#or people speak at the same time and only one gets a response

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

because i liked a boy - spencer reid x fem!reader

somehow a reporter finds out about reader's relationship with none other than her coworker, dr spencer reid and shames her for it during a press conference

genre: flangst wc: 1355 warnings: medialiaison!reader established relationship, slut-shaming, feminism talk, upset spencer, morgan mention, mentioned case involving children

"This is a rough composite sketch of the UnSub. If anyone sees him, please call us using the number on the screen. Any questions?" you speak clearly, eyebrows raised and back straight.

It's a tough case this time, not that any are easy. The ones involving children–like this one–are the worst. You know that. It’s yet to hit you this hard, though. You're used to being in front of a camera all fake smiles and airbrushed to look porcelain but you're struggling to hold it together today. It’s never been easy to see grieving parents begging for their kid’s life on national television.

It also doesn't help that you haven't seen Spencer much these past two days. Ever since HR found out about you two, he’s been trying to keep his distance for professionalism’s sake. You appreciate it, of course, but you wish everything could be normal again. You miss working alongside him, sneaking tiny waist pinches every little while. Maybe you’re codependent.

One of the male reporters holding a microphone asks plainly, like it isn’t rude, “how do you expect this case to go to trial with your ongoing relationship within your team? Isn’t that some sort of conflict of interest?”

Now, how did they find out about that?

Luckily, Hotch steps in before you need to form a response. You’re left flushed and out of sorts, needing some water or something. It’s not like you’ve never had a bad press experience but nothing that came after you specifically. Why do they even care in the first place? Are you really that interesting? Is your love life really that interesting? His mustn’t be.

To Hotch, he spits, “it’s a valid question, Agent, you can’t expect no one to comment on one of your unit’s members sleeping her way to the top or… sleeping her way to getting a case dismissed.”

You want to stay, fight, cry, maybe even guilt him into apologizing, but, to your dismay, you’re pulled away by Morgan who looks just as upset as you do. If there weren’t a room full of people stopping him, you’re sure he would’ve hurt the guy. You don’t want to be dragged away by the action figure that is Derek Morgan so you try to pour your feelings into words. “The conference– the case–!”

Morgan stares at you in a way that very clearly says are you done? And, yes, you guess you are. You sigh, nodding reluctantly.

“Hotch will figure it out,” he assures softly but firmly.

You’re escorted to the break room where you watch the television only to see that very same reporter, spewing his nonsense again. Low and behold, he’s still stuck on the topic of you.

“An anonymous source discloses the identities of two FBI agents with the Behavioural Analysis Unit that are in a relationship of hidden rendezvous.”

The pitter-patter of your heart is louder than usual as he reads out your names along with the loving message, “I guess this proves that women really can’t be trained. What a shame, she’s certainly got–”

With that, you shut off the disgusting noises coming from someone claiming to be a man. You’ve never been good at taking insults but this was something else entirely. Your chest burns. You’re being perceived as a person you’re not. Everything you’ve tried so hard to build could all come crashing down at this very moment if you let it.

All because you liked a boy?

It feels ridiculous, like a step in the wrong direction for all womankind. That’s dramatic, you’re sure, but this is so twenty years ago. What happened to feminism, for fuck’s sakes? You wouldn’t give Spencer up for anything less than solving world hunger, but you wish this whole ordeal could’ve never happened. What if you lose your job? What if you lose this case because you’re too sensitive to male attention for your own good? Unfortunate circumstances led here and you wish it could be simple. It’s a tall order, but you wish UnSubs and all the people who enjoy pinning others down would simply cease to exist. You wish Spencer was here.

As if reading you all the way from canvassing the neighborhood, he’s suddenly visible, walking towards the doorway with quick Converse-sounding steps, Morgan’s hand on his shoulder. He looks worried. What worries you, though, is that he looks guilty. That hurts.

Familiar arms wrap around you as he kneels on the floor in front of the couch. “Hey, I heard what happened. Are you okay?” Spencer whispers, lips pressed into the fabric covering your shoulder.

You ponder the question for a moment before nodding. You’re not quite sure how you feel, if you’re being completely truthful. Criticism was never something you’ve taken well. Not ever. Maybe you deserve it, though. After all, you are sleeping with a coworker. You’re an agent, it’s not appropriate of you in the least. You should’ve kept to yourself, been the good girl the world wanted you to be. Female agents in the big bad FBI are already seen a certain way. You just happened to worsen it with wide-eyed affection.

How he always does, he mutters an explanation, “people like that don’t have anything going for them, you know. They report on others because their own life is insignificant.”

It’s wildly the wrong time to laugh but you do, flushed cheeks plumping from a happy smile. He pulls away and your hands find his face like they always seem to do. “I know.”

He nods. He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

He’s so unbelievably pretty that it almost makes you want to cry. Those same somber eyes that you’re sure mirror yours stare deep.

“It just sucks… you know?” you say so very quietly.

Nodding, he chews on his lip. “I know.”

“It’s like… I thought slut-shaming was over,” you laugh bitterly.

You can tell he feels bad. It’s not like this is his fault. You know he believes it is, anyways.

“It should be. It’s ridiculous. This isn’t your fault. That useless guy should be spending the night in a cell for harassing an agent not on the ten o’clock news airing out our personal matters.”

It’s really not often you see him like this, upset and wielding pain-filled threats. It never fails to amuse you. You’re not sure why. Something about the juxtaposition of his usual sweet demeanor and this annoyed ranting one, you suppose.

“It’s kind of funny.”

“Funny?”

You smile and nod, your thumb tracing his lower lip. “A little. We’re the most enthralling news in all of small-town-Colorado.”

While Spencer doesn’t find it quite as giggle-inducing, he mimics the pull of your mouth’s corners and shows his reluctant agreement with a bob of his head. “That is… silly, I guess.”

“We’re basically stars,” you shrug.

In honest disbelief and certainly awe for your ability to brush off the event with humour, he shakes his head, curls falling out of place. Your fingers rush to correct it. The golden eyes you love stay stubbornly put on your own. Breaths mix together in the close proximity despite you not recalling how you got so close. It’s proven difficult to care when his plush lips find yours. Carefully and with love, he kisses you. With no intent, no desire other than to make you feel better. It breaks stickily, the shimmer that once was on your lips now ghosting around his mouth. You grin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Spencer tenderly mutters.

