#the button is never where you want it to be

[botanicsoul]

Oh jussst thinking of virgin bkg losing it to virgin fem reader when they’re like 19 sighhhh

Learning Curve

(aged up)Virgin!Bakugou Katsuki x (fem)Virgin!Reader

⸻

I had way too much fun writing this—honestly, I feel like Bakugou would kinda be just as awkward (and ofc cocky!) as anyone else during their first time. Alsooooo, not to be dramatic, but your “Sound it Out” fluff fic of Bakugou is easily in my top 10 favorite reads ever on Tumblr. So, consider this a big thank-you and a love letter from one writer to another. Hope you enjoy it, babe!🩷

ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍࿔̥̊ ི༘𑁍

The movie had ended who knows how long ago. Neither of you had noticed.

You were straddling him now, perched on his lap with flushed cheeks and swollen lips, his hands roaming your waist like he didn’t know where to land—like touching you too fast might break something.

Bakugou’s breath was heavy, controlled, too controlled, as his lips kissed along your jaw, your neck, then lower. His touch was reverent—slow drags of fingers, warm presses of lips. Like he was working through a checklist.

You let him trail down your sternum, his mouth ghosting the edge of your bra, but your hands slid into his hair and pulled him back up.

His eyes widened. “What—did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head, forehead resting against his. “You’re doing everything right.” Your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, tugging it up his sides and taking it off over his head. “But I don’t want slow right now.”

He blinked at you, throat bobbing. “You sure?”

Bakugou pulled back just a little, panting against your skin, eyes darting between your mouth and your body beneath his. “You don’t want me to… use my fingers? Or—fuck—I could go down on you if you want?.”

“No…I want you, Katsuki, I’m ready” you whispered, pressing your hips down against his, grinding just enough to make him groan. “I need you. Right now.”

A sound ripped from his chest—half growl, half disbelief. “Fuckin… finally.” He surged up to kiss you, all the control he’d been clinging to unraveling in an instant. His hands gripped your thighs, then your ass, dragging you against him like he couldn’t get close enough.

Still, under all that heat, you felt it—the tension in his body, the slight stutter in his movements. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“You haven’t…right?” you asked, voice softer now.

He shook his head once. “No. You?”

You nodded. “No.”

His jaw flexed, chest heaving. “Shit,” he muttered, then looked at you again, voice quieter. “Tch… first time or not, I’m still gonna blow your fuckin’ mind. Bet on it.” You giggled and felt your heart clenched—warmth and want tangled together. You kissed him, fingers sliding under the waistband of his shorts.

He let out a shaky breath. “You think this is funny? Wait ‘til I’ve got you whining under me.” He laughed—breathless, nervous—but his eyes burned with something deeper.

“Tell me what feels good,” you whispered, dragging your nails down his abs, where his shirt had been tossed somewhere behind the couch. “Or I can just… keep going until you explode.”

“I’m already about to fuckin’ explode,” Bakugou growled, voice tight. “Been hard since you sat in my fuckin’ lap like you knew what you were doin’.” You smirked, rubbing your hips just slightly over his, and his entire body jerked.

“Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Okay. Yeah. No more games. Off. Now.”

the moment you get off— he’s gets on. He was already tugging at your shorts with hands that were almost confident, but you could feel the hesitation in the way his fingers struggled with the button, like he was trying to be smooth and failing miserably.

The moment he stripped you down he got up to take his pants off, you giggled at the poor boy when he accidentally got his foot caught in his shorts and nearly fell off the couch.

“You’re never fuckin’ bringing this up again,” he growled, face scarlet as he kicked the shorts halfway across the room.

“Oh, I’m absolutely bringing it up on our wedding day.”

Your stomach did flips seeing his dick bob out. Then you brought your hand up brushing his thigh, his cock twitched, and all jokes disappeared real fast.

“…Shit. Y-you’re fuckin’ beautiful, y’know that?” You smiled, guiding his hand to touch you this time. “You gonna be gentle with me suki?.” you moan out grinding into his fingers.

He let out a groan shaking his head, “I’ll be gentle—’til you start beggin’ me not to be.”

He removed his fingers you were using and quickly tried to get the condom—well…fought with it, really, like it had declared war. You tried to help, but both of you were laughing too hard. He finally got it—fingers trembling slightly as he tore the condom open, then rolled it down over himself with shaky focus. He kissed you again, messier this time, all tongue and want, hips grinding into yours like he couldn’t wait a second longer, his cock slipping between your wet folds giving your clit a good tease before he fumbled between your thighs, trying to line himself up, but his aim was off—too frantic, too eager. You reached down, wrapping your hand around him to help guide him, and his whole body jolted.

“Fuckfuckfuck—I-I’m not gonna last if you keep touching me like that—” He blushed so hard you thought his face might combust. When he finally pushed inside you—slow, deep, careful—you swore you saw stars behind your eyelids.

“Shit, you’re tighter than I thought—wait, is it supposed to feel like this?”

“It’s fine, Katsuki, you’re just big.”

It stung a little. You both hissed and clutched each other, moving slow, breath trembling, trying to find a rhythm that didn’t feel completely ridiculous. Then he angled just right. Hit just right. And you moaned his name so pretty, “Sukiiiii—.” he damn near blacked out.

His hips stuttered as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath ragged and hot against your skin. “I’m tryin’ to be gentle baby,” he gritted out, voice nearly breaking with restraint, “but you’re makin’ it real hard.” His fingers dug into your waist like he was holding on for dear life, every inch of him trembling with the effort not to lose control. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat. “Not that I’d ever fuckin’ let ‘em try.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, trembling as you tilted your head back. Fingers tangling in his hair, you gasped out, “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop… don’t be gentle, Suki.”

He froze for a split second, eyes darkening with a mixture of shock and desire. Then, his grip on you tightened, his breath hot against your ear.

“You sure about that?” he asked, voice rough and strained, but you could feel the edge of something darker creeping through his tone.

You nodded desperately, pulling him closer as you whispered, “Yes baby please”

That was all it took. A growl escaped his throat, low and feral, before he flipped you onto your back with an unexpected, almost brutal force. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, and there was no trace of the hesitant Bakugou from moments before.

“You’re gonna take me, and you’re gonna love it,” he spat, his voice laced with raw need. He didn’t wait for an answer—his lips crashed down onto yours in a bruising kiss, his hands rough as they gripped your hips, forcing your body against his in a way that made you gasp.

His movements were fast, almost too fast—his thrusts hard, relentless, pushing you deeper into the sheets as he gave in to his instincts. Each rough move sent a shock of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but moan, gripping the bed tight.

“Shit, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, voice raw with pleasure as he buried his face in your neck. “You wanted this, right? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Make you mine?”

His movements were fast, almost too fast—his thrusts hard, relentless, pushing you deeper into the sheets as he gave in to his instincts. Each rough move sent a shock of heat through you, and you couldn’t help but moan out in pure desperation.

“YES, GOD, PLEASE,” you moaned, exaggerating the desperation in your voice, your back arching up to meet him as you gripped his shoulders, your nails digging in.

“PLEASE, SUKI, DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”

His pace didn’t slow. You felt every inch of him, each thrust a mix of hunger and possession. The sounds of skin slapping, your breathless moans, and his groans filled the room, and it was all you could focus on. Bakugou wasn’t holding back anymore. Neither were you.

Every thrust was like a discovery. Every sound made both of you twitch, cursing between groans, and you held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

And when you both finally came—breathless and shaking. You were both a mess—sweaty, tangled in each other like you’d been through something way bigger than just your first time. Bakugou was still on top of you, face buried in your neck, trying to catch his breath.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, voice rough and low, still catching his breath. His forehead rested against yours, sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

You smiled, dazed, your fingertips brushing over his shoulder. “You good?”

He huffed a laugh—barely. “Yeah. Just didn’t think it’d feel that fuckin’ good.”

You tilted your head, teasing gently, “What, exceeded expectations?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, that cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite how wrecked he looked. “Nah. You ruined me.”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped again, gravelly and full of promise. “Next time, I’m not holdin’ back.”

You stared up at him, chest still rising and falling, lips parted. “No fucking way... What the hell does not holding back look like—hospitalization?”

His eyes darkened. “Sweetheart, I was on my best fuckin’ behavior.”

You couldn’t help but shiver under the weight of that promise. He leaned in, kissed you slow and deep, then murmured against your lips, “Next round, I’m gonna make sure you can’t even walk straight.”

You grinned and rolled your eyes, fingers tugging his hair just enough to make him grunt. “I’ll hold you to that.”

[shenanigarson]

It's even worse when you consider that anything can be an ad. Anything.

The clothes on your back? Branded. (Usually aggressively). Think about your jeans. Notice the patch on the waistband? Or your average t-shirt. Unless you go out of your way to consistently wear bland solid colored shirts- there's almost always a pattern or graphic on there. Usually said graphic is a popular brand name, logo, or a character of sorts.

Talking about media you love? Yeah babe, that's free advertising for said media. Games, movies, TV, even musical theater, They didn't pay you to talk about it, but you'll yap anyway because you love it. They love that shit. Word of mouth is just another way of saying "free advertising"

For those of us that partake- weapons. (Yeah. Weapons.) Usually have the maker's name plastered EVERYWHERE. I get it helps for maintenance reasons, but you don't need the name slapped on there 5 or 6 different places. I've seen archery sets where the brand name is labeled all up and down the curve of the bow, the wrist strap, the arrows, and on the carrying case. Not very discreet. Like at all.

Your devices also have the brand somewhere on them. And in some countries- a service provider will have an animation in your startup screen. Every time you turn the device on. Even if you have a case on it, the case is most likely branded too, unless it's mass market dropshipped, or custom made- but that's a whole other can of worms for another day.

Oh babey speaking of devices- STICKERS. Sometimes a new device will come with branded stickers. Half the time they end up in the trash anyway, but they still include the stickers in the packaging. They want you to plaster your shit with their name so you can advertise for them. You paid them, for you to advertise about them.

Ads for the same brand will appear in your own device. There's no way to turn it off. Just today I got an ad in my notifications from the brand my phone was made by. Guess what? It was for their newest model. Funny how that works.

On this silly goofy fandom discourse hellsite- it's especially prevalent. Fandom is inherently advertising. fics, cosplay, fanart, discussions, music, all of it. But do we notice or talk about it? Nope. Because we genuinely care about The Things We Like™

I personally bought the premium service for a certain play button shaped video platform back in 2019- and I still pay for it today despite the price tag for watching without interruptions. Why? imagine you're absolutely vibing to one of your all time favorite playlists, finally a chance to relax and be chill for a bit after a long day where all you wanted to do was just listen to your music and zone out, mayhaps even some delicious maladaptive daydreaming- or a new video from someone you like just released and you want to watch it when out of nowhere in the middle of their sentence;

"DIAPERS FOR THE BABY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA HAVE! PILLS WITH SIDE EFFECTS THAT'LL DEFINITELY KILL YOU! VOTE FOR [Politician]! KEEP [Politician] OUT OF OFFICE! A CAR YOU'LL NEVER AFFORD! A PRODUCT YOU'LL NEVER WANT TO SEE AGAIN AFTER WE SHOW IT TO YOU 50 TIMES!"

etc...etc...

you can't tell me that whatever good mood you might have been in wouldn't be absolutely destroyed and beaten over the head with a stick by the time whatever was interrupted came back.

(also the fact that commercials are always louder than the actual thing you wanted to watch, thus forcing you to listen to them unless you mute it, but again- a conversation for another day.)

OP is right. You can't turn two inches without an ad slapping you in the face and obnoxiously asking (or even demanding) your money. The Corporations™ have us all under their thumbs and won't let us up.

Something so profoundly fucked up between the inverse ratio of shrinking middle class and ever increasing aggression of advertisement

[astars-things]

Puppy surprise

Summary- you surprise Lando with a puppy

(This was meant to be a short blurb but turned into 1.5k words)

When your whole TikTok and Instagram page was full of just puppies and dogs, you knew it was a sign. You had been in contact with a golden retriever dog breeder for a while now, and when she messaged you saying that there was a puppy available, you knew you couldn't pass up the opportunity. 

So while Max and Lando were streaming together, you and Pietra went on a 'girls day', but really you two were picking up a puppy and supplies.  Lando had no idea what was coming. You walked into his streaming room just as the boys were loading into their game. Max spotted you first and grinned through the webcam. "Oi oi, look who it is!"

"Hey babe, I'm heading out", you said, standing by the door of his gaming room "Okay, love, have fun, be safe. I love you," Lando cooed, taking off his headset and standing up to give you a kiss "I love you too," you murmured into his lips. You grabbed your phone and wallet, and grabbed your set of keys before making your way down to the parking garage

You were nervous about Landos' reaction, but you both have been talking about getting a fur baby for a while now, but it was never the right time until now. It was a two-hour drive to the lady's house, and you and Pietra did a car karaoke session, which helped calm your nerves. You made sure to get cash out before arriving.  

When you finally arrive, the breeder leads you into a sunlit backyard where a few playful golden retriever puppies tumble around. "Ready to become a dog mom?" Pietra beams. "As I’ll ever be." You whispered back But the moment your eyes land on him, you know. He’s clumsy, soft, and the tiniest bit fluffier than the rest, stumbling over his own paws and flopping into a pile of grass like it’s a mattress. 

You kneel down, and he immediately waddles over and begins chewing on your shoelaces. "This is the one,"  you whisper to Pietra, and she just smiles knowingly. You had already withdrawn the cash, so within ten minutes, the paperwork’s done, the leash is clipped on, and your heart is pounding with joy and nerves all over again. You wanted Landos' input on his name, so for right now, you and Pietra just went with 'bubs' 

You handed Pietra your car keys, you sat in the passenger seat with bubs in your lap on top of a puppy pee pad just incase he had any accidents, Pietra sat in the drivers seat, eyes on the road but at every stop light she would quickly glance down at the puppy you were holding. You made a quick stop on the way home to pick up food, toys and everything you need for a puppy, you made sure to use your card so Lando doesn't get suspicious as to why his card was used at a pet shop. 

As you were about 20 minutes away from the apartment, Lando started calling you, because your phone was connected to the car, so his contact name came up on the screen. You and Pietra immediately turned to each other, eyes wide like two teenagers caught sneaking out past curfew. "Oh no," she whispered. "Abort mission?"

"Nope, too late," you muttered, reaching over and tapping the answer button on the steering wheel. If you ignored the call, he’d definitely get suspicious, and probably call again, or worse, track you down on Find My iPhone.

"Hey Love" Lando said his voice now filling the car smooth and casual, but you could hear the faint clatter of buttons in the background, he was still streaming. "You good? You’ve been gone for a while. Thought spa days were supposed to be relaxing, not five hours long." You glanced down at your little fur baby in your lap who was now chewing on the sleeve of your hoodie 

"Hey, babe," you replied, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Yeah, it’s been a long day. We, uh, got a little sidetracked. You know, typical girls’ day." Pietra bit her lip to keep from laughing. There was a pause. You could hear Max in the background saying something about "Lando’s in his clingy boyfriend era," followed by the sound of Lando swatting him or chucking something in retaliation.

"Just checking," Lando said eventually, and you could tell he was trying not to sound too clingy. "I miss you." Your heart softened. God, you hoped he was ready for this. "I miss you too," you said, scratching behind Bubs ears as he settled against your chest. "We’ll be home soon, okay?" "Okay. I’ll probably still be on stream when you get back," Lando said. "So just come say hi when you’re in." You smiled. "Will do. Love you."

"Love you more." You ended the call and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Pietra immediately turned to you, eyes wide. "Okay, that was close," she said. You laughed and nodded your head, once you got the street of the apartment you quickly swapped spots with Pietra as she didn't trust herself parking your car next to Landos very expensive car collection 

"You giving anutie kisses baby" you cooed grinning as his tiny tail wagged so hard it looked like it might fall off. Pietra giggled, tilting her head so he could get her jawline too. "I can’t believe how obsessed I already am with him. We’re gonna need a group custody agreement." You gently pulled the car into the garage, carefully navigating around Lando’s prized lineup of vehicles, holding your breath until you were safely parked in your usual spot. 

The second the engine turned off, Bub let out a soft yap, as if even he knew something big was about to happen. "Alright, little man," you whispered, scooping him up into your arms and placing a gentle kiss to the top of his fluffy head. "Time to meet your dad."

Pietra grabbed the bags from the backseat, whispering, "God, I feel like I’m in a heist movie." You glanced at her over your shoulder. "Yeah, and the priceless treasure is a six-pound ball of fluff." 

