uniquely, one-of-a-kind special one.  

“Did you have a good day today?” you ask softly, curling your arms around his neck as soon as you both enter his bedroom. (Your bedroom—you practically share it like it’s co-owned. The only thing that fully stops you from moving in with Sylus is that it would make your work commute a very tiresome one. Other than that, you’re here every chance you get.)

He hums, hands planting themselves on your hips and giving them a gentle squeeze, pulling you close and flush against his chest as he pecks the corner of your mouth. “I did,” he murmurs, “although I don’t think having a bad day is possible with you—unless you’re being moody. That’s another story.”

“I would get moody with you just for saying that, but I am a firm believer in being nice to birthday boys. Wait until I get my hands on you once today is over.”

“Oh?” he grins, chuckling as he kisses along your jaw, “I should prepare myself for the claws of a feisty little kitten, then?”

“You should prepare yourself for some groveling to get on my good side again,” you huff. “And maybe some expensive gifts.”

He laughs—not that low, deep, rumbling sound that sounds like light amusement. It’s that loud, booming laugh that sounds like joy and warmth and falling in love over and over again every day. Feeling it start to bubble and fizz as the sun rises, and watching it overflow from the top by the time the moon is out. You grin at the sound, pulling him into a kiss where you giggle in between the presses of your mouth to his, and he laughs because your joy is too infectious not to fall victim to. 

“I have to shower,” you whisper between his hungry bites on your lips. He hums in protest.

“Is that really a necessity right now?”

“Yes, I rolled in the grass with you.”

“Fine, we can—”

“No, no,” you push his mouth away with a palm, feeling his lips practically pout against your skin as you do, “we are not going in there together. That will take way too long because you never behave, and I still have plans we have to get through.”

“What sort of plans,” he grumbles, “surely they can’t be that different from what the shower would bring.”

“You are shameless, Sylus,” you scold, slapping his shoulder with hardly any bite at all, “you don’t get to know until it’s time. Now be good while you wait—and charge my phone while you’re at it. It’s about to die.”

With that, you leave him sulking alone in his room, watching your figure as it retreats into the bathroom without him. Grumbling to himself, he grabs your phone to charge it like you asked—he knows better than to make you hiss at him when he wants things. (He wants a lot of things tonight. Quite a lot of things that require your good side, and he intends to milk this nice, spoiled treatment out of you with that innocent birthday boy charm, so staying in your good graces is his wisest option at the moment.)

He grabs your phone and plugs it in…and then he wishes he didn’t. As soon as he does, and the screen lights up, he thinks his birthday is ruined for the next decade with how bitter a taste the messages on your screen leave in his mouth. 

Tara💗: don’t be mad. i set u up on a blind date

Tara💗: well not exactly a blind date. a double date with me and that guy i met when we were out the other day. he has a friend

Tara💗: u can’t say no he’s cute and he has a cat. you’ll like him i promise

It’s official. Sylus does not like this Tara girl anymore. 

He’s met her briefly before, and vaguely, he’s introduced himself, too. She doesn’t know he’s your boyfriend because Sylus is at the top of your job’s wanted list. Telling a girl who is, arguably at this point, your closest friend that you have a boyfriend while having to keep that boyfriend hidden to a certain degree is not a plausible set of wishes. Tara will naturally want to know more. She’ll ask to see pictures of your dates, perhaps. She’ll invite him for drinks, and activities, and parties, and after-work events because she’s the kind of person who cares about the people her friends care about. And Sylus? Well…again, he’s at the top of your job’s wanted list. You can’t let Tara, who is your coworker first and foremost, get to know your boyfriend’s voice and face too closely unless you’re asking—practically pleading—for trouble. 

So she doesn’t know you have a boyfriend. 

It’s a lie that is for the betterment of everything all around. Instead, she meets him once fleetingly, and she thinks he’s your friend who sells fruit and makes a pretty penny off his business that’s taken off. That’s about all she knows. 

At first glimpse, she seemed like a nice girl. A friend whom Sylus was grateful you had and could count on if things got heavy in your line of work. She seemed kind. Dependable. Trustworthy. Maybe not the strongest physically, but certainly a good friend to ease his mind that you have good people in your circle. (Although, he does hate your stupid partner—but at least that loathsome sleepy bastard who rots in bed for half the day is strong. If worst comes to worst, Sylus can at least bet that the boy would sooner let his own head get ripped off than let anything happen to yours. He’s at least grateful for that.)

But he hates this Tara girl deeply now, and hatred for someone he hardly knows is not a common feeling for Sylus. That’s irrational, and he’s hardly irrational. In fact, it’s because he is so rational that he’s so level-headed when he deals with threats. He hardly hates his “enemies.” Most of the people who make an enemy out of him amuse him—they don’t particularly pose a threat to him, and he has quite a bit of fun making an example out of them for the next bothersome bunch that wants to try something with him. Being enemies with Sylus is usually a one-sided thing—he may be someone else’s enemy, but they’ll always just be a fool to him. A regular sorry little idiot who got a bit too cocky and decided to try their luck against him.

He barely has enemies. The few people he does hate are people who deserve it. Terrible, evil, sinister people who go beyond an ethical code that even Sylus will not cross. 

He barely has enemies. He’s a businessman. A leader. A good fighter. A good boyfriend, too, if he gives himself a little bit of extra (but honest) credit. All of which require a good head on his shoulders, a calm demeanor, and a very, very adequate sense of rationality. Sylus is rarely ever irrationally emotional—unless it has to do with you, of course. And this time, it does. 

So he hates this Tara girl. He hates her deeply. She’s landed herself on his enemy list. 

Just as he sets your phone down, you step out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel as your skin glistens from the fancy little lotions and body care items he has lying around in his bathroom that you help yourself to. Any other day, he’d tease you about it. About using him for his fancy, lavish lifestyle. About that skimpy little towel that you choose to step out in when half of his loungewear is in that bathroom for you to also help yourself to. About how cute you look when you walk out looking like a small, wet kitten. 

But none of those things happen—red flag number one. Red flag number two is that when you go to poke at his side and give it a pinch, he doesn’t stop you right away before you can.

Something’s on his mind. You know that as soon as you see him.

“Hey,” you cup his cheeks, “miss me that bad for fifteen minutes? You look like you’ve aged ten years instead of one with that expression.”

“Very funny, sweetie,” he hums, clearly still distracted, “I thought you made it a point to be nice to the birthday boy.”

“I am being nice to the birthday boy,” you say to him, cheekily leaning up and kissing his jaw, “this is a very nice view to give to a birthday boy.”

He smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something is wrong—something so, so painfully obvious happened while you were in that fifteen-minute shower. As far as showers go, it might not be the shortest amount of time, but it’s certainly not a long one. What could have possibly happened in fifteen whole minutes to make his eyes clouded with that look? A look that looks so stormy and upset and irritated. 

Something’s on his mind. You know it by simply looking at him. 

“Hey,” you pull him closer by the hands on his face, pressing his forehead to yours, “Sylus, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetie,” he breathes, hands squeezing your hips as he pulls you close. “Just distracted by what a pretty little kitten I have.”

And then he kisses you. It’s…a kiss unlike any you’ve ever had with him. Not bad, of course, but different. Sylus is a confident guy. A terribly cocky, self-assured, and secure guy. He knows he’s handsome by most people’s standards (and definitely by yours), he knows he’s smart and intelligent, he knows he’s strong and capable, and he knows he’s stable in his lifestyle. He’s a confident guy, and you’ve always known him to be.

But he’s kissing you pretty desperately. Not the kind of desperation when he’s just plain needy, or when he’s been worried about you, and rescues you just in time, or when you’ve been away for too long. 

No.

This kind of desperation feels like he has something to prove. Like he needs to kiss you so well, you never want to kiss anything else. It’s a sort of desperation that almost feels…scared. 

“You’re not yourself,” you breathe in between presses of his mouth, gasping when he leans down to nip at your collarbone. “Hey—”

“You’re overthinking it,” he mumbles, “just let me have you to myself, sweetheart—”

“Sylus,” you say firmly. He pauses. “No.”

He lets go as soon as you say the word, letting his hands drop while you gently take them off your hips. He looks unhappy about it—maybe even a little rejected, but he doesn’t protest. He never does. Not if it’s something you say. Some boundary you set. Some line you draw.

“What happened?” you ask gently, hands returning to his cheeks and gently rubbing the skin tenderly with your thumb, “this is supposed to be your day. I…I didn’t mean to upset you if I did. I’m sorry. I just…I just wanted it to be special—”

“It is,” he interrupts, planting his hands on top of yours and keeping them in place, “it’s been great. It always is with you—I promise.”

“Then what changed?” you frown, “and don’t say it’s nothing. Don’t give me that unbothered, nonchalant attitude and pretend to shrug it off—I know you. I know you better than anyone else does, so don’t even think about lying to me like I won’t see right through it.”

He’s silent. For a second, you think he’s not going to say a word. That he’s not going to open up and share and trust you like you wish he would when things are clearly sitting heavily on his mind. Sometimes he gets a look—one that feels like he’s lived a life you don’t even know about. Like it haunts him and curses him and weighs down on his chest. He never shares. Not about his burdens—not with you. You don’t think it’s because he doesn’t trust you, but because he thinks he shouldn’t have to. That he shouldn’t trouble you with things about him because he lives for you.

You wish he didn’t do that. You wish he’d change that habit. You wish he’d live for himself and let you live for him, too. 

But then, he quietly asks, “Do you ever wish you could tell your friends about…us?”

“Huh?” you frown.

“We go back and forth between the outskirts of Linkon and the N-109 zone, and we don’t ever get to do things that involve the people you care about—doesn’t that bother you?”

“...No?” you say in confusion, “does it…does it bother you?”

“Of course not,” he says instantly. He throws on that smug, carefree face again, even though you see right through it. Some people just don’t like putting their defenses down when they’re cornered, no matter how safe they are. Sylus is one of them. “Now, why would I want to share my little kitten? Not everyone can handle her sharp claws.”

“Sy,” you let out a breath, “you know I can see right through you. Just talk to me—telling me how you feel is something you’re usually good at. It’s what I like most about you…why’s it so different this time?”

Telling you how he feels about you is easy. It comes naturally like breathing. It’s as simple as using his evol to move something through the air, manipulating energy to surround you and show you the depths of his feelings. Telling you he loves you and cares for you is a vulnerability that he takes as a privilege. Telling you that the thought of you being with someone more practical, more fitting than him…it’s not as easy. It’s too vulnerable in a way that makes him pathetic, not devoted. You chose him, after all, didn’t you? Isn’t it questioning your own devotion and your own loyalty to him to tell you: I hate the idea of someone deserving you more than I?

That’s what he’d be doing, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t it be to question you, to doubt you and your love and your choice, all on the same day that you went out of your way to make him feel special? 

Telling you this is not so simple. Not to him. Not when you love him, and he knows it, and yet, for some reason, he can’t help but feel like you’re making a mistake by loving him. Him. The top wanted criminal on your organization’s list. Most targeted person in the N-109 zone with the most “enemies” after his back. A guy that, against every principle that tells you: no, you choose to be with. 

He should just be grateful that you say yes. And he is. But also, he can’t help but wonder if you’d be happier if you didn’t.

“Don’t you trust me?” you whisper.

He breathes—slow, shaky. “I do,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “I trust you the most. You know that.”

“Then tell me. Please? I just…I worry about you.”

You shouldn’t. But you also should. You were always meant to, right?—even if it wasn’t always supposed to be that way. You did. Once upon a time, you only worried about him. And you do. And you will. And he wants it. Needs it. Craves it. Craves you and your attention and your care and your concern. He should be the one you’re concerned about—but maybe concern is all he ever brings over.

It’s silent for a moment longer before you gently kiss the tip of his nose and say sweetly, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I love you, so if you ever want to share something, I will always—”

“Your friend Tara seems to be tired of your stagnant love life, sweetheart,” he interrupts. He doesn’t really mean to blurt it out like that—Sylus is usually rational about what he says and when he says it. But…well, the idea of you sitting across from some normal guy with a normal life alongside your normal friend on a normal date has him acting very abnormal. “She’s…well, you go ahead and see for yourself.”