Gently, you answer, “I’m sure. I mean, we didn’t do anything wrong.”

You believe yourself. You’d never doubt your relationship with Spencer. It just sucks that they had to poke holes in your safe place. That safe place being Spencer. Your home. You know because of your profiler-by-association background that he was right about the reporter being not fulfilled enough in his own life that he had to insert himself into yours. That didn’t make it drastically better, anyway. Perhaps your personal life should be kept away from work.

But it’s not your fault that work happens to include Dr. Spencer Reid.

[shy-writer-999]

1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

[kastalani123]

Not my usual content, but I just. I wanna ramble, ig.

Do you understand how baffled I was about how the vampire book, written by a man in 1897, is essentially a PSA about how important proper communication is?? Even after I scrolled through Tumblr, saw the memes, read people geeking out about the relationships (platonic and romantic) in Dracula, I was still caught off guard, because. Like. Everything in this book is about communication.

Sure, it's kind of a given, considering it's an epistolary novel partially made up of letters between the characters, but. I dunno. From Dracula controlling Johnathan's lettres, van Hellsing refusing to tell anyone shit, the men keeping Mina out of the loop, to Mina using her telepathic link with Dracula, it's. It's literally all about how important actually talking to each other and sharing information is. Fuck, throw in the fact that "Harker", Mina and Jonathan's, arguably the main characters, last name means "to listen"/"eavesdropper", and that the book is Mina's in-universe creation to help compile, organize, and share what they know about Dracula, and the book's very essence becomes centered around information-sharing!

And I just. The narrative punishes just about every secret hidden, every time the characters don't communicate. There's the obvious, Dracula keeping Johnathan from sending out letters for help and Mina getting bitten because the men leave her home alone, but also. Van Hellsing not telling Lucy's mom that the garlic flowers and closed windows and so on are the treatment and she is not to touch them is what kills Lucy and her mom! They maybe could have survived if he just told them what's happening/what he's doing! And even the godsdamned telegram he sends to Seward! If he had just addressed it properly (communicated to the telegram boy properly!) then Seward wouldn't have been late and maybe could have prevented the massacre!

There's also Jonathan's diary right after he finally reunites with Mina, and obviously Mina's whole ✨ thing ✨ with the diary during their wedding is like. Peak romance, but Johnathan doesn't fully get better until Mina reads and shares it with van Hellsing and van Hellsing assures Johnathan that he's not insane. Sure, it's an oversimplification of PTSD and healing and such, but it makes sense, especially if you consider communication and information sharing as a major theme! Only sharing his experiences, reading through them himself after blocking off the memories, is what heals him! He cannot get better without knowing what happened, and without others knowing what happened, because knowing and sharing is important.

Renfield's also an interesting case. I don't have the book with me right now to check, but as far as I remember, he tries to talk about Dracula, tries to get Seward to release him from the asylum so Dracula can't use him against Mina, but is dismissed entirely; as a consequence, Dracula gets in the building, kills Renfield, and bites Mina.

Even the language barriers! The villagers Johnathan meets on his way to Dracula's castle try so hard to warn him of the danger but they can't. They can't, because they don't speak enough of the same language, but they try so hard. But whatever does get through to Johnathan, such as that woman begging him to take the crucifix she gives him — that might've saved him. It keeps him unsettled and wary and he does keep the crucifix, which wards Dracula off. They can't communicate the full extent of the danger, but what they managed is probably responsible for him surviving.

And the whole idea is even mentioned in-text! Sure, Lucy saying that a wife ought to share everything she knows with her husband is definitely sexism-flavoured, but Johnathan says it too! He says that his idea of an ideal marriage is one without secrets! And Johnathan is effeminate, yes, he spends a good chunk of the book as the "damsel in distress", but he is still the hero! He is still the one who kills Dracula (with Quincey), and can therefore be assumed to be an intended role model. The (male) main character and hero of an 1897 novel says that a good relationship relies on communication. Sure, he doesn't always stick to it, mostly by agreeing to keep Mina out of the loop when van Hellsing pushes for it, but that doesn't discount that that is what Stoker set as the ideal.

I just. I love this book so much. It subverted just about all expectations I might've had about it and I'm so glad for it. It's undeniably a product of its time, with plenty of racism and sexism and ableism, but it's also so. Not, at the same time? It's so good.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Hey p here!!! 👋🏻 Just as we talk, I want a fic about Toto Wolff x wife reader who always healthy/happy go lucky person and suddenly she's ill. You can't decide what it is. Include there drivers/anyone in the sports reaction. Like they're trying to help her, watching out for her. She's their friend/mother figure, of course they're worried. But being her, she just deals with humour even though she's sick. And can you include Jack? That boy has my heart. Even though this must be heartbreaking for him at such a young age, I think it's time for some angst, gut wrenching story that traumatize us all😃 And lastly how everyone cope with it. Add anything you want to. Thanks!!! :))) Appreciate it❤️❤️

With prompts:

1) "After all this time?” “Yes. I still do"

2) "My sweet and brave little munchkin."

3) "Tick tock, the clock is ticking"

4) "I thought we had more time"

Slipping through my fingers

there are moments in life that define everything, moments that still your world to a complete standstill people often assume that these moments are of joy or happiness. unfortunately for toto his moments caught a rotten streak and his world was never going to be the same ever again.

the day toto met her was a day full of surprises for both of them.

y/n had just recently made the decision to switch up her major from nursing towards mass media and journalism. it was a switch that raised a lot of eyebrows and concern from her family yet they supported her nonetheless, everyone knew how talented she was and knew she’d get a job eventually. What they didn’t know was along with the job she’d catch the attention of a rather tall man.

toto was having a rather eventful day, both of his star drivers had crashed into each other on lap one giving his arch nemesis horner his day in the sun with his prodigy max verstappen winning the race only to rub salt in his raw open wounds. he should have signed him instead of nico toto thought as he stomped through the media pen only to be bombared with around a hundred reporters eagerly waiting to see if the team principal was going to have another one of his infamous anger blowouts. alas to them a young female reporters questions had caught the interest of Toto.