You made your way up to Landos apartment, your nervs growing more and more with ever step you took, you opened the door and heard yelling from the hallway which meant they were still on stream, you held your baby closed to your chest as you made your way to the streaming room 

"Alright bub lets go meet your dad and your crazy uncle" You whispered before giving him a kiss, Pietra was following behind you with you phone opened so that you could record the moment, "Hey" You said poking your head in the doorway making sure only your head was seen, Lando turned his chair towards you and gave you a small wave "Don’t be mad, but I need both of you to close your eyes." You let out, hoping not to sound suspicious 

Both of them blinked in confusion. Max raised an eyebrow while Lando sat up a little straighter, narrowing his eyes like he could sniff out trouble. "What did you do?" he asked suspiciously, one hand still on the keyboard  "Nothing bad," you replied with a tight smile. "Just please. Trust me." Lando glanced at Max, who just shrugged. "Might as well," Max muttered. "It’s always something with you two."

Reluctantly, both of them closed their eyes. You walked in the room now visible to the stream, you lifted one of bubs paws moving it up and down slightly to give chat a wave, you stepped closer to Lando gently placing the small bundle of fluff in his hands "You didn’t" Lando whispered, voice suddenly raw, His eyes snapped opened, He stared down at the golden retriever puppy in his hands, completely still except for the tiny tail wagging against his arm.

"Oh my god" Lando let out in pure shock, Max got the memo that he could open his eyes, and when he did his eyes fell onto the puppy that was now in Landos hold "OH MY GOD NO WAY" Max yelled in shock, Lando looked up at you, his eyes glassy, mouth hanging open. Lando was speechless, he looked down at the puppy, then at you and then back to the puppy 

"He doesn't have a name yet, I thought you would like to have the honor of naming our son" You beemed, you and Lando both fell into your own little bubble of different names and Lando telling you how much he loves you, while Max was incharge of reading out the chat which mainly consisted of "Omgs" "Lando looks like hes gonna cry" and "congratulations"  

"Welcome home, little man." Lando whispered 

Liked by @.georgerussell63 @.oscarpiastri and others

@.Y/n & @.Landonorris Welcome home, little man 🤍🐶

Tagged @.(you decide his name)

view comments

@.mclaren We’re proud to welcome our newest (and cutest) team member 🧡🐾

@.User I WAS WATCHING LIVE WHEN IT HAPPENED AND I SOBBED REAL TEARS

@.lewishamilton Welcome to the dog dad club, bro 🐶🤍

@.oscarpiastri so when are you bring him to the paddock?

→ @.Y/n soon don't you worry osc

@.maxfewtrell i am still recovering emotionally. Look at that dog. LOOK AT HIM.

@.F1 If he accidentally goes missing it wasn't us 🫣

→@.User admin is just saying what we are all thinking

please reblog and like 🫶

*I do not own these photos they were found on pinterest

[honeyncherry]

hi lexi! can i request a secret of us blurb where they attend a friend's wedding and joe realises he wants to marry reader 💕

love this concept and writing for them <3

part of the sou universe but can be read as a standalone

content fluff fluff fluff

જ⁀➴°⋆

Lily petals scatter underfoot like remnants of something too fragile to keep. Half-melted candles drip wax onto linen. The music spills from hidden speakers in soft, swelling waves, the kind that ache more than they entertain. Someone’s tie is undone. Someone’s aunt is crying. And Joe… Joe is standing just slightly removed from it all, drink in hand, breath held, watching you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because you’re not in the spotlight. You’re not the bride. You’re not even trying. But you’re glowing in a way that makes his stomach twist up like a rag being wrung dry. Your eyes shine when you laugh at something one of the groomsmen drunkenly rambles on about. You lean back in your chair like you belong there. Like you’ve never once thought about leaving. Like you’ve never once left him—even when you probably should have.

And God, he loves you for that. Even if he hasn’t outwardly said it. Even if he’s pretended it’s just history, just comfort, just a thousand shared memories knotted together with enough silence to keep it from unraveling.

He watches the bride feed her husband a bite of cake with shaking hands, watches the way her fingers tremble before they find the edge of his jaw, just to hold him steady. A touch that says, You are mine and I am yours and this has never been anything else.

The groom says something that makes her laugh, soft and breathy, and she tips her head forward like she needs a moment to recover. The kind of laugh that shakes her shoulders and touches her whole face.

And something in Joe twists.

Not out of jealousy, it’s not that he wants her, or even wants what they have in some general, surface-level way. It’s deeper than that. He feels it bounce around his mind like a question he doesn’t want to ask, a truth he’s been keeping in his mouth like a penny on his tongue.

Because he’s not the kind of guy who’s ever spent time picturing vows or tuxedos or first dances under fairy lights, but tonight, for whatever reason, it hits him how badly he wants it. Not the ceremony. Not the performance. Just the thing underneath it. The unspoken this is it kind of love. The ease of it.

And the worst part—the part that makes his chest feel too tight for the buttons of his shirt—is that he knows he wouldn’t want it with anyone but you.

Not now. Not ever.

And maybe that should scare him more than it does.

He thinks about you in flashes. Not just the big stuff like milestones and all but the small, blurry ones. You handing him a mug before you’ve even had your own coffee. You asleep on his shoulder on some plane to somewhere. You barefoot in the kitchen, spinning absently to whatever music was playing through the Alexa. You laughing at something he didn’t think was all that funny, but now it is, just because you’re the one laughing.

And suddenly, like the universe is done giving him space to lie to himself, you’re right in front of him, smiling like the night lives in your mouth. Cheeks flushed from champagne, hair a little wild from dancing, dress slightly askew at the shoulder. Your glass only half full, but your happiness pouring over.

You reach for him with one hand, curling your fingers into the lapel of his jacket. “There you are,” you say, slipping up to him with that easy familiarity that always undoes him. One hand slides up his chest, nails catching on the fabric as you lean in and kiss him, quick and sweet.

You pull back just far enough to look up at him, voice already lilting with laughter. “I’ve been telling people you ran off to elope with the open bar.”

He smiles, but his attention is locked on you—on the way your hair has started to fall out of whatever pins you stuck it up with. The faint smudge of mascara. How you still smell like the perfume he bought you last Christmas, soft and a little floral, but now it’s mixed with the heat of your skin and the crisp bite of champagne.

“You should’ve seen Marr,” you’re saying, laughing again as you loop one arm lazily around his waist. “He swore up and down he saw the groom practicing his vows in the parking lot. Like, full tux, pacing, sweating, whispering to himself like a psychopath.”

Joe’s not really listening. Not because he doesn’t care. But because you’re here. Laughing and rambling and slightly drunk and touching him like you always do, like you can’t not, and the only thing running through his head is I’m gonna remember this moment for the rest of my life.

“I asked him if he needed water,” you giggle, fingers tightening in the fabric of his jacket. “And he said—‘I’m fine, I just didn’t sleep well.’ Like, okay…”

You’re perfect. Not in the pristine, untouchable way he used to think perfection looked like. You’re messy and funny and a little too tipsy and absolutely glowing. You’re flushed and radiant, fingertips curling near his collar. You’re the girl who’s seen every version of him and you’re still here.

“Oh—and then when the officiant forgot the bride’s middle name. Which, I know, not that serious. But still…”

You’re not a fantasy. You’re not some idea of a person. You’re real, standing in front of him asking if his tie got messed up when you kissed him earlier, and all he can think is I want this forever.

Not the wedding. Not the party. You.

You giggle again, something about scribbled vows and how you’d absolutely choke under that kind of pressure, and Joe just stares. You’re glowing from the inside out, your voice soft and overflowing like it’s trying to keep up with your thoughts, and he’s smiling so hard it almost hurts.

“I wanna go to another wedding,” you say suddenly. “They’re so perfect and everyone is so happy, and I’m so happy. You’re so handsome. I love you in a suit.”

His whole chest feels like it’s cracking open under the weight of how much he loves you. You’re everything I want. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed. You’re mine. I want to keep you. I want to hold you in every version of this life we get. I want to watch you kick your shoes off at every party for the rest of our lives.

You look up at him again, gold-lit and wide-eyed like you suddenly noticed he hasn’t said much.

“What?”

He shakes his head, leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, voice rough with it. “You’re just—god, you’re beautiful.”

You grin at him, slow and drowsy and full of something quiet, then tip your head against his shoulder like standing upright was never really the point. He lets you settle there, lets your body lean fully into his, one arm slipping around your back without even thinking.

And just like that, it’s settled without panic or doubt. Just the quiet, steady truth of it.

He wants this. He wants you. Not for a season. Not for a stretch of years.

For infinity.

He wants to hear you ramble about how you’ll never be a bride who cries at her own wedding, and then cry anyway. Wants to watch you dance barefoot at your own reception, stealing bites off his plate between songs. He wants to see you in white, not because it’s tradition, but because you’ll make it look like magic. He wants to wake up next to you with a ring on your hand and call it a normal morning. He wants to sit beside you years from now, watching someone else’s vows, and hear you whisper, "Ours were better."

Joe Burrow wants to marry you.

[lookitsstevie]

i love your art style <333

i know it's been a little while since you posted but i check in every so often to see if there's anything new because you're just so talented and your art makes me happy

absolutely no pressure to post at all ever of course, but I wanted you to know that if/when you do (however far in the future that may be) i will gaze upon it in awe

Hello!

It really has been quite a while hasnt it 🥺 almost exactly a year since my last drawing

I currently don't have any plans to be active in fandoms again (or tbh, continue sharing my drawings online) but it's not like I'm determined to disappear completely, so maybe someday i will! I just need to find something that lives in my brain rent free. and you'll never know when or if it will happen again 😢

I did draw this the other day though! I had to spend an embarassing amount of time trying to remember where the "flip canvas" button is, but i managed to finish this doodle. Not my usual fandom stuff but hope this brings a little smile to your face : ) Thank you sm for the ask 💖

[bowtiepasta]

SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWGIRL ⛰︎ ོ you know what they say… only a woman knows how to treat a woman right. “got any cowgirl in ya? want some?” — SHOKO IEIRI

smut! 𐚁 minors and ageless blogs do not interact. indulging: afab and f!reader (she/her), arranged marriage, fingering, oral, thigh riding, drinking, you wear a skirt, #wlw

word count: 1,397

romy’s note: lesbians eat what?!

tomorrow, you’d be a wife. tonight, you were just a girl with shaky hands and a good liver.

“you planning to marry that poor boy hungover?”

her tracks are muddy, faint half-moons against the floor your mother scrubbed every morning. you wipe your palms down your skirt, eyes on the swinging doors, expecting a wobbly stray to storm through.

“I’ll rally,” you say, voice rough from too many shots of your father’s gutrot whiskey. “done worse.”

shoko hums, flicks ash out the window. the cigarette tip lights her profile soft orange. she smelled like everything familiar and terrible and good — like old afternoons, salty tears, and the stale shampoo they keep in the bunkhouse showers.

“you sure?” she mocks. “he’s gonna be real happy when you puke on his boots at the altar.”

“you shouldn't be here,” your fingers twitch toward the shuttered window out of habit. sherrif’s boys were known to stay out late wandering.

she shrugs like she wasn’t a dead man’s name on a dozen bounty posters pinned to fence posts from here to god knows where.

“came to wish you well,” she counters, a white lie. “and maybe get drunk enough to forget you’re marrying that twitchy little banker.”

you smile despite yourself. it made your mouth hurt.

“why?” you ask, voice cracking at the ends. “you didn’t stay to say goodbye the last time.”

her mouth pulls taut. something like guilt, or maybe just the bane memory of it.

“you were never gonna leave this place,” she says, tipping her head upward, where the piano had faintly started up again, crooked and sad. “I was.”

she pushes off the doorframe and walks in until she stands on the other side of the bar. the heavy smell of stale beer and woodsmoke lived in the bones of the place and seeped into your skin.

you swallow. the air between you stretches thin, sticky with all the words you hadn’t said two years ago when she first rode out and never came back.

“you could’ve asked me to go,” you breathe.

shoko leans close, palms braced flat on the wood, close enough you see the subtle scar along her jaw, new since you last saw her.

“you’d have said yes,” she says in an undertone far too lonely for your liking. “I wasn’t gonna do that to you.”

with her injured horse stabled down the street and nowhere else to turn, she figured a quick stop wouldn’t hurt. and boy, was she wrong.

she looks at you, as if remembering her own name.

“c’mere.”

a beat.

“c’mere, sweetheart,” she repeats, tired, thumb dragging over your knuckles. “one last time.”

you did. stupidly fast, pressing your forehead into her shoulder and looping your fingers into her belt loops.

her fingers fit into the dip of your waist like she’d known exactly where they belonged this whole time.

you yank her belt loose with clumsy hands, the heavy buckle thudding against her thigh. she laughs into your cheek, and you swear you feel your heart stop.

one hand braces at your jaw while her thumb rubs at the hinge of it, nails short and uneven from where she’d chewed. shoko tilts your face up and examines you, checking a calf for broken bones.

she lifts you back onto the bar stool — it rattles the screws. “you’re gonna get me killed.”

you smile, starting on her buttons.

“wasn’t planning on letting you live forever anyway.”

her palms leave dry prints on your hips, and when she kneels between your legs, the floorboards creak under her knees. the piano upstairs doesn’t stop.

outside, a dog barks once, sharp and distant. the fan keeps spinning. shoko doesn’t stop.

the bar digs into your spine, her hands already up your skirt, callouses skimming up your thighs. she works fast, but not rushed — the way someone does a job they know by heart.

“fuck,” she shudders, finding you already slick when she pulls your panties down. you kick them off blindly, heels dry-scraping the tablesides.

“gonna make you forget your own name,” she mutters, almost to herself. you hear it all.

her mouth is on you before you could say anything smart, biting a line up your legs, marking you like the goddamn animal she was.

you tug her hat off, toss it onto the floor. her hair’s damp at the roots, stuck to her forehead where the night heat had decided to settle.

“thought you were here just to drink,” you gasp.

shoko grins against your hip, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “changed my mind.”

she pushes a finger into you, palm grinding the way she knew you liked — the way she remembers.

it’s filthy, the wet sound of it, loud in the quiet remains of the closing hours. someone upstairs laughs— a sharp bark — makes your heart nip at your ribs and bottom lip bleed.

“stay quiet,” she shushes, kissing up your stomach, smudging her lipstick all over. “or don’t. might be the only good story I leave this town with.”

you bite your own hand to muffle the sound when her fingers curled just right, rough and sure inside you. she watches you the entire time, catching every little twitch, every whimper.

“still so fuckin’ pretty,” she slides up, kisses you again — deep, open-mouthed, desperate. so desperate.

your hands fumble at her pants and she helps, hitching her hips to shove them down for you.

you wrap your legs around her, dragging her in. the first press of her hips against yours punched a sound out of you that you barely recognized.

you shove at her until she gets the hint, letting you manhandle her onto the other stool. it creaks under her weight, one of the legs uneven — it’s been needing fixing for months.

shoko leans back, pants open, shirt rumpled, thighs spread loose. she cleans you off of her mouth, eyes glittering under the low lamplight.

“c’mon then,” she tilts her head, ever the cocky bastard. “take what you need.”

you climb into her lap, skirt bunched up around your waist, straddling one of her bare thighs. you move once, dragging your cunt along the muscle of her thigh, and your whole body jerks at how good it feels.

shoko hisses through her teeth, clawing at your hips, locking you down onto her.

“juuust like that,” she coos, voice wrecked.

you grind down harder, chasing the friction, the bone sliding right against your clit, relentless. the room tilts around you, too hot, too loud in your own head.

shoko slips a hand between you, fingers sliding through your folds, thumb catching you right at the top. she barely had to do any work with the way you were rocking against her.

“you’re dripping all over me,” she says, smug.

you come grinding against her thigh, thighs trembling, breathing like you’d been shot. shoko keeps her hand on you, pressing through every little aftershock until you sagged entirely spent against her.

but she wasn’t finished.

shoko steadies your thighs over her shoulders like she was settling into church pews.

her tongue laps through the mess she’d already made, nosing into the soft parts, tongue flicking away because she’s cruel — always has been. you whimper, try to close your legs, and she just tightens her grip, nails digging in enough to sting.

“you’re gonna be a good wife,” she sighs, bitter while inside you. “better get used to being taken apart.”

you barely hear her — too far gone, legs trembling, toes curling in your boots.

you come again, hips bucking up off the stool. she holds you down with her whole damn body. doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow, working you through it ‘till your thighs are spasming by her ears.

when you push weakly at her shoulders, she finally pulls back with a small, satisfied noise, chin glistening. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning up at you like the kid she still was.

you gripped the edge of the bar behind you, the wood worn smooth from years of your father’s hands, and realized hers would never be allowed here again.