Your phone is pressed to your hands. You look at him in confusion, but his eyes all but beg for you to just look at the screen and end his pure misery by not making him say the words out loud. So you look. The first things you see are her messages on your screen, sitting there as unopened notifications. 

Oh, you think as you read them. Oh. 

“Oh, Sy,” you say softly, setting your phone down. “You know I’d turn that date down in a heartbeat for you—”

“It’s not about that,” he grumbles, swallowing thickly. This is a type of vulnerability he hates. The type of vulnerability he doesn’t ever have to feel. The type of vulnerability where he feels less than—not deeply devoted and open, but just…not enough, despite his devotion. He isn’t used to ever being not enough. At least not when it’s with you. 

“Then what’s it about?”

“Your friend is a meddler.”

“She doesn’t know about us,” you defend Tara gently, “you know she’d never if she did.”

“Well, sweetie,” he drawls with a tight, bitter smile, “I suppose she never will, so I might have to get used to worrying that you’ll need to save a few dresses for some other blind dates here and there, don’t I?”

“I’d never go on a date with someone else,” you reason, “you know that, right?”

“How long are you going to pretend to be single?” he points out blandly. 

“Forever,” you say confidently. He wavers, eyeing you in weariness. You cup his cheeks and squeeze them together as you murmur, “I would pretend to be single for the rest of my life for you if that’s what it takes. As long as you’re mine, as long as you stay mine, I don’t care what I have to tell everyone else.”

“That’s not very practical,” he grunts.

“I don’t think we’re a very practical couple, but I don’t think that’s ever been bad,” you chuckle, “I think we’re good. Really good. As good as things ever get.”

“But not great?” he teases, cracking a small, taunting little smile. You know him well enough to soothe him with another kiss to his nose. 

“Perfect,” you hum, fingers toying with the small hairs at the nape of his neck, touching him so casually, so absent-mindedly, it’s almost like it’s ingrained in your nature. In your DNA. In your biology to be his and to want him. “You’re perfect. To me. For me. With me. You’re perfect and I love you. I love us. We are perfect, and it doesn’t matter if other people see that or know about it. As long as you know, then I’m good.”

“I don’t like your friend Tara,” he breathes, burying his head into your neck, “she seems like trouble.”

“She’s harmless, you big baby,” you tease. Because that’s what he needs—to be teased into knowing he’s not so fragile. Too much of it makes him turn around and retreat, like an animal that’s shown its belly for too long and is at risk of its fragile, precious organs being torn apart from limb to limb. 

You give him a teasing little nibble on his nose, and he cracks a small smile that pulls him out of that weird space in his head. Because that’s you and that’s him. That teasing banter that folds love and devotion in between every taunting remark and every smart little retort. Every second you spend getting under the other’s skin is spent making home there—nestling under that layer of each other, and crawling into the parts that no one else has ever seen. No one else has ever been in. No one else has ever been allowed in. 

“Oh?” he murmurs, “you’d side with your friend over your boyfriend on his birthday? Your priorities are intriguing, sweetheart.”

You’d say something equally as playful back, but instead, you say: “I love you.” You remind him with an awed smile as you take him in. Him and his brute strength and his carefully built empire and untouchable self. Him and his gentleness and all that love he holds in his large hands that no one can take away before he slips it into yours. You remind him. You don’t want him to ever forget.

“I love you, too,” he chuckles, closing his eyes as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw. Your hands grab his own from your waist, pulling them up to the top of your chest where the towel wraps around you. 

“You have one more present for tonight, you know—if you’re up for opening it.”

“Is that right?” he grins, “I’d never turn something down from my sweet little kitten. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“You’ll like this one,” you beam, “I picked it out just for you.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” he eyes the small, peeking bit of red lace as his hands slowly unwrap the towel, pupils dilating as he slowly exposes you from its coverings. “You always do know me so well, don’t you?”

A red lace set that hugs your curves perfectly. The stockings are just tight enough around the middle of your thigh that the skin bulges just a bit at the top, spilling over it with pillowy flesh that he wants to spend hours digging his fingers into as he holds you close. Here. With him, right where you belong. Where, whether anyone knows it or not, you are happiest and safest and tailor-made to belong. You always belonged with him—alongside him, where you can be his and he can be yours, and the world would have to stop spinning on its axis before he was convinced that it was wrong. 

“Well,” you pout playfully, “you’re not saying anything—do you like it? There’s still a return period, I think I could make an exchange if—”

“Don’t always be such a tease, sweetheart,” he breathes, leaning down to pull you into a slow, meticulous kiss. Unlike that last one, this one is desperate to know you exist. To be slow and take his sweet time and know that you’re here and you exist in the same timeline as him, and you’re not going anywhere. To rush it would be to waste the seconds he was given to savor. 

Sylus is a man who savors things he likes. Good wine. Good music. Good company—he savors every little part of you like it’s a luxury he shouldn’t take for granted. 

“Happy birthday, my birthday boy,” you whisper, “I’m all yours tonight. Every night. All yours, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah,” he groans, nipping at your collarbone. “All mine—aren’t I just lucky?”

Suddenly, you’re picked up with one strong, muscled arm, the bicep curling around your thighs and hoisting you up faster than you can process as the world is suddenly lower than you remember it. Two seconds later, and your world shifts some more as you’re suddenly eye to eye with the ceiling, and there are soft, satin sheets under your back with a soft mattress to curve around your spine. 

Sylus is hovering over you, hungry and excited, and his eyes lit up like a kid ready to blow out candles. You giggle, holding his face and bringing him close, pressing a kiss to his nose, to both of his cheeks, to the corners of his mouth before the center of his lips, to his forehead until he’s laughing that sweet, happy little laugh that makes your heart skip a beat.

“I love you,” you confess, so quietly, it’s like you don’t want anyone but him to know because it’s only for him. Only for him to hear those words because no one else should know what your love feels like, what it sounds like. “Love you so much, Sy. My perfect boy.”

“If I told you my birthday was actually tomorrow, would you be this sweet to me all over again?” he grins in amusement. You huff, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss the purse of your lips before he mumbles against them, “I love you, too. No one will love you as pure as I do, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, “I know.”

That’s all it takes for him to finally snap into Sylus. Your Sylus. Cocky, self-assured, confident Sylus. Sylus, who takes what he wants because he knows nothing can stop him from having it. He wants you—and you’ll never tell him no. 

He’s moved to bury himself between your legs in a split second, so that you hardly have time to process that he’s moved in the first place at all. By the time you attempt to argue that it’s his birthday, and it’s about him, he’s already huffed something about getting the final say as the birthday boy, and this is what he wants. 

And…well, who are you to deny him? 

“Fuck, sweetie,” he groans, pressing his nose against your clit through the fabric. He plants a gentle kiss on the delicate bundle of nerves, smiling when you twitch and whimper at the sensitivity. “All this for me? I’m a spoiled man, aren’t I?”

“S-Sylus—”

“You smell good,” he breathes, inhaling the sweet, rich scent of you, “bet you taste even better.”

With that, he gently peels the lace panties down your legs, little by little, inch by inch, discarding them from you before carefully tossing them to the ground as your bare cunt is exposed to him. He runs a large hand up and down your thigh, squeezing the plush skin just where it collects at the top of the stockings. 

“Mine,” he breathes, “just for me, huh?”

“Only for you,” you pant, impatiently bucking up into the air and waiting for his touch.

He chuckles, but doesn’t have the heart to tease anymore. With a quick motion, he’s throwing your legs over his shoulders, hands cupping your thighs and holding them in place as he buries himself into your core. You’re dripping—the sweet slick pooling and coating your inner legs that he licks off before licking a stripe between your folds. 

“Fuck, Sy,” you gasp, “o-oh—”

He’s good with his tongue. Expert at devouring you the way you need to be devoured and going between fucking his tongue into you and lapping away, and flicking it over your clit and teasing it with his wet, warm muscle. You squeeze your legs around his head, and he groans in approval at the pressure to his skull like it’s a gift to be crushed between your thighs. (It is. To him, anything you give him when you’re pleased is a gift. He likes gifts from you—he takes them readily.)

“You’re sweet, you know,” he sings against your heat, “taste good—we should skip the cake next year. I just want this, yeah? I’ll lick you clean.”

“Stop,” you whine, “you’re being filthy!”

He laughs, the low, deep rumble of his voice vibrating against you and making you shudder. “Yeah? If you don’t like that, then why are you pulling me closer?”

He’s right—you are. Your hands are tangled into his hair and you’re pulling him impossibly closer to your pussy, grinding against his face so his nose bumps against your clit as his tongue fucks into you and explores your folds and licks them from the dripping essence of your arousal. 

“S-Sylus, ‘m…‘m s-so close—”

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he groans, “that’s exactly what I need. Can you do that for me? Let go? Let me taste you, yeah?”

Those words against your cunt, spoken through warm breath that lingers over your sensitive heat makes the steadily building pressure in the pit of your belly snap, a soft, delicious ache spreading through your walls as they quiver, through your lower belly as it flutters, through your spine and every nerve as your back arches off the mattress and you whine into your mouth and chant his name. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—’s so good, make me feel so good, Sy. Hah—”

“My beautiful, beautiful girl,” he moans, licking the last drops of your release and pressing a kiss to your fluttering cunt before the waves of your high finally retreat. 

Your ears are ringing, and your eyes are blurry, but you can still hear the praise and make out his contented, dazed expression as he rests his cheek against your thigh and looks up at you. Your fingers card through his hair, smoothing through the soft locks as you ground yourself with the feeling of them while you catch your breath. 

“Hi,” you breathe, staring at him in awe. 

He grins, lazy, smug, and bright. “Hi. Back down to Earth with us?”

“Don’t be so arrogant,” you huff. And then, with a gentle tug to his locks, you signal him to crawl up, face to face and eye to eye with you as his body hovers over yours. 

You reach over, rubbing over his clothed erection and feeling him shiver as his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a soft, breathy moan. He’s so pretty like that—when pleasure is easy to see on his face, and he feels good, and he lets you see it. You love it when you get to see him. All of him. 

It’s a slow, intimate thing, removing his clothes. You bring his shirt up over his abs, gently pulling the fabric over his shoulders, before he helps you tug his arms through the sleeves and expose that chiseled, slightly tanned skin (despite never being in the sun) to you. He’s pretty. Gorgeous. You hum in appreciation as your hands run along the planes of his muscles, raking your nails along his abs and rubbing up and down his sides while he breathes heavily over you. It’s slow—there’s no rush despite the lingering, building ache between both of your legs. You want to admire him, and he wants to let you. 

You want to feel him, and he wants to bask in the feeling of being wanted.

“You’re perfect,” you murmur, “happy birthday. I’m glad it’s me, you know? That gets to say that. And be here.”

“It was never going to be anyone else,” he pants, groaning as your hand finds the tent in his pants and gives a soft squeeze.

Unbuckling his belt and taking his pants and boxers off is less of a slower ordeal than his shirt—he’s a little more quick to get rid of them and let his hard, leaking cock finally be free of its confinements. He hisses when the cool air hits the warmth of his length, but you’re quick to bring the warmth right back as your hand wraps around him, smearing his pre cum along the tip and shaft, stroking slowly as he shudders over you and moans. 

“Feel good?” you kiss his nose. 

“Mmh,” he nods, swallowing thickly as you run your thumb through the slit and feel him twitch in your hand. “Y-yeah. Good.”

“Good,” you smile, “it’s about you tonight. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grunts in time with a squeeze of your fist around him. 

He lets you stroke him like that for a bit, just the feeling of you touching him. Just the feeling of you surrounding him and undoing him slowly, gradually, just the way you know he likes. You know him so well, and he likes being reminded. Know what makes it feel good for him and what doesn’t—know that he likes when you speed up and focus around the tip for a bit before switching to long, languid strokes along the entirety of his length before giving his base a small squeeze. 

“Ngh,” he pants, shuddering over you as his face twists into a pretty little scrunch of pleasure, “I…I think that’s—that’s enough, sweetheart. I want you now—the real thing.”