Her question was clear cut no glazing no unnecessary flattery to grab his attention, all she’d ask him was if he’s going to fire someone on the pit wall for the strategies today. it was a bold question not one that reportes like to use since it ends up in court cases but she really didn’t care. It was her first few races and she wanted to make a name for herself and boy did she.

Toto’s response was curt and dismissive but she didn’t budge one bit, she was persistent and that caught Toto’s attention.

ladies and gentlemen this was the first moment in Toto’s life that had stopped the world for him.

the moment he looked into her eyes he felt everything was irrelevant. He didn’t care that both silver arrows were a pile of silver dust all that was captivating to him was the brown tinge in her hazel eyes. toto wanted to stare into them forever, and perhaps god was smiling straight down on them and decided to seal both their fates together.

and so it started.

their infamous courtship.

Now for a team principal speaking to people was almost second nature but when it came to her toto was a blubbering mess always leaving the conversation wanting to speak more, it was rather funny towards the other team principals. he was acting like a teenager with his first crush.

things weren’t all that easy for her too, each interaction with toto outside of business had her craving him more and more, she chuckled at his faint attempts to woo her and get her lunches. she too had a crush on him and it was only getting stronger.

the turning point in their relationship was the after party at the Abu Dhabi Grabd Prix, the long season was finally over and the celebrations had started. Toto had eagerly invited her and was hoping praying dying to see her come, unfortunately he wasn’t the only one who was waiting to see her, amongst his infatuation toto was as blind to how interested zak brown had also become towards her. he wasn’t often caught staring at her in places no man’s eyes had entitlement to. things were starting to get creepy but none of our two lovebirds had figured that out.

the party was in full swing when she had decided to show up, wrapping up her tasks with sky sports made her rather late but the look in Toto’s eyes when he had saw her was everything she had hoped and wanted. The man looked starstruck it was insane how whipped he was for her and they weren’t even together.

a couple of drinks and close dances later when she had excused herself to go to the ladies room was when calamity hit.

zak had his dirty gazes set on her ever since she had shown up, he knew toto wasn’t on guard whenever she was there and knew it was his time to try and get handsy with her.

right after walking out of the ladies room she was dragged into a corner and that’s when she felt small fat and stubby fingers trying to touch her. it felt humiliating disgusting and frankly made her want to bleach her skin. right before zak could cover her mouth and start with his actual plan she screamed as hard as she could hoping to get anyone’s attention oh how she regretted not taking up Toto’s offer to walk her to the restroom.

toto had wondered where she had ended up disappearing, was he being too much did she need a break from him?? he was overthinking when he heard her cries for help and in a second all the alcohol in his system had vanished. He leaped towards her cries and the scene startled him to his core, in a second zak was off her and his disgusting touch was replaced with the warm calm caressing of toto a man she was familiar with someone she knew.

the entire night was ruined in a split second, it wasn’t until toto had zak in a head lock that she’d regained her senses, seeing him so worked up over protecting her name and honour made her do what she did next.

the second toto was close by she kissed him, full on kissed him. it wasn’t short or messy it was full of reassurance of promise and of new beginnings.

that’s how the two souls collided.

oh and zak was given not one but multiple fractures and a hefty legal case to fight, toto didn’t play when it came to the ones who he loved.

the new couple relationship caused frenzy all over the internet and the paddock, no one really expected them to be a couple it didn’t make sense, out of everyone why did toto choose a journalist? Didn’t he know if they break up his whole life would be plastered onto the news.

Headlines like these made both of them chuckle, neither of them seeming to care, they were just happy to be with each other against all odds.

throughout the course of their relationship there were times where y/n had become sick, it often worried toto seeing how easily the common cold for her could become much serious, she always brushed his concerns away. it wasn’t until much later into their relationship when toto started noticing more and more health concerns for his now fiancé.

the proposal had taken place in Iceland she’d always loved it there especially the black sand beach and how beautifully it contrasted against the bright white snow, often times she’d dreamed of going there and toto made it a reality for them. she later joked that the beach and the snow represented each of them perfectly, Toto being the dark black beach that only softens in appearance in front of the snow. he’d got down on one knee at that exact spot uttering words of love and honesty. they had their vows at the exact same place. some things don’t change.

it was now 3 years into their marriage, toto had settled down and wasn’t all angry and violent like he used to be (ask the poor abused headsets) he was much calmer and level headed, that’s what happens when you marry the love of your life. he knew not to piss his wife off or worry her after all she was carrying his baby.

the pregnancy test was taken after she had thrown up half her body weight, toto wasn’t around he infact was in austria for the Grand Prix, she had excused herself from it with dumb excuses, Toto ever the gentleman knew not to push it and let her have some space.

In a matter of seconds their world’s axis shifted.

the pregnancy test came as a positive surprise, neither of them had discussed having children but they weren’t against the idea, when toto came back to his wife pale and heaving beside the toilet he knew what was going on, he whisked her off her feet and kissed her so strongly that you might think the man was off to war.

her pregnancy came with a price thou, a huge price for her to pay. y/n was anaemic her body didn’t have enough red blood cells and that’s why she could faint at the drop of a hat.

the couple had been shopping during the off season for the arrival of their little baby, unfortunately fans and paparazzi got a hold of their location resulting in a rather ugly swarm of cameras and people. the noise alone alerted Toto that their quiet evening had come to an end, in a rush to protect his wife and unborn child Toto’s steps where hastened and elongated, unfortunately his wife simply couldn’t keep up and fell victim to one of her fainting spells the camera and the noises alongside the amount of people did nothing to help her and so she collapsed.

the faint thud would haunt Toto forever, his whole world crumbled when he heard it, instantly he rushed towards her only to find her knocked out cold, the rush to the hospital has been the longest wait of his life.

he swore then and there that he wouldn’t ever put her or their child in such a situation.

luckily both mother and baby were okay, when they got home later that night she had fallen asleep unknown to the storm that was brewing within her husband.