“you’re an outlaw,” you said matter-of-factly. “you’re wanted in three counties.”

“four.” she pulls the gold band off of your ring finger and kisses the bruise it leaves.

“but you always did love trouble.”

hello from april 28th i’m in the trenches and seasonal depression is kicking my ass. need a hot lesbian cowgirl to lasso me up and take me away asap. hope you enjoyed xo

side note i see all the comments you guys leave on my works i swear i do </3 trying to get better at replying to them but i see them weeks after they’re put up and i get embarrassed bc i’m late lmao. but i see them and appreciate them so so so much i’m sloppy kissing you all on the hot mouth rn

do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my works on any platforms.

[mybigsnowman]

sleepover

pairing sylus x gender neutral!reader

summary sylus spends the night at your place for the first time.

tags second-person pov, fluff, teasing, sharing a bed, cuddling, a single kiss, non-sexual intimacy

word count 1.6k

note was meant to be for his birthday but i'm such a slow writer.. reader is gender neutral & no specifics about appearance are mentioned so anyone can enjoy ! can also be read as mc ! anyway good luck with your pulls if you see this during the multi.

cross posted to ao3

“So, what do you think, sweetie?” Sylus asks as he approaches your vanity. 

You look him up and down, intently taking in his appearance. He’s wearing the new pajama set you bought him, and he looks cute. The pink silk complements his tan skin perfectly. He's looking at you expectantly, hoping for some form of compliment, but you don't give it to him. “The colour washes you out.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Charming as always, you really know how to make a man's heart race.”

“Of course.” You run your finger across the embroidered name on his chest, applying some pressure to tease him before pulling away.

Sylus’ eyes travel down to the exposed skin on your chest, and he sighs. “You'll get a cold if you don't button up properly.” He reaches out to button up your pajama shirt. It's just three buttons, but he's taking his sweet time, his hands lingering at every button as he deliberately lets his fingers graze your bare skin in the process. 

You reply with a noncommittal hum, trying your hardest to pretend that his touch isn't affecting you. But it's overwhelming; the cold silk contrasting with the warmth spreading over your body makes you lightheaded. You nearly let out a relieved sigh when his fingers finally leave your skin, but he's relentless, and he gives you no respite from his touch before leaning down to kiss you. It's gentle; his large hands cup your face as his lips meet yours. You kiss him back, a possessive feeling spreading through you once you taste your toothpaste on him. You want more, but he stops you before you can deepen it.

“Mind if I look around?” He asks, lips still against yours. His voice is light; he was teasing you with that kiss.

“Go ahead,” your tone does nothing to hide your frustration with him. You slip from his grasp, a pout on your lips as you turn back to your vanity. The laugh that follows irritates you further. He really loves messing with you, but you'll get him back, you always do. 

You keep an eye on him from your peripheral vision as you rush through your skincare routine. Your room is small, but every surface is packed with things that matter to you; there’s too much for him to take in all at once. You see him stop at your bookshelf, he lingers for a moment, his eyes scanning the book titles and trinkets that litter the shelf, before finally reaching out for the photo frame on the top shelf. You want to stop him—the photo is unflattering—but you hold yourself back when you see the small smile on his face. He's enjoying it, so you let him indulge for a while. 

As you finish, you see him move again in the mirror; he's at your bed, reaching for your perfectly stacked plushies. Without turning around, you give him a firm warning, “Hey! No touching.”

His hands freeze as his gaze falls on yours in the mirror. “Where am I meant to sleep?”

Wordlessly, you point at the impossibly tight gap between your bed and the closet. It’s just enough to fit him—he’ll make do. 

“Seriously, sweetie? You want me to sleep on the floor?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your smile. “There's no place on the bed.” 

You're not lying. The bed barely fits you and your plushies, and having a huge Sylus sleep in it would push one of the two off the edge. You won’t risk ruining your perfect plushie placement or your back. This isn’t revenge for the kiss, you'd never be that petty. 

“Do I at least get a pillow?”

“I suppose.” You brush past him as you walk over to your closet to fetch an extra pillow and blanket; you're not cruel enough to have him sleep on a bare floor. You shove them into his arms and smile expectantly at him, hoping he'll get the message and set up his own bed for the night.

But Sylus just stands there with the blanket and pillow in his arms. He looks dumbfounded, like a tall child. You try not to laugh as you settle into your bed. You throw yourself back into your comforter, making a show of how comfortable it is just to infuriate him further. He stays standing, staring down at you in disbelief. You've never seen him look this hurt, it's adorable.

“What?” you tease, asking the question like nothing’s wrong. 

“Surely you can move those,” he says as he nods at your plushies.

“No point, you're too big to fit.” You stretch out your arms to emphasise the lack of space. “My bed’s too small.”

“Then I'll buy you a new one,” he sounds desperate as he throws another solution at you, it’s almost pathetic.

But you can’t relent, teasing him is fun. The look on his face, the slightly raised brows and noticeable frown are always entertaining. No one else is privy to these expressions except you, so you push him as far as you can, eager to see his face screw up more. “I like my bed.”

“Will I sleep on the floor forever?” 

“Hmm…” You close your eyes and curl into your blanket. “Maybe. Good night.”

“Good night?” 

You purse your lips in an attempt to hold back a laugh at his tone. Whenever he finds something ridiculous, his voice pitches just a bit higher at the end of his sentences, he doesn’t know how ridiculously amusing it is. 

“Close the lights before you lie down.” You roll over to give him your back, you don’t want him to see the smile creeping on your face just yet. You’ve put up a good act so far, and you can’t have it crumble before the climax.

With no reply, Sylus relents. He turns the lights off and returns to his place. You hear him sigh as he crouches down. He shuffles about before finally settling down on the floor. You'll give him five minutes before he loses his patience. You start counting down, and after two minutes pass, you turn over to look down at him. His eyes are closed, but you see the tension in his face. At this rate, he won't last five minutes; the irritations already eating away at him. You really try not to laugh, but his pitiful state is comical enough to set you into a fit of giggles. 

His eyes fly open at the sound, and he meets your gaze with an annoyed expression on his face. 

“You can sleep on the couch,” you offer, still teasing him, you want to see just how far you can push him. “If you want.”

“I don't want that, kitten.” 

That tone doesn’t scare you anymore; he’s as intimidating as a house cat, more cute than anything. 

“Then good night.” You shut your eyes again and wait for his next move.

He’s predictable, in a heartbeat, he’s at the side of your bed, hurriedly taking the plushies off it. He’s quick at it, but he doesn’t knock them over, opting to place each one gently on the floor with the help of his evol.

“Hey! Don't.” Your hands reach out to stop him in fake defiance, but he's got you beat.  

“I'll put them back when I wake up,” he says as he settles into his place under the covers. Before you can protest any further, he pulls you close to his chest. His grip is firm as he holds you, and as much as you love to tease him, you don’t pull away—he’s warm, and you’ve been wanting this just as much as him. 

But still, you’re dramatic, you keep up the pretense and grumble into his chest, “My masterpiece…”

“Your masterpiece is on the floor, just give up, sweetie.” 

“You’re so cruel, so so cruel.” Despite all your complaints, your arms wrap around his wide back, pulling him closer to you. He's comfortable, he feels safe, 

“Yes, yes, I’m the cruel one here, not the person making their boyfriend sleep on the floor.” He pulls back to look at you, waiting for your eyes to meet his before he speaks up again, “Are the plushies really more important than me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Really, kitten?” He asks it lightly, but you still note the gravity of it. 

He’s expecting an honest answer, and you’d give it to him if you could. It’s an easy question, but this playful push and shove is light, it’s comfortable, and it saves you from being too vulnerable. So you pull him close again, nuzzling into his chest and hoping that the tight grip you have on him is enough of an answer.

You feel his lips on the top of your head, his hands cradling the back of your neck, and you know he understands you—he always does. In the sudden quiet, you can hear everything: the humming of the air conditioner, Sylus’ heartbeat, his soft breaths. It's intimate. His scent fills your nose, and you revel in the fact that he smells like you—that he smells like your home. The comfort of his embrace almost makes you forget how cramped it actually is in the bed, but Sylus’ bent knee nudging into your body is a constant reminder. You feel bad, but the feeling of him pushing against you is nice, a heavy presence, a reminder that he’s really here. You let your nails dig into his back, sending him another wordless message before letting your eyes close: he’s yours, and he’s more important than anything.

[thefirstknife]

Alright, so some parts of the community puzzle were solved and a website was revealed. Aion-archive. The puzzle isn't over but there's stuff to do on the website with some cool info and teasers. The rest of the puzzle is so far in the process of people inputting a million codes and figuring things out which I don't really understand and I'm only interested in the end lore results so I'll talk about what we can read so far.

First of all, Aion was mentioned in Vesper's Host as "The Aion Initiative" during the secret quest with the collectibles:

Vesper Station: I’ve got the archive of Dr. Bray’s published staff memos. Petabytes of data in the raw files. Rasputin. The Stoneworm protocols. The Aion Initiative. Soteria. I had siblings this whole time. And you never let me know.

Unclear how this connects to anything, but it was definitely some sort of project back in the Golden Age.

Playing around on the site can let you access a home button and then it lists some options to go through:

I'll put the rest under read more so people can play around by themselves without spoilers if they want and for length:

First of all, the missing numbers that are listed as alerts? You can still input them. So even though it says that 002, 004, 005, and 006 are missing, you can still select them and they give information. I'll drop all of them here and do some commentary because this is enrichment.

Input 001:

Very interesting! So "Aion" stands for "Apollo Intertemporal Observation Network," investigating time dilation and temporal anomalies that go beyond simple light-speed issues. I'm absolutely losing it immediately because this is incredibly cool in so many ways. The possibility that The Edge of Fate will involve some time travel shenanigans is exciting. Hoping for more Vex stuff for sure!

Input 002:

Obsessed. This is definitely why the whole thing was codenamed "Apollo" originally and some of our speculation about it was actually correct. Apollo, god of prophecy! Fascinated by the fact that this one aspect of Apollo was chosen as first description of him. Like, yeah, that part was incredibly important but Apollo was a god of many things. Either way, hello, I am going to be on the news.

Input 003:

Stuff about chess, which is interesting because this is how we got to the website in the first place. I feel like we're playing chess with some entity beyond our comprehension that deals with time travel. What even is going on in Destiny.

Input 004:

Not sure why this is mentioned, but it may have something to do with a later input. The Oort Cloud is a real thing (or at least a real theorised thing).

Input 005:

Unclear what this connects to at the moment.

Input 006:

Also unclear. "There is a place" is the same starter as the sentence in input 001: "There is a place where the numbers don't match." Referring to the temporal anomalies. I assume that's the same sentence?

Input 007:

Unclear. Some of this stuff might get fully cleared up once the puzzle is completed and these gaps are filled. If they are going to be filled at all. We're not sure what the end of the puzzle will do actually.

Input 008:

Interesting! This might explain the mention of the Oort Cloud? Trans-Neptunian objects are, also, a real thing and they exist in the space beyond Neptune from the Kuiper's Belt to the Oort Cloud. This text makes me also think of Nessus which is a similar object called a centaur that originally should've existed also around and beyond Neptune, but something messed with its orbit (presumably the Vex) and it was on collision course with the Exodus Black.

It's not unusual to consider a massive planetary object somewhere far out there that might be affecting the gravity and orbit of smaller objects, but it's interesting that this is a part of this whole text. Is the implication that we'll be discovering an unknown planet in the far reaches of the solar system? Bizarre because the teaser implied we're leaving the system entirely ("Kepler 15"), but also with the implied time travel shenanigans... who the hell knows. What are they cooking.

Input 009:

Unclear. No clue what this may be referring to. Hoping for more information as the puzzle gets closer to solving.

Input 010:

Also unclear. I assume that the red text is saying something along the line of "We made a mistake". Way too many gaps to know currently.

Input 011:

Interesting! The first bit lists actual dates. 29th April 2025 (Signal confirmation) is when the puzzle started this Tuesday reset. 4th May 1991 (listed as "odd") is the date of when Bungie was founded. 9th September 2014 obviously when Destiny released. One more is down there but without the year so if anyone wants to hunt down what happened on the 12th of April in any year in human history... have fun.

The second set lists a few things that can also be input into the computer. So 11101 etc. can be searched. Here's what they give:

And finally:

This bit is where the rest of the puzzle is currently happening, still with the in-game chess board if I understand correctly. People are inputting these codes which are codes you get from the chess board and then there's something going on with QR codes?? Which gives people some sort of string of letters to input into the computer and then they're compiling what works and what doesn't. This bit is unclear to me but it's also stuff that doesn't give any direct lore. I assume this all has to be sorted for the entire database to work properly and show all text.

And this is the last input, 012:

Not much to say here, lots of stuff still missing.

Exciting stuff going on! I love community puzzles and weird shenanigans going on and it's such a cool teaser for the showcase next week and the reveal about The Edge of Fate. Can't wait to see what all of this is about, especially if we're legit going to be having some time travel stuff and weird Golden Age projects and possibly going out of the solar system.

[ashthesalamipiece]

i hope you’re taking requests right now!! but i have an idea for maybe hawks or bakugo where they took a picture of something intimate and instead of just saving it or sending it to someone they put it on their story or something by accident. i feel like that would be so funny how panicked they would be 😭

Feathers and Fiascos

It all started with a harmless selfie.

Well, harmless in theory.

In reality, it was a photo of Hawks—real name Keigo Takami—flat on his back, absolutely wrecked, with your legs draped over his shoulders, his hair tousled, and a look on his face like he’d just seen God.

And you?

You were in the frame, too. Sort of. More like, your hand holding the phone was, and one of your thighs. That was about all Instagram got before the blurry, NSFW chaos of post-coital bliss kicked in. His tongue was out. There was a feather stuck to your chest.

He took the picture with a smug grin, murmuring, “For posterity,” before collapsing back onto your body with a satisfied sigh.

“Don’t send that to anyone,” you warned, already half-asleep.

“Babe, I’m a Pro Hero. I’m discreet.”

Ten minutes later, the scream from the other room nearly gave you a heart attack.

“OH NO NO NO—”

You bolted upright, dragging the sheet with you. “What? What happened?!”

Hawks looked like he’d seen a ghost. Or worse—Endeavor.

“I—I posted it. To my story.”

“You what?!”

“I thought I was saving it to my camera roll and—WHY IS THERE NO UNDO BUTTON FOR LIFE?!”

Cue the descent into chaos.

---

1 Hour Earlier...

The pro hero agency group chat was alive with the usual banter.

Endeavor: “Team meeting tomorrow. Be on time.”

Mirko: “Not if I break my ankle fighting this villain. Again.”

Edgeshot: “Remember to submit your patrol reports.”

Mt. Lady: “Omg who’s watching Hero Housewives tonight??”

Then, suddenly, a ping. A new story.

@hawks_official has posted a story.

The thumbnail?

Blurry skin tones. A shock of blond hair. A bare foot. A very unfortunate angle.

Mirko clicked it.

Immediately spat out her protein shake.

“YO WHAT THE HELL—”

She screen-recorded it before it could vanish.

Mt. Lady opened it while waiting for her iced latte. She screamed so loudly, a barista dropped a blender.

Endeavor opened it.

Dead silence.

Then:

Endeavor: “Takami.”

Hawks: “I CAN EXPLAIN—”

Mirko: “Bro that was your entire soul leaving your body.”

Mt. Lady: “Is that a feather stuck to her—OH MY GOD I NEED TO WASH MY EYES.”

Edgeshot: “...That was the most flexible leg positioning I���ve ever seen. Impressive.”

---

Meanwhile, you were trying to fix the damage while Hawks hyperventilated into a pillow.

“Keigo, calm down. It was only up for a few minutes—”

“Long enough for Mirko to save it. She’s going to meme me into oblivion.”

Your phone buzzed.

Mirko: “Tell Birdbrain I want royalties if I use this as my new reaction image.”

Another buzz.

Mt. Lady: “Girl... y’all good? Because from that angle he looked like he saw heaven and got dragged back.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to have to wear a disguise next time I go to the grocery store.”

Hawks groaned. “They’re never gonna let me live this down. This is gonna be a panel at the next Hero Con.”

You tried not to laugh, but failed miserably. “At least they know you’re flexible.”