He’s close when he says it. You can tell because there’s a small twitch in your hand of his heavy cock that lets you know the build-up is about to hit the crest of good and fall over the edge and into better. You stop, looking at him fondly as he shivers at the feeling of it all coming to a halt before you press a kiss between his furrowed brows to soothe him as he holds onto his composure. 

“Then take me, my birthday boy,” you coo.

“You want it, sweetheart?” he asks softly, just to be sure. “Tell me now before I lose my mind.”

“I want you,” you plead, “want you so bad—give it to me. Please.”

He does. As soon as you say it, it’s like a switch is flipped and he can finally do as he pleases—so he grabs your hips and leans in to kiss you deeply, a hot, open-mouthed clash of lips and teeth and tongue as his fat tip presses against your entrance. He’s pressing into you and splitting your folds open—one inch, then two, then three, and slowly, he’s fully filling you to the brim. His tip presses delicately against that soft, spongy part of your walls that’s especially sensitive, and you mewl at the feeling while he groans at the tight fit. 

“Fuck,” he pants, “fuck, you’re so tight—take me so well. Fit me like I was made for you. I was, wasn’t I? Tell me I was—that we were made for each other.”

“We were,” you whine, nodding as your fingers dig into his shoulders and leave small crescent indents into his skin, “we were—we were made for each other. You’re mine, Sy.”

“I am,” he inhales sharply, “all yours. Always.”

The first snap of his hips is slow. He pulls out almost fully, until just barely the tip is still buried into you, before he slides back in with a firm, swift thrust of his hips. It leaves you lightheaded, wind knocked from your lungs by how good it feels to be split open by him and feel every ridge of his cock drag along your walls. You feel like you’re floating—suspended somewhere between pleasure and bliss as nothing but his body cages you into the mattress, and nothing but him invades your senses. 

Then the second snap of his hips comes in, hard and fast and rougher than the initial, and he starts to set a pace that’s not as gentle. You don’t want it to be—you want to feel him raw and hard and fast. 

“Fuck, baby,” you whimper, “like that…just like that—hah.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles breathlessly, “already so fucked out? You feel that, don’t you? How good you take my cock? You’re taking it so well—that’s a good girl. My good girl.”

“S-so deep, Sy,” you sob, “more. Please, more—more!”

“More?” he raises a brow, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply as you clamp down on him at a particularly rough thrust. He groans, the sound tapering off into a shaky little exhale. “You want more, huh?”

“Yes,” you stare up at him with plump, pouty lips and wet, teary lashes. It’s enough to make him snap and lose the last bits of his composure. 

Sylus has always needed you. 

He was born into this world to find you, and he needs you before he can leave this world, too. He needs you if he wants to find something worth living for. He needs you if his heart wants to find some form of peace and rest. He’s just half of a soul tethered to this planet with longing and no purpose without you. He’s always needed you—body, mind, soul, heart, everything. When you’re gone, he hears the echoes of your laughter in his empty halls. When you’re here, he feels human only when you smile and press your skin to his. It feels like his flesh is not rotten or tainted, only when it has the privilege of touching the soft, precious silk of yours. 

Sylus has always needed you. His purpose in this world is to love you. To be loved by you. To do it right because that’s what you both deserve. He’s nothing if not an empty body with a broken soul taking up the space of him without you. 

Shakily, he whispers, “I love you. You’re all that I love—I…I love you.”

Distantly, he hears you repeat the words back to him. Soft hands are roaming his skin, gliding along the curves and dips and contours of his body, and mapping every detail to memory through your warm palms. Gentle pressure coaxes his head into your neck, letting him take sanctuary in that spot that lets him hide away and be free of whatever clings to his back like a second, haunting skin. 

“I love you,” you both whisper in breathless, heated exchanges. Because there is nothing left in your brains—no other coherent thought besides the fact that there is love and that’s it. You love and he loves, and that’s all that holds you together. 

It’s enough. This time, in this life, it’s enough. 

You come undone first—when his thumb finds your clit and rubs a few quick circles, you fall apart while whining with your head pressing back into the pillow. Your legs wrap around his hips and pull him forward, further and deeper into you as his thick, blunt tip drills into your sweet spot and pulls yet another orgasm out of you. This one is more devastating—this one makes your body still, quivering under him with a force that almost makes it hard to breathe.

The pressure of your walls spasming around him pulls him into his own release, a low, deep groan that draws out as the first few twitches of his cock start to fill you with thick, hot ropes of his cum. He pants, rolling his hips in messy, rhythmless motions as he desperately tries to work you both through the highs of your pleasure. 

“S-so perfect,” his voice comes out strained, “you��you feel so perfect—ngh.”

“S-Sylus—oh.”

He paints your walls white with more of his seed, spilled into you and fucked deep into the back of your cunt with every sharp slam of his hips until finally, with a shaky little breath, he finishes and rides out the last earth-shattering waves of his orgasm.

He slumps over you. You welcome his weight with open arms, rubbing over his back with shaky fingertips. 

“I love you,” you remind him again—because really, you can never remind him enough. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he mumbles, kissing your shoulder blade, nestled close and deep where only he fits.

Next year, he’ll fit just as well—maybe even better. 

FOR ONCE I POST A BDAY FIC ACTUALLY ON THE BDAY HAHAHAHAHA I WIN

[mercy-burning]

Backseat Benefits

"You are the sun and I am the moon; What light you see in me is merely yours, reflected across the length of night" --William C. Hannah

——————

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: On your way home one night, Spencer innocently wonders aloud about the benefits of a car's backseat. You aim to show him what they might be. Category: Smut (18+), Fluff Content: Making out, Heavy petting, blowjob, vaginal fingering/oral, good ol' fashioned car foolin' around. Baby Spencer is low-key insecure but fighting through it Word Count: 3.1k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Yeah, so what Spencer wonders about backseats is the thought I had while loading in my groceries this morning LMAOO, and then Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae came on shuffle when I got in, and I started this in the Walmart parking lot. Therefore this is not proofread. I briefly skimmed after I finished, but that's IT. Enjoy!

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You like to think you know Spencer pretty well; Two years of being friends and two more of a relationship under your belts has more than proven your mutual knowing and loving and understanding of each other.

Still, he manages to find ways to surprise you every day without even trying.

Tonight, you're on your way back to his apartment from seeing a movie a few towns over. The moon flashes in and out of view as tall, full trees whip past you in the night. You think Spencer might be staring, craning his head and trying to focus on the moonlight, but eventually you notice his eyes are trained on the rear view mirror.

"Something on your mind, Sunshine?"

His nose crinkles affectionately at the pet name you've coined for him. While you're sure there are more poetic ways to describe his aura and the way he makes you feel, there wasn't a better word in the moment you could have come up with to fully encapsulate his warmth. He was pure sunshine incarnate, and so the first week you'd known each other, it became clear that there was no other option. The nickname slipped past your lips without a second thought, he looked panicked and flushed for a moment before bumbling through his response, and it stuck.

The memory of it makes you smile as he answers you.

"I was just thinking... A large percentage of vehicles have backseats, but I wonder how many of them actually get used... I mean, sure, children basically only know the backseat, and families and friend groups will spend time there... But if you're the owner of a vehicle, chances are you haven't sat in your backseat. And after all, why would you? But it makes you wonder, how many vehicle owners are truly familiar with the backseat of their car?"

The momentary silence between you feels almost comical, but you're only trying to process. Is it a truly curious statement, or...

"Are you asking if I'm familiar with my backseat?"

The suggestive implication in your tone completely goes over his head, answering your question. "Well, no, that wasn't my intention, but... Are you?"

"Kinda," you answer truthfully. "I mean, I've loaded groceries into the backseat, and I've... Spent some time back there."

Spencer looks to you and raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious and asking for elaboration. It hadn't clicked yet.

Another silence falls between you for a while before he understands, his features contorting with realization and then embarrassment. "Oh..."

You can't help but laugh. "I mean, it's been a while, but... Yeah."

"I mean, I suppose it is a cliche for young lovers to hook up in the back of a car... But I didn't even think about it..."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, this car has only seen one rendezvous in my lifetime with it, and it has been heavily sanitized since then. So if you're curious about the backseat of my car, you're welcome to sit back there anytime you like."

He groans, scrunching his nose again, only less affectionately and in that way you've come to recognize as embarrassment. "I'm sorry. That was an odd conversation."

"Hey. I'm serious. Don't you ever apologize for being curious, especially not around me, alright?"

"Yeah, alright."

You can tell he's just trying to move on but that he doesn't actually believe you, and it breaks your heart a little—another thing that's surprised you tonight. After all your years as friends, his inability to recognize precisely how much you adore literally every facet of him never seems to go away. It's gotten better over the years, but on occasion, like now, he fails to believe that someone like you could truly love someone like him. His sunshine slowly starts to disappear behind a little cloud, and though it doesn't happen for very long, each time it does, it makes you want to curse the world and whatever forces have sprung him with storms of sorrow.

And it's happening now.

You make a quick decision to pull over, and he looks over at you quizzically as the car comes to a complete stop.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, concerned more for you than himself.

"No. You put the thought in my brain, and now I just wanna sit in my backseat and see what's going on back there."

Spencer's eyes drop. "You don't have to do that..."

Instead of responding, you unbuckle your seatbelt and leave the car running, opening the door. "C'mon."

He tries to stop you, but you climb out away from his hand and close the door behind you, bracing yourself against the gentle summer wind. And now the thought really is running rampant in your head; You'd never thought about it before, but merely opening the back door feels different in your hand than when you open the driver's door. You don't know if it's just a trick of the mind—a product of the task at hand—or if there's any technical difference in the way back and front car doors are designed.

When you finally sit down in the backseat, you're about to tell Spencer about your thoughts on it only to find out that he's gone, but only for a few seconds. He climbs in beside you, his hair astray from the wind.

You smile. "Welcome to the backseat, Sunshine. Take off your jacket, stay a while."

Your words have managed to make him laugh. A small victory— a beam of light protruding from his little cloud.

"It's roomy back here," he muses, looking around, his smile still lingering.

"It's like a whole new world."

Spencer laughs again, and then you follow, and before you know it, the both of you have fallen into a small cyclone of laughter that parts the clouds and lifts the mood entirely.

"I love you," he says at last, scooting in closer to you, your legs touching now.

You reach your hand out to grab his, bringing it to rest on your chest, right where your heart sits beneath flesh and bone. "I love you, too, Sunshine. Don't you ever forget it."

Your faces have drifted closer now, noses nestling against one another as one more silence befalls you. Only this time, the thing forming in the midst is a different kind of storm. Electric, gravitating, and warm.

His lips find yours with ease, and what a gentle endeavor it is; A small gesture of gratitude and adoration that makes your heart flutter like it had the first time you kissed him. Your hand tightens over his, a squeeze of affection that lets him know you're embracing his warmth, and that you can only hope to return it to him in full.

When your lips part against his, however, something shifts in his gentleness. It firms and grows bold, pressing into you with a desperation that isn't necessarily surprising, but igniting.

You admittedly never pictured yourself making out with Spencer Reid in the backseat of your car, but now that it's happening, the low hum of the air conditioning rumbling through the space between you and the wind rustling outside, you fully embrace the pang of need that takes hold in your body and spreads to every limb.

Wandering hands, curious tongues, and saccharine sighs become your whole world for what feels like hours. Cars occasionally whoosh by, but you pay them no mind, too entirely wrapped up in your boyfriend and the way he's loving you to even consider them. Though, the thought of two government employees being caught for public indecency briefly crosses your mind and makes you huff a laugh into Spencer's mouth.

He breaks apart. "What is it?"

You kiss him again, humming mischievously into him. "Ohhh, you know."

Another kiss, slow and deliberate...

"Just thinking."

Your kisses travel along his jaw, and then his neck. His pulse under your lips is a thrill in its own right, a tangible reminder of the life he so beautifully offers you.

"About the benefits of having an unexplored backseat."

You feel his whole body sigh as your hands untuck his shirt from the band of his pants.