Toto wasn’t a very emotionally available man, he preferred to deal with his emotions privately or not at all if possible but ever since meeting her he’s been more open towards showing love and care but the one thing he won’t show is fear.

Torger Christian Wolff was afraid.

he’d been having these vivid dreams of his wife dying and leaving him and their six year old son alone forever, it’s been haunting him ever since her fall.

[breelandwalker]

Thank you for elaborating! I appreciate the clarification. (And I appreciate you taking a somewhat more civil tone with me than with your comments section. Frustration I can understand, but it does behoove us to be patient with each other in order to encourage meaningful discourse.)

I do think this is a discussion worth having, partly because you bring up some valid points with regard to making distinctions between witchcraft practices from New Age pseudoscience and junk theories, and partly because this is an excellent object lesson on the need to move past our own opinions and egos when dealing with the broader witchcraft community, particularly because it's not a monolith. (What community is, right?)

I agree that using the term "energy" in reference to one's life force or the power behind magical workings or the shared vibrations of a group in ritual or the broader music of the cosmos may be an oversimplification. But in terms of accessibility, it's a nice, simple word and a concept that just about everyone understands, regardless of the context. This can be especially useful when you're having a conversation with practitioners from various paths and traditions who have slightly different ways of doing things.

True, it gets bounced around in New Age speak quite frequently, but to say that reduces or nullifies its' value in witchcraft spaces sounds rather like giving up on a perfectly good word. After all, there are plenty of terms that exist in witchcraft that are also (obnoxiously) overused by New Agers. How many "clearing" or "cleansing" videos have we all rolled our eyes at on the socials? And yet, clearing and cleansing are still vital concepts in witchcraft, though they generally don't refer to dodgy medicinal practices. All this to say, the co-opting of a word by New Agers (or worse) only diminishes its' value in witchcraft spaces if we let it.

As for terms like "witchy" and "baby witch," there's a certain amount of seriousness involved with witchcraft, it's true. You do have to take the craft seriously if you want to make progress and you do have to grow as a person in order to do so successfully. But there's also a point when growth requires us to stop taking everything so deadly serious, including ourselves. There are lessons to be learned from play and silliness and shedding the trappings of ego and self-consciousness.

"Witchy" has entered the common lexicon in a playful way that allows witchcraft and witchcraft-adjacent things to be more accessible to the non-witching public. Accessibility leads to acceptance and we could use all the help on that front that we can get. Is it a slightly unserious word? Sure. But is there really anything wrong with being unserious? And does that really matter when the people who are attracted to it might go on to more serious investigation?

The same with "baby witch" - perhaps it is limiting or infantilizing, but it's accessible as an entry point for some people, and with time and guidance, they will outgrow it. (From a personal standpoint, I'm seeing it used less often than it was even a few years ago, mostly in spaces where discussion groups and non-judgmental communication are strong, though a steady replacement has yet to be found.)

Also, in terms of public image and respect, I highly doubt that the existence of terms like "witchy" and "baby witch" will make much difference in the minds of people and parties who would never respect our community or take it seriously anyway. If hundreds of books published by respected scholars and and religious recognition by the state couldn't make them take witches seriously, nothing will.

And on that note, let's move on to Wicca.

Gerald Gardner was not solely responsible for the creation of Wicca. He died before its' official inception and others who had been in his circle took up the movement. One might mention such notables as Doreen Valiente, who we have to thank for MUCH of what constituted the roots of Wicca in its' first officially incorporated iteration. Furthermore, the religion hasn't even been around for a full century and yet it has already evolved enough to have its' first schism and has changed with the times more readily than some other religions I could name.

To say that no one should practice Wicca because people involved in its' creation and evolution have been problematic is like saying that no one should be a Christian because of the Crusades. I'm not sure how the broader public is expected to treat the witchcraft community with seriousness and respect when some of us can't even seem muster the maturity to respect other witches when it comes to differences of religion or relative levels of experience or commitment.

While I can respect and agree with your personal preference to not use certain terms or follow certain paths, I might suggest having more conversations with witches whose traditions differ from yours. You'd be surprised how much we can learn from each other when the need to be Right or Superior is left at the door in favor of open communication and understanding. And I speak as someone who has BEEN THERE. There are enough forces in the world seeking to divide us without our own judgmental tendencies or poor attitudes furthering the problem.

Anyway, thank you again for taking the time to respond (and to read this wall of text my brain spat out in response, I appreciate your forbearance). Best of luck on the path!

Witchcraft vocabulary I’m surprised is still used in 2025:

- Witchy

- Magick

- Energy

- Karma

- The Goddess™️

- G slur

- Baby witch

[jane-d-ankh-veos]

Some people aggressively tried to convince me that it's 100% canon that the Hexcore has its own malicious will and fully controls Viktor, and, well... usually I'm only glad when there is a wide variety of theories – I love exploring them and can peacefully ignore those I don't agree with – but I really can't stand this kind of arguing. Leave others some freedom to have their own interpretations, please...

So, why persuading me into adopting this one is a waste of time and effort: I don't like that it deprives him of responsibility and meaningfulness of personally taking it. The mage admitted that he had chosen a wrong way and attempted to set it right, and this is such an admirable rare strength. It's an important part of his character: staying true to his "in the pursuit of great, we failed to do good" and desires to lessen humanity's suffering, his intentions were always for the best, so he is able to consciously renounce evil when he sees that the consequences betray his ethics. This requires immence willpower and intelligence. His own. He isn't simply cleaning up some unruly magical orb's mess after being its puppet, he acts like a complex personality.

(Just imagine, for example, how boring BG3 would be if instead of its interesting vivid characters all the communication/flirting/teamwork was in fact happening only between their illithid tadpoles...)

Even the original Machine Herald, despite being devoted to the Glorious Evolution for a longer time and certainly not going to abandon it, is also capable of genuine self-introspection and honest abidance by what he thinks is right. (My precious ironclad cinnamon roll ❤️)

As for the argument that the Hexcore recoiled from him in S1 like a living creature, even our own world's nature has a lot of things that can react to a potential threat without necessarily having sentience. Some of them can even learn and distinguish:

What I could somewhat accept is the version that the Hexcore was given life by his blood. If its alleged independent mind is a direct creation and part of Viktor himself, then at least it's more logical than appearing from nowhere (or from the Void that is almost a whole continent away and would have already destroyed Piltover and Zaun long before these experiments if it was somehow involved), has actual on-screen basis and doesn't take away his responsibility so entirely.