“Flexible?! Babe, I was folded like laundry. Laundry. And I moaned!”

You wiped a tear from your eye, cackling. “Oh my god, you did moan.”

Hawks flopped down dramatically. “I’m retiring. Effective immediately.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’ll live. Eventually.”

Another buzz.

Dabi: “LMAOOOOO.”

Hawks stared at it. “I don’t even KNOW how he saw it. He’s BLOCKED.”

“Not from chaos, apparently.”

---

The next day.

The pro meeting room was dead silent when Hawks walked in.

All eyes on him.

He sat down.

Someone snorted.

Edgeshot handed him a small trophy that said “Most Enthusiastic Hero 2025”.

Mirko winked and whispered, “Nice arch, Romeo.”

You owed her a drink for that one.

Endeavor stood at the head of the table, glaring.

"...Next time, Takami, check your privacy settings."

[bullet-prooflove]

Boo Fucking Hoo: Frank Langdon x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @julessworldd @yousigned-upforthis @travelingmypassion @julius-ceasar

Companion piece to:

Hypocrite - Frank struggles to make amends for a past wrongs.

Crash - Almost getting you fired wasn't the lowest point of Frank's addiction.

Rock Bottom - Frank hits rock bottom when he sees the devastation his addiction's caused.

Little Black Dress - Frank starts to spiral when he realises you're dating.

Every Damn Day - A drunk text leads to a confession.

Wet Dream (NSFW) - Frank sometimes dreams about the life you had together.

War Stories - A realisation about your coping habits leads you to Frank's door.

The Three Cs - Frank and you finally discuss your issues and pave away towards the future.

The Wall - A date at the climbing wall leads to a revelation from Frank.

Commitment - You create a fun way of showing Frank your commitment to the relationship.

All In (NSFW) - You and Frank take a big step forward.

Slut (NSFW) - Frank gets a little bratty after a bad day.

Nightmare Fuel - Frank's been waiting for the fall to come.

The fight starts when the partner of one of your SA patients attacks you outside by the ambulance bay. You don’t see it coming, you’re too busy scrolling through your phone, catching up on the group chat when you’re slammed against the brick work of the building. Your head bounces off the wall, your phone shattering on the concrete, as a huge hand encloses around your throat, choking off your air supply. Something warm trickles down the back of your neck, blood you assume from a scalp laceration.

“She fucking left me.” A man you’ve never met before spits in your face, his fingers dig into your tender flesh as his grip tightens and stars dance across your vision. “I wanna know where the fuck she is.”

This, you think, this is why we shouldn’t put staff pictures on the website.

You have absolutely no clue who he’s talking about. You’ve examined dozens of women over the past couple of weeks and 50% of their injuries were due to partner violence.

You rasp something and his grasp loosens as he leans in close struggling to hear you. “Spit it out bitch.”

“Go to hell.” You snarl, smashing the crown of your head into his nose just like you were taught in self-dense class. A loud crunch erupts through the air as he reels backwards, blood ejecting from his nose. You follow up with a knee strike, driving it into his groin so hard that he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. His knees go out from underneath him and he crumples to the floor, one hand cupping his balls, the other cradling his broken nose.

“Not so fucking fun when they fight back is it asshole?” You hiss, your throat raw from the choking. “I don’t know who the fuck she is but I’m glad she had the strength to put you in her rear view.”  

“You fucking bitch, I think you ruptured something!” He curses at you, his cheek pressed against the concrete, beaten and helpless.

“Boo fucking hoo.” You respond as the automatic doors hiss behind you open and Ahmed, the security officer rushes out into the bay.

“I saw the whole thing on the screens.” He informs you pointedly, snatching up the radio off his belt. You know what that means, he’s got the footage to back you up when this asshole inevitably tries to sue you. He presses the button down on his radio, holding it up to his mouth. “We’re gonna need a doctor out here in the ambulance bay, police too.”

His dark eyes catalogue the bruising on your throat, taking in the blood that’s now soaking into the back of your scrubs from wound in your scalp. “You want me to get Langdon?”

“No.” You whisper, touching your fingertips to the back of your throbbing head, trying to gauge your injury. “I wouldn’t, not unless you want a murder on your hands too.”

Love Frank? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[norrisidous]

i know love

summary: where lando meet the newest 2025 creator of F1

y/n posted on instagram

y/nuser: f1 you have my heart <3

liked by georgerussell63 , carlossainz55 , landonorris and 6,356,013 others

user21: she's so pretty omg

username: she's into books, my fav <3

user56: i need to know her favourite book y/nuser: seven husbands of evelyn hugo :)

carlossainz55 : welcome 😊 liked by auhtor

y/nuser: tysm smooth operator !

georgerussell63: we're besties now liked by author

username56: HELP y/nuser: well...hello bestie

landonorris: welcome and good taste 😏 liked by author

y/nuser: what can i say? papaya suits me

456 more comments...

landonorrisuptades posted on instagram

landonorrisuptades: 👀 "It’s the way Lando was looking at her for me..." Someone was definitely enjoying that interview a little too much 😏 We see you, Mr. Norris.

liked by username3 , user698, username and 1.145.012 others

user48: he wasn’t blinking fr… man was in a trance

username: i’d act the same if she interviewed me tbh 😅

user698: this is not just media duty… this is personal

username3: i thought the same lol

username45: lando’s got that i’m-listening-but-i’m-also-falling look

lando.jpg posted on instagram

lando.jpg: random dump of the start of f1' 25

liked by daniel3.jpg , y/nuser , oscarpiastri and 13,425,001 others

username: he looks like a golden retriever around her i can’t

user65: she blinked and he still looked at her like 🥹👉👈

username3: lando don’t post her if you don’t want us to ship it 🤷‍♀️

user01: too late i already planned their entire future together

daniel3.jpg: i see how this is liked by author

lando.jpg: i have no idea what you're talkin mate...

username46: he’s never that smiley in press content pls 😭😭

y/nuser: 🧡

659 more comments...

y/n posted on her instagram stories

landonorrisuptades posted on instagram

landonorrisuptades: Lando thought his mic was off… but he still called @y/nuser “babe” 🙊😅

liked by uzser456 , carlossainz55 , username6 and 22,658,123 others

username3: we heard that loud and clear, lando

user456: someone tell him about the mute button before we catch more of these moments 😂

user78: the way he said ‘babe’ like it was nothing

1.125 more comments..

lando posted on instagram

lando: Been keeping this one close for a while, but I’m ready for everyone to know… I’m a pretty lucky guy. ❤️

liked by carlossainz55 , y/nuser , maxversstapen1 and 200,456,256 others

maxversstapen1: congrats, mate. Now no more excuses for losing in the sim

charles_leclerc: Guess we finally know what that smile was about 😏 Congrats, you two!

y/nuser: love you more than words can say ❤️

lando: love you loads, babe 💕

carlossainz55: can’t say I’m surprised, you’ve been way too smiley recently

username: LOOK AT HIM SMILING 😩💛 This is the happiest I've seen him in ages! So cute together! 🥰

user36: I can’t stop smiling for them!

user49: I KNEW there was something special about those ‘babe’ moments!

username: He’s been glowing! We all knew something was up

15,145 more comments...

y/n posted on her instagram

y/nuser: guess i got promoted to a wag

liked by lando , carlossainz55 , charles_leclerc and 13,456,012 others

charles_leclerc: So happy for you!

oscarpiastri: I always knew something was going on 👀 Congrats guys

georgerussell63: Big smiles all around! Wishing you both lots of happiness

danielricciardo: Look at youuu 🥹 So cute. Treat him well… or I’ll have to step in 😂

lando: Somehow you make all of this even better 🧡

y/nuser: you always know exactly what to say 🥹

9,454,012 more comments...

[silens-oro]

Hold on to the Thread (Well Enough Alone Companion Piece)

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece) Part III Part IV Trespassing (companion piece) Part V Part VI Slowly We Unfurl (companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

Title Credit: Oceans by Pearl Jam

General Synopsis: Hawk and Pope have a discussion regarding kids of their own. Word Count: 1.4k Content Warning: talks of having kids & pregnancy. Spoilers for A Cure for Wellness? AN: I am child-free to the bone, but Pope does something to me, man. I'D CONSIDER IT FOR A BRIEF SECOND IS ALL I'M SAYING 🫢 please comment & reblog :)

“She’s seven. You put her in front of a TV all day. Maybe she’s trying to get your attention.” Pope pointed out like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Got any other parenting tips for me, man?” Baz asked rhetorically, but Pope -in Pope fashion- still answered him.

“Yeah, I know kids don’t like it when you scream at them.”

“You know what, Pope? Why don’t you figure out your own shit before telling me how to raise my kid?” Baz snapped.

“Her mother left and you’re banging some woman she’s never seen before in her mother’s bedroom. It’s not Lena’s fault that your girlfriend doesn’t like your kid, Baz.” It was harsh, but it needed to be said.

“You don’t know shit and you never will.” Baz said defensively. “Do you get that? No one's ever gonna have a kid with you. You think Hawk wants that? Give me a break, man. She already raised Julia’s kid. You think she wants to raise yours too?” She’s raising yours, Pope wanted to say, but knew it wouldn’t help anything. If anything, Baz would cut his time with Lena out of spite, so he kept his mouth shut. 

“Come on, Lena. Let’s go.” Was the only thing Pope ground out in response before escorting his niece out to his truck.

Pope would never outright express it to anyone, but what Baz said earlier in the day really bothered him. The thought lingered, burrowing itself in him like a parasite that couldn’t be removed. Hawk could tell Pope was stuck in his head as they lounged on the couch, watching some horror movie where a young stockbroker went to a wellness facility in the Swiss Alps to bring his company’s CEO back to New York. There were eels involved. It was…a lot. 

When he came back to the house with Lena earlier in the afternoon, he was off. He brushed off any of Hawk’s attempts to get him to talk, so she gave him his space. He’d talk to her when he was ready. Now that Lena had been put to bed for the night, they decided to throw a movie on and relax, but Pope was doing the opposite of relaxing and that in itself was not letting Hawk relax.

Pope’s hand had been absentmindedly rubbing Hawk’s waist, then moving over to her stomach where he’d lay his palm flat against it for a while, moving up or down ever so slightly just below her belly button, before going back to her waist. The more she noticed it, the weirder it felt because he kept doing it as the movie went on when that wasn’t something he did previously. 

“You alright?” Hawk tilted her head up from her spot notched in his side as he brought his hand to her stomach once again. This time she raised a brow at him. 

“Fine,” Pope’s voice was clipped and he cleared his throat, breaking free of whatever was going on in his head. He looked down at Hawk then back to the movie. His other hand tapped on the sofa’s armrest, a tick Hawk picked up on that he had when something wasn’t quite right. “Is that an eel?” Pope asked, his face scrunching at the screen.

“There’s been eels, Andy. They’ve been in the water and now they’re growing inside of the patients. Where have you been for the last hour?” She asked with a laugh, not wanting to stir the pot, but definitely wanting to know what was going on with him. He got a pained look on his face and Hawk knew right then that something was bothering him. Hawk grasped the hand on her stomach in hers and held it up to her chest, tenderly kissing his forearm. “Something’s up with you. You can talk to me.” She encouraged softly.

“I don’t want to scare you off.” Hawk wanted to laugh so badly at that, but she knew that if she did -not with the intention of being mean about it- he’d close up like a goddamn clamshell. So she kept it in, biting her lip to ground herself so it didn’t slip out accidentally. 

“You won’t. I promise.” He analyzed Hawk for a moment before nodding to himself. She gave him all the time and patience to gather his thoughts so he could say what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. 

“Have you ever thought of…having kids of your own?” He intentionally left the ‘with me’ out of the equation. He didn’t look at Hawk when he asked it, feeling much too vulnerable at the question even leaving the confines of his mind. Hawk blinked, not expecting that to be what was bothering him, but the question combined with his handsy mannerisms that night suddenly made total sense to Hawk. 

“I don’t know,” She shrugged, her fingers playing with Pope’s. “I think at one point maybe I had the urge, ya know? Right after J started going to school. I missed having him with me all the time and the thought did cross my mind, but I was nowhere near a stable enough relationship with anyone to even consider it. But it’s been a long time since I felt that way.” 

“Would you ever reconsider it?” His voice was so quiet, like he was afraid if it was any louder, it would shatter the confines of the conversation. He tried to sound blasé, like her answer wouldn’t bother him one way or the other, but he had to know. Baz’s voice rang over and over in his head and it was eating him alive from the inside out. 

Hawk felt Pope’s stomach clench and the arm he had around her twitched in her hold. She only held onto him tighter to let him know she wasn’t running from the conversation. 

“I feel like I’m a little late in life for that now,” Hawk answered honestly. “-but I’m not completely closed off to it. There are some aspects to pregnancy that scare the shit out of me though. I was there when Julia had J and both pregnancy and childbirth are…traumatizing.” 

“Women your age have kids all the time.” Hawk shifts on the sofa, looking up at Pope with curiosity in her eyes. “You’re not old by any means.” He pushed and winced again when he realized how that sounded. Hawk squeezed his hand to let him know that he was fine.  

“What’s got you so worked up about kids? Do you want them?” She didn’t ask him in a judgmental way, merely out of genuine curiosity. They’ve never broached the subject, but his shift with Lena, and J in more recent times, was noticeable to her. Very much so. 

“I used to think a kid didn’t deserve a father like me and the fucked up life I would give them. They didn’t deserve what I would pass on to them, this shit I have in my head. I don’t wish that on anyone, much less someone who didn’t ask to be here.” Pope spoke from experience, Hawk knew.

“Both of my parents had no business having a kid, not with what they had going on, but maybe…if the kid was only half of me," Half of the crazy, is what he implied, and Hawk didn't care for that one bit. "-then they’d have a better chance, you know? If their mom was normal, then they’d be able to have a normal life.” Hawk felt her heart break at Pope’s admission. She brought his hand up to kiss the back of it affectionately. “I’ve thought about all the things I missed with Lena when I was locked up.” The baby years, Hawk said mentally. “And I think about what it would be like to hold something so small that was a part of me. Something good I’ve given to the world.” And a part of you, he wanted to say. “To love them so much and to watch them grow. Do things with ‘em that my dad never did with me. Give them a life that I never had. Being with you and Lena, it’s opened my eyes to what we could have -what we could’ve had this whole time. If that’s something you’d even want.” We, Hawk’s heart skipped when he finally said it. He tacked on that last bit when the vulnerability became too much and the self consciousness set back in. 

“We’ll, I’ll tell you this -I’m not against it, but we are still in the early stages of this relationship. Let this thing grow some roots, focus on Lena and J for the time being, and then we’ll revisit this conversation, alright?” Pope looked down at her, his eyes a little glassier and his cheeks flushed just enough for Hawk to notice in the dim living room, and he nodded. “Come here,” She pulled him down gently by the front of his shirt so her lips could meet his.

please comment & reblog :)

[magical-sweet-kitty]

The cat with starry purple eyes hid behind her loved as best as she could, because she knew Savannah would protect her, no matter what, the pink haired girl took a glance at her beautiful star, who was severely injured and in pain, Savannah was biting her lower lip so hard that it was actually hard to believe it wasn't bleeding, she ran her fingers through the black locks of hair of the Seventh before looking back up towards Count Dogulos, levitating far from the ground.

-I can't believe it, these are supposed to be the strongest warriors you have?- he was laughing like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

He looked over at the first general, in the ground, being held back by one of Count Dogulos' henchmen as he cried and tried to reach for his daughter, his laser gun was shattered, he had no way to defend himself, he then looked at Savannah and put all of his trust in her, to save all the Zolarian people.

While, the moment Savannah saw Count Dogulos get distracted she quickly zipped up her harness, then she immediately took out her grapple gun and fired the hook at Count Dogulos' spaceship all so fast that he didn't even notice until the gun retracted and Savannah was by his side, hanging on the bars of the ship...

Before Count Dogulos could react she had already thrown herself at him, and they started fighting.

It was extremely intense and painful, he was much stronger than her, but she didn't look like she was going to give up at all, no matter how hard he bit her she always scratched back, it was clear that Count Dogulos was regretting thinking he could win this...

-Cats are simply an inferior race, they do not deserve to even be alive, much less be free if they are alive, it's just facts, the K-9 Unity is simply superior, they should serve us or just die.-Savannah looked at him with wide eyes, full of rage, she was absolutely ready to destroy him.