Then he laughs, the sound strained and desperate, and you want to bottle it up and keep it forever. "I thought you've already... explored this backseat."

In another life you would have laughed back, but there is absolutely nothing funny about the way you want him right now. Your body is on fire, screaming at you, begging to please him and feel the weight of him in your mouth, aching for the sounds that slip past his pretty, pouty lips.

Fuck.

"I want to explore it with you," you nearly whine, unbuckling his belt and licking at his collarbone. "God, Spencer, I want you so bad..."

You're not entirely sure what sound escapes him then, but once again he sounds desperate and unbelieving as your hand dips into his pants and palms him over the gray boxers you watched him put on this morning.

It spurs you forward, his desperation feeding your own, and your hand tightens around the length of him, feeling how hard and aching he is.

"Mmm, you want it too, don't you?" you moan into his chest, sinking yourself lower and lower, crawling down his body until your crouched half on the floor of the car.

Spencer swallows hard and tries to control his breathing. "Always want you..."

You grin, satisfied with his state. A man of many words, reduced to half-sentences and mindless whines of want at your mercy. Your sweet, bright boy is putty in your hands, and it's utterly intoxicating.

He manages to lift his hips enough for you to wrestle with his pants and move them down enough so you can slip his cock out of his boxers. Once it's out, firm in your hand and glistening with need, he sits back down and throws his head back.

The sound of your name falls short on his lips the second you put your mouth on him, like he's stopped thinking all together. His world stops, frozen in time as your lips wrap perfectly around him and sink down slowly. Your tongue lays flat under him, firm and wet and warm, and only when he hits the back of your throat does he let out a sound.

You hold yourself there as long as you can, gagging around him briefly before lifting your head and coming off of him with a pop of your lips. A trail of spit comes with them, which you use to help your hand glide smoothly up and down his shaft as you look up at him.

He's watching you work with disbelief, and you're about to say something about it when he surprises you yet again.

"A-Aren't you... uncomfortable? Crouched down like that?"

"Maybe a little," you tell him, squeezing his cock and working the tip in your fist. His eyes squeeze shut, trying to restrain himself from feeling pleasure when you're down here, contorted with uncomfortable limbs. "But that's the whole point, I suppose..."

"I don't follow," he breathes, a whimper chasing after his words when you lean down and press an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock.

"When you're young and in love... Hooking up in the backseat... Desperate and passionate for someone..." Your tongue comes out and teases under the tip before you continue, his eyes straining to keep open as he writhes underneath you. "If it means finding a little thrill with the one you love... What's a little discomfort?"

You take him fully in your mouth again, bobbing your head up and down when you see him finally submit to it— the pleasure, the thrill...

Spencer moans, loud, the sound vibrating through you and settling deep in your core. You squeeze your legs together grind your hips into the cramped air, seeking friction in nothing but the fabric clinging to your thighs. Quite literally the living breathing definition of hot and bothered, you can't help but slack your jaw and drool on his cock, reveling in the way it glides over your tongue and repeatedly hits the back of your throat.

"I—I can't... I'm gon—na—"

You moan your approval around the length of him, reaching up to hold Spencer's hand as he twitches and writhes in your mouth. With a final squeeze of his hand, he cries out and lets go. You swallow as much as you can, but with the small space and limited room for precision, it gets messier than you figure he'd enjoy. Still, he sighs blissfully as his load lightens, and when he's orgasmed out, you make quick work of cleaning him up.

He watches you in reverence, softly whimpering at every slow stroke of your tongue as it cleans him. You take your time, leaving no inch of him untouched, uncared for...

Your cunt is practically throbbing by the time you come back up, the sensation only intensifying when Spencer pulls you into him immediately. His lips move over yours wildly, a languid labor of love that isn't laborious at all. In fact, he kisses you like he's been doing it his whole life, with no hesitation or question, and with every ounce of enthusiasm one could possibly carry.

Sunshine radiates through his fingertips, hot and enveloping as they slip under your shirt and against the skin of your lower back. You climb over him instinctively, straddling his lap and kissing him back with that same desperation that had infiltrated his kisses earlier.

He's tired from coming, you can tell, but his love for you doesn't waver— it urges him forward, carries his hand down to the front of your pants, and offers the same relief you'd gifted him.

"Please, baby, I need your fingers in me," you whine into his mouth, helping him unbutton and loosen your pants.

"Anything you want," he responds in earnest, finally getting into a comfortable enough position to slip past your underwear and touch you where you want him the most.

He kisses you through a whine, gliding through your cunt with ease.

"Mmm that's what you do to me, Sunshine," you tell him, grinding into his hand. "You make me feel so good."

His middle finger is precise, circling your clit as you try not to fall over on him. Your pants hanging around your thighs make it hard to give him more than restrictive access, but as you told him before, it's all part of the experience.

It certainly adds to your desperation, your kisses becoming urgent and sloppy, and then he manages to slip a finger inside. The fullness isn't stimulating enough to get you off necessarily, but it's welcome and hot all the same. You help him out, softly lifting and dropping your hips to meet his rhythm, and then you reach down to frantically rub your clit.

"Fuck it," he finally breathes, pulling away from you and shifting his weight. "Can you lay down?"

The two of you shift and struggle to position yourselves more comfortably, another fit of laughter tangling between you as you attempt it. Eventually, Spencer is able to remove your shoes and slide your pants down over your ankles, and then he's throwing your leg over his shoulder and bending down.

Even though you have more room, the car suddenly feels cramped, sweat gathering on your body and your muscles cramping from contorting so oddly just minutes before. And now, with your boyfriend's mouth and fingers working in tandem to get you off, you're exerting yourself even more.

It doesn't take very long to approach your orgasm, the evening's built-up tension finally coming to a head.

It also helps that Spencer knows what he's doing— That had been another surprise at the start of your relationship. He was so shy and awkward and prone to bumbling when it came to dating you at first, that the first time you had sex with him, you weren't expecting to be so exhausted that you'd slept straight through three alarms.

His tongue flicks over your clit with rapid, even strokes, meanwhile his fingers accompany them with long and meticulous accuracy that makes for the perfect orgasm. It builds and builds, until your head thumps back and hits the hard plastic of the inside of the door. You laugh through it, your body shuddering under Spencer's care, and you can feel him laughing, too.

As you come down, your body relaxing, he helps you sit up. "Are you okay?"

You can help but giggle, taking his face in your hands and kissing him firmly. "Absolutely. It's all part of the backseat charm."

He considers this with a grin that makes you weak. With one simple smile you've fallen in love with your Sunshine boy all over again. "After all, they say nothing worthwhile comes easy..."

"Mmm..."

He helps you put your pants and shoes back on, then tucks himself back into his own pants and fixes his shirt. And in comfortable, loving silence that needs nothing to fill the gaps, the two of you make your way back to the front of the car, ready to journey home.

The moon sits higher in the sky, not as disguised by the trees, and you look up at it and think about what Spencer said, not pulling the car out of park just yet.

"I don't think it's true," you say, prompting him to tilt his head.

"What's that?"

"That nothing worthwhile comes easy. I don't think it's true at all. Do you know why?"

Again, he ponders, not with a grin but with thoughtful eyes and the pout he pulls when he's considering but coming up empty handed. He shakes his head. "Why?"

"Because I love you. It's the most worthwhile thing I've ever done, and it's not difficult in the slightest."

His brown eyes, impossibly big and always brimming with wonder, have started to also brim with tears. They don't fall—they only well and glimmer in the wake of your words, until he blinks and forces them out.

Your hand reaches for his and he squeezes.

"I love you, too. More than you will ever even begin to comprehend." His voice breaks and puts itself back together through each syllable, and in doing so, chips away any sort of belief that he may not truly be lovable. Day by day, moment by moment, you continue to prove to him just how bright and deserving and inherently good he is.

A direct reflection of the two of you suddenly embalms the car— his bright smile that radiates like sunbeams and the glow of moonlight through the windshield that reminds him of your opaline heart.

Spencer lifts your hand to his lips, and in that moment, you vow to yourself that for the rest of your life, you will do everything to keep the clouds away.

And silently, in the gentle press of his lips to the palm of your hand, he vows the very same.

[sugarwarachan]

I NEED THE TROPE FOR VALENTINE'S OF EX TO LOVERS W BAKUGO

the one that goes like “ i wanted to treat you how i should’ve before.” pleaspleaseplease

when i think about this man groveling a part of my brain starts purring on low. based on this prompt list! "i wanted to treat you how i should’ve before."

ex-husband!bakugou who knows how badly he fucked up. he's obsessive by nature and the fact that he let down the person he loves most in this world doesn't sit right with him

ex-husband!bakugou who hates his empty apartment but slowly starts filling it with furniture and things that remind him of you. daydreams about the day he can bring you back here

ex-husband!bakugou who starts calling you to check in, savoring your voice even if it means you might yell at him

ex-husband!bakugou who simply starts listening more. he becomes thoroughly invested in everything you tell him, no matter how small, "your boss still being a dick, baby? pretty sure that fuckin' extra doesn't hold a candle to your talent, ya know that?"

ex-husband!bakugou who falls in love with you all over again through cautious text messages and late-night phone calls. he stays up late just to stream reality tv with you in his ear making commentary, his heart aching in his chest because this is all he really wants

ex-husband!bakugou who sees the upcoming Valentine's Day as a chance to win you back

ex-husband!bakugou who invites you over for dinner and sets up his apartment to look as romantic as possible: candles flickering, wine poured, your favorite meal on the table

ex-husband!bakugou who nearly falls over when you show up wearing his favorite dress. he fidgets throughout dinner, trying not to stare at you but finding it impossible

ex-husband!bakugou who dribbles wine down his chin when you moan around a bite of chocolate cake. when you laugh in response something loosens inside him and he allows himself to relax. he can do this; he can win you back

ex-husband!bakugou who lets you take the lead, blood rushing in his ears when you smooth your hands up his chest and kiss him. he can't help but attack you, one large hand palming your ass, the other pulling you as close as he can get you

ex-husband!bakugou who fucks you slow. he hears you begging him to go harder and leans down to kiss your forehead, smirk on his lips, "sorry princess—gotta make up for lost time and get you stupid on my dick" (you cum like six times that night)

ex-husband!bakugou who wakes you up with coffee the next morning, blond hair hanging messily in his face. you cock your head in question and he just shrugs, a blush stealing across his cheeks. "just wanted to start treatin' ya like I should have when we were married"

happy early valentine's day, loves!! more content to come. ˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are so appreciated <3

[snickerdoodlebaby]

She Likes Them Mean - Namgyu x reader x Minsu [SMUT]

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (between you & Namgyu), dub-con, dark themes, cuck Minsu, exhibitionism, voyeurism, degradation, choking, slapping, you & Namgyu are exes

Basically sweet innocent Minsu has a crush on you & is forced to watch you get fucked by Namgyu. I’m shocked I haven’t seen a fic of this yet & couldn’t get this idea out of my head, it’s way too hot frrrr enjoy <3

Minsu is always so nice to you. That pretty much sums up how you feel about him — he’s nice. You can tell the shy boy feels more for you though. The way he stares at you when he thinks you won’t notice, looking down quickly when you turn to meet his soft eyes. Choosing to be by your side in every game and sitting close to you at lunch time. The weak smiles he sent your way and how his face would turn red when you accidentally brushed up against him.

The feelings would never be reciprocated, but you enjoyed being friends with him, his quiet presence was somewhat soothing in this godforsaken hellhole. You felt pity for him, especially when he was bullied by Thanos and your ex-boyfriend.

The bullying seemed to increase dramatically once you joined their team.

Any quiet comment or slight touch between you and Minsu was immediately followed by a brutal shoulder-check or insult from Namgyu. “Fucking pussy.” Namgyu spat as his shoulder bump nearly threw Minsu to the ground.

The two of you had dated for over a year before things got messy and fell apart. And when shit hit the fan, it got ugly. The departure was far from civil, you leaving his apartment in a rush of back-and-forth yelling with suitcases full of your stuff after another fight — not uncommon with you two.