Anyway, even after their fusion, there are so many scenes clearly showing that it's still this same Viktor who speaks, watches and makes decisions:

Or his monologue at the end of S2's sixth episode. The character himself explains his reasons, that's why I don't get those saying that there were none so the eldritch influence can be the only possible explanation.

Speaking of which, I do get his logic in some of my own personal ways. The heavy burden of empathy... The constant frustration... The feeling that only some near-impossible universal change would be able to make things better because life is so fundamentally injust and so tragically vulnerable to evil/violence/illness/death/pain... But this would require a whole another post, I'm afraid, and would be highly subjective.

What I see as actual villainizing influence is his own despair. First he had already been about to take his life, then he was horribly killed within an arm's reach of achieving a better future for Zaun, then his hopeful commune was destroyed, a close friend/lover shot him, etc... Anyone in his place would run out of patience to act rationally and nicely, so I understand and forgive him wholeheartedly.

[velvetvexations]

Headaches.

I'm not doing that, they're not doing that, and your blog is exponentially bigger than mine. You're picking a fight with someone who is not on your level because you have a massive victimization complex and crave a villain, and you started by accusing a trans woman of not really being a trans woman and compared her identity to an attack helicopter joke. You specifically implied I was transmasc, which was even more explicitly transmisogynistic because you were literally calling me a man pretending to be a woman.

I know that might be a little hard for you to understand, since you think transmisogyny is when trans men have a character they relate to.

It's fundamentally a disingenuous offer because as I've noted you're a major and influential "transfeminist," and the times I've talked about you have been when other people have brought your widely disseminated bigotry directed at them to my inbox. I've pleaded with people to take this same offer because one could look and see that I only ever mentioned them in response to them mentioning me first, because they're just random people and not big names on this website.

Again, the size difference is important here. You can very easily not talk about me, so that's fine for you. Me swearing an oath to never speak thy name again would be locking me out of a significant chunk of transfeminism when half the terrible, bigoted ideas that are popular in Tumblr transfeminism come directly from you.

My blog is not responsible for you being "harassed." It simply isn't. I do not talk about you with any regularity whatsoever. Once again, for emphasis, you are an extremely popular blogger in the same sphere of activism that directly affects me as a trans woman and trans person in general. Sometimes you get a lot of people repeating your arguments that it's every trans woman's right to call other people slurs. Sometimes I hear about it. Fuck you.

Congratulations. This still could have been done in DMs, which I'd have thought you'd prefer if you actually thought me posting about you caused you any problems whatsoever. Clearly you're so scared of my followers that that instead of trying to get in touch with me privately you'd want it to all be public instead.

[saateco]

I found this post about Sokol very interesting, and I, as a person who really loves this character and, as it happens, is russian, would like to discuss this topic.

I in no way want to seem like I'm attacking or being negative in my post, I just want to express my point of view.

One of the reasons that a lot of people like him, especially from CIS, is that he plays very often on Russian stereotypes, showing off as an absolutely typical Russian dude who rides bears, drinks vodka, plays balalaika and such shit, еhe kind of thing that foreigners usually think about when they represent Russians. It’s even funny how smoothly it works in his case and how often it is taken seriously by others. TO BE A RUSSIAN ≠ CHARACTER TRAIT, no one likes looking at stuff only referred to stereotypes, in which the national affiliation of a character to a country should not somehow affect his perception as a person. The same applies to real people. Again, Sokol often pretends to be stereotypical Russian for his own gain, for example in his pager responses. This strategy does work (speaking as a Russian who has spoken to people around the world) just as well as it works in his case.    There is nothing strange in the fact that a person (russian person, since it is so important) combines sports interests and knowledge of some technical sciences. There were a lot of kids at my school who were professionally involved in sports and at the same time had deep knowledge of mathematics, physics, chemistry and computer science. For me personally, this is quite a common set, many guys are interested in sports and technical sciences, and I don't see anything strange in the fact that Sokol could build a BFD. Yes, he did it only once, and I can assume that it was ordered by Bain. It's not like he built some kind of flying thing that can read minds or control minds. It's just a drill, just really big. In fact, BFD is not a new invention that was completely developed from scratch and designed by Sokol. It fell on his shoulders to assemble this drill from a disassembled form. Potentially, if you have the drawings of the BFD in your hands, which are shown during the planning of the Golden Grand Casino, both Wolf and Houston and Chains could assemble it. Most likely, this robbery was his trial and the assembly was assigned to him as a “test task.” He doesn't show extraordinary engineering skills, which is why his dialogues aren't based on that, because it would just be pointless.

The description of Sokol consists of the fact that he is a talented robber, and not just a dumb Russian hockey player who only knows how to shoot and use brute force. “Despite his youth, Sokol has everything to become a legendary player. A gifted athlete, Sokol also has a sharp mind and understands his role in the team. He's fearless and physically strong, and he uses that to get to the enemy, whether it's a hockey team or special forces.”

He also engaged in robbery alone, and never caught the eye of the police until a certain point.

“Like Hoxton, Sokol began a life of crime at a fairly young age. By the time he was accepted into the gang, Sokol had already had many successful robberies of banks and casinos.”

Bain invited him to join the gang, and Bain would not invite a man who is just a hockey player and does not represent anything else.

“Despite this, the Russian police surrounded him. Sokol eluded them, but knew that his time as an independent robber was coming to an end. Only one person had the resources and insight to identify him: Bane. Sokol was offered a place in the Payday gang and a ticket to Las Vegas for the robbery of his life."

What does communism have to do with it?????

“russian which means jacket wouldn't like him”

There was not a drop of negativity or hate in any of Jackett's remarks addressed to the Sokol. All of Jackett's remarks to Sokol are neutral. Besides, the Jacket from pd2 is not a Jacket from h&m, I don't see any reason for him to hate Russians. 