And so she did, she grabbed onto him as tight as she could before hooking the space ship with her gun again, they both swung to the other side of the Space ship, much farther than before, which was much closer to the sun... And then she let go off him, before pressing the button that would bring her back to the ground, watching him be absorbed by the gravitational pull of the sun...

As Savannah landed back onto her wheelchair she breathed shakily, before looking at the dog holding the first general down. Said puppy ran away in absolute fear of what he had just seen, and all ok K-9 returned to their planet, not daring to mess with the Space Age Woman and her kitties ever again.

★★★★★

-Why don't you want it...? You are.. our queen...- The seventh said sadly as she held her crown towards Savannah, while everyone else had dropped theirs to the floor.

-Zolar doesn't need a ruler-Savannah said using her ACC device-It has never had one and it should never do, believe me, what you are doing is good enough, your sense of freedom and love is perfect, your acceptance of others and the way you assure all of them matters is what makes you Zolarians. Please, don't lose your freedom, and don't lose yourself.

Every cat was absolutely speechless, but Savannah started speaking again.

-I didn't save this planet to have a shiny crown or to rule the galaxy, I saved it to save all of you, I love every single one of you, and you all deserve to be free.- and then she put the crown back on her beautiful kitten's head, before kissing her forehead and signaling her to follow, signaling all of them to follow.

Seating on the center of the kitty cat star, where the Seventh daughters live and also where decisions are taken.. and also where the first attack was fired... Savannah pressed the call button and everyone that wasn't already there immediately came, for that button triggered a noise that only cats and cat people could hear.

-Space babies. Today I have the pleasure to announce that love has won today. You don't have to fear anymore, evilness was defeated. Go and play and have fun and love each other and be free. And remember that love is the closest you can come to another person, because it's the closest you can come to being another person.-

[captain-hawks]

DEEEE. CALEB, CALEB AND **** KINK. JSAJKWJHREUSIJKASNASJKSNA KMS.

caleb x f!reader — 18+, cw piss, fingering

“you know you never have to be embarrassed about anything with me.”

caleb’s voice is soft and soothing, a reassuring caress against the shell of your ear as he cups you through your damp cotton panties.

you shiver at the sincerity of it, because you know he means it.

he’s always meant it with you.

he gently rubs the swollen button of your clit and kisses your temple, and your let your eyes flutter shut when the familiar scent of his body wash and cologne floods your senses as he holds you close.

(it makes your mouth water, leaves your tongue heavy between your cheeks.)

“it’s okay if you like this,” he murmurs when you tighten the grip of your fingers on his sweatshirt as a wet dribble escapes you, soaking right into the spot where he’s diligently massaging your folds through the fabric.

“caleb—“ you whimper, trembling slightly, dizzy with a need you can’t even begin to describe.

you bury your face in his shoulder, hips jerking with the shiver of pleasure that runs down your spine as a fresh splash of wetness soaks your panties when he lightly pinches your clit.

he cups the side of your face, his mouth warm and plush against your slick, parted lips. “don’t hide from me.”

sticky, wet cotton scrapes against your tight hole as he begins to finger you through your panties—as deep as the fabric will allow.

“i can’t hold it anymore,” you say against his mouth, chest heaving with the desperation of the mounting pressure in your bladder.

caleb hooks a finger in your panties, tugging them aside, and you choke out a gasp as he slides the digit into the tight, wet grip of your cunt.

he kisses the corner of your mouth when you whimper, adding another finger as he spreads your thighs even further apart and begins to thrust in and out of your dripping hole. “i don’t want you to hold it.”

more piss leaks out of you as you reach the end of your rope, leaving each deep pump of his fingers accompanied by a soaking wet squelch.

“are you su—“

he curls his fingers, lips sliding against yours as he breathes out, “let go.”

a hot, slick gush of piss rushes out of you.

caleb groans, low and deep, kissing you hard, long fingers buried in your pussy as you piss all over them.

your thighs shake almost violently as you moan, fingers tangled in caleb’s hair as an intense, white-hot feeling like nothing you’ve never know shoots down your spine.

and you lose track of it, the moment when the pleasure of pissing while caleb fucks you on his fingers morphs into the pleasure of climaxing on them.

“good girl,” caleb sounds just as wrecked as you feel as he gently plays with the slick mess between your legs.

you inhale sharply from the overstimulation, and he chuckles softly under his breath.

(and it makes you wonder, as he pushes the heel of his palm against the erection tented at the front of his pants, what it’d be like to let go on his cock instead.)

[austinbutlerslovers]

Star Student

Label Mature 18+

Summary Professor Butler casts you as the lead in the annual college play, coaching you through the difficulties of acting with ease, until it comes to an intimate scene, where he teaches you a lesson you’ll never forget.

🚨Depraved Smut 🚨 Teacher student relationship • unequal power dynamics • broken boundaries •sexual favors from a professor • manipulation •coercion• obsession •angst• regret• edging •fingering • clit play• romance denial • kiss it better • oral sex fem receiving• size kink• p in v• interchanging positions •multiple orgasms•squirting• oral gratification from student •dubcon 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @peggyao3 🎬Scene Consultants @eternal-love @aust-een ✨ Inspo via request 💝

Star Student

Your spring semester in college is a whirlwind of academic chaos. Between endless group projects, partying and essays stacking up faster than you can keep track, the sleepless nights in your dorm leave your vision blurry. 

But above all the unforeseen excitement as a freshmen, nothing compares to the thrill of landing a coveted spot in Professor Butler's Advanced Acting Course.

After impressing him with your intuitive talent over the first few weeks, and absolutely nailing the annual audition, he chooses you to star in the annual production of A Streetcar Named Desire. 

Now, with the performance looming ahead and expectations high, your nerves begin to rise.

He has cast you as the female lead, Blanche DuBois, a coveted role brimming with vulnerability and raw sensuality…a part that demands you kiss your co-star, Stanley, in front of a packed house.

You've never kissed anyone on stage before, and the thought of it makes your stomach flutter with sudden spikes of anxiety.

But Professor Butler becomes your lifeline, your mentor, your anchor, and he rehearses with you daily, guiding the cast with his quiet, unshakable energy.

Under his guidance, the script becomes instinct, your lines needing only fleeting glances as his technique shifts to channeling  the deep emotions and bold physicality into the characters.

Today Professor Butler stands at the front of the rehearsal hall, his sandy brown hair catching the late afternoon light filtering through the large windows. Trim and poised in a crisp white button-up, his sleeves are pulled back to reveal his forearms as he moves with the effortless grace of someone who's spent years commanding the stage.

“A Streetcar Named Desire is about raw human need,” he begins, his deep honeyed voice filling the room. “It’s not just a play it’s a collision of desire and desperation. Every choice you make on this stage has to give into that.”

He speaks with his hands, a habit that both fascinates and distracts you as they sweep through the air demonstrating the intensity of the play, his fingers coaxing the moment into existence. 

“This is a world where want drives every move, Blanche’s longing, Stanley’s hunger,” he says, his voice rich with conviction. “You have to embody that fire.” His blue eyes scan the room, then settle on yours with a familiar smile of expectation. “Let’s see that come alive.”

His full lips always smirk when he speaks about acting, and you can feel his passion for it, his perfect side profile catching the light just so as he pairs you into groups. 

“You two” he says as he teams you up with Jake who’s been cast as the male lead Stanley, his hazel eyes flickering with restless nerves beside your own unsteady energy.

“Blanche and Stanley are opposites, but they’re both driven by want. You’ve got to find that in yourselves and build that tension,” he directs.

You and Jake begin the Dive Bar Scene, where Blanche’s flirtation clashes with Stanley’s raw energy, and Professor Butler watches, his smirk—half-knowing, half-impressed, warming in amusement. 

You can’t help but glance at Professor Butler, his unwavering attention always makes you feel the reward of approval in his eyes.

When he bites his bottom lip in contemplation, it sends a jolt right to your chest, and you fumble through the scene, until he speaks again, his voice cutting in with quiet authority.

“Blanche isn’t fragile, she’s toying with him to hold herself together,” he says, his eyes locked on yours intense and focused. “You’re close, but dig deeper. Unravel, let us see her desire.” He says his words a personal challenge for you.

As you begin again, you can tell he’s pleased with you as he pauses, resting a hand on his chin, his thumb brushing his jaw in that slow, tantalizing way that always makes your pulse race.

Professor Butler is entirely fuckable, a fact whispered in hushed giggles among the class, but his guard is impenetrable.

He calls you all "kids" or "my lovely students," brushing off heated glances with a playful deflection.

Even during frequent late-night rehearsals, when he leans close to adjust your posture, his breath warm against your ear, seeing you shiver from his touch…he never falters, never slips.

It's not just his looks that make him magnetic, it's his intelligence and presence, too. Professor Butler, has worked with legends like Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Christopher Walken… names that feel larger than life, shaping his craft into something extraordinary.

He's had a successful career too, starring in films that racked up critical acclaim before stepping back to teach. Everyone knows he could've kept going, but he always says he wants to give back to the next generation, and damn do you feel so lucky to be part of it.

In the evening, after your particularly grueling rehearsal, you linger in the studio as the others trickle out, leaving you alone with him. You fidget with the hem of your skirt, the stress of the kiss scene for the finale pressing down on you like a weight.

"Professor Butler?" you ask, your voice softer than usual. "Can I talk to you about something?"

He glances up from the script he's been annotating, his blue eyes warm but curious. "Of course, kid. What's on your mind?"

You take a deep breath, stepping closer. "It's the kiss in Streetcar. I've never done anything like that on stage in front of people and I'm terrified I'll freeze up or… I don't know, look ridiculous." He sets the script down, leaning against the edge of the table, his posture relaxed and attentive.

"Hey, that's normal, first time I had to kiss someone on camera, I was a mess, sweaty palms, the whole deal," he grins, his voice dipping into that smooth, honeyed drawl you love.

His blue eyes spark with excitement, a glint of passion lighting them up as his hands gesture to emphasize his point.

"Here's the trick: it's not about the kiss itself. It's about what's behind it. Blanche isn't just kissing Stanley, she's grasping for control, for survival. You've gotta lean into her desperation, let it fuel you. The kiss is just the punctuation."

You nod, hanging onto his every word, he has a way of making everything sound possible, even poetic. "But what if I'm still nervous? Like, physically shaky?"

He smirks, resting his hand on his chin, a telltale sign he's pleased with your honesty.

"Then use it. Channel that into Blanche. She's a wreck too, right? Let your hands tremble, let your breath catch. Make it real." He pauses, then adds, "You ever see the TV Show Carrie Diaries? Look up the scene where I…well, where my character, kisses his girl in the swimming pool. Might give you some ideas."

Your smile quirks. "Wait, you were in TV shows?"

He chuckles, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Yeah, in my early twenties, that's where l got my start. It's all about gaining experience." He says his eyes glancing over you with a quiet intensity.

"Did you ever film a scene that involved more than just a kiss?" you tease, testing the waters, a playful lilt in your voice as you lean in slightly.

His blush deepens, as he rubs the back of his neck, a rare break in his composed exterior. "Well, uh… yes, I have. But even with cameras in your face and twenty crew members around, it still feels personal, and the body responds in ways you don't expect….Acting's funny like that…" He admits, his voice trailing off, then he clears his throat, steering the conversation back. "Anyway, watch it. See how the nerves can work for you."

You leave the studio feeling a rush of excitement and triumph, the honesty of words, and the way he blushed, all rolled into one, swirling in your mind, lingering long after the moment fades.

Later at night, sprawled across your dorm room bed with the lights out, you pull up The Carrie Diaries on your phone. The scene is easy to find, Professor Butlers first name is Austin, and he is much younger in this series, closer to your age but no less captivating.

His toned, tall frame is striking in a pair of black swim trunks, his sun-kissed skin glistening with a casual confidence that pulls you in, his every move radiating a magnetic ease.

You watch the playful banter unfold between he and his co-star, how he tries to kiss her and she pushes back, only for him to pull her into the pool with him.

They play-fight splashing each other in the water until the mood shifts, turning serious. His hands slide around her waist with ease, lifting her to him and drawing her close as he kisses her with a hunger that seems far too real.

The way he holds her, and the slow burn of that kiss becomes etched in your mind. 

He's intoxicating, mesmerizing, and it doesn't help the stage fright for your own kissing scene, but it definitely plants another, far more dangerous idea in your mind.

Chapter 2: The Acting Studio

The next day class is upbeat and energetic. Professor Butler has planned a trust exercise: blindfolded confidence work.

You're paired with him for the demo, the rest of the class watching as he guides you through it. He ties a blindfold gently around your eyes, his fingers brushing your temples, and you swear you hear his breath catch for a second.

"Alright, kid," he says, voice low and steady. "I'm gonna lead you. Just listen to me, feel where I am."

You nod, hyper-aware of his presence and as he releases your hands, he guides you across the room, with his voice smooth and steady. "Alright step forward now…" he instructs, and you do, tentatively at first, the deprivation making you hesitate.

"Good, you're doing great," he says, his tone reassuring as you hone in on where he is.

The class fades away narrowing to just you and he as you step forward, your instincts taking over as you follow the sound of his voice. "You're almost there" he encourages.

When your palms press against his chest, you feel the warmth of him seep into your skin and he stops you, his fingers lingering on yours a second too long before he steps back. "You see?" he says, louder for the rest of the class.

"Trust is everything with acting. When you let go, when you give yourself to it, that's when the passion really begins." He says as he pulls off your blindfold.

You catch his gaze for a fleeting second, and there's something unguarded in those blue eyes of his, a flicker of heat that steals your breath, only to vanish just as quickly.

The rest of the session flies by, everyone feeding off of each other's energy with a newfound passion to perform as they build trust, but you're lost  in a daze, unable to shake the moment with him.

After class, as you pack up your things he calls you over.

"Hey," he says, his tone casual and light as his eyes search yours. "l've got something to show you. Could help with Streetcar. You free tonight?"

Your heart skips a beat. "Yeah, definitely"You say without hesitation.

"Alright meet me at the studio, eight sharp." He says with his signature smirk, but there is a shadow behind it..something he isn't saying.

You've always been quick to read people, and Professor Butler is no exception.

He is kind, happy in nature, teaching is definitely his element, but you can tell there's something about you as his student that rattles his carefully curated demeanor.

And you, eager, sharp, and with a growing crush on him, are just as reckless and determined enough to uncover exactly what that is.

The clock on your phone reads 7:58 as you push open the heavy door to the acting studio, your nervous pulse thrumming in your chest.

The studio is dim, lit only by a pair of soft spotlights casting a warm glow across the hardwood floors of the stage.

Professor Butler is already there, standing near the center of the space, his sandy brown hair slightly tousled, as if he's been running his hands through it.

He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and jeans, a shift from his usual button-downs, and the casual look only amplifies his effortless allure.

When he sees you, his face changes from contemplative to a wide, beaming smile, the kind that lifts the corners of his eyes, and it makes your knees weak.

"There she is," he says, his voice bright with enthusiasm. "Right on time. I've got something set up for you to help with those Streetcar nerves."

He gestures toward a tripod in the corner, a small camera perched on top, its lens pointed at the open space where you'll be working, like a silent witness to whatever is about to unfold.

You step closer, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor. "A camera?" you ask, tilting your head.

"Yep," he says, picking up a thin stack of papers from a nearby table and handing them to you. "We're gonna run lines, block it out, and see exactly how you look. Sometimes watching yourself back is the best way to shake those jitters. Plus, I figured a little one-on-one could get you comfortable with the physicality of it."

He says with a small smile, "You good with that?" he asks resting a hand on his chin for a moment, and you feel a familiar heat creep up to your cheeks.

You nod, glancing at the script seeing Blanche and Stanley's most intense exchange, leading right up to the kiss. "Yeah, I'm good. I trust you," you say quickly as your eyes meet…because you do trust him.

There's just something about him…his warmth, his steady presence, that makes you feel safe, even as your pulse races with anxiety.

"Alright then," he says, switching the camera on with a quick tap. "Let's dive in. You're Blanche, I'll take Stanley. We'll start from the top of the scene, right after she's taunting him about his roughness. Ready?"

You take a deep breath, slipping into character as you step into the spotlight. The studio feels smaller now, the air heavy with the weight of the moment. 

You toss your head back, channeling Blanche's fragile bravery, and begin: "You think I'd be afraid of you? You think I'd tremble in your big, clumsy hands?"

His posture shifts instantly as he embodies Stanley's tempered energy. He steps closer, his blue eyes darkening with intensity: "You talk a big game, Blanche," he drawls, his voice low and rough, tinged with that southern cadence he's mastered effortlessly. "But I see right through you, all that fancy talk …..it's just noise."