It seemed like Namgyu thought he still had some sort of weird ownership over you. This time you had enough — it’s not like he had any say in what men you spoke to or interacted with.

“Leave him alone, dickhead...” You’d say under your breath, glaring at the back of Namgyu’s head as he stopped in his tracks. You hear him curse under his breath, recognizing the korean word for “bitch.”

He didn’t hesitate to turn back around, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, and walk directly up to you. His black eyes narrowing as he searches your face. “Huh?” His eyebrows raised, “Why are you standing up for this dork? You like him or somethin?”

A short breath leaves your nose in a humorless laugh. You didn’t justify his questions with an answer. The close proximity of Namgyu’s body to yours almost had you dizzy, reeling from the memories the faint smell of his cologne brought back.

Namgyu’s eyes flicked to Minsu sizing him up, who was cowering and making himself as small as possible next to you.

“If you think being nice and sweet is gonna get her to spread her legs, it won’t.” Your mouth dropped open at his lewd words, he said it low enough so that only you two could hear.

“She doesn’t like weak pussies like you. And don’t think I didn’t see you take the bed next to hers.” He nodded in the direction of your bunks. He looked back down at you and leaned forward with his lip curled in a sneer, enjoying how uncomfortable Minsu was getting and the incredulous look on your face. “Bet this bastard jerks off to your sleeping face every night.”

The vulgar words made Minsu visibly flinch and he couldn’t look anywhere but his own shoes. Hearing Namgyu make these crude accusations so openly made his face burn. He had never thought about you in such a filthy way, truly! He was petrified in embarrassment.

You were fuming, astounded at the audacity of this man. Namgyu has always been a sleazy asshole so you should’ve seen this coming. Of course he would try to put poor Minsu in his place while claiming his stake on you. Minsu would probably be too terrified to even glance in your direction now.

Namgyu went further than that, of course. He had a point to prove to this pathetic loser who had no chance in hell of getting with you.

That same night Namgyu had you face down and ass up in your bunk, his favorite position to take you in. Your sweatpants were pulled messily to your ankles along with your panties, your shirt bunched above your tits as they bounce with each rock of Namgyu’s hips against your ass. “Yeahhh…that’s how you like it huh? Bet you’ve missed it.”

His veiny ringed hand was threaded through your long hair, pushing your face into the thin mattress below. Your eyes fluttered and rolled back into your head, your cunt squeezing the life out of your ex’s cock you missed so much.

The two of you weren’t the only ones awake. There was a third — Minsu, the next bunk over, frozen. His blanket was pulled up to his chin, his eyes wide at the debauched scene happening in front of him. The girl he had a crush on getting absolutely railed by the guy who constantly bullies him. The darkness did little to hide the two of your activities, your bunk squeaking and bodies rocking together in a lewd slapping sound disrupting the silence.

Namgyu suddenly wrenched your head up by your hair, making you cry out. He was forcing you to look at Minsu a few feet away, the two of you making eye contact as you moaned and panted. Guilt mixed with pleasure surged through you in waves.

You thought you saw tears well up in the quiet boy’s eyes. He was such a sensitive soul, you didn’t want to hurt him… Namgyu’s next words were venomous as he uttered them.

“Yeah, look at ‘er…” He directed at Minsu. “She’ll. Never. Want. You.” Each word was punctuated by him jackhammering roughly into your abused cunt.

His hand comes up to grip your throat tightly, cutting off your moans and pulling you tight to his chest against your back. “Yeahhh fuck. Y’ always come crawling back, need your cunt fucked nice n’ hard n’ I’m the only one who can do it right, huh?”

You couldn’t breathe and you swear you’ve never felt so good, you couldn’t tell what planet you were on or what nonsense was babbling out of your mouth. Namgyu always had a way of making your head empty and your pussy full, so fucking full.

He released the hold on your throat, a huge gasp of air rushing into your lungs and he’s at the nape of your ear, breathing you in deeply like he was trying to savor the scent of you after being away from it for so long. His hand came up to your cheek in a sharp slap. “Fucking freak can’t get off unless I slap her around.” You moaned loudly at that. Your brain could barely comprehend what he was saying to Minsu. You couldn’t deny the way the extra pair of eyes sent more slick seeping out of you.

You think Minsu really might be crying now, confirmed by what Namgyu said next. You feel his sadistic snicker against your ear, his breath hot. “What? Sad your crush turned out to be a nasty shameless whore?” Namgyu couldn’t stop running his mouth when you were under him.

With blurry half-lidded eyes you glance at Minsu. His gaze was locked onto your bouncing tits squished against the bed. “He can’t look away. Fucking pervert.” Cold fingers clamp down on your clit, pinching it in rapid vicious pulses. A choked scream left your parted lips, quickly muffled by two ringed fingers. Namgyu wanted to make sure you came hard while the shy boy was watching.

“Tell him I own your pussy.” Namgyu’s words were gospel when he was fucking you, and you couldn’t do anything but follow.

You hadn’t been fucked — no, you hadn’t been fucked like this in so long. None of the guys you slept with after the breakup compared, none of the orgasms even came close to how easy Namgyu had you shaking and creaming. At least that’s what you told yourself, to justify why you were about to cum so hard and easily around him.

“Namgyu owns my pussy! Namgyu owns my pussy!!!” The chant left your mouth in a desperate mewl over and over.

Clear liquid gushed out of you, spraying Namgyu’s thighs and dripping down his balls that were still slapping against your ass.

Namgyu cursed when he realized what was happening, rutting his cock into you a few last times before he stilled as deep as he could and came. God, it felt like he was trying to push into your womb. You felt shameful that Minsu had to see you like this, in this debauched state.

He couldn’t bring himself to talk to you or look you in the eyes for the rest of the games. Especially because he came twice in his sweatpants watching you get fucked that night.

[inhogf]

the salesman nsfw hcs.

· contains: purely nsfw, gun-play, he has a thing for your period UMM · note: its like 5 am but i HAD to post this

·⠀the salesman/gong yoo's not the type to call you ‘baby, princess, honey’ during sex. no; his dignity is higher than that. he'd be more of a name user or would call you his ‘slut, whore, bitch’.

·⠀barely has personal preference for positions, as long as he’s in full control. just as eager to have you ride him as he is to flip you over. just as long as he's inside you. big fan of face fucking though! holds your hair as you're doing it :3

·⠀has a libido bigger than his dick. practically using you almost every night as his sex doll; his stress relieve toy. makes sure to use you till the last drop when he finally gets his hands on you, due to the disappointingly lack of free time to sate his urges w/ you. has a shocking amount of stamina too :3. he definitely initiates things more than you do. he's suuuchhh a horny little boy for you OMDSSSS.

·⠀not a surprise but he's totally into gun play— fucks u w/ his glock, adoring the expression you make as he thrusts every single length of the gun into your pussy. holds his gun against your temple as he makes you bounce on his dick, getting off to your increasing fear. may even shoot a single bullet across the room to show you that the one against your skull is still functional and still a threat to your well-being.

·⠀i feel like he'd have a fetish for periods. doesn't like eating you out but as soon as he finds out you're menstruating, he'd BEG you to let him give you head and always find a way into your pants strategically. keeps a tight grip on your waist to hold you against his mouth ♡ & the mere smell of your blood is enough to get his dick sprung up.

·⠀this MIGHT be controversial but he'd be the type to beg you to send him nudes of your bare body. especially when he's out at work. his gallery is all pictures of your body and he's always shamelessly scrolling through them— palming away vigorously at his dick, wishing it was your mouth wrapped around his tip instead.

·⠀he's 100% a moaner. not high and squeaky moans, low ones; groans low enough only for you to hear. very vocal and mouthy, he's not scared to let you know how much of a good job you're doing, how pretty and fuckable you look doing it.

·⠀he's sooo harsh with you, spanking you on your plump ass until there's a visible red handprint, manhandling your hips off the bed to get a good angle to fuck, slapping your face every chance he gets. he's so mean.

·⠀he's big on degrading, is talking shit any chance he gets. “you can't even take me properly, useless little thing.“ and he's soo mean and criticizes every move you make. by the end of it all you’ll be nodding with tears streaming down your face (he gets off to it), lost to the pleasure he’s giving you and only able to apologise for being such a pathetic and stupid little baby!

·⠀owns multiple toys— gags (dog bone gags to be specific), ropes, blindfolds, vibrators, beads, dildos, you name it. he's a spender. ties you up with his ropes to feel the control that he craves so much.

cr @inhogf dont steal

[ttsukiimi]

───〃★ WE F⍣CK OFF & ON, OFF & ON .ᐟ

〃★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ⎯ As the campus’s well known f⍣ckboy, Satoru Gojo wasn’t known to stick around for more than one night in one bed. Well, that unspoken rule just didn’t apply when the bed was yours.

〃★ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⎯ gojo x fem!reader, uni au, smut (mdni), protected s⍣x, f⍣ckboy!gojo, hair pulling, p⍣ssywhipped!gojo, mentions of alc⍣hol & bein’ drunk, dirty talk, slight dumbification.

〃★ 𝐚/𝐧 ⎯ Thank you so freaking much for 1.5K!!! 🥹

Absolutely unbearable.

If there was any way to describe the campus fuckboy, it’d be that.

He was known—infamous for his unique way of fucking women and somehow leaving them attached, yearning for him once more after just one night, while he only left unscathed with his balls empty.

Satoru Gojo was insatiable. And you hated him.

You failed to see what everyone saw in him—he was a total idiot for fucks sake! Granted, he had a pretty face and could be quite charming, and you really couldn’t say for yourself if he was that good in bed, but good things about him paled in comparison to his horrid personality. He knew how attractive he was, and used that any chance he got.

How did he manage to talk his way into and out of anything? You simply didn’t know. But you hated him.

That was…until you yourself finally had a taste of Satoru Gojo.

Drunk at a party and so utterly wasted, you’d failed to acknowledge who was hitting on you, who you got into the taxi with to drive back to who knows where. His hands all over you—so rough yet inviting, even after the alcohol in your system had gone you still found yourself pulled into a trance.

A trance that seemingly pushed you to his bed and under him. Seemingly had you moaning his name all night and for more to come.

And seemingly, now, opening the door to your apartment so he could come in. So he could come in and fuck you like he’s been doing for the past months. Well, that’s just what he thought would happen anyway.

“Satoru,” you huffed, watching as the tall freak plopped himself onto your couch, momentarily jerking his head back before he responded with a hum.

“Can you stop acting like a fool and try not to break anything for once?” You chastised, pointing to a hand of his already playing with the flowers in your prized vase—he hadn’t given you those and had no right to taint them.

The white haired man groaned, rolling his eyes and following you down the narrow hallway to your bedroom. Your steps halted at the doorway and so did his, a low snicker leaving his lips as his hands slid to your waist.

“So,” he sighed in your ear, brushing his soft lips past the skin of your neck, big hands squeezing the flesh of your ass as he snaked them down. “Y’just gonna keep on being grumpy or you gonna let me fuck?”

“Satoru,” you exasperated for what seemed like the umpteenth time, though you didn’t dare take his hands off your body, already surrendering to the feeling. “Just because we’ve been fucking doesn’t mean that I only invite you here because of that.”

You turned around to face him. “We have a project to do, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll start after I start.”

And what was Satoru’s definition of that?

It was pushing your head further down into your pillows as he absolutely ravished your cunt, simultaneously holding both your hands back with just one of his.

His thrusts were deep and calculated—to the point where it felt like he knew where every pleasurable spot inside you was. Perhaps he did.

“Dick’s got you all quiet now, hm?” he smirks, sliding his free hand up your back and to your head, pulling your hair back as he speaks. By then you were a drooling mess and as much as you’d hate to admit it—you’re practically dumb on his cock, moaning incoherent little babbles of his name and how big he feels.

Satoru grins behind you, smug because he’s got you, the most prim and proper girl on campus choking on her own saliva. It all felt so surreal, you felt surreal—your soft hips, the succulent ripple of your ass as his hips connected to it, your moans—fuck everything you did was driving him crazy. Even though it was supposed to be the other way around.