If the developers wanted to show that Jackett hates the Sokol, they would have added replicas to it, as they did in the case of Hoxton and Houston. There is an obvious mutual dislike between them, when, as in the case of Sokol and Jacket, Sokol is simply infuriated by the fact that Jackett communicates through a dictaphone.

Overall we wanted to say that every community will be better without harmful stereotypes, since it’s making real people's life worse tbh (at least me and a lot of my friends had a bad experience in different shapes and forms with those stereotype stuff)

sokol is a fucking hilarious character

the purpose he serves as a character in payday 2’s story is so fucking funny his skillset is so god damn funny. but like. not even unrealistic

he has so many gimmicks

hes relevant for three seconds in the grand scheme of the payday story

hes.. russian. he is a professional hockey player. he- he can. build. shed-sized laser cutting drills

why can he do that who let him do that

he never mentions his engineering prowess in any of his voice lines (iirc)

he just. can do that

it gives someone with adhd taking their adderall for the first time and it kicking in right as theyre browsing the wikipedia article for nuclear fission and next thing they know theyre wanted by the fbi

its not like its unrealistic for people to have more than one interest but its just so funny how unrelated and irrelevant sokols engineering knowledge seems when put next to everything else about him. especially since theres already other characters who fill the role of awesome engineer dude already

houston isnt THE engineer but hes the mechanic and wolf literally has his own workshop

sokol made. the fucking bfd.

and his primary character trait isnt even that

its communism

his engineering smarts are like the last thing anyone remembers about his personality and it is the reason in lore why he is in the payday gang

sokols attributes in the order most often noticed by people who get into this game

russian

hockey

russian which means jacket wouldnt like him

burgers

prison nightmare voice lines

HE MADE THE FUCKING BFD..

THE BFD!!

[altruistic-meme]

oph, hey anxiety ✌️

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[soft-serve-soymilk]

More random head children musings (aside from the really sad one because that deserves better than a throwaway post):

Honestly I think it’s very fortunate that Dism’s team isn’t *entirely* comprised of lucid dreamers.

[jammmbi]

god i need therapy and to move out

[halfricanloveyou]

sorry for subjecting my dear beloved mutuals to reading the words and opinions of a bunch of very stupid dudes who don’t know how to read but do know how to talk a lot.

got sorta fed up with being talked at all the time constantly with no ability to say what i actually think all the time so i actually did it for once until i felt better.

[nezuscribe]

you try not to get jealous. it does you no good. but sometimes you get a little miffed when it comes to how women treat your husband, arranged!gojo.

you see how the women giggle at him, how they bite their lips whenever he walks by. you see them giggle to each other, the way they try to catch his attention.

and though most ladies of the high society act this way, some of the servants around the estate, the women of the town, and others behave like this too.

they act as if he’s not married, as if that ring on his hand is purely for decoration. and sure, maybe a couple months ago it was for show but now things have changed and you don’t appreciate those ladies all that much.

and gojo notices.

he knows you’re getting better at talking to him about what ails you, but he also knows that it’s a a lot to get used to at once. he sees the way you tense up at their whispers, the glares you throw their way when you hear his name in their conversation. he understands because he’s the same as you, his feelings mirroring yours.

so he decides to comfort your worries a bit indirectly.

“what…” you whip your head around as gojo stops at a random spot in one of the hallways, taking you away from your tea time with shoko as he fails to give any explanation for his hurried responses, “what are you doing? you have that meeting with your counsel and-”

“missed you,” is all he’s able to say as he slams his lips onto yours, earning a surprised yelp in response.

your back hits against the stone wall, one of his hands against your head to protect it from bumping back as your gasp in surprise, letting him slide his tongue in your mouth as he sloppily kisses your lips.

“satoru, w-wait,” you try to stop yourself from whining out loud, your fingers cuing into his artic strands as his hands move down to hold your waist, “it’s daytime, p-people, people can come…” you can’t speak anymore because he doesn’t let you, lips slotting against each others as your eyes screw shut, heartbeat in your throat as he hands squeeze as your skin.

“i missed you,” he just repeats, nipping slightly at your bottom lip as you mewl, feeling his lips trail down your chin to your throat as you tilt you head upwards to give him a better angle.

you almost want to laugh because it’s only been hours since you’ve seen each other, but for gojo it feels like days since he’s seen you.

you peek slightly too look at him, see the way his lips attack your skin, sucking and biting, surely leaving marks as he makes his way down. you love the way his hair is slightly wavy, most likely from his bath after sparring.

you’re almost too intoxicated from his feverish kisses to notice the sounds of incoming footsteps, but the loud overbearing giggles is what pulls you back to reality.

you tense up, scrambling to push him away from you but he won’t budge. if anything, he seems to be motivated, moving back up to your lips to steal your words away.

“t-there’s people coming!” you try to warn him but he doesn’t seem to care, his blue eyes gleaming with a different look as your whine from one of his hands moving upwards to your chest, giving one of your breasts a light squeeze.

“so?” he murmurs, lips hovering against the corners of yours as his brow cocks upwards.

you go to say something else but he tilts your chin upwards to meet him, one hand balancing on the wall behind you, one on your hip, his hair messy from your fingers gripping at him.

you don’t feel like moving, too drunk off of him to even notice the ladies as they round the corner, not looking their way as you hear their squeals of shock, the way they try to hurriedly leave.

you glance slightly to the right as gojo moves back down to your neck to get a look at them, your fingers still tangled in his hair, one hand draped over his neck, squinting slightly as you remember their faces from last week, when you overheard them talking about your husband.

there’s a slight tilt in your lips as you hear their scrambled apologies, the way they try to leave as fast as they can. you try not to gloat too much in their looks of envy and jealousy.

and if you focused just enough, you could feel the smile on his lips.

“you missed me?” you ask a little breathless, a coy tilt to your voice.

“so much,” he mumbles as he glances up at you from his white lashes, his pupils blown wide, lips messy with spit, red and swollen as he presses a slopping kiss to the slight skin showing of your chest.

“you’re so immature,” you chide, trying to look away, the hide the bashfulness in your face but his hand cups your jaw, pulling your face back down to see his.