The script calls for him to circle you, and he does, his movements slow and intimidating sizing you up as you try not to falter.

You turn to him, your breath stuttering as he closes the distance sharply, standing at your side.

The air hums between you, the energy so heavy you can feel the heat of his body. Your line comes next, shaky but defiant: "You wouldn't dare touch me. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman like me."

He stops, inches away, towering over you just enough to make your heart pound. His smirk flickers, dangerous and knowing as he delivers Stanley's retort: "Oh, l'd know exactly what to do."He confirms his voice dropping an octave, his gaze locked on yours steady and unyielding.

The script denotes he'll grab your arm, yanking you in close, and he does, his grip firm his fingers squeezing against your skin as he pulls you to him. You fall forward, chest brushing his, and for a moment, you almost forget your lines entirely.

You tilt your chin up, Blanche's desperation bleeding into your own as the scene intensifies. "You're nothing but a brute," you whisper, your voice trembling, your true nerves rising and blurring the line between you and the act.

His hand slides up your arm, resting just below your shoulder, and you feel the heat of his palm through your thin shirt. His breath fans across your face, shallow and quick, and you aren't sure if it’s the aggression of the scene or something else simmering in his blue eyes.

The script denotes to pause here, right before the kiss, a beat of silence where Blanche's resolve crumbles and Stanley takes what he wants.

Your both at a stand still, breaths heavy, the space between you charged with uncertainty. His eyes flick to your lips, then back up, and you can’t tell if it’s planned or not, if this is still the scene or something more.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, and then, without warning, he breaks character and kisses you.

It isn't hesitant or staged. It is full-on, hungry, his mouth crashing onto yours with a force that steals your breath. His lips are soft and warm, parting yours as his tongue sweeps in, tasting you like he's been starving for it.

Your hands fly to his chest, script falling to the floor as your fingers curl into his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He groans into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

You devour each other, the camera long forgotten, the script a distant memory, nothing exists but the heat of his body, and the way he presses himself against you like he can't get enough.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back, his palm outstretched to hold you at arm's length. His chest heaves, his lips swollen and tinged a deep shade pink. His eyes are wide with something raw, shock, maybe, or regret.

"Wait," he rasps, his voice rougher than you've ever heard it. "We…shit, I didn't mean…" He drags a hand through his hair, stepping back further, the distance between you cold and abrupt after the fire you'd just shared.

You stand there, dazed, lips tingling, your own breaths staggering. The camera's red light still blinks in the corner, a silent witness to the line you both crossed.

You don't know if it was part of the exercise or if he'd lost himself as much as you did, but one thing is certain, the dynamic in the studio has shifted, and there is no going back.

Professor Butler stumbles toward the camera, his movements rushed, like he is trying to outrun what just happened. He pulls the camera from the tripod, holding it in his hands as he sinks onto the steps at the side of the stage.

His shoulders hunch as he stares at the tiny screen and as you watch him you can't help the small smile that forms across your lips. He's completely undone, his impenetrable guard fractured to pieces letting something real and vulnerable show through, and it thrills you to to no end.

You walk over to him, sitting on the steps close enough that your thigh brushes his. The heat radiating off of him is intoxicating, and you can't resist leaning in, your breath grazing his shoulder as he presses play on the footage.

The screen comes to life, and there you are Blanche and Stanley, raw and captivating. You nailed the scene, every trembling word and desperate glance is perfect, and watching it unfold again sends a fresh wave of heat through you. The way he grabbed you, the way your bodies had collided, it was hotter than you'd even realized, and your breaths quicken as you struggle to stay still sitting so close to him.

The kiss comes up on the tape, and his finger hovers over the pause button. The second your lips met on screen, he hits it, stopping the frame. 

His eyes stare ahead, unblinking, as his voice comes out low and hesitant, laced with something dark. "That wasn't supposed to happen," he confesses, almost to himself.

"I'm your teacher. This… this is so fucked up." 

He swallows hard, his jaw tight, his hand trembling where it rests on the camera. "You're too good, you know that? Too fucking good, and I-I shouldn't have allowed that to happen."

You freeze, caught between the thrill of his confession and the edge of fear in your gut. But your body betrays you, leaning closer, your voice barely a whisper. "Then why'd you kiss me?"

His head turns toward you, eyes filled with conflict. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says, his voice hushed as he sets the camera down. 

His breaths are heavier now, his chest rising and falling as his blue eyes stare at your lips, then back into your eyes filled with everything unspoken.

Your voice is a shy whisper as you look at him. “I liked it, Professor,” you confess, and he freezes, his breath catching, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. 

“You shouldn’t say that,” he chastises, his voice low and firm, but he doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“I mean it,” you say as you look at him, your eyes soft and honest. “I liked it when you kissed me, Professor Butler” You say without hesitation.

His jaw tightens, a war raging behind his eyes, and then he leans in, rushed and desperate, as he claims your lips a second time.

He kisses you with a deep urgent press of his mouth, and it lunleashes all of your desire for him as his lips move against yours with a reckless edge

His hands slide down your sides igniting a throbbing heat that pulses through your core, and you whimper as his palms glide up your thighs, his touch hesitant before turning bolder, his fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt 

He grazes the soft fabric of your panties, stroking his fingers between your legs with agonizing precision, and you moan as he presses against your clit sending a jolt through you.

He breaks the kiss, the realization hitting before he can stop it. “I shouldn’t be touching you like this…” he says, his voice a shaky command. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he says, his tone soft and broken, the hesitation overwhelming in his blue eyes as he looks at  you unable to pull away.

You don’t tell him to stop… you can’t. 

Instead you part your legs wider, a silent invitation letting him in, and he makes a soft, needy sound as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them smoothly down your legs in one swift motion.

Your heart is hammering as he leans closer, his beautiful hand trembling as he presses it between your legs, testing you. “Fuck,” he mutters sliding two fingers along your slick heat. “You’re already so wet,” he whispers, his voice shaky, reverent.

He glides his fingers gently up and down, holding on to the last thread of his restraint as you reach for his wrist.

“Please, Professor Butler,” you beg breathlessly, your pelvis titling up pressing yourself against his hand, and he lets out a desperate groan of surrender as he finally pushes his fingers in, slow and deep. 

“You like this?” he breathes, his tone shifting darker, more commanding as his wrist flexes, thrusting his fingers just right and you nod, chest heaving as you try to stay focused.

“Show me,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your clit and you whimper, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watches you, his eyes locked on your face, memorizing every expression, every sound.

“Good girl,” he praises, thrusting deeper, steady and relentless. “You’re so obedient—fuck, you’re killing me.”

Your soft little gasps and whines spur him on, his words spilling out in a fevered rush. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Watching that tape, getting all worked up.” His fingers pump faster, slick and precise, and you moan louder, the sound echoing in the empty studio. 

“Fuck I love your voice,”he praises, his tone filled with awe “So full of emotion and range when you act.” He reveals, his fingers making sloppy wet sounds as you feel them deep inside. “But what I’ve really wondered”he confesses, his voice low and desperate. “is how you would sound just like this.”

His words make your whole body tense as your hips twitch taking a pounding from his fingers until your moans come out wild unstoppable.

You crave every part of him now, his touch, his voice, his passion, your desperation rising as you ache for him to claim you completely. Your body writhes, slick and needy, your heart racing with a raw, reckless desire to be his, entirely consumed by the thought of him inside you.

"Professor Butler please," you breathe, clutching his arm. "Please-more—"

"More?" he echoes, his breaths quickening, his eyes sharp and dangerous. "You want to give me everything, don't you?" He coaxes, thrusting his fingers inside, hitting the sweet spot that makes your vision blur as you cry out, trembling. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says, his fingers jostling you as they thrust harder inside, “I should’ve known my star student would always give her everything," he praises, his voice a low rasp.

His filthy encouragement pushes you to the brink and you moan loudly enough that he covers your mouth, his fingers plunging into your core as you choke back sobs against his palm.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” he commands, his breaths fast and ragged.

Your body seizes, a rush of heat flooding through you as you come hard, squirting all over his fingers in a slick mess.

His hand over your mouth stifles your pleasurable moans, but the whimpers slip out anyway, soft and needy as he works you through it, his fingers relentless until you’re shivering and delirious.

He slowly pulls his hand back releasing you and his fingers are glistening with your slick, then he looks at you, his chest heaving, eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.

You sit there, panting, skirt hiked up, legs wide, a dazed expression on your face as you see the camera lying forgotten beside him, the frozen kiss still on the screen, a memory now surpassed by the real thing.

You are hopelessly in love with him now, your mentor, your teacher, Professor Butler, the man who's just finger-fucked you on the edge of a stage. 

Your breaths are shaky exhales, as your body recovers from the intensity of what he's done, and when you glance at him, your heart stutters.

He stares at his slicked fingers like they've betrayed him and he wipes them clean on his jeans, you quickly fumble to find your panties, pulling them back up over your thighs, feeling the wet fabric press against your skin.

He reaches for the camera with a jerky motion.

"I have to delete this," he says, voice low and rough, tinged with something heavy…guilt, maybe, or fear. "This can't… it can't exist. If anyone sees-"

"No!" you blurt, lurching forward to grab his arm. Your voice is desperate, pleading, and you don't care how it sounds. "Please Professor, don't. I-I want it. I want you to keep it." Your eyes lock on his, wide and pleading, and you see the conflict across his face. "It's ours. No one else has to know." You say shakily.

He pauses, his thumb hovering over the delete button, and for a long moment, he just stares at the screen. His blue eyes are stormy, torn between reason and whatever irresistible hold you have over him.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning the screen off. "Fine," he mutters, relenting. "But it stays between us. Locked away. You hear me?"

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips as relief floods through you. "Yeah. I hear you."

He stands abruptly, gathering the tripod and script pages in a rush, like he needs to move to shake off the weight of it all.

You follow suit, tugging your skirt down and collecting your bag, your mind spinning with the memory of his fingers, his voice, the way he made you come on the side of the stage.

As you leave the studio together, the cool night air hits your face, but it does nothing to dim the heat you feel for each other.

"Good night," he says softly, his voice lingering in the air between you. "Good night," you reply, your tone dreamy, and drifting as a small smile forms across your lips.

You walk back to your dorm in a haze, every step light and floaty, your thoughts consumed by him, your body still on a high from his touch.

After your shower you lay in bed with the memory of him and a strange calm settles over you. 

Maybe he will fuck you. 

He could have tonight but he didn’t. Maybe that was the line he wouldn't cross, but you smile to yourself, a quiet, private thing.

You’ve already gone further than he wanted to go, and that alone feels like a victory. But you want for more. You want him entirely, you want him to lose control again when he takes you, and that idea alone makes your pulse race all over again.

Chapter 3: Restraint

The next morning, you arrive at class, your eyes meeting Professor Butler’s briefly, a fleeting spark passing between you before you tuck into your row, heart racing from the memory of last night.

The class is a test of restraint, and Professor Butler stands at the front, playing it cool—too cool. His posture is stiff, his voice tense as he outlines the day’s lesson: subtext in physicality, how to convey longing without words.

He wears a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his sandy brown hair is tamed, but you notice the tension in his jaw, the way he doesn’t move his hands as much when he speaks.

You, on the other hand, are a glowing mess, cheeks flushed, eyes smitten and burning right through him. Every time he glances your way, you catch the flicker of his indecision: look away or hold your gaze? He can’t decide, and it thrills you to no end.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “We’re pairing up. I want you to pick a moment of unspoken tension and play it out. Less dialogue, more movement.” His eyes sweep the room, landing on you, and your heart leaps.

“You,” he says, pointing and you practically jump out of your seat eager to be his partner, but then he nods to someone else behind you. 

“And Jake. You two are together. I have something special planned for you.”

Your excitement fades, nerves creeping in as your co-star Jake, the tall sophomore with dark curls and a shy smile, stands up.

You like Jake well enough, but he isn’t Professor Butler, and the thought of performing with anyone else after last night feels wrong.

He looks at both of you, handing you scripts. “You two are going to play out the kissing scene, emphasizing the subtext in physicality.” 

You and Jake nod standing to face each other, and Professor Butler circles you both to watch, just like he did last night, and his presence becomes a gravitational pull you can’t ignore. 

“Start closer,” he instructs, his voice steady but edged. “Let the space between you tell the story.”

You try to focus, standing inches from Jake, acting out the dialogue mirroring last night’s intensity, but your pace is lagging, slow and distant in an awkward orbit. 

Your mind is elsewhere, on Professor Butler’s hands, on how his lips felt against yours last night and your energy becomes soft, dream like, distracted.

Jake, picking up on the exercise, steps closer, his hand brushing your arm, pulling you to him gently leading right up to the kiss. 

Your eyes lock and both of your faces break into wide, giddy grins, your shyness eating you alive, and just as quickly Jake leans in giving you a soft chaste kiss, it’s part of the improv but it jolts you all the same.

“Stop,” Professor Butler says, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. Everyone freezes, heads turning, but his eyes are fixed on you and Jake, his hands on his hips, his composure cracking. 

“That’s not it…You’re rushing the tension, build it, make her want it, don’t just jump to the kiss.” His tone is sharp toward Jake, then his gaze lands on you, a flash of jealousy betraying his cool facade.

You bite back a smile, your lips still tingling from Jake’s kiss, but it’s Professor Butler’s reaction that lights you up. 

He looks rattled, his guilt surging back to the surface, as if seeing you kiss a boy your own age is supposed to fix something, to erase the line he crossed last night. 

Maybe he hopes it will snap him out of whatever this is, remind him you belong with someone like Jake, not him.

But it doesn’t work. You feel it in the way his gaze lingers, the way his hand pulls into a fist at his side like he wants to pull you away.

Jake shuffles back, his grin widening, muttering a quiet “Sorry” under his breath, but you don’t respond, too busy watching Professor Butler as he steps back slowly pacing, trying to regain control.

Your cheeks glow hotter, your smitten eyes still locked on him, and you know, kissing Jake hasn’t fixed anything….It only makes you want Professor Butler even more.

The rest of the class resumes as you rehearse, but the air between you and Professor Butler is heavy with unspoken tension.

The studio empties out, the chatter of your classmates fading into the hall as they file through the door, but you linger behind, moving slowly, like a cat stalking its prey.

Your bag hangs loosely over your shoulder, and you let it drop to the floor, your eyes tracking Professor Butler as he busies himself at the front of the room, stacking scripts and avoiding your gaze.

He wants you gone, you sense it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way he keeps his back to you so long. But he doesn’t say it, and that’s enough to keep you there, toying with him.

“Professor Butler?” you call, your voice soft and laced with intent you can’t resist. You step closer, your sneakers silent against the floor, stopping just a few feet from him. “Can I ask you something about the exercise?”

He stiffens, his hands pausing mid-motion, and when he turns, his blue eyes are guarded, flickering with something he tries to bury. “Yeah, sure,” he says, precise and careful. “What’s up, kid?”

You tilt your head coyly in a move to draw attention. “I just… I feel off with Jake. Like I can’t connect. You see it, right?” You take another step, closing the gap, and his breath hitches faintly. “I keep thinking about last night. How it feels… different.”

His jaw tightens, and he crosses his arms in a flimsy shield. “Last night was a mistake,” he says, low and firm, but his eyes dart to your lips for a split second before snapping back up. “We’re not doing that again. You should go.”

You don’t move. Instead, you smile…just a little, just enough to nudge him further. “You sure?” You ask peering up at him innocently. “You didn’t seem to think it was a mistake when you had your fingers inside me.” 

The words hang in the air, bold and unapologetic, and you can see the crack in his resolve, the way his hands squeeze his biceps.

“Stop it,” he snaps, uncrossing his arms as he steps back, but his voice wavers, betraying him. “You don’t know what you’re playing with. I’m your teacher. This—” He gestures between you, frantic. “This can’t happen. I don’t want it.”

But you see it, the bulge straining against his jeans, the way his chest rises and falls too fast. He’s lying, and you both know it. 

You step closer, bolder now, your fingers slowly tucking into his belt loop to pull him in closer  “Then why am I still here Professor Butler?” You ask your voice laced with a playful challenge.. “Why haven’t you kicked me out already?” You say staring into his eyes.

He exhales sharply, a sound of frustration and surrender, and then he moves fast, grabbing your wrist firm and pining your hand against the desk beside you.

“You’re becoming such a fucking menace,” he grits, leaning down his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek. “You think you can just push me like this and I won’t break?”