He was the one who was supposed to be ingrained in your brain—but here he was, inches deep inside your wet, reeling pussy after he swore the last time he was in your apartment would be the last.

But there’s always a reoccurring cycle with you. He just can’t stop.

“Hah—mph—slow down, S’toru!” you mewl, fat tears swelling in your waterline, your ears perking up at the rhythmic plap! plap! plap! of your sweaty bodies colliding. “If ‘m too loud my neighbors might hear,”

“Yeah? Let them hear how good I’m makin’ you feel then,” he breathes, shallow and unsteady, his toned chest moving in tandem with his inhales. The deep tremble of his voice seems to move throughout your body, vibrating through you in such a maddening way that you’re almost cumming from the feeling alone.

What was even more provoking was the way he pulsed against your gummy walls, thumping and pulsing inside you loud enough that it seemed you could hear it.

And—god was Satoru close, so close he could feel the static of his high zap though his fingers. He groaned, head thrown back in bliss as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did so deliciously.

Your head was spinning from the mind-dizzying pleasure, eyes rolling back in what Satoru can only admit is the most remarkable expression he’s gotten out of anyone he’s fucked.

His hair was sticking to his forehead now, sweaty from how fast he was working to thrust into you at his abnormal pace. “Can I—“

“No.”

A defeated sigh and a pained grunt as he pulled out just as he was about to teeter off the edge of pleasure, taking himself in his hands and finishing the job. Satoru jerked himself as he watched you shake and convulse in euphoria, your body unwinding as you let your limbs go limp.

Cum seeped from your pussy, dripping down to your clit and sheets—and that sight was all he needed before his hot seed was spurting all over your back, the sensation causing a broken cry to leave your lips.

“Fuck,” Satoru mouthed, breathing hard as he gave your ass little smacks of approval. “That was—shit—so good.”

You nodded, head turning to the side as you watched him take off his cum-filled condom, and dump it in the trash. Satoru plopped back on your bed once he was done.

A smirk graced his lips and you rolled your eyes in annoyance, knowing nothing good could come out of that look.

“When do you think we could do it raw, hm?”

“When you get tested for every type of STD.”

[superhoeva]

𝐣. 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭 – 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | worked on this instead of sleeping but it might be one of my favorite things i've ever written. very overwhelmed by this man and how self-destructive i feel like he can be. warning(s) include: language, fluff, angst, smut, very little dialogue, penetrative sex (mentioned, m + f), handjob (mentioned), bodily fluids, jack being back (whatever that means), attending/resident relationship, fwb vibes, also there's fluffy parts, i swear.

The room stinks of sex–of lingering musks and a slowly-dampening heat that serve as memorials to another night spent losing yourself in the surprisingly tender hands of Jack Abbot. A pulse between your legs, also a reminder. The heat there has far from subsided, lingering and still dancing itself through your veins.

You feel nice. The window on the far side of your room is cracked to stop the smoke from your cigarette you’d finished a few minutes ago from persisting for too long. Sounds from the city flutter in just under the floating chords of Nude by Radiohead.

In Rainbows, track three. Jack fucked you, face to face, the night he learned you knew every word of the song by heart. Then hummed the first verse with you while you rode him to his own peak.

Jack sits against your headboard, sheets hanging at his waist to shield his softening cock from the air of the night. His face is the better version of an already faultless story in this low lighting, the edges of his jaw and cheeks promising something dangerous.

You’ve chosen to rest on a pillow instead of Jack’s thigh, but lay halfway on your side to face the man. Makes it easier to stare at him as you fall asleep. He doesn’t let you get far, fingers of one hand coiling with yours as you play with the digits that started the night feeding you the fruit he bought three days ago. The old lady at the berry stand think ‘m cute, and always gives me extra Jack explained after turning up at your place with an extra carton of some of the sweetest tasting produce you’ve ever consumed.

You smile to yourself, thinking. He fed them to you. The scowling, rugged, sarcastic attending had fed his fourth year resident strawberries.

Jack squints at you, ignoring how his own mouth wants to twitch upwards. “What’re you grinning about?”

You shake your head. He accepts your answer with a rolling of his eyes, untangling his fingers from your and running the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip before you get a chance to pout at the loss.

He’s been like this a lot recently–softer, warmer. Eyes overcast with… fondness? The hands that used to yank you into him tug at your body, now. Dragging and trailing at your skin like he’s memorizing the map of your body for when you aren’t near. You’ve wholly accepted the change, letting his grip linger and kisses lengthen into something that burns up your insides.

Grabbing his hand, you snuggle it to your face and close your eyes. He watches you with a still stare, waiting until your breaths even to let his eyes shine with silent tears. His mouth quivers as he makes sure to keep his sniffles quiet, rolling his head with a sigh.

He feels good. Too good, and it didn’t take more than three of his weekends off to get there. Hiding it used to be easy, swearing to himself that the reason you make his chest tremble is because of that trick you do with your tongue. Because of how snugly he fits inside you and how cockdrunk you get. Because of how pretty you beg when he makes you stretch your pussy out with your own fingers instead of his.

Those were the reasons he masked himself with. Forcing himself to go blind at how you snore even though you say you don’t, and wouldn’t look him in the eye after seeing the tiny spots of dry drool you left on his shirt despite his promises that it was alright. Ignoring how he ached through the seven days of shifts, doing his best to treat you like he hasn’t been balls deep inside you every weekend for the past year. Stuffing aside how he thinks of you even when you’re not around, how he almost mumbled I love you into your mouth as you jerked him to a lengthy completion across your stomach a month ago.

Jack’s fucked, and he knows it. He knew it when he woke up seven Tuesdays ago and reached out for you. It took him an embarrassing seven seconds to remember he wasn’t in your room, that you weren’t there. It takes him longer to realize how chilly he keeps his place.

That’s another thing about you, you’re always so damn warm. With patients and him, and so is your room.

He’ll miss that. It’ll take him a while to get over it, too. He’ll snap at residents and smile less but he’ll get over you. He has to. Regardless of how many tears he lets fall tonight as he thinks of the look on your face when you wake up not find him not in your kitchen making Saturday morning coffee but gone. Not letting you see him until the following Monday, and making sure to add a little edge to his voice when speaking to you.

No jokes. No touches. No winks from across the room. And no more weekends.

Wiping his face, Jack sucks in a deep breath and dips his head to look at you. A sad smile warps his face at the drool already leaking out onto your pillow.

Too wired to sleep, he spends an hour listening to your snores and studying your face with watery eyes before slipping his hand from your grasp with a sniffle. The man freezes when you shuffle, holding his breath until you nuzzle into the pillow. He finds his clothes after a few seconds of searching, hoping the quiet music still playing from your looped playlist is enough to cover the clinking of his belt and shuffling fabric.

Jack’s halfway out of your room when his body forces him to pause. It’d be so easy to give in. To concede, and peel off the clothes so he could slip back into bed with you. You’re always so tired after he fucks you, all you’d do is whine and tug him closer before returning to your sleep. Hugging him into you even though he always complains about waking up sweaty.

He stands in the doorway of your room for a long two minutes before turning to face you. Tipping to the bed with long strides, Jack swallows.

You wake six hours later. Music stopped, and Jack long gone.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[bunnygirllover45]

— THE THRILL OF THE HUNT.

♱ TRIGGER WARNINGS: Johann literally hunts down the reader, Small outburst at the end, and a lot of bullshit talk about hunting because I like it, DEAD DOVE. No violence was used.

Synopsis: You escape from Johann, he has to track you down. WORD COUNT: 1.6k

Johann wasn't exactly the thrill-seeking kind. He always preferred a slow-paced life, not filled with many excitements or tragedies. He wasn’t an adventurous spirit or a fiery soul in search of greater meaning. In his head, the only thing he needed was you.

And maybe that’s why this exact moment made his blood boil with newfound rapture, he could swear for a moment his skin bumped at the feeling of his heart throbbing so quickly against his ribcage. The thrill of the hunt, like his father used to say, made mere men become beasts, some because it was vital for their survival, others because of the rush of power it gave them.

But he couldn’t quite understand it until now. For him, hunts weren’t that exciting. The game was always too easy to track down, the footsteps effortlessly concealed. The gun didn’t feel heavy enough. His breath didn’t quicken at the mere chance of letting his prey slip away; he’ll always find a way to reach them again, after all. Animals have their habits; they’re easy to decipher once you know their true nature.

This is the type of hunt he’s been craving for so long. Johann had to press a hand against his mouth to prevent a low chuckle from escaping. Oh, how right his father was. This was truly trilling to the core, the kind of thrill that made a foreign heat rise towards his head and seep into his very brain tissue.

Humans aren’t like animals, their behavior is a little more erratic, animals can be divided between highly intelligent beings and straight-up dumb ones, but humans? All of them had their quirks, you couldn’t easily guess how prepared someone could be under certain circumstances. “Isn’t that so fucking interesting?” 

Lowering himself to the ground Johann reached to touch the freshly shaped footstep that his precious prey left behind. If they’re leaving such a pretty trail behind they’re expecting me to find them, what a tease.

“You know what kind of animals roam these types of terrains?” His voice was loud enough to carry its sound through the extremely quiet, when the hunt begins, the forest goes quiet, no need to scream. “Bears, moose, sometimes even wolves. Had to detangle a lot of ‘em from traps before, not without properly securing they won’t be able to bite, ‘course.” 

His heavy boots made the rotten wood and debris scattered around the forest soil yield under their weight, no need to change onto more quiet shoes, his bunny wouldn’t be able to hear him coming, surely their heartbeat was the only thing resounding inside their ears. Reaching into his pocket he took out his watch, starting a countdown. “I’ll give you two minutes to gain distance, cover your tracks, you can try hiding if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend staying still, it makes you easier to spot.” 

“Once the two minutes are done I’ll begin searching, I'll make a bird calling each 45 seconds, and once three minutes pass by, I’ll stop making bird callings and hunt in earnest, ‘kay? Just want to make the game easier for you, it isn’t fun if I’m the one with the upper hand all the time even if this is my subject.” 

With a deep sigh, he crouched down again, his hands fidgeting inside his pocket until he found a cigarette, the last one actually. Grabbing his lighter he lit up the tip, taking a slow inhale before letting the smoke escape from his lips. 

His free hand reached to grab the gun he always had with him, it was an old friend of sorts, stuck by his side in all the worst situations, a lot of people meeting their death at the end of this same barrel. Maybe it should have your name, after all, people do name their guns sometimes.

The forest grew more eerily quiet, the sun setting down in the distance while Johann quietly awaited the starting gunshot of the race, he didn’t really need to put the time on his watch, he could already count the time down to the millisecond inside his head. “Forty-eight, forty-nine…” His gloved fingers tapped against his lips, hands tightly clad in leather gloves, perfect for the harsh Austrian winter. 

A part of him wished you didn’t even make the effort to run away, maybe finding you curled up against a rock or a tree just waiting for him to find you was more exciting than actually pursuing you, after all, that meant you truly gave up on the idea of leaving him behind—still, another part of his brain screamed for you to run, so he could find you and make sure you won’t try pulling up bullshit like this again.

Slowly he stood up, the watch making a low beeping sound before he began to walk, settling the gun back onto the strap around his thigh. Holding the cigarette in between his lips he began to prepare the clothes you were going to use once he caught you, after all, little you decided to escape both barefoot and barely dressed, the worst thing in this forest beside him was the cold. Holding the spare jacket he always brought with him inside his bag and a blanket he continued to walk nonchalantly, not even sparing a single stare in any direction that wasn’t just dead front and center. 

Johann's stare drifted onto the floor, a little disappointed that you didn’t take his recommendation into account, there, clear as day, were your pretty little marks for him to follow like a bloodhound. Johann even took the time to carefully make sure he didn’t accidentally step into any of them, not wanting to overshadow the loving tracks you left behind for him with his heavy boots.

He knew very well he was taking all of this too lightly, this was a high gamble where he could lose everything or gain all, but still the elated sense of happiness and bubbling excitement made him more self-confident, too sure you wouldn’t get away too far, and even if you did, he’d stay in the damn forest all the time necessary for you to realize you need to go back onto his loving arms.