“they had to see for themselves,” he tells you, his voice wavering on something darker, “had to see who the only lady gojo is.”

and you smile, eyes a little hazy as your fingers slightly tug on his soft strands, reveling in the way his eyes roll back and his lips find their way back up to yours.

yeah jealousy wasn’t the best. but thank the gods your husband was just as petty as you.

[anyonghalimaw]

i rlly do not think white global northerners understand how fucking bad the anti sinovac psyop was in context of the philippines and other targeted countries being from the global south, with a history of economic and military intervention and destabilization by the usa specifically.

i live in the philippines and sinovac was the only available vaccine for MONTHS of the pandemic. people were fucking dying and we had no pfizer, no j&j, no astrazeneca, no moderna. sinovac was the ONLY vaccine supply we had. and the supply wasnt even enough for even my small city. we do not have the infrastructure to manufacture our own vaccines and tests. we were entirely reliant on imports from other countries who Did have the capacity to manufacture such things

i got up early for several days straight to go to a pop up walk in vaccination site (were talking there by 7:30am) set up in a fucking public basketball court because it was the only way to get vaccinated, and 3 times i had to go back empty handed so to speak after exposing myself to this massive opportunity for transmission because they fucking ran out of shots and prioritized the elderly and disabled and i didnt have my legal pwd (person with disability) card yet. i had to go to a different barangay (local unit of government) to get my shot MONTHS LATER and only got mine because one of my family was in the local govt and reserved some shots for us.

many filipinos use facebook which is where some of the psyop was conducted because you can use it for free on your phone and it is often where news is disseminated. i know we have that joke about People Believing Anything They See On Facebook but i cannot stress enough that people here get local news from fb the same way you (used to) get news from twitter about shit like localized emergencies and whatnot.

because we are third world, you know that the state of our education system is nothing compared to the states. media and news literacy here is dangerously low and the population is sensitive to mis/disinformation, as can be seen during the 2022 presidential elections where the usa Also interfered lol. i cannot stress enough how much of the population was susceptible to this psyop, especially those in poverty who couldnt afford proper education. hell, even educated people fell for this shit. do you think jhunjhun who didnt finish grade 6 would be able to identify disguised foreign intervention that was in his own language?

we were already recovering from public scrutiny of a different vaccine, a dengue vaccine, which lowered public trust in inoculation. and then the usa goes and does THIS??? i cannot emphasize enough that they are directly responsible for the tens and thousands of unvaccinated covid deaths. they are responsible for my friends having to bury their unvaxxed parents and grandparents at the age of 19. they are responsible for mass death and disability.

but were just a country in the periphery. so who cares about us? our lives are worthless to the usa, which is why they admitted that they did this when they would otherwise "never" to their own population. third worlders arent real people to your government. we are merely statistics and a petri dish for experimentation. so who cares if we die? the real important thing isnt our lives, its that the usa has more control over us than china.

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: your boyfriend comes to pick you after a long day at uni. sensing your jealousy about the attention he’s getting from your classmates, he makes it up to you in his own way.

tags. olderbf!gojo x female reader. fluff, tiny bit of angst, suggestive [make out sesh]. age gap — reader above 20, gojo early 30’s. jealousy. reader gets called ‘princess, baby, beautiful.’ not proof read !

satoru’s arrival, as per usual, serves as pure entertainment for many students. it’s not often that they get to see such a tall and handsome man around campus after all.

you patiently stand there, waiting for that said man to come and get you. the increase in giggles and whispers around you can only mean one thing: he’s nearby.

your boyfriend’s car comes to a stop in the distance. satoru steps out of the driver’s seat a second later, one of his hands running through his fluffy, snowy hair.

‘. . damn, he’s fucking hot,’ ‘yep. heard he’s in a relationship though. sucks,’ ‘girl— do i look like i care? need him so baaaaddd.’

it’s infuriating to hear those words while you - his girlfriend - are standing close to them. you decide not to give those girls any attention nor do you try to speak up. it’s not worth the effort.

satoru closes the car door behind him, his hands in the pockets of his slacks while he strolls up to where you’re standing. it’s as if he’s walking down a runway - graceful, confident, every step executed with perfect balance.

he can hear the murmurs from the students around, but he simply does not care. his steady gaze has been fixed on you the moment he spotted your figure from across campus.

“cute,” satoru mutters under his breath with a small smile, blue eyes taking in the sight of you standing there against a wall. the way you’re fiddling with the strap of your bag while pretending not to have noticed him is quite endearing.

you look down at the ground until a pair of black oxfords come into view, stopping right in front of yours. you slowly tilt your head back until you’re face to face with the man himself.

“hey, beautiful,” satoru greets, his voice smooth and slightly deep, a faint smirk playing on his lips. his knuckles brush against your cheek whilst he admires your every feature, acting as if he hasn’t seen you in days.

you nod in response, whispering a small ‘hi’ before your eyes dart around campus again. your bottom lip pushes forward just a tiny bit to form a small pout.

. . and there it is; satoru knows that look in your eyes like the back of his hand. he’s seen that same pout before, along with the hint of jealousy lurking behind your gaze that you try so hard to hide.

he understands why you’re feeling that way.

the other girls on campus, the way they ogle him and whisper, it would make any woman insecure. but to him, there was no need for that. satoru is yours, and he’s made that known to every single soul around you a million times before.

perhaps they need to be reminded once more.

satoru wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, his touch gentle and possessive. he can see how you’re trying to act normal, though he knows you way better than that.

the pad of his thumb rubs small circles into your hip as your lover leans in and speaks in a low yet intimate voice that only you get to hear, “oh? look at you, acting all tough with your little pout.”

“tell me. what’s up, princess?” satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ticklish skin. he lowers his head to your face and plants a small kiss on your nose, gaining a mix of delighted yet irritated whispers of the people around you.

“usually you jump right into my arms after seeing me— y’know, like a lil’ bunny,” the white-haired man starts sulking as well, pressing your body flush against his. “where’s my cute ‘n clingy babyyyy?”

satoru’s over-exaggerated whine makes your nose scrunch up, though you can’t deny the truth. he knows you better than you know yourself. he can see right through your attempt to disguise your jealousy, yet you’re still too stubborn to admit anything.