Your heart races, exhilaration flooding as he towers over you, his control slipping. “I want you to,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

That does it—He lets go of your wrist only to spin you around, pressing your hips firm against the desks edge, his body crowding yours from behind. 

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, and his hands are already on you sliding up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. His fingers brush your panties, and he groans, low and guttural. “Damn it, you’re already soaked again.”

You gasp, arching into him wanting more, but he pulls back, leaving you in place as he goes to lock the studio door with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the empty space.

When he returns, his cock is hard and strained against his jeans, undeniable now as he presses it against you caging you in. “Is this what you want?” he rasps, his hand slipping between your legs, tugging your panties aside. “Me losing it? Taking you right here?”

“Yes,” you breathe, trembling under his touch and his fingers tease you, circling but not dipping in yet, still fighting himself, even now, as his free hand grips the table like it can anchor him.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, almost to himself, but then he gives in, his two fingers sliding in to you, slow and deep, stretching you with a precision that makes your knees buckle.

“Professor Butler it feels so good,” you cry out, your voice filled with lust as he thrusts steady and deliberate. 

“You’re driving me insane, you know that? All damn class, with those eyes on me.”he grits.

You moan, soft and desperate, your hands bracing against the table as he works you open nice and slow. 

“More Professor Butler please,” you beg, and he complies, his pace quickening, fingers curling just right, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down.

“Shit,” he curses, his control unraveling as your little noises fill the room. “You’re gonna take this aren’t you? Everything I give you.” 

“Yes” you moan and his free hand slides up your back, pressing you down until your chest meets the table, and he leans over you, his hard cock grinding against your hip through his jeans.

“I try to stay away,” he says, pumping his fingers harder, faster, his voice dark and desperate. “I try to be good. But you—you just keep begging for it.”

You whimper, lost in him, your body tightening as he pushes you close to the brink, until you can’t hold back anymore, his fingers, his words, the weight of him pinning you down, it’s too much. 

“Come for me,” he orders, as his lips brush your ear, and you do, climaxing on his fingers with a cry you can’t stifle, your walls clenching tight as pleasure rips through you.

He slows but doesn’t pull away, his breathing heavy as he feels you tremble beneath him. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, easing his fingers out, slick and glistening. He steps back running his other hand through his hair, his cock still straining, untouched. “Get your stuff,” he says, voice hoarse but softer now, the fight drained out of him. “We’re done here.”

You straighten, dizzy and glowing, your love for him a wild, reckless thing as you pull up your painted and adjust your skirt. He takes advantage, sure, but you want it, you push him to it, and the thrill of it lingers as you grab your bag, casting him one last smitten glance before slipping out the door.

At night in your dorm room you lay sprawled across your bed, utterly wrecked. The play A Streetcar Named Desire is only a day away, and your mind feels like it’s been dipped in jelly, sluggish and sweet. 

All you can think about is Professor Butler, his hands, his voice, the way he lost it and pinned you across a desk and made you come in the acting studio. Now the only thing on your mind is how badly you want him to fuck you until you see stars.

Chapter 4: Just a Girl

The next morning, you wake with a lingering smile, your body still on a high from Professor Butler’s touch, his voice echoing in your mind. 

You head to the theater, heart pounding to see him again, to catch that spark in his blue eyes that makes your heart flutter with excitement. 

The final rehearsal for A Streetcar Named Desire is today, the play set for tomorrow evening, and the pressure is undeniable.

You arrive early enough to see only few crew members adjusting props and Professor Butler is already there, standing near the stage, clipboard in hand. He’s in a sepia button-down, sleeves rolled up, but his posture is tense, his jaw set in a way that makes your stomach knot. 

You approach slowly, a smile on your lips, “Good morning Professor Butler,” you say sweetly, your voice laced with intimacy.

He cuts you off turning sharply, his blue eyes cold, devoid of the warmth you crave. “No,” he says, his voice low and biting, a harsh edge you’ve never heard directed at you. 

“We’re not doing this here.” He says his eyes darting over the crew members working dutifully. “Yesterday  was another mistake ..a fucking stupid one—and it’s not happening again.” His words land like a slap, each syllable intensified as you stare at him.

“You’re my student. I’m your teacher. That’s it. Get it through your head.” You freeze, breath catching, heart plummeting, because  the  rejection stings, raw and unexpected.

“Professor Butler, please you don’t mean it,” you whisper, voice trembling, stepping closer, desperate to bridge the gap. “I want to be with you… you can’t just—”

“I can,” he snaps, stepping back, his tone brutal, blue eyes flashing with a mix of anger and guilt. “And I will. This stops now. You’re a kid, chasing something you don’t understand. I’m not your boyfriend, and I sure as hell am not yours to play with.” He voices, trying to keep his tone low. “Focus on the play. Be a good student. Leave it at that.”

His words shatter you, your chest tightening as tears prick your eyes. You want him so badly the ache hurts like a physical pain, he’s shutting you out, his denial now a wall you can’t breach. 

You open your mouth to argue, to beg, but his glare silences you, “Go,” he says, turning to his clipboard, dismissing you.

You stumble into a seat, crossing your arms and sinking down, legs shaky, heart hammering. The cast trickles in, their chatter a distant hum as you open your script, trying to anchor yourself.

You throw yourself into, memorizing every nuance of Blanche’s lines, every stage cue, determined to prove your worth to him, to channel the pain into your performance. 

Your eyes keep drifting to Professor Butler, standing at the front, directing the cast with  precision and each time you look, tears well, stinging as they threaten to spill. His rejection cuts deeper than you expected, a wound that deepens with every glance.

Rehearsal begins, and you force yourself to focus, running scenes with Jake, whose timid acting feels like a shadow compared to Professor Butlers intensity. 

You pour everything into Blanche, her fragility, her longing, her desperation, using your turmoil to fuel her. Your voice trembles authentically, your movements bold yet brittle, and the cast notices, their whispers of praise and awe lifting through the theater. 

Jake grips your arm for the kiss scene, his touch gentle, and you flinch, remembering Professor Butlers firm grasp. Your eyes flick to him, standing in the wings, watching you with a neutral expression, and you catch a fleeting crack the tensing of his jaw, a shadow in his eyes. It’s not enough to undo his words, but it sparks a flicker of hope, he still wants you.

You push through the scene allowing Jake to kiss you deeper making your performance raw and electrifying driven by the need to show Professor Butler what you’re capable of, to make him see you. 

When you pull away from the the kiss you glance over at Professor Butler but he’s focused elsewhere, intentionally avoiding your kiss with Jake, and the tears well again your vision blurring. 

You blink them back, refusing to let them fall, channeling the hurt into Blanche’s unraveling. The final run-through ends, and the cast applauds, Jake whispering, “You’re incredible,” but it’s hollow without Professor Butlers approval.

As the theater clears, you linger, script clutched to your chest, eyes drifting to Professor Butler as he gathers notes, speaking to another student. You want to talk to him, to understand why he’s pushing you away when you both know the truth, but his words—“I’m not yours”—echo, rooting you in place. 

A single tear escapes, trailing down your cheek; you wipe it away quickly, heart heavy with longing. Tomorrow’s the play, and you’ll be Blanche, flawless and fierce, but tonight, you’re just a girl broken by the man you love, acting through the pain, his rejection a fire that both burns and drives you.

Chapter 5: Muse 

You arrive to the theater for premiere night of A Streetcar Named Desire and the air is filled with frantic energy. Backstage is a whirlwind of organized chaos as crew members dart about, adjusting velvet curtains and testing flickering stage lights.

A rack of costumes sways as a wardrobe assistant rolls them past, while props like a poker table and a tarnished brass lamp are shuffled into place from the prop warehouse.

You spot Professor Butler near the front of the stage, clipboard in hand, giving directives with calm authority.

He’s in a blue button-down, sleeves rolled up, sandy brown hair catching the glow of the theater lights, his blue eyes sharp yet distant.

He looks stunning, visionary, commanding, and you try not to get distracted as you head to wardrobe, your heart beat quickening despite the ache of his rejection.

In the cramped dressing room, you slip into Blanche’s costume, a delicate, cream-colored chiffon gown, the soft fabric clinging to your frame, paired with pearl earrings that evoke her fragile elegance.

Jake, as Stanley, wears a tight, stained white t-shirt, slightly torn, with worn jeans that hug his tall frame embodying Stanley’s raw edge. You exchange nervous smiles in the wardrobe room, the weight of the performance settling in.

Sitting in front of a bulb-lit vanity, you powder your face, the warm glow framing your reflection as your eyes drift to the mirror’s edge landing on Professor Butler in the background.

He’s been watching you, and as your gazes lock in the reflection, his blue eyes are filled with a mix of longing and restraint that silently echoes your own.

The moment holds, heavy and restless, until he looks away, jaw tightening as he busies himself reviewing prop placements with a stagehand intentionally avoiding your stare.

You weakly smile, eyes welling with tears as you understand the forbidden love you have for him. You love him fiercely… recklessly… but it’s a secret you promise to keep locked away, suffering in silence as the theater bustles around you.

You blink back the tears, focusing on your reflection, channeling the ache into Blanche’s desperate soul, determined to make tonight’s performance flawless.

When the curtains rise on stage, you’re a different person. No nerves, no hesitation, just Blanche DuBois, aching and luminous beneath the spotlight. 

You meld into her like she’s always been inside you, waiting to be let out. Every tremble in your voice, every subtle gesture and glance is embedded with meaning. You pour everything into the performance, the longing, the desperation, the heartbreak.

When you argue with Jake, the theater is silent , not a whisper from the audience. And when you kiss him full on confident and alive—it’s seamless, charged with a kind of raw power you didn’t know you had.

At curtain call, you all hold hands and bow as the crowd erupts the applause crashing around you as the focused spotlights warms your skin, bight and dizzying. 

As you rise from your final bow, you glance side stage and see Professor Butler there, just beyond the curtain. His smile is small, and real, a sense of pride flickering in his misty blue eyes, and it lights you up brighter than the stage lights ever could.

As the curtain falls, cheers and whistles echo across the theater and you head backstage into the celebratory chaos. 

Ecstatic classmates hug and laugh shouting praises after a successful performance. Jake touches your shoulder, beaming. “You were absolutely amazing,” he says, and you glow, not just from the applause, not even from the kiss, but knowing it was your talent brought out from what Professor Butler sparked in you, the fire still burning bright inside.

As the chaos settles, your eyes scan the backstage area until you find him. Professor Butler is leaning near the stage door, his arms crossed, a fond smile curving his lips. 

You approach slowly, the chiffon of your gown whispering with each step as the adrenaline surging inside you becomes something more.

His eyes soften as you near, the look in them doing something dangerous to your heart as you feel that spark, that pull, knowing what you want as you gaze up at him.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

His words wrap around you, warm and private, and your cheeks flush under his gaze. The two of you stare at each other, caught in the moment, heavy with heat and anticipation, both of you aching to touch—but knowing you can’t. Not here. Not with people still darting past, the noise of the post-show adrenaline still filling the air.

You make a small daring gesture, your hand drifting toward his belt loop, fingers tucking in subtly at his side in a silent request for more.

His eyes flick down, a smile forming across his lips, and he gently takes your wrist, carefully pulling it back. “Not here,” he says, soft and steady.

He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with a question as he nods toward the hallway with an invitation.

“Come with me,” he says, his tone gentle but sure.

“Okay,” you whisper, your mind racing with anticipation.

You follow him, heart pounding, as he leads you through the backstage corridors, each hallway quieter than the last, until it’s just the two of you.

He stops at a large nondescript door, pulling out a set of keys, his movements quick as he unlocks it, and you both step inside, revealing the college’s prop and set storage warehouse.

It’s massive, high ceilings with rows upon rows of props and set pieces. Painted backdrops hang like giant tapestries, Grecian columns from past plays lining the wall with sets of knight’s armor. 

Racks of period costumes in plastic wrap line one section, hats and crowns perched on shelves above, and a gilded throne from Hamlet sits beside a velvet-draped bed from Romeo and Juliet

You’re speechless walking in, your eyes scanning around every infamous theater prop before landing on a large scaled ship for the Odyssey.

Professor Butler closes the door behind you and locks it, the latch click echoing in the silence. 

His eyes darken as he steps closer, his voice low and reverent. “I couldn’t stop thinking about us,” he confesses, each word heavy with longing. 

“The way you channeled your heartbreak and commanded that stage tonight, I understood everything you felt about me,”he whispers, and before you can respond he tilts your chin up, his mouth claiming yours in a slow passionate kiss.

He gently backs you against a pillar, grasping your waist. “I can’t do this anymore,” he pleads between kisses, his large hands roaming your body, tugging your chiffon gown up. “Pretending I don’t want you is killing me,” he whispers, his hard cock pressing against you through his pants and you softly moan, fingers sliding up his neck to pull him closer. 

“I want you too,” you confess, your voice shaking with needs as you look in his eyes, and that’s all it takes.

His fingers reach your hips, sliding your panties down, and he turns you around, bending you over a weathered table from a play, his hand sliding between your legs, teasing your slick entrance. 

“My perfect little muse,” he praises, and you wait, expecting his fingers to slide in, but instead he sinks to his knees behind you almost worshipfully. “Let me satisfy you,”

You gasp, voice shaky as his large hands cup your ass, his tongue lapping at your core and pushing in with a warm probing glide. He hums against you, and the vibration making you moan, until he nips at your sensitive skin, drawing a sharp yelp. 

“You taste so good to me,” he praises, his voice thick with lust. “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he whispers, and he dives back in, his tongue swirling in circles, teasing your entrance before plunging slowly back in.

He eats you out until slick drips down your thighs, and you choke back sobs, your core throbbing under his relentless mouth.

“Fuck, you’re getting so wet,” he groans, and he wipes his mouth along your thigh, pulling back as he pushes two fingers in, stretching you wide with steady, precise thrusts.

You whimper as he gently flicks your clit, his fingers scissoring inside as your body rocks against the table, chasing the torturous pleasure.

“Don’t stop! …Please keep going… I’m so close!” you plead, hips pressing back to offer more and his fingers curl, hitting a spot that blurs your vision, pumping relentlessly until you lose yourself, back arching.

Your moans grow raw, desperate, your body trembling as you come, a shuddering cry escaping your throat as your walls clench tight on his fingers feeling the surge of release flood through you.

He slowly glides his fingers out as he stands, and you shudder, gasping, “Please…give me more, Professor Butler,” your voice threadbare as you peek back at him, and you tremble when you see he’s unbuttoning his pants. 

“I’m going to give you everything this time,” he promises, a grin on his lips as his hands shove his pants down just enough to let his hard cock spring free, thick and heavy, daunting in its size.

You gasp, eyes widening, a mix of awe and nervousness and he places his palm on your back. He keeps you in place as he nudges the tip against you, the blunt pressure slipping  making your core clench instinctively. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna be so tight on me,” he whispers, his voice dripping with lust.

He pushes in, slow at first, the stretch immediate, overwhelming, a sharp ache that has your feet kicking out. 

“Shh shh take it all the way in,” he soothes, his voice low and patient, “You’re my star student I’m giving you everything you wanted,“ he says one hand gripping your hip as the other keeps you steady.  

You whine, your senses overwhelmed, a raw, keening wail erupting from your throat as his cock stretches you beyond belief, your feet kicking out against the floor

The sensation becomes too much, a delicious pressure that narrows your senses as he settles in, and he claps a hand over your mouth, muffling you completely unaware you’ve been making high pitched crying sounds the entire time.

“Fuck your little sounds are breaking me,”he rasps, his voice thick with lust.

He works himself deeper with several thrusts, each one harder than the last until your squirming, half-fighting it, half-taking it, your body resisting even as you crave more.

“Doing so good for me…such a good girl” he praises, slipping two fingers into your mouth to soothe you, and you give in to his encouragement, sucking on them, swirling your tongue and making him buck his hips even harder as you moan in pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he curses, his restraint slipping as he starts to thrust faster, his need taking over as his thighs clap against yours with rhythmic force, the sounds echoing in the warehouse with your moans and stifled whimpers.

He slips his fingers from your mouth as your moans fade into silence, the pressure so deep and relentless, you can’t speak , you can’t even  think, all of your senses consumed by his cock, and how well he fucks you with unrestrained awe.

“Such a good girl, taking me so well,” he says, his hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit. The wet squishing sounds are slick and messy until you can’t hold back anymore and you to come, squeezing tight against his cock.

He pulls out abruptly, the sudden emptiness leaving you aching, and his hands find your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulse hammering, as he carries you to the large stage bed.