Stopping dead in his tracks he turned around as he heard a small sound coming from behind a fallen stump, dead bark peeling off the tree’s corpse. There you are.

And there you were indeed, curled up in a ball, back pressing against the rough bark as you held your arms around your torso, bracing yourself from the harsh winter cold, from the shiver that ran down your shoulders towards your legs or the sight you so pathetically defenseless made him smile, a blush creeping up onto his features.

“You didn’t even run far enough to let me do any bird calls, are you that tired, baby?” He kneeled down in front of you, but as soon as you jolted up in surprise Johann’s hand shot to grab your wrist with unnerving quickness. His dark eyes bore into you, a small smile gracing his lips, but there was no emotion behind that expression of his. “That’s okay, next time I’ll give you some proper equipment, some shoes wouldn’t hurt.” 

His thumb caressed the skin of your wrist, while his other hand threw away the now almost half-smoked cigarette that Johann held in between his lips. Eventually he reached to grab your head in between them, rubbing your cheeks with such tenderness that it could be even soothing in a different situation. “There, you did good. Not good enough to grant you a reward, but you did have me a little scared back there.” His smile widened as he lied through his teeth. You frowned, tired, freezing cold and also breathless, but still with enough energy to try and pry his hand away from your wrist, it was useless, he was latched onto you like a handcuff. “Fuck yo—” Before you could even finish he reached to clasp his free hand onto your mouth, the sudden movement making you stumble backward, head pressing against the tree. “Fuckin’ language.” He whispered between his teeth, staring at you dead in the eyes. “You should be grateful I didn’t put a damn bullet in between those pretty eyes of yours. Runnin’ away from me like that? After all I did for you? I let you away from my sight for just a second and you go jolting away like a fucking rabbit.” 

Taking a deep breath he lowered his head, slowly pushing his hand away from your mouth, his face leaning closer to you, the only warm feeling gracing your warm body being his hot breath against your face. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He pushed your lower lip with his thumb, pressing a soft kiss onto your flesh as some sick and twisted kind of apology.

“I won’t be as lenient next time, ‘kay? You know I care about you a lot, meine Liebe, don’t want you getting hurt.” He forced a smile, leaning his forehead against yours, but again his voice was masked by the thumping sound of your heart against your ears. “Let’s get you back to the car, I’ll get you all warmed up and cozy.” 

You just let him grab you, his hands effortlessly grabbing you and carrying you bridal style as both of you made your way back toward the car, you stole a few glances at Johann’s face, finding a small smile and that darn blush in his cheeks that showed how much he enjoyed himself, maybe a twisted part of him was truly pleased by all of this, even if it just started as a rebellious act of trying to escape from your part.

“Hear that? It’s a White-tailed eagle. Birds of prey, always hunted them with my father as a child.” Suddenly the forest wasn’t so quiet anymore, the hunt has ended.

[firewasabeast]

crash that helicopter, let chimney and tommy talk, and let's get buck and tommy back together!

“Hang on, Tommy! We got ya, Bud. Just hang on.”

A part of him wondered why they were even bothering. He knew his chances the second he decided to change course and crash into the ground.

Actually, he knew before then. He knew the second the gun was put on him and he was told to fly. There was no alternate ending for him.

He was going to die today.

That’s when he decided he might as well take the rest of them with him.

Now, familiar hands were on him, touching his body. Reaching underneath him to feel along his spine, strapping a brace around his neck, sticking needles into his arm, all while asking him questions he couldn’t quite form answers to.

“Can you feel this, Tommy?” Hen asked. She was poking at his foot.

He could feel it. He could feel everything. He could feel too much.

“Y- Yeah,” he choked out.

There was a strong taste of metal in his mouth. Something wet on his lips, running down his chin.

Through blurry eyes, he could see Howie and Hen share a look. Then Hen was grabbing some gauze and wiping his mouth clean.

“We’re nearly done, Tommy,” Chimney said, and Tommy was impressed by how steady he kept his voice. Howie was meant for this job, for this life. His ability to keep people calm even as they knew they were taking their final breaths was a gift. Tommy wished he was able to say as much before he died. “We’re getting your leg set before we go.”

“S’fine,” he muttered out. “I… okay.”

A tear fell out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t crying. At least, he wasn’t meaning to cry. It was more from the pain than anything else. He felt like every bone in his body had been crushed. Like all his organs had been rearranged and squeezed with a vise.

There was a loud wheezing sound happening, and he was pretty sure it was coming from him.

Slowly, his eyes began to close, and the pain started to fade a bit, until a harsh rub on his chest had him gasping and his eyes opening up wide.

“Stay with us, Tommy,” Hen instructed, wiping at his mouth again. “Almost there.”

“Is… I don’t… Ev- where’s…” Tommy’s arm flailed out beside him, his brain a jumbled mess. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say, but he knew he needed to say something.

“What’s that, Bud?” Chimney asked, placing pressure somewhere low on his abdomen.

“Ev… Where’s E- Evan?”

Another shared look between Chim and Hen.

“Buck is-” Hen paused, looking just past Chimney. “He’s actually coming over right now, Tommy.”

Tommy went to shake his head no, but the brace prevented it. He didn’t want Evan to watch him die. He just needed them to tell him something, if he could think of what that something was.

“No,” he breathed out, voice barely audible. “N- No, d-”

“Tommy! Tommy, I’m here. You’re okay, I’m here.” Buck was panting, kneeling down beside Tommy and leaning forward so he could look right at him. “I- I’m here. You- You’ll be fine, Tommy.”

He was trying to be strong, Tommy could tell. Trying to blink away the tears that filled his eyes. Trying to keep his voice from breaking.

Tommy couldn’t have that. He didn’t want to see Evan sad. He never wanted to see Evan sad.

He tried to reach for Evan, but his hand wouldn’t quite move the way he wanted it to and it ended up just flopping up and down.

Understanding, Buck took the hand in his and held onto him. “We’ll b- be taking you to the hospital real soon, Tommy. They’ll g- get you fixed right up.”

Tommy had to focus on his words. See them in his head and work to get his mouth to open and his voice to work the way he needed it to. “S’okay,” he gasped out. “S’okay.” He could feel more tears pouring from both corners of his eyes. A steady stream that he had no control over. Still, he kept talking to Buck. “E… Evan, I- I’m… okay. Don’t w- worry.”

There was so much he wanted to say. So many things he wanted to tell Evan before it was too late.

I’m sorry I ever left.

I’m sorry I was too scared to be honest with you.

I’m sorry I thought we were more than what we were.

You made me so happy.

I love you so much.

Thank you for being my last.

None of that would come out though. Not when he was coughing, choking on the blood that was gurgling up in his throat.

“We gotta go now,” Chimney decided, and everyone sprang into action.

Tommy remembered them lifting him. He remembered groaning out in pain. He remembered Evan holding onto his hand tighter.

Then, there was nothing.

*****

There was a pressure weighing his body down. A heavy, thick pressure.

It wasn’t painful.

A little warm, if anything.

Made his body feel half numb, but in a good way.

His finger twitched. His eyes did too.

It took a second but, eventually, he was able to crack them open.

He was in a bed, elevated slightly, sheets up to his waist, the room white and sterile.

He was alive.

How the hell was he alive?

“There he is,” a familiar voice said beside him. His eyes drifted toward the sound, and there was Howie, standing right beside him with a wide smile on his face. “About time you joined us.”

“I…” God, Tommy’s throat felt like sandpaper.

“Buck’s gonna be pissed that you woke up the first time he leaves for ten minutes to go eat lunch in the cafeteria.”

Tommy’s brain was foggy. “Wh- What?”

“You’ve been out for a day and a half, Man,” Chimney informed him. “Scared the hell out of everyone, by the way. Coded three times on your way in. I think you’ve broken a record for body parts that required surgery.”

Tommy blinked a few times, trying to comprehend the things Chimney was telling him. “Can I… water?”

“Oh, yeah!” Chimney grabbed the little styrofoam cup off the tray table and held the straw to Tommy’s mouth. “Go slow. Not too much.”

Slowly, Tommy drank on the water. He swallowed down three sips before pulling away. “Thank you.”

“Need anything else right now? In any pain? Need a nurse?”

Tommy shook his head. “No, thanks.” He glanced around the room, noticing five different bouquets lined up along the window sill. There was a teddy bear in the middle, and a piece of construction paper taped to the wall that was covered in different colors of hearts.

He knew the picture had to come from Jee. The rest though… he couldn’t think of that many people who would send him stuff.

“Wh… What happened?”

Chimney grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it closer to the bed, then took a seat. “You’re a dumbass who played hero,” he replied. “Crashed your helicopter on purpose to prevent a terrorist attack.”

Oh yeah. Now Tommy remembered.

“D… Did they-”

“You’re the only survivor, Tommy.”

“Oh.” Tommy didn’t really feel one way or the other about those men dying. Not when they were planning on killing hundreds, if not thousands, of people anyway.

He raised a finger toward the flowers. “Who?”

Chimney glanced back. “Oh, those? Uh, Bobby and Athena sent one, Hen and Karen, Eddie, Ravi, and then Maddie and I got the ones on the end. The picture there is courtesy of Jee, and the teddy bear is all Buck. Said it’s an inside joke or something about bears, I did not ask beyond that.”

A grin briefly appeared on Tommy’s face, but it quickly disappeared. “You didn’t h- have to-”

Howie rolled his eyes. “Don’t even start. Harbor is setting up a food chain, by the way, once you get home they’ll be bringing stuff by.”

“That… That’s nice.”

Chimney sighed, looking back towards the door before he continued. “Listen, Buck’s gonna come bursting through the door any second, so I’m gonna fast forward through the small talk and get to it. I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I know love when I see it. He loves you, Tommy, and I know you love him too.”

Now was really not the time. “Howie-”

“No. I know things were said between the two of you. Maddie and I aren’t great at keeping secrets, especially from each other. Whatever Buck said to you that day, he didn’t mean it. Just like I’m sure there are some things you said that you didn’t mean.”

Tommy looked away from Chimney, opting to stare out the window.

“Okay, maybe you did mean it. Maybe you really think so little of yourself that you think there’s no way anyone could ever love a guy like you.” Chimney leaned forward, moving so he was in Tommy’s direct line of sight. “But let me tell you something about you, Tommy. You’re a good person, whether you believe it or not. You’re there for people. You show up. You were willing to die just so other people wouldn’t get hurt. Even as you thought you were dying you were trying to console Buck and make sure he was okay. That’s the Tommy I know.”

Tears filled Tommy’s eyes. His lip trembled slightly. He tried to keep it together.

“I know that Buck hasn’t left you for a second until today, and he only did that if I promised to stick to your side like glue. No bathroom breaks,” Chimney continued. “I know that there were five men holding him back at the scene of the crash. He had direct orders from the chief that he’d be suspended or worse if he so much as tried to get near you, but he did it anyway. That’s a man who has loved his job more than anything else in the world for as long as I’ve known him, but he didn’t give it a second thought when it came to you.”

Tommy swallowed hard. A tear fell down his cheek.

“You’re loved, Tommy. And not just by Buck. See those flowers?” He pointed back to the bouquets. “The smallest bouquet is like fifty dollars. That’s insane. You’re loved.”

Tommy let out a laugh at that. But before he could respond, the door opened and Buck hurried inside.

“You’re awake!” he exclaimed, eyebrows furrowing. “Chim!” he pouted. “I told you not to let him do that.”

“Like I can help when he wakes up!”

“I can close my eyes,” Tommy offered, voice still gravelly and eyes feeling heavier by the second. “Pretend to... wake up again.”

“No, I- that’s not…” Buck let out a breath, his body relaxing. “Tommy.”

Tommy smiled sleepily. “Evan.”

“I- Do you need anything?” he asked, stepping closer. “Has the nurse come in yet? Did Chimney give you water? Are you in pain? Do you-”

“I- I’m fine, Evan,” Tommy interrupted. He looked over his heavily bandaged body before returning his gaze to Buck. “Well… maybe fine’s the wrong word.”