“whatever. come on,” you roll your eyes before grabbing his arm and tugging him forward. you want nothing more than to escape your surroundings. you’re getting tired of the continuous and unwanted attention satoru is getting.

it’s irksome. you know satoru doesn’t give them the attention they so desire - he never will - yet you still feel this pang in your chest whenever you see those girls shamelessly ogling your boyfriend.

satoru, being naturally observant, notices your sudden eagerness to leave campus. he can tell that your jealousy is growing worse because of the other students that keep on eyeing him. while he is used to the attention, he hates seeing it affect you.

the whispers and giggles from the other women are like white noise, insignificant background fodder that barely warranted his notice. you’re all he sees and listens to— no matter what.

your presence, your voice, your body, your soul. . . you’re the only one he cares about. he just wishes you’d realise that.

satoru wordlessly allows himself to be dragged off. his gaze is fixated on the back of your head, a mixture of amusement and worry glinting in those blue eyes of his. he can’t help but feel guilty. even if he didn’t really do anything wrong.

he wants to make it up to you, somehow.

once you reach the car, satoru gently shoos your hand away from the door handle the moment he catches you try to get in yourself. he reaches around you and pulls it open with a soft ‘click’.

satoru then surprises you by kissing your forehead— his free hand coming up to cup the back of your head. his fingers bury themselves in your hair. a subtle smirk tugs at his glossy lips as he senses the envious glares from the other, irrelevant onlookers.

that’s exactly what he’s trying to accomplish. to make it known to the world that he’s your man. he’ll gladly do it over and over again, until all of them finally take the hint.

“ladies first,” satoru gestures, his voice gentle and loving. he pulls back and smiles at you with his dimples showing. you’re slightly taken aback by the smooth gesture before thanking him in a small murmur.

“thank you.”

it’s silent for a good couple seconds after satoru gets into the driver’s seat. he settles his keys into the ignition switch, though doesn’t turn them. instead, he faces you with a small sigh.

your lover already recognises what’s up. you probably won’t talk to him until the jealousy subsides. but that isn’t how he wants to fix this situation— he wants you to communicate with him.

“hey,” satoru tries to get you to look at him. your body is slightly turned away, your eyes looking out of the car window. it’s painfully obvious that you’re upset with him, even when it isn’t specifically his fault.

“don’t hide from me, c’mon,” he chuckles and tries to make you feel better by bringing your hand up to his lips. satoru leaves small kisses on your palm, eyes peering over the rims of his sunglasses to gauge your reaction.

you still don’t turn to face him. you’re too caught up in your own feelings— too stubborn to talk about the jealousy and insecurities that are bugging you. you know it’s unfair to your partner, but you currently can’t fix your own emotions.

sensing your insistent reluctance to face him, satoru places his hand gently under your chin. his fingers curl around your jaw and gently guide your gaze to meet his. the sight of your downcast expression - plagued with insecurity - tugs on his heartstrings.

“oh, my sweet little baby,” the white-haired man sighs once more.

without another word, the gap between you quickly closes as satoru leans in, his lips meeting yours in a firm but soft kiss. a soft gasp escapes your lips at the suddenness of his kiss, but the tension in your shoulders slowly starts to dissappear as you melt into his embrace.

the touch of his calloused fingers on your jaw is a wordless command you cannot resist. the kiss is a silent form of reassurance, a way for him to remind you of his feelings for you.

his want and need for you.

satoru can nearly taste the jealousy etched into your initial resistance, which he seeks to silence with his touch. thus, he deepens the kiss with renewed vigor. his free hand cups the back of your head and gently tilts it upwards to gain a better angle.

“mh. sweet,” satoru’s tongue swipes over your bottom lip. he eagerly swallows the faint taste of candy that you had eaten earlier. his tongue delves into your mouth the moment your lips make way, memorising every part of it.

he doesn’t let go of you until you’re both breathless. the sorcerer pulls back, though keeps the distance between your lips at a minimum. his cheeks are painted a soft pink, eyes half lidded and lips even glossier with your saliva now coating them.

“haah— fuck,” satoru catches his breath while his free hand rubs up and down your waist. he resists the urge to pull you into his lap and ravage you right then and there. he’ll leave that for when you’re home.

his gaze is on your parted lips once more. he simply cannot hold himself back from leaning in. his body moves closer to yours, caging you in between him and the passenger seat.

“i’m all yours,” satoru murmurs against your soft lips. he cups your face as he places a quick peck on your mouth. “only yours,” another chaste kiss causes your smile to find its way back onto your face. “don’t you forget,” and a third kiss finally makes you giggle.

your lover hums in satisfaction. he nuzzles his nose against yours, grinning widely as he successfully managed to coax the jealousy away— to gain his beautiful, happy girlfriend back. “there she is,” satoru coos and squeezes your cheeks together.

you huff at the feeling of your lips forced into a deformed ‘o’ shape, yet the bright smile tugging at your lips doesn’t disappear. “sorry for acting so childish,” you apologise for your own behavior. if it wasn’t for satoru taking the initiative to make it up to you, you would have given him the silent treatment.

the white-haired man shakes his head. he ruffles your hair affectionately while his lips settle on your cheek. he tenderly nibbles on the plush flesh, “no need to apologise. ‘t was cute,” he replies in a muffled voice.

satoru pulls back and his thumb brushes over the subtle mark that his teeth left on your skin. “besides,” he pinches your cheek before cocking his head to the right. your eyes follow the direction he’s looking at— which is your car window.

“i think everyone finally realised that y’re the one ‘n only girl for me.”

your heart drops as you only then remember that satoru’s car windows aren’t tinted. that means that everyone on campus probably has seen the little make out session you had with your boyfriend just now.

your eyes quickly dart around the crowded area. the way your fellow students are glancing at you - some with envy and others with embarrassment - tells you more than enough. . .

you clear your throat and try to hide your face with the sleeves of your top. you don’t know how you’re going back to university after today without facing the humiliating consequences of your (satoru’s) actions.

your shameless boyfriend sits there and grins from ear to ear, proud of his accomplishment and oblivious to your embarrassed state until you speak up again;

“. . satoru, please drive away as fast as you can.”