Its canopy looms in the dim light, a silent witness to performances past, and he sets you on the edge, the bed tall enough to allow him to stand between your legs.

“You’re so damn pretty like this,” he praises, his voice low and reverent as he hitches your legs around his waist. “I’m gonna let you feel me all of me now,” he says, his hand cupping your jaw and he kisses you, soft and slow, nudging his cock against you, then pushes forward, filling you all over again. 

The slow glide of his cock stretches in your pelvis deep, the aching fullness making your body quiver involuntarily as your back arcs overwhelmed by his size.

Your hands cling to his neck, anchoring yourself as he builds a steady rhythm, and his palms grip behind your knees, spreading you wide.

Your eyes lock, yours wide and pleading, his eyes dark with lust as his hips clap between your thighs, the force slamming your deepest point, your moans desperate feeling your clit throb as he wrecks you. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, feeling you take his cock deep, each thrust sending a jolt through your core on the verge of another orgasm.

Yes, Professor Butler!” you cry out, your voice trembling with need. 

“Austin,” he responds, his voice a low, breathless plea, letting you call him by his first name for the first time, and the intimacy makes you fall for him all over again. 

“Yes, Austin,” you say softly, voice pleading , looking up at him with worshipful eyes, and he groans, a deep, primal sound, holding your legs tighter, snapping his hips, harder seeing the the way you’ll do anything for him.

“Do you know how many times I watched our little tape?” he asks, his thrusts hammering fast now. “You know how many times I’ve wanted you like this?” he breathes, and you’re a feeble mess your moans rising higher, knowing you’re about to come.

“I wanted you all along, I wanted you to be mine,” he says, his tone resolute . “I won’t fight it anymore.”his confesses, his voice breaking and he kisses you, tongue diving in, as he delivers his most devastating thrusts, your core throbbing, as your eyes fall shut feeling the indescribable pleasure.

You pull from the kiss, unable to breathe, unable to think, begging, “Please…please,” not even knowing what you’re begging for. Then it hits, your body tensing as you orgasm, whimpering as a surge of your release soaks him, his thrusts rebounding faster, tighter. 

He groans, breathing ragged, his cock twitching as he makes soft sounds of pleasure. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, pulling out abruptly.

He holds the base of his cock, stroking it as he guides you down onto your knees before pressing the tip to your tongue.

“Take it all for me,” he instructs, and you nod as he slowly pushes it in, guiding his cock and smoothly filling your mouth with a warm, weight that makes your jaw stretch to accommodate him. You seal your lips around it gently sucking trying and draw him in deeper and he groans in pleasure l.

“So pretty…such a good girl…satisfying me like this .” he praises and your knees press together, unable to withstand the surge of arousal from pleasing him. 

He thrusts gently, the wet, slurping sounds amplifying each slick glide in your mouth as you whimper around his cock, the vibrations sending shivers up his spine. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, his voice strained. You look up into his eyes silently begging, and in that moment he comes, warm and slick on your tongue. 

His voice is tense as he groans, slowing his thrusts to release more into your mouth, and he cups your jaw, guiding you to taste the last of him before pulling out.

His thumb wipes the corner of your mouth as he tucks his cock away, and he pulls you up into his arms letting you rest against his chest, your hearts pounding. You look up at him wide-eyed, and breathless, soft sighs escaping as you tremble.

He gazes down at you, his eyes softening as he traces his thumb along your cheek, “I can’t be without you now,” he says, his voice low and heartfelt, filled with unspoken promise. 

You smile, heart beat slowing as you place your hands behind his neck pulling him down into a kiss. “I can’t be without your either,” you whisper against his lips.  

He smiles, taking you into another kiss, and his fingers weave softly into your hair, holding the back of your neck. “My star student” he says with pride.

His thumbs slide down your neck as he pulls back slightly. “I’ll find a way to make this work, I promise,” he says, his gaze steady and affectionate.

 “I know,” you respond, your eyes filled with trust.  He looks at you a moment longer, as if envisioning a shared future before he smiles kissing you again,slow and tender. 

You wanted him: your mentor, your teacher, your lover,

—and now you had him.

END 🎭

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[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part twenty-three

Once again, don't say a word, yes I'm uploading AGAIN, I can't help it!! I want to get to the fluffy weekend chapters!!!

Warnings: some good big brother bonding with Morgan and reader, Derek talks about the events of s2e12 "Profiler, Profiled" here, more curveballs lowkey I'm getting whiplash here (you'll see), apologies in advance (it felt too easy!!! so sorry!!!)

When you peel yourself away from Hotch, it’s only because there’s a knock at his door. The sound makes you jump and him stand to his feet, his hands slipping from yours automatically. 

He walks to the door and opens it a crack, pausing. He looks over his shoulder once at you before opening the door further.

Rossi eyes you both as he walks into Hotch’s office. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” you say immediately, standing up. “I was just leaving, actually.”

Rossi gives you a look that tells you he sees right through you, but he doesn’t press as you weave through them and exit Hotch’s office. 

The team is just coming out of the conference room when you step out, pausing as you stare at one another.

You don’t know what to say. If you can even say anything. 

“Should we um…” You pause to clear your throat. “Should we go back to looking at all the evidence?”

“In a minute,” Morgan says. “Let’s take a walk first.”

You open your mouth, but Morgan hears none of it, shaking his head as he comes toward you, leading you out of the bullpen.

“Where are we going?”

“To get breakfast for everyone for the long day ahead of us,” Morgan replies, pressing the down arrow on the elevator. “And to get you calmed down.”

“I’m plenty calm.”

“You’re shaking.”

The elevator doors open and you step inside, glaring at the buttons on the wall instead of your team member. You press the ground floor button with a huff, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the fact that you are definitely not shaking.

Neither of you say a word as you walk to Derek’s car in the parking garage, parked in his same spot as usual. Derek breaks the silence with an insane question.

“Do you…want to stop somewhere for…cigarettes?”

You can’t help but laugh loudly at the way he says it. “No, dude, I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. “Was just asking.”

“Why?” you laugh again. “Last time that was brought up you were horrified.”

“Well,” he shrugs, not arguing with that. He pulls out of the space and heads for the exit. “That was before everything started imploding.”

You scoff. “Imploding puts it a little too nicely. But no, I’m fine, that was my one pack for the year, so I’m cut off.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “One a year?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “A rule I had with my mom. She never liked that I picked up the habit — didn’t find out why until later, but my dad smoked, too, and tried to hide it from her — so we made a deal. One pack a year.”

“And you stuck to it?”

“Surprisingly, yeah,” you reply. “Some days I don’t know how I did it, but I guess I just didn’t want to let her down.”

Morgan hums. “That feeling can run deep.”

“Especially after what happened with my dad,” you agree. “I knew she couldn’t take another thing, so when we compromised and made promises, we stuck to them.”

Morgan nods. “Mine too.”

A comfortable silence fills the car as Morgan drives into town, to one of the chain coffee spots that has a drive-thru. They know the BAU well from their frequent — and sometimes random — orders.

As you wait in one of the nearby parking spaces for your order to be prepared, Morgan starts talking again.

“Did I ever tell you about a case in my hometown a few years ago?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

“I was arrested as a suspect for the murder of one of the neighborhood kids,” he explains. “I was in town for my mom’s birthday, and one of the detectives had always had it out for me, he saw a connection and booked me. Hotch and everyone came to find the real unsub and get me out of there.”

“Oh my god,” you say, unsure of how else to respond to this. “But they did figure it out, obviously, right, because you’re here, and still at the BAU?”

Morgan nods, keeping his eyes focused ahead of him. “They did. But the team had to do a lot of digging into my past to find answers. Because I wasn’t willing to share those parts of my life.”

“Right.” You look down at your hands, seeing exactly where he’s going with this now.

“Garcia unsealed some of my records, Hotch practically interrogated me as if I was the unsub,” Morgan laughs, the kind of bitter sound that tells you it wasn’t funny then, it isn’t exactly funny now, but it’s less painful than it used to be. “I kept secrets because I wanted my privacy — and I still do. I still think we each have a right to our privacy, no matter how much we see each other all the damn time,” he smiles. “But I also know things might’ve gone smoother if I had opened up a little more.”

You shake your head. “That’s not on you, Derek. Just because things might have gone smoother doesn’t mean you were wrong for trying to salvage what little privacy you had left.”

“I know that,” he says. “I’m saying two things can be true at once. You can be mad at Hotch for going behind your back and digging into your past without your permission. And you can let yourself accept that he was doing what he thought was right and what he thought had to be done in order to help you.”

You sink further into the passenger seat, resisting the urge to glare at Derek. “How’d you know I’ve been battling that one in my head?”

Morgan smiles then, wide and mischievous. “You’re an open book whether you like it or not.”

“Or maybe we’re just so similar that you’re projecting and it just happens to be correct.”

“Like I said, two things can be true at once.”

You roll your eyes that time, playfully shoving his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“No, no you love me.”

“Barely.”

“Ouch.”

“Quit being dramatic and put your window down, they’re bringing our food out.”

Once the bags of breakfast are safely tucked at your feet and the drink carrier is secured in your lap, Morgan heads back for the BAU.

“Thank you,” you finally say. “For the Big Brother talk.”

He glances at you, looking only slightly surprised. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

“Did you and Hotch ever talk about it?” you blurt.

Morgan is unfazed by the question, though. “Yeah. We did.” He pauses. “I’m assuming you guys haven’t?”

“Well,” you scoff. “We haven’t exactly had the time.”

“Touché,” Morgan nods. “I think you should. At some point.”

Like this weekend, your mind fills in for you. It would be the perfect time. The two of you will be alone, with Rossi’s entire place to yourselves. It would be easy for you to pitch the conversation or try to steer one in that direction — or, fuck it, blurt it out at one point just to rip the bandaid off. 

“Yeah,” you say. “At some point.”

+++

“Everything okay?” Rossi asks Hotch after they watch you practically bolt from the room.

Hotch shuts the door. “Fine. I was going to ask you the same, since you followed Erin out of here.”

Rossi’s on-again, off-again relationship with Erin Strauss is no secret, at least not to Hotch. It’s something he’s known about for years, having confronted Dave about it after noticing one too many not-so-subtle gestures from his friend.

But that’s not what this was about this time.

“She wants us to get to the bottom of this. Like, yesterday,” Rossi says.

“Well,” Hotch pauses to rub the headache brewing under his eyebrow. “Tell her she can join the club.”

That makes both men let out an incredulous laugh.

“What the hell are we doing here, Aaron?” Dave finally asks. “It feels like we get thrown a curveball every single day. Richard Monroe just breaks out of prison out of nowhere? Are we supposed to think the unsub helped him? Are we supposed to think Richard is going to go after Lila now?”

“I don’t know,” Aaron admits. “I don’t understand any of it. And nothing that we find seems to land us any closer than we were to figuring out who is doing all of this.”

“I know,” Rossi sighs. “I asked her last night if she remembers anything about who kidnapped her.”

“And?” Hotch sounds too hopeful, he knows he does.

Rossi shakes his head. “She might have seen his face, but she has blocked it out. What she remembered was him telling her to put the clothes she was wearing the day he took her back on, so that she’d match the description when we found her. But he was taking care of her. Giving her changes of clothes, food, water, letting her shower with a lock inside the bathroom door. She said she felt safe, despite everything. If she did see his face, she blocked it out, and it’s been two decades, Aaron. There’s no way she’d remember it now, and if she did, we couldn’t trust it to be accurate, not after this long.”

Hotch hates it, but Rossi is right. With so much time having passed, it’s no use. 

“There’s something we’re missing,” Hotch turns and heads for the window, gazing at the horizon as he thinks. “When we spoke to Richard in prison, he said his daughter was supposed to be left out of it.”

“Okay…”

“So, if the unsub we’re looking for is the same person who kidnapped Lila, and the same person from twenty years ago,” Hotch talks himself in circles, “and Richard recognized her in the interrogation room that day— he’s the heart of this, but how?”

“And now he’s missing,” Rossi muses.

“Or running,” Hotch adds, then turns around to face Rossi, something clicking in his mind. “Richard had someone framed. He admitted to that.”

“But we checked on that, the man was out on parole, it was lifted once Richard admitted to everything.”

“Where is he now?”

The pair stare at one another before Hotch practically leaps for his desk to make the necessary phone calls.

As it rings, Hotch turns to Rossi, “Get Garcia to bring up everything on him — including whatever he was doing twenty years ago — and meet us in the conference room.”

Rossi nods and leaves so Hotch can handle the calls. It’s not a definite lead, but it’s something, and it’s someone that they can potentially speak to.

+++

When you and Morgan arrive back at the BAU, you don’t expect to walk into such a flurry of chaos when you enter the bullpen.

“We might have a lead,” Prentiss explains. “Come on.”

You nearly drop the drinks as you hurry up the stairs to the conference room, joining JJ, Garcia, and Reid. “Where’s Hotch?”

“On the phone,” Rossi answers from behind you. “He’ll be in in just a second.”

Garcia starts anyway. “Does anyone remember Maxwell Herman?” She barely gives anyone a second to answer before continuing. “I doubt it, because we looked at him for all of two seconds when you were investigating Lila Monroe’s kidnapping, but here he is.” 

She points the remote at the screen and pictures fly onto it, one being Maxwell’s mugshot. The one next to it being his arrest record.

“This is the man Richard Monroe admitted to having framed,” Garcia continues. “Was on parole, that was lifted once Richard admitted to everything, you know the rest. Now, what you don’t know is that’s not his real name.”

She clicks again and a new mugshot appears, one of a younger man. Twenty years younger. 

“Meet William Easton from Georgia, with such a crazy rap sheet that I have no idea how he was able to change his name and entire identity without someone catching on. But anyway, he was arrested for anything you can name. Including but not limited to: Attempted arson, attempted armed robbery, actual armed robbery, DUI, domestic dispute, aggravated assault, and the kicker, attempted homicide.”

“Attempted?” Reid blurts.

“They never quite found enough evidence to convict him, but—”

“He was a suspect,” Rossi says. “In the original murders in Atlanta, before we connected them to Adkins. Before the BAU stepped in.”

“What?” you blurt, that being the absolute last thing you were expecting to hear, despite knowing somehow that your father was connected.

“They caught him in the area one too many times,” Rossi continues. “They thought it was because he was the unsub, but it turned out he was just a creep with a record who was fascinated by the killings.”

“Wanna see something else crazy?” Garcia adds. “Here’s the sketch that the artist came up with after speaking to Lila.” She clicks again so the sketch is side by side William’s most recent mugshot. The likeness isn’t exact, but it’s enough to be worrisome.

Hotch comes into the conference room, phone pressed to his ear. “Thank you.” He ends the call to fill everyone in. “Officers are on their way to William’s home, they’re going to call once they’ve apprehended him.”

“For what?” you ask. “If he was on parole, he couldn’t leave the house to kidnap a child.”

“No, but he could convince a child he was their father and make them come to him,” Morgan answers. “If he had good behavior, he could leave the house for a short period to meet her somewhere and grab her.”

“Exactly,” Hotch agrees. You can feel his eyes on you as you stare at the screen, at the mugshot and the sketch. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “Just…strange that we might have a face to put to all of this now.” Too easy, almost. Though nothing leading up to this point has been easy, this feels too easy.

You wish you hadn’t had that thought. It’s almost like you jinxed it somehow, even though you didn’t speak it out loud.

Because no less than ten minutes later, Hotch’s phone rings, and you can see on his face that it’s bad news.

“Alright, don’t— Don’t touch anything. My team and I will be there as soon as we can.”

When he hangs up the phone, everyone waits, their breaths held, for his next words.

“They found William dead in his apartment,” Hotch says. “Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, I want you with me, we’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Everyone else,” he conveniently avoids your eyes, “stay here and continue digging. Richard Monroe might not be missing, he might be running from our unsub.”

“How do you know that?” you ask. “And why am I not going with you?”

“Because the unsub left a note on William’s body,” Hotch replies, ever firm and clinical. “And I need you to stay here.”

“Hotch—”

“I don’t have time to argue about this, we’ll be back before the end of the day,” he says, his voice softer, but that doesn’t help. Just because he doesn’t yell at you doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt — once again being shown by his actions that he thinks you can’t handle something.

“Fine, then, just go,” you look back up at William’s face on the screen. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Everyone leaves quickly, except Hotch who lingers a bit in the doorway, like there are words just at the tip of his tongue. He calls your name once, but you shake your head.

“Go,” you repeat, just barely looking at him over your shoulder. “Take some food for the plane,” you gesture to the breakfast that is nearly forgotten. “Go.”