Buck couldn’t take his eyes off of him. “I’m, um, I-” he cleared his throat. “We were worried about you.”

“Thank you, Evan,” Tommy responded, holding his hand open for Buck to take, “for staying w- with me.”

Buck closed the remaining space between them in an instant. He took Tommy’s hand in his, sitting down carefully on the side of the bed. “Nowhere else I’d wanna be, Tommy.”

“Well,” Chimney spoke up, “seeing as you both forgot I existed, I am going to go.” He reached out gave Tommy a pat on the shoulder. “See ya later, Man. Try not to break anymore bones while I’m gone.”

Tommy smiled. “Thanks, Howie. See ya.”

When Chimney left out of the room, he shut the door behind them. Buck waited until it clicked shut to speak. “Tommy, I,” he breathed out shakily, his eyes red-rimmed, “I know you’re tired. You… You need sleep, but I- I want to, um, I’d like for us to talk when you feel like it. If that’s okay,” he added quickly.

“Yeah, Evan.” Tommy gave his hand a little squeeze. “That’s okay.”

Buck grinned. “Okay. You look tired. You should, um, you should rest.”

As much as Tommy wanted to stay awake, his body was not getting the memo. “You’ll be here... when I wake up?”

Buck nodded. “Of course.”

“Good." Tommy's eyes began to close, but his grip on Buck’s hand remained. Half asleep, he mumbled, “Don’t le- let go, m’kay?”

Buck wrapped Tommy’s hand in both of his, bringing it up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “I won’t, Tommy. Not this time.”

[aaksuitac]

[04:24 am] “what are we?”

wc: 2.3k

a/n: [fluff viktor brainrot thanks to @dilemmars. t dije q me vengaría baby, así q zas, un payback por tus podcasts jdjfjjsd. hope u like cause its ur fault]

he’s humming something you don’t quite understand, a distant tune that sounds familiar —probably you’ve heard him sing it before—, and even if you don’t recognize the melody aside from that, you can’t help but appreciate it.

his hands fidget with whatever he can reach as he sighs once more, as if he was stealing breaths from the world, heavy, almost as lidded as his eyelids. his hair falls on his eyes and in between his slender fingers while he curls the untamed strands, and you fall into an endless pit of staring at him as he scribbles, grunts, sighs, and finally pinches the bridge of his nose.

“statistically speaking, i’m starting to feel like the chances of me getting this right are adversatively proportional to the chances of you accidentally swallowing a fly.”

and you just blink, once, then twice.

he stares at you, gives you a pointed look. he can’t really say if you understood that you were just staring at him with your mouth parted, but you squint at him, snickering.

“what,” his low voice fails to ask, unbothered, knowing that you’ll answer regardless.

and you do, answering. “you haven’t even uttered a word in a while. i was just surprised that you could still talk, is all,” you grin cheekily, playing with a screw on the table as you turn left and right on the chair you’re sitting on.

viktor looks at you, and he can’t help but crack a smile. point for you.

“what you laughing for, mhh, mister science?”

“isn’t it enough to bother me from the moment i get inside the lab in the morning that you need to do it at night too?” he pretends seriousness, side-eyeing you teasingly.

“fair enough. i will consider your offer, man of fleeting memory, and take it upon myself to bother you longer.”

his mean stare wouldn’t even make a kitten mewl, but you take you hand to your heart, pretending to be wounded.

“don’t look at me like that! you’ll hurt my feewings,” you pouted, much to his amusement.

“fleeting memory?” he scoffs, accent rolling off his tongue. “when’s the last time you lost a hairtie, mmh?” he mocks.

“unfair!” you can’t help but giggle as you pretend to hide your hair from his view. point for him. “besides. i take better care of my hair than you do of yours.” you pouted smuggly. “mine looks prettier.”

“what?” he finally asks, letting out a chuckle this time as his eyes land on you for the first time in the good part of an hour.

you play with your hair to style it, and funnily pose, hands on your cheeks as you lay your elbows on the table.

“what, don’t I look pretty?” you smiled, letting out a cheeky giggle.

yes. he doesn’t say it, but his eyes haven’t dodged back to his papers just yet. it’s another point for you. so very pretty.

he doesn’t dare. he knows it. his mind, or at least the small portion of his mind that still ties him with the occasional reminder that he’s human, looks at you and wants you in a way that he’s never wanted before.

so viktor resolves in looking at you. maybe only for a moment, maybe only on those fragments of time when he’s tired enough that he looks at the stars and at the moon, yearning to reach them, only to think he’ll miss the moonlight, finally blinking to the realization that he had been staring into your eyes for too long.

his eyes are dull as he stares at you, and your expression of worry at the fact makes his heart skip a beat. “viktor?” you mumble, softly, sleepily, warily. he can’t stop staring at you, and while he supposes success and defeat can look the same in a mirror —therefore, he doesn’t really blame your confusion—, he finds no words to explain which one he’s feeling as you move your chair towards him by a push against the floor, solely accompanied by the sound of the little wheels rolling to him.

he grabs his walking stick and turns it around, pretending to poke at your chair, as if to teasingly shove it away. if you realize that he settles the walking stick just in the correct place so that your stool can’t move back, he doesn’t know. viktor just stares at the floor, to pretend that maybe the way your eyes turn tender when his reflection shines on them has nothing to do with what you’re about to say.

tsk, tsk. clueless viktor.

he’s expecting it, yes, but even with that on mind, he can’t phathom how your course of action chooses laughing as you fidget with the loose button on his vest, the second one from the top down. viktor purposely forces himself to stable his breathing, worry seeping into him, thinking that maybe you could feel his heartbeat grow faster beneath the layers of clothing.

and he feels like the remnants of a cheap ring that stain a finger blue, when comparing himself as he stands —sits— close and next to you. maybe its because you usually wear rings, and he can feel the ghost of them as your hand trails up and absentmindedly fixes his collar.

he can almost see it. your mind working, the pieces falling into place, the—

“either my eyes are deceiving me or yours have been on my lips for a rather long time.”

and he can just. blink. as if that could break how mesmerized he feels, how his heart swells up and covers his throat, how inexplicably he feels when you’re with him, near and alone. the need to know more. the need to use every trinket and screw to map out your body for him to explore, and to map out the wonders of your mind for the world to admire and maybe then find out the reason of his inability to look away.

he was so focused before. used to be.

he is. now, at you. of you. on you.

you.

another point for you. he isn’t keeping count, but something tells him he’s losing.

and as his gaze falls back to your lips in between a battle against your eyes, lost in which to stare and sink into their devotion, he hesitates again.

he thinks its funny. so funny, viktor holds back the dry chuckle that threatens to go past his lips. how to cherish you in a way that matters. how to love, the scientist wonders. is there a way that would allow him to unveil and unravel himself to you? could there be some kind of language, able to express the depth of his insides, that you, too, could understand?

what is love, anyways? is he in love with you because his coffee tastes better when it matches the dark of your pupils? because when he takes the mug from your hand and his fingers brush against yours, it seems warmer? because he notices how the dark shade in your eyes seems to mix with that of your irises, and the way the black eats the colour when you stare at him? because he claims to hate company while he studies alone, but one chair remains empty as he works, waiting for who it was meant for? because when he fails and surrenders himself to the fall, throws his walking stick against the wall, he yearns for your embrace and how your hair smells in the evenings?

is that love? and if it is, could you understand it?

if it is love, and he could say it, would such a short word convey its meaning, or was he speculating just a couple of paragraphs ago? was he assuming the meaning of what love entails?

even so. if he said it, would you repeat it? would you claim you love him because he loves you, claim to love him too? would you instead claim to love him despite everything, even the uncertainty of love itself?

…does he accept it himself?

he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount of voices in his head. there’s too much chatter. too many questions he can’t answer, too many commas, too many question marks. too much, too much, too many.

so he silences them. makes the voices dim to a deep silence. and when his lips find themselves suddenly against yours, he finds out the true, effervescent meaning of quietness.

his hand fails to pull you closer because of the damn walking stick that gets in the way. or maybe its the chairs you’re both on that clash against each other. maybe its matter itself. for a while, its the first time viktor doesn’t want to know.

in a bold statement, he couldn’t give a fuck.

he’s kissing you.

and it should be bad because of all the unanswered questions. he’s skipping procedure. he’s gone from the fuck around to finding out and he doesn’t know where he is at this point.

what he does know, is that your hand pulls him by his necktie, and he’s gone. science? yours only. the science that he’d study all of the nights he may have left. the science behind what makes you. the science behind how your hand craddles his face while stroking his cheekbones. the science behind how you’re the closest you’ve ever been to him and somehow still not close enough. the science behind the reason why when you pull away makes his heart beat so loudly, as if it had forgotten how to a second ago.

your forehead rests against his. he shouldn’t have done that. he just… did it. maybe that was bad. was it? could it be? he had been waiting for so long too. he never thought he would…

“viktor, what are we?”

and he’s dead. he knows what the question implies, but he doesn’t want to answer. he could follow you like a lost puppy through piltover and zaun and hell knows where else. if he wasn’t dead now he would die right there and now without a second thought, because the feeling that overcame him was that love was suddenly a sentence or two away.

he knows he doesn’t dare. it’s one of the only thing he knows, one of the things he’s sure of.

but somehow, he moves. he stands up, takes the walking stick, and attempts to walk out the feeling that bounces inside him.

the walking stick always makes a noise when he walks, one with dificulties to interpret in terms of onomatopeia. not quite a thud, not deep enough to reach that quality. not a clack, for it is not entirely made of metal. still, as if it was a mix of both, he keeps walking.

viktor is nervous. thud-clack. he’s not moving far from his chair, nor is he going somewhere else. thud-clack. he still keeps pacing. thud-clack. maybe the answer is somewhere in the room. thud-clack. maybe he can reply.

thud-clack, thud-clack, thud-clack.

only does he then realize that he hasn’t answered your question. and a non-answer statement might as well be a rejection.

no. no, no, no. fuck.

he’s sitting again, but you stand up. your hair follows, long. moving and brushing against the skin of your shoulders in a way that he can’t help but claim it to be endearing.

you’re walking. you don’t make any kind of extra sound when you walk. your heels reverberate against the floor like any other, yet also they mark the beat of his heart.

he can’t reach for you. you walk too fast.

you stop when you feel the walking stick on your side. the part made for him to lean on as he walks hooks you, and you stand, not facing him.

he doesn’t use the walking stick as he stands. no, he keeps it hooked to your core, scared that you might leave. you could, he wouldn’t blame you. but he can’t allow it.

he holds it in the air as he takes one step. another step. you’re turning, surprised to see him standing, and you gasp when he lets himself fall on you.

your touch surrounds him. yes. that’s the closeness he needed. he drops the walking stick, his hands slithering on your body, pressing you against him, for no reason at all yet because it is all needs.

“what can we be?” he whispers. he takes the science approach. the viktor approach.

he isn’t too clueless after all.

he raises enough to look at your darkened, sleepy eyes. he wants to drown in them.

“if i wanted to kiss you everytime you hand me coffee, wanted you to sit on the same chair as ne and hug me from behind as I work, wanted you.” he swallows dry. “then, what can we be?”

he doesn’t want to say the words, and its petty.

it’s the 31st when the clock strickes five am and your hands travel through his hair to kiss him again. to unbalance him enough that he falls back on his chair and you follow him, sitting on his lap.

and as he kisses you, his hands worshipping the skin he can touch, the warmth he can feel through layers of clothing, he feels like maybe there’s a life worth living, so he can’t ask.

he’s heard boys and girls when he was young talk about it. “he didn’t want to celebrate our month-versary,” a girl cried as he played with his little boat, watching from afar as she was comforted by her friend.

it’s the 31st. and he can’t really ask the question now, because if he says it, how could you celebrate each month?

he moves the chair and holds you in his arms as your back falls against the table before him. maybe he can kiss you until next month. until the clock strikes and it’s the 1st.

he smiles as he kisses you, feeling you pull his necktie off. he thinks it’s the best idea he’s had in a while. and a true scientist always tries out their hypothesis.

~k.k. (☆) have fun!

aaksuitac, november 2024 